#NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD: darkest dawn

[kottkrig]

To Embrace The Shadow: Repentance

The Shadow Mother sees things from a different perspective.

World of Warcraft | Original Characters

Light Angst | Found Family

In the Void, time had no meaning. Lucretia didn’t know how long she was stuck in it when every minute had her fighting to stay tethered to reality. She was a mind without a body, a consciousness desperately trying to stay awake. The ambush had disintegrated her form, forcing her back into the darkest of planes and trapping her there. She plunged so deep that she couldn’t witness the outcome above, and it was by the skin of her teeth that she managed to hook herself from falling any deeper. That man’s face was the last thing she saw before holy flames erupted in her core, and his gunshot was the last sound that echoed in her head. A regular bullet was pathetic against a living shadow, but those pistols had been blessed by a man who believed that what he did was righteous. He praised the Light as she burned in front of the people who she had promised to protect.

But the Shadow Mother would not have her calling cut short by a false redeemer. Lucretia was a stubborn old crone, spitefully refusing to die, and her days weren’t numbered until she counted them herself.

When she was stable enough to reach Tyr’s Fall, and she could see the lake from a different plane, she found it empty. Reverberating silence, taunted by whispers from the abyss. Lucretia had no idea how the ambush had ended, or if his minions were dealt with–or worse, if any of her people died–but she felt no biting Light there. This forest tipped in favor of the Void, and while she wasn’t yet strong enough to leave, she could recover where the veil between realms was thinner.

A few nights of meditation passed by, and she eventually caught visitors at the lake. They couldn’t see her, and she couldn’t risk being spotted when she was vulnerable, even when the people she saw were fellow Forsaken. If she returned prematurely, she made herself an easy target, and if murderous zealots were still a threat, they could destroy her for good. They were not the only ones who would love to see her dead. The first visitors were scouts coming to check the forest, later bringing along Dark Clerics to drain what Light still bled into their hallowed soil. Lucretia recognized their voices, but they weren’t credible enough to detect her when she didn’t have a body. She couldn’t even speak in her current condition. She chose to watch and wait for the right moment. More time passed, and less people came to the lake as it was restored. In a way, they helped Lucretia as well, as she could amass enough energy to construct a minor form. It wasn’t the one she made familiar to the dead and feared by the living; the Shadow Mother’s visage was too grand, still too risky for her to mantle. Instead, she chose to be a raven. Small and unassuming, as well as one of her favored animals.

The few who came in the coming nights were exclusively people from the cult. The forest could be used for its magical properties, especially the lake, and cultists sometimes visited to soak in liquid Shadow. Lucretia knew them all, and some she would even trust with her safety. She considered taking a dip herself, but it meant that she would have to cross the veil. As a raven, she might blend in, but it was still a risk that she wasn't keen on taking. She was not expecting three special people to make an appearance. In her relief to see her students safe and sound, she wanted to listen in, and felt no fear flying closer. It dawned upon her that one of them could still peer into the Void, as he froze when he faced her. While she could not be certain that leaving was safe, having them arrive to where she fell played on her emotions. She might not see them again anytime soon, and she wanted to help them, let them know that she wasn't gone. She took the risk. The second she unveiled herself to them, reality crashed over her like a tidal wave, and forced her to escape. It was a foolish move. She immediately felt tired when entering the mortal plane, but what's done is done. If she went back in when she was this frail, she might lose her form and fall much deeper. It would take even longer to recover, and she had to see what happened in her absence. However, her entrance would likely rustle the entire village and turn stares towards her, so when she flew back to Deathknell, she continued to hide and watch her people. Sister Zala readily came looking for her. The girl was impulsive and quick to anger, but if she really wanted something, her will was strong. An elf’s eyes could easily catch a raven among the trees, and it was just a matter of when she would. Lucretia hoped that she could hide long enough to recover a little bit more; it might allow her to safely move, as well as to see if her disciple would be tenacious. When she finally was discovered, Lucretia was forced to conceal her identity. She suspected that Zala already knew, but the situation had to be weighed first. Seeing the new burn scar on her cheek made Lucretia’s phantom heart sink, but the scar also proved that Zala had pulled through another hardship. Maintaining a safe distance, Lucretia let the elf continue to challenge her struggles with the Forgotten Shadow’s second tenet. The time eventually came, and Zala’s tears shifted from frustration to out of joy when they could communicate again. Her guile had them passing through the village with ease, and Lucretia was further heartened when Lafayette and Cletus were added to the reunion. She was worried for them and was glad to see them enduring. Staying with them, she was blessed to also see them growing. As their mentor, she had become complacent. They all knew that she surpassed them by far, and she was a strict teacher when the Forgotten Shadow was no easy religion to follow. Her high expectations led her to believe that she would be guiding them for a long, long time. Their dependency on her had her taking care of things she deemed too ambitious for them.

Her arrogance was what lowered her guard and led her to failing them. In the room they obtained, which was hardly built for four people, Lucretia was humbled by depending on her students. Lafayette, Zala and Cletus set aside the hard competition of the Shadow, where the strong lords over the weak, and took the incentive to help her. She tried objecting to them expending their energy on her, as she knew that she could recover on her own with time. In fact, she would accept being stuck in this state for months if it meant that she could witness her disciples blossoming together. But they were in charge here, not her.

Winter had claimed the land and kept people indoors. Lucretia stayed put and obliged with the trio's efforts to supply her with magic. She watched over Lafayette's attempts to rebuild his vision. He couldn’t completely restore it and was left nearsighted, with a sensitivity to brightness, but it was his own magic and he didn’t need anyone else to see. He wouldn’t let her, and she wouldn’t force it. Just watching him return to his beloved books warmed her spirit.

When Zala fetched them tools they needed–rare reagents from unfamiliar places–she returned exhausted and disheveled. Lucretia was always hesitant to let such an impatient and often aggressive character go too far beyond personally surveyed objectives, but she had to trust her student now. She could at least help Zala with planning and encourage her to be cautious when she walked in the Shadow. The ranger found enough success in her hunt, and her bruises were a reminder that while difficult to follow, Tenacity was the tenet made just for these situations. As long as she was smart about it. Cletus was the one that Lucretia saw the least, and the man she had to trust the most. His loyalty to her was flattering, but it was usually for egocentric reasons. He had a tendency to hog the spotlight and wasn't always good at hiding his satisfaction from surpassing lesser acolytes. Before, his drive for power led him to speaking over the other two, and he would likely have gloated in obtaining this authority, but something had shifted in Lucretia’s absence. While she was out of commission, Cletus was the one to cover for them. This time, he listened to the others–not just her–and made sure that they got what they needed.

As the new year progressed, they bestowed her with so much healing that she could use her full voice. The long winter nights propelled her recovery forward, and one promising eve, she stood between them and positively radiated with magic.

So much energy was exuding from this little raven that it would have to be put in a body that was better equipped to handle it.

“I believe that it's time.” Lucretia’s spectral voice rang with conviction.

“The other Dark Clerics are going to hound you for avoiding the mountain of paperwork on your desk,” Cletus said, “but we are thrilled to witness your transformation.”

“And here I was starting to get attached to this form. What a pity.”

They smiled. Making jokes was exceptionally rare for her.

Everyone stepped back when she took flight, and her wings reached far and wide as Shadow coiled around them. Her frame was swallowed by darkness and exploded in growth. Its twisting was gloriously gruesome; feathers made way for ceremonial cloth, the beak split into a skeletal grin, and her eyes expanded like black holes from the Great Dark Beyond.

When the miter of a master Dark Cleric speared the air and they saw the deathly face of their teacher, the three acolytes basked in their accomplishment. The oldest stepped forward.

“Welcome back, Mother.”

[necros-writing-stuff]

Sleep Paralysis: Collab'oween Day 1

GN!Reader/Male!Unspecified Creature.

Warnings: Rape/Non-con; Maybe feeings of claustrophobia and references to the ocean; Fear of death but no physical harm to reader; Utter helplessness; Cunnilingus/Analingus (you can read as either, I don't specify genitals for reader); Penetrative sex; Creature man has a prehensile pp; 3rd person POV.

Word Count: 2080.

Notes: I'm not doing all of the days, just the six prompts I wrote! Please make sure to check out all of us doing this together: @undead-merman @letstalktea @inkyquince @angrelysimpping Also big thanks to Merman for making the banner and divider and all of their wonderful work on this project.

It gets closer each night. They know as the sun fades, as their eyes shutter closed and the warm fingers of Hypnos keep their lids heavy that it's only a matter of time before the personification of sleep partially releases his hold on them and that reality will blend with their nightmares. 

For months it's happened every night. They awaken without control of their body, not even able to blink, as eyes watch from the darkest corner of their room. It's just a trick of the mind, they know this, but it doesn't make it any less terrifying. 

They'd gone to their doctor. Been referred to get a brain scan by a specialist to ensure it wasn't anything malicious causing the paralysis. All tests came back fine. They were sent home with pills and a regiment to follow. None of it had helped. The only time it ever left was when the dawn broke. Winter was on the horizon. Shorter days. Later dawns.

Then, they'd thought that it wouldn't be able to hide in the dark if there was no darkness. They'd filled their room with nightlights in every corner, left them on as they went to sleep, confident that they'd finally be able to get through the night. They hadn't. The creature cared not for the lights strewn about the room. It was a void of blackness, sucking in the light and refusing to let any stray ray out of its grasp. 

Fine then, it's sunlight it doesn't approve of. UV lamps were bought and installed. Their electricity bill would suffer, so they tried to stay away from electronics during the day to compensate. There was a pile of unread books just begging to be read, afterall. Yet, as night fell and sleep abandoned them once more, the creature remained in its corner. The blue hue of the UV lamps only made it more threatening. Cold, sterile. Dead. 

They couldn’t even sleep through the day. Something pulled at them, keeping them awake even as they lay with their eyes closed in their bed with the room made as dark as they could for the day. Only when the moon was out could they find a fraction of rest.

After months, they found themself getting used to the creature. It was a black blob with (admittedly creepy) eyes - no discernable features, no intent of ill-will it would seem. It just wanted to watch them through the night. 

