#a conflagration of my own

[wyvern-flames]

I just saw someone say they didn’t give a damn for one of the cities of six teen and… aside from being so baffled that it is possible for people not to care for these places, it made me realize why there is barely if any content on Lostwing in particular… Like… aside from lots of stuff being locked behind side quests, it’s a “side-city” with its own set of people that not everyone will pay attention to if at all and ugh I am so disappointed and sad and shocked lmao, it was a sad slap back to reality.

[see-arcane]

Our good friend Jonathan Harker is getting ready to leave for his business trip, Mina Murray is picking out a new journal, Lucy Westenra is charming a gaggle of smitten suitors, Abraham van Helsing is wrapping up his lectures, and Castle Dracula is prepping the guest room for a very long stay.

Which must mean that Dracula Season is here again!

 ‘Dracula Season’ being a catchall term for the voracious reading, memeing, writing, illustrating, analyzing, and general fun-having that’s ensued since Matt Kirkland’s project, Dracula Daily, caught on with us back in 2022. The Substack had already been running before then, but it sparked a conflagration as time went on and readers old and new to Bram Stoker’s Dracula—the actual novel, not Coppola’s fanfiction—devoured it in a way that scratched an itch none of us knew we had. Stoker wrote the book in epistolary fashion, clumping sections together as needed for the pacing without perfect adherence to chronological order. Matt went ahead and put all the events in order and proceeded to set up a lovely chain of emails that delivered entries on those correlating dates.

This style of organization and pacing turned out to not only make the virtual book club that much easier to engage with, but left space in-between to stew on the story and relate with the characters themselves. Every day of waiting in the book feels weightier when you have to pace and sweat and worry in tandem with poor Jonathan trapped in the castle or Lucy wasting away or Mina running out the clock before she loses the fight for her own humanity. And while we sat with the story or the lulls between Dracula Seasons, some of us found ourselves craving more of that ghastly gothic horror goodness to the point that we figured:

“Well. Why don’t I make something?”

And then we did! Tons of creative works have been churned out in the wake of Dracula Daily’s high. I figured that while we’ve still got a bit of time to wait for May 3rd, we should check out all this new stuff in the meantime. (Plus a handful of neat stuff that just clicks with the Dracula itch overall.)

So, in the interest of Dracula Season pregaming, let’s take a look at…

FICTION

Blood of My Blood – A recent addition to the Dracula Bad Ending AU pile, and definitely one of the most harrowing and addictive group-produced narratives I’ve ever come across, Blood of My Blood is the dramatically gothic currently-WIP work of @ibrithir-was-here and @animate-mush’s devious design. Give or take a heap of other fascinated folks (hello!) adding ideas to put more Horror into the Horrors that our cast has to face. The premise:

The Transylvanian climax went fatally sour and the Harkers were forced to shelter with Dracula himself, including their half-vampire son, Quincey. Cut to two decades later, and Quincey finds himself out in modern London, smitten with Lu, adopted daughter of Arthur and Jack, and diving into certain bloodstained old documents that detail the real history of how his parents came to live in the castle. Said revelations coming not a moment too soon, as a storm is coming for him straight from the Carpathians…

Dracula Daily Sketch Collection – An array of illustrations that captures every entry beat by beat, the Dracula Daily Sketch Collection by Georgia Cook, alias @georgiacooked was dished out over the course of the last Dracula Season. Some of the most fun character designs out there.

Fanfiction Spotlight: BlueCatWriter – With a whopping 99 works devoted to the novel Dracula (so far, the number may have gone up since I blinked), @bluecatwriter is one of the most prolific and talented fanfiction scribblers out there. Romances, nightmares, and overlaps between the two seem to crop up the most, give or take a crossover. Seems fitting that those blue paw prints have contributed to BoMB too.

The League of Extraordinary Gentlefolk – An ongoing comic in which all your favorite characters from the Classics section get together and tackle some perils ranging from the mundane to the monstrous. Started by the amazing @mayhemchicken and posted on @lxgentlefolkcomic, this series is a love letter to beloved Victorian era lit, with a spotlight on the two couples leading the League. Namely, the Harkers, ala Dracula, and the Nortons, ala Sherlock Holmes,’ “A Scandal in Bohemia.” Mina and Irene are the driving investigative and steering forces here, and still deeply in love with their likewise-infatuated husbands, just like in their canons! What a concept! Alan.

Without spoiling the full character list, just know there are going to be a ton of familiar faces roaming around before you finish reading the first arc. Said arc having conveniently wrapped up just a few days ago! Give the comic and its bonus silliness a look if you’re in the mood for a new comfort-adventure epic.

Re: Dracula – Probably the most well-known and incredible thing to come out of the initial Dracula Daily wave. This podcast is a full audio drama that follows the same format as the Substack, with episodes coming out in time with the entries themselves. And it has an unfairly cool soundtrack. They have a Tumblr with @re-dracula, a site and a Patreon to check out before the series kicks up again on May 3rd. (Also, keep an eye out for their next work, an audio drama in the same style with Carmilla.)

The Soldier and the Solicitor – Another treat from @ibrithir-was-here, this one involves a bit of time travel trouble. Quincey Harker has stumbled out of World War I and into the same dark forest where his father once fled for his life…then runs into the man himself, on that same night. Jonathan Harker, young and starved and lost, who has no choice but to trust this stranger while the Weird Sisters are at his heels…despite said stranger having no shadow. It’s a tasty emotional trek, already complete on Tumblr, but now it’s turning into a Webtoon. While Ibrithir is juggling a number of other stories, she’ll be redrawing spruced up versions of the comic and adding a few new scenes as things unfold.

Substack Stack – You know what’s better than one emailed-out public domain book club? A mountain of them. Just. So, so many of them. You’ll see that a lot of these are finished, but some are still ticking along. Either way, they’re all great picks if you’re craving some more old school lit to fill the void between undead emails.

Frankenstein Weekly – Frankenstein

Jekyll and Hyde Weekly – The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde

Voyage of the Nautilus – Twenty-Thousand Leagues Under the Sea

Letters from Watson – Sherlock Holmes

The Invisible Mail – The Invisible Man

Letters from Bunny – E.W. Hornung’s short stories of the eponymous Bunny and Raffles

Letters Regarding Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster short stories, including the novel, Right Ho, Jeeves

…

……

………

…The Beetle Weekly – The Beetle (NOTE: Do Not Read This.)

The Vampyres – A novella I finally wrenched through the gears of self-publication as of March this year. Starring a petite but powerful paranormal cast, The Vampyres, centers on an unscrupulous undead fellow who finds that the revenants of the world are being mowed down by an entity known only as ‘Quinn Morse.’ Between trying to save his neck and figure out where the shadowy bastard came from, the Vampyre in question crosses paths with a new paramour and handy human shield in the form of a grieving Good Samaritan. He’s even polite enough to invite the Vampyre into his home while he’s in dire straits! Surely this will end well. All the info is available here and a little author site is over here.

What Manner of Man – This is the one made for everyone who started out hoping there’d be a real love story with our good friend Jonathan Harker and the Count when he was at his most charismatic. Where that sea of wonders dried up into a mire of horror, What Manner of Man by @stjohnstarling keeps things firmly on the romantic tracks. This Substack stars the letter-writing priest Father Victor E. Ardelian as he finds himself meeting with one enigmatic Lord Alistair Vane. It isn’t long before interest turns into intrigue and intrigue into undead intimacies.

The entire novel has been completed—along with multiple epilogues in the author’s Patreon, allowing readers to choose for themselves just how the uncanny romance plays out in the end—and the Substack now has a number of other gothic goodies piling up in the meantime.  

NONFICTION

Dracula Daily: A Unique Reading Experience: This one comes courtesy of @realwomenofgaming. It’s a short and sweet piece that amounts to a fun snapshot of the entire Dracula Daily ride. A cozy couple-minute read.

‘Dracula Daily’ is the One Substack You Need a Subscription To: Features my favorite Matt Kirkland interview. @mattkirkland, if you’re still floating around on here, thank you for dispatching our vampire newsletter again this year.

Dracula Daily is Tumblr’s hottest new book club: Alright, the ‘new’ part is worn out by now, but this one is still a delightful article to swing back around to. Two years on, this Polygon piece is a time capsule of those early months when people outside our bookworm bubble realized we were all happily receiving letters from our favorite classic gothic horror blorbos.  

“How Mina Murray Became Dracula’s Girlfriend” – Princess Weekes, if you ever read this, thank you, thank you, thank you. I am sending oceans of love and millions of rewatches to your video essay. If you haven’t seen it yet, “How Mina Murray Became Dracula’s Girlfriend” is one of the most refreshing and well-made breakdowns of both the title subject and numerous other issues that have proliferated in the public view of Dracula’s cast and plot as adaptations endlessly warp or outright bastardize the actual novel. An incredibly cathartic watch.  

Literary play gone viral: delight, intertextuality, and challenges to normative interpretations through the digital serialization of Dracula: A mouthful of a title for an even more elaborate article about the Dracula Daily phenomenon. This one is a full-on study that analyzes just what happened within the big bloodsucker book club surge and how its ‘wandering reading practices’ enriched the experience for participants.

 “The Undying Undead: An analysis of the Dracula Daily community for a theory of online community formation and interaction” – We have a thesis on here! Look at that! @sirangelothebestest’s MA thesis used our vampiric book club as the bones for a massive brick of an academic piece that definitely deserves a look.

…And I think I’ll go ahead and cap things here.

This isn’t everything I got recommended, but if I had squashed all of it in here, I think folks’ eyes would start to fall out of their head. I hope you can find something cool to comb through here. Or, if there’s something great I overlooked, tack it onto the list! We’ve got just two weeks to go until we’re off with Mr. Harker. Let’s enjoy our respite before those castle doors close behind us.

[buzzkillers]

Burning like embers (falling tender)

Pairing: Regulus Black • Black!Reader

Summary: Regulus kidnaps the bride. (Wc:5k)

Warning: Dubcon, Kidnapping, Semi Unrequited Love, Attempted Non-Con, Pseudo-incest, Pureblood Politics, Regulus Embracing His Flaws (Yt and British)

Beta: @darksideofthecocoamoon !!! This would've been way worse without her.

.

.

Regulus Black was not a good man. 

Good men existed in folk tales, in between the thick yellow pages of his childhood books. Where nobility and honor was permeated in ink and their righteousness was outlined in bold roman font, the letters too tiny for baby regulus to read. It was hard to be a good man,  he learned. And by the age of twenty four, he was barely a man at all. 

Rather melodramatic. His mother had said. 

Mother also said he should feel lucky.  

It was luck after all wasn't it? His mother said. A gift to have all of his boyhood crushed out and replaced with a substance that no good man ever possessed. Voldemort knew how to show his favor. He should've been grateful. 

And Regulus was. Grateful that is. He was grateful in the way ravens were grateful for a murder, fire to wood and a cowardly man to…well to him. Regulus. Who had no problem bringing all of these things to fruition. Better than him than the others. His colleagues that liked to add to the fire and wood first, turn a flicker flame to a conflagration. 

It was good that he had all of that goodness ripped out of him, the remnants stuck between Voldemort's teeth.  

Because good men became drunks; drunk on alcohol, indulgent on cheap thrills and even cheaper whores. Complacent. Regulus thought.  

Vermin. His father corrected. Dogs that pretended to be wolves before they latched back on their leashes and trotted home; clean shaven and pristine. 

Regulus knew good men well afterall. 

He's killed many. 

A poison there. A dog bone here. Family cemeteries made entirely in his name. 

So when he said he wasn't a good man, it wasn't an attempt to be humble or modest or bashful or coy or any other fanciful saying. Regulus Black was not a good person. 

The mark proved it. 

The murders cemented it. 

And your body chained to his bed, screamed it. 

Or maybe that was simply a gross overstatement? 

The word 'chained' naturally made one think of those muggle devices. A crude contraption with metallic locks and easily hexed metals. (An insult to human ingenuity, really.) No, your chains were of the metaphysical kind: sophisticated, invisible, snug. It was the nicest thing he's ever done for an opposer to his Lord. 

Unfortunately, you were not raised by Mother. So you didn’t understand to be grateful. Which was a shame. Even a bird admired their cages eventually. It was the least you could do. 

But of course Regulus' life was unfairly hard and his options null. So instead of admiration and dutiful respect, you laid with your back turned and her body curled against the dark corner of your bed. Small and pitiful— a bit wet too. 

Funny.

Maybe he should've called you a fish instead. You wouldn't laugh but it would be funny. After all the white gown that clung to your body was completely translucent, the edges covered in soap suds. (Nastily, Regulus Black curled his bruised lips; a caged bird indeed.)

He closed the door behind him.  

His own clothes drenched and his fingers bloody with scratches before he dumped the wand in his hand to the ground. It clattered unceremoniously. 

"My bird," he began, voice smooth, annoyed. 

"I hope you're incredibly happy with yourself," he slipped his loafers off and untwisted his family rings.  

"There's a dead wizard at our doorstep because of you," parts of him anyway.

The rest of him was about a few yards out. With chunks of flesh too burned and scarred to be identified as human spewed across the acres of land. (Dog meat, his father would say. Hopefully the animals thought the same.) 

The whole ordeal was unnecessarily messy you see? Uncivilized even as he looked at the 'dog' blood splattered against his light robes. Angered, he unbuttoned that too. 

"It was an avoidable death, don't you think?" 

"A complete waste of my time, even?" He cocked his head, his voice heavy with something that made your back tense. 

Yet of course, you refused to turn around, to look back… 

A recent nasty habit of yours as he threw his robes on a nearby chair. The excess blood dripping from hand woven cloth onto the concrete floor. A familiar sight. 

Slowly, his eyes dragged to the wand on the ground, so small and twiggy. It reminded him of the toy wands he saw poor half-bloods play with when no one was looking. A scrap of trash. No different than what you'd throw for a animal to catch. 

Yet, it took death for the wizard to let it go. (A dog and its bone.)

He frowned, then snapped it beneath his heel. 

Magic spurted out and when he looked up your head swirled back towards the wall. He frowned again.

"You could at least cry," he said, voice hoarse. 

“He died for you after all,” 

Besides your frame, a lamp flickered and its shadow danced across your back. He licked his lips, hmm. “They all died for you, actually,” 

"Should I tell them to stop?" He murmured. But you only curled further into yourself. Like a victim, like someone that's done nothing wrong. He gritted his teeth. "No that won't work, you'll just keep sending them," Regulus kicked the wand across the room. 

"Maybe if he had served his purpose…." The air crackled. “..But alas,” Then he crossed the small room and plopped himself on the bed. His head cushioned against the duvet. 

"What did you tell them anyway?" he whispered, before something cracked and your cuffs pulsed. He smiled.  

"Did you say you were captured? That I was holding you prisoner? Did you lie, birdy?" He whispered, before slowly you sat up and turned your head. Your pupils were fat, your breath still.  

"Shut up," 

"B-" he started before all air left his lungs, your hands wrapped around his throat.

"Tu putain de salope—" your knees dug into his waist. “—just stop talking," Spit flew with each word and it took everything in him not to lick it away. He could only smile and make it worse. 

Your eyes widened, a fury of emotion flickering in and out and Regulus only with luck missed the conjured dagger that dug into the place where his head once was. 

"Baise gluante-"  Then with a flick of his wrist the chains tightened, your positions switched and Regulus was on top once more. His bony fingers pressed into a neck that creaked beneath his weight. 

“That was an admirable trick,”

“You almost got me there.” He spoke too soon. 

The knife appeared again, this time pressed too close to his third rib. Huh. What was that muggle saying about kicked dogs again?

"Don’t make me repeat myself," You demanded again between clenched teeth and his skin that was beginning to unravel under the metal. Something in him warmed at that. He killed a man like this the day before. But that was more brutal, cruel even. This was not that. This violence was intimate, affectionate. 

So much so that the moment you spat your words back at him, this time he did lick it off. 

"Sweet," He murmured to himself, like burnt cranberries and raw strawberries, something natural that bursted on his tongue. He licked it again. “A little sour too,” Beneath him you laid frozen, your own eyes widened until your grip on the knife loosened. "Just like me,"

"You're sick," you said it like you were just noticing. "How could you just-"

Quickly, you took a deep breath. 

In. 

Out.

“I'm nothing like you," 

"Nothing?” 

With a grunt you attempted to get up but he kept you down with nails that dug into your wrist. An devilish embrace. "You killed him and you didn't have to, you didn't even need to touch him, you could've let him go, kept him out of it," you insisted, each word said with hard eyes and fat tears on your cheeks. "We're nothing alike," 

Regulus shrugged his shoulders. 

