#a wend in the shadows

[late-to-the-fandom]

ROY G BIV Tag

Thank you @druidx for the tag, this was a new one for me! I was surprised how many I had, seeing how (intentionally) limited my universe’s colour palate is. I had over 200 uses of the word red or some synonym and exactly one of blue 😂 These are all from Wend in the Shadows.

Red

Denathrius was grinning. His entire face was contorted in an open delight the likes of which Renathal had rarely seen on the Sire’s flawless features. His red eyes wandered to the hovering servant then back to Renathal, grin widening. When he spoke again, his voice was soaked in satisfaction.

Orange - I had an Amber, gold, and bronze but no orange proper so I grabbed one of the others.

"The wardrobe," she said simply. "It's quite lovely, thank you." Her fingers traced the corset's bronze buckles and trailed into the swell of red satin skirts beneath. "Mind you, it did take two dredgers to help fasten me into it, but it’s surprisingly easy to move about in once it's on, and…" She glanced up at Renathal, violet pinpricks glowing on her cheekbones. "It's a perfect fit."

Yellow

Her bright yellow eyes flitted from the Prince to the mortal now loitering at his shoulder. Renathal could tell Nadjia was attempting to look frightened, but her features were too fixed in haughty confidence to pull off the expression well. Her words, however, sent an uncomfortable frisson of alarm down his spine. He was suddenly acutely aware of the growing numbness in his feet and fingers; the Endmire tightening its hold once again. Renathal made a subtle adjustment to his muck-covered coat. He needed to get out of here, now.

Green

The sound Renathal made had more in common with a groan than a laugh, but "Oh, a great many things," was his casual non-answer as he scanned the shelf of dark green tomes. "You might be surprised at how much exists to trouble the mind of those whose primary purpose is the execution of duty. How much must be considered, how much must be avoided. How much is," he extended his arm for a title on a shelf just over his head, "out of reach."

Blue

The theological paradox twisted his mind as the carriage rattled its way across Penance Bridge, his anxious eyes wandering over the approaching silhouettes of the Grand Palisade: tall, stately spires on black brick foundations that sank into a sheer, nearly vertical drop. Just below the bridge, the cliffside was wreathed in mist, the thin, stretched wisps painting the smooth grey stone in shades of unbroken blue.

Indigo - the colour I cannot distinguish from blue? Nope.

Violet

Elisewin trailed away, allowing a vague gesticulation to describe the anima harvesting process her nervous babble could not. Her hand accidentally brushed Renathal's leg, and she jerked it back as if burned. Even in the heavy gloom, Renathal could make out the dark violet splotches blossoming on her high cheekbones. He had an idea what they meant; imagined if he had the mortal blood required to blush his own face would look very much the same.

Tagging: @fluffleforce-mysdrym @maidenwychelm @sesshy380 @omnissian-scribe @vcaudley @residentdormouse @isabellebissonrouthier @rms-writes @frozen-fountain @sarahlizziewrites

Rules: Search your WIP for the colours of the rainbow and post the excerpt.

[cassandraclare]

Those of you who get my newsletter will already have seen this but here's a snippet from the Matthew novella A Sea Change (some spoilers) — and Matthew on one of the endpapers for the novella book! Doesn't he look grownup?

 

It was a beautiful night.    The promenade deck wended its way around the entirely of the Majestic like a necklace of polished wood and brass fittings. There were few out walking like Matthew, perhaps because it was cool and windy, but Shadowhunters were used to the cold. Besides, the wind blew the clouds away, exposing a sky so full of stars it looked as if a jeweler had hastily stuffed a drawer with handfuls of loose-cut diamonds.    A year ago, Matthew would not have been able to enjoy the path the moonlight made across the water, or the sky afire with white flame. He would have been thinking about his last drink, or where he would find his next one. A frantic circle of pain and shame and longing: one he’d had to trudge invisibly, keeping his secrets from his friends, his family.    Now the weight was off him. He felt light, and sometimes strangely at rest, like a windmill on a windless night. He no longer despised himself, but he did not know his purpose, either. If, he mused, one had to have a purpose at all. Was it not enough to be a Shadowhunter — one among many, but each sworn to protect humanity against demons? To keep peace among mundanes and Downworlders — warlocks, werewolves, the Fair Folk, and vampires?    A year ago, he wasn’t sure he would have so quickly identified Miss Gwendolyn as a vampire, either. But then Matthew spent more time with Downworlders than most Shadowhunters did. Some he was friendly with, but he did not trick himself into thinking that meant they were not dangerous. And a vampire hiding out among humans was cause for concern.    He’d noted the way Gwendolyn hadn’t eaten, and had drunk sparingly of the wine. The translucence of her fingernails. Her pallor, even under a layer of makeup. The veins at her temples — if those were visible, she was hungry. And there had been the odd behavior of Orville Cole. The way he’d stared at her worshipfully. Humans often fell under the spell of vampires, finding them impossible to resist. It was not the same as a thrall relationship, where the vampire fed from the human and in return promised them eternal life, but it was a use of vampire glamour forbidden by the Accords.    Though Gwendolyn had seemed, if anything, annoyed at Cole’s attentions. Perhaps she’d enchanted him without meaning to and wished nothing more than to be rid of him. It was hard to say; Matthew did not get the sense she’d been a vampire very long.    At that moment, lost in thought, Matthew collided with something solid.     “Pardonnez-moi — oh. It’s you.” The young man from dinner, Sylvain Allard, had evolved out of the shadows. He wore a dark summer suit which blended with the night.

[imagineaworld]

stray shadow 🗡️ azriel

summary: azriel loses a shadow, only for it to lead him straight to you

warnings: 18+, oral (f receiving), fingering, public place (kinda), dirty talk, swearing, mentions of alcohol

word count: 1.5k

Azriel seemed to have lost one of his shadows.

He had been too busy observing the crowd for potential threats to notice the shadow sneak off somewhere. After deciding there were no current threats amongst the crowd gathered in the Court of Nightmares, he slipped off in search of the stray.

Following the gentle tug that was beckoning him to the other side of the cavernous hall, he kept to the outskirts to avoid the mass of bodies talking, dancing and drinking.

As the tug grew stronger, he wondered curiously where his shadow was leading him. Had it sensed a threat that even he hadn't spotted? It seemed unlikely, but not impossible.

Eventually, he approached a small crowd loitering by the table littered with glasses and flutes of wine and champagne. His shadow was close, he could sense it. He scanned the small group, seeking the familiar darkness of his shadows.

There. He spotted it; slinked around a high-heeled ankle. His eyes trailed upwards, following the exposed bare leg, continuing up a gossamer-clad torso, a plunging neckline, a long slender neck, before settling on the face of the most beautiful female he had ever seen.

-

You hadn't noticed it at first. The soft brush had just felt like the fabric of your dress sweeping against your ankle. But when you looked down, you noticed a black shadow slowly wrapping itself around your ankle. It tickled, pulling a smile from you as you watched it wend its way up your leg, exposed through the slit in your dress.

Curiously, you reached down to touch it as it skated your thigh. In answer, it wrapped itself around your fingers. Bringing your hand closer to your face, you watched in wonder as it danced in between your fingers.

You were so distracted by the shadow that you didn't notice the owner of the shadow approach until he spoke.

-

"They seem to like you."

It was the only thing Azriel could think to say as he watched you smile at the shadow flitting around in your hand. All thoughts had left his mind, the sight rendering him speechless for a few seconds.

At the sound of his voice, you looked up. Your eyes locked onto his, amusement dancing in them. He felt as though the wind had been knocked out of him.

"Lose something?" You spoke, your voice like caramel.

Struck dumb, Azriel could only watch as you gently flicked his shadow in his direction, returning it to him. Reluctantly, the shadow rejoined the mass swirling around his feet. Az realised he should say something.

"I apologise for disturbing you," he managed. "I usually have them under control, but they're feeling rebellious today."

You laughed, and it was the single greatest sound he has ever heard. Azriel couldn't contain his own smile, self-consciously rubbing his hand on the back of his neck.

"Should I be concerned about drawing their attention?" You inquired playfully.

