#corpse husband song fic

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Bestiary (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: Your husband and you do not speak the same language. During your wedding night, you find out that High Valyrian and the Common Tongue pale when compared to the way your bodies allow you to communicate.

Warnings: Heavy smut, not much dialogue. P in V sex. First time.

A/N: Who would have thought the most enthusiastic consent I have ever written with Daemon would be in a fic with nearly no dialogue?

Being coached through your wedding vows is not a good omen for your marriage. At least, that is what your husband must think, by the thunderous look on his face. You fight the urge to scream at him that you have practiced for this moment and that you do not need to be coached through the vows. It would be no use. The two of you do not understand each other.

Everything is strange to you in Westeros, from the language to the wedding ceremony. They make you cut your lips and hand, in a procedure you do not enjoy. Your husband does the same. Your blood flows into a goblet, from which you will have to drink later on.

It's barbaric. You suppose it must symbolize the joining of bloodlines in the crudest way.

At least Daemon kisses you at the end, a cold brush of his lips against yours that tells you he is still mad. He had probably felt betrayed, being forced into this arrangement you entered willingly.

If you had known he was that petty, you would have not shown your hand so fast. Your father had wanted dragons, which meant becoming part of House Targaryen. Daemon was the only one available for you to ensnare in your web.

As any good hunter, you had watched your prey first, taking notes of his behavior. Only an afternoon was needed to understand you started the race with a disadvantage. His eyes followed Princess Rhaenyra, Princess Rhaenys and her little daughter, but never lingered on other women.

While you might have lacked the silver hair, you did not lack the wits and charms necessary to be taken in consideration.

You had needed a few days to ready your song, but you had approached him not even a week later. He had been sitting in the library, so you had knocked on the table twice to draw his attention.

Daemon had lifted his eyes from the scroll he was reading, annoyed. He had a handsome face, decorated with age lines that only served to make him look more regal. He looked more the part of the King than his brother, a decaying corpse that you had heard had also acquired his own nubile bride.

Such was the fate of the daughters of powerful men. Sold to other powerful men, old enough to be their fathers, birthing them their own litter of sons and daughters. Sons that would grow up to become powerful men in their own right, daughters that would become pawns to establish dynasties. On and on it went.

Daemon had spoken then. His words were much harsher than those of the language you were used to, lacking the airy song of the languages similar to the one from the Rhoynar. You had not understood. You did not speak a lick of the Common Tongue.

No silver hair, no words, but plenty of resources. You had placed the book you had brought with you on the table, and looked at him.

His eyes had lit up with curiosity. He recognized the title. He spoke again, intrigued.

Despite his tone sounding much more auspicious, you had no other option than to shake your head and speak, with a tremulous voice.

“Bodmagho.” It's the only word you know, one that you have prepared especially for this. But just in case your pronunciation is not perfect, you open the book and mimic the gesture of passing the pages.

Daemon looks stunned. He says something else, still in the Common Tongue. You were able to tell from the intonation he was asking a question, but you didn't know what it was about.

“Bodmagho.” You repeated, stubbornly. You placed your book down and pointed to it.

Daemon sighed. He pointed to the chair. You sat, happy as a clam.

“Prince Daemon.” He pointed at himself. Then, to you. “Lady…?”

You told him your name. He nodded.

“Daor.” He shook his head. “No.”

You stared. He shook his head again. You understood that no, daor and shaking head meant the same.

“Daor. No.” You shook your head. Daemon squeezed your shoulder, a proud smile on his face.

Your father told you that afternoon that you were to be married to him. Just as you had made efforts to catch Daemon, your father had been setting his trap.

Daemon did not oppose, nor encourage the match, but he was angry at you. Angry that you knew before him and tried to charm him into doing your bidding.

Men like him, you learn, like to be the ones pulling the strings. They hate being treated like hounds, even if that is what they are.

You get no further lessons.

This is how you manage to get to your wedding feast only knowing two words. Teach and no. It makes you the most riveting company, and so, it's no wonder you are soon ushered into a chamber with your new husband.

You had not noticed before, but it is the first time you are alone with him since the morning at the library. To you, it had been a matter of no consequence. You had to marry a powerful man, one day. Your father decided it should be him because he wanted dragons. It was as simple as that.

As a rich man, your father had known rich men only get richer at times of unrest. And unrest was coming for the Seven Kingdoms. He could smell it in the air, hear it in the whispers of the common folk. Princess Rhaenyra wasn’t going to inherit without issue.

Your family moved here for that reason. An opportunity to get richer could not be dismissed. Your father had taken one look at the dragons and decided that they were the key to turning his legacy into an empire.

Giant war machines that could level castles in one afternoon. Raze a city to the ground in mere hours. Fire so hot it could melt stone. They could not be bought, you had to be a Targaryen to have them. It was only natural to turn into one, then.

Your children would get dragons. You would provide funds and as many children as you could, and House Targaryen the magic in their veins. Simple business transaction. But apparently, Daemon disagreed.

His face is thunderous. You can tell he is about to berate you. He starts talking, brows pinched together and an accusing finger pointed towards you.

Has he forgotten you do not speak his language? You step closer and poke his arm, hard.

It was the wrong choice. Daemon's face turns even more murderous. His lips twist into a snarl, teeth bared. His posture turns aggressive. He puffs up his chest, he advances on you. The Prince tries to intimidate you through his body language alone.

You are not a small woman. But you are young, and you do not train as much as he does. His looming over you feels menacing, and it reminds you once again of the fate his late wife was rumored to have suffered.

This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. Daemon is forcing you to walk backwards, pushing your forehead and nose with his. You either move, or get a broken nose and a concussion.

Daemon is terrifying. You will not cross him again, you think to yourself. Only a fool goes around poking dragons with a stick. You feel your palms starting to sweat, a knot forming in your throat. You fight the urge to cry.

The back of your knees hits the mattress, and you fall into the furs with a small noise of surprise. Your husband does not lose any time. He gets right into your face, trying to intimidate you even more.

But if you hope to survive this marriage, to make it work as your father has requested, you can't bend. Daemon will never respect you if you do. He will see you as no more than a frightened girl, who will not disagree with him and serve for little beyond warming his bed. You are not that. You will build an empire, a dynasty out of his dragons and your wealth. The only thing you can do is persevere or break trying.

Daemon scowls at you. He notices the change in your eyes, the fight coming back to you.

“Daor.” You say, staring him down with all your might. It doesn't matter if you are lying down, and he is hovering over you, pinning you under him. You will triumph.

Daemon doesn't heed the warning. He starts tugging at the buttons of your bodice, tiny pearls sent flying all over the room. The gesture is as brutal as it is calculated. It is meant to remind you of your place, always under him from now on. Daemon has a right to your body, and he intends to exercise it as he sees fit. You are no more than an object, and if you cry or scream, it is not relevant.

Despite knowing why he is doing it, you can't avoid grimacing. He looks more beast than a man, snarling over you, ripping your clothes. It's a sight that would scare any woman, no matter how cold.

You look up at him. You give him your own little snarl. Daemon pauses. It's not the reaction he was expecting. He wanted you to cry. You would never give him the satisfaction.

It's a balancing act. You will have to bring him to heel, but soothe his pride in the next act, less he turns on you. Push away a man too much, and he will think you are disrespecting him. He will call you names, thinking you are the problem. Daemon feels entitled to you. You need to show him he is not, but that you are giving yourself to him. He needs to value you. The treasure to his dragon.

“Daor!” You say, firmly. You push him away. Whatever he anticipated, you giving him a fight wasn't something he was prepared for. It shows in the way he folds, stunned by your behavior. You give him hard little slaps to the chest, until you manage to get him off you.

Daemon's scowl turns more confused than angry. He looks at you as if you are a particularly challenging riddle to crack. He rightens his clothes and starts to retreat.

“Daor.” You repeat, grabbing at his shirt to keep him in place. You do not want him to leave.

Daemon wretches free from your grip on his arm. He mutters something, angered.

“Daor.” You use his trick against him, stepping right into his path and forcing him to back off. You use your body to make him advance backwards, toward the bed.

He sits on the edge of it, still scowling. You giggle, making Daemon madder still. You look at him with what you hope is a seductive expression and pull your bodice down.

“Bodmagho?” You ask him, as your dress pools around your feet, leaving you in a sheer shift. Daemon's eyes darken. His expression changes into an amused smile, and he gestures for you to come to him.

You do. You step closer and get on his lap. His hands envelop your waist, warm and calloused.

Then, the unexpected. Daemon grabs your hair and pulls, forcing your head back. You moan, pain and arousal mixing into an unknown emotion that makes the place between your legs slick.

You can feel his breath against your neck, making you shiver. His face comes closer, and closer. Daemon stares into your eyes, lips slightly parted. You mirror his expression, feeling as if you are being consumed by your lust.

He arches an eyebrow. Never been one to shy away from a challenge, you brush his lower lip with his thumb. Daemon parts his lips and sucks it in his mouth.

The shock must have shown on your face because he laughs, giving your thumb a playful bite. You squirm, instinct overpowering modesty, and roll your hips against his.

The two of you stare at each other. Closer, and closer, until his features blur, until two purple eyes turn into one. A dragon turned cyclops by the mere force of lust. There is hunger and want, and confusion. Both of you are so close that you are sharing the same air, the same breath. And Daemon pulls, and you are kissing, and you shake in his arms, feeling like how you think the gods must have felt when the cyclopes formed the lighting.

His hands go to greedily knead at your thighs, slipping under your shift. His palms feel rough against your skin, impatient. The shift rides up, up, up. You mewl against his mouth, desperately reaching for something unknown to you but that you know Daemon will help you reach.

You are restless as he pets you, biting at your mouth, hands sinking in his hair. You tug him towards your neck, knowing his kisses, scorching hot, would burn even sweeter along your nape and ears.

Daemon, though, has other plans. He pulls away and pecks you on the lips. “Vūjigon ” He says. He touches his mouth. “Vūjigon”

You kiss him, softly. “Vūjigon”

He pets your hair.

“Vūjigon.” And he points to his collarbones. You frown in confusion, thinking perhaps the word doesn't mean what you think it does. He sighs and leans in, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the space between your collarbones.

“Vūjigon.” You perk up, and start kissing his shoulders. Your hands pull his shirt more open, letting you bite and lick more of his flesh. The urge to consume and be consumed is overpowering, making you desperate to touch him.

Daemon laughs. He pulls you upwards. Can't he see you are starving?

“Daor.” He says, when you try to go back to it. You give him your fiercest pout. Daemon tuts at you.

He squeezes one of your breasts, making you moan, before cruelly twisting the bud. You gasp, your nails digging on his naked shoulders.

“Shhh.” Daemon soothes you, his hand going to squeeze your breast tenderly once more. “Daor?”

You don't know how to tell him what you want, so you grab his hand and make him pinch the tender bud again. Daemon smiles. He kisses you, muttering something fervently on your lips.

He lays you down on the bed, despite your attempts to sit up. Daemon pins you down with a growl, hand on your chest.

You can't help it. No matter the warning, you squirm as if you were in pain. It certainly feels like it. There is some sort of hunger in your belly, making you want to rub your core against him. You can feel your shift starting to become wet right above your tailbone. Daemon has you so bothered you are dripping into the shift and the bed.