"Then leave," 

"…."

Outside your ‘dogs’ flesh had begun to be pecked off by the ravens and the bones by the flies. Inside, you licked your lips but you did not move an inch. “Here, I’ll even help you,” he confessed before with a whispered incantation, your chain vanished. “Go,”

A symphony of emotions flickered across your face. They all burned hot and they all made Regulus shift above your thigh. Before your knife clattered to smoke and your face twisted into something like hatred. 

His little bird drew back into her cage. 

"Yes," he sighed, his voice not at all shallow and not at all starved for air while he rubbed at the wound that would soon scar by morning, 

"That's what I thought," 

—

When he first met you, his first thought was: 'This isn't going to work,'  and his second thought was 'She's too good for Sirius,'

In hindsight, both statements were correct. 

You were a bold thing really. A beauty covered in rare gems and an aura that spoke of higher breeding. Mother boasted about you highly. The jewel of the west she called you. Someone, born and bred within the confines of a highly respected Afro-Caribbean pure blood family. It was a surprise that Mother even knew you but he guessed that was the point. She wanted someone not as connected in British society after all. Someone who only visited when they had to. 

In other words, the likelihood of Sirius already having fucked you was low and the likelihood  that you knew him was even lower. 

For his mother, ignorance truly was bliss. 

If not for Sirius than also for the fact that no non-British family paid attention to Voldemort.

Voldemort's tyranny was simply an English problem. The bloke didn’t seem to care about the muggles from other countries, much less ones from the Caribbeans. Still, people have heard whispers of him. Only a dip in the pond about a crazed muggleborn that had a bone to pick with British society. 

Nothing special because in hindsight, who didn't? 

So, it was unsurprising that your parents agreed to a marriage of convenience with the one family that was in His pockets. What was surprising was how well you took to it. 

According to Sirius, arranged marriages were archaic and boorish. Not because of any logical reasons like loss of autonomy but because ‘Only a pauper let's their parents pick where his cock goes'. Of course he paid Sirius no mind. 

 Yet, solemnly he wondered if you felt the same. As a boy he would've scoffed at the idea of someone not wanting to marry into the powerful House Of Black but he hasn't been a boy for a long time now. The scales had long fallen from his eyes. In the privacy of his mind, he could not say that it was truly an honor to marry into the Black Family. 

Not with the Potters and Misli’s right there. Not with witches like Bellatrix in the family. On the contrary, it's most likely that you were in for a shock. And you'd probably run for the hills while Sirius laughed into his fifth bottle of ale and mother seethed in the shadows. 

It was the logical conclusion, he knew it and father knew it. But sometimes wolves liked to just watch their prey die. And who were they to go against Mothers will? Father the patriarch and him the–good son. The dog. So he even prepared for it. What a waste of time that was. 

He told Kreacher to prepare for a crying wailing woman. He didn’t prepare for the force that walked through the door instead. It was raining when you visited but you didn't seem to notice. Instead your face was held high as you met mother, your grip firm when you met father and you smiled at him. Very toothy and almost childish but it fit you well.

Father and Mother were nervous that Sirius wouldn't take to you. That they'd have to find another poor woman for their plans but Regulus remembered the sparkle behind his brother's eyes, the twitch of his fingers when you matched fire with oil. You gave him boorish jokes with a classy smile and a mouth no different than a muggle sailor. You were everything dirty about Sirius, wrapped and repackaged into someone pretty, someone that could take it, take him. 

Regulus wasn't impressed of course. It took anyone with a halved brain cell to get along with Sirius. You were really no different than James in his mind. Someone that could code switch between two worlds without making either party uncomfortable. A chameleon with nothing inside. It was good that you only had one job really. One simple, impossible to fail job: 'Bring my son back to me,' He heard mother whisper, both of your bodies hidden in the shadows of the back rooms. ‘Bring Sirius back into the fold’ 

‘Bring him back with a mark,’ She really meant to say and then the conversation was over. 

And of course you failed. 

____

"Do not touch me with blood still on your hands,"  you barked as Regulus dipped your head into the water. The soap suds in your head mingling with the crusted blood on his fingers until the water became a dull, faint pink. 

He hummed. "You demand a lot of me," but his hands do hover away from your hair and to the lip of the porcelain tub. You'd smell so much better without the after-smell of spilt blood anyway. 

Without thinking he rinsed his hands in the water bowl by his side. His pink reflection looking at him before he went back to your puffed- no braided hair. It wasn't like that before. Did you do that while he was upstairs? With your bare hands at that? No, you must've used a spell. Strangled together the few bouts of magic his bindings granted you and did what he offered to do freely. Impressive. 

He should take it all apart. 'Just to spite you,' he thought before with a hum he squeezed more shampoo in your hair. Suds dropped to the wooden floor, and seeped between the cracks. The scent of juniper berry erupted in the air. Your hands gripped the lip of the tub tighter. 

“Sirius used to wash my hair like this.” you murmured, your teeth dug deep into your lip. “Eventually, he’d join me and we’d stay in the tub for hours,” 

He paused, his fingertips wrinkled in your hair before you took a long and hard inhale. In.  Out. 

“Is that so?” he murmured, something tough in his throat. It was only because of the hand of Merlin that he was able to sound nonchalant. 

From his position, he could not see your features. But he could look at the mirror that faced the both of you. It stood at the opposite side of the room; decorated in golds and engraved with faces that he had no interest in knowing. Your own face was the only one that captured his attention. And at this moment, it was closed off. Your lips twisted sardonically and your eyes cut to the side.  

“Yes, there was more that was happening of course, but—that would be inappropriate to tell, " you snickered as if you were the leader on all things dealing with propriety. He took a moment and breathed in. 

“Was this before or after you betrayed him,” Regulus asked. You went silent. 

Coward.

“Or do you even remember,”

“-shut up,”

“Is that a no then?” 

"Are you deaf?" you cut your eyes towards the mirror. "I told you to shut up," 

His own lips curled, "You are still wet," The suds in your hair have now dried. Leaving behind dollops of water that now pooled at his feet. The excess had begun to drip to the floor, the rest down your neck, to your back. 

"Did that also remind you of your time with Sirius?"  Then you shot up, the water falling from your shoulders.  

"Do you constantly think about what gets your brother hard?" What a dirty mouth.

His lips twisted. "You should get back in,"

"No," 

"You'll get a cold," 

You rolled your eyes. "Then you shall tell my family I died of hyperthermia, they'll believe that," 

His eyes fell flat but Regulus didn't say a word. Just kept his touch gentle, his movements soft. As if you were a lover, a friend and not—

The knife only nicked his shoulder this time.

"I said-" you shuddered violently,. "-To stop it," 

In the mirror, Regulus watched as you shot him a look. Weeks ago there was a fiery rage in there, dragon eyes in human form. Now it was just tired, bored even. Then you looked back down, silent. 

He narrowed his eyes. "Ask me,"

Your grimace only deepened, but now there was humor laced in the edges. "Ask?" your lips twisted into a nasty tired smile; 

"Demander?" You giggled. "Did you forget what's in our blood?" You questioned with all that humor quickly gone and replaced with a tone ancient and old.

"We do not ask," you sneered, then rolled your shoulders. 

"Even Sirius knew that,"

_____

You didn't even know Sirius. 

That was the worst part. You giggled in hidden corners and you kissed his hand to make the elders gasp in horror and Sirius like a fool ate it up and you didn't even know him. 

Sometimes,the depths of his brother's stupidity astounded him. Did he really think that a woman like you would just fall in his lap? You were already out of his league. A barmaid would be a better fit. 

It was foolish, idiotic, ridiculous but it worked. Because without knowing Sirius was getting closer to taking the mark. He no longer grimaced when Regulus arrived home smelling of iron. Or when he got caught with scratches on his arm and blood on his collar. Mother's plan was working and he only felt pity.

It was one thing to pretend, it was another to have to dumb yourself down for a bonafide pauper. If Mother had picked him, there would be no farce. Not like he wanted that. He didn't want anything. 

He was fine with watching from the shadows. His entire presence ignored while you and Sirius pretended you were the only ones in England. It was simply the way things were, he realized with clenched knuckles and a tight smile. 

But did it have to be? 

 __

No, it didn't.

—-

Six months later, Regulus understands why Sirius gets so addicted. A drunk like him, so prone to tasting what was bitter, his tongue rotten with ale. You were an overturn. Something annoyingly new. Regulus had never tasted something so sweet. Poppy pomegranate and sunburst cherries. He swore that he’d get a cavity as he dug his fingers into your hair. 

Twisting you into position, tight, proper, the way you gripped the stem of any fruit. Of anything that you wanted to get a better taste of. You were too stunned to fight back then. The bitter after taste of champagne you were prone to drinking sticky on your tongue. Your glass already shattered on the floor. 

In the next room, your husband argued with portraits. And when it's done, and when you slap him. Regulus received a thought. An awful hypothesis. 

What else could he get away with when enclosed by walls? The rest of the world locked away? 

An awful thought indeed. 

—--

It's only a week later that it happened. Sirius waking up to an empty bed and Regulus miles away on a mission, in the middle of nowhere, in a quaint little cottage.

It was almost too easy. 

—

You didn’t leave of course. Not at first. 

Because leaving met acknowledging that you were wrong. That there was nothing to gain at keeping his attention. Leaving meant having to look Sirius in the eye and tell him you lied. 

Of course you had questions. Regulus of course didn’t answer. 

You didn't need to know how distraught Sirius had become. A pathetic puppy that moped around the manor destroying everything in sight. Regulus didn’t even need to plant ideas in the brutes head. No, all the seeds were already there. Sown in from years of idiocy and your failed meddling. 

'It was Dumbledore, I just know.’ 

‘That stupid old git is trying to punish me,' he whined to Regulus. 'He took her, I know he did Reggie, you need to help me' 

'Prongs and-" he'd gnaw at his cracked lips. 'they don't believe me, they think I'm mad, they think I'm—Regulus'

Sirius was mad for you. Unnaturally obsessed. A fool with his alcohol taken away. A dog that's lost his chew toy. He didn't know any better. He couldn't have. But Regulus did, Regulus knew you. He understood your games and twist. Poor Sirius. 

If Regulus had to be the bad guy then so be it. He could be the executioner and the judge, he just needed to play his cards right. 

Murder would create a martyr but someone missing? Someone that Sirius could say left him high and dry. It was what you were planning to do anyway. And if Regulus quickened the process that didn't make him anymore of a bad person than the murder and countrywide slaughter ever did.

—

You were surprisingly clumsy by your lonesome. 

Random scars and cuts littered your body when he wasn’t looking. Ghost of attempts at escape most likely. Which was fine. Regulus could play doctor. Even if it included a bath. A mutual need, probably. The blood on his hands had begun to make his nose burn. 

He watched you flinch, took relevance in the way your eyes settled: tired, bitter. It was the same look worn by others. It reminded him of himself, of mother. Abrasive. Challenging him. 

After all these weeks, you seemed to still be under the impression that Regulus was anything like Sirius. That they shared the same rotten brain cell that Sirius had split amongst his new brothers, his new family. 

He unclenched his fist. Let his anger burn and flick in the atmosphere before with a turn of his head he looked at the hair moisturizer on the counter top. 

"Your hairs going to be tangled tomorrow. You should let me rebraid it," You scuffed at that. 

"Touch me and you die." You said the same thing to Sirius once. He heard it through the walls during your consummation night. Between the sounds of ruffled sheets and curses. And surprisingly, Sirius listened.

Regulus didn't have the same control. He grabbed for a braid, a knife appeared once again at his rib. He sighed. “You’re being stubborn,”

“I will rebraid my own hair,”

“..With what autonomy?”

You rolled your eyes. "Want to find out?”

He snorted, hands gripping your strands. "Sometimes, it astounds me how well you lie."

"Don't you realize that I already know you're guilty?"

You sighed. Tired, as if this was a conversation you two have had a million times before. It was.

You looked away. "I'm not," he yanked your head. "But you are." Then when with a snap of his wand you were dried and dressed. Your body plopped on your bed without care. He rolled his eyes.

"You fed my brother lies and lured him away f when your job was so simple. to bring him back," Get him to take the mark, be the whisper in his ears, that was what Mother told you. All that deceit just so that the family could have a proper Heir. A better head outside of him the runt and Bellatrix the mad woman. 

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You lured him away and then-” he gripped his fist into the sheets. “-and then you attempted to run with another,” 

“You were going to betray him,” it was funny really. Outside of the curses and the hexes and threats that was the one that got you to pay attention. That indifference melting away with ease.

"You are a liar and you should be happy that I even-":

"Look at me?" You rolled your head to the side. "Cause you look at me alot Black, even when you think I'm not looking back," you said this with shadowed eyes and a laziness to your movements. Like you had all the time in the world to revel in the fact that Regulus watched you back. That he wasn’t as suave as he thought you were. 

Regulus flickered his eyes down to the crotch of your dress. Theres a wet spot there that never fully dried. Regulus shot to his feet.

 "You're angry," 

"Regulus," 

"I get it, truly" he found himself at the edge of your bed. A wand less spell on his lips that warmed the fabric. 

"I've been nothing but terrible to you, completely awful. That's no way to treat a sister-in-law, now is it?" he sat at your side, his hands on your thigh. Fabric brushed against your bare skin. Under his words, you shook. "But if you bring up his name again, I'll-" 

"What?" You sneered, that hatred bleeding back in. "Let me go?" 

"Tell Sirius what I did?" With a blink your eyes began to sheen. "I do not care," 

Then your face twisted. "Not anymore" 

He gripped your face, his own features  suddenly inhumane. "Your boy toy has made you cocky," 

"Do you think I won't do it? Are you prepared to make that gamble?" There was a frenzied tone to his voice as he said this. For a moment he wondered if it was the weather. An effect of being so sick of your behavior. He must've been worse than he thought but you were looking at him with defiance. He wanted to find control but there was a smolder to your eyes, a spark and suddenly Regulus lost all control. You were serious. 

And then you screamed as he gripped your shoulders and shoved you into the mattress. It bounced beneath the weight. "No," he whispered. 

Your slip entangled in his fingers. You were slipping between his fingers. The harsh tear of fabric brought him back to the present as the top of your slip laid torn in his hand. 

You laughed. It too sounded frayed while your fingers trembled. "No?" 

But outside of that you said nothing, just stared at him the way you stared at potion books and Sirius odd muggle gimmicks. Something dangerous, that you were simply waiting to explode and somehow that was worse than screaming. Worse than you cursing at him while his fingers dug into your ripped dress. 

"You do not know him,"

But youre stupid so you only grunted back, "Don't I?," 

He laughed "My own brother? You really think you know him better than I?" 

"No—" 

"No?" 

"I don't know what Sirius was like as a child but I do know that the boy you call your brother is dead" 

You gripped his arms now, like an anchor. "I know that he only exist in your memories, and I mourn your loss"  

"But the man is different and I know him and I know that he would never give into Voldemort—not even for you,"

Don't say his name, rested heavy on his tongue. But he crushed it. In that moment something in him died and something else was born. A substance unknown to good men or even Voldemort. 

 So, he smiled. Soft hands coming up to pick at the soft white gown. The fabric was practically translucent up close. 

"Those are harsh accusations," he plopped on the bed and felt himself jump a bit before his hands relaxed against your knee and then your thigh and then- paused with a look. 

 Your body trembled beneath his fingers. 

"Fratricide, sororicide? You really can't think of anything worse?" He whispered, his words painting a portrait that only you could see.

 Still, he watched your eyes widen and felt your breath stutter. A fine drip of water that didn't come from your hair, slid down your forehead. Before a hummingbirds heart fluttered beneath your skin. And all he could do was stare, his hand pressed firmly against your cunts entrance. 

"I can.." he said, still covered in blood, still burning with the mark, before his fingers slipped between your thighs. Plushy and warm then suddenly damp, drenching his fingers.

 "..I can think of something worse for Sirius to find." 

"He'd only have to look at my hands" 

You jumped back and thrashed but it was worthless, his fingers were already against your cunt.

  The sounds only got louder, your thrashing more manic but the spell he put on your hands and feet kept you plastered to the bed. He grounded into you further, chest against chest before his head nuzzled against your own. 

 'Frankincense and juniper berry' he thought with a whiff. Like the familiar books he read as a child and the aroma of the Black home after night had fallen. Divine and familiar. 

His own little goddess. 

The revelation forced him to kiss your cheek. His own lips pressed firmly against your skin. He could taste the shea butter. Could still smell the fruity body wash as your screams turned into whimpers and then morphed into ugly moans. The sounds of pleasure ripped out of you through clenched teeth and bitten lips. 