Az chuckled. "No, not unless you plan on causing trouble."

Something like mischief sparked in your eyes. "Oh, I always plan on causing trouble."

Gods, save him.

You extended a hand and introduced yourself.

"Azriel." He said, his scarred hand clasping yours as he suppressed his disgust at marring you with his touch.

You repeated his name, just a murmur, but loud enough for him to hear. Perhaps he had been wrong, it was not your laugh that was the greatest sound he had ever heard, but the sound of his name of your lips.

-

You weren't quite sure how you were playing it so cool. The male standing before you was quite simply the most handsome male you had ever seen. Talking to males never normally intimidated you, but you felt the need to leave a lasting impression on this one.

Just the touch of his hand on yours had sent tingles down your spine. The feeling was unfamiliar, yet not unwelcome. It was safe to say, for the first time in your life, you were out of your depth.

The musicians began playing a tune that had hoards of people flocking to the dance floor.

"Well, Azriel," you began, holding out your hand. "Do you or your shadows dance?"

Wordlessly, with a glint in his eyes, Azriel took your hand and led you out into the crowd of couples on the dance floor.

Az took the lead in the dance with a newfound confidence. You placed a hand on his shoulder, feeling the hard muscles beneath his jacket. His large hand on your waist felt equally as strong, but he held you at a respectable distance.

As if unhappy with the distance between you, his shadows reached for you. They pulled you in closer, wrapping round the two of you as you moved gracefully on the dance floor.

You huffed a laugh, your breasts now flush against Azriel's broad chest. "They're definitely rebellious."

Az only grunted in response, as though words were beyond him.

Looking up at him as he towered over you, you bit your lip, anxious that your closeness had made him uncomfortable.

He was already looking down at you when your eyes met his, dark with lust. "Don't look at me like that." He ground out.

"Why not?" You challenged, your own newfound confidence coming through at the realisation he was growing hard beneath you as your bodies pressed together.

He growled lowly. "Drives me crazy."

His gravelly voice went straight to your core, and as his eyes darkened further, you knew he could scent your arousal. Refusing to blush, you held his gaze and he inhaled, a restrained groan building in his throat.

"You smell divine."

You bit your lip again. "Why don't you find out how I taste?"

You refused to break Azriel's gaze, which had turned feral at your words. In that gaze, you could see an internal battle between desire and logic. 

"Offer's on the table," you told him. "No strings."

Azriel whirled around, leading you by your joint hands to the nearest exit. Once outside the hall, your heels clicked on the stone as he led you down a handful of dim corridors. He stopped beside an alcove, pushing you in with his body. The alcove was just big enough for the two of you, his shadows blocking you from sight of any stray passers-by.  

Not wasting any time, Az connected his mouth to yours in the most sensous kiss you had ever experienced. You leaned into the kiss and tangled your fingers into Azriel's hair, drawing a low groan from the back of his throat.

He trailed kisses from your mouth down your neck, sucking and nipping with his teeth. You let out a breathy moan as his teeth grazed over your nipple, the fabric of your dress pushed aside.

Through the slit in your dress, Azriel stroked your thigh, higher and higher until he reached where your underwear should have been.

"No panties?" He growled. "You really are looking for trouble."

His fingers toyed with your pussy, gathering up the slick before sliding one finger inside.

"Azriel." You breathed, the sensation overwhelming you.

He moved his finger in and out of you, curling it just right as he added another. 

"Feel so good round my fingers, baby," he praised, watching as you started to unravel. "Let's find out how you taste."

He dropped to his knees before you, gathering the fabric of your dress and bunching it round your hips. The scent of your arousal and the feeling of your slick had hardened his cock beneath his trousers. He licked a long, slow line along your pussy, teasing you.

"Please," you begged.

"So needy," he taunted. You could hear the smugness in his voice. Putting you out of your misery, he pressed his mouth to your pussy. Like a man starved, he licked, sucked, nipped at you, all the while sliding his fingers in and out.

You moaned his name, fingers tugging at strands of his hair. He growled at the sensation, which reverberated against your clit. You felt your release building.

"Fuck, you taste so good," his voice full of lust. "You gonna cum for me, baby?"

"Yes," you breathed. "Fuck, don't stop."

Obliging, he picked up the pace of his fingers, and focused his mouth on your clit. Your moans were obcene as you came, his name spilling out of you for all to hear. Azriel only slowed his pace once your pussy had stopped clenching round his fingers.

He looked up at you with a devilish grin, lips wet with your slick. Slowly, he pulled his fingers out of you, raising them to his lips taste you again. 

He raised up to his full height, towering over you. His hair a tussled mess, his eyes still dark with lust. "Until next time," he said, and vanished off, taking his shadows with him.

The sound of you moaning his name, the taste of you on his tongue, they lingered for hours. He thought about it - about you for the rest of the evening. Later that night, he fucked his fist and came at the thought of you.

[comatosebunny09]

prey | astarion a.

summary: he makes you feel like small, feeble prey. something to be slowly devoured and savored. warnings: steamy, language now playing: desert rose [ slowed ] - lolo zouaï notes: i blame astarion’s bedroom eyes for this. tagging: @nanaoise08squad

The tavern is lively tonight. Filled to the brim with laughter, music, and the clinking of mugs.

You hang back from the festivities, tucked away from the other patrons at a secluded table. Not lonely. Just prefer solitude.

You raise your mug to your companions every so often as they venture past, their mirth infectious.

There’s a smile on your face. Your body buzzes from the ale settling in your belly. You nurse your tankard, the contents of it gently sloshing about.

A laugh occasionally touches your lips. Watching everyone enjoy themselves is a welcomed sight, given the doom constantly looming over your shoulders.

Subconsciously, you find yourself sifting through the crowd in search of someone. A familiar thatch of white. Vermilion eyes. Sharp features. And like a beacon, you’re drawn to him, watching him chat up some pretty brunette on the other side of the bar.

You sit up on the barstool, unconsciously tugging at your collar. Feel your stomach plummet to your feet. Your lips part with shallow breaths, and your throat grows dry.

Who the hell is that? And why are they standing so close to him?

You’ve no time to coddle the envy blooming in your chest, for his gaze finds yours through the throng of people with laser precision. As if he sensed you looking his way, his eyes crinkle with the slightest hint of amusement.

Your heart stutters at the sight. You suddenly forget how to breathe. Trapped in a soundless stare-down, only the two of you seem to exist as the noise of the tavern fades into the background. It’s all a muddled mess to you, your senses heightened and all trained on Astarion.

His eyes dip into a mysterious shade of red whilst he studies you from beneath dark lashes. Makes you feel like small, feeble prey. Something to be slowly devoured and savored. Your bones licked clean and left on display on a mantle like a trophy.

And you still can’t quite get the hang of breathing.

He pays no heed to the person in front of him. As if they were a mere distraction—an appetizer to sate him until the main course.

He continues to leisurely undo you with his eyes, stripping you down to the marrow until you’re raw and exposed. You feel heavy. Pulsing. Dizzy. Not sure if it’s the ale filling your head with static or the depth of his stare.

Whatever the cause, you tear yourself from your seat. Wend through the crowd, gulping down air as you propel yourself into one of the dark and secluded back rooms.

The noise of the tavern peters into silence.

You press your back against a cool, textured wall, fighting to get your head back on straight. You clutch your chest. Screw your eyes shut.

Breathe. Breathe.

You realize all too late that you’re not alone.

The room’s pressure shifts. And like a prowler, he emerges from the shadows. Slow and meticulous in his steps, ingesting you with those devastating eyes aglow in the darkness, and his brows quirk with intrigue.

You can’t get your limbs to work—to move. So Astarion easily traps you between the hard press of his body and the wall, and he frames either side of your head on bent arms. The hunger in his gaze never leaves, only growing whilst his face slinks in. You swallow thickly, your legs ready to give way.

You’re a sheep cornered in a wolf’s den. Gazing up at him, your lids feeling so very heavy, your head swimming. He smells divine. Feels even better. You unconsciously tangle your fingers in the collar of his coat, drawing him closer.