Daemon gives you another growl and leans down to bite your breast over the fabric of your shift. It's meant to be punishment, but you arch into it, gasping.

He laughs. He takes as much of it as it can fit in his mouth, sucking greedily. The noises are obscene. The sight must be, too. Your mouth, open, moaning yourself into a frenzy. Daemon, nipping, biting, sucking, like a man starved. Your shift with two giant wet spots, one at the chest and the other by your arse.

You moan, surprised at the feeling. You had never thought bodies could be used in such a way before. Nor had you hoped for him to please you so eagerly.

His lips close around your bud. His tongue twirls around it, lavishing it with attention. You grab at his hair, his nape, desperately trying to hold onto something. Daemon just sucks harder on your breast. You moan, and moan, and moan some more. Desperate little sounds, gathering in the air around a desperate girl.

He switches to your other breast. Your shift feels sticky on your skin, so you start trying to take it off. The task distracts you enough for his hand to find its way to your core, and you squeak at the first sensation of his fingers against it.

Daemon smiles against your skin. He presses a finger inside you, and you squeal some more. He lets go of your breast to better gaze into your overwhelmed face, seemingly getting an enjoyment out of it.

Another finger joins the first. You cry out. It stings a bit. Daemon shushes you, kissing your cheek. He rubs at something above your opening that makes you squirm in delight.

His other hand comes into your sight. Daemon makes a gesture, two fingers together, separating. You stare. He nuzzles you, his cheek against yours, before repeating it.

You nod with a pout.

He starts prying you open slowly, this time. Despite enjoying causing pain, it appears your cooperation has granted you privileges with Daemon. He understood the distress on your face, and read you correctly enough to know it was not going to go well if he kept going as he was.

Daemon rubs at your shoulders, soothingly. You understand you need to relax, and force your body to do so. He kisses you in reward, slow and sweet, coaxing you to him.

You nod again. Daemon moves back, settling himself by your side. He takes your shift away, pressing soft little kisses to each new inch of skin revealed.

The sudden removal of your last layer makes you shiver a little. Your skin is wet from his previous ministrations and rapidly cooling. You plaster yourself to him, seeking warmth.

He chuckles, grabbing your arse to move you slightly out of the way. You scowl, not sure why Daemon is doing so, until you realize he is taking off his breeches.

“Daemon.” You whisper, softly. There is a part of you that is already cringing at the promise of pain the loss of your maidenhead will bring.

“Daor?” He asks you, one of his hands petting your cunt. It makes you shiver.

“Bodmagho.” You grasp at his shoulders, steadying yourself. Daemon lines the two of you. You feel his member at your entrance, holding you open and threatening to spear you apart. It feels scorching against your skin.

He helps you impale yourself on his member. It's not pleasant at first. Property dictates that you should not let him see your discomfort. You should just bear it like a good wife and allow him to chase his pleasure unbothered.

But you know Daemon enjoys causing pain. He thrives on it. So you let your eyes fill with tears, and your face goes slack and overwhelmed.

He smiles. He licks your tears away, and mumbles something. You squeal, and it only excites him more.

“Bodamagho.” Daemon pinches the flesh on your hip, clearly calling you to focus. His hands move your pelvis back and forth, back and forth, until you are hissing in pleasure, your hands on his chest, doing the movement yourself.

“Vūjigon.” You demand, moving your hips just like he taught you. Daemon is too focused on aiding you bounce by thrusting upwards to pay attention to you. When he doesn't obey, you give a tug to his hair.

He snarls at you. You snarl back. So he grabs your wrists and pushes sideways, and suddenly, you are under him and Daemon is still thrusting into you.

You are desperate for closeness. You scrunch up your face and wrap your legs around his back. Daemon looks down at you, and bites your shoulder. He is not pleased with your perceived attempt to take control.

Realizing your mistake, you shake your head.

“Daor.” You rub at his back with your foot, gently. You hold him close, and nuzzle his neck, delighting in his scent. Never you had thought before you would enjoy the smell of sweat and some sort of aromatic oil, yet here you are. “Vūjigon.”

Daemon's expressions softens. He leans in and gives you a kiss. You make pleased, chirping noises, trying to show him that was precisely what you wanted.

He complies, releasing your hands. You enthusiastically hug him. It helps you anchor yourself against the unrelenting waves of pleasure.

His hands, now freed from yours, are everywhere. Twisting your buds, rubbing at your pearl, squeezing your waist. Daemon whispers nonsense in your ears, takes the lobe between his teeth. He aids you, tilting your hips with his hands, reaching deeper.

You heard a story once, about Westeros. A white hart was said to come to the greatest Kings alive. A magnificent beast, tall as a man, with skin made of the purest snow and antlers as long and imposing as the branches of an ancient tree. If a King encountered it, it was a good omen for his rule. It would be just and prosperous, blessed by the Gods.

What did they do with the hart? Keep it in Kingswood, perhaps? You had made the mistake of asking, once. You had been told that they used the best spear they had. That men held the hart down, and they gutted it from head to belly.

The perfect, regal beast, fur as pale as snow. The pristine white sheets under you. Blood tainting the white. What a way to go.

You understood then why they called it a small death. You were sweating, squealing like a beast being gutted, thighs trembling under Daemon's hands. It was too much and too little, and you felt yourself reaching it, yearning for it.

You did not care if you burned, moth to a flame, maiden to a dragon. Daemon seemed to realize it because his hand went to rub at your pearl, and he leaned in.

“….” He was talking, but it was in that strange language of his, and your ears were ringing, you felt about to explode. Your body responded to his tone, though. Gentle, loving, coaxing you over the edge with a scream so fierce you might as well have been one of those weeping women that appeared far north.

Daemon grinned at you. A fierce, proud expression, eyes crinkling in the corners. You pulled him into a kiss, and raked your nails down his back, feeling the skin yield like butter under your fingers. It spurred him on, and with a gasp and a bite to your shoulder, Daemon was shattering inside you.

He collapsed on top of you with a laugh. You smiled. Daemon pulled you to rest, back flush against his chest, and you understood each other better than those who spoke the same, common tongue, did.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Have You No Idea That You’re In Deep? [Chapter 2: The Same Agony]

Aemond is a fearless, enigmatic prince and the most renowned dragonrider of the Greens. You are a (newly widowed) daughter of House Mormont and a lady-in-waiting to Princess Helaena. You can’t ignore each other, even though you probably should. In fact, you might have found a love worth killing for.

A/N: Thank you all so much for the love this series has received! I hope you continue to enjoy it. 🥰🥰  

Song inspiration: “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys.

Chapter warnings: Language, slightly more extensive witchcraft, mentions of death and violence, sexual content, this fic is for readers 18+!!!

Word count: 4.8k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

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“You wouldn’t happen to have any bear teeth, would you?”

“Bear…teeth?” Aemond blinks at you, confounded. You are standing together in the doorway of Helaena’s chambers as she plays on the floor with the children: stacking wooden blocks into diminutive castles, demolishing them with cloth dragons, chanting childhood nonsense songs in a wavering, whisper-soft voice. It is late-morning, and sunlight pours in through the open windows in sheets like rain.

“You see, bears are large terrestrial mammals. Their pelts make good rugs. They are commonly found in caves and forests, eat lots of salmon, and have often been observed—”

“Kindly desist your taunting,” the prince says, though fondly. “Why on earth would you require bear teeth?”

You hesitate. “They’re for…a tradition.”

“A tradition?”

“Um…perhaps…rather…a ritual.”

He flashes a devious grin. “A ritual, or a spell?”

You sigh in defeat. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“You still worship the Old Gods,” he realizes. His single remaining eye—bright, cunning, oceanic blue—sweeps you up and down. He is not mocking, not appalled; he is forever seeking to uncover more pieces of you like shells collected from sand. “Well…that’s alright. We won’t tell Mother.”

“Yes, please don’t. She’d send me to the Wall.” This is an exaggeration, though not by much.

“What sort of spell involves bear teeth?” Aemond inquires, amused, like he’s waiting for a punchline.

“One for protection.”

“Oh? And who do you believe needs protecting?”

You peer up at him guiltily. He’ll hate that you’ve had this thought. “You’re riding in the tourney tomorrow.”

“Me?!” he exclaims, and laughs. It’s an alarmingly beautiful sound; you have to stop yourself from reaching out to touch him, his face or his forearm or his long silvery hair. “You think I need protection?”

“You never joust. You haven’t in years, I know, people won’t stop talking about it. They’re all baffled by your sudden interest. Everyone’s wagering bets. And you’re out of practice.”

“Hm, yes, well if Axel Hightower can do it then surely I’ll manage.”

You’re dismayed; if you’ve unwittingly encouraged him, that makes you responsible for any resulting catastrophes. In your own heart, at least. “Please tell me you aren’t doing this to outshine my dead husband.”

“Logistically, it would be rather difficult to compete with a corpse.”

“You don’t joust,” you say. “You never joust…”

“You know, my Uncle Daemon was known to joust on occasion.”

“Perhaps, but you aren’t.”

“Calm yourself.” He’s impatient now. “It’s a tourney, not an execution. And my match is some Lannister boy, it’s not like I’m stepping into the tiltyard with Ivar Kellington.”

“Right.” Ivar is the son of a house sworn to the Baratheons, and he is positively monstrous: tall, broad, fearsome, immovable. When he spars, he has to face two or three ordinary men to keep it competitive. He’s responsible for no less than four deaths resulting from tourney mishaps. He has a reputation even larger than he is; you’d heard about him all the way back in the Reach during your marriage. People around the court refer to him—with both awe and shudders—as ‘Sir Killington.’

Aemond considers you, always searching, never quite finding his footing. “I thought you weren’t one to shy away from battles.” And then he adds swiftly, just to emphasize how beneath him this is: “Not that a tourney is anything like a real battle, of course.”

“I’m not trying to stop you. I’m just trying to help.”

“I don’t need your help,” he replies briskly.

“Fine.”

He stares out into the hallway with his arms crossed. You stare over at Helaena and the children without really seeing them. Neither of you speak, but neither of you leave either.

“Enjoy your sparring,” you say eventually.

“Enjoy the beach,” Aemond replies, and departs almost soundlessly like a shadow. You tug on your pendant as you watch him disappear down the hallway: the lines of his shoulders, the sheen of his hair, the way strips of sunlight fall on him through windows and doorways. As your grip tightens, the oval of moonstone etches its shape into your palm; the silver chain digs into the soft vulnerable flesh at the back of your neck.

That did not go well. That did not go well at all. You frown absently, your mind elsewhere. So much for my attempted witchcraft.

“Lady Mormont?” Helaena beckons, breaking your apprehension like glass. She clutches one of Jaehaera’s tiny hands in hers while Jaehaerys stomps around demolishing microscale castles. You hope this is not prophetic of his (possible, far-off) future reign. “Help me get the children ready. The sea is calling for you.”

You shimmy the toddlers into swimming clothes, gather up toys and linens and pieces of fruit, and walk with Helaena and her white-haired twins down to the golden sand, to the water’s edge. As Helaena supervises her children—which consists primarily of having flustered handmaidens chase them around while the princess sits on a sand dune and embroiders a green-thread praying mantis onto a pillowcase—you wander ankle-deep in the warm, foreign surf.