He brought his free hand up, clenched your neck. Felt the arteries jump and your jugular twitch. He killed a man like this earlier today. A long and dirty muggle way of murder. 

Still, he took interest in the way the man's eyes slowly turned glossy and the way his hands clenched helplessly at Regulus' clothed arms. As if this would rip him away from Regulus. Force him to not carry out his duty. Beneath him, you did the same. Your soft hands grasping helplessly at his clothes. Pulling him in, pushing him back. Delirious. 

"Tu vas le regretter, Black," 

"You gain nothing-" 

"C'mon you can beg longer than that, give me a tale for Sirius.” He sneered. “Let me tell him that you put up a fight," he bent down. 

"Let me tell him that his wife fought hard for me not to fuck her," you spat on him, he kissed you. 

Then you knee him in the face. He jerked back, blood spurted in his hand. He smeared it against your knee. 

"You palefaced-" you punched him this time, his teeth rattled. the bed met his back. The force ricocheting till the bed frame cracked and your chains went loose and Regulus was back on you like a feral dog. 

You would not leave this place. 

But youre quick, a snap of wind that pushes him to his back, elbow in his throat. Above, him you look like a God. Vengeful.  And ready to destroy the only person who exists just for you. “You can't stop me, “ 

And Regulus is weak. A small pathetic thing just like Bellatrix said he was because his eyes burn. The edges wet with admonishment. The edges of his lips quiver. And suddenly all that anger bleeds away.  He gripped your wrist. Sharps nail dug into your skin with something worse.  

“He doesn't deserve you,” He pierced, throat burning. Above him, your eyes melted. The look indescribable.  

“I know.” 

“You will get bored of him, and I'll still be here waiting, watching,” he pulled you closer, nose to nose. You filled his vision. “Do you like making me your dog?”

You opened your mouth but no–

He persisted, tears fat. “Can't I just have you,”

“Can't you just want me? Is that too much to ask? Is it too much to want?” Regulus wanted so much already. He rarely ever had it in his grasp. The back of his mind filled with ideologies of freedom, and family and lonely nights in nowhere cities where no one would know his name. All of that was too far away though, intangible. But this–

He crawled into your space,  gripped your skin. 

–This was so close.

He shuddered. Lips red and his face damp with anticipation. Below him, you looked ethereal. The edges of your eyes burning soft.  

“Is this really all you want from me? Sex? After everything?” 

No. What Regulus wanted was much darker than that.  More debased and immoral and such an awful sticky thing that he could not even admit it to himself. But for now, if that's what you needed to believe. If only a physical communion was what you thought he wanted of you. Then so be it.  

He opened his mouth, ready to lie. 

Yes.  

It's right on his tongue.  

Yes.  He was not greedy. Yes. He did not want anything more. 

Yes. The oath of one easily satisfied. 

But nothing came out. His voice stolen as you looked up at him. Eyes wide.  All seeing. Knowing of everything. 

Regulus shook his head.  

“No.” the word bled out in spurts. 

Weak. Bellatrix whispered in his ear.  So fucking weak. Maybe he was no better than Sirius. 

Because you were only going to deny him. You were going to say no. Laughing at his face because that's what people did in the face of fools. Regulus grip loosened. Beneath him you sighed. 

“Merde.”

“You're a piece of work, do you understand–” your lips twisted, eyes narrowed. “This is not my home and yet you keep me here, this is not my country and yet you keep me here, don't you think I've given up enough to simply be in your presence? Can't this be enough?” 

You say that but Regulus sees the molten desire in your eyes. The way you flickered across his face, unable to stay in one spot but lingering all the same as you crowded in him too.

Suddenly the air was dry. Regulus forgetting how to breath as you leaned back. Exposing your neck, dematerializing the knife. 

He gets closer. “Speak plainly.”

You looked away.  Outside the dog was barely bones. Rotten in the earth. You seemed to contemplate something, eyes distant before you're brought back to reality. 

“...I'll allow it.” 

Oh.

‘We’ can have this. Not just him, not just you. This had to be a gift. Before your grip turned tight, your face feral. A certain kind of wildness found only in martyrs and heroes and righteous fools littered your eyes before you smiled, teeth bloody. “Ask any more of me and i'll leave you here,”

“Alone, and then you’ll have to kill me to get me to stay.”  

"I will haunt you till you are dust and bones and-" he kissed you, his own blood smeared with yours before he pressed his forehead against your own. "Yes," he whispered, and it couldn't help but notice that it sounded like a prayer. Like holiness,a type of reverence found only at the foot of gods and priest. 

He said it again. You froze. 

"Just don't go where I can't find you." 

He smiled. 

Then he kissed you again, on your nose this time, then your eyelids. Then sweetly, softly the space between your lips and your nose. He sighed and then he took you. 

He puts his mouth on you. Slipped his head beneath your layers of clothing. 

Unbuckled and unzipped and pulled apart each single one before your bareness glistened in his face. Until he could see the disbelief at his urgency flood your features. The confusion at his delicacy. Regulus understood.

There was something horrific but about taking someone's defenses apart with a sensitivity. With the precision of a monster that did not have to rip you to shreds to make you feel fear. And when he got to your core Regulus wasted no time. 

....You tasted like pussy. 

Musky and sweet, and in your skin he smelt the juniper berry and in your lower hairs drenched with the smell of arousal. 

Above him you flinched and you shivered. It reminded him of a siren.

The unseelie ones that would flinch and cry as he electrocuted their water. Taking their oxygen away, fucking up the chemical imbalance, till their nails cracked the glass, 

All while his fingers brushed against your own. Your ring finger still entrapped by a silver snake ring. Regulus was not a good man. He was flawed with impatience, entitlement, narcissism, the list went on. But it was his entitlement that got you in his bunker. It was his impatience that made him act, his familial nature that got you here on your back. Body drained and his head placed timidly on your belly. 

He listened to your heart beat through skin and bones. Through vertebrae and arteries. Because everything was louder there, your blood even sang for him. A frenzied beat that made your skin hot to the touch. 

He collapsed further into you. Nuzzling his nose into the crux of your neck.

An unleashed dog indeed.

.

.

.

.

[mister-a-z-fell]

After some questions about my ‘true’ form and whether or not I have a thousand eyes and a veritable farmyard of creatures emerging from my collar, I have decided to show you this record of an encounter between myself and a certain writer at the latter end of the Elizabethan period. I remember the event slightly differently, but I suppose one has to make room for artistic licence.

I’m assured that if you click ‘keep reading’, the full transcript will appear.

To assist you, I’ve added a glossary at the end.

And no, Crowley, this still doesn’t count as having wheels.

“This is an true accounting of mine own eyes, set down by mine hand this tenth night of September, in the yeare of Our Lord sixteen hundred and one. They will say I am gone mad, for such visions belong to those who dwell in Beth’lem Monastery, but I swear on all that is precious to me, this se’nnight past I saw an Angel.

I was but newly set out from the towne, and some light yet remained to guide my path, when I looked to the east and saw of a sudden a second dawn. T’was no earthly fire; Aye, I warrant you, I am not bestraught! My father spoke, in Harry’s day, of the great conflagration of Edinburgh. He told me that Hell had claimed the sky, for all above was a fury dress’d in crimson and wretched with soot. But here was nothing of red.

I have seen it since in dreams and will, I ken enow, see it as I draw my final breath. Hasten the day.

It was akin to a man. I gleaned as much in those moments when I looked upon it, ere it saw me and my wits fled me. But also unlike a man, for where a man has but one pair of hands were there some severall, and where a man has flesh and bone was there flame. Such pale fire have I never seen but I should think it alchymy, and mine eyes were indeed ensorceled, for I saw colours without name, and things too marvellous and awful to relate. I will. I must. This labour’d span is raised to worthy work, knowing the glory that awaits. But oh, I am affraid. I pray my sins have not snatched the cup from my lips.

This fearful apparition stood upon the hill, and the white fire that was its crown was with the thin night clouds commingled. Its face — no. Of that no more, yet. I cannot. All about was compassed in armillary radiances which turned one within another, the forme entire and every hand with pearlie lustre enwheeled.

Below, the flames of Tuscalonian hue that formed a body for the Presence were so and so girded with armour: bright fragments, the whole twixt corslet and grand guard, matched with cushes; all of nacreous stuff and lapis-ensigil’d but for one place high ‘pon the rightmost thighpiece where the intricate device was marred and running gold in place of gore.

What can wound an Angel? I think on this and tremble as the very earth trembled where it stood, ague-shooke by a low’ring thunder.

I have held golden angels in my palm and have seen them in holy glass and in base iron gaulle, with doves’ wings upon their shoulders. Foh, we are God’s own fools. Its wings were the clouds pierced by stormlight, dark upon light upon dark, and where they moved was printed a world beyond my understanding, witnest through a furnace shimmer.

I saw a flock of stars draw close around it, and it seemed to dote upon them and cosset them as a hunter with his favourite hounds, and I would there have fainted all away an if I had not been fixed in terror. For they were not specks and embers laid distant upon the sky, a sailor’s comfort and guide, but each and each an inferno pluck’d from Heaven; baleful sentinels from which no secret could be hidden. Such fell lights would render trivial the earthly fires of Nebuchadnezzar.

Words are meat and drink to me, yet do I tell this so poorly I should be ‘shamed and nevermore lift a goose-pen. Still, ‘tis no matter for who shall read it? When all is said, I’ll put these lines away and think on them no more. In telling will I win myself a little peace.

Wheretofore had I been silent, so now instantly did I weep, and laugh, and cry out for God’s mercy, and it looked upon me. Od's-me, it turned its Phoebean eyes on me and I saw its face. Above the gleaming corselet had that most blessed igenieur placed a maske of fine, unblemish’d parchment, in th’ likeness of a gentle visage, before the sainted flame. Troth, a kindely lanthorne of such boundlesse compassion that I fell upon my knees and made to crawl into the fire, sooner to know its forgiuenesse. Then did it smile, as no painted visor could, and all my knotted thoughts were ravel’d out and I was at once a babe, a foole, unfolded and sanctuarized. Under this soft and clement regard I swounded, onely to wake in my lodgings, ‘tired, but not tyred, my travells lost beyond recover.”

Glossary:

Beth’lem Monastery — Bishopgate hospital that would later become the notorious ‘Bedlam’.

se’nnight — seven nights — a week

warrant — assure/promise

bestraught — mad

Harry — another name for Henry — in this case Henry VIII

ere — until

ensorceled — enchanted

commingled — mixed with

compassed — surrounded by

armillary — resembling concentric rings set at angles

pearlie lustre — a pearl-like glow

enwheeled — encircled (shush, Crowley)

Tuscalonian — pale straw-yellow

girded — armoured

twixt — between

corslet — armour covering the upper body

grand guard — armour protecting the heart and left shoulder

cushes — armour for the thighs

nacreous stuff — resembling mother-of-pearl

lapis-ensigil’d — decorated in blue

intricate device — complicated symbol

ague-shooke — shivering, as with a sickness

low’ring — threatening/ominous

golden angels — gold coins stamped with the likeness of Michael defeating Lucifer

holy glass — church windows

iron gaulle — ink

Foh — an exclamation of disgust

cosset — fuss over

an if — if

goose-pen — a quill

Wheretofore — while until now

instantly — at the same time

Od's-me — an exclamation: ‘God save me’

Phoebean — relating to Phoebus/the sun

blessed igenieur — The creator

visage — face

Troth — an exclamation: ‘indeed’

lanthorne — lantern

painted visor — an immobile mask

ravel’d out — unwound

unfolded — exposed

sanctuarized — protected/sheltered

clement — forgiving

swounded — fainted

‘tired, but not tyred — a pun: ‘tired (attired) meaning dressed, tyred meaning weary

recover — remember

Addendum:

I’ve been asked to provide a translation for the Latin community. My grasp of Elizabethan Spanish would, I fear, let me down, so this is couched in modern terms…

Este es un relato verdadero de lo que vi, escrito por mi mano esta décima noche de septiembre, en el año de Nuestro Señor mil seiscientos uno. Dirán que me he vuelto loco, pues tales visiones pertenecen a los que viven en el Monasterio de Beth'lem, pero juro por todo lo que me es precioso, que la semana pasada vi a un Ángel.

Hacía poco que había salido de la ciudad, y aún quedaba algo de luz para guiar mi camino, cuando miré hacia el este y de repente vi un segundo amanecer. No era fuego terrestre; ¡te juro que no estoy loco! Mi padre hablaba, en tiempos de Harry, del gran incendio de Edimburgo. Me dijo que el infierno había reclamado el cielo, pues todo lo alto era una furia vestida de carmesí y desdichada por el hollín. Pero aquí no había rojo.

Desde entonces lo he visto en sueños y estoy seguro de que lo veré cuando exhale mi último aliento. Ojalá sea pronto.

Era como un hombre. Me di cuenta de ello en el breve momento en que lo miré, hasta que me vio y perdí la razón. Pero también era distinto de un hombre, porque donde un hombre tiene un solo par de manos había varias, y donde un hombre tiene carne y hueso había llamas. Nunca he visto fuego pálido como éste, a menos que fuera hecho por alquimia, y mis ojos estaban realmente encantados, porque vi colores sin nombre, y cosas demasiado maravillosas y horribles para relatarlas. Lo haré. Debo hacerlo. Esta vida dura merece la pena, sabiendo la gloria que aguarda después de la muerte. Pero tengo miedo. Rezo para que mis pecados no me hayan arrebatado la copa de los labios.

Esta temible aparición se alzaba sobre la colina, y el fuego blanco que la coronaba se enredaba con las delgadas nubes nocturnas. Su rostro... no. Aún no puedo hablar de ello. Todo estaba rodeado de ruedas de luz que giraban unas dentro de otras, y toda su forma y cada una de sus manos estaban rodeadas de un resplandor nacarado.

Debajo, las llamas de color amarillo pálido que formaban el cuerpo de la Presencia estaban cubiertas por piezas de armadura: fragmentos brillantes que, todos juntos, formaban una coraza, y una armadura para las piernas; parecían de nácar cubiertas de símbolos azules brillantes, excepto en un lugar en lo alto del muslo derecho, donde los adornos estaban dañados y sangraban oro.

¿Qué puede herir a un ángel? Pienso en esto y tiemblo como tiembla la tierra donde estaba, sacudida por truenos ominosos.

He tenido ángeles de oro (monedas) en la palma de mi mano y los he visto en vidrio sagrado y en tinta simple, con alas de paloma sobre sus hombros. Buaj, somos los propios tontos de Dios. Sus alas eran las nubes atravesadas por la luz de la tormenta, oscuridad sobre luz sobre oscuridad, y donde se movían vi un mundo más allá de mi entendimiento, presenciado a través de un resplandor como de horno.

Vi una bandada de estrellas acercarse a su alrededor, y parecía adorarlas y mimarlas como un cazador a sus sabuesos favoritos, y me habría desmayado si no me hubiera quedado helado de terror. Porque no eran motas y ascuas lejanas en el cielo, consuelo y guía de un marinero, sino cada una un infierno arrancado del Cielo; torvos centinelas a los que no se podía ocultar ningún secreto. Luces tan terribles harían que los fuegos terrenales de Nabucodonosor parecieran triviales.

Las palabras son carne y bebida para mí, pero estoy contando esto tan mal que debería avergonzarme y no volver a levantar una pluma. Aun así, no importa porque ¿quién lo leerá? Cuando termine, guardaré este escrito y no pensaré en él. Contando esto me ganaré un poco de paz.

Había estado en silencio, pero ahora lloré, y reí, y supliqué la misericordia de Dios, y el ángel me miró. mSobre la coraza reluciente El Creador había colocado una máscara de pergamino fino y sin mancha que parecía un rostro amable, frente al fuego sagrado. De hecho, era una linterna bondadosa de una compasión tan ilimitada que caí de rodillas e intenté arrastrarme hasta el fuego, para poder sentir su perdón. Entonces sonrió (como nunca podría hacerlo una máscara), y todos mis confusos pensamientos se desenredaron y me sentí simultáneamente un bebé, un tonto, expuesto y protegido. Bajo esta atención suave e indulgente me desmayé, sólo para despertar en mi alojamiento, vestido, pero no cansado, incapaz de recordar cómo había llegado hasta allí.

[ladymercury8]

Too Cute | tasm!Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: It's simple, really - Peter Parker is just too damn cute. [1k]

Warnings: Pure fluff. No spoilers. Just feeding my fantasies.

❃❃❃❃❃

Peter Parker was too cute.