His lips pan in, his lids shuttering, lashes thick. You stand on the tips of your toes, waiting with bated breath. Ever patient. Obedient. But the kiss never comes.

Instead, he teases you with the promise of one. Grazes your lips with his, sparkles of delight flittering across your face. He releases little pleased, hoarse groans you have to strain your ears to hear. And he revels in this, torturing you so. Coaxing petulant whines from your throat, and you kick your feet like an impatient child.

“Astarion,” you rasp.

“My love?” The rumble of his voice is heady. Makes you throb. His lips brush against yours again, kissing along the outskirts of your mouth, causing the delicate skin to tingle pleasantly.

“Why do you insist on being such a little shit?”

A chuckle. His nose nuzzles along yours, his hands cupping your neck below your jawline, thumbs smoothing over your chin and angling your head further back. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Astarion,” you growl. “Just…gods dammit, just kiss me already.”

You’re desperate. Breathy. Teetering along the edge, and you have to cling to him to keep from careening over it. Your senses are overhauled, filled only with Astarion. Too hot. Too many clothes. Can’t think straight. Can’t—

“Oh, darling,” Astarion croons, continuing his cruel game of keep-away when you move to close the gap between your mouths. “Where’s the fun in giving you exactly what you want whenever you demand it?” He noses along the torrid flesh of your cheek, and you can hear the cruel smile taking hold of his voice. “I rather like the sound of you begging.”

You scoff. Try to kiss him again, but Astarion won’t have any of that.

“Now.” He zooms in, ghosting his lips over yours, fully intending to make you suffer. You lunge forward as if to bite him, earning another low, guttural laugh that you feel in the depths of your belly. “From the top, my love.”

[foxaftershocks]

Hello, if you still take prompts for Lars: I think it would be extremely funny if he and the reader are pining after each other so bad, even the ghosts in the lab are annoyed and try to play matchmaker for them.

In any case I love your writing have a nice day :)

This took a while but I hope it was still worth waiting for.

Your mouth was hanging open. Hidden in the shadows of the enclosures, you could watch without being seen. Lars was in the main area, the light highlighting his blond hair and pale skin. You watched as he stretched, arms above his head, spine straightening. Your breath caught in your chest, a flush of warmth going through your body.

He was entirely too tempting for your own good.

Something tapped on the glass beside you. Looking down, the handle of a mop twitched and you sighed.

“I know,” you sighed to the possessor.

It tapped on the glass again.

“I’m not doing that,” you said.

It tapped more insistently against the glass.

“Everything alright over there?” Lars called.

You froze for a moment, grimacing down at the possessor. The traitor began banging on the glass again, louder and louder.

“Yeah, I think so,” you called back, hoping to keep him away long enough for you to get it to shut up.

“You sure?”

Great, he was right there.

“The possessor is trying to make a point,” you said, “it’s not working.”

That last part was directed to the mop waiting in the window. It slammed against the glass, more aggressive than the previous teasing. You shrieked, jumping backwards, not expecting it. Warm hands landed on your hips, holding you steady.

You were slow to turn your head, looking up into worried eyes. His head had bowed towards yours, close enough that you could feel his breath stir your hair. You stilled a moment, feeling his warmth seep into you, wondering if you it would be such a bad thing to lean forward and press your lips to his.

You jerked away from him, taking a deep breath in. He took a step back, averting his gaze, one hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. You levelled a glare at the mop before turning tail and fleeing back to your station. You had plenty of work to get one with. That was all. It wasn’t because Lars had been close enough to taste. Not that he wanted you to try anyway. So it all worked out for the best.

It wasn’t until a few days later that you found a Stay Puft wandering around your desk. With a sigh, you offered your palm to it, letting it climb aboard to carry it back to its enclosure. It nipped at your finger and you cursed, pinching its body between your thumb and forefinger and lifting it.

“You’ve had an escape,” you said, passing by Lars’ desk.

“Prison break season already?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.

“That or this one’s gone rogue,” you replied.

Clearly you hadn’t been paying enough attention as it nipped at your finger again. You yelped, dropping it as a drop of blood bloomed on your skin. You sucked it into your mouth, the sting quick to disappear.

“Bitch,” you muttered, already following it.

Lars was hot on your heels, wending through the desks and the mess from all the research going on. You didn’t take notice of where you were going, rushing after the small marshmallow body as it sprinted through the lab. Rushing through the door it had slipped through you didn’t realise your mistake until you heard it slam shut behind you.

“Fuck,” you said, turning around only to run face first into Lars’ chest.

His hands came up, clasping your waist with a strong hold, keeping you from reeling back and landing on your ass. You froze, the feeling of his body enough to make your thoughts spin. The room was dark and you couldn’t quite make out his expression.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, trying to take a step back.

Your back hit something hard, digging into your spine and you realised exactly where you were. Cursing again, you tried to reach around him for the door. All you managed to do was bring your body against his, arm curled around him as if in an embrace, the doorknob not turning.

“Uh…” was all Lars managed to say.

“We’re locked in,” you said.

Which was about when you realised your face was practically buried in his chest. You jerked back only for your head to hit the shelf behind you.

“Oh,” Lars said.

His hands came up, cradling the back of your head, fingers pressing in. You winced when he found the bruise and he muttered an apology. His fingers began to gently massage the base of your skull, a soft sigh coming from between your parted lips.

“I think you’ll live,” he said, voice whisper soft.

You looked up into his face, eyes finally adjusting to the darkness. He was so close, practically surrounding you in the small space. His scent of soap and coffee wrapped around you, invading your very senses. His warmth was washing over you, inescapable in the small closet. You couldn’t hide the way your breath came out as a stutter, caught within the cage of his arms.

“Shouldn’t we try and get out?” you asked.

“Didn’t you say the door was locked?” he replied.

“I could have been wrong.”

His fingers slipped from your hair as he turned to try to the doorknob again. It rattled in his hand but wouldn’t turn. You sighed again, this time from frustration rather from the feeling of Lars’ touch.

“Have we seriously been outsmarted by the Stay Pufts?” you grumbled, “this is a new low.”

“I’m sure it’s just a matter of getting the angle right,” he said, still rattling the doorknob.

“We’re never going to live this down. We’ll be the laughing stock of the lab. Everyone’s only just gotten over the yoghurt thing and now this. I think I’m the least cool person in this lab. And that’s saying something. Barry is middle aged and balding. But at least he plays the saxophone. What have I got? A sad tiny flat and no social life to speak of. I’m so uncool.” You knew you were rambling and yet you couldn’t stop the word from tumbling from your lips.

“You’re not uncool,” Lars said, interrupting your flow, “I think you’re the coolest one here.”

“In this closet? Because I think that means you have some self esteem issues,” you replied.

“I think you’re the coolest person in the lab,” he said, “definitely cooler than Barry. Have you seen that guy at a party? No shirt, just a tie on, playing the sax on top of a table. Trust me, you don’t want to see that.”

“Yeah but he’s never been outsmarted by the Stay Pufts,” you said, fingers twisting together.

“And neither have we,” he said, shoulder slamming against the door. It rattled in its frame but didn’t open, “okay, maybe we have been but we can get out of this.”

“At what point do we just start shouting for help?” you asked.

“Not yet.”

His hands on your hips burnt through your clothes, and you barely noticed he was switching your positions, leaving you with your back to the door and him able to look through the contents of the tiny closet you were stuck in. You pressed back against it, trying to give him as much room as possible. His hands were moving through the dark, using touch more than his eyes to figure out what you had.

“How’re your lock picking skills?” he asked.

“About average for someone who has never done it before,” you replied, “besides, I can’t actually feel a lock on this door.”

“You can’t?”

He turned back to you, hand reaching out to try and feel the doorknob. His searching fingers found yours, skin against burning skin. Your head was slow as it turned up to his face, finding him already looking down at you. You felt your lips part, always so caught up in him whenever he got close enough to touch.

“I’m beginning to think this mischief might have been planned,” he said, voice whisper soft.

“They’re working against us?” you asked.

“Not just them. They’re not smart enough on their own. Someone else has mobilised them,” he replied, “my money is on Bonesy. He’s the brains of the operation.”