It just had to move, didn't it? It had to reach a clawed hand it had never seemed to possess before out toward them, its frozen form a threat again for the first time in a long while. The skin (If it had skin) was a black as the void it made; it was hazy due to the smoke that rose from the flesh. The only part of it that continued to move. The smoke. 

Perhaps it was the home. The place they lived was haunted, wanting to torment the poor soul living within. With little money left due to the lamp expenses, they desperately pushed every new lamp into a large box and took it to a car-boot sale. They were all new, but half price anyway. They just needed enough for one night in a local hotel. Just one. To see if it would work. 

Each night that passed as they sold the lamps, the creature got closer. Like it knew. More limbs came out from the haze; the other clawed hand, long seemingly muscled legs, the torso unfurling and appearing to be as large as the rest of it. A beast. A tall beast that could rip someone apart just by strength alone. Still it's face remained shadowed, the smoke dripping down like hair.

Not every lamp was taken, but enough so over the weekend event that they had the money to stay in a hotel. A single bed, no TV, shitty water pressure in the shower. It was only on the first floor but the windows were painted just all the same. At least it smelled clean.

Hope sent them to sleep that night - a tentative hope that was on the verge of snapping as each second ticked by on the old clock on the wall. 

That hope snapped the second their eyes opened with the street lights sneaking through the curtains. It was here. Worst of all, it was closer than it had ever been. Crouched on the edge of the bed, tall frame leaning over so that it looked down at them with those bright white eyes. This close it was easy to see that there was no pupil. No iris. Just white. 

Tears welled that they could not blink away, blurring their vision and making the creature even harder to make it. Panic grasped them tightly, their heart hammering in a chest that refused to twitch. They needed to breathe more, to take in deep, filling breaths. But they could only take in standard breaths as their head began to swim. It felt like being suffocated. 

If they could scream, they would. Especially when it moved right in front of them. It never moved when they could see. Never. It was now. That elongated hand reaching down, a claw tracing the path of the tears as they fell down their face into their hairline. Some of the tears fell into their ears. It made them itchy. 

The creature didn't keep its attention to their face. Its claw wandered down their body, pulling the blanket with it as it exposed them to the cold air of the hotel room. Their pyjamas were lifted, their tummy exposed. Would it start there? Rip of their innards and eat them as they could do nothing to watch? 

Slowly, it pressed its hand flat to their skin. The warmth was a surprise. A creature of such darkness should emanate frost, but its flesh bordered on burning as it pressed down. Would it crush them? Would it contribute to the suffocation that felt it was taking hold? 

It would not. At least, it wouldn't yet. Every touch was gentle as it flipped them over, every adjustment it made of their body made for their comfort as their head was turned to the side so that they could breath with their body laying on their front. It didn't feel right. It shouldn't be so gentle. 

The tears from their left eye now fell over the bridge of their nose and into the eyeline of the other. It merged with the other falling tears as they wet the pillow. 

Beside from the ruffling of clothes and the creaking of the old mattress, the room had been silent. As had the creature. No neighbouring rooms made bangs or bumps in the night. A harsh ripping broke the silence. Their clothes. The creature was removing their clothes. Tearing it to shreds with its knife-like claws and discarding the fabric on the carpeted floor below. 

Goosebumps rippled over their skin as the night's air fell on it. The creature's flesh was the only warmth they could wish for - and they couldn't only wish that it would stop and leave them alone. 

It was a coward. Turning them over so that it didn't have to look in their wide eyes as it tore them apart from behind. Taking their clothes as a butcher would a pelt. Taking advantage of their sleep condition, or perhaps causing it itself so that they couldn't run or fight back. 

Such a strange thing, to feel anger after all of that fear. If creatures like this beast could wander the earth, then perhaps their anger would fuel their spirit enough to find a second life after death and seek vengeance on the wretched thing. 

Despite the feeling that they couldn't breathe, they did not pass out. They wished they would, that they could drift off into nothing before they would feel the beast's claws in their back. This mercy would not be for them. 

And neither would the claws. Not as the creature lowered itself, the bed shifting as its long legs came to sit on the floor and its hidden face lowered to the back of their thighs. 

A tongue, long and thick, teased up their thigh until sharp fangs nipped at the flesh of their ass. The tongue returned quickly, flickering as it found its way to their hole. 

More anger. More rage filling their heart as they desperately plead with their libs to just move. Just the littlest amount of movement - a twitch, anything! Nothing would come. 

It kept poking, prodding, lapping away at their exposed hole while disgusting pleasure whispered up their spine and choked their breaths. ‘Stop,’ they tried to beg. To scream it until their throat would bleed. But what was the use? They’d been begging for months and yet no one was listening. If there was a god or even multiple of them, they’d long since been forsaken to this demonic presence. 

There’s a strength to the beast. It lifts them as if it were nothing, their limp body folding as it hoists their hips up and presses it’s face even deeper into their core; that damned tongue flattening and giving a smooth, languid lick that has their eyes rolling back in their head. It should have stopped at this indignity. Why didn’t it just stop there?

It took its fill of their hole, still following with its tongue as it lowered their body back onto the mattress. As if it couldn’t bear to part with them. And sure enough, its stocky form rose over them again, that red-hot skin pressing to their back as something new wriggled and writhed against their saliva-dripping core. It meant to mount them.

One last push. One last demand for a finger to curl, to prove that they weren’t locked away inside of their own body. Underneath its body. A wall of flesh pressing down, closing in and taking away all of the air in the room as their anger slowly drained into sorrow.

That tentacle-like cock of the creature burrowed its way into them, spreading them open and penetrating deep. Strange guttural noises were snarled by their head, the beast having its pleasure while their tears returned. Every thrust of the hips was more like a roll, like a wave coming in toward the beach and retreating once more. It was graceful, powerful, threatening to take them away with it into the depths below. 

How could they swim against the tide without the ability to move? How could they possibly stop the water from encasing each and every part of them, leaving not a single inch of skin dry? 

Their mind refused to wander away, instead it focused on the smell of burning the creature emanated. It grasped onto every touch and grab the creature made at their skin. It couldn’t kick or scream anymore. Just like the body it inhabited. God, they were so tired.

Sweat gathered on their skin, the heat from their creature making it feel like a sauna in the cheap room. Sharp nips were given to their neck and shoulders, fanged teeth having a taste or maybe even marking what belonged to it. Its tongue came back to clean their cheeks of tears. 

Why did it have to feel so sweet? The slow build to the orgasms that hit in waves matching its hips pulling in and out. Its cock moved by itself while it would thrust, slowly undulating, causing their throat to seize from how intensely their nerves lit on fire for it. 

Almost. Almost they were freed from being there. It was exhausting being used so thoroughly, their eyelids were heavy and promised the sweet release of unconsciousness. It never came.

Who's to say how long it stayed on top of them that night. They couldn’t see the clock, couldn’t say when the beast woke them from peace. It stayed until the sun’s rays peaked through the cheap old curtains. But it left with a promise, a lingering hand on the back of their neck as it rose up, thumb rubbing over the freshest bite. It would be back. 

They still felt numb when control returned to their limbs. Felt numb for the rest of the day until night fell once more and that fear built. All they could focus on was the fact that the semen dripping from their hole never cooled in their frigid winter air seeping into the room.

[reaper2187]

La Signora x female reader

In the opulent halls of the Fatui palace, you serve as a diligent subordinate, your heart pounding with a secret admiration for the enigmatic La Signora. Her fiery gaze and commanding presence ignite a fervent desire within you.

As you tend to her routine, each interaction becomes a tantalizing dance. You sip tea, your lips brushing against the porcelain where hers had lingered. You arrange bouquets, inhaling the intoxicating scent of the same roses she prefers. Even the smallest of duties feels imbued with an electric thrill.

One starless night, the palace falls silent. La Signora, cloaked in shadow, summons you to her private chambers. Your pulse races as you enter, the scent of incense heavy in the air.

'My little dove,' she whispers, her voice a silken caress. 'I have a task for you.'

You listen intently as she unveils an audacious plan, one that requires your unwavering obedience. A surge of exhilaration courses through you, mingled with a longing to prove your worth in her eyes.

In the dead of night, you venture into the enemy stronghold. Danger lurks around every corner, but your mind remains focused on your mission and La Signora's voice whispering in your ear.

After a harrowing ordeal, you emerge victorious, carrying the stolen artifact she had desired. As you kneel before her, panting from exhaustion, she gazes down at you with unreadable eyes.

'You have done well,' she acknowledges, her voice devoid of emotion. 'You have earned my favor.'

A shiver of ecstasy ripples through your body. Her favor, however fleeting, is a priceless gift. For a moment, time seems to stand still as you bask in the glow of her approval.

As days turn into weeks, your longing for La Signora grows ever stronger. You find yourself drawn to her presence, seeking her guidance and seeking her elusive touch. Yet, she remains enigmatic, keeping her distance.

One fateful evening, she invites you to her private gardens. Amidst blooming lilies and twinkling fireflies, she confesses her own desires. Her voice is soft and insistent as she tells you of the forbidden passion she has hidden away.

Your heart leaps with joy and disbelief. You had dared to hope, but never imagined that such love was possible. Together, you surrender to the moment, entangled in a forbidden love affair that sets the palace aflame with scandal.

However, the Fatui hierarchy disapproves of your illicit relationship. Their icy stares and whispered threats serve as constant reminders of the danger you are both in.

Undeterred, you and La Signora forge ahead, your love defying the boundaries of society. In the face of adversity, your bond grows stronger, becoming an unyielding flame in the darkest of times.

Yet, fate has a cruel twist in store. On a fateful mission, tragedy strikes, and La Signora sacrifices herself to save you. As you hold her lifeless form, your heart shatters into a million pieces.

In her final moments, she whispers words of love and gratitude. 'You made my life complete,' she says. 'I would choose to perish a thousand times rather than live a single moment without you.'

With her passing, the world loses a brilliant mind and a passionate soul. But in your heart, her memory burns eternal, inspiring you to live a life worthy of the love she shared with you.

And so, you become the Crimson Dawn, a testament to the forbidden flame that ignited between a subordinate and her enigmatic superior, a love that defied the confines of duty and the boundaries of mortality.