Seated at his desk, with his soft whisps of hair sticking out all over the place; the dark gray t-shirt that hugged every curve on his goddamn perfect body; the squint behind his glasses that simply accented his features, magnifying his already large eyes; the flexing of his bicep as he moved his pen rapidly across his notebook; the rhythmic bouncing of his bare foot; the way he would look up, gaze locked on an empty space of his desk, a light bulb striking above his head as he returned to his calculations.

He was too cute for you to resist.

You approached from behind, socks silent against the creaky apartment floorboards. Your hands planted themselves on his broad, tense shoulders as you began pressing against the firm muscle with your fingers. A gentle massage as you peeked at his work.

But Peter didn’t really seem to register your presence. Too lost in his numbers and equations.

You bent down, twisting until you could plant your lips on his long neck. A kiss on his jugular vein, one just next to it, and then another, like little footsteps gradually approaching his Adam’s apple.

“Hey, baby,” Peter finally hummed, extending his left arm absentmindedly in a silent invitation, right arm still scribbling away.

You entered his embrace, sitting on his left thigh as Peter’s arm wound around your waist, holding you up. His fingers toyed with the fabric of your clothes.

Like ivy, your arms curled around his neck. Your kisses started traveling to his jaw, his chin, his cheeks, his ears. His scent was comforting – bergamot and sweet spices and dew-dropped earth. Warmth.

Peter’s mouth gaped opened slightly, his frame relaxed.

“What’s gotten into you, angel?” He spoke softly, eyes falling closed in pleasure.

“Just missed you.”

At those words, Peter dropped his pen, turning his full attention to you. You could see the light reflected in his glasses, and relished in the gentle growl that escaped from the depths of his throat: “Well, I’m all yours then.”

You brought your nose to his, about to lean in but his glasses blocked the way. You were reaching up to pull them off, but Peter beat you to it, flinging them onto the other side of the room. You couldn’t help but giggle, shifting his hair off his forehead.

Peter’s arms encircled your waist, pulling you into him, no inch of space left between you. And then he crashed his lips into yours.

Those soft lips that perpetually came home cut open. Gentle and soft, yet passionate. Heated. A minty aftertaste, blended with Aunt May’s cherry pie which she had brought over. Sweet and sour.

You pulled away suddenly, acting as if moving away from him, “I’m sorry, I don’t wanna distract you.” A small whine escaped from Peter’s lips, and a creased frown emerged on his forehead.

You fully knew what you were doing. For in that instant Peter wrapped his arms beneath your thighs, lifting you up with ease as he stood. Your legs crossed behind his back, and as he hoisted you up you could look down at him, your chest heaving with cheeky breaths. Peter’s eyes were hooded, swoony and dazed, focused on your lips.

He raised his chin upwards, first kissing your bottom lip, enveloping it between his and sucking on it; then crashing against you. A big tsunami wave hitting the rocks of a cliff; a conflagration swept forcefully forwards by a gust of wind.

Peter pushed you against the wall. His hands gripped your body, his chest was flush against your own. It was a kiss like he’d never kissed you before, and like he’d never kiss you again. Passionate and strong, rough yet careful.

You both pulled away, panting for air. You inclined your head backwards, a dry laugh bubbling out from your lips as you took in the sight of your lovesick boy: lips swollen, chest heaving, hair perfectly tousled.

“You good there?” You giggled, stroking a thumb over his eyebrow, cupping his neck with your other hand. His eyes were dopey, intensely and chemically involved.

“Shut up.”

And his lips were once more against your own. You could taste the smile on his face.

Peter Parker was just too damn cute.

❃❃❃❃❃

Thank you for reading! x

[goforth-ladymidnight]

Dirty Limericks

Tamlin Week 2024, Day 2: Poet

@tamlinweek

Rating: Teen and up (with mature themes)

Warnings: None (unless you don't like poetry, I guess)

Word Count: 900

Summary: Tamlin reads aloud the five limericks that he wrote to make Feyre laugh. (If you've ever wondered what the other four were, as referenced in ch. 19 of ACOTAR, this is my take on them.)

Read on AO3, or read on below:

“Feeling better today?” Tamlin asked, mirth dancing in his eyes and at the corners of his full mouth.

Feyre blushed as she caught herself staring, then tucked a stray hair behind her ear as she glanced away and mumbled something incoherent, even to her own ears.

“Good,” he said lightly, unbuttoning the first three buttons on his tunic as she pretended not to notice. “But, just in case, I wanted to give you… these,” he added, pulling some rumpled papers from his tunic and offering them to her.

Doing her best to ignore the glimpse of sun-kissed skin visible through his unbuttoned collar, she bit the inside of her cheek as she smoothed the three papers in her hands. One for each button, she thought, then shook her head as she tried to concentrate instead on what was written on them. Poems, she realized, grimacing as she scanned each page in turn. Five poems in all, with five lines each. Her heart sunk down to the pit of her stomach as she stared at the first, trying to sound out the unfamiliar words in her head. Bee… Bee-ah… Bee-ah-you…

“Before you bolt, or start yelling,” he began, as if he knew what she was thinking, “allow me.” He stepped closer to peer over her shoulder, and touched one corner of the page to hold it steady.

She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until she felt his on her neck, warming the shell of her ear. If she had dared, she could have leaned back into his chest, and he might have put his arms around her as he read… But she didn’t dare.

In a clear, steady voice, he read the first poem:

“There once was a lady most beautiful

Spirited, if a little unusual

Of friends, she had few

But the men did queue

Yet to all she gave a refusal.”

Her eyebrows rose. Is this about me, she wanted to ask, but before she could, he took the pages from her and stepped away to keep reading:

“Her refusals were rather dismaying

So they thought they should try dragon slaying

To their devastation

The mass conflagration

Burnt their pants, so they would not be staying.”

She let out a surprised chuckle when he finished. “What is this… Are you writing riddles?”

“Not riddles,” he said with a coy smile. “Limericks.”

Before she could ask him why, he shuffled to the second page and began reading another one.

“It wasn’t until later that night

That the young lady heard of their plight

She said: ‘What a pity

That no man in this city

Can cause my own pants to ignite!’”

Feyre’s face flushed, and she smothered a snort with her hand. “That’s a limerick?” she asked him, her voice muffled.

His eyes twinkled. “Indeed,” he said wryly, then shook out the papers and kept going.

By this lady’s own admonition

She is in an awkward position

Though she wishes to marry

Of these men, she is wary

For they cannot fuck in their condition.

Her brows shot up when he finished.

“You’re terrible!” she exclaimed, blushing madly.

He looked at her askance. “Am I?” he said, smirking slightly. “I thought I was rather good.”

“I mean, you are, but…” When she met his twinkling, green-eyed gaze, she bit her lip and glanced away. “How did you come up with these, anyway?”

He kept the final page but handed the rest to her. “Look at the last word in the second and fourth lines of each poem,” he said, nodding at the papers in her hands.

She did as he said, then frowned. Unusual. Queue. She glanced at the second poem, then her mouth fell open as she gasped, “These are my—”

“I couldn’t resist,” he said, smiling. “Your list of words was far too interesting to pass up,” he said, fluttering the last page in the breeze. “And not good for love poems at all.”

Slaying. Conflagration. Plight. Position.

Feyre felt her face flush anew. “Love poems?” she repeated doubtfully.

He chuckled. “Well… Not love poems, exactly,” he admitted with a shy smile. “You see… We had, ah, contests to see who could write the dirtiest limericks while I was living with my father’s war-band on the border.” He sauntered closer. “I don’t particularly enjoy losing, so… I took it upon myself to become good at them.”

As he came to stand before her, his warmth washed over her like the sun coming out after a storm. As warm as his eyes, flecked with amber… She bashfully bit back a smile and dropped her gaze to the pages in her hands.

How long had it taken him to write such bawdy lines for her amusement? And it was for her amusement, she realized, not his, or he would have read them to Lucien over dinner.

“Well, uh…” She cleared her throat, then fanned her face with the pages as she smiled shyly up at him. “If this was a contest, I’d say you won.”

His smile broadened, and her heart thumped strangely. “I saved the best for last, you know.”

“Is that so?”

He nodded and made a show of smoothing out the last page, then cleared his throat.

“She packed up her bags and forthwith-ian

Crossed over the Wall into Prythian

When she found what she sought

She was no longer distraught

For orgasms were no longer a myth-ian.”

Feyre burst out laughing, and when Tamlin joined in, the sound reminded her of ice shattering after a long winter.

[justburningdaylight]

Icarus and the Sun | S.H.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Female Reader

Summary: Reader's in love with her best friend. Considering she can’t tell him about this particular secret, she instead entrusts it to her diary, neglecting to remember Steve’s old habit of reading said diary.

Warnings: fluff (finally!), best friends to lovers, a little bit of kissing, multiple references to the greek myth about icarus and daedalus, glorification of bob dylan, spoiler free!

Word count: 3.4k

a/n: hi besties ! sorry i’ve been quiet lately but vol.2 dropped so here’s a lil somethin’ i wrote just for you <3 it’s one of my veeeery favourite works so far. i’m a firm believer in best friends to lovers supremacy and i figured it was time i gave y’all something sugary sweet instead of the usual mountain of angst. let me know what you think ! p.s. asks are open, come chat with meee !

Certain as the crashing tide always rises and the conflagrant sun always sets, you’re positively resolute that the secret you’re so strenuously harboring will always remain just that; A secret.

It’s trivial, you think, arduous, to venture into the plethora of prominent memories you benevolently share with your best friend and attempt to pinpoint the precise genesis of your affections.

Would it be helpful to reminisce upon the exact juncture in which love became love?

Would it be helpful to identify when, in your mind, his eyes stopped being brown? When they instead transformed into the purest shade of delectably rich milk chocolate. When the sticky, syrupy sweet pools of golden honey began to hold such a brilliant tepid glow to them that the sun itself could have seemed dull in comparison; the world itself could have seemed dull in comparison.

Would it be helpful to establish the specific moment that his laughter was no longer a sound? When the aforementioned laughter transmogrified into a mellifluous, harmonious symphony. When no vinyl or cassette tape that you owned could compare to the melodic original composition of his euphonic joy.

Would it be helpful to remember the first time a friendly touch led way to an ever-hastening heartbeat? When the gentle grazing of his fingertips against your skin set a metaphorical wildfire to the surrounding area, leaving the searing warmth no choice but to take up semi-permanent residence within your body, the remaining smoke loosely floating its way through your airways and constricting your heart in a biting display of affection.

Would any of this prove helpful? Considering you’ve inadvertently managed to fool Steve into a smooth and blissful ignorance of these feelings, why should it be helpful to dwell on the origins of your tender yearning?

The verisimilitude of the situation is as follows; You’re desperately in love with your best friend and he’s none the wiser to it. This is precisely how it should always remain; A secret held as though it were an oath, forged in love and kept in fear. You’ve not a doubt in your convoluted mind that the revelation of your feelings would negatively alter the course of your friendship, which is simply not something you’d ever be willing to risk.

But it’s been tearing you apart. The sheer density of the secret weighing you down is nearly unbearable and you need to emit your innermost sentiments before the tear gives way and splits you in two; One half of you finally free from carrying around the burden of unrequited love, whilst the other wanders around aimlessly, aching on the precipice of being demolished from the unwavering mass of her devotion.

For obvious reasons you find yourself unable to relinquish this information to Steve, the only person you would ordinarily trust with a secret so immense. Taking the current circumstances into account, you’re left with only one viable option to break your internal confidentiality.

Your diary.

The juvenile undertones of writing to your diary about this situation are not lost upon you, but desperate times call for the invocation of desperate measures. 

You don’t fight the triumphant simper that overtakes your lips when you manage to skillfully locate the well-worn diary, comfortably wedged on the bottom shelf between the sturdy wood of your trusty bookcase and your near-deteriorated copy of Little Women.

You’re instantly regretting the gentle blow of air you gave in an attempt to efface the wispy layer of dust coating the cover, your throat constricting as you breathe in the primitive particles. It’s been longer than you thought, you suppose, since you last publicized your internal conflicts in the pages of your diary.

Here goes nothing.

“-And it’s like, yeah, I get it, you wanna watch Top Gun, so does every other teenage girl on earth, that’s why we don’t have it right now!” Steve sibilates exasperatedly, tumbling jauntily onto your bed and landing on his back in the space beside you.

“I don’t really get the whole Tom Cruise thing,” You start, referencing the noticeable crush of whichever teen-aged girl it is that’s gotten under Steve’s skin at the video store today, “If we’re talking heartthrobs, he’s not coming anywhere near Rob Lowe.”

“Wha- Rob Lowe? Seriously? C’mon (y/n), did you even watch About Last Night? The best thing about that movie was Seger on the soundtrack.” Steve retorts, turning on his side to face you directly.

You make the intrepid decision of cultivating direct eye contact, instantly filling your insides to the brim with equal parts gratitude and regret.

His eyes hold all the warmth in the world, and you know this for a fact because the sun itself is resting contentedly inside of them. The longer you look, the more fervently the warmth spreads through you, and yet you can’t resist it. You find yourself no different from Icarus, flying ever-closer to the sun solely to bask in its warmth. And just like Icarus, you crave the proximity, consequences be damned. It was the death of him and you’re sure it’ll be the root of your own demise, but at this very moment you can’t find it within yourself to descend the smallest of distances, not even as you feel the wax starting to melt the feathers from your own back, dripping down carelessly into the sea below, you’ve simply no sense to heed Daedalus’s warning. This is the end, you think, and what a seraphic way to die.

“(y/n)? Did you hear me? ‘Cause usually you’d be fighting me to the death right now or something.”

“Yeah- Yeah I heard you, I just- I thought you needed a long silence to really soak in the idiocy of your words. You know, let it marinate a little.” You snap out of your reverie, grateful there’s no residual burn from your trip to the sun.

“Oh I’m marinating like a big juicy steak right now,” He scrunches his nose in a darling display of antipathy, a visible opposition to your words, “I just don’t get what you see in that guy.” There’s a certain deflation laced amongst his words as the sentence dies off. He wants to say more, he longs to say more, but at the potential of anything interfering with your friendship, he bites his tongue instead.

“Whatever. And to think I never said anything about that Jane Fonda poster you used to have hanging in your room.” You state with a deadpan delivery, quickly erupting into a fit of laughter once you catch sight of Steve’s mouth gaping like a fish, a playful expression of mock betrayal painting itself like a masterpiece upon his heavenly features.

It’s then that he regrets holding it in, with the canorous sound of your laughter floating impeccably through the air, with the empyrean sight of your face delicately scrunched up in amusement, with your hand right within perfect holding distance, practically begging to be intertwined with his own, it’s then that he wants to blurt it out. Hey (y/n), did you know that I’m wildly in love with you? Hope this doesn’t mess with the friendship we’ve had since we were six, he thinks, yeah that won’t backfire at all.

Your laughter gently subsides and you’re all too aware of Steve’s eyes on you as you cast your gaze upon the ceiling, as desperate as you are to bore your eyes into his own once again, you still feel the tepid remnants of your previous vacation to the sun inside, and you’re not ready to head back into the miraculously searing warmth just yet.

They take their time, his eyes, exploring each carefully crafted curve and bend delicately lining the gentle expanse of your face. They stop and ponder at how such true beauty can emanate from behind your eyes, even when they’re not directed at him.

There’s a shine to them, he notes. A glimmer of the moon he’s almost certain is carefully encased behind the irises of your eyes. When they look at him, really look at him, he can see the glisten of that fractured moonlight, gently casting its glow upon a quiet dark night. When they sparkle after one of his particularly atrocious jokes, he sees a shooting star soaring swiftly through the sky, illuminated by the moon aside it, he can almost feel it falling from your eyes and landing gently inside the confines of his own heart where it’s sure to thrive, fuelled by his admiration of it, fuelled by his admiration of you.

The modulation of your ringing doorbell snaps the two of you from your thoughts, leaving you both vexatiously unaware of how similar the meanings of those thoughts are.

“Not it!” You call, your voice combining with Steve’s.

“Noes goes!” Steve states, hurriedly placing his finger to the tip of his nose, not attempting to hide the confident and optimistic smile resting upon his tender pink lips.

“Ugh, no fair. You’re the one who wanted to order pizza in the first place! I have a perfectly good frozen one that could’ve been in our stomachs by now.” You gripe, reluctantly pulling yourself up from your bed and away from the ever-present warmth of your best friend.

“Yeah, ‘cause I’m gonna let you near an oven again. I still have nightmares about the last ‘pizza’ you cooked for me. No thanks.” He throws up air quotes around the word pizza, as if you had intentionally burnt the thing to an unrecognizable crisp. He’s the one who still ate it.