“To what end?”

Lars shifted on his feet, eyes darting away from you. Clearly he had more information than you did, a theory already planted in his mind. He was looking down where your fingers were still touching, his tapping tapping out a rhythm against yours. If he didn’t stop you thought your knees might buckle. And yet you couldn’t muster the strength to pull away.

“What aren’t you telling me?” you asked, breathless and needy.

He mumbled something, words you should have been able to hear so close together and yet it was a jumble. Tripping over themselves, the words were unintelligible. And worse of all he still wasn’t looking at you.

“What was that?” you asked.

“The ghosts might have picked up on some underlying feelings,” he muttered.

“Underlying feelings?” Oh god, he knew.

“They might have realised something about… us,” he said.

“Anything they think they know about us is wrong,” you said, now the one tripping over your words in an effort to get them out fast enough to cover your own ass.

“It is?” His eyebrows drew together.

“Totally,” you said, nodding your head.

“What do you think they know about us?” he asked, “because I thought we were talking about my feelings for you.”

“Your… your feelings for me?” You’d lost the thread of the conversation already.

“Yes. Look, the ghosts might have realised that I might have some romantic feelings towards you and this might be their version of forcing me to say something instead of staring at you from across the lab all day,” he said.

“Oh,” you said, “I thought we were talking about…”

“About?”

“About the ghosts picking up on my romantic feelings for you and this being about them making me do something about it instead of just fantasising about you,” you said.

“Oh,” he said, “and those fantasies…?”

“Aren’t appropriate for work,” you replied, feeling your cheeks heat again.

“I like the sound of that,” he said, lips pulling up at the corner, lopsided and endearing.

“So you like me?” you asked, needing to hear it confirmed.

“I thought you were clever enough to keep up, love. Maybe I was wrong,” he said.

“No need to be an ass,” you laughed, “I might not kiss you if you are.”

“Kissing is on the table?” He sounded so excited about the concept.

“Now who isn’t clever enough to keep up?”

He lent down, lingering close enough for his breath to ghost over your lips. The soft whine from you only seemed to make him press closer. And yet, when he kissed you it was soft and sweet, the kind of kiss at the end of a romantic movie as the music swelled and the happy ending was secured. You sighed into his mouth, arms curling around his neck as you pushed your body against his.

His hands grasped your hips, pushing you against the door behind you. You couldn’t stop, tongue sweeping into his mouth, kissing him deeper as he groaned. It was better than you’d ever dreamed, the fantasy no comparison to the reality. Heat was rushing through your veins and you clutched him tighter. The way he kept you pinned against the door suggested you weren’t the only one feeling the need to tear off each other’s clothes.

The surface you were leaning on tilted back and you fell, a shriek coming from you. Strong arms caught you around the waist, hauling you up against Lars’ chest. Adrenaline and desire were a heady mix, and as you tried to catch your breath, you found his twinkling blue eyes sweeping over you as lips ticked up into a smirk.

“Falling for me already, are you?” he asked, barely containing a laugh.

“Shut up.”

With both hands on his chest, you pushed yourself back onto your feet, turning to look at the door swinging open behind you. His arm curled around your waist, as if not able to stop touching you. A smushed Stay Puft was leaking from the doorjamb. You wrinkled your nose, edging past it back into the real world.

“Looks like I was right,” Lars said, “they conspired against us.”

“With us, Lars,” you corrected.

“Right, with us.”

His hands tightened on you and you had to wonder if he was ever going to let you go. You weren’t sure you wanted him to. You hadn’t considered Lars as being handsy, and yet you weren’t disappointed to find out he was.

Walking past the possessor, his arm slung over your shoulder, tucked into his side, the chair tapped against the window, perky and excited. You rolled your eyes.

“Yes, alright, you can stop now,” you said to it.

“Butt out of our personal lives,” Lars said.

He led you back into the main part of the lab as you chuckled.

“Although they did help. You weren’t going to say anything without them,” you said.

“Neither were you,” he objected.

“Then we were lucky they did step in,” you said, pushing up onto your toes to leave a lingering kiss on his lips.

He hummed in agreement, catching you around the waist before you could slip away, pulling you back for a longer kiss before releasing you. Yes, definitely too tempting.

[atypicalacademic]

I love playing Orlesian Wardens really, in a worldstate where the HoF is dead, you're always in their shadow. You arrive in this country a stranger, barely even welcome. It looms over you at Vigils Keep. Oghren has an inside joke about the year of blight and his friend isnt beside him to laugh with him. Nathaniel comes to the Keep and his father is but a name to you. Wynne stands in front of Amaranthine's chantry, looking as though she was waiting for someone else.

There's no letters at the start, and every little callback to the blight year is a reminder of someone you've never known. You're trained for a work that is thankless, you know.

It's not for you, this love and adulation. You aren't the saviour. You aren't the friend they lost. When will they stop looking at you and wondering what a Commander that Hero would have made?

You bury Blackmarsh and bring Kal'hirol home. You guard the Wending Wood. You make peace on the streets and fight battles that have nothing to do with darkspawn. You mine granite and seal fissures beneath the ground. You try. A dozen odd Fereldans come to think you're alright. Some even ask, if you're alright. This place is a far cry from Val Chevin, but you come to call it home.

When the Keep you built stands strong, when Amaranthine grows to care for you, when Sigrun smiles and says she'd rather spend the afterlife fighting by your side, when Oghren tells you the old war buddy would've liked you like there is no greater compliment, you will be content as an afterthought to a legend past its prime, an epilogue to another. Someone had to do it. Someone had to clean up. Someone had to rebuild. And someone had to leave. When the time comes, you will Join them.

[caitlynskitten]

Enid: Wends I have a problem that I need help with…. a werewolf problem.

Wednesday: What is it?

Enid: It’s…. Uh….. *whispers in her ear*

Wednesday: Oh my god?!!!

Enid: Yeah I know I know. Can you help me with it?

Wednesday: Of course baby. I’ll help you. Always.

Enid: Oh thank god I didn’t have to ask Yoko again.

Wednesday: Wait a minute. Yoko? She helped you with this before?

Enid: This is before I met you!

Wednesday: But you didn’t think to tell me?

Enid: We’re together now! Okay?!

Wednesday: And you and Yoko?

Enid: Oh god that was nothing! Like a little thing that didn’t mean anything

Yoko: *appearing from the shadows*

Yoko: I didn’t mean anything to you?

[usiel21]

There will come a day where the stalker or someone will kidnap Enid in order to use her against Wednesday. He or she will be filled with such confidence about their plan, but Enid will hold a smug sadness, saying that Wednesday won't come for her, Wednesday won't fall for such an obvious trap even if she was worth saving which she isn't. Enid, having come to terms with the fact she was in love with her best friend, that she came to terms with the fact that Wednesday would never feel the same, that she would pine and worship Wednesday from within the shadows for the rest of her life. Enid, believing that no-one would come for her, not Wednesday, not her family, because she thinks she's not worth it. But she's glad because Wednesday would stay safe even if it meant it cost her life once her usefulness was null and void. Until the ground started to shake and a rumbling seems to engulf the cabin. Enid looks up as the darkness seems to create a shockwave that consistently shakes the walls and the very foundations of the cabin "What in the fuck" He mumbles to himself, Enid hears the something being slapped into something else, a clicking sound and snap, Enid realises that the man has just loaded a weapon and primed it. The windows start to rattle as specks of black start to black out the windows, the mass seeming to sift and creep and Enid realises what she's looking at. Bees.

Millions upon millions of Bees. Suddenly the door to the cabin shakes in the frame as something rattles it. Something heavy. SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. The man unloads several rounds into the door. Each shot causing Enid to flinch and shake, smoke pours from the end of the barrel, the last shell casing having clattered to the floor. There was sudden silence. Save for the buzzing of the bee's surrounding the cabin. The door is suddenly blown apart causing Enid to shriek and turn her head away as splinters of wood fly in all directions. Smoke dances and prances in the dim light until a shadow steps through, her face aflame with an icy fury. "You dare to take what belongs to me. I will make you beg for mercy in death" Wednesday says coldly, except Enid gapes at her, Wednesday is adorned from head to toe in black armour, a sword clasped in her right hand, a small dagger in the left.