King’s Landing is nothing like Bear Island. Home was stormy and grey and fog-cloaked, harsh, cold, rocky, inescapably brutal. Home felt old, hopelessly old, older than the stars; there was no hope of changing one’s life there. The people of Bear Island have been scraping out an existence—forcing an untamed, unwilling land to nurse them at blade-point—since long before the Targaryens ever set foot in Westeros, since before the Andals, since before there was any divide between history and myths. But here…here…

As you stand on the beach below the Red Keep, there are gulls circling far overhead and clear blue skies and invigorating heat and ships gliding ceaselessly in and out of port. This land yields life plentifully, effortlessly. Within the walls of the city there are people clawing their way up ladders every minute of every day, and tumbling down them as well; there are always new futures to be made. This is an idea you could get used to. This is a world you could get used to.

Later, much later—after bathing the children, after lunch, after visiting the sept with Queen Alicent (requiring some pantomimed piousness on your part), after a meandering stroll through the godswood, after music and dinner and dancing—he finally returns. You don’t need to see him come in. You can hear his footsteps; you can feel the room shift like a ship rocked by waves.

“Aemond!” Helaena squeals in glee and rushes over to him. Meanwhile, you loiter by the fireplace pretending to be engrossed in a letter. In truth, you’ve read it twice already, and it wasn’t all that enthralling to begin with; one of your cousins, married into House Manderly, has just birthed her fifth child in seven years and feels the compulsion to tell the whole world about it. It occurs to you that some people’s luck is really quite excessive.

You try not to listen as Aemond asks Helaena about her day, as she prattles on about the beach (but mostly about her insect embroidery), as she gets sidetracked and scurries off and lowers herself onto the couch to finish the aforementioned embroidery. The prince’s familiar footsteps approach you. You refuse to look up until he’s waited several minutes with nothing but the dry, popping fractures of wood in the fireplace to split the silence.

“Did you and Sir Criston have a productive time hitting each other with sticks?”

“There was a slight change of plans.”

He tosses a leather pouch to you. You catch it in mid-air. Inside are cracked, bloodied bear teeth. You gasp in the flame-lit stillness. “How…?”

“It was the strangest thing. I, entirely unprompted, was struck by this intense desire to go bear hunting.” He grins: impish, off-kilter, waiting to see if you’ll forgive him. “I hope they’re adequate, they were difficult to…uh…dislodge. From the skull, I mean. And I wasn’t sure if you wanted them…you know. Cleaned.”

“No, you did well. It’s better if they’re bloody.” You are struck by a sudden, ludicrous vision of the prince practically dragging Sir Criston Cole through the woods for hours—their boots coated with mud, their brows sweated, twigs embedded in their hair—while dodging Sir Criston’s increasingly exasperated inquiries. “I don’t know why you did this for me.”

“I know what it’s like to hold something sacred that others don’t understand.”

From the couch, Helaena murmurs: “He had to close his eye.”

You turn to Aemond for a translation.

“To get my dragon,” he says softly, then gestures to his lost eye: quickly, as if he doesn’t want to draw any more attention to it than he absolutely must. You know it happened in some sort of childhood scuffle between Alicent and Rhaenyra’s sons—every noble who’s ever travelled south of the Neck knows that—but you’ve never heard the details. Unthinkingly, reflexively, you reach out for him, resting your right palm against the mutilated half of his face. He’s so perfect in spite of the destruction his flesh holds like a memory; he’s so fucking beautiful. Your thumb ghosts across the section of scar that slits his cheek in two. Aemond flinches and catches your wrist.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Gently, he lowers your hand back to your side. Then he grasps your pendant to examine it more closely. “Hm. Moonstone and silver, together, entwined. Curious, don’t you think?”

“Very,” you agree. You wonder what he looks like without his eyepatch, not in a morbidly curious sort of way but out of a longing—a craving—to know every part of him entirely.

“I’ve studied the Old Gods, you know,” he says. “Purely for scholarly purposes. And the Drowned God, and the Lord of Light. There are temples dedicated to Him in Dorne. I’ve exchanged letters with several of the maesters there.”

“I’m sure your mother is positively delighted that you’re writing to maesters instead of eligible Baratheon and Lannister women.”

He smiles wryly. “Aegon has brothels. I have the library.”

“So you don’t spend all your time sulking around unnerving courtiers.”

“Well, not all of it.” His face is illuminated by the fire, amber and scarlet and gold. He reads the nervousness on yours: the tourney, the joust, your own dawning realization of how much he means to you. “Fear not. I’m coming back.”

“That’s exactly what my mother said before she left me in the Reach with Axel Hightower. And I never saw her again.”

Without speaking, Aemond cups your face in his hands. He touches his forehead to yours—lightly, lightning-briefly—and then backs away. He takes several long strides, as if he’s afraid of what will happen if the space between you could be so easily closed.

“Good luck tomorrow, Silver,” you tell him.

He glances down at the leather pouch of bear teeth still clutched in your left hand. “I thought you were taking care of that for me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

When the rest of the Red Keep is slumbering in unwitting darkness, you slip unnoticed back to the heart tree. You have to do this part here, where the Old Gods can hear you; you have to give Aemond the best chance you can. You pour a handful of the bloodied teeth, rosemary, sage, sea salt, and your last few pebbles of black jade into the mortar you left Bear Island with, and then Oldtown after Axel’s death. You hope you never have to leave King’s Landing. Everything in you struggles against the thought of it, like an animal with its paw in an iron-jawed trap. You light a white candle and set it on a root of the heart tree.

“Protect him,” you implore the flame again and again. It flickers and bends to you in the cold night wind. You grind the teeth until they are a fine, pale-pink dust. “Break others if you must, burn others if you must, bury others if you must…but protect him.”

This next part is the trickiest. Back inside the Red Keep, you evade guards and handmaidens to slink inside the prince’s chambers. The man you are regrettably falling in love with—Aemond Targaryen, Aemond One-Eye, the dragonrider of Vhagar—is exactly where he should be: asleep in bed. He is sprawled on his stomach and occasionally murmuring as if in the middle of a very consequential conversation. He is mostly obscured by blankets, but you can see he’s not wearing his eyepatch; his white hair flows freely and unincumbered over the pillows. You are careful not to look too closely at him, only because you know he wouldn’t want you to.

You crouch down on the cold, hard floor and scatter the powder you’ve ground under his bed. No one would ever recognize it as witchcraft. It could be sand, it could be dust, it could never be noticed at all. When you are finished, you flee the room with feather-light steps.