“Alright, fine. Just trying to offer you a nice home-cooked meal and this is the kind of thanks I get.” You sigh, placing a hand above your heart to further dramatize your dialogue.

He lets out a soft chuckle as he repositions himself on the bed, now laying his head on your pillow. You almost whisper an unintelligible thank you to the universe as you’re now certain your pillow will carry the delectable scent of Steve’s shampoo.

You’d likely have retracted those unspoken words of gratitude if you didn’t turn out of the room and head for the door so quickly. Perhaps if you waited just a moment more, you would have seen the somehow charming look of physical discomfort on Steve’s face as he feels a rigid protrusion from underneath your typically plush pillow.

He lifts his head, perplexed. After sliding his hand beneath the pillow, his nimble fingers form a grip on the source of his discomfort. He can’t repress the smile that graciously overtakes his lips as he pulls it out and discerns what it is.

Your diary.

He hasn’t seen the thing in ages, you had stopped writing in it years ago. His smile grows as he vividly remembers an excerpt from the time he’d read it in seventh grade, Bob Dylan is the greatest songwriter alive, and so incredibly handsome too… He teased you about it for months, it even led you to arguing over which of his albums is the best, a disagreement the two of you haven’t settled to this day. You, being of sound mind, are aware that Blonde on Blonde is one of the greatest albums ever written, but Steve swears it doesn’t top Highway 61 Revisited.

He lets out a diminutive snicker at the memory and decides he’s going to find that page and dredge up the old jokes he used to not-so gallantly taunt you with.

His lithe fingers move quickly and precisely as he gently unwraps the twine enveloping the book closed. There’s still a pen inside, acting as a bookmark. Maybe she had the same idea, he smiled to himself as he opened the diary to the marked page, his eyes wandering toward the first sentence scrawled across the slightly curled up piece of paper.

It’s hopeless to feel this way, and even more conceivably lame to be writing about it in a diary like a middle-schooler, but I have to get it out somehow and it’s not like I can tell Steve

Can’t tell Steve what? He thinks, eyebrows creasing together in confusion, we tell each other everything. Well, almost everything. Another thought occurs to your best friend, should I be reading this? But then he remembers that you likely haven’t touched the book in years, this is probably something you’ve long since forgotten about, just more fuel for the jokes he’s sure to aim your way. So he reads on.

I mean how would that conversation even go? “Hi Steve, I know you only see me as a friend considering we’ve been that to each other for over half our lives, but did you know that I’m completely in love with you? Oh you didn’t? Cool, well I’ll just see you later I guess” I don’t even know why I wrote that because I’m getting nauseous just thinking about it.

There’s no point in telling him anyway, he’d never feel the same way. And then I would ruin our friendship. Oh god I don’t even want to think about that. Why would I say that? This whole thing was entirely unhelpful. Another great idea (y/n)! So, bye I guess? Do you write that in a diary?

A quick glance at the date scribbled across the top of the page informs Steve that this was written only yesterday.

There should be a word for what Steve is feeling right now, a word to describe the complete and utter happiness, bewilderment, and relief coursing through his body. You loved him? You loved him? He can’t count on both hands how many times he’s backed out of telling you how he feels, ruled by the fear that his affections could be unrequited. Come to find out you feel the same way in all regards. There should be a word for what he’s feeling, but all he can think about is how grateful he is for the existence of words in general; For words, your words, are how he found out that you love him.

He’s donning a splendid, blinding smile. He feels as though it’s splitting his face in two, but he couldn’t subdue it if he tried. He’s aware that there’s a conversation to be had about privacy and personal boundaries but his grin just keeps growing, it’s nearly touching his ears when you finally return to your room, plates in your grip as you simultaneously and near-unsuccessfully attempt to juggle two glasses of water in your hands.

“Ummm. Little help? Please?” You murmur confusedly, taking in the paradisiacal sight of Steve’s broad smile.

“What? Oh-Uh yeah, yeah I gotcha.” He speedily grabs a plate and a glass from your hands, the gentle brush of his fingertips against your hand causing a trail of goosebumps to form along your flesh.

“What are you smilin’ about? You’re watching one of those Fonda aerobics tapes in your mind, aren’t you? Little perv.” You’re joking, but as heavenly as the view is, you’re questioning the sincere origins of his smile.

“Huh? No actually, I was- I was just thinkin’ about your diary. You remember this?” He’s still smiling that blissful smile as he holds up the aforementioned diary, wholly unaware of the dread that’s now coursing throughout your body.

Oh god, oh god, oh god. Please tell me he didn’t read it. Please, please, please.

“Y-yeah, mmhmm, yep. ‘Course I remember the ‘ol girl,” What are you saying right now? “Spent many a night wishing I never wrote about Bob Dylan on the cover of Street Legal,” You attempt a giggle but it verbalizes more as a nervous wince, “Definitely got your fair share of torture material out of that thing, didn’t you?” You end off with a shaky smile, disastrously attempting to quell the nerves soaring through your veins like a jet plane.

“Yeah. Yeah I did.” He states with that same smile, walking closer to you and discarding the plate and glass you’ve been clinging onto for dear life, placing them swiftly on your nightstand alongside his own. “Thought it would be fun to do a dramatic reading tonight, y’know? Bring some attention back to your love for old Bobby,” He’s still smiling as he takes another small step toward you, he’s still smiling and you think you’re going to pass out because you’re almost positive that he’s seen it, “I was gonna spend some time on it too, y’know? Really craft out my jokes.” He takes one final step toward you, and though every bone in your body is screaming for you to look away, you chance a look into his eyes once more.

You’re surprised by the sheer admiration you find inside them, dancing in perfect rhythm alongside the sun. “But then I read somethin’ else.” His voice is lower now, a quiet harmony of earnest elation and disbelief, almost as though he’s the one who can’t believe this is all happening. “I read somethin’ else and I need to know that it’s real. That you really mean what you wrote,” He’s almost whispering as he finishes his final sentence, bringing up a gentle hand and resting it tenderly on your cheek, his thumb grazing back and forth slowly as he gazes into your eyes, “Please tell me that you mean it.”

You can almost hear Daedalus now; See? It didn’t work out for you either and you had Icarus as an example! Because you did fly too close to the sun. The wax melted, trickling away like warm water, and the feathers followed suit, leaving you too close to the sun with no means of transportation. But you didn’t plunge into the hungry sea below. You didn’t meet a salty oceanic demise, because you had a paramount advantage over Icarus; The sun rose for you.

Suck it, Icarus.

It took you a moment, to recapture the breath Steve knocked out of your lungs with his lighthearted monologue, to think of anything besides the perfect sensation of his skin resting against your own, his thumb still rubbing indistinguishable shapes onto your cheek. When you belatedly muster up the courage to respond, you’re already smiling, “I’ve never meant anything more in my whole life.” 

That’s all Steve needed to hear, that’s all he’s ever wanted to hear. His eyes flicker down to your lips and back up to your own eyes, a silent request to stop talking about it and instead show each other just how desperately you both want this. You barely have time to nod your head before his lips are on your own.

There’s no word deserving enough to describe the way you feel when his lips brush delicately against your own, gentle and precarious, as though he’s expecting you to pull away, you don’t. You move in closer to him, deepening the kiss ardently as you place your arms around his neck, gingerly weaving your fingers through the hairs resting against the nape of his neck. He kisses you back fervently, his hands having found a new home on your waist, letting out a deeply delectable hum of bliss when you give a light tug to the tresses of his hair.

“God, I love you so much (y/n).” Steve murmurs against your lips, only pulling away long enough to utter the words before bringing your lips back to his own.

When you finally make the mutual decision to come up for air, you’re tenderly resting your forehead against Steve’s own, content to live in this moment for as long as humanly possible.

“I love you Steve. You probably figured that out by now but just thought I’d tell you, you know, in case you can’t read.”

“Oh yeah? Thanks, wouldn’t wanna let my illiteracy stand between me and my girl.” His girl? Guess the whole diary thing actually was a great idea.

“You know that was, like, a complete invasion of my privacy, right? Reading my diary? It wasn’t cool in seventh grade and it’s not cool now! Well- Actually, I guess it is kinda cool just this once ‘cause we- Just, don’t do it again, okay? I mean it.” You’re giving Steve your best attempt at a stern tone but you’re aware of the bright smiles covering both of your faces during this speech.

“Got it, no more diary reading. Hey, just to be clear, do you maybe think I’m so incredibly handsome?” He jokingly references your seventh grade diary entry once again with a ravishing smile, leading you to internally debate whether you should throttle him or kiss his delicate lips. You choose the latter, again.

“At the risk of slandering a legend, Dylan’s got nothin’ on you.”

“Woah! Big talk. I must be special.”

“Rob Lowe on the other hand…”

“Ha Ha,” 

“That was a joke right? I’m better than Rob Lowe?”

“Sure Steve.”

Certain as the crashing tide always rises and the conflagrant sun always sets, you’re positively relieved that the secret you’ve been so strenuously harboring is no longer a secret, but is instead the genesis of something new entirely.

You flew too close to the sun and lived to tell the tale.

[darkened-writer]

02| Generous Heart

summary || ❝She would not need a knight to protect her, or a handmaiden to serve her, but a friend to trust. ❞

pairing || Rhaenyra Targaryen x Female! Reader

word count || 4,460

warnings || Minor violence and Tension

notes || High Valyrian is in italics. Enjoy!

“Ser Ryam was a strong Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. But he was ill for some time. He passed in peace, I hope.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra was dressed clad in a beautiful white outfit, necklace adorned on her neck and jankily ring hung off of her left hand, middle finger. She poured wine with a vigor of someone who would rather be sat at the table, discussing matters as a political figure instead of serving them. You however, just stood at your post along the far side of the table, waiting for an order from the Princess or an order from the King. Though, you were more inclined to do anything Rhaenyra asked of you, regardless of the moral ambiguity of it. 

“He was found to have passed gently in his sleep. His remains are being prepared by the Silent Sisters. The succeeding Lord Commander, Ser Harrold, would like to make haste in finding Ser Ryam’s replacement on the Kingsguard.”

“Your Grace. My Lords. The Kingsguard must soon be restored to its full complement of seven. With the help of the Hand, I’ve invited a number of fine candidates to court. All have passed fair trials.”

The door to the council room suddenly opened, everyone's attention being drawn to Lord Corlys who marched into the room and up the few stairs with a mission.

“Four ships have now been lost. The last one was flying my banner. The Stepstones have now grown into a conflagration, yet you sit here and dither about court business.”

“If you’ve something to discuss, Lord Corlys–”

“I want to know what is to be done about my ships and my men.”

“The Crown will compensate you for your ship and crew and make an offering to the men’s families.”

“I don’t want compensation.” He growled, “I want to seize the Stepstones by force and burn out this Crabfeeder.”

“I am not prepared to start a war with the Free Cities.”

“These pirates are not the Free Cities.”

“Who do you think provides them with their ships and tender?”

“In all of its history, my lord, the Seven Kingdoms have never entered open war with the Free Cities. Were that to happen, the losses would be incalculable.”

Corlys took a few steps towards the lord defending the King, “What reason does the Crabfeeder have to fear us? The King’s own brother has been allowed to seize Dragonstone and fortify it with an army of his gold cloaks. Daemon has squatted there for over half a year without even a protest from the Crown.”

“I’ll caution you, Lord Corlys, a seat at the King’s table does not make you his equal.”

His expression changed, before he moved from his looming spot towards Otto Hightower, before being stopped by Viserys’ words. 

“I have acted, Corlys. I’ve sent envoys to Pentos and Volantis to see if we might find common cause.”

Rhaenyra was strangely still, looking as if she was pondering a deep thought. 

“Ships and men are at the ready. The Stepstones will be settled in time.”

“You have dragonriders, father.”

The whole room perked up including yourself, feeling a sense of pride watching Rhaenyra speak her mind. 

“Send us.”

“It isn’t that simple, Rhaenyra.”

“It would be a show of force.”

“At least the Princess has a plan.” Viserys scowled.

“I only meant that we could at least–”

“Perhaps, there’s some better use for the Princess’s talents, Your Grace.”

Rhaenyra’s expression shifted immediately at Otto’s comment, “Why don’t you take the Princess to see about the new Kingsguard posting, Lord Commander?”

He nods, “A fine idea, Your Grace.”

“This knight will protect you as well. You should choose.”

“But Y/N is more than enough. Why would I need a Knight?”

Rhaenyra’s eyes were on you now and you straightened your back, peering at Viserys’. He looked to be in thought just as Rhaenyra was previously, but The Lord Commander spoke up.

“Perhaps I could teach your Handmaiden some sword skills to ease any worry?”

The thought was interesting to you, being able to protect the Princess was just one of the many duties you promised Aemma, so you’d hope the King would be enthusiastic. 

Rhaenyra nodded, looking almost pleadingly at her father, he nodded, “Y/N will learn some combat skills, but until she reaches some mastery in those skills. You will have a Knight to protect you.”

The girl looked satisfied with herself, beaconing you to her side before the Knights opened the doors to the Council Room to see the Princess out. Rhaenyra leaned heavily into your side, keeping closely with you as you walked, the Lord Commander behind the two of you. 

Boy would this be a fun evening. 

-

The courtyard was filled with various knights of differing houses and livelihoods. Seven in total, the mystery knight being stood without a flag to represent a house. Ser Criston Cole, if you remembered correctly, the Knight to best the “Rogue Prince ''. 

Rhaenyra stepped onto a small step stool to look up over the seven men, hands folded behind her back as a sign of power. The Lord Commander brought a figure of a creature and placed it upon a small looking stage.

“Ser Desmond Caron, a fine Knight, Princess. Step forward, Ser Desmond.”

The man looked terribly proud of himself, yourself knowing immediately that Rhaenyra would not choose him. She had standards and he would be no exception.

“Son of Ser Royce Caron, Ser Desmond has proved strong and steady in both the tourney lists and without. While traveling through the Kingswood on his way to King's Landing, Ser Desmond recently brought a would-be poacher to justice.”

Everyone was looking at Rhaenyra and yet she remained quiet, staring at Ser Desmond with a curious gaze, Otto leaned to her ear to speak.

“You might thank him for his leal service, Princess.”

“We thank you for your loyal service to The Crown, ser.”

He bowed his head, and she moved her gaze up to Rhaenys who was overseeing the whole exchange, before the bird statuette was moved to the little stage.

“Ser Rymun Mallister.”

He moved up to present himself, “Son of Lord Lymond Mallister of Seagard. Winner of the melee at Cinder Hall. He was the last mounted of three-and-twenty knights. Ser Rymun was knighted at eight-and-ten.”

“Do any of these knights have combat experience? Beyond capturing poachers.”

Her tone was mildly sarcastic, but the Lord Commander nodded and moved the plain, brown, statuette to the stage. Otto Hightower sighed, “Ser Criston Cole.”

The dark-haired knight walked up just like the two previous knights, dark eyes immediately finding Rhaenyra’s then mine. He was what the common girls would call a “Heart Throb'', and you yourself were a tad shy under his gaze.

“Son of the steward of the Lord of Blackhaven.”

“Be welcome, Ser Criston.” She was smiling, and suddenly the shy feeling you had was replaced by jealousy. There was a twinge of electricity between the two, and it was ever apparent that she was looking to have him as her knight, regardless of the other six there.

Ser Criston nods at Rhaenyra, “You saw combat in the Stormlands.”

“Dornish marches, Princess. I fought for a year as a foot soldier against the Dornish incursions. Ser Arlan Dondarrion knighted me after we razed two of the watchtowers along the Boneway.”

Impressive Bastard, you thought, watching Rhaenyra turn to the Lord Commander.

“I choose Ser Criston Cole.”

She stepped from the stepping stool with grace, “Let’s not be too hasty, Princess. There’s no doubt Ser Criston is a fine warrior, but houses such as Crakehall and Mallister are important allies of the Crown. Seagard, for instance, in the realm’s prime defense against reavers from the Iron Islands.”

“Those men are tourney knights.”

Your gaze found Rhaenys’, and she nodded at you with a respectable gaze, “My father should be defended by a man who’s known real combat. Should he not?”

The man was dejected, “Of course, Princess.”

“Well, let us plan Ser Criston’s investiture then. And get Y/N in with the knight’s training, she has a lot of work to do…” 

-

Just as Rhaenyra had said, you were now placed within knights training. Various men were around you, clad in chainmail and leather clutching swords as they slashed at dummies made to look like the enemy. The Lord Commander however wanted to do basic sparring with you, handing you a wooden sword for training, but the idea of actually handling a sword was daunting. 