[scatteredthoughts2]

THE SOFTLY FALLING NIGHT.

If the darkest hour,

Is before the dawn,

Then alas! it is the hour,

That I was surely born.

For when I came into this world,

My mother went away,

And my father took it out on me,

Yes! My father made me pay.

He blamed me for my mother's death,

And he always told me so,

How he prayed that mother had lived on,

And I was the one to go.

He said I was a parasite,

And I lived upon the dead,

And he made my life a hell on earth,

And filled my days and nights with dread.

I lived a life of misery,

In a household filled with hate,

Praying for forgiveness,

For his hate to dissapate.

But every day the hate just grew,

It did stifle and did smother,

For when my father looked at me,

He saw my dear, dead mother.

Then one stormy winters night,

My mother came to me,

And told me, from my father's house,

That I must quickly flee.

She said my father's hate had grown;

He had murder on his mind,

And to sanity and reason,

He had gone completely blind.

I fled my lonely, hostile home,

I'd no possessions for to pack,

No things that I could call my own;

Just the rags upon my back.

I raced into the raging storm,

I ran into the night,

Through the thunder and the blackness,

Through the lightnings, strobing light.

I travelled far and I travelled wide,

I sailed the seven seas,

And every night and every morn,

I prayed upon my knees.

I prayed for light and guidance,

For the strength to carry on,

Until the countless roads I travelled,

Led me back to my bleak home.

I had vengeance in my heart,

And I had murder on my mind,

But despite the way that I was reared,

I was not the killing kind.

I stopped and gazed at the old place,

It was gone beyond repair,

The windows cracked and smeared with grime,

And rubbish everywhere.

I saw a man upon the steps,

He was bent and old and grey,

Just a shadow of the man he was,

On the night I ran away.

The hate that I had nourished,

The anger I had fed,

Just fell off from my heavy heart,

And pity filled my head.

How could I hate this broken man;

This wretch of skin and bone,

I could not see the daemon,

Who had made me flee my home.

I turned away with n'er a word,

And my heart was warm and light,

And I went upon my way,

In the softly, falling night.

@Ambrose Harte

@Scattered Thoughts

[mirandyficlists]

Vampire Mirandy Fics

A Little Help by Punky96https://archiveofourown.org/works/14236278

An Eternity to Spare by Poisonedprada  https://archiveofourown.org/works/42593406/chapters/106989240

Andy the Vampire Slayer by la fono  journal restricted

Blood by Mirandameryl  https://mirandameryl.livejournal.com/18326.html

Coming Back  by Spelledink  https://archiveofourown.org/works/24794860

Crimson Dusk by MSeren https://archiveofourown.org/works/22761940/chapters/54390133

Crimson Mist by Teenybirdy  https://archiveofourown.org/works/15401262/chapters/35744199

Destined                     by Barnaby317

Destined Too              by Barnaby 317

Deleted LJ account I have the fic if you want it.

Devil’s Night by Chilly Flamehttps://archiveofourown.org/works/2673128

Enough Sunrises and Sunsets  by Bearblue https://archiveofourown.org/works/16670815/chapters/39091651

Family Resemblances: Devils in New York by Anglocat https://archiveofourown.org/works/43417521/chapters/109147308

Feast   by Ubiquitousmixiehttp://ubiquitousmuse.livejournal.com/16153.html#cutid1

For All Eternity  by Literary_Assassin  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/7274179/1/For-All-Eternity

For All Eternity – Healing  by Literary_Assassin  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8147577/1/For-All-Eternity-Healing

Eternity Unending by Literary_Assassin https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9516845/1/Eternity-Unending

Family Resemblances by Anglocat  https://archiveofourown.org/works/43417521/chapters/109147308

Forever Entwined by Barnaby317  (au Andy/Cassidy) Deleted but I have the fic.

Gift or Curse by blackgri71  http://ralst.com/GiftOrCurse.HTM?fbclid=IwAR0-be_36Qld_e6I0wY3CCqzEGuUFPARO-1zNsUljCqJELZbTEm_Lni59w4

Happy Bloody New Year by larry200 https://dvlwears-prada.livejournal.com/tag/user%3A%20larry200

Illusion by Chilly Flame  https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675362

Illumination (Illusion pt2) by Chilly Flame  https://archiveofourown.org/works/5675440

In the Night by RLkite  https://archiveofourown.org/works/24594853/chapters/59408587

Intended by Steren_Heart  https://archiveofourown.org/works/40117956

It’s Always Darkest Before the Dawn by catherinewestwood  https://catherinewestwood.wordpress.com/ff-its-always-darkest-right-before-the-dawn-teaser/

Magnificent (unfin) by Slv1987 https://archiveofourown.org/works/15515037/chapters/36014934

Masquerade Dreams by azarove-angara  http://dvlwears-prada.livejournal.com/206545.html

Mistaken Identity by Icequeen1955 https://icequeen1955.livejournal.com/1736.html

Night and Blood by Obsidiana  https://www.fanfiction.net/s/8163827/1/Night-an-Blood

Night of the Living Dead by Pure_Ecstasy6 https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019361

One True Thing  by elf-jet  http://ralst.com/OneTrueThingDWP.HTM

Presentable by Pin_Drop  Deleted but I have it.

Shadow of the Night by Scarlettscribblehttp://www.fanfiction.net/s/4628264/1/Simple Pleasures by Giantessmess https://archiveofourown.org/works/21126527/chapters/50275082

Tainted Crossing by Melanacious  Deleted but I have it.

Teeth  by Surena13  http://archiveofourown.org/works/320341

The Narcotic Night by Politic X  http://politic_x.tripod.com/narcotic.html

The Devil’s Girl (au BTVS) by acs  http://archiveofourown.org/works/128205/chapters/181724

The Unusual Nanny by RDana  https://archiveofourown.org/works/15136505/chapters/35098805

Trick or Treat  by ll_alleycathttp://ll-alleycat.livejournal.com/5264.html#cutid1

Worthy Thy Benediction by Winter156  https://archiveofourown.org/works/12297927

[cangrellesteponme]

OCTOBER 29TH - PROUD

(read this on AO3 here)

i'm late already but bay one of dadbastian week let's fucking goooooooooo

anyway general warning for this one: i decided to use it/its pronouns for sebastian for a bit. don't ask me why (there is a reason but i'd need to go on a tangent). it's only for the first part, not the whole thing, so do what you will with that information.

enjoy!

The demon — Sebastian, now, it thinks, though it can still only hear the name as if coming from its young master’s mouth, both unfitting and imperious — is having some trouble adjusting.

Of course, it would not dare admit such a thing to anyone — but in the dead of night, with no living souls awake to be able to tell or catch even just a glimpse of it all, it is safe to let go a little. Alone and at rest in the manor’s darkest hour, the demon lets itself slip through the cracks of its persona. If it were human, the feeling would be comparable to the removal of an ill-fitting coat, and the relief one feels taking their first unrestricted breaths.

The night only offers a few hours of freedom and time, relentless and cruel as ever, passes too quickly to be thoroughly enjoyed. All too soon, dawn’s first lights, intruders that they are, make their way into the manor, and with them come the duty of being Sebastian again. 

Being, becoming this feels entirely wrong still, yet just slightly off. It might be the name — and the thought of sharing it with a dog — or it might be the master, this child whose pieces, bent and askew, won’t fit together anymore — much less under his own borrowed name. It might, in fact, be this new identity altogether, the way Sebastian Michaelis, the Phantomhive butler, somehow clings to the skin but never quite catches on. Stepping into a new role usually comes easy, but this one is odd.

It, Sebastian, he somehow knows that he has chosen a state of self worthy of and adapted to his young master: competent and obedient enough for the prestige the boy wants, yet cocky and contrarian to a fault, difficult and infuriating — something meant to stoke the fire of the boy’s arrogance, to make his noble penchant for entitlement grow fangs of disdain, to pull the worst, most delectable, flaws out of this ridiculously short asthmatic annoyance of a young master. Something ideal, really.

Yet here it is, unable to ever fully become one with himself. It is as if something were missing — but what exactly?

The answer is, like most things, quite simple.

Another hard day culminates into a particularly infuriating point.

Lady Elizabeth — bless her soul, Sebastian tells himself with irony dripping from the very thought — comes to visit, and her presence alone is a stronger ill omen than every curse upon the Phantomhive name.

With her come a plethora of issues. The young master stumbles through every interaction with the grace of a blindfolded elephant on a tightrope, the entire place has to be redecorated with garish bows and all sorts of unspeakably pink things, and — the worst part of it all — Sebastian and the earl must pretend he is indeed the Ciel she thinks he is, while the name of the twin who actually stands before her never leaves her lips.

She truly is quite the sweet child, thinking she is sparing her dear friend’s feelings. Infuriating. Sebastian knows the boy agrees — despite his obvious fondness for her — from the way tension seems to spread from the top of his head to the tip of his toes.

And yet, his reaction to Elizabeth and her usual oh, Ciel, won’t yous and Ciel, we shoulds is a far cry from the stiffness with which he greeted her when they were first reunited. Sebastian remembers a boy who barely even responded to what should have been his own name, but what he sees is entirely different: no shying away from her, clear signs of intent listening, and no smile but a somewhat open and attentive expression on his face — somber as usual, yet caring. And he doesn’t flinch at every Ciel anymore.

What an improvement, Sebastian thinks and he finds himself, against all odds, smiling. His master is a quick learner. Perhaps it objectively is not that impressive, but to Sebastian, it feels disproportionately spectacular, and part of him comfortably settles into the feeling of being so foolishly proud of something insignificant.

Quite simple indeed. What should a butler feel for his prodigious young master, if not pride?

The rest of him should pale in comparison to the need and joy to see the boy succeed — although the accomplishment is, well, identity theft, of all things, it should still be acknowledged — and it does indeed. Sebastian almost forgets himself, forgets his role — both demon and butler — and in those moments he is nothing but the one standing by his boy, and isn’t he doing so well? Does anything matter more than this?

No, nothing does, Sebastian finds himself thinking as he watches the child eat his chocolate cake with too much enthusiasm for it to be proper, especially in front of a lady.