But there upon one of the pauldron's is a small insignia, the head of a howling wolf. White in colour, except for two streaks of blue and pink atop the wolf's head. "Wends..." Enid whimpers softly.

"You think I didn't come prepared Addams?" The Man hissed. "You people are stupidly impervious to damage, except for this" The Man says pressing the barrel of the gun to the side of Enid's head. "I heard that the pain of losing the love of your life is enough to make you Addams' die from a broken heart." The man grins maliciously. "I'm curious to find out!"

Wednesday raises the sword and points it at the man. "Enid's life is the only thing stopping me from ripping you apart. The pain of losing the woman I love will destroy me, but I'll have enough will left to avenge her upon your corpse" Wednesday threatened darkly. "Wends..." Enid whispers almost silently "...you love me?" Her eyes pleading, desperate, shimmering with tears. "You overtook my soul with yours Enid, you conquered every corner of darkness with the light you bring, how... how could i not?"

Enid let the tears fall, because Wednesday was here for her. Wednesday had really come for her but as her assailant and Wednesday stared each other down more shadows moved behind her, Wednesday stepped to the side to clear her view and she saw the entirety of Wednesday's family behind her, their faces thunderous, Yoko, Divina, Ajax, Eugene, and half of Nevermore seemed to be outside.

And she realised that she was loved and cherished, so much so that Wednesday call in every favour she ever had to mobilize a small army. Gomez Addams stepped up behind his daughter, his own sabre raised, as he backed up his eldest, the look upon his face sent genuine fear down Enid's spine, his face dark, monstrous. "You stole our wolf from the Addams clan" Gomez uttered darkly, As Morticia gracefully came up to her husbands side. "And for that there shall be no mercy for you for she has our little stormcloud's heart, ensnaring all our hearts with her colourfully sharp claws!" "She is family" Morticia said proudly "And we protect our family." She said as her eyes turned black. Sweat began to pour from the man's forehead, his composure gone and doubt began to gnaw at him, the gun came away from Enid's temple to point directly at Wednesday who darted forwards, her sword flashing, and his arm, still clutching the pistol, hit the floor with a thud.

But Enid paid no heed to this, only when Wednesday flew to her side, her hands more gentle that she thought possible as Wednesday checked over her carefully, face laced with concern. Her hands became loose and Enid's first act was to launch forwards, ensnaring Wednesday in her arms, her scent a comfort, her touch a relief, her love a salvation.

Enid, inconsolable with both sadness and elation, with the knowledge she was now truly loved, that she had a family, that she had Wednesday, who held her tight lest she slip from her fingers again.

Enid, finally felt loved.

[neil-gaiman]

Hi Neil! We were talking about Puck of Pook's Hill in one of my seminars, and we were wondering if your Puck in The Sandman was inspired by that book?

Yes and no. Puck of Pook's Hill is hugely influential on me and the way I think about the land and Sussex, and I'm sure it was an influence on Sandman #19.

But my wild Puck is closer to the Robin Goodfellow of the ballad:

From Oberon, in fairy land, The king of ghosts and shadows there, Mad Robin I, at his command, Am sent to view the night-sports here. What revel rout Is kept about, In every corner where I go, I will o'ersee, And merry be, And make good sport, with ho, ho, ho

More swift than lightning can I fly About this airy welkin soon, And, in a minute's space, descry Each thing that's done below the moon. There's not a hag Or ghost shall wag, Or cry, 'ware goblins! where I go; But Robin I Their feats will spy, And send them home with ho, ho, ho!

Whene'er such wanderers I meet, As from their night-sports they trudge home, With counterfeiting voice I greet, And call them on with me to roam: Through woods, through lakes; Through bogs, through brakes; Or else, unseen, with them I go, All in the nick, To play some trick, And frolic it, with ho, ho, ho!

Sometimes I meet them like a man, Sometimes an ox, sometimes a hound; And to a horse I turn me can, To trip and trot about them round. But if to ride My back they stride, More swift than wind away I go, O'er hedge and lands, Through pools and ponds, I hurry, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When lads and lasses merry be, With possets and with junkets fine; Unseen of all the company, I eat their cakes and sip their wine! And, to make sport, I puff and snort: And out the candles I do blow: The maids I kiss, They shriek—Who's this? I answer nought but ho, ho, ho!

Yet now and then, the maids to please, At midnight I card up their wool; And, while they sleep and take their ease, With wheel to threads their flax I pull. I grind at mill Their malt up still; I dress their hemp; I spin their tow; If any wake, And would me take, I wend me, laughing, ho, ho, ho!

When any need to borrow aught, We lend them what they do require: And, for the use demand we nought; Our own is all we do desire. If to repay They do delay, Abroad amongst them then I go, And night by night, I them affright, With pinchings, dreams, and ho, ho, ho!

When lazy queans have nought to do, But study how to cog and lie: To make debate and mischief too, 'Twixt one another secretly: I mark their gloze, And it disclose To them whom they have wronged so: When I have done, I get me gone, And leave them scolding, ho, ho, ho!

When men do traps and engines set In loop-holes, where the vermin creep, Who from their folds and houses get Their ducks and geese, and lambs and sheep; I spy the gin, And enter in, And seem a vermin taken so; But when they there Approach me near, I leap out laughing, ho, ho, ho!

By wells and rills, in meadows green, We nightly dance our heyday guise; And to our fairy king and queen, We chant our moonlight minstrelsies. When larks 'gin sing, Away we fling; And babes new born steal as we go; And elf in bed We leave in stead, And wend us laughing, ho, ho, ho!

From hag-bred Merlin's time, have I Thus nightly revelled to and fro; And for my pranks men call me by The name of Robin Good-fellow. Fiends, ghosts, and sprites, Who haunt the nights, The hags and goblins do me know; And beldames old My feats have told, So vale, vale; ho, ho, ho!

[late-to-the-fandom]

Last Line Tag

Thank you @dru-plays-starbound for the tag! I actually got off my ass (metaphorically, I am still 100% bed bound right now) and wrote for over an hour today! 10/10 feeling, highly recommend. I stopped at line below and am actually excited to pick up again later!

“Oh, I offer as many punishments as pleasures," purred the Countess. "If it is suffering she deserves, that can most certainly be arranged."

Tagging: @pluttskutt @worldstogetlostin @oh-no-another-idea @shaycreates @halfbit @maidenwychelm @27fanficlilies @blind-the-winds @squarebracket-trick @sesshy380

[ibrithir-was-here]

About Stoker's eight fairy tales 1881 book, there's one called The Castle Of The King. The premise, atmosphere, and imagery make it the darkest of them. The other tales are on the site, too. I want to make a post about this one when it's relevant (for reasons you'll find obvious soon) but I wanted to share a bit of it for now since you like fairy tales.

The characters are nameless, the main one is "the Poet" (he changes titles during the story), his wife (Beloved One, Wife, or Her) and the King and his Castle (who both haunt the narrative). The Poet and his Beloved are in love and got married after trials for him to be seen as worthy of her hand (despite that she always loved him back) by her family. But she gets ill while she's away for duty, and dies. "But, alas! for hope; for who knoweth what a day may bring forth? Only a little while ago his Dear One had left him hale, departing in the cause of duty; and now she lay sick and he not nigh to help her."

He can sense that she has passed, despite their far distance, and they find him already weeping in his and his wife's garden when they bring him the news.

“She now abides in the Castle of the King.” He looked at them eagerly, as if to ask: “What castle? What king?” They bowed their heads; and as they turned away weeping they murmured to him softly- “The Castle of the King of Death.” He spake no word; so they turned their weeping faces to him again. They found that he had risen and stood with a set purpose on his face. Then he said sweetly: “I go to find her, that where she abideth, I too may there abide.” They said to him: “You cannot go. Beyond the Portal she is, and in the Land of Death.” Set purpose shone in the Poet’s earnest, loving eyes as he answered them for the last time: “Where she has gone, there go I too. Through the Valley of the Shadow shall I wend my way. In these ears also shall ring the Music of the Spheres. I shall seek, and I shall find my Beloved in the Halls of the Castle of the King. I shall clasp her close-even before the dread face of the King of Death.”