The air was crisp and cold, sending odd tremors up your arms. The ground shifted as you dodged the wooden jabs from your superior, making him miss every hit but even you were scared to try and land an attack. 

“Shoulders back… left foot in front of the right, and always keep your sword in a ready position.”

You adjusted your form and let out a huff of air in frustration, the Targaryen ring from Aemma glimmering on your middle finger.

Keep going, you heard in your head, and you took a step forward to urge the Lord Commander to attack. When he went for a slash to your lower body, you leaned back and thrusted the wooden sword up into his abdomen, the man groaning in pain at the sudden move.

“I’m so sorry!” Your concerned tone made the man chuckle, his free hand now gripping his stomach, his face bright with a weird delight. Your face contorted in confusion, “Why are you laughing, Lord Commander?!”

“I’ll make a fine knight of you yet, Handmaiden Y/N. Just you wait…”

-

“How’d you find training, my Handmaiden?”

Your expression of pure exhaust had roused a laugh from the Princess, yet she asked you a question that could easily be answered by a look at your body. Bruises were flowering up along your arms, neck, torso, and legs. There was a dull ache up your whole back, and you could barely grasp the wine chalice you were handing Rhaenyra.

“Very well, Princess. Each bruise is a sign to my commitment I suppose.”

“It brings me great joy seeing you train…”

You perk up, “Were you watching me and the Lord Commander?”

She takes a graceful sip of her chalice before setting it down, “Of course. Don’t think too much of it…”

Before you could continue to make conversation, Viserys made his way into the room, hastily taking a seat at the dinner table and holding his chalice up to be filled. You ever so slowly filled his cup, holding in a yelp at the pain at even lifting your arm. The King however, brushed off your pained look and dug into his food, shooting Rhaenyra a curious gaze. 

It was very clear that the tensions between the two were high, ever since Aemma’s death, they really hadn’t spoken much. The moon shone subtly through the window, but the room was mostly lit by the many candles in the room. The flame moved every which way, almost as if dancing to a quiet hum of music. It was alluring to the eyes, and fascinating to look at. And the heat it emitted was making the room oddly stuffy; Was fire always this beautiful?

“We haven’t spoken much… since.”

“A regret of mine. We should be free to speak our minds to one another.”

“You can say whatever you’d like. You are the King.” The man snickered, before his face showed soleum.

“I loved your mother very much.”

The ring on your middle finger began to feel heavy again, the black stone shining as you looked down to peer at it. Not even aware of the tears welling up in your eyes. Rhaenyra was also emotional, nodding at her father’s statement, “As did I.”

The understanding between the two was apparent, their shared love for Aemma leaving them both vulnerable. After a brief moment of silence, they both resumed eating, and you leaned over the table to fill Viserys’s cup with wine once again. 

“Ser Harold provided a fine field of tourney knights.”

“Oh?”

“But in questioning them, I discovered that Ser Criston was the only man among them with true battle experience.”

The King stifled a laugh, “He’ll make a fine Knight of the Kingsguard.”

Silence ensued once again, “Today at Small Council–”

“Pay it no mind.”

“I thought I might have had some insight.”

“You’re young. You will learn.”

Rhaenyra leaned back in her chair and suddenly the situation was more awkward than bittersweet, the King’s plate was now empty, so you grabbed it and placed it on a wooden board you’d use to carry the dirty kitchenware to the kitchen. 

“If you excuse me, I have business to attend to, my daughter…” He rises from the table, and she looks up at him, “Please, enjoy more food, don’t stop on my account–”

“Good night, Father.”

“Good night.”

Viserys’ exits and Rhaenyra motions to the seat next to her, “Please sit… I don’t want to be alone.”

“I’d never let you feel alone, Princess.”

The plush seat was oddly comfortable, and you eased into it as Rhaenyra grabbed a plate and began to pile food onto it. Various Targaryen-based dishes, fruits, meats, and even vegetables. She made sure to include every bit of food she could onto the plate before setting it in front of you, a satisfied smile on her face.

“Eat! When could anyone say they’ve shared a meal with Targaryen royal blood, Hm?”

She was playful, and you couldn’t hold in the smile painted on your face.

“What an honor…”

-

The very next day, you woke up to train with the Lord Commander once again. He was kind and forgiving as you messed up and gave you proper advice on how to get better. Even giving you your first sword to carry around with you. The steel was as shiny as the rubies encrusted into the pommel of the blade; leather wrapped along the handle. It was a bit heavy, but the Commander assured you that you would grow strong over time and the blade would begin to feel weight-less in your palm. You could only hope that strength would come easy.

What surprised you however was the random small council meeting that was called, ending your training early as you had to find Rhaenyra and take your place within the room to wait for her orders. You arrived in the room before her, Viserys’ nodding at you with a smile, obviously seeing the sword hung from your hip.

“It occurred in the blackness of night, my lords, during the hour of the Bat.”

Rhaenyra entered the room promptly as the Dragon Keeper began to speak, folding her hands behind her back and giving you a small smile, which you promptly returned.

“The thief eluded our pursuit.”

“How is it possible that a dragon’s egg was stolen out from beneath more than fifty Dragonkeepers?”

“It was Prince Daemon who was the culprit, Your Grace…”

“Daemon.”

“The Prince left a missive, which I believe might explain.”

The unraveling of paper, “It is the pleasure of Daemon Targaryen, the Prince of Dragonstone and rightful heir to the Iron Throne, to announce that he is to take a second wife in the tradition of Old Valyria. She is to assume the title Lady Mysaria of Dragonstone. Her Grace is with child and is to have a dragon’s egg placed in the babe’s cradle in the custom of House Targaryen.”

Rhaenyra and Viserys’ share a gaze, “The Prince has invited you to his wedding, Your Grace. It is in two days’ time.”

“Gods be good.”

“Who is Lady Mysaria?”

“We believe–”

“Daemon’s whore.” Otto Hightower exclaims the title with disgust, “This is nothing less than sedition.”

“I strongly agree, sire.”

“My brother wishes to provoke me. To answer is to give him what he wants.”

“The realm is watching, Your Grace.”

“What would you have me do? Send him to the wall? Perhaps I could put his head on a spike.”

“Daemon has seized Dragonstone, has surrounded himself with an army of gold cloaks, and has now stolen a dangerous weapon.”

Rhaenyra utters a Valyrian phrase, making the whole room turn to her, eyes watching like hungry vultures circling a corpse. But Rhaenyra was far from dead.

“Which egg did Daemon take?”

The Dragonkeeper thinks for a moment, “The egg was Dreamfyre’s, Princess. The same that you chose for Prince Baelon’s cradle.”

You visibly tensed, watching Rhaenyra clench her jaw and Viserys’ look distressed somewhat internally. The egg was to be for Aemma’s son, who was in the afterlife with her. The absolute nerve of the rogue prince, it set your blood aflame. 

“Assemble a detachment, Otto.” Viserys’ arose from his seat, “I will go to Dragonstone and drag Daemon back to face justice myself.”

“Your Grace.” Otto stopped Viserys in his tracks.

“My apologies, Your Grace, but I cannot allow it. It’s too dangerous. Daemon is without limit. Let me go to Dragonstone.”

Though Viserys’ had desired to go himself, he reluctantly agreed to let his hand deal with Daemon and Dragonstone. You, however, knew that Rhaenyra would not allow that to happen so finding her setting up Syrax for a ride the next day was not a surprise. She was wearing her usual outfit for dragon riding, except her face wasn’t painted with an enthusiastic smile, it was determined.

“Princess?”

The girl turned to her handmaiden, gently clutching Syrax’s wing.

“Y/N.. You mustn’t tell anyone about me leaving for Dragonstone–”

“I want to come with you.”

Once determined, now confused, “Come…with… me…?”

“Yes, I may not have experience with fighting yet, but I can be of help to you! If you’ll… let me.” The Princess gazed at the handmaiden she had grown a fond liking to and moved a bit to the side. She motioned for the saddle atop Syrax, and taking it as an order, you climbed up the dragon and settled on the saddle, awaiting Rhaenyra.

“Have you ever been dragon riding, my Handmaiden?”

“There is a first time for everything…?” Rhaenyra laughed, taking a firm seat finally on the saddle, in front of you.

“Hold onto my waist and do NOT let go. It’s a quick ride…”

“Okay but what do we do when we get ther–” Syrax shot up into the air suddenly with a roar of glory and the pair of you were now up in the air, getting closer and closer to the clouds.

-

It took a bit, but you finally settled from the fear of being so high up in the air. The winds were whisking yours and Rhaenyra’s hair every-which-way, but your hands stayed planted on her waist, feeling every single breath in and out from her diaphragm. It became peaceful, being an arm’s length from heaven, just above the clouds, and you knew the rumor of Targaryen’s being close to heaven may have not just been a rumor.

Rhaenyra seemed pleased also that Syrax took a liking to you, noting that Syrax didn’t even like the Dragonkeepers, so thank the lucky stars the dragon could bear your company. 

“We’re almost there…! Hold on tight!”

Your grip got tighter as the view of Dragonstone finally came, and with it, the current situation. Daemon was on one side while Otto Hightower was on the other, the divide being very obvious. But your eyes landed on the dragon just on the ridge overlooking the whole thing, Caraxes, Daemon’s beautiful beast. A creature fit for a man so misunderstood.

Syrax circled the bridge where the commotion was happening and flapped its wings as it was set to land behind the two opposing sides. Rhaenyra and yourself reared a bit at the landing, but your eyes locked with the Rogue Prince, Rhaenyra’s eyes on the Dragon egg in his clutches.

“Let me go down first, I’ll help you down..”

The Princess climbed down with exceeding skill and held her arms open for you to climb down, catching you as you lost your footing, and setting you right on your balance. You obediently followed her as she made her way to get to Daemon, the knights parting for her like the clouds for Dragon’s wings. Heads bowed and smiles were passed her way, but she continued her walking with haste. 

“Ser Criston, please escort the Princess to safety.”

“What are you doing here, Princess?”

“Preventing bloodshed.”

“Take care not to startle Syrax, my lords. She’s rather protective of me. My handmaiden, stay here and wait for me to finish my business with my Uncle.”

“Of course, Princess.”

She continued to walk, leaving you in the company of Otto Hightower and Ser Criston Cole. She eventually made her way into full conversation with her deranged uncle, and you kept your hand on the pommel of your sword.

“A protector is always ready to go into battle for the one they oversee.”

“Why did you accompany the Princess, Handmaiden? Wouldn’t you be far more useful tending to her quarters?”

Your sharp gaze turned to the knights behind you, smiles on their faces and yet yours didn’t look so amused. “Wouldn’t you be far more useful shoveling manure?”

Various snickers of knights reacting to your comeback, even Ser Criston cracking a smile at your attitude. However, you were just trying to listen in on what the two Targaryen’s were speaking about, knowing that you should possibly brush up on your knowledge of the High Valyrian language.

“I’m right here, Uncle, the object or your ire, the reason that you were disinherited. If you wish to be restored as heir, you’ll need to kill me. So, do it. And be done with all this bother.”

She was surely cocky, but his gaze on her was so very intense, sharp as Valyrian steel, that when his eyes shifted to look at you lingering in the background; you let out a shaky exhale. The edge of his lips folded up a bit in a cheeky smirk, before he turned and began to walk away. Not before chucking the precious dragon egg in Rhaenyra’s direction. 

He returned towards the castle, without the egg, while Rhaenyra made her way back towards yourself and Otto Hightower. The heating chamber was opened to receive the egg, and she placed it within, seemingly satisfied with succeeding. Otto and Rhaenyra shared a look before she grabbed your free hand and began to pull you towards Syrax, gently. The leather of her glove feeling odd against the obvious sweat that coated your hand, the eyes of the Rogue Prince still swimming within your mind's eye. 

There wasn’t much time between the thought of the man and taking off on Syrax to go back to the kingdom, Rhaenyra even taking the liberty of situating you firmly against her, wrapping your arms around her stomach. Her eyes gazed quickly over your hands which were now near her chest as you held on, and the thought struck her mind of what your hands may feel like against her bare skin, but just like any thought; it left as quickly as it came.

-

“Stay out here while I talk to my father, alright? I’m sure the knights can make great conversation.” 

Rhaenyra was immediately summoned to her father, and the prospect that she may be punished for succeeding in retrieving the egg was ridiculous to you.

“What if he has disdain toward you going by yourself to get the egg?”

“I wasn’t by myself. I had you– and you were technically protecting me–”

Her shoulder bumped yours playfully, and your eyes rolled as the knights began to open the doors to Viserys’ chambers. You gave her a nod of good luck, and she headed in, the doors closing behind her.

It was safe to say however, that the knights were terrible conversationalists, having to inevitably sit in silence waiting for the Princess to finish her conversation with her father. After a little while, she came walking out of the room with eyes still wet from tears. 

You didn’t want to question what the tears were about, so you opted for a better method of just pulling the girl into a hug; which she accepted immediately. She escorted her to her chambers and even had one of the kitchen maids send her tea for later in the day. When in emotional distress, it is best to leave that person alone to stir with their own feelings before trying to talk, so you left her alone til the very next day. Informing her of the council meeting and helping her into her dress, you both eventually found yourselves in the council room, however, you were curious as to why Alicent was attending.

Viserys walked slowly to the front of the table, “I have decided to take a new wife.” Corly’s shifted in his seat, a satisfied grin arising on his face, was it perhaps about Laena? His only daughter. Rhaenyra nodded at the King to continue, “I intend to marry–” His eyes were shifty, but you were smarter than most observing his Royal Highness speak.

It was Alicent, it was so clear by her anxious shoulders and incessant picking of her nails. And to make matters worse, she glanced at Rhaenyra, catching her attention immediately. “The Lady Alicent Hightower before spring’s end.” 

Otto Hightower had an evident smile on his disgustingly proud face, but Lord Corlys was most infinitely angry, slamming his hands onto the table and getting up at his full height.

“This is an absurdity. My house is Valyrian, the greatest power in the realm.”

“And I am your king.”

To use his title, his power was absurd in of itself, but Lord Corlys backed away from the fight he couldn’t win and stormed out of the room. 

Rhaenyra’s face spoke of limitless, vast, fathomless betrayal. Her own best friend had gone behind her back and got the favor of her own father in marriage. Had Alicent loved Viserys this whole time, using her to get to him? Was she in it for the power, or was Otto manipulating her? All of those thoughts crossed Rhaenyra’s mind in an instant, while on the outside, tears welled up in her forget-me-not blue eyes; her bottom lip quivering.

“Rhaenyra.” Viserys called out to his precious daughter, but instead of answering, the girl did as Corlys had done and stormed out of the room. You and Ser Criston Cole trailing after her, but Ser Criston did it as his duty, you did it due to your genuine concern for her.

She would not need a knight to protect her, or a handmaiden to serve her, but a friend to trust. And in the very castle she stood in, she had just lost the one friend she’d thought she had.

-

[theletterstohogwarts]

The Slytherin Prince

Author: Letters to Hogwarts

Summary: Draco Malfoy overhears an argument between you and Harry, much to his surprise.

Main Character(s): Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, and Ron Weasley

The shimmering mother-of-pearl brilliance of the Amortentia was powerful enough to attract the attention of several students, who seemed to be mesmerised by the swirling steam that was emanating from the potion. With a word of caution, the professor gently places the lid back onto the cauldron, in the hopes that it will discourage the young witches and wizards from following through with their temptations.

A sudden thud from the wooden oak door distracts the students from the allure of the concoction, as the unmistakable shade of vibrant red hair allows you to recognise the Weasley who had reluctantly entered the room, followed by Harry Potter.

“What are they doing here,” you sigh. The unexpected remark is met with an intrigued gaze from Draco Malfoy as a formidable silence inundates the room. The evident intensity swirling in his iridescent eyes, reminiscent of brewing clouds in a thunderstorm, strikes you as curious and yet, rather odd before turning your attention back to Professor Slughorn.

⋆    ⋆     ⋆     ⋆     ⋆

Students begin to gather around Harry’s cauldron, as you watch the leaf come into contact with the crystal clear liquid and burst into flames. “Merlin’s beard, Harry! It’s perfect,” admires the professor before awarding him with the prized possession, a liquid resembling molten gold. “As promised, one phial of Felix Felicis.”

Immediately, the entire room erupts into a vociferous roar, as students begin congratulating the boy who lived. Watching him indulge in all the glory, a quiet sigh falls from your lips as you admit defeat. Setting your wand aside, you observe the cauldron in your proximity prior to glancing at the depths of your own potion; watching the viscous liquid effervesce. Alas, it looked not at all as it ought to, nowhere near as perfect as Harry’s and as a result, you couldn’t help but hold an unequivocal resentment towards the boy.