[wheelchair-wizard]

Irish Mythology.

VOL 10

The Sluagh. Soul Stealers.

Of all the wonders and terrors in Irish folklore there are few quite so terrifying as the Sluagh. Tales were told of their wild hunt long before the coming of Christianity to Ireland, and even today old folk in the countryside will keep the windows on the west side of the house fastened tight at all times, but most especially during wakes or if someone in the house was unwell, for fear of the Sluagh coming to pay a midnight visit on their humble homes.

Wicked or saintly, kind or cruel, the Sluagh play no favourites, they'll take the souls of all that cross their path, although some say they have a particular taste for the living spirits of those who have found true love. The ancients used to think they were faerie gone terribly wrong, warped and twisted, without fear, reason or mercy. When the light came to Ireland they became the souls of lost sinners seeking to drag the unfaithful down to hell with them, but the result was the same.

The host of the unforgiven dead roam the earth on Samhain, Halloween, and it is for this reason that all fires were forbidden on that night in times gone by, so as not to attract their attention. Even death itself was no release for the souls they captured joined them on their hunt, spiralling throughout the lands of Ireland and further abroad on that darkest of nights.

Said one monk in times of yore, "The spirits fly about in great clouds, up and down the face of the world like the starlings, and come back to the scenes of their earthly transgressions. No soul of them is without the clouds of earth, dimming the brightness of the works of earth. In bad nights, the Sluagh shelter themselves behind little russet docken stems and little yellow ragwort stalks. They fight battles in the air as men do on the earth."

If denied their rightful - as they see it - feast, they don't balk at the slaughter of cattle, cats, dogs, and sheep with their poison darts. It is said that the Sluagh "commanded men to follow them, and men obeyed, having no alternative. It was these men of earth who slew and maimed at the bidding of their spirit-masters, who in return ill-treated them in a most pitiless manner. They would be rolling and dragging and trouncing them in mud and mire and pools."

In the form of a vast flock of black ravens twined about with undulating shadows they came, the echoes of their wings being found in stories of ill-omened birds heralding bad times ahead. The truly broken hearted might be attacked, or the foolish or unlucky might call them upon themselves by uttering the name Sluagh nine times over and over, pronounced sloo-ah for fear you might say it yourself, perhaps in a fit of sneezing. Upon closer inspection the great birds look more like wretched thin shades of their previous selves, with gnarled talons like the blackthorn's boughs for hands and feet, and wings of dusky smoke.

And once they have your scent let me tell you - you're in trouble then! If the pitiable mortal that has drawn their eye can bestir themselves it would be well to get indoors, with all locked and fastened, until the beating of dark wings fades with the light of dawn. Chroniclers of old also wisely advised avoiding places of loneliness such as dark forests and empty streets, lest a passing hunt might take a fancy to you! There is one other way to avoid joining them for all eternity, although most dreadful it is, and that's to give them another person in your stead.

They say a woman was eaten alive by the Sluagh in Co. Roscommon

Christy,

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[lithellyl]

It has been said, though none can say if it is true, that on the eve of Samhain, when the moon hung low and the night was at its darkest, the veil between the mortal realm the realm of the fae and the realm of the dead, grew thin. In that ethereal moment, the fae would come together in a grand communion, for they held a sacred duty on this night.

Queen Mab, the Night Widow, the ethereal ruler of the fae, led her subjects as they gathered under the ancient oaks of the enchanted forest. With her gown of shimmering moonlight and her crown of stars, she radiated a mesmerizing presence that made the very air hum with magic. Her eyes, like twin pools of moonlit water, held the wisdom of ages, and her wings were the color of twilight.

All around her, the living - those who practiced majik, those who respected the power of nature, the faekind, and those who honored their departed loved ones - arrived in disguises. Their costumes varied from elaborate and eerie to simple and humble, each a reflection of their unique connection to the supernatural world. They bore gifts of food, for it was believed that this offering would grant them protection from the pranks and tricks of the faekind, and a chance to partake in the sacred Samhain dance.

As the clock struck midnight, the forest came alive with an otherworldly symphony. Fireflies danced, and the air grew thick with the heady scent of moss and wildflowers. Queen Mab stood before an ancient stone altar, adorned with fruits, cakes, candles,and a large bonfire, all offered by the living. It was a beacon for spirits of the departed, who were drawn to the shimmering lights.

The fae, dressed in their most exquisite and ghostly garments, began their dance. Queen Mab's laughter rang like silver bells as she twirled among her subjects, and the spirits of the departed swirled around them. It was a dance of joy and remembrance, an eternal celebration of life and death. As they danced, the living and the spirits found themselves bound together in a magical waltz, a testament to the eternal connection between the realms.

The night was filled with stories whispered on the wind, tales of the living and the departed shared through laughter and tears. The living offered up heartfelt prayers and toasts to their loved ones, and the spirits accepted them, feeling the warmth of the mortal world for one last time.

In this moment of unity, the fae guided the spirits of the departed to the next world, where they could find peace. The forest seemed to pulse with the energy of all realms, and the air shimmered with the magic of the night. As the first light of dawn broke through the trees, the spirits faded into the mist, leaving behind a sense of tranquility and renewal.

The living, their disguises now tattered and their hearts light, departed from the enchanted forest, carrying with them the memory of that sacred night. For they knew that the bond between the fae and the living, between the worlds of the living and the departed, would forever remain strong on the eve of Samhain, when the veil between realms grew thin. And so, the ancient tradition continued, a testament to the enduring connection between the realms of the living and the fae, and the spirits of the departed.

[lnights]

Ok thoughts on the new album.

TLDR: I really like it! I would put it above LOTSAD. I think Phobia is my favorite

Me examining it like a sample in a petri dish below:

There are some similar things between EE and LOTSAD but to me it's almost like two sides of the same coin.

For example Glory for the Greedy and Not Your Bro have the same theme of people trying to act different once they started to get more popular.

While Glory was more about the corporate side, labels and producers and such that had rejected them before and then wanted to get a cut while they gleefully rejected them in turn now.

I have always supported your band" You haven't? Our last chat you were saying "ditch the rapper" "I believed in your vision" Hmm, no you didn't? You told us to lose the guitars and sing in Finnish "You're gonna be a big band, I always knew" Shut the fuck up man, no thanks to you "Prepare getting sued" Well prepare to fucking lose We ain't giving away percentages for work you didn't do

Not Your Bro is more the personal side of things.

When are we gonna hang, bro? It must be crazy touring with the band, bro Let me know if you ever need a hand, bro What can I say I'll return the favor, I'm returning the fear Your apologies only hurting my ears Call me a brother once again And I swear You'll disappear

And that theme stayed in my mind the whole album, where LOTSAD was triumphant to almost an annoying degree (I still liked it tbh) Exit Emotions is showing more of the turmoil that comes from the grind they've been putting themselves through. I think at this point we've all read or heard from them how there's been days they've been up for over 24 hours, that they were literally recording the album in hotel rooms between shows. I personally am a little haunted by the live where Niko explained that they weren't supposed to have such a packed tour schedule last year while recording the album but things just kind of happened, and Joel, Joonas, and Aleksi were just quiet but had this look of defeat on their faces. And one of them saying later that they were scared to listen to the album because they were so sleep deprived when they were recording it... Bros need a fucking break.

But back to the album, I have to admit I expected Wolves in California to be an absolute cringe fest and it was to a degree, but for as much as they've been trying to break into the American market I kind of love that the song was more talking about Finland and how they don't necessarily feel steady in the US.

The night is darkest just before the dawn But where I'm from the sun don't rise at all Damn you, now I need someone to shout at Damn you, now I need someone to shout at Damn you, now I need someone to shout We don't belong here We don't belong here, no Everybody tried to warn ya Now there's wolves in California

Yes it talks about conquering too but I digress.

Where's the Exit

Screaming rap goblin Niko my beloved, keep it up you sad clown. But again, a contrast from LOTSAD:

This life is what you fake it And everybody has a deathwish True tell me where's the exit

Red Tail Lights vs Don't Fix Me

From say Balboa that talked about getting up again and again against the odds and not giving up.

Both songs scream Joel to me, I don't know if it was him turning 30 or what but we went from Don't fix me:

Don't fix me Let me bleed out, leave me open No, don't fix me Maybe I was born to be broken I'm dead inside And it's alright (And it's alright) So don't fix me (Don't fix me) Don't fix me

Saying yeah I'm broken but it's who I am to Red Tail Lights:

I'm rolling rolling rolling rolling with the punches I need the beating 'cause there's nothing under my chest Here's something to digest

And

On the run, on the run, running from my heart Red tail lights is all I've got

I get the impression of yeah this is who I am, but there seems to be regret now, a different tone.

Autopsy and Phobia both funky little songs talking about fears. 10/10 no notes

Keeping it Surreal sounds more inline with Violent Pop or Blood Brothers to me, and that's giving me hope we'll get more songs like that when they inevitably make another album, hopefully in a year and not in like 6 months.

XOXO, I just loved it, I like From Ashes to New and hearing Matti and Danny and Joona on the song? Wonderful.

Of course we have the singles too:

Flatline is catchy and I've always enjoyed, dorky little dance aside.

Happy Doomsday, meh. It's better live but it has started to grow on me.

Deadzone, cringy but their brand of cringy, I do enjoy it.

Die Another Day, somebody correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Feel Nothing and Bad Idea from the same event in Niko's life that inspired Die Another Day? He had a lot of pain from that. Love all three of those songs.

But also fascinating looking at the progression between the three: Feel Nothing, still in the pits of despair and numb to the pain.

Bad Idea, internalizing the fallout and admitting things that went wrong

Die Another Day, trying to pull yourself out of that pit

Then we have our final song, One Last Time... Again.

Holy hell it's a tone shift from Thank You for the Pain, where TYFTP was all about their rise to fame and leaning to deal withit, One Last Time... Again speaks more to accepting things will never be the same and is a lot more driven then TYFTP.

But ffs, they need to stop putting fillers at the end of their albums.

[imtooscaredforthis]

Entrapment

Chapter Thirteen: Visit

Mentions of: Danny being a big perv and a creep, Stalking, Slight NSFW, Break in, etc.