Yet you think you might have heard it as you crossed through the doorway, just maybe, just barely: a creak, a stirring, the prince rising to catch a glimpse of you with his sleep-bleary eye.

~~~~~~~~~~

A Mullendore unseats a Buckwell. A Tyrell unseats a Rollingford. A Westerling gets so drunk he falls off his horse mid-charge and the Tully proclaims victory. Sir Ivar Kellington breaks some poor Massey boy’s jaw. Everyone applauds politely.

Aegon leaps to his feet. “Well done, Sir Killington!” he shouts, raising his wine cup. “Uh…I mean…Kellington.” Aegon drops back into his seat. Otto Hightower glares at him.

You tug nervously on your moonstone pendant. Helaena claps and smiles when necessary but otherwise watches the birds, the clouds, the horses and works on the favor she’s making. The queen is wringing her hands and dressed—predictably—in a rich emerald-green gown. Alicent has always struck you as kind and affectionate enough, albeit in a distracted sort of way. You suppose she has plenty of legitimate distractions. Her husband the king is ailing, rarely seen, unlikely to live much longer. Her father is ruling the kingdom in all but name. Her estranged stepdaughter, a prospective schemer and confirmed dragonrider, is the heir apparent. And she has an adult son in need of a politically-expedient marriage…a son who doesn’t have any spare eyes to sacrifice to this tourney.

You turn to Aegon, who stares vacantly down into the tiltyard with red, groggy eyes. “I know the prince is good on his feet, but can he joust? You know…without his…?” You point to your own unharmed eye in explanation. Aegon shrugs listlessly. This does not inspire confidence.

As Ivar Kellington exits the tiltyard, Aemond comes in. They exchange a look as they pass each other on their horses, a silent antagonism, a taking of measurements. It can safely be assumed that Ivar—a man whose legacy will be built on the bones of the people he’s brutalized—would like few things more than a chance to publicly skewer the prince, but he won’t get it. The Hightowers would never allow such a match. Aemond smirks up at the giant triumphantly.

The crowd cheers as Aemond and the Lannister boy he’s scheduled to joust gallop around the tiltyard, but in a way that is tentative, taunt, uneasy. No one can recall ever seeing the brooding, one-eyed prince participate in a tourney before. As his long white hair flows out behind him like a banner, as he sizes up his opponent with a cool, stoic gaze, people chatter about how much he reminds them of Daemon Targaryen. Is Aemond another rogue prince? Is that primal breed of fear that he inspires in people deserved? You observe the nobles gathered here from your seat between Aegon and Helaena, noting for the first time just how many seven-pointed stars there are: on cups, on chairs, on pieces of embroidery, on necklaces. Queen Alicent wears them constantly.

What do they do to witches here? Burn them?

A bolt of dread pierces through your chest like a blade. No one is looking at you, of course; no one is paying any attention to you at all. But suddenly you feel naked in this crowd.

Sir Criston has appeared to give Aemond his parting words. He grabs the horse’s reigns and says something to Aemond that you can’t hear over the thunderous noise of the audience. The prince nods. Criston speaks again, miming a technique. The prince continues to nod. His mood is evident from his posture: Yes, okay, alright, let’s get on with it. Criston hands the prince his helmet, which is open in the front and without a visor, and people murmur about how Daemon always wore the same style. You think it has less to do with an homage as it does with practicality. Aemond cannot afford what sight he has left to be obscured by metal. He doesn’t look at or acknowledge you in any way, but when he dons his helmet and his hair is momentarily displaced you see it rubbed onto the back of his neck where no one will notice: a fine, chalky, pinkish dust.

He saw me after all. In his bedroom.

You can envision him crawling out of bed and dropping to his knees, investigating while still clumsy and half-asleep, pressing his palm to the dust before marking himself with it. You smile, a solitary moment in a pulsing space.

That has to be good luck, doesn’t it? That has to give the spell more power.

You wish you knew more about magic. You wish your mother was still alive.

Sir Criston hands Aemond his shield and his lance. Aemond asks Helaena for her favor. She gives it to him wholeheartedly: a small wreath of green calla lilies she’s been weaving together with jittery fingers. She waves him off and then sinks back into her seat, silent and remote.

Aemond takes his place at one end of the tiltyard. The Lannister boy—Leland or Luca or Landon or Lyndon or something like that, you keep forgetting—waits on the other. Their horses paw at the earth restlessly. There’s already blood in the soil, the air. Everyone else clears the tiltyard. The seconds tick down.

Suddenly—like falling forward—both riders have kicked their mounts and the horses are hurtling towards each other. The space between them evaporates like a waning moon. People are screaming all around you, and some of the noise is pure exhilaration but a good amount of it is horror, because already people can see it: the prince’s lance is aimed just a bit too low and too far to the left, and the Lannister boy’s lance is poised to collide with Aemond’s unguarded face. Aemond sees it too, soon enough to know but not soon enough to fix it. His blue eye is wide and gleaming with doomed shock.

Before the riders can strike, there is a deafening snap, a cracking of bones. The Lannister boy’s horse plummets to the earth as its left fetlock shatters. The Lannister boy’s lance goes flying, his lips loose a shriek…and his body falls perfectly into the line of Aemond’s lance. The prince’s lance crashes into the Lannister shield and sends the boy soaring off the back of his collapsing horse. The crowd explodes into cheers and applauds. Aemond has won.

He is dutiful about it, honorable about it. He dismounts and helps the Lannister boy to his feet and expresses sympathy about the horse: such bad luck, so unfortunate, although everyone knows horses are prone to such accidents. He bows graciously to the crowd of courtiers who have so consistently ignored, avoided, misunderstood him. And only then does he come to accept congratulations from his family.

Aemond receives a giddy hug from Helaena, a sloppy whack on the shoulder from a very intoxicated Aegon, and kisses on his hands from the queen. Otto Hightower gives him a proud, beaming nod. Sir Criston sprints up from the tiltyard to embrace—in fact, nearly tackle—the prince. In the joyous mayhem, you make no attempt to capture Aemond’s attention, but he does fight his way through it to find you. He circles an arm around your waist to pull you close so he can whisper to you as he places Helaena’s calla lily wreath on your head like a crown.

“I’m awfully glad I found you those bear teeth, Moonstone,” he says, and then he’s spirited away by admiring nobles.

You watch—alone in the havoc—as Aemond is commended by the great families of Westeros, the fathers and the matriarchs and the marriageable daughters too; and you are struck by a sudden and overwhelming sadness.

He is going to marry a Baratheon or a Lannister or an Arryn or a Stark, you think. And any fantasy that deviates from that eventuality is pure, self-inflicted cruelty.

You don’t belong in his world. Perhaps you don’t really belong anywhere.

Unnoticed—or so you believe—you escape through the spectators and into a small, empty stairwell of the Red Keep. You crumple onto a step, entertain the possibility of composing yourself, and then rupture into helpless, pitiful tears. You sit there sobbing with your face in your hands for five minutes, or ten, or twenty, you aren’t sure. It doesn’t matter. No one misses you.

When you hear the footsteps, you immediately know who it is. You don’t even look up. You wipe your sore, drenched cheeks with the sleeves of your gown and stare down at the stone floor in abject humiliation.

“What troubles you?” he asks. You marvel at his voice, and not for the first time: calm yet compelling, soft-spoken and yet so heavy with gravity.

You consider lying to him, but you don’t. The answer is so simple. Now your eyes find his. “I want something I can’t have.”

Aemond nods, solemn, pensive. “I find myself afflicted with the same agony,” he says. And then he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

There is an informal feast held in the Great Hall to celebrate the winners of the tourney. People roam and mingle and eat off of plates balanced precariously in one hand. There is dancing and music, an anxious plucky sort of sound that plays from the strings. Aemond is the guest of honor, although no stranger would guess it; after his short obligatory exchanges with various nobles and fellow jousters, he makes his way back to his immediate family. You are obliged to accompany Helaena, and thus bound to stay near Aemond; all night you orbit each other like planets, like seasons. Sometimes he catches you watching him as you sip your wine, sometimes he skates his palm along the small of your back as he passes behind you, over and over again you find excuses to stand next to each other while saying nothing, while thinking everything, while feeling each other’s heat through the infinitesimal space between you. Finally, as the evening careens towards midnight, he finds you alone in the doorway of the same winding staircase he tracked you to earlier, except now you’re at the top of it. You’re nursing a cup of wine, unnoticed and unnecessary, still wearing the crown of green calla lilies. Helaena is thoroughly preoccupied with a plateful of pear tarts and the doting attention of Otto Hightower. Aegon is presumably off badgering a servant girl somewhere…or perhaps passed out under a tree.

“This is an odd question, I freely admit it,” the prince says, close enough that you can see the ring of dark blue around the edge of his iris like the ocean at night. Torchlight glows on the flush in his cheeks: one pristine, one ruined. “But would you happen to have been in my bedroom last night?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Lying is a sin in any religion.”

“Alright, yes, I was there. Briefly. Very briefly.”

“So you didn’t want to stay?”

In reply, you only gaze up at him, wanting him so badly it puts aches in your hands, your spine, your lungs, the threads of your heart. His smile is knowing and playful and warm and kind. He reads you the same way he pours over dusty, long-forgotten books in the library and you read him like a spell. You want to know everything he’s made of. You want to feel him beneath the innate design of your fingerprints. He looks into your eyes and sees all of this and more; and then he turns and descends the stairs.

You follow after him, your dress dragging on the stone steps. His footsteps are so light they’re nearly soundless. He moves like a storm, like a wolf; you don’t hear them until they’ve got their jaws around you. Torches burn overhead as you traverse the staircase down, down, down. You can still hear the muffled music of the strings through the castle walls. You can feel the pounding of your heart, the blood roaring in your ears like waves. The music fades as you walk, and then disappears; but your heart grows louder.

When you reach the final step, Aemond catches you, presses you against the wall, kisses you so deeply it feels like you’re drowning in him: in heat, in insatiability, in all that long-caged wildness screaming to be freed. Your wine cup and crown of calla lilies both tumble to the floor. His hands are gliding beneath your dress. You’re ripping open his tunic. In the sea of fabric, his fingers find the velvet-soft inside of your thigh and follow it upwards. You’re soaked for him already. He moans, licks his fingers, kisses you so you can taste yourself on his lips, his tongue. Your hands tangle in his hair and drag him closer, closer, until there’s no space left between you, not even enough to second-guess this. You open your thighs wider, bite his neck, beg him to fuck you. His fingers stroke you until your hips are thrusting in rhythm, until you’re stifling your cries against his bare, flare-hot skin. There is a powerful, shuddering sensation of an opening, a warm glowing like liquid gold. Reflections of fire dance over you both. His breathing is ragged, ravenous. Even through his clothes, you can feel how hard he is, how thick. You are starving to be filled with him.

“Wait,” you gasp, and immediately he stills. You touch his face, your palm to his scar, and this time he doesn’t flinch away. “Can I see you?” you say. “I want all of you. The real you.”

He hesitates. He reaches for his eyepatch. He rips it away in one fluid motion, like a bandage off a fresh wound, like he’s afraid of losing his nerve. Where his left eye should be is jagged flesh framing a glittering, savage-blue sapphire. You can see the shadow of the little boy he was when he was disfigured and never avenged. You can see every brick he’s built himself with since.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” you whisper, your words weightless and vanishing like smoke.

“I never wanted people to pity me.”

“No one pities you. They fear you.”

Aemond asks, mesmerized, spellbound: “Why don’t you fear me?”

“Because I was raised to admire ferocity, not to run from it.”

“You are perfection,” he breathes. “You were made for me.”

You grab his face with one hand, hook it around his jaw, and look him straight in his eyes, both of them: one flesh, one sapphire. “Show me.”