They weep for him, and then the story continues with his quest for the Portal, going beyond it, his running through what's basically hell to find her; not fire/demons, but it's like battling against despair itself. Pitying souls, increasing desolation, mountains, sounds and bleakness try to break him, beasts hunt him but cannot kill him due to his vow alone, his feet bleeding as he runs. It has an atmosphere akin to traveling in Mordor or Dead Marshes… "Yet they stood there-Mount Despair on the one hand, and the Hill of Fear upon the other."

His single-mindedness is unflinching despite how much he cries and falls and honestly, the Poet is more of a proto-Jonathan than the man in Dracula's Guest. I won't spoil how it all goes but yeah I find it, and the other stories too interesting

Oh wow! Yeah definitely can see the Jonathan Harker-ness in all of that. I'll definitely have to check it out!

[areallygayloser]

i saw a reddit post of this wenclair family murderers AU and now i’ve created this scenario in my head that im probably going to draw

Victim, frantic, running through the forest while looking behind them occasionally. Looking up at the blood red moon every so often. Stops in their tracks when they start to hear eerie cello music. They break into a brisk trot, following the music.

As they reach where the music is coming from, Wednesday is sitting on a chair, playing her cello with a knife.

Victim: “Y-You should hide!”

Wednesday doesn’t look up, she continues to play the instrument.

Victim: “Seriously! There are murderers in these woods! I- I- There was o-one chasing me a second ago!”

Wends stops playing, dragging her knife across the cello strings. Causing an ear-splitting note to draw out, feeding the sense of dread in the victims stomach.

Wednesday stands, discarding the knife and cello to the side.

Wednesday: Murderers in these woods?

Wednesday only now looks up, her piercing black eyes plunging daggers of pure terror into the victims soul.

Four pairs of eyes open one by one in the shadow of the forest behind Wednesday. The victim gasps and stumbles back, falling to the ground.

Victim: Behind you!

Wednesday doesn’t break eye-contact, but she lifts her hand. On command, four wolf-like figures step out of the darkness. Each looming over Wednesday.

The Victim stares in horror, their eyes flicking from the 10ft, 9ft, 8ft, and 6ft tall wolves.

Wednesday raises her arm, and points at the Victim, to which all four wolves charge forward and proceed to rip them apart.

*Like 10 minutes later.*

Wednesday: “Okay, who wants ice cream?”

Enid: “Me!”

Hecate: “Me!”

Viper: “Me!”

Apollo: “Me!”

[fourteentrout]

"You Ain't Nothing But A—"

Eris Week Day 4: Hounds

Pairing: Azriel/Eris Vanserra

Rating: Mature

Length: 7,487 words

My longest contribution to @erisweekofficial, this is a 5 +1 fic about Eris (casually) treating Azriel like one of his smokehounds!

Read here on AO3

Very short preview below the cut! barrier design by @tsunami-of-tears

The breeze that wended its way through the Autumn woods tickled Azriel's hair and made the fiery half-dead leaves rustle pleasantly. They flicked and whirled, some tumbling to the ground in lazy little arcs and twists, glimmers of the finest ruby and auburn and gold. Azriel could almost fool himself into thinking that the forest didn't belong to some of the cruelest scum in all of Prythian. 

It was dusk, a good time of day for his shadows. The shade of the trees grew long and deep, so dark that it almost seemed like something one could trip and fall into. Fortunately for Azriel, he could. He moved through the forest fluidly from shadow to shadow, his tendrils of darkness reaching out to every corner of the forest, searching for the remaining Vanserra. Finding Ronin and Enoch and relieving them of their memories had been quick and uncomplicated work, but Azriel was no fool. Eris was the trickiest fox of their litter, and he was not going to make it easy for the spymaster. 

As much was proven when a blazing ring of fire shot up around Azriel right as he emerged from the shadow of a skinnier, less fortunate tree. He cursed as the heat pressed in on him, the flames licking well above his head. Not burning, one of his shadows sang frantically, taking cover underneath his wings. The assurance didn't matter. Azriel's panic had spiked, his heart rate along with it, and he couldn't see through the brightness, couldn't breathe through the smoke, couldn't even figure out what to do.

Not burning, the shadow insisted weakly. Just as Azriel's stomach turned in a fashion far too dramatic for his liking, a split appeared in the flames. The wall of fire parted like stage show curtains, and before Azriel appeared none other than Eris Vanserra, in all his infuriating splendor.

[jackoshadows]

Jon Snow appearance descriptions from the text of the books with references to Arya, Ned (and Lyanna) because they have the house Stark look and he is often times described as looking similar to them by characters who know of all of them.

Jon's eyes were a grey so dark they seemed almost black, but there was little they did not see. He was of an age with Robb, but they did not look alike. Jon was slender where Robb was muscular, dark where Robb was fair, graceful and quick where his half brother was strong and fast. - Bran, AGoT

Arya took after their lord father. Her hair was a lusterless brown, and her face was long and solemn. - Arya, AGoT

The boy absorbed that all in silence. He had the Stark face if not the name: long, solemn, guarded, a face that gave nothing away. Whoever his mother had been, she had left little of herself in her son. - Tyrion, AGoT

Jon had their father's face, as she did. They were the only ones. Robb and Sansa and Bran and even little Rickon all took after the Tullys, with easy smiles and fire in their hair. - Arya, AGoT

“She might have overlooked a dozen bastards for Ned’s sake, so long as they were out of sight. Jon was never out of sight, and as he grew, he looked more like Ned than any of the trueborn sons she bore him. Somehow, that made it worse.” – Catelyn, AGoT

Her (Arya's) face was dirty, and her tears left pink tracks down her cheeks. – Eddard, AGOT

Sansa could never understand how two sisters, born only two years apart, could be so different. It would have been easier if Arya had been a bastard, like their half brother Jon. She even looked like Jon, with the long face and brown hair of the Starks, and nothing of their lady mother in her face or her coloring. And Jon's mother had been common, or so people whispered. - Sansa, AGoT

"Lyanna might have carried a sword, if my lord father had allowed it. You remind me of her sometimes. You even look like her." - Arya, AGoT

Riding through the rainy night, Ned saw Jon Snow's face in front of him, so like a younger version of his own. - Eddard, AGoT

They felt good. She (Arya) wished she could take off her clothes and swim, gliding through the warm water like an skinny pink otter. Maybe she could swim all the way to Winterfell. – Arya, ACOK

All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye. - Jon, ACoK

A gust of wind sent icy tendrils wending through his long brown hair. - Jon, ASoS

Jon, he'd said, but Jon was gone. It was Lord Snow who faced him now, grey eyes as hard as ice - Sam, AFfC

She stood on the end of the dock, pale and goosefleshed and shivering in the fog. - Arya, AFfC

The flames crackled softly, and in their crackling she heard the whispered name Jon Snow. His long face floated before her, limned in tongues of red and orange, appearing and disappearing again, a shadow half-seen behind a fluttering curtain. Now he was a man, now a wolf, now a man again - Melisandre, ADwD

He looked at her face for a long moment with those cold grey eyes of his. His right hand closed, opened, closed again. "As you wish. Edd, take Ghost back to my chambers." - Melisandre, ADwD

Note: The 'Dark' and 'Fair' comparisons refers to hair/eye colour. As in Jon's dark brown hair and dark grey eyes and Robb's comparatively lighter auburn hair and blue eyes as is commonly used in English literature when describing/comparing white people.

Also Note: The First Men - the OG colonizers of Westeros and ancestors of the Starks - are white. Ygritte, Tormund, Val, Mance etc. are not poc in the books

[a-little-buggy]

Hello! I wrote an Assassin's Creed fanfic based on @sulfies' ideas about the bleeding effect! (Plus some other HCs that he has mentioned thrown in for flavor) He has SUCH amazing art, you should definitely check it out if you haven't yet! This was actually my first time writing fanfiction, so feedback would be greatly appreciated! Thank you, and I hope you enjoy!