A/N: I may be a little obsessed w Ghostface at the moment again lol…but here we gooo

Tags: @dekadentautist @moonshineinasippycup @dead-bxxxtch-walking @froegis @stwbwwychan @the-fandoms-georgie

Dawned in all black, matching the night, Danny silently walked up the stairs of your fire escape. Once he reached your window, he grabbed the screwdriver in his back pocket, picking at the bolt on your window.

It took all of thirty seconds to get your window unlocked. He isn’t surprised, considering how shitty this place is. There’s little to no security, and you seriously think a flimsy lock is going to stop him? You should really move.

Pushing the window up, he stepped through, plush black boots pressing against the tile floor. He turned back to the window, shutting it behind him and moving the curtains back to their original place.

Once he did so, he flicked on your light, pulling off his boots to avoid getting any more footprints and pushing his hood off. Shutting his eyes, he inhaled deeply, taking in your presence.

Tonight was finally the night that he would visit your home. He waited for so long and held so much back, but now he could finally do it.

Danny loved going into his victim’s homes. Sure, you could learn a lot about a person from the way they dressed, carried themselves, and acted, but going into their homes is so much better.

Especially since it’s such a vulnerable part of a person. It’s where you live when you aren’t at work, it’s where you eat and sleep, and most importantly, it’s where you hide your deepest darkest secrets. And Danny couldn’t wait to find out what they were.

He started with your kitchen since it was closest to him. It was cramped, like the rest of your apartment. There was a bowl of fruit on your counter. Danny grabbed an apple from it, before peeking inside your refrigerator.

There wasn’t much inside, just some leftovers from Mama Lucia’s, milk that was about to go bad, and a jar of pickles. Yeah, you should really go grocery shopping.

Disinterested, he walked out of the kitchen area, and towards the cute little reading nook that you made for yourself in the corner. With a grunt he sat down on the cushiony seat, shifting around so he could get comfortable.

Taking a bite from the apple, he looked through the stack of books on the desk beside him. There was a book on writing tips with tons of different post-its and notes inside on what you thought was important. There were three to four other books that ranged in genre: Philosophy, Fantasy, Mystery, etc. Seems like you really enjoy reading.

Then, he pulled out a book from the very bottom. Dark Love. The words were a crimson red, contrasting with the black cover. Curiously, he flipped through a couple of pages, skimming it.

He bit down hard on her neck, making her moan out in pain and pleasure. The blood cascaded down her neck slowly, like the tears down her cheek. He kissed up her neck, and sucked on the bite, soothing her gently. “Don’t worry, my love. Now we can truly be together.”

Danny almost choked on his apple, chuckling to himself. Wow, he didn’t know you were into this shit. Some corny, smutty, vampire romance novel. It was hilarious, and pretty hot too.

He shut the book, placing them back in order, but turning the books slightly so you would notice they’ve been moved. It’s about time he messed with you a bit. Little by little, he planned on making his presence more known.

He walked over to your desk and picked up your journal. He could feel his heart race with anticipation as he read through the pages. While you enjoyed reading, your passion for writing was something else.

You wrote a lot, almost as much as he did. Unlike him, your writing was about your days, the good and the bad, your likes and dislikes, your passions, hopes, and dreams. He preferred writing about his victims and the murders he committed. It was his art, his masterpiece, and most people enjoyed reading it.

Still, you had talent and deserved to be a journalist, just as much as anyone working at the Gazette did. Too bad he’s going to kill you before you get the chance.

Skimming through the pages, he felt a tinge of disappointment at the lack of Ghostface in your writing. He’s surprised you don’t write about him much, especially with all the attention he’s getting. But then, he comes up with the very real possibility of you being afraid of writing about him. Like if you write his name you’ll summon him, like a demon or something.

Jed was mentioned a few times, and you described him as a charming and kind man. Your coworker, and friend. He grinned to himself when he saw that “attractive” was listed with the other adjectives you used to describe him. Cute.

Satisfied with his reading, he shut your journal, placing it back on the table. Soon, he’ll make sure that Ghostface is all you write about. He’ll be all that’s on your mind.

In your lingering thoughts, your worries, your nightmares, he’ll make sure to be there. Feeling himself getting too excited, he calmed down, taking a shaky breath and running a hand through his hair.

Baby steps. He reminded himself. Now that he finally got the chance to start playing, he knew he had to take it slow.

So, for now, he’ll continue to indulge himself, before the real fun begins. Running his hands over your sheets, he pulled them to his face, smelling the mixture of laundry detergent and you.

This is where you slept, and where you touched yourself that night he watched you. He felt a satisfying shiver go down his spine at the thought of what other dirty things you did.

Putting your sheets down, he stood up and went through your dresser, opening and closing drawers. He paused when he found your underwear dresser.

There was a small layer of plain panties and bras he pushed past until he got to what he really wanted to see. Lacy lingerie of various colors, all matching sets.

His eyes locked on a dark red set, and a big smirk crossed his lips. Red was his favorite color after all, and he couldn’t help but imagine what it looked like on you. He grabbed the panties, feeling the smooth texture between his fingers.

Have you worn this while at work? Talking with Jed and flirting with him so innocently while you had something so naughty on underneath? Will you be wearing this when Ghostface gives you a call?

He shoves the panties into his pocket, keeping them for some extra motivation. Just to remind himself that patience may be bitter, but its fruits are so sweet.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 20: Dawn

In taking your voice, Astarion has killed your last hope of getting out of here alive. That’s alright, you tell yourself. Alive doesn’t mean that much to you anyway anymore. You’re so trapped here that it hardly feels like living. You’re compelled to stay within the boundaries of the estate, and even then, you can only enter the grounds at night.

You can only enter the grounds at night.

So you do exactly that. You go into the grounds at night. You wander under the stars, remembering times on your travels when you looked up at the clear countryside sky with the man who became your husband and he wistfully spoke about how the celestial sphere never looked quite so beautiful from the city. You tell yourself the stories of the constellations, the myths of victories and tragedies from times gone by, and you feel a wondrous sense of peace in the knowledge that the epic narrative of the universe will continue onwards, even without you there to witness it.

You stay outside through the darkest hours, getting lost in the sounds of your fellow creatures of the night. Rustling leaves and whispering wings tell you tales of the lives of the unseen things that cling to their existence even in this estate of death. You sit with them until the pale blue of dawn starts to creep across the firmament. Slowly a pink tinge washes upwards from the east, and you go tense with the anticipation of the sun's first rays finally reaching you. You think it will feel like an embrace, even as you die.

It does not feel like an embrace.

It feels like burning.

Your eyes are blinded at the sight of the very first sliver of sun that rises over the horizon. The pain is too overwhelming to even remember to scream. If your eyes could still see, they would know that your pallid skin has started glowing, flaking, flashing like molten silver, ready to slough off your bones, to be loosed from your frame, to dissipate into the cold dawn air. There is only one word you can think of throughout the pain.

Free.

And then the pain stops. You think that your nerves must have melted away. You feel your very soul being lifted, carried in a pair of strong arms. You think this must be death's grasp; that you have found the final comfort that you had been so desperately seeking.

Then death speaks, and his voice makes you weep from eyes that still cannot see.

"Darling, what in the nine hells are you doing?"

You don't answer. You feel fast movement, somehow, even though your senses have been shaken to uselessness by the pain.  

"Are you trying to die?"

Again, you do not answer. You are too focused on mourning the escape that you had been so close to holding. You continue to weep, silently, like a wound.

He tuts. "My silly little treasure. No more wandering the grounds for you, I think. You are not to leave this house. Do you understand?"

You give the barest nod. Your vision is slowly coming back, and you see blurs of familiar corridors, a familiar door, a familiar bed.

"There's a good little pet. You will stay here until I return, and then you can show me how grateful you are to me for saving your life. Because you are grateful, aren't you?"

Gods, you hate him for it, but as soon as you hear the words, you are grateful. He speaks, and it becomes truth.

He goes to leave, but his hand lingers on the door handle.

"Oh, and darling? Don’t try anything like that again." His voice is light when he turns back to look at you. "If anyone's going to kill you, it will be me."

With that he leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

[knickknacksandallthat]

Chapter One Is Up!

Summary:

It’s been almost five years since Kevin graduated from PSU. Five years that he's played Exy professionally. Five years since he’s learned to live on his own. Five years after discovering he’s in love with his best friends, former USC Trojans Jeremy Knox and Jean Moreau.

Five years since he’s figured out, they will never love him back.

So, when Jeremy and Jean invite him to their house for Christmas this year, he knows this is it. It’s the finale. The last hurrah. The swan song. The final act. It’s time he lets them go, lets this foolish, one-sided love go, once and for all.

But he might find this is harder than he ever expected.

Series: A Fallen Star

Rating: Explicit

Want to catch up from the beginning?

Go to Part 1, Dead of Night here.

Go to Part 2, Darkest Before Dawn here.

[mehoymalloy]

these old wounds, they confine you - Grace/Apollo

Stray Gods Prompt Week - Day 6

Can also be found HERE on AO3 as the eighth chapter in a nine chapter work; kudos and comments are appreciated!

Thousands of years was a very long time to live. Sometimes, it truly felt as if Apollo was as old as the sun he held province over—destined to burn himself out and destroy his entire world along the way. Apollo had long ago confined himself to a life of solitude, desperate to mitigate the damage. He buried himself—hiding from even the light of his own eyes for fear of what his powers might inadvertently wreak upon the world. Then Grace had come into his life—undeterred by his stubborn resistance, unwavering even after his betrayal had been revealed. Everything about Grace was like a balm to Apollo's soul and a light to his weary life. Her touch a salve over old wounds, her words reassuring to even the oldest regrets, and her eyes... Her eyes held the keys to a freedom Apollo had long ago forgotten existed just outside the dark cave of his perpetual melancholy. Those warm eyes held a subtle but contagious sort of joy. The kind that set off a spark in Apollo's soul, dim at first, but steadily growing—fanned by every smile, every touch, every glance. One look from Grace, and something long thought dead had stirred in Apollo's soul, rousing after too many lifetimes hidden in the deepest recesses of his being. And when Grace finally managed to drag Apollo out of his self-imposed isolation, the light did not blind his eyes; the warmth did not burn him up. Grace was like the dawn—a radiant sunrise after millennia spent in the darkest night. Apollo would not look away.