“You cheated.” Fortuitously, the bitter words drip from your tongue like venom, as you avoid Harry’s perplexed stare.

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t even like potions.” Your tone was a little more vicious than you intended, as you thrust your potions book into your bag. Turning towards him, he catches a glimpse of your unfailingly deep and velvety chestnut eyes, melting into golden lagoons of honey and conflagrant with animosity. “I mean, you actually failed Snape’s class last year and yet, here you are... exactly how did you manage to brew a perfect Draught of Living Death?”

“I don’t know...” he lied, delicately hiding his copy of Advanced Potion Making behind himself. “Maybe I just got lucky.”

“You don’t get lucky in potions, Harry. Potions requires skill and a methodical approach, otherwise, things go wrong. Just take a look at Seamus, he’s constantly blowing things up because he can’t follow a simple set of instructions!”

“I think you’re just jealous.” Says Ron, joining the conversation.

“Oh, not at all. I’m just frustrated because my talent in this class is getting overlooked just because Professor Slughorn’s practically in love with him!” You shout, pointing to the dark haired boy.

“You know, I didn’t ask for any of this...” The tone in his voice compliments your bitterness as he starts packing his potions kit, a sigh falling from his lips.

“Harry...” you whisper, voice laced with contrition.

“I’ll see you later,” he mumbles before storming out the door, closely followed by Ron.

A soft sigh falls from your lips as you allow yourself to continue packing your belongings, the sound of bubbling cauldrons echoing quietly throughout the gloomy dungeon. Grabbing your wand, you begin to make your way towards the wooden oak doors before the sight of a rich, emerald green robe, embellished with lustrous silver embroidery, piques your interest.

“Malfoy.”

The boy in question, a pure-blood wizard, was leaning against the wall in a nonchalant manner; his platinum, silver hair slicked back and an aura of superiority surrounding him.

“A little spiteful, are we?” He drawls, taking a bite from a crisp green apple. You meet his intense gaze, those opalescent pale blue eyes lingering on yours, as he struts his way towards you. “I bet you wanted it.” He says, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “That liquid luck.”

“Oh please... you look like you need it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You have a good heart, Draco...” The melodious sound of his name, dripping from your lips like honey, catches him by surprise. “Even if you don’t see it yourself. But you have a certain reputation to uphold as a Malfoy, and that notoriety means being obedient to Lord Voldemort.” A quiet sigh falls from your lips. “Just be careful.”

[cesarescabinet]

(this is spacekrakens lmao) dude idk anything about like 1950s Japanese cinema, do you have any recommendations? looking for stuff to toss on the watchlist now that I'm a bit burned out on horror (unless you have some horror recs)

Hey! If you’re curious about Japanese cinema (particularly 1950s), there’s a lot of avenues to explore! Musicals, crime, horror, historical—it all depends on what mood you’re in. (Putting this under a read more because I'm DEFINITELY going to be long posting about this!!!) Hope this is useful to you lol.

(Also noting if anybody wants to add to this list with their own recommendations feel free!!)

With old school Japanese cinema, I’ll always recommend Akira Kurosawa (obviously). He’s made some of the best Japanese movies (and arguably, the best movies of all time imo) and I feel like his work is a good gateway. It’s readily available on physical media/streaming too.

Specifically ‘50s stuff; Hidden Fortress (1958) is a good adventure flick whose structure was swiped for Star Wars, Throne of Blood (1957) is Japanese Macbeth if you like Shakespeare, and if you don’t mind a longer movie Seven Samurai (1954) includes Toshiro Mifune acting like this;

Gotta admit, though—my personal favorites from Kurosawa don’t come from the 1950s; Drunken Angel (1948) and Yojimbo (1961). One has a pathetic gangster as the main lead, the other is just a solid, breezy proto-action film (also has my beloved Unosuke but that's besides the point)

Some personal favorites of mine from the 1950s:

Life of a Horse Trader (1951) is a bittersweet story about a man trying to be a good single father to his son in the backdrop of Hokkaido. He tends not to be great at it. Stars Toshiro Mifune, the most famous face of Japanese cinema and for good reason!

Conflagration/Enjo (1958) is a single Buddhist acolyte’s fall into quiet insanity. Raizo Ichikawa is another amazing actor who I love! Also includes Tatsuya Nakadai who is the GOAT (in my heart).

Godzilla (1954) is AMAZING! If you liked Gozilla Minus One, it took a lot of familiar cues from this movie. It also technically counts as horror, depending on your definition.

Japanese horror from the 1950s:

Ugetsu (1951) (Not one I’ve seen personally, but it’s on Criterion)

The Beast Shall Die (1958) (American Psycho, but in Showa Japan. Tatsuya Nakadai is terrifying in this and absolutely despicable—stylish movie tho!)

Ghost of Yotsuya (1959) (Old-school Japanese ghost story. Honestly, there are so many different versions of this story on film that you can pick which version to watch and go from there—I’m partial to the 1965 version myself, because of the rubber rats and Tatsuya Nakadai playing a crazy person).

The Lady Vampire (1959) is the OG western-style vampire movie from Japan. Plays around with the mythos a lot, but hey our Dracula looks like this;

Misc movies that I think are neat or good gateway movies:

The Samurai Trilogy by Hiroshi Inagaki, which stars Toshiro Mifune as Miyamoto Musashi. Found that people otherwise uninterested in Japanese cinema really enjoyed this!

You Can Succeed, Too (1964) is one of my favorites from the ‘60s, also directed by Eizō Sugawa. A fun satire on the corporate world that's super colorful with catchy songs.

The Sword of Doom (1966) is also another favorite of mine, starring my beloved Tatsuya Nakadai as another bastard man (seriously though Ryunosuke is FASCINATING to me--). Fun gore effects and action scenes!

Kwaidan (1964) is an anthology of Japanese folk tales, labeled a horror film but in that kinda sorta old-school way. Beautifully shot by my favorite Japanese director Masaki Kobayashi (who, if you like this you should seriously check out his other work!)

[axieta]

Hungry eyes

Henry Winter x reader |

Warnings: in this part there are non but later parts are going to hit diff so mdi

Summary: Richard is the newest member of the bizarre, isolated classics course. There is seven of them in total, every personage strange and intriguing in their own way. But there is this one girl who’s sheer presence unnerves and simultaneously compels his whole being. What secrets do those sharp eyes of her hide? And what is her relation to the ever stoic Henry Winter?

Chapter 1

| In the eye of a predator |

I think I noticed it first during my second week in the Greek class. We were sitting, all seven of us, in the school library; all but Henry whining and breaking our heads over a particularly dreadful translation of Arrian. Something about Alexander, I’m sure of it.

It was then she looked at me for the first time. And it wasn’t just a throw-away glance, or a squint-eyed half-smile. No, it was the truest, fullest and most precise stare of all the stares I have ever witnessed in my life.

She tasked me with her gaze, her eyes slightly hooded, with long, thick eyelashes. From head to toe and then from toe to head. Said eyelashes fluttered, when she came to scan my face and then her eyes met mine. And I saw it, hidden deep inside of those abyssal irises, the electrifying glint that sent shivers down my spine. The moment our gazes crossed, I knew I was done for. I was vanquished in the matter of seconds, quickly submitted into the reign of that cool look, enslaved by its ferociousness, the sheer intensity of it; and I didn’t even know that I was competing. Something in that stare compelled me to give in.

It was a spark of folly, pure and hot like a furnace in the middle of December and for a second I thought it to be burning deep into my cheek.

I remember Hampden in a magnificent blur. A splash of red, gold, white and green. To me it is a mystic collage of places, objects without a name or an owner. It is an onslaught of faces, Greek letters and Latin phrases blending intangible into each other.

But there is something in particular that constantly managers to break through the heavy mist of stimuli and fogged-up memories. It burns and freezes me up every time it reappears deep in my mind and I can’t seem to get rid of it.

The shining, primal and dangerous pair of eyes. Looking from underneath furrowed brows, right through my physical shell. Etching the uneasy, thrilled feeling of the consciousness right into my bones. They haunt me up to this day. And they shine beautifully amidst the conflagration their stare fires up inside of me.

It was far too hot, for a lad as uptight and uneasy as I constantly was at that time. I remember starting to sweat profusely the minute that stare anchored into my figure. With time I learned to ignore the uncomfortable feeling, to push it down and bottle it up like the rest of things in my life.

But that first time, the initial first-degree contact with that stare had sent me into a hellish spiral of sweat and as I thought a feverish seizure.

Looking back, I was probably exaggerating, it was however extremely unnerving to feel those vibrant, lively irises bearing right into my flesh as if they could dig up my deepest, most shameful secrets.

She was, the proprietary of the eyes I mean, one of the latest additions to the class, however junior to me in age, she’s been a semester ahead of me in context of education in Hampden’s Greek and Latin course. Outside of the school walls, she was eons ahead of me.

I think there wasn’t a subject she wasn’t interested in. Like an encyclopedia, you could start any topic, most random or niche, and she would already have had formed an opinion on it and delight you with a lengthy explanation to her stance. She wasn’t like Henry, who had clearly dedicated himself solely to the classical arts, and passionately ignored anything other than that, or Bunny who in turn ignored everything that wasn’t forced into him or served to him on a silver platter.

No, she was a titan of knowledge. Hungry for more and eager to bathe you in some of the goods she had already acquired.

But she wasn’t loud in that strive for knowledge of hers. She would rather engage in one-on-one conversations, get to know her interlocutor, synchronize with him and conduct a debate that would also engage, and with luck, completely devour him as well.

Although her favorite subject were the many a conquests of Alexander the Great. Yes, it was an endless topic for her.

Once even I saw her shed a tear while comparing Alexander and Hephaestion to Achilles and Patroclus, wailing over the poetic tragedy of the Macedonians’ situation in light of Alexander’s love for the Iliad.

‘He even had his oven copy of the damn book. He slept with it under his pillow!’

I remember her voice breaking every time someone prompted her to start this particular topic. And I remember Bunny rolling his eyes every time she undertook it.

Maybe that’s why I recall that particular evening so clearly. We were translating The campaigns of Alexander after all; but instead of her usual glossy eyes and melancholic stare I was faced with that.

The malignant gaze of a demon.

Well, now I might be exaggerating a little. But it is true. There was something hot and unnerving about her. Maybe it was the stare. Or maybe it was something much more clandestine, like the sharp angles of her face, the way her eyebrows set or her mouth shaped her syllables. Maybe it was the distinct play of light and shadows on her face, or was it the bird-like tilt of her head. Or the fluid, swift movements of her body. As if she was pure water, nothing more nothing less, flowing gracefully from one place to the other. Never faltering, never tripping over or halting.

Or maybe the fact that sometimes, when she looked up at you, with that bird tilt to her head and a deep cut smile to her face, one that would reveal a dimple on the left side of her face, and a slight tightness at the corners of her eyes, she looked almost sweet. Alluring in a mischievous way, the way all things primal can be. Polarizing and pulling you in like a magnet. Like a fox, looking you straight in the eye as he bites through the arteries of a wild goose he just caught. It is a tragic, gruesome scene, but something in the cruelty of the deed makes you unable to look away. And maybe it is the blood dripping down the fiery red fur, or the last high pitched quacks of the goose, but there is something forbidden and for it enticing in the scene.

I could never realy put a finger on it. What was the true source of that mystic, almost electric aura she seemed to be oozing out of ever pore of her body.

My bet would be on the totality of those little quirks I’ve already mentioned.

There was something profoundly primeval about her. She would mask it of course, but I’ve seen it on several occasions. The animal ripping from within her. Hiding in her wolfish grin, lurking in the glint of her eyes.

It made my hair stand on my head.

She was a perfect predator. Disguised into a frail, sweet girl. With big, seductive eyes, soft lips, and the sweetest nose. Her voice deep, melodic like streams of old Greece and her laugh all rumbling summer thunder. She seemed just so… so good, so poetic, so beautiful.

It was that crude cunning that made my stomach churn. Burrowed deep under her skin just waiting to jump out of her.

If I had to pick someone, out of us seven, who most resembled a Greek god or goddess I would choose her. And not because of her skills in greek or Latin. No, Henry surpassed her as well as the rest of us in that department. It also wasn’t for her beauty. In my eyes, no one could compare to Camilla.

No, that would be for the feral fierceness that constantly boiled over in her. Her restlessness, the passion that oh so often consumed her and the emotions upholstered with velvet of indulgence I would later see her throw herself into with abandon. She looked like she belonged right in the middle of Dionysus’ cortège. At times she was senile and pleasant to the mortals that wished to mingle with the lesser gods such as the classical course class. But she also looked like the type of girl to identify herself not with the quick-feeted nymphs or graceful dreads that formed the procession, but rather the wild and menacing maenads. She made me feel as if only she’d drunk too much of vine she would gladly and eagerly rip my head off clean of my shoulders, and she would later laugh about it, as my corpus-less head would be forced to sing to her à la poor Orpheus.

And I knew I saw the shine of her teeth not because I was a good observer, or because she had grown careless and didn’t bother masking around me. No, I saw it because she wanted me to see it. Because she wanted to mess with me, mischievousness running deep in her veins, chaos being the only thing for witch she could feel real passion. Because she was sure, no one was going to believe me. The truest of predators, as I said.

And it was true. Back then, even if I told myself from a week before, he wouldn’t believe me. After all, she looked fine. She wasn’t a great beauty like Camilla, but she was rather easy on the eye. Maybe it is because of that true, cruel nature of hers that she was so kind to reveal before me, that her imagine remains rather distorted in my head; but I can tell you one thing- what she lacked in beauty, she made up in charm and charisma. Even without the glint in her eyes an indescribable aura of mystery veiled her existence. And when she started talking, and I mean talking with you and not to you, her deep, melodic voice could put you in some kind of a trans, like the ones conducted in Delphi. I think she gave people courage to speak with that voice; somehow untangled their tongues and compelled them to converse far more easily than if they would without her.

She had this weird soothing quality about her, if only she wanted to seem soothing that is.

Once I saw her enraptured in some sort of a quarry with Simon Sharon, a scrawny boy with a stutter, who at the time of the exchange did not stutter at all. On the contrary, he seemed to be standing his rhetoric ground against the onslaught of her own arguments quite gracefully.

She was like a magnet for guys. And while Camilla seemed to be almost boy-repellant, the opposite gender swarmed to her peer like flies to honey. Not only that, girls would also cling to her as if she was their guru or something.

I always thought it was weird. After all, she did nothing so special. Nothing that would attract this much attention, and as I’ve seen later in the year, she would go as far as to actively rid herself of the following.

And yet, up to the very end she remained our school’s sweetheart.

She dressed rather modestly. Mostly in long dresses, sometimes skirts and cardigans, although ocasionally we would also see her sporting a pair of pants. During those days Bunny seemed to be most cold towards her.

Either way, most of her clothes were kind of airy, ghostly even. Sometimes when she would walk through the corridors and a gust of wind gathered the ruffles of her dress she resembled more an apparition rather than a human being.

She was rather palie, and so the whole atmosphere of Hampden as well at the fraily clothing played into the elusive nature of her beauty and further thickened the cocoon of mystery around her.

Her eyes were intelligent, big and bright when she needed them to be, and narrow and nigh all-sing when she didn’t. Her face went in and out of those two states so easily, as if she didn’t even think of it. The transitions between her moods were so natural that sometimes, after some time even I couldn’t really point out when or even if the change occurred.

It was like having a shapeshifter living right next door to you, and noone conscious of that but you.

Henry, Francis, Bunny, Camilla and Charles, they all were too blind or too focused on themselves to discern this duality, although I think out of all of them, Henry came the closest to the truth.

Out of all of us, he was the one that she tolerated the most. Sometimes I would see the both of them sitting together in the library. Most of the times they would be silent. He would be translating something, and she would be scribbling away or reading. But a few times I was able to witness a heated debate between the two of them, upheld both in perfect Greek and later on in Latin as well.

I thought Henry kind of liked her, in his own way. I thought he tolerated her, and vice versa simply because of the obvious equality between them.

Only later I found out how stupid and oblivious to the true nature of this relation I was. And that the signs were all around me. And that I was just too dense to not pick up on them.

[veryace-ficrecs]

Do you know any horror fics revolving around ASL (or specifically ace and/or sabo)? It could be stuff ranging from horror fae aus or body horror or obsession or child experimentation or cannibalism etc., just anything that’s creepy/disturbing :)

ASL Horror Fic Recs!