Chased by Shadows

Word count: 2,699

Desmond raced through the streets of Firenze, bumping shoulders with people as he passed. Behind him, he could still hear the hurried steps of the guards. "Get back here! You'll suffer for this!"

He glanced back at his pursuers, but collided with a man carrying a heavy crate, which tumbled and busted on the ground. "Watch where you're going next time!"

"Scusami! I'm sorry!" Desmond kept running.

Ahead, he saw a stack of crates, leading to a number of poles and balconies. Surely the guards would be slow to follow. He leapt up, balancing himself briefly before taking another leap. Balance, leap, balance, leap, swing, balance; it was a comfortingly familiar rhythm. But Desmond was exhausted, and felt too at ease with the acrobatics. Relying on muscle memory that wasn't his. He reached for a clothesline, but it slipped from his fingers and he hit the ground.

He rolled enough that he wasn't hurt, (not badly), but the guards were nearly on top of him again. "Cazzo!" Desmond pulled himself to his feet, and was running again.

Ahead, the street was widening into a market. "Perhaps I can lose them in the crowd."

He slowed to mimic the flow of the people milling and shopping, weaving his way deeper into the stalls, always checking over his shoulder. The guards were always just behind him.

He passed through a group of monks, and turned again to check if he was still followed. The guards were further away now, but one of them turned and caught his eye. Desmond began backing away, preparing to bolt again, but squarely ran into someone.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He readied his blade.

"Are you alright, mi amico?"

Desmond wheeled around. "Ezio?" He breathed a sigh of relief. "Dio mio, it is good to see you! Can you help rid me of these guards?"

"What guards?" Ezio peered into the sea of faces.

"They've been chasing me all morning!" Desmond grabbed Ezio's arm, ushering him through the masses, barely steps ahead of his tormentors.

"Follow me then." Ezio took the lead, weaving and wending through the crowd, until they reached the edge of the marketplace. Here, the rows of houses began again. Ezio planted his foot on a windowsill, then leaped upwards. He climbed hand over hand, from the window, to the balcony, the banister, the roof. Desmond followed close behind, mirroring his movements exactly.

The two bounded between the rooftops. Desmond kept his gaze focused on Ezio's movements, but behind him, he heard the continued protests of the guardsmen.

"Up ahead!" Ezio quickly rounded a corner, and by the time Desmond had done the same, he barely caught a glimpse of Ezio's boots disappearing under the sheet of a rooftop garden. Desmond leaped in after him. He hadn't slowed down enough, but fortunately, Ezio grabbed hold of him before he could crash into the opposing wall.

The two assassins sat there, sheltering in the shaded box, waiting with hitched breath. Desmond could hear footsteps, murmers, "Did you see where they went?"

"Well," Ezio said, as he started dusting himself off. "That should take care of -"

"Shh!" Desmond slapped his hand over Ezio's mouth and rose a finger to his own. "They'll hear you!"

Ezio glared at him, but frustration was quickly replaced by perplexion and concern. He gently removed Desmond's hand, then clasped it in his own. He entwined their fingers together, staring fixatedly at the blackened hand, as if by some strange. . . burn? Ezio returned his gaze to meet Desmond's, then gestured his head towards the curtain, mouthing, "I'll check." He released the seemingly charred fingers, giving them one last reassuring stroke, then crept over to peer from a corner. He shifted and peeked out another corner, and then another curtain. Finally, he stood up.

"We are the only ones on this rooftop." Ezio looked down at Desmond, who was sat in the corner, wringing his hands. In an attempt to lighten the atmosphere, Ezio gave him a sly smirk and added, "Unless those pigeons are the pursuers you spoke of."

"I. . . I was. . ." Desmond shook his head, then rose to his feet to look for himself. The rooftops were empty. He gave a deep sigh, then straightened up. "Bene," He said, as he started dusting himself off. "Those lurido porci must have finally given up!" Ezio was still staring, and it was starting to make his skin crawl. "What is it?"

"I do not intend to seem rude, but. . ." Ezio trailed off, then leaned back against a corner post, folding his arms. "Have you always spoken Italiano?"

Desmond scoffed. "Of course I have!" He said, gesturing furiously. "Why wouldn't I speak my own-"

Oh.

Desmond slumped back down into the corner. He began wringing his hands again. His hands. Then why didn't they feel like his?

Ezio knelt down in front of Desmond, and lifted his face towards the dim light. "You look tired, Desmond. When is the last time you really slept?"

"I dunno. . ." Desmond shook his head, then gave a weak chuckle. "What year is it?"

"Not the answer I was looking for." Ezio's hand still rested on Desmond's cheek, his thumb gently stroking the other man's chin. Ezio lingered, seemingly lost in his thoughts. "Exhaustion can do funny things to a man."

"But don't fret, mi amore." Ezio lowered his hand, now playfully tapping Desmond's chest. "I know where to find the very best beds in this city!" And with this, Ezio rose, and doing a triumphant turn thrust open a curtain.

"I can't say I'm surprised," Desmond responded, and reached his hand up. Ezio in turn clasped Desmond's forearm, and pulled him to his feet, the two colliding slightly.

Ezio again held open the curtain, and with an overly dramatic bow held out his hand and said, "After you."

Desmond rolled his eyes. "Such a gentleman." He took Ezio's and climbed over the low wall. Ezio climbed out after, and they made their way back down to the streets.

Ezio led the way, making idle conversation as they went. "Now, normally, I would be going to La Rosa Colta, but if the intention is to actually sleep, there is a lovely inn a little further to the east, where. . ."

Desmond couldn't stay focused on what Ezio was saying. The streets were too busy; too many faces and voices. They all blurred together, taking on shapes that were old and familiar. He would have sworn that he caught a glimpse of Lucy. Or that he saw Rebecca sitting on a bench. Had Shaun just called his name? He turned around to look, but all of these people were strangers. His friends were not to be found here.

Someone grabbed his arm, and he flinched.

"You're lucky I didn't wander off without you." Ezio started to scowl at Desmond, but abandoned it quickly, instead examining Desmond's arm. "I. . . didn't hurt you, did I?"

"No! No, 'course not." Desmond pulled away, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I just. . . I'm feeling pretty out of it. That's all." He pleaded to whatever powers may be that if his eyes were wet, Ezio wouldn't notice.

"Well, I would hate to lose you in this crowd," Ezio said, taking Desmond's hand.

Desmond wished he could feel it, could take comfort in the sensation of Ezio's fingers wrapped around his own, but his charred skin had lost all feeling. As they walked through the busy streets, Desmond couldn't help but feel disconnected from this world. As though he wasn't really a part of it, or wasn't even really here. Some piece of him was grateful for the anchor to Ezio, leading the way through this unrelenting sea of people, but he couldn't help but feel that the noticeable numbness was just making this sense of unbelonging worse.

Ezio could apparently sense Desmond's unease. "We're getting close now. I promise."

Sure enough, after turning another corner they approached a modest inn. It was a tall building, with green banners and curtains to distinguish it from the other houses lined alongside. They entered into a lobby filled with chairs and benches which had a staircase to one side. On the other side sat an older woman at a desk, with several keys hanging on the wall behind her. She was presently checking in another traveler.

"You go ahead upstairs." Ezio released Desmond's hand, and patted him on the shoulder. "I will get us sorted with a solitary accommodation."

Desmond nodded, and proceeded up the staircase, which creaked under his feet. His head ached, and his legs ached, and he stopped after the first flight of stairs to lean against the wall. This floor had just a few large rooms, which would hold several beds, each with the understanding that many travelers would share. The private rooms were likely up another level. "Great," Desmond muttered under his breath. "More stairs." He continued climbing.

Fortunately, the staircase ended at the third floor, which had a winding hallway through many small rooms. Desmond breathed a sigh of relief, and walked a little ways down the hall. Out of curiosity, he tested one of the knobs, but it was locked. It was quiet up here, at least. Desmond slumped down against the door, halfway considering dozing off.

"Well, you took your time getting here."