You’re still throbbing, still slick, still roiling in aftershocks as he plunges inside you. You fuck with your faces close and your hands entwined, kissing, moaning, biting, whispering promises that cannot be kept. When he comes, his teeth close around your collarbone to keep himself from crying out; and then he rests his forehead against yours. You remain there together in this dying moment, in the receding seconds, dwelling in them like the last days of summer. Then he steps back and the illusion is shattered.

You let the hem of your dress drop to the floor. Aemond refastens his tunic and smooths his hair. As you find your balance on weak and trembling legs—as you adjust to the unwelcome absence of him—you push Aemond away. “Go,” you say, glancing to the steps. “Go. I know you have to.”

His hands are open, empty. “Are you sure—?”

“Go,” you insist. “Please, just go. Before you’re missed.”

He looks at you like he’s going to say more. Then he picks up his eyepatch off the floor, secures it over what remains of his left eye, and ascends the staircase to rejoin his family in the Great Hall. That’s where he belongs, after all. That’s where he will always belong.

You wait to follow him until enough time has elapsed to evade suspicion. You wait at the bottom of the staircase in silence, in agony, your skin crawling with the echoes of flames.

[prettytoxicrevolver]

Corpse Husband

How to Navigate:

❤ Heart = Fluff  ★ Star = Taylor Swift Song Fic  ⬥ Diamond = My Favorite

Worried 

Wedding ❤ ⬥

Glasses ❤ ⬥

Accident ❤

Finally 

Angel ❤ ⬥

First Christmas ❤

Twin Flame ❤

[luna-writes-stuff]

All Of My Love, Thorin Oakenshield

Song link

Fanfic, gn! reader

Fluff, reunion fic

Word count: 2912

Tw: everyone lives because you can’t fuck corpses (necrophelia still isn’t okay, guys). Despite this comment, this fic is all fluff no smut so… Mentions/descriptions of injuries. Bathing but no insinuation. Established relationship. There is no Tauriel/Kili here so cry about it.

Summary: When the company finally reclaims Erebor, you set out on the travel to the kingdom to meet with your husband again. However, upon a arrival, you notice that a lot more is on his mind than he tends to let on. You try to comfort him the best you can.

Buy me a coffee/force me to write more

“Should I fall out of love, my fire in the light? To chase a feather in the wind.”

One thing that was worse than leaving for a suicide mission, was not going on one, then watching the one you love most take the quest. It was his given right, of course. There wouldn’t be any other who could possibly set out. But when he told you to stay, you could have sworn your stomach had begun to carry a new feeling of heavy.

There were arguments - fights over his decision, but not once did he change his mind. Not even when you tried to follow them. It was his sister who would spot you and drag your reluctant form back to camp.

When you married him, you had made a vow to never leave one another, so this had left a painful taste for you. You understood him, and you knew why he had to go. But you didn’t understand why he had wanted you to stay. Love be damned - he had promised.

The letter couldn’t come soon enough. The longer the months grew, the more anxious you became, even to the point you struggled to fall asleep. When the first letter from Erebor came, you were one of the first party members to set out for the travel. It would take days until you finally reached the mountain.

“Within the glow that weaves a cloak of delight. There moves a thread that has no end.”

Having taken over for Thorin whilst he had been gone, had gained you an insane amount of respect from the other dwarves, so the travel had been relatively easy for you. But the moment you stood mere miles from the mountain, you had to halt for a moment, and let everything properly sink in.

The letter announcing Erebor had been reclaimed had come from him; you knew he was alive. But his sentences were brief and straight to the point. And you weren’t used to that kind of writing from him. It had worried you. Sure, he might have been fine, but what of the others? You truly had no way of telling.

“Shall we continue, my lady?” One of your companions asked, ripping you from your thoughts. You spared him a curt nod, and with that, the group continued walking again. Your anxieties would have to wait.

“For many hours and days that pass ever soon. The tides have caused the flame to dim.”

The travel through Dale had been heartwrenching. Mankind had still been rebuilding the city, but the state of the buildings and streets had been pathetic beyond words. You couldn’t imagine having been here whilst the dwarves were reclaiming the mountain. Shallow stares and brief nods were thrown your way as you climbed towards the entrance of Erebor.

When you reached the huge entrance, the air got stuck in your throat. From behind you, you heard some companions sob with glee - some even falling to the floor. You had reached the mountain proclaimed to have been impossible to enter. And the mere sight of it had shaken you to your core.

A figure neared you from a distance, and you had to squint to be able to tell the distinct features. A gasp of surprise left you as you took off running, nearing the figure quicker than he could reach you.

“Dwalin!” You exclaimed happily, pulling him into an embrace as you reached him - one he quickly returned. “Lass, we’ve been waiting for you!” He laughed heartily. It briefly made you forget the turmoil in your body earlier.

“Get in! It’s freezing out here.” He spoke as he parted from you, then gesturing for your company to follow him. After years of mourning and months of longing, you were finally back home.

“At last the arm is straight, the hand to the loom. Is this to end or just begin?”

A room had been appointed to you quickly, giving you your time to bathe and get dressed. As you stepped foot into the tub, you quickly noticed your reddened skin, likely from the freezing cold outside. You involuntarily shivered at it, the water feeling almost boiling. You tried to resist the feeling, clutching the edges of the tub tightly. Leaning your head down, you gave your body time to adjust to the heat, clenching your eyes shut at the burning sensation.

“Do not break the tub, please.” An all-too-familiar baritone once rang through the room, immediately causing your head to snap up. You must have been too caught up in the sudden temperature shift to have noticed him entering your chamber.

“Thorin,” You sighed relieved, getting out of the bath as quickly as you could, hissing at the biting cold now gnawing on your skin. You fell into Thorin’s embrace as he wrapped his arms around you, clutching you tightly. He fumbled for the edges of his coat, before covering you in them as well, now holding you against his shirt.

“You had me worried ill,” you mumbled, your head buried in the crook of his neck as you relished under his warm touch. “Ghivashel, I wanted nothing more than to write you every day.” He returned, his voice now equally hushed as his hands seemed to grip you even tighter.

“All of my love, all of my love All of my love to you. All of my love, all of my love All of my love to you.”

You might have stood there for minutes, but when you parted, it was still too soon for you. You noticed the faint distress on his face, though it wasn’t enough to immediately alert you. You didn’t know what he had been through, and you wouldn’t ask him just yet. For now, you were simply glad to be reunited with him.

“Get back into your bath,” Thorin spoke, observing your shivering figure. You dismissed him, reaching for the towel. “It can wait.”

However, before you could wrap the fabric around you, his hand halted you. Gently holding your upper arm, he turned you to face him. You didn’t feel ashamed under his gaze. If anything, you felt confident under it. “I’d rather not have you sick,” He mumbled. “You only just got here.”

That made you smile slightly, laying the towel back on its earlier place. You reached your hand up, your fingers lingering on his marital braid, toying with the bead slightly. It had clearly been polished.

“Will you join me?”

“The cup is raised, the toast is made yet again. One voice is clear above the din.”

And that is where you had found yourself right now, in the arms of the dwarf you had fallen for so many years ago, as naked as the day you were born. The water was a warm blanket around you, and his arms were a welcomed addition. You were gently scrubbing the dirt from your arms when your eyes fell upon his leg. Unable to surprise the hiss escaping your mouth, you turned to look at him.

“How did that happen?” You questioned worriedly, before your eyes fell back on his mangled leg. Bruises and cuts littered it, but most apparent of all was the huge cut on his foot. You resisted the urge to lean down and touch it.

“Azog,” He answered through a whisper, sending shivers down your spine. “Azog?” You repeated, looking at him incredulously. “I thought he had died.” “As did I,” He confessed. “But he is truly defeated this time. I made sure of it.”

You didn’t ask him about it. It seemed to not be something he wanted to talk about. Instead, you grabbed one of his arms, wrapping yours around it as you leaned back against his chest. Thorin seemed to relax under the notion, his head coming to rest atop yours. It had given you the perfect opportunity to obverse further extent of his injuries.

“Proud Arianne one word, my will to sustain. For me, the cloth once more to spin, oh.”

“How is the rest?” You wondered after a while, the question almost hesitant on your lips. “Alive,” He answered, the rumble of his voice reverberating through his chest. “Not in great shape.”

Though they were at least alive, it had been what you feared. It must have been the reason he had been so curt over his letter. His mind was easily preoccupied, and the thoughts of his companions in agony would be enough to leave him distracted.

“Your nephews?” You risked, a lump forming in your chest. He was silent for a while, before finally answering: “Fili is on bed rest. Should be back up in a matter of days. Kili doesn’t really talk. Rarely left his brother’s side.”

You hummed in understanding, rubbing soothing patterns over Thorin’s arm. “Reminds me of someone who wouldn’t leave his sister’s side after she fell out of that tree.”

Thankfully, that managed to get something similar to a chuckle out of his throat.

“All of my love, all of my love, All of my love to you. All of my love, all of my love, yes, All of my love to you.”

“They’ll live,” He continued. “I think Kili is more heartbroken than physically injured.” “Naturally,” You tried to understand. “He and his brother are close.” “It’s not that.” Thorin sighed, as if the topic hadn’t been one he would love to discuss.

He placed a kiss on the top of your head before continuing: “He has it out for an elf-maiden.” You let out a quiet ‘ah’ of understanding. “Don’t think the feeling is mutual.” You were silent at that, shaking your head in sadness. “Poor lad.”

“Yes,” Thorin agreed. “I might have let him run off with her if she had returned his efforts.” “Wow,” You added, slightly stunned. “Who are you and what have you done with my husband?”

Another chuckle came from him as he kissed your shoulders, his head now resting beside yours. “He had an awakening. Years too late.” “Yes, well,” You sighed. “The elves are douchebags.” A third chuckle came from him upon your words, his hair falling over your shoulders, the cold metal of the beads creating goosebumps over your skin. It had been a while since you had been so close to him, and the feeling of it had been better than you had originally remembered.

“Yours is the cloth, mine is the hand that sews time. His is the force that lies within.”

Silence struck the pair of you, both of you lost in your thoughts. There were so many things you still wanted to ask him, but you’d wait for debriefing tomorrow. Meanwhile, Thorin had too many things he wanted to tell you. He wanted to tell you about his new friend, about the battle with Azog, the fight against Azog, the reclaiming of Erebor… But there was one thought he couldn’t manage to shake. It was almost as if it was begging to come out.

“I lost my mind, amrâlime,” His voice suddenly cut through the room. “I think you would have left me if you had seen me.” His tone had a much more sombre sound to it than it had held earlier. You could hear him swallow before he continued: “I would have.”

You wanted to turn around in his arms, facing him completely, but his arms wouldn’t let you. He probably didn’t want to let you take a proper look at his face - a notion you hated, but you respected it for now. Instead, you looked at him over your shoulder, your face etched in concern. “Thorin, what happened?”

Another silence split the room, causing your heart rate to pick up slightly. You knew what had happened to his grandfather, and how frightened he had been that it would happen to him too. You remember having to reassure him for weeks before he left that he was stronger than his grandfather. Deep down, you hoped he had just lashed out at the elves and that that had been it.

But fate wouldn’t have it.

“Ours is the fire, all the warmth we can find. He is a feather in the wind, oh.”

“The gold. It got hold of me.” He admitted, his voice almost inaudible had you not been sitting this close to him. His breath was hot on your neck, making you aware of what exactly your proximity was. It wasn’t as if the warm skin on skin contact couldn’t tell that. “I almost killed my company,” He went on, “I let everyone outside Erebor suffer. They were begging for shelter and I let them freeze to death.”