[pelideswhore]

SONGS FOR HELEN OF TROY

seventeen — marina & the diamonds

Used to be a major scale, but the melody went stale […] Could never tell you what happened the day I turned seventeen. The rise of a king and the fall of a queen. Oh, seventeen, seventeen. Oh, you were embarrassed of me because I used my tongue freely. Bet you wished I couldn’t speak, ‘cause when I do, you know I tell you why you appear weak.

ivy — taylor swift

My pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand, taking mine but it's been promised to another. [...] He's gonna burn this house to the ground. How's one to know? I'd live and die for moments that we stole, on begged and borrowed time. So tell me to run, or dare to sit and watch what we’ll become, and drink my husband’s wine.

all you wanna do — aimee atkinson (six)

I think we can all agree I’m the ten amongst these threes and ever since I was a child, I’d make the boys go wild. […] All you wanna do, baby, is touch me. When will enough be enough? See, all you wanna do, all you wanna do, baby, is squeeze me, don’t care if you don’t please me. Bite my lip and pull my hair as you tell me I’m the fairest of the fair.

easy on me — adele

You can’t deny how hard I’ve tried to put you both first but now I give up. Go easy on me, baby. I was still a child, didn’t get the chance to feel the world around me. I had no time to choose what I chose to do, so go easy on me. I had good intentions and the highest hopes, but I know right now that probably doesn’t even show.

farewell wanderlust — the amazing devil

Goodbye to all my darkness, there’s nothing here but light. Adieu to all the faceless things that sleep with me at night. This here is not make-up, it’s a porcelain tomb, and this here is not singing, it’s just screaming in tune because farewell wanderlust, you’ve been ever so kind. You brought me through this darkness but you left me here behind. So long to the person you begged me to be, he’s down, he’s dead, and now take a good long look at what you’ve done to me.

flowers — eva noblezada (hadestown)

What I wanted was to fall asleep, close my eyes and disappear. Like a petal on the stream, like a feather in the air […] Flowers, I remember fields of flowers, soft beneath my heels. I remember someone, someone by my side—turned his face to mine, and I turned away, into the shade. You, the one I left behind, if you ever walk this way, come and find me, lying in the bed I made.

tango dancer — gelsey bell (ghost quartet)

I used to run in the sand, campfire stars in the distance, and I’d gaze into the darkness, and wonder about the void. And I’m haunted by that memory of who I used to be—so gleeful, so blank, so ready. I was empty then, and I’m empty now, but it’s not the same at all […] I’d stay up all night long and all the boys would fall over, oh, how dazzling I could be. But the magic is gone, my joy got bloated and sick.

memory — elaine paige (cats)

Memory, all alone in the moonlight. I can smile at the old days, I was beautiful then. I remember the time I knew what happiness was. Let the memory live again. Every street lamp seems to beat, a fatalistic warning […] Daylight, I must wait for the sunrise. I must think of a new life and I mustn’t give in. When the dawn comes, tonight will be a memory too and a new day will begin.

speechless — naomi scott (aladdin)

Here comes a wave meant to wash me away, a tide that is taking me under. Swallowing sand, I’ve got nothing to say, my voice drowned out in the thunder. But I won’t cry, and I won’t start to crumble. Whenever they try to shut me or cut me down, I won’t be silenced. You can’t keep me quiet […] Written in stone, every rule, every word. Centuries old and unbending. ‘Stay in your place, better seen and not heard’, but now that story’s ending.

girls against god — florence + the machine

What a thing to admit, that when somebody looks at me with real love, I don’t like it very much. It kinda feels like I’m being crushed. Is that something you’d like to discuss? […] And in my darkest fantasies, I’m the picture of passivity, waiting for you side of stage, suppressing all my private rage, but as my sister said, I’d probably last six days. […] But it’s good to be alive, crying into cereal at midnight. Oh, God, you’re gonna get it. You’ll be sorry that you messed with us.

exile — taylor swift

I can see you starin’, honey, like he’s just your understudy, like you’d get your knuckles bloody for me. Second, third and hundredth chances. Balancin’ on breaking branches. Those eyes add insult to injury. I think I’ve seen this film before, and I didn’t like the ending. I’m not your problem anymore, so who am i offending now! You were my crown, now I’m in exile seeing you out.

long story short — taylor swift

The knife cuts both ways; if the show fits, walk in it ‘til your high heels break. And I fell from the pedestal, right down the rabbit hole. Long story short, it was a bad time. Pushed from the precipice, clung to the nearest lips. Long story short, it was the wrong guy. Now I’m all about you, I’m all about you. Actually, I always thought I must look better in the rear view [...] Long story short, it was a bad time. Long story short, I survived.

dream girl evil — florence + the machine

Oh, did you miss me? Walk on water just to kiss me? Oh, come and get me, drag me out and destroy me. I’ve been expecting you, I’m ready. Deliver me that bad news, baby. Am I your dream girl? You think of me in bed but you could never hold me and like me better in your head. Make me evil, then I’m an angel instead—at least you’ll sanctify me when I’m dead […] Did I disappoint you? Did mummy make you sad? Do I at least remind you of every girl that made you mad?

broken glass — rachel platten

I’m on a highway full of red lights, I’ve lost so many long nights, felt words that cut like knives. I know they’re gonna say what they wanna […] I have been patient, but I’m not waiting anymore. I’m gonna dance on broken glass, broken glass. I’m gonna make that ceiling crash, that ceiling crash. So what? Still got knives in my back. So what? So I’m tied to the tracks, yeah, I’m gonna dance on broken glass.

trust in me — scarlett johansson (the jungle book)

Shut your eyes, trust in me. You can sleep, safe and sound, knowing I am around. Slip into silent slumber, sail on a silver mist. Slowly but surely, your senses will seize to resist. Just relax, be at rest, like a bird in a nest. Trust in me, just in me.

[unclefungusthegoat]

Part two of Illumine, my Chevalier and Liselotte fic is here!

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sick bed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

Part One: L'obscurité

Read on AO3

Part Two: Le Rêve

Read at the AO3 link, or below!

Tags: Drug Addiction, Drug Withdrawal, Opium, Fever Dreams, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Vomiting, Graphic Descriptions of Corpses, Period-Typical Homophobia, Medical Procedures, Medical Inaccuracies, Historical Inaccuracy, Imprisonment, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied Sexual Content, Near Death Experiences, Child Death, Animal Abuse, Restraints

Part Two: Le Rêve

A rap upon the door.

Cutting through the thin sheen of peace.

And the low, discrete murmur was unmistakable, even though the Chevalier’s ears were buried beneath the blankets. Drool wet the fabric beneath his cheek.

“I’m afraid the King insists, Your Highness-”

“Please, Bontemps, explain to His Majesty, I will not leave him.” Liselotte was clearly trying to keep her voice hushed, but it seemed Versailles was built to echo, “Monsieur Fortin says the Chevalier is at a precipitous moment in his recovery. If…” She swallowed, bracing herself, “... If the fever claims him, my husband would never forgive me if I wasn’t at his side.”

Bontemps’ weary disinterest was louder than any reply he could make.

“His Majesty understands your anxiety over this matter. Nevertheless-”

The words seemed to fade, replaced by the sound of the Chevalier’s heartbeat thudding in his head. It felt as if a troupe of horses had trampled his body, for every inch of him hurt, every limb felt useless and bruised. To turn on his side, or rearrange his nightshirt, was an ordeal akin to Sisyphus. And still, that dry mouth, longing for that taste. Still that need . That burning within.

What had she said?

"If the fever claims him."

I’m dying, he realised, as sleep claimed him once more.

I’m dying and I shall never see him again. 

***

The smell of sickness bled through the stone. It was far from the first time typhoid fever had broken out within the Chateau d’If, where the men were crowded in thirty or forty to a room. Fresh inmates often brought pox and lurgy from the mainland, and there was not a soul about the rock who cared for their fate. One less Huguenot troublemaker or political upstart would not be missed.

But this fever had taken hold with the grasp of an ancient god upon the thunder. Now the dead lay face to face with the living, and the living prayed for death. The floors were fouled. The cells were stifling with decay. Death claimed every inch of the fortress, every minute of the day. So lost were the sorry bastards in the cells below, the priest couldn't read rites quickly enough, for as soon as one perished, another needed attending. 

The Chevalier could hear the bodies being dragged out and thrown into the sea.

“Exile is as good as death.” He recalled Madeleine de Foix purring once, over the fate of some unfortunate social climber, “But the Chateau is surely worse. It does not do for a nobleman to be forgotten in such a place.’

Had he been forgotten?

It certainly felt so.

There had been no word sent from Versailles. No sign of release papers, or a royal pardon. He was not permitted to write or receive letters, nor to speak to the prisoners in the adjacent cells (though why he would ever want to eluded him. He was not that desperate for idle chit-chat). Payment enough had been made for a private cell, but not a penny more had been sent for further comfort, not even from his siblings, who amassed quite the fortune from their abbeys.

It seemed now though, four days into this latest bout of malady, even the guards had forsaken him, the rancid stench of an epidemic lingering in the fibres of their cloaks and tunics as they idled past on their patrols. The regular guard had not visited at all today. No meagre ration of soup had been delivered and the chamber pot remained soiled. He’d done his best with the fire, but the embers were fading fast, and he was too cold to try again.

February in Marseille might as well have been December in Siberia. There was no glass in the window to protect from the storm, and the wind bit at his cheeks and fingers. From his cell upon the top floor, he could see the Mediterranean sea lashing upon the rocks, and had there not been stone walls preventing him, the Chevalier was convinced he would have thrown himself in to be drowned. 

Better that than spend one more moment pretending that he would ever go home.

He was not one to pray. His faith had faded early in his youth, and all but died when he realised that having a passion for one's own sex invariably left him damned. But now he knelt before the rotting straw mattress with the diligence of a monk, and begged for God… anyone … to heed him.

“Sancta Maria, Mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae, Amen.”