Please keep in mind!! This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion!!

A Cursed Child by kittyface27 - Rated M

"There's some monster on that island that eats humans that visit. When you get there, whatever you do, don't interact with the boy. Don't touch him, or make eye contact with him. If you interact with him or show you know he's there, then you're dead. That's the most important thing to know: do NOT interact with him."

Maybe I wanna be a cryptid ( maybe I don't wanna exist in this world ) by Agatha1905 - Rated T

Whispers of a bloodthirsty monster in the woods cause an uproar on Dawn Island. Especially when that monster turns out to be just a litte creepy kid called Luffy with bright white eyes, and an appetite with very questionable ways to be satiated. ( Or: A guide on how raising your eldritch grandson by Garp The Fist. )

Friendship can be found anywhere (even in the creepy forests) by Ginnn - Rated M

Never go into the Weeping Forest, little one. Parents would tell their children. For those that did never came out. Fear the Forest and don’t go in there. But Luffy was bored. or How to befriend local Eldritch Creature and consequences that come from it.

eat my body (spit up my soul) by marigoldsinsummer - Not Rated

Eating the Mera-Mera Fruit was an experience. (if he didn’t know better, he’d say the Devil Fruit had eaten him instead) (or maybe that’s what he’d say if he did)

Home Sweet Home by Giglio_nero - Rated T

Ace and Sabo had been struggling with money and a place to live, so when they find a solution to both they'll take the chance. But what if their new home already has someone residing on it? Will they be able to survive and protect their baby brother?

the man-eater in the grey terminal by phantomofthehoepera - Rated T

”Listen to me, Luffy,” Dadan had said. ”You can’t buy any food from the terminal. Not ever. When people are hungry they’ll eat anything, so the vendors at the terminal can sell anything. You understand?"

Conflagration by Harubo - Rated M

As a child, Ace dreamt of flames.

Can See What You Can't See by orphan_account - Rated G

Luffy can see things that others are unable to see.

[gasolineghuleh]

Took a prompt from one of my old writings, Papa iii pushing you with a vibrator, and sat down for five minutes. This came out.

“The Sister wants to cum? Then the Sister will cum.” Papa pushes the vibrator against you again, flicking the power of the small thing to as high as it can go. The machine whines and whirrs against you as your legs kick out, pleasure coursing through your veins like a roller coaster. It builds and builds until it comes to a head, threatening to burst and overflow at any moment. Your nail dig into the arms of the chair as your brace yourself and think there, there, there and then-

And then nothing.

Nothing at all. Papa pulls the device away and turns it off, leaving your legs shaking and body tingling with need. You pant, breathless and dizzy, staring up at him as he looks down at you with a smirk on his lips. You shift and find the cords that attach your restraints to the chair have moved again, binding your legs. Your arms are free, however, and you go to reach for yourself, intent on getting release no matter what when he grabs your hands and holds them, turning the toy back on.

You gasp and mewl, arching, trying to rub yourself against the toy as Papa brings your hands to him, pressing them against his own erection and rutting into your hand as he smears himself along your knuckles. The touch is warm and solid against your palm and as the heat builds again you realize you need something real, and his hand slips into your mouth, prying it open. He offers no words but simply nods, the toy going off just when you come up on another high, once again denying your pleasure. You don't even realize you're moaning his name, tears gathering in your eyes as your body begins to tremble with desperation, but Papa notices, chuckling at your response, his tone warm. He simply looks pleased to be the cause, but whether his goal is a praise, adoration or orgasm, you are not certain, though his gaze makes his desire obvious enough.

After the third time you are brought to the edge he yanks your hands back and clicks the toy off, kneeling next to the chair with a smile. You look down at him, chest rising and falling hard.

A strange expression takes over your features, your own little game forgotten as your attention remains fixated on him and his gloves slide between your thighs, two fingers dragging slowly through the mess you've made. You blush furiously and gasp a little as the fabric meets your over-sensitive skin, making you shudder as you move a little, rubbing against his hands as much as you can. But despite the frustration and desperation for release your lustful gaze and constant rubbing suggest, he does not fuck you. Not this time. He merely continues to drag those fingers through your folds, slowly, with barely any friction at all.

Still, your need has mounted. What began as a slow burn is now a conflagration.

[searchingforserendipity25]

Daeron/Maglor "...because the world is ending"? 😚

Hi @polutrope <3 This one one has been living in my docs as Daemags date night (the night to end all nights) for a month. Here it is at last!

The Night to End All Nights

Daeron had been deep into the roadless deserts, when Arien fell - her last blazing sunset had lit the dunes with dreadful beauty, rose sand purples and a red redder than red.

Then, the quiet. Handfuls of stars, snuffed out one after another.

He made his way onwards. Once, the land had not been desert; once, there had been paths of cobblestones paved with sound craft, and there had been chariots, carriages, riders and companies making their ways from glorious cities whose names were lost in the dust, removed from the world entirely, if not for Daeron's memory.

Daeron lived much in memory, now. There the dry well, there the empty streets of the empty city. Here, a deep-rooted peach tree had grown, where only a gray husk remained - he had gathered wild fruits from its generous boughs, shared them with an old enemy in the shelter of its shade, licked the juices from his fingertips and wrist and mouth until he shook as finely as the green leaves in the summer breeze.

Wherever he passed the land groaned with its own undoing.

Beleriand had been thus ruined, in its moribund years; but this was a ravaging wasting sickness, not a wound upon Arda to be solved with the amputation of one continent or another. Above and around and in all places a hundred, a thousand birds flew madly, till they dropped exhausted upon the last grass of the last spring.

The matter of the sky splintered and rained down great boulders of iron that shook and shattered the earth, smoldering with a fell fire, all the hard stone of the mountain ranges shaking and shaking like a single fevered body, bound up in strange resonances of power. One fell near enough to him that the raised dust clung to his lungs and fouled his throat for a time: and then Daeron grew afraid, for a time, shaken from the clear, beautiful rage against Morgoth into fright.

The cough passed, slowly.

The very air grew colder, made cruel without the sun. The waters grew wilder, without the moon; and all creatures grew despairing and violent, in the absence of starlight.

Still: Daeron went onwards. There was a great epilogue to judge - he was not a light-hearted critic, but he did intend to be there at the end, and at the start as well.

And he had an appointment to keep. They had agreed on this, a long time ago, and Daeron for his part was determined to cross crevasses as needed not to be the faithless one.

He had not thought Maglor would fail to be there. Not truly, in any case - not this time.

The land leaned towards the gaping of the world, its old longing for water calling out so starkly it was almost a song. This place had been full of life, once: a lake with many small islands, many new-made voices raised in song rippling the waters.

All the little water that remained reflected only darkness above, darkness around. Not enough remained of the waters of Cuiviénen to be drunk. Daeron’s torch lit it like the flare of a false moon, fading as passed it by.

It was quite beautiful, in its way. All things were unraveling to Song at last: the last fields of grass clinging to the cliff-side called out a rustling wind-song even as they turned to ash, glorious a rush of Music with the memory of the seed’s patience in winter and the growing rush of spring turning to the conflagration of summer.

Daeron closed his eyes. Did he weep, at the beauty of it? He could not sing. It was not time, yet; his voice curled thick and urgent in his aching throat, waiting.

They met at the very edge of the shoreline, where the whitewater rush of the shattered Encircling Sea broke into the gaping maw of the Void. The fall was very steep, the precipice very high, taller than any tower ever wrought. The sound of the water was an unnerving, slithering quiet, for it fell through fogs and mists; and the fall had no end.

A single raised light flickered, there where crumbling stone and air met, but the burned hand that held it up did not flinch from the licking slants of wind-swept fire.

“You are late,” Maglor said, chin raised. His voice, too, was less splendid than it might have been. Certainly less proud. Daeron’s heart turned in his chest, treacherously fond. “And I see you have not even brought any wine, either.”

“It was your turn to bring the wine,” Daeron pointed out. His words rasped in his throat a little, at the start. “I brought it last time."

"Forgive me! If it is any consolation," Maglor said. "I crossed the lands where the marketplace where those sweet bean pastries you loved once stood. Alas! Nought but ruins remain. There, here, everywhere! I had half a mind to start without you."

"That is well enough," Daeron said. He felt a little drunk already, dizzy with terror and Maglor's proximity.

His face caught the torch light, his eyes very bright. Maglor smiled at him. It was an effort - he could see the ancient grief moving in his face, a depth like the strata of the earth being pressed away to make room for it.

They had met on appointed dates two dozen times altogether. By the white piers of Belfalas or the moors of Arnor, sharing the same flask under the vibrant stars of Rhûn’s fields. Brushing knuckles; pressing their mouth’s where a touch had been, in the indulgent absurdity of second-hand lovemaking between two ancient creatures.

They had met. Not many times, but often enough; and always at the parting, regardless of how sweet or how bitter it might be, there was the renewed promise. We shall meet at the end! Even when it had been said in contempt and fury, and the end of the world not long enough to suit the day’s rage.

It passed, the anger. When one lived as long as they did, it grew very difficult to cleave to anything for very long. Grief was a habit, and singing duty and care and craft; all the rest passed and thinned as mist in the sun. Until they met again - until they met each other, and all colours grew bright, the winds colder, the summers gentler.

Daeron waved it away, lightly, light-hearted. O, he felt mad, trapped against the great maw of the black night - but a strange thing very like a laugh trembled on his throat.

"I know I shall! That is not my concern. I knew you would not start without me,” Daeron said. "I could not doubt it. And yet I am glad that I was late; I could not know how much of gladness remained, before I saw your light in the dark, waiting."

“Then I am glad," Maglor said, and the salt that clung to his hair prickled Daeron's nose when he neared. "Though it was a cold wait, and the journey colder still. You give me too much credit. For once! But I could not tarry. There was nowhere else to walk to, nor any other place I could wish to be."

“It is quite beautiful,” Daeron said, looking upon the cliffside. His eyes strained to see the scant starlight reflecting on the distant spray, silvering the night for brief instants. “In its way.”

“The sea was more beautiful,” Maglor said. "Its white sands and silver pebbles gleaming, and the black basalt sand of the Western islands. Gone, all gone! Now we are islanders only, the Encircling Sea the only sea; and its waters fall beyond reaching. I miss the sea-that-was, though it never did thank me for my company."

The mountains were gone. The fallow fields, and the valleys with their crumbling walls left abandoned in long lost days - the great cities of Men, one empire after another devoured by a greater and most ancient greed.

They had seen many kingdoms rise and fall together, over time; but there had been a constancy in that, not this absence of voices and wills, this death-bound silence.

It had not been often that they had wandered together for long. That was a thing neither of them could withstand easily - not they, minstrels to the dead, whose last elegiac duties were not suited to company. Their paths diverged, coming apart to come together again, and there had been joy too with every bitter parting. But they had agreed on this, under the light of the stars, Ages ago. Cuiviénen, at the end of all things - this much, at least, when the time came, at the end.

Daeron laid a hand on his cheek, and felt the warmth of it with a dizzying desire. So it would be this, then, he thought. The last touch; the last kiss, soft as a balm, a vertiginous fall into an embrace from a height no lesser than the sundered face of the breaking world. Daeron held him close with fierce hands, chased the stains of bitter soot on Maglor’s heeks with his mouth, tangled his fingers in braidless curls as dark as the night.

The last, the last! His eyes stung. Daeron was greedy, at the last, covetous with love as had ever been his vice, slow to relinquish. Love renewed all things, even grief; though the grief of Arda's fall had seeped into him into a killing drought, and no more tears remained in him to be shed.

The Music murmured its own last notes, a soundless song of mingled joy and despair.

More despair, at the end, and Daeron had feared, feared, feared it tremendous, more than the Starkinder's defeat or the death of all fruiting trees. Wandering alone in the lightless dark, voice failing and nothing listening, he had thought on the Theme and feared there would not be enough of joy, in the end - had judged his purpose beyond himself, all of Melian's careful and wise tutelage wasted and worn through.

So it had been, in solitude.

"Sweet Daeron. Forgive me,” Maglor said once more, sighing against his neck. His solid warmth was no greater than the flame's, wavering much as Daeron wavered on his feet. "I bring no gifts, and my might is diminished. The melody is yours, if you like. It is not wine, but it might suit your tastes as well, or better."

"It shall be," Daeron said. He knew it as he spoke, and almost laughed for how clear it was to him; he gripped Maglor's hand tightly. "But not mine alone, I judge; for are we not both singers of laments? One last paeon, then: and let not all things that were good and great and terrible fall unremembered, while there is breath with which to sing them."

Above them and around them the last stars went pale, and weary, and dead. The two torches flared, faded, lost the last of their fire.

Then, the quiet. Daeron stepped back. Raised a hand, to mark the time.

It was very easy, after all, to sing together at the end of all things: easy as summer, even in the dark.

[bestworstcase]

Psychopomp Cinder

false! silver-eyes are psychopomps.

cinder is a phoenix

even the smallest spark of hope is enough to ignite change -> the light of hope is taken/and discontent is the contagion/the blinding eyes/that burn a yellow flame/the embers that remain will light the fuse of condemnation -> out of the ashes a new flame ignite.

fire is hope. the death of hope is wrath. wrath is fire. when salem says she’ll devote all her efforts to extinguish ozpin’s hope, she doesn’t mean she wants to crush the world in despair; she means to incite revolution. cinder is the conflagration that destroys hope and the new flame born from the ashes.

’s partly why she keeps having death fake outs. she’s the phoenix burning and rising from her own ashes.

also this and this and this and this and this and this and there’s more but i can only hunt through my blog archive for so long before the marbles fall out of my head.

[wordsinhaled]

Just so you know I am thinkin' thoughts about Old Witch Sleep from TAD and feral or borderline-villain!Hob

the amazing devil + hob IN GENERAL, but especially that song, has me feeling many feelings !!!

sometimes i fall to pieces just to see what bits of me don't fit

this song makes me think of the toll of immortality, and hob as an eldritch being just by virtue of how all that life he's lived has sort of... stacked up on itself. it's not really supposed to happen to anyone, is it? i actually have the right snippet for this gathering dust in my drafts, so! have a Thing, anon <3

(cw mild body horror themes)

--

Hob hardly tries to be reckless, truly. He certainly never takes his miraculous gift for granted. But all those who had flocked about him once have passed long since and he, against all reason, still endures. His god-brushed flesh bears no scar for longer than three days; he outlives all his companions and lovers, hale and unchanged in body, looking not a day above his eternal four and thirty. Hob realizes, one day, that he is no longer a bare flame to entice moths. He is a conflagration, a desecration of expectations. There is a thing in him now that hibernates behind his eyes, a thing he learns the shape of the way one gropes for the banister in the night—unseeing, but knowing it is there with the certainty of habit.

Touching endlessness the way he has does things to a man.

It does things to Hob.

He no longer remembers which century it was, which of his numberless non-deaths had started it, this itch under his skin, this feeling like he can tell which parts of him have been reconstituted. The fabric of him feels messily mended and shoddily darned, the electrical impulses in his heart fizzling out and flickering back on like faulty lightbulbs. His self superimposes upon itself. He can sense himself, a ponderous conglomeration of atoms lumbering through the cosmos, destined never to return to stardust.

How many dying breaths has Hob heard? The sighing peace or dawning horror in each one harmonizes with the cacophony already in him, melds with that inner voice that says, Why them and not you? Why them and not you? Perhaps this time it will be you and not them. Ah, but you know it won't. You know it won't. And it is then, when that voice ratchets up to fever pitch, that Hob sometimes forgets.

Forgets to be careful. Forgets self-preservation. Forgets the need for caution, the way he had forsaken it entirely when his stranger had found him in the White Horse in 1389. He had set his eyes on Hob the way a prowling animal sets its eyes on its inevitable quarry. Had prophesied the outcome. Had pinned down the wild heart of him that beat, then as now, for experience and pleasure, and that yearned to be looked upon the way his stranger looked upon him: as though Hob was already snared, as though he would consume Hob only at great leisure, and only if the marrow of him proved worthy.

Hob must have tucked that look away somewhere safe, he thinks. Somewhere deep where it could grow, where it could put out its roots and spread.

And it has spread; that stealthy hunger twined around some ageless love older even than Hob's six hundred years, purposeful and patient, striving quiet as Cordyceps militaris steals towards its insidious cause.

Oh, to meet that gaze, ink-dark and beckoning. To greet it with his own, burnished to a feral glimmer by long years of waiting.

He would drown in it, if he could. He would be subsumed. He would meet the void of it like an old friend, and perhaps the wrongs of the universe would be put to rights.

But he cannot.