And just like that, you were at loss for words. His greatest fear happened to him. That would explain his letter, and his adamence in revealing anything. If it had shaken you just half as much as it shook you, you couldn’t blame him for any of his actions. You swallowed thickly, doing your best to soothe him: “Did you avenge them?” “I should have let them in.” He ignored.

You sighed at him, understanding his conflict. “Yes,” You admitted. “But did you avenge them?”

He seemed to think that over, seemingly unsure of what to answer. “I fought for all of them.” He ultimately muttered, simultaneously dropping a huge weight from your shoulders.

“Good.” You whispered.

“All of my love, all of my love, All of my love to you. All of my love, all of my love to you now.”

He didn’t respond to that. You didn’t blame him. You felt for the conflict in his head - it was happening in yours as well. Be that as it may, it was up to you now to soothe him. To comfort him in any way you could. And since he wouldn’t allow you to turn around, words would have to work.

“A good king makes wrong decisions, but he always tries to make up for them.” You advised, toying with the ring on his finger. The gesture didn’t go unnoticed to him. It slowly brought him back from his thoughts, but he wasn’t out of the woods just yet: “Wrong decisions don’t include letting the helpless die when I could have easily prevented that.”

You resisted the urge to utter another sigh. Of course this lay heavy on his mind, but what was done was done. He of all people should know this: “You and I have both seen what madness gold brings with it. I think it is a miracle it no longer affects you. Perhaps for the best.”

With those words, he let out a low hum, a first sign of agreement. He knew you were right. But he had promised to never fall under that forsaken dragon spell, and it had taken hold on him as easily as it was to count to three. The idea that it could still happen again frightened him.

“All of my love, all of my love All of my love, love, sometimes, sometimes. Sometimes, sometimes, oh love.”

“I cannot enter the treasure room.” He confessed, the truth sounding even harder when it was spoken aloud. “You don’t have to.” You comforted. “I’d rather you keep from gold than risk losing your mind again. I’d much rather have you like this.”

At last, he allowed you to turn in his arms, his grip loosening slightly. You took the opportunity immediately, putting your legs on either side of his body as you sat in front of him. Now you could see his broken expression.

“Would you have a broken king?”

You gave him a sympathetic smile, grabbing both his hands as you squeezed them in reassurance: “I would have a broken man.”

“It’s all my love All of my love, all of my love, to you now.”

“What happened was unfortunate, I understand.” You emphasised. "But we cannot turn back time.”

One of your hands trailed up to reach his cheek, rubbing it gently, relishing under the touch of his stubble. “Don’t dwell on what could have been. Your company has lived, that is enough. The people have Dale. You did it, Thorin.” He nodded at your words, closing his eyes in silent bliss, leaning into your touch.

“Thank you.” He hummed, before his hands found your back, pulling you against his chest, your skin flush to his. You could feel the burdens lifting from his body in one long sigh, his arms coming to a gentle rest around your figure, his head thrown back in relaxation. Then, he spoke up again: “I haven’t returned to the throne room since the battle.” “I could walk with you.” You offered.

You felt his head shift slightly to look back down at you. “I want you to walk with me everywhere.” You smiled against his chest, kissing it softly. “I can do that.” A hum of content rumbled through him, his voice now a much looser tone. “I am glad you are in my arms again. I’ve missed you.” “The feeling is mutual.” You assured, a fond smile crossing your features.

“Good,” He mumbled. “I love you, amrâlime.” The words shot new butterflies through your stomach, something he always managed to do, regardless how long the two of you had been together. You chuckled at the sound, making yourself comfortable against him.

“I love you.”

“All of my love, all of my love, all of my love to, to you, you, you. I get a little bit lonely.”

[magenta-somethings]

how navaniel could have won

or, a 1700 word fic in which Navani is slightly more gay, Raboniel slightly less dead, and I play hard-and-fast with worldbuilding note: picks up right near the start of chapter 113 of RoW, which is where the first line is taken from

-

“My soul…is burned… almost all away…”

In another universe Navani’s mind—drenched in agony, overwhelmed with a piece of god—wouldn’t have focused on the semantics. She would have accepted the words and heard the rest of Raboniel’s dying request and retrieved the dagger and driven it into her heart. And after she would have left a note on Raboniel’s corpse naming her hero and commanding that it not be disposed of without consulting the queen. She would have seen to the funeral herself, and snapped at the Brightlord who questioned why an enemy deserved this honour, and later found comfort in her husband’s arms, even as she couldn’t think of how to explain the wound in her chest. For years, the memory of a hand and a voice, joined to her by song, would have haunted her. And it would have been a sweet haunting. One grief she would have cherished, even as she struggled to name it grief, unlike all the others of her life. 

But in this one, her mind tripped on soul. It picked it up and examined it. And the scholar in her found it inaccurate. 

“Not your soul,” she corrected. “Your Voidlight.”

“Is there… a difference?” asked Raboniel. It was intended to be rhetorical. The intended answer an obvious no. She was Fused, and so she could not exist without Voidlight. She hadn’t been able to exist without it for the last seven thousand years. She was bound for Braize, changed by the touch of Odium. And this time there would not be enough of her left to return to Roshar sane. Yet Navani was a scholar and, perhaps more importantly, a believer of the Almighty, even after everything, and so for her the answer was yes. There was a difference. 

The gears of Navani’s mind were beginning to turn, their teeth slotting together. “A human can be filled with Voidlight,” she said. Moash had proved that—at least there was one thing the bastard was good for. “And a singer can be filled with Stormlight.”

“I don’t… follow,” Raboniel said. But even through her agony, Navani could see a glint of interest in her eyes. She was a scholar too. Even to the end. 

Sibling, Navani thought, what if we were to fill Raboniel with Stormlight? Would it allow her to live? To keep her mind?

I—I do not know, the Sibling thought back. The Fused are not merely singers. Odium has changed them. And even then, she would likely need to be constantly infused. The Stormlight filling the hole left by Voidlight. 

A hypothesis formed and, despite everything, with it excitement. Navani would not feel guilty about that. Not now, at least. Guilt did not drive scholarship. What if she were a Radiant?

She could feel the Sibling’s bewilderment. Their connection still raw and sensitive. Less an exposed nerve and more a nerve that had never been covered in the first place. No spren would bond her.

Which was true. But that was not what Navani had in mind. That would give her too much power. She did not trust Raboniel enough for that. Yet she wanted her to live. It was a selfish desire, unworthy of a queen. But wasn’t that why? Raboniel had given her the gift of being a scholar. Of letting the world fall away, until it was just the two of them and science and a rhythm. The gift of being selfish. And now in front of her was a theory that begged testing. 

What about a squire? she asked.

Again, bewilderment. Worse. Insult. This was a dangerous game, when the Sibling had only barely accepted her. But she could not convince herself Raboniel wasn’t worth it.

Her? As our squire? She tried to unmake me. She would unmake all that remains of Honor.

She did. And she would. But did she not also join with me? Did she not sing the Rhythm of War with me? I’m your Bondsmith now. And our duty is to unite. Yes, she did you a great injustice. But if we can get her to join us, think of what it could mean.

The Sibling fell silent and in that silence she read begrudging acceptance. This would cost their bond, already so frayed in its first hour of existence, but she could make it up to them. The spren of this tower. Her spren, in the way she was their Knight Radiant. She could make this work.

“Are… going to share… your thoughts?” Raboniel forced out. “A theory… of yours would be… a good parting gift.” Pain soaked her every word, but still she spoke. “Or… a final punishment? It… would not work. Kindess… or cruelty… from you, I would accept both.”

Navani kneeled. Took Raboniel’s hand in hers, like she had when they uncovered the Rhythm of War together. “Raboniel, become my squire.”

Raboniel stared at her. A bark of laughter tried to make its way up her throat, but all that managed to escape was coughs. “Oh, Navani… my Voice of Lights. Even now, you… surprise me. But it will… not work. Pick up the dagger. I made more anti… anti… I made more. There.” A tilt of her head, just enough to gesture to her desk. “Please. End it. My suffering. Me.”

My Voice of Lights. What about that caused her heart to sing? Likely it was just the intensity of the day. “You said you appreciated anything that can still surprise you. Show your appreciation. Help me test one last theory.” Raboniel shook her head, but Navani could not let her refuse. Not yet. She needed to entice her. Get her to see the possibility of it. The potential. She tightened her grip on her hand. “You say it won’t work, but what kind of scholar would we be if we didn’t try? If we Infuse you with Stormlight, and then use the anti-Voidlight, your connection to Odium should be severed. If you are right, and your soul and Voidlight are one, then you will die. If you are wrong, you get to live one final life. One that could see the end of this war.” One that could be spent with me. The desire was unexpected, but not unexplainable. Her collaboration with Raboniel had been unlike any other. The things they could discover together, with just a little more time… 

Raboniel eyes were slits, barely open. But they were open. She had not closed them yet. Navani could still see the crimson intensity of them, more beautiful than any ruby. “An end…”

“If you still wish to die after our experiment,” said Navani, even as it pained her to say, “then any dagger will do the job. And if this fails and you are sent back to Braize without your mind… then I swear to find you, in whatever body you are reborn in, and fill you with enough anti-Voidlight that there will be nothing left for Odium to use.”

One of Raboniel’s thumb, slender and so weak, traced the edge of Navani’s hand. “Such sweetness… I have not tasted for centuries. Yet… I… we are still enemies… how could I… be your squire?”

How barren Raboniel’s life must have become, that this was sweet. Suddenly, Navani wished to see her drink wine of every colour. To see her filled with the taste of berry and honey and fruit. Raboniel would see most of the world dead, and yet Navani wanted only sweet things for her. 

It must be the intensity of the day. That, and the dying light of her eyes.

Becoming a squire normally takes time, shared the Sibling. But you have a Connection. If she says the words, then maybe…

“You want an end,” she began. She had tried to be logical in her arguments, a scholar presenting a theory, but the edges of desperation were creeping in. “Let’s find it. A better one, where human and Singer are united. Where we both win.” She grabbed her other hand as well, clinging to both like she could keep Raboniel’s soul anchored. “Please. Lady of Wishes. We are both of Odium. But we are also both of Honor. Place your trust me.”

“We are… equals.”

Navani stared into her eyes. Into the thin red line. All that was left. “Raboniel, please.”

Raboniel closed her eyes. And then her lips began to move. Somehow, she knew. “Life… before… death.”

She glowed. Not red, but white. The white of a sun directly overhead. The white of Honor’s lightning. The white of Stormlight. It was beautiful, and Navani wanted nothing more than to stare—to watch as Light traced her marbling and knitted together her flesh and mended dead limbs—but she couldn’t. She let go of her hands and scrambled to her feet. Grabbing the dagger on the way. The black sack and its terrible diamond was easy enough to find, and easier to slot into the dagger.

By the time she returned there was strength again to Raboniel. But now, no longer blinded by Light, Navani could see something dull about her eyes. A wound Stormlight could not touch. “The Lady of Wishes… a squire,”Raboniel said, and this time the pause was not from pain but from astonishment. “This will shock the others. So much of what we have achieved together will.” There was an amusement to her voice, and a grief, and what Navani thought might have been a hope.

“There is one final part to our experiment,” said Navani. 

“Of course,” said Raboniel. She stood, and how had Navani nearly forgotten how she towered? She would only just be able to reach the center of her chest. “Seven thousand years, and you are the first I have permitted to pierce my heart.” A humming. “If you are right… one more life. One that will be full of negotiations.” She tilted her head, as if listening to something. The rhythms. “If I am right… this is as tender a death as possible.” 

Navani, in that moment, wondered if she should be cradling Raboniel, like she did her daughter. In case this was a killing, one of mercy. But no. They were equals. 

Navani took a breath, and plunged the dagger deep. 

[spntoxicfemslashevent]