He pressed his lips upon his clasped hands, tears spilling onto the white knuckles. The Latin was fumbled, forgetful, despite being endlessly repeated since he was a boy. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine the cold floor beneath him was the marble chapel of Versailles. That the scrape of flesh against the floor was the shuffle of congregants to receive communion. That warm breath would tickle the back of his neck, as Philippe - darling Philippe - approached behind him to whisper something sinful.

Goddamn it, he’d even take Bossuet’s chastisements, if it meant he was home to hear them.

Another body cast in.

And another.

And another, and another, and another, and another…

***

Now he stood beneath the moon, knee deep in cold water. There was no salt in the air, or tide pulling him adrift. Instead, the water was still and shallow, soaking his breeches in a most rude and unbecoming fashion. He could not remember how he came to be there. It seemed perhaps he had been drunk or in the throes of a tantrum, as he so often was these days.

Still, the Palace was but a distant silhouette. The shape of it cast an impossibly long shadow across the water. and though there seemed to be golden light in every window, there was no one close enough to witness him in such a state. 

Had he sleepwalked?

There was talk the King wandered in his sleep. Perhaps it was catching. As Louis’s palace polluted them all, so too did his afflictions.

And yes, the Chevalier hated the outdoors - mosquitos in the summer, every opportunity to catch your death in the winter. Mud and rain and birdshit on the marble steps. But the fresh air felt freeing tonight, away from the confines of the Palace, a gilded prison by any measure. Away from seeing how Philippe’s eyes wandered; to his wife, to the weasely little poet, and if they were not to be found there, they would be upon his armour, hungry for another war.

Had they fought again?

No.

Well, probably, but not this time.

No… 

Had he not been…?

He could have sworn he’d been in Marseille but a moment ago.

A memory, Philippe, nothing more…

But maybe…?

…maybe…

… Why couldn’t he remember?

He reached for the phial tucked into his coat, and found, to his delight, a droplet of laudanum left lingering at the bottom. He leaned his head back to let it dribble into his throat, the morsel pulling away all worry and care of what his prince might be up to over there in the light. At least he still had one great love, one constant, which never failed to bring him ecstasy.

Something moved around his ankles.

He nearly lost his footing. The phial dropped with a quiet plop into the depths, never to be found again, for the water was black as a crow’s feather, and he could not see his own reflection, let alone the bottom of the fountain. 

It moved again.

Whatever it was, it wasn't small. He couldn’t remember the King having fish brought in, though he wouldn't put it past the man to have had his gardeners go to the ends of the earth to collect a sea beast worthy of the corners of the map. 

His eyes bulged. And summoning a faint wisp of courage from within, the Chevalier moved his hand to the surface. His fingers dipped beneath. Not quite enough to risk his whole hand should the creature have teeth, but certainly a ring or two if he were not fast enough. The water was heavy, like oil, slick and slippery. It smelt sweet, like violets - the same powdery scent that greeted him upon opening his snuff box.

But there was nothing below.

Nothing but his stockinged feet.

He hissed a laugh at his foolishness. It was surely time to return to the Palace, to slip into bed beside Philippe (if his bed was not already occupied ). To let his warmth lull him to sleep. 

But first - the phial.

He reached down again to retrieve it, confidence rising as the shallows fell-

- and with a surge, the water slipped from the form that broke free from the depths.

A human form.

Shoulders and a head bearing pretty brown curls, lit by that oversized moon.

Crying out, he stumbled back, but her rotting hands caught the front of his coat. He could see the bone where they'd been eaten away by some ravenous creature. Could see moss threaded through her hair. She seemed so frail in nothing but her shift, and without the haze of opium, to look upon her innocent half-naked form felt lecherous. Dirty. Almost sacrilegious. To look upon her felt unholy in every way imaginable.

It couldn’t be, it wasn’t possible…

But the drowned, bloated face of Isabelle, gaped and gasped for air.

Her wide eyes searched his face.

“Is this paradise, Monsieur?”

He choked on the stench of her, on the stale breath she had not been permitted to take, now released.

“Will you kiss me, Monsieur, as you did that night? I had never kissed a man before.”

“Leave me be!” He shrieked, pulling at her fingers to release him, but she held tight. Nausea churned within his stomach as he was forced to look upon her. At the water that dribbled from her lips, at the tinges of green beneath her once rosy skin… at the love bite on her neck. Once so young and full of hope and promise, had she not been the plaything of jealousy, and led into the embrace of iniquity and desire.

His embrace.

“Will you love me, Monsieur? Am I to be your wife, now you have touched me”?

“Let me go- please-” His voice died in his throat.

“No.”

And she leant in to whisper in his ear.

“So too will you drown.”

***

Who is screaming?

Surely a madman was loose about the palace, to make such a racket as that? Perhaps this stranger, clad in black, who insisted on assaulting him? The stranger seemed mad, with his wiry hair, and instruments eerily like Marchal’s. His eyes bulged. His words were garbled.

He is here to rob me , the Chevalier realised, for the stranger clung to his limbs with unsympathetic force, and showed no sign of relenting, no matter how vigorously he thrashed. Rob me, arrest me, send me away again, away to the King, to the gallows he promised me. I learned my lesson, did I not? I learned, as I promised I’d learn, but no, my stallion, you and I both know I never learn. And now this thief is here to kill me, to rob me, to empty my coat- this fine coat that you paid for, my darling! You see what he took, bastard that he is, he knows it’ll stop the pain, it’ll all go away and I will be your mignon again, your Philippe, as you remember me, before I was sent away! She said one drop to sleep, Philippe, just a drop, Philippe, just one, it can be our secret, darling, just a drop, my darling, can’t you see it hurts -

His legs were spasming, the muscles already taut and pained from disuse. Feet, scrabbling against his captor, ruching the sheets.

And still, the godforsaken screaming .

“You must hush, sir, or I’m afraid I shall be forced to tie you down.”

***

"... She wasn’t the first, was she?"

Mignonette's face was contorted with anguished fury. With loathing . But his voice still held that exquisite softness, that vulnerable, hushed quality that held more beauty than lark song to the Chevalier. And, oh how perfect he was in his powder and rouge, laced lovingly into his favourite corset, just as he had on the day they met. How fine he looked, with his cheeks flushed and his hair wild, even if it was in service of accusation. 

Mignonette’s slight body was trembling in rage.

"Are you so set against my brother? Against me?"

The Chevalier couldn't recall what he'd done, but it broke his heart to see his love so tormented.

I am always with you, he wanted to proclaim. Did I not kill for you? Did I not think of you every day I languished in prison? Have I not held you in your darkest nights, and been your companion when all the world believes us wicked? Will I not follow you into the depths of damnation, all for want of your love?

"My darling, I have no idea what you mean, the very thought of hurting you is-"

"STOP IT. STOP SEDUCING ME WITH YOUR POISONOUS WORDS!" Marching across the chamber, Mignonette’s hands began to tear at his slate grey skirts, lacerating the fine silk. He cast it away, leaving it withered upon the floor, rubbed at his face with his palm, smearing the Chevalier’s handiwork into a pink watercolour rash. He ripped the jewels from his ears, letting the lobes weep in pain. “You’re a VIPER. A snake in the garden, set upon me by those who wished to keep me insignificant! My brother! My mother!”

“Your mother adored you!” The Chevalier dared to take a step forward, arms raised as if pacifying a defensive bull, “As do I! You are my very soul, Philippe, never mind the very soul of France! Please, if I have wounded you, if I have cut you to the quick, tell me! Tell me how I might be better! How I might return to your good graces, how I might heal your pain-!”

Such flattery did not assuage Mignonette’s wrath, for his fingers moved to the petticoats, the white silk. The sound of seams snapping was akin to broken bones.

“Philippe… Philippe, stop- you love that gown-!”

“I loved YOU.” He screamed, “And you repay my love by poisoning my WIFE.”

The bottom dropped out of his stomach.

Had he not been here before, heard this before?

“...That’s absurd.”

“You deny it?” Mignonette snarled, “You command me to deny my own eyes?” He flung out an arm, scratched in his haste to undress, towards the bed.

What?

And yet suddenly he saw her, strewn amongst the bloodsoaked sheets. Liselotte, arm impaled by a too-big lancet. A shrieking lamb was tied beside her, thrashing its head in fear as its blood nourished her lifeless veins. Her eyes saw no light, her mouth agape, dribbling bile and foam, her flesh so pale it could have challenged the mist and snow. Like Henriette, bloodied spittle stained her nightgown. Viscera vomited in agony. That boisterous spirit… gone.

Her babe withering within.

The Chevalier felt sick at the sight of it.

Surely, he hadn’t-?

Mignonette’s face was now so close to his. What remained of his gown hung loosely from him, skin like alabaster beaded with sweat. His lips, plump with desire, but worried to the point of splitting. A calm had come over him, his breath heavy in his bosom. His thumb moved across the Chevalier’s cheek. 

“Do you see her, my dear Chevalier?”

He knew he’d see her in his dreams for all eternity.

“She wasn’t the first, was she?” 

“... What?

"You poisoned her too, didn't you?"

Somehow the Chevalier already knew the answer.

Still he asked.

"Who?”

That gentle whisper, once saved for sweet nothings between the raptures of sex.

“Henriette.”

The prince’s eyes were stormy with grief. The Chevalier shook his head, almost imperceptible, but for the man who was his world. Yet to his world, he spoke his truth, and it was not the truth he had hoped they would bear witness to. It came with a smirk. That wit, that irreverence, so often his downfall.

“I would be lying, my love, if I said I hadn’t thought about it.”

Mignonette smiled.

That beautiful, sad smile.

That lonely, silver smile that so often was confined to the shadows.

“You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? To stay by my side.”

A nod.

“Anything.”

And Mignonette gave a soft sigh.

“My brother was right about you.”

The Chevalier decided there, in the embrace of his truest love, that surely this could be no dream. 

For the dagger between his ribs, twisted at that precise angle as to sever the heart, felt more real than any kiss they’d ever shared.

***

The night came once more, and he lay curled upon the bed.