Desmond jumped up, blinking his eyes. In front of him stood a young woman wearing a blue brocade dress. She was toying with her glittering necklace. Desmond finally realized she was talking to him. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

She put her hands on her hips. "Oh, don't go getting coy now! Haven't I waited long enough already?" She reached out and rubbed her thumb along Desmond'shirt collar.

He looked at her in perplexement, and then drew away, realization dawning on him. "Oh. I get it. Look, ma'am, you've got me mistaken for someone else. And besides that, you aren't real. So maybe you could just. . . save us both some time and vanish? Or whatever?"

"I've been dreaming of this night for so long. . ." The woman crooned, drawing closer. Apparently, his words had no effect on. . . her? It?

He drew back again, this time anger and frustration welling up inside of him. "You know what? I have had enough of all of this! I am telling you, here and now, to LEAVE ME THE FU-"

"Desmond?" Ezio came jogging up the stairs, key in hand. "Who are you shouting at?"

Desmond threw his hands in the air. "NOBODY! Nobody at all! After all, who else would I talk to, if not some figment of my imagination!?"

Ezio reached the top step, and started searching for their door. "Well, you might have an easier time of it talking to me."

Desmond huffed. "Well, I also might have an easier time of it if you hadn't slept with half the women in Firenze!"

Desmond glared at Ezio, who, for his part, looked very lost and confused. Desmond took a deep breath, and buried his face in his hands. "You have no idea what I'm talking about. I have no idea what I'm talking about. Forget I said anything."

Ezio nodded. "You aren't feeling well. I will not hold it against you." Ezio started leading Desmond down the hall, looking for their room. "I remember once when I was young, I fell ill. I had a fever, and was lying in bed. And when Federico came in to check on me, I threw every. . . colorful word I knew at him. He simply nodded and left, and then returned a few minutes later with a hot cup of milk."

He chuckled fondly to himself. "Unfortunately, my mother overheard our one-sided conversation. I love her immensely, but the woman seldom forgives. And I swear to you, she never forgets."

By now they had found their door, which Ezio unlocked and entered. It was a little tight, but it had a bed and bedside table, and a window, and a small chest of drawers with an unlit candle on top.

Ezio crossed the room and closed the curtains. He looked back at Desmond, who had dragged himself up onto the bed and buried his head under a pillow. "Are you not even going to take off your shoes?"

"Mmfph" said the pillow.

"Va bene." Ezio flopped onto the bed next to Desmond, and the two laid there in silence.

. . . . .

"I'm sorry, I cannot do this." Ezio bolted upright and shifted to the foot of the bed, where he began unlacing his boots.

Desmond pulled his head out from under the pillow. "Weeeaak," he jeered.

"My mother may have raised an idiota, but she did not raise a slob." Once Ezio had removed everything but his pants and undershirt, he laid back down on the bed and sighed. "Much better."

Desmond gave him a sleepy smile, but then turned his attention to staring intently at the window. He shook his head and nestled back into the pillow, only to lift his head to peer at the window again a few minutes later.

Ezio rolled over to face him. "Desmond? Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I just. . ." Desmond sighed. "Ezio, you would tell me if you heard something, right?

"Of course, if it seemed important. Why do you ask?"

"It's nothing, really. I just keep thinking I hear sirens."

"Sirens?" Ezio propped himself up on his elbows, and then placed a hand on either side of Desmond, leaning over him. Ezio's hair had come undone, and his shirt hung loosely from his shoulders, his collarbones and chest hair peeking out from underneath. Desmond gulped. "Desmond, I am right here. Why would you go to some. . ." Ezio's face scrunched with revulsion, "fish-women for sex?"

Desmond blinked. He blinked again, and then rubbed his eyes. "I think we're talking about two very different things."

"Oh." Ezio's ears turned slightly pink, and he sat back on his legs. "What did you mean by sirens, then?"

"Sirens, are. . ." Desmond trailed off, rubbing his temple. "It's kinda like an alarm, but strapped to a carriage?"

"I see." Ezio laid back down on the bed. "If an alarm is raised, I will make sure you are aware. But I truly do not believe there to be reason for concern." Ezio turned to face Desmond again. "I only hope that resting will do you some good. I fear I don't know any other way to help."

"Ezio, you've helped more than enough already. Hell, I might still be running from imaginary guards if it hadn't been for you." Desmond shut his eyes firmly, and took a deep breath. "I. . . I can't hardly tell what's real anymore." Desmond didn't say he was afraid, but he figured his voice had betrayed that already.

"Perhaps you can still find comfort in what you know for fact." Ezio reached over, taking Desmond's blackened hand in his own. "Perhaps you can find comfort with me."

Desmond stared at their hands. "Yeah. . . I guess. . ."

"You guess? You mean, you guess I'm real?"

"That isn't what I meant -"

"No, no. Come here." Ezio wrapped his arms around Desmond, and pulled him close so Desmond's head was now laying on Ezio's chest. "You are safe, Desmond. And you are not alone. So please, try to get some sleep."

Desmond laid there, in the still silence. He listened to Ezio's heartbeat, and felt the weight of Ezio's arms around him. He was grateful for the quiet and warmth. But sleep could not come quickly enough, and silence can also bring worry. Did I offend him? After all, how would I feel if someone else implied I might not exist? Will he resent me for all this?

Desmond's anxiety spiral was interrupted by a new sound. An intermittent low rumbling. He groggily lifted his head to look for its source, before realizing it was in perfect sync with the rise and fall of Ezio's chest.

He's snoring.

Desmond let out a deep sigh, laid his head back down, and closed his eyes. He allowed himself to sink into Ezio's warm, sleepy embrace. And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Desmond slept soundly.

[heronchildlove]

Art and snippet of Matthew's Kickstarter novella "A Sea Change" from Cassie's lattest newsletter!

It was a beautiful night.

   The promenade deck wended its way around the entirely of the Majestic like a necklace of polished wood and brass fittings. There were few out walking like Matthew, perhaps because it was cool and windy, but Shadowhunters were used to the cold. Besides, the wind blew the clouds away, exposing a sky so full of stars it looked as if a jeweler had hastily stuffed a drawer with handfuls of loose-cut diamonds.

   A year ago, Matthew would not have been able to enjoy the path the moonlight made across the water, or the sky afire with white flame. He would have been thinking about his last drink, or where he would find his next one. A frantic circle of pain and shame and longing: one he’d had to trudge invisibly, keeping his secrets from his friends, his family.

   Now the weight was off him. He felt light, and sometimes strangely at rest, like a windmill on a windless night. He no longer despised himself, but he did not know his purpose, either. If, he mused, one had to have a purpose at all. Was it not enough to be a Shadowhunter — one among many, but each sworn to protect humanity against demons? To keep peace among mundanes and Downworlders — warlocks, werewolves, the Fair Folk, and vampires?

   A year ago, he wasn’t sure he would have so quickly identified Miss Gwendolyn as a vampire, either. But then Matthew spent more time with Downworlders than most Shadowhunters did. Some he was friendly with, but he did not trick himself into thinking that meant they were not dangerous. And a vampire hiding out among humans was cause for concern.

   He’d noted the way Gwendolyn hadn’t eaten, and had drunk sparingly of the wine. The translucence of her fingernails. Her pallor, even under a layer of makeup. The veins at her temples — if those were visible, she was hungry. And there had been the odd behavior of Orville Cole. The way he’d stared at her worshipfully. Humans often fell under the spell of vampires, finding them impossible to resist. It was not the same as a thrall relationship, where the vampire fed from the human and in return promised them eternal life, but it was a use of vampire glamour forbidden by the Accords.

   Though Gwendolyn had seemed, if anything, annoyed at Cole’s attentions. Perhaps she’d enchanted him without meaning to and wished nothing more than to be rid of him. It was hard to say; Matthew did not get the sense she’d been a vampire very long.

   At that moment, lost in thought, Matthew collided with something solid. 

   “Pardonnez-moi — oh. It’s you.” The young man from dinner, Sylvain Allard, had evolved out of the shadows of the night. He wore a dark summer suit which blended with the night.