full prompt list

hey everyone! this is the full february prompt list for this event. we're going to have six prompts every day, so it's big! smaller versions containing only some of the prompts are forthcoming. ideally a piece submitted for a certain day should be inspired by at least one of the prompts for that day.

[conceptual prompts only] [pairing prompts only] [format/style prompts only] [prompts by date] [submission guidelines] [intro post]

conceptual prompts:

feb 1: manipulation || rot || political play

feb 2: tied up || burning flesh || jealousy

feb 3: suburbia || betrayal/judas kiss || doll

feb 4: blackmail || cannibalism || age gap

feb 5: blasphemy || executioner || genderless

feb 6: “...and it felt like a kiss” || on the rack || handmaiden-feudal lord

feb 7: sainthood || blood || isolation

feb 8: poison/drugging || barefoot and pregnant || murder suicide

feb 9: scars || heaven and/or hell || voyeurism

feb 10: shallow grave/midnight gardening || exes || serial killer(s)

feb 11: crossdressing || corpse || brat

feb 12: war/opposite sides || soulmates || guts/gore

feb 13: demonization || immortality || "forgive me father"

feb 14: unrequited || butch || imprisonment

feb 15: high school sweethearts || justifications || resurrection

feb 16: stabbing || masturbation || somnophilia

feb 17: turn the straight girl || kidnapping || ritual sacrifice

feb 18: stalking || substance use/abuse || comp het

feb 19: amnesia/mindwipe/lobotomy || flogging || forcefem

feb 20: vessel || make each other worse || gothic

feb 21: mistress || forced marriage || petplay

feb 22: demon deal || power imbalance || state of mind/dreams/confusion

feb 23: experiment || bastard child || what happened to her first husband/wife?

feb 24: curses || possession || infidelity

feb 25: controlling || temptation || "i ran into a door"

feb 26: victim || right hand || true crime

feb 27: humiliation || dubious consent || brainwashing

feb 28: family || true form || obsession

feb 29: closeted || sins of the father || not passing the bechdel test

pairing prompts:

feb 1: rowena mcleod/billie

feb 2: linda tran/ofc

feb 3: hannah/naomi

feb 4: rowena mcleod/alicia banes

feb 5: raphael/billie

feb 6: amelia novak/naomi

feb 7: abaddon/colette mullen

feb 8: ruby/astaroth

feb 9: cassie robinson/fem!dean winchester

feb 10: linda tran/mary winchester

feb 11: cassie robinson/meg masters

feb 12: linda tran/abaddon

feb 13: risa (endverse)/meg masters

feb 14: kelly kline/dagon

feb 15: linda tran/tasha banes

feb 16: billie/amara/the empty (meg)

feb 17: meg masters/jo harvelle

feb 18: patience turner/claire novak

feb 19: mary winchester/antonia bevell

feb 20: lily sunder/claire novak

feb 21: bela talbot/ruby

feb 22: patience turner/magda peterson

feb 23: fem!castiel/fem!crowley

feb 24: missouri moseley/ellen harvelle

feb 25: jody mills/donna hanscum

feb 26: lily baker/lilith

feb 27: hannah/caroline johnson

feb 28: raphael/naomi

feb 29: eileen leahy/mary winchester

format/style prompts:

day 1: canon divergent || drabble (exactly 100 words)

day 2: canon character/oc || traditional art

day 3: scifi au || non-traditional art medium

day 4: post-canon || gifset

day 5: canon compliant || metered poetry

day 6: reverse!verse/roleswap || sketch

day 7: epistolary || flash fiction

day 8: episode rewrite || fanmix

day 9: gender changes - het to femslash || script format

day 10: canon a little to the left || headcanon

day 11: outsider pov || fancam

day 12: 5 + 1 || exquisite corpse/round robin

day 13: for want of a nail || sequel

day 14: dark fluff || webweave

day 15: vignettes/fragments || fansong

day 16: polyamory || abstract

day 17: unreliable narrator || screencap edit

day 18: meta plot/metafandom/carver edlund novels || non-song based fanvid

day 19: crossover/fusion || multimedia

day 20: trans headcanon || podfic

day 21: humor || amv

day 22: au || fiber arts

day 23: gender changes - slash to femslash || comic

day 24: pre-canon || digital art

day 25: omegaverse || sentence fics

day 26: mundane au || photography

day 27: selfcest || freeverse poetry

feb 28: character study || fanwork-of-a-fanwork

feb 29: rashomon style || fic rec list

[meekmedea]

⭐️ keyboard conversations and/or wisteria blooms decorate our home! ⭐️

I think I said most of what I have to say about in another universe, wisteria blooms decorate our home in this ask here, but feel free to let me know if you wanted anything more specific from the fic :)

Ooh keyboard conversations!!! My first fic for the fandom...

Hmm... it's been some time since I wrote it, but I do remember how much music I'd pulled into it.

Fun fact! All the piano pieces named are actual songs. And Sonata X, the piece that Coriolanus and Clemensia cringe at the thought of being performed is the tenth piece from a collection called Sonata and Interludes by John Cage. What makes the piece a bit more special from your usual piece is that you've got a prepared piano where you essentially temporarily alter the instrument by placing things between the strings.

There's also an earlier scene where Clemensia is angry at him and they make things up when he joins her at the piano, transposing what she's playing to a higher pitch before they eventually end up playing a duet together. This one was highly inspired by this piano scene from Corpse Bride. In a way he's playing the higher pitch notes - sounding more optimistic + asking to be forgiven, while her lower pitch voices shows how she feels.

Piano/Music is sort of how they communicate - both with each other and a reflection of what they're feeling. Like how Clemensia plays angry/volatile/melancholic music after the 10th games.

Relationship-wise between Clemensia and Coriolanus, while the fic tags them as platonic, I want to say it's not very clear cut because I wouldn't say it leans completely to romance either.

Coriolanus is a bit hypocritical/biased and because we mostly read from his pov, we never really know how it looks from a different perspective. So he'll call it friendship, but get jealous over small things, he's oddly protective of her, 'jokingly' promise to kill her husband if the man doesn't treat her right...

Whether he refuses to admit his feelings or is genuinely oblivious to his own thoughts/actions is left up to interpretation.

Though near the end, that ambiguity begins to slip. This is one of my favourite parts that takes place after Clemensia's death:

Coriolanus goes to her funeral because it is expected. People would talk if he didn’t. He empties the decanter in his study that night - because it has always been more than just that. 

Just the mention of it being 'more'. Like more what?

And we can see the impact on him with her death -

She is gone and so had any thoughts for mercy.  The man isn’t allowed to live, nor his mistress. He arranges for it to be anything but painless. 

While it's never confirmed who's at fault for her death, l like to think that for Coriolanus, that's not the point. It's more of - she had to die, so now so do you and your mistress, for all the heartache/pain you caused her when she was alive. But don't get me wrong, if he does ever figure out who's responsible - the culprit isn't getting off easy.

[oingomyboingos]

Tag 9 people you’d like to know better. I was tagged by the lovely @icannotreadcursive

Last song: spotify tells me it is Honeymoon (Forever) by Hellogoodbye, which is off of my ineffable husbands playlist. I have good omens brain rot rn 😅 accepting fic recs if u have any

Currently reading: I have been slowly churning my way thru Mexican Gothic by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. 1950s Mexicana socialite must go investigate her cousin’s mysterious illness. the cousin lives in a spooky manor after she has married into the once-rich family of a British aristocrat, whose failed mining enterprise hangs over the town like a spectre. ALSO Tombs by Junji Ito—I very much enjoyed the title story and the one about the deep sea creature.

Currently watching: Recently finished Kingdom, and I can’t recommend it highly enough. It’s a korean period drama with zombies. The king dies while the queen is waiting to give birth, and the current heir starts a coup. What do you do if you’re from the queen’s clan and desperately want to stay in power? Why, infecting the king’s corpse and turning him into a zombie sounds like a great way to buy time until you have a new heir. The costuming is excellent (THE!!!!! HATS!!!!!!) and the characters are genuinely so likeable.

also going apeshit for star trek lower decks

Current obsession: I blame david tenant’s wonderful acting because after bingeing good omens 3 times in the past few weeks I have now returned to doctor who and am attempting to watch the 13th doctor. it’s fine. not the best quality writing. Im curious to see where this “lone cyberman” plot goes. the evil microplastics episode was silly. i want to know more about “ruth.” i liked the mary shelley bits, but I am slightly put off by the writers not letting thirteen think on the fly. ten always used to come up with these crazy schemes in the moment. meanwhile, in the mary shelley episode, they keep asking thirteen for help and she goes “yeah my brain isn’t working right now check back later.” like, hm. I don’t like the written in incompetence. or perhaps it’s the phrasing/set up of it that’s getting to me? it’s not that there weren’t challenges that were tough for ten, but the writers’ hand wasn’t so….evident? it always felt like big time lord brain working on the problem. now it’s as if they’re telling us “hush we haven’t gotten there yet so just deal with her being dumb no we will not give you more info yet or a satisfying reason for her to act this way.” i’m also not the biggest fan of the whole “oh look at me i’m talking to myself” jokes. I know they’re trying to make the character quirky and likeable, but the joke wasn’t funny the first time and now i’ve heard it like 8 times. save me. I have heard that her final season is better, so hopefully that’s true. I think I will be taking a break for now though so that I can watch more star trek lol

alrighty I’m supposed to tag 9 people i want to get to know better so! let’s go: @kayliflower @dolly-macabre @cosmosredshift7 @godofsickdreams @idylls-in-juniper @minecraftgender @transathenacykes @lezbfrenz @great-exhibition-of-1851

(only if u want to!)

[ghostinthelibrarywrites]

For WIP game - Poet part 2 and Shaerrawedd fic.

So the rest of a poet (whose weapon is his word) is really plotty, so there isn't much I can share without giving too much away, but here's a little snippet:

“Here you go.” He looks up to see Aiden come into his office in the back of the schoolhouse, carrying a mug of tea. “Getting tired just looking at you, songbird.” “Aiden, if I weren’t thoroughly occupied by two husbands, I would be getting down on one knee right now.” Jaskier takes the mug with a smile. Aiden snorts. “You should probably try the tea before you say that.” Jaskier takes a sip and is unsurprised to find it’s as strong and bitter as White Gull. “How many of the tea leaves did you use?” “All of them.” Jaskier had about a week’s worth of tea leaves in the kitchen. He sets the mug aside. “Thank you, my friend.” Aiden salutes and goes to lean against the wall, flipping his knife idly.

I talked about Shaerrawedd fic a little here, but here's another snippet under the cut!

“Everything is going to be alright, princess. There is no need to panic.” “I’m not panicking, Jaskier.” “Absolutely no need to panic. I’m sure wherever Geralt is, he has everything perfectly under control. He’s probably burying the fire fucker’s mangled corpse as we speak.” Yennefer opens her eyes to find herself staring up at the sky. Agony radiates from her shoulder. “And then he’ll be on his way back to us, right as rain—” “Jaskier, I’m really not panicking.” Ciri sounds exasperated. “It’s a pity he doesn’t have Roach with him. He’ll probably steal another horse on his way across the Continent and then we’ll have two Roaches running around, trying to bite innocent bards’ fingers off. Roach #1 and Roach #2.” The face of Yarpen’s niece, Gretta, appears in Yennefer’s line of sight. “Sorry, lass. I was hoping you’d stay unconscious a bit longer.” “Why?” Yennefer’s voice comes out a croak. “Because I’m about to take that arrow out of your shoulder and it’s going to hurt like a son of a whore.” Gretta looks over her shoulder. “Oi, Big Mouth!” “That’s Viscount Julian Alfred Big Mouth to you, madam.” Jaskier appears behind Gretta, eyes wide. “Be honest, Gretta, is she going to die?” “Already planning my funeral dirge, bard?” Yennefer bares her teeth into a smile. “Not quite. I have at least six celebratory songs written for the occasion of your untimely passing.” Gretta whacks him on the thigh. “Stop yammering and help her sit up. You’re going to need to hold her still.” “I’m fine,” Yennefer says as Jaskier gently helps her into a sitting position, kneeling behind her so that her back is braced against his chest.

WIP Ask Game

[antisociallilbrat]

Rules: shuffle your ‘on repeat’ playlist and post the first ten tracks, then tag ten people 🎶

Thanks for the tag @hunter-sylvester !

Ghost - Ella Henderson

You're Somebody Else - Flora Cash (depressing ass song)

Burnin' Up - Jonas Brothers (no shame here)

She Knows - J. Cole (this song has been on repeat for a fic lately)

Cocaine Jesus - Rainbow Kitten Surprise (<3)

My Eyes Adored You - Frankie Valli (screaming)

Never Satisfied - Corpse Husband

Same Mistakes - One Direction (one of my first fandoms)

Bulletproof Love - Pierce The Veil

Slow Down - Chase Atlantic

This was fun!

No pressure tagging: @reikunrei @robinsnance @grapesodatozier @thefloatingwriter @allen-richie @elmaxjunkie @ahoylovers @derrydeer @wheelzierkingdom @the-angry-pixie