Someone had stripped him of his nightshirt now, in a desperate attempt to cool him down. And he lay naked as the day he was born, modesty preserved only by a thin sheet. Exhausted, drenched in sweat, with bruises upon his wrists and ankles. An aeon of nights with no respite from the pain, from that thirst, had left him collapsed upon her - his angel - unable to struggle, unable to die. His head, cradled in her lap. Her fingers stroked his hair, in lieu of a lullaby. Like a wounded baby deer, he whimpered, weak and shivering.

Through the open window, a harpsichord serenaded from a distant soiree.

“Where is Philippe?” He barely whispered.

He wasn’t sure if it was the first time he’d asked. Philippe’s banyan robe - one of beautiful ochre and grey silk - was somehow in his grasp, had been laid out, to be crushed in his grip as a child clings to a blanket. The lavender perfume of his lover so near confused him, for how could he be here and yet not be? 

No one had ever cared but Philippe.

Philippe… and her .

“He promised,” Every word, every breath was fainter, “He promised he would love me again…”

Had he the strength to look up, he would have seen her grief upon her cheeks.

“He will.” Was all she could think to say in return, “He does.”

[branwendaughterofllyr]

A quick meta inspired by the discussion of Sansa and the dawn inspired by the comments on @cappymightwrite‘s post about snowflakes

The Stark sisters being symbolized by the sun and the moon is pretty well known motif for ASOIAF. Ned says it to Arya all the way back in AGOT

Sansa is your sister. You may be as different as the sun and the moon, but the same blood flows through both your hearts. You need her, as she needs you … and I need both of you, gods help me." ARYA II, AGOT

The same motif recurs with Brienne, whose arms are a sun quartered with a moon, who is searching for the Stark sisters. (Brienne’s father is also the Evenstar of Tarth, a reference to the evening star, which feels like another connection to the sky imagery of the Stark sisters.)

Arya is connected to the moon, and her moments of triumph or confirmation of her identity are often marked by a rising moon, or a moon being revealed, while she is often at her lowest or darkest when the moon is concealed or dark. In AFFC, she is no one when the moon is black, i. e. gone or hidden. 

She carried neither candle nor taper. Syrio had told her once that darkness could be her friend, and he was right. If she had the moon and the stars to see by, that was enough. ARYA IX, ACOK

If I had wings I could fly back to Winterfell and see for myself. And if it was true, I'd just fly away, fly up past the moon and the shining stars, and see all the things in Old Nan's stories, dragons and sea monsters and the Titan of Braavos, and maybe I wouldn't ever fly back unless I wanted to. ARYA X, ACOK

That night she lay in her narrow bed upon the scratchy straw, listening to the voices of the living and the dead whisper and argue as she waited for the moon to rise. They were the only voices she trusted anymore. She could hear the sound of her own breath, and the wolves as well, a great pack of them now. They are closer than the one I heard in the godswood, she thought. They are calling to me. ARYA X, ACOK

She was strong and swift and fierce, and her pack was all around her, her brothers and her sisters. They ran down a frightened horse together, tore its throat out, and feasted. And when the moon broke through the clouds, she threw back her head and howled. ARYA V, ASOS

The moon turned and turned again, though Arya never saw it. She served, washed the dead, made faces at the mirrors, learned the Braavosi tongue, and tried to remember that she was no one. ARYA II, AFFC

When the moon was black she was no one, a servant of the Many-Faced God in a robe of black and white.  CAT OF THE CANALS, AFFC

Braavos also has extremely heavy moon imagery, with the escaped slaves led there by the Moonsingers, which sounds awfully like an epithet for wolves. There are also the moon pools, where the bravos duel at night. 

Sansa’s imagery with the sun is similar, and her moments are connected to the dawn, the rising sun. (Also, the white cloaks of the KG in Sansa’s story line are often described as being like the moon, or “moon cloaks.” And there's very little rising moon vs. dark moon imagery in her chapters as well. )

Sansa drifted to sleep as the moon rose, Arya several hours later, curling up in the grass under Ned's cloak. All through the dark hours he kept his vigil alone. When dawn broke over the city, the dark red blooms of dragon's breath surrounded the girls where they lay. "I dreamed of Bran," Sansa had whispered to him. "I saw him smiling." EDDARD V, AGOT

Here we have both the dawn and the rising moon, and both Sansa and Arya are with their father, a moment of safety and comfort before everything falls apart. 

Dawn appears again with Sansa in ACOK, after her harrowing experience in the red Keep during the Battle of the Blackwater.  

Sansa was wondering what it might mean when a second bell joined in, and a third, their voices calling across the hills and hollows, the alleys and towers, to every corner of King's Landing. She threw off the cloak and went to her window. The first faint hint of dawn was visible in the east, and the Red Keep's own bells were ringing now, joining in the swelling river of sound that flowed from the seven crystal towers of the Great Sept of Baelor. They had rung the bells when King Robert died, she remembered, but this was different, no slow dolorous death knell but a joyful thunder. She could hear men shouting in the streets as well, and something that could only be cheers. ..... "It's done! Done! Done! The city is saved. Lord Stannis is dead, Lord Stannis is fled, no one knows, no one cares, his host is broken, the danger's done. Slaughtered, scattered, or gone over, they say. Oh, the bright banners! The banners, Jonquil, the banners! Do you have any wine? We ought to drink to this day, yes. It means you're safe, don't you see?" SANSA VII, ACOK

When Sansa realizes that she has survived the Battle of the Blackwater, the dawn is just beginning. It’s interesting that although Sansa is brought this good news while the sun has started to rise, it is a faint dawn, the first hints of it. She is not truly safe yet. 

And it is dawn when Sansa escapes KL. It is night when she enters the godswood, but the sun rises as she leaves. 

One more step, she told herself, one more step. She had to keep moving. If she stopped, she would never start again, and dawn would find her still clinging to the cliff, frozen in fear. One more step, and one more step.The ground took her by surprise. She stumbled and fell, her heart pounding. When she rolled onto her back and stared up at from where she had come, her head swam dizzily and her fingers clawed at the dirt. I did it. I did it, I didn't fall, I made the climb and now I'm going home. SANSA V, ASOS

The eastern sky was vague with the first hint of dawn when Sansa finally saw a ghostly shape in the darkness ahead; a trading galley, her sails furled, moving slowly on a single bank of oars. As they drew closer, she saw the ship's figurehead, a merman with a golden crown blowing on a great seashell horn. She heard a voice cry out, and the galley swung slowly about. SANSA V, ASOS

Again, “first hint of dawn.” Maybe this is not as much of an escape as it should be, considering LF orchestrated it to bring Sansa into the Vale. 

Already the little boat was no more than a swirl of smoke and fire behind them, almost lost in the immensity of the dawn sea. There was no going back; her only road was forward. "Very weary," she admitted. SANSA V, ASOS

The imagery of a dawn sea is very interesting, especially back to back with “her only road was forward.”

The most intense dawn imagery comes with the chapter where Sansa builds her snow castle in the godswood, and there is a lot of it!.

this was not Winterfell, but the Eyrie. And I am Alayne Stone, a bastard girl. The room was cold and black, though she was warm beneath the blankets. Dawn had not yet come. Sometimes she dreamed of Ser Ilyn Payne and woke with her heart thumping, but this dream had not been like that. Home. It was a dream of home. SANSA VII, ASOS

She is not in Winterfell, she is not Sansa Stark, and the dawn has not yet come. This a very purposeful combination (and very similar to Arya’s dark of the moon.) 

All color had fled the world outside. It was a place of whites and blacks and greys. White towers and white snow and white statues, black shadows and black trees, the dark grey sky above. A pure world, Sansa thought. I do not belong here. Yet she stepped out all the same.

Before she steps out, the sky is still dark. When she does, and tastes the snow, “It was the taste of Winterfell. The taste of innocence. The taste of dreams.” She closes her eyes, and when she opens them, it is dawn.

When Sansa opened her eyes again, she was on her knees. She did not remember falling. It seemed to her that the sky was a lighter shade of grey. Dawn, she thought. Another day. Another new day. It was the old days she hungered for. Prayed for. But who could she pray to? The garden had been meant for a godswood once, she knew, but the soil was too thin and stony for a weirwood to take root. A godswood without gods, as empty as me.

Sansa then builds WInterfell in the snow, and dawn appears again.

Dawn stole into her garden like a thief. The grey of the sky grew lighter still, and the trees and shrubs turned a dark green beneath their stoles of snow. 

I’m not quite sure to make of this line. This is the only description of “dawn stealing” in the books, and it feels very important. Dawn, her garden, and a thief? 

I will tentatively point out the connection to the recurring motif of stolen Stark daughters, and this feels like a connection to that. Sansa and rose imagery also occurs a lot, and it is definitely a common motif in her story. The Rose of WF was stolen by Bael the Bard, this story comes up right before the chapter where Sansa “flowers,” Sansa is receives roses, is called the A Roadside rose. It’s all there, and smarter people than I have talked about it. She’s also “stolen away” by Bael-ish. (think of how dawn and her weariness are juxtaposed with each other when LF is revealed as the one orchestrated her escape. This mention of dawn does not have that caveat, but is combined with the lighter grey sky. bringing to mind the Stark colors.) 

I think the explicit connection with the dawn means Sansa might be “stolen” again, but this time as something she actively wants and choses, rather than something she is coerced or decieved into, since the rising sun is positive for her.

(I mean, I have my own theory 😉. I’m not saying it might be related to Jon, but I’m not not saying that.)

Adding onto the dawn and rising sun motif, Sansa is also placed in the easternmost tower of the Eyrie.

Maiden's was the easternmost of the Eyrie's seven slender towers, so she had the Vale before her, its forests and rivers and fields all hazy in the morning light. The way the sun was hitting the mountains made them look like solid gold. ALAYNE I, AFFC

I don’t know about you, but this screams “it is the east, and Juliet is the sun” to me. Very fitting for romantic (and often tragic) heroine. And the idea of the sun being romantically linked has come before in the books with “"When the sun has set, no candle can replace it,” which Tyrion makes fun of, but I think that Loras might be more right here than not. 

So yeah. The dawn imagery comes fast and hard with Sansa, and I think it’s very reasonable say it might be important down the road.