[that-tall-queer-bassist]

🤲 🎶 

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

XD I'm gonna do it under the cut so if people wanna scroll by its easier

🎶 Do you listen to music while you write? What song have you been playing on loop lately?

I do! Sometimes its a handful of "not so chill lofi" playlists, but it's usually "Misa Misa" by Corpse Husband ft. Scxrlord (and someone else I think) because I love the bass and how rythmic it is.

(The snippet has spoilers for my ongoing half published fic, idk if anyone wants to stay spoiler free, but if you do, this is your warning)

This is a snippet from ch. 5 of "Alone?" which will be edited I promise XD

-

He remembered, he remembered, he remembered Pearl’s laugh and Jimmy’s mock offense and Martyns puns-

He could hear them so clearly, teasing each other, himself joining in getting an enthusiastic greeting of his name (his name), and they welcomed him- Grian, into their circle, still poking fun at Jimmy for losing his stuff to lava while strip mining. 

But none of that mattered. He couldn’t talk to her, he couldn’t ask if their friends were okay, he couldn’t tell her how much he missed them-

Because she would know. 

She would know Grian was turned into one of Them. 

Only speaking in riddles and rhymes, never showing his face, four purple wings with a look more like that of ink than feathers.. 

She would know. She’s too smart to not, and definitely too smart to let it slide. 

He would rather her think he’s dead than hate him for what he’s become.

-

[prettytoxicrevolver]

Chronically Online

How to Navigate:

❤ Heart = Fluff  ★ Star = Taylor Swift Song Fic  ⬥ Diamond = My Favorite Italics = No Work Posted Currently 

Headcannons

Dream 

Quackity 

Karl Jacobs 

GeorgeNotFound 

Sapnap 

Platonic!Ranboo

Platonic!TommyInnit 

Awesamdude 

Punz 

Foolish Gamers 

Corpse Husband 

Sykkuno

Mr Beast (Jimmy Donaldson) 

Chandler Hallow

[inciting-chaos-series]

Requests Masterpost & Guidelines

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These are some of our favorite types of requests: 

✧ Fandoms/Characters: ∴ Corpse Husband ∴ Supernatural ∴ Silent Hill ∴ Beastars ∴ The X Files ∴ ✧ Tropes: ∴ Angst/Fluff ∴ Unrequited Love ∴ Mutual Pining ∴ '(___) To Lovers' ∴ Forced Proximity ∴ Fake Dating ∴ ✧ AU: ∴ Apocalypse/Dystopian ∴ Vampire/Werewolf/Ghost ∴ Period Based/Setting Based ∴ Soulmate/Bonded ∴ Mafia/Royalty ∴ Roommates/Coworkers ∴

✧ We also have another post listing everything we are and aren't comfortable writing linked here.

If you don't see what you'd like listed, shoot us the request anyway and we might still do it :)

✧RULES✧

Please write 'request' at the start of your message

⫸ Minors DNI ⫸ No CNC/Non-Con/SA ⫸ No minor/adult pairings ⫸ No incest pairings ⫸ No real people pairing ⫸No bestiality (we will only write SFW human×non-human scenes. If they are both human in NSFW moments that's fine.)

✧Requests can be✧

⫸ Prompts ⫸ Pairings ⫸ AUs ⫸ Gifs ⫸ Photos ⫸ Videos (short) ⫸ Songs ⫸ Your ideas ⫸ Etc.

✧ PAST REQUESTS ✧

✦ The Final Project ( by Ghostiewvlf) ✦ The "Face" Of Youtube Horror ( by J The Ghost) ✦ Sweet Dreams, TN ( by Ghostiewvlf)

✧LINKS✧

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(Send A Request)

[ao3feed-crimeboys]

Welcome To The New Age

by AeldariOfManyFandoms

Inspired by Radioactive by Imagine Dragons (what is this, 2013? look, it's a good song and I saw brain images, okay?)

Wilbur finds himself ripped from his simple, cozy day-to-day life and thrown into a terrible situation involving immoral researchers and forced scientific experimentation.

Or, the fic that takes the Origins Mod in a bit darker of a direction.

Words: 322, Chapters: 4/25, Language: English

Fandoms: Origins SMP, Minecraft (Video Game), Dream SMP

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen

Characters: Wilbur Soot, Phil Watson | Philza, Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF), TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Original Scientist Characters, Niki | Nihachu, C, Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Jack Manifold, Scott Major | Smajor1995, Shelby Grace | Shubble, Toby Smith | Tubbo, Freddie | Badlinu, Beau | Beautie_ (Video Blogging RPF), Sam | Awesamdude, Jschlatt (Video Blogging RPF), Charlie Dalgleish | Slimecicle, Brendan Thro | Sneegsnag, Dan Middleton | DanTDM, Doctor Trayaurus (DanTDM Cinematic Universe), Ponk | DropsByPonk (Video Blogging RPF), Corpse Husband (Video Blogging RPF), James Marriott, Charles | Grian, Cara | CaptainPuffy, Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF), Lani Smith | LanuSky, Mr Beast Crew, Oliver Brotherhood | Mumbo Jumbo, Aimee | Aimsey (Video Blogging RPF), Billzo (Video Blogging RPF)

Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit, Phil Watson & Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & Tommyinnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Ponk | DropsByPonk/Sam | Awesamdude, (IMPLIED)

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based on Radioactive by Imagine Dragons, Wingfic, technically, Wilbur Soot Eats Sand, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings, Phil Watson is Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit's Parent, the dream team aren't the bad guys, this started out an origins fic and then expanded to the whole of MCYT, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Kidnapping, Forced Experimentation, rated teen for gore, Mild Gore, Blood and Injury

[rosethornewrites]

12/26-1/9 T & G reading

The usual

Finished

Teen:

snow on the beach, by faerietell

“Lan Zhaaaaaan,” a familiar voice cried out. Well, there went his peace and quiet.

Lan Zhan opened his eyes just as Wei Ying flew at him, looping his arms around Lan Zhan’s neck, teeth chattering. “Lan Zhaaaan. I’m so cold! It doesn’t get cold like this in Yunmeng. Look, my hands are freezing!”

//

Wei Ying easily gets cold.

Bright Voice Roughly Rendered Softly Silent, by Preludian_Staves (13 chapters)

The fight between Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian after the Fall of Lotus Pier goes differently, changing the course of events that should follow, but now don't.

Lan Wangji goes looking for the boy that captured his heart. (Also known as Wei Wuxian goes to the Gusu Lan earlier than in canon)

crushed ceramic, by doyeorem (pomellogranate)

Wei Wuxian falls several feet from a cliff, and then startles awake in the center of a bloody array with a heaving gasp. He’s supine on the dusty floor, limbs askew, his hair in such a state not even a rat would make a home in it. Four scars line his arm, and his entire body is screaming with pain. It’s like he’s been dropped into the Burial Mounds again, but instead of mindless corpses trying to tear him apart with their teeth, or colder than ice resentment burning through his meridians, it’s his soul turning on him.

He gasps again, and screams for his brother.

_

Wei Wuxian is resurrected, but the state of his soul is precarious. Jiang Cheng and Jin Ling seek to rectify this, but it will require some precautionary measures.

A Place for Fury, by The Feels Whale (miscellea) (2nd in a series)

There was a pain growing in Lan Zhan's chest and he recognized it as an old enemy. It had been a while since he’d had to truly struggle with his grief; not since he’d recovered from his punishment and left seclusion. Usually he wore it without shame.

Eventually he came to a walled courtyard; one that was slightly at odds with the surrounding architecture. Lotus Pier was built for natural light and to keep the air moving. Even the doors had large slats built into them.

He could see trees over the top of the wall and guessed it was a shaded garden; a place to retreat from Yunmeng’s relentless summer sun. Someone inside was playing music; a lazy tune played on a paixiao that tugged at the edges of his memory even though he couldn’t place where he’d heard it before. The garden gate, a large reinforced door, was shut and barred. Lan Zhan interpreted that as a typically Jiang-style hint that the garden was not open to visitors.

The song ended and seamlessly transitioned into a new melody that rooted Lan Zhan in place right where he stood.

He knew that song.

Or: that one where Lan Zhan catches up.

These Words on Your Skin (And Mine), by geethr75 (7 chapters)

The names of the people you love appear on your skin in the colour of their Sects, but when they die, the words burn away to form black lines.

Once, Jiang Cheng and Wei Wuxian had almost the same words on their bodies till Wei Wuxian dies and returns with a body devoid of any words, and Jiang Cheng the only one who remembers the names of the people whose names he once bore.

THIS FIC IS EXTREMELY JIANG CHENG FRIENDLY

When has silence saved anyone?, by Vrishchika (reread, locked to ao3 accounts only)

Wei Wuxian accidentally lets it slip that Lan Xichen called him Lan Wangji's only mistake. Neither his husband nor his son are happy about it.

Scars Etched in Heart and Mind, by silver_sun (2 chapters)

Canon divergent au from the last few minutes of The Untamed.

It tears at Lan Wangji's heart to let Wei Wuxian walk off in to the Jianghu without him. Yet he feels powerless to do anything else, certain Wei Wuxian needs his freedom, which he will not have if he remains with him in the Cloud Recesses. Walking back, alone once more, he breaks.

song of..., by HandsOfGold

Since the death of Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji has been withering away.

General:

A Dark Red Rose, by Luna - Soul (soulmatchmaker) (6 chapters)

Lan Wangji was just a regular person, doing his job and more often than not visiting a certain coffee shop.

However, one day he lays eyes upon a person who flips his world (and heart) around.

a kiss on the nape (is better than the lips), by Accidental_Child

The intimate, intricate ritual of doing your husbands makeup

every cloud has a silver lining, by thelastdboy

In the summer before A-Ying’s fifth birthday, he and his parents made a stop in Yiling. His parents left to night-hunt and never returned.

Two years later, an unimaginable devastation hit Qishan, when the volcano under Buyetian erupted. The main branch of the Wen Sect was eradicated and the survivors of the branch left to search for a new home.

Their paths crossed and A-Ying became part of their family. Years later, they found a new home at the outskirts of Gusu.

The Porcelain Lotus of Yungmeng, by The Feels Whale (miscellea)

Jiang Cheng was getting better at controlling his outbursts. He didn’t often bother, but he wanted a good deal on the saffron silk so he bit back the first furious bellow that threatened to escape him.

“He’s dead," he bit out. “At the siege at Nightless City.” He didn’t clarify which siege as old man Guo seemed to be one of the ten or so remaining people in the world who didn’t know Wei Wuxian had been the Yiling Patriarch.

He expected condolences and to be honest it would be nice, just once, if someone’s response to that revelation was something other than ‘well, good.’ Jiang Cheng’s anger at Wei Wuxian burned hot and cold. Most of the time he wanted to stab him properly. Other times the thing he couldn’t forgive was Wei Wuxian tearing free of Lan Wangji’s grip.

Old man Guo just blinked in confusion.

“Is he?” He scratched the back of his neck. “I must have been mistaken. Well that explains it, I suppose. I’d wondered why he didn’t recognize me.”

Or: that one where Wei Wuxian doesn't die at the Siege of Nightless City and Jiang Cheng finds him first.

Lan Qiren's Worst Day, by bluesloth (4 chapters)

Wei Wuxian fell asleep working on one of his projects in the Demon Slaughtering Cave.

Lan Qiren went to sleep at exactly nine.

They woke up in each other's bodies.

Unfinished

Teen:

In Walls of Glass, by Comfect

Lán Qǐrén thinks about different Lan rules when Wei Wuxian brings up resentful cultivation in class.

Everything goes better from there.

Seriously, everything.

You Saved Us, by Skyeriz

Wei Wuxian didn’t know since when he had this gift, he only remember his parent's death because of it

He remembered only a few things from his past, he will forever be glad he still remembers his parents loving figures.

He remembered the words his mother said to him while looking at his mother's exhausted eyes and his father's worried face.

“A-ying…. this gift, you must use it to help others, promise me don’t use it for any bad purpose okay”

His mother asked for a pinkie promise, and A-ying can never deny his mother's request so he took his mama’s finger and wrapped it in his own little finger.

Even though he still did not understand what gift his mother referred to.

Or the story where Wei Wuxian has a gift and chooses to go around making everyone happy, but he doesn’t know he also makes family along the way.

Shimei, A-Mei, A-Li, by fructosebat (locked to ao3 accounts only)

At age 8, several days after Jiang-shushu had brought Wei Ying back to Lotus Pier, Wei Ying called Jiang Yanli ‘A-mei’ in Madame Yu’s hearing and was subsequently hit once with Madame Yu’s spiritual weapon, a whip made of lightning called Zidian. It was not Wei Ying’s first time being struck—he’d had plenty of that as a beggar child on the streets of Yiling—but it was his first time encountering a spiritual weapon in such a way and he couldn’t help but cry out in pain and surprise.

“You’re not her brother,” spat Madame Yu.

***

Or: what if Jiang Yanli was the youngest?

The Shadow Land, by rymyanna

Darkness was growing in Yiling, the rumors said. It had started in a small corner of the territory and spread over the nearby towns and fields. No one the shadows swallowed was ever seen again.

The sects wanted to investigate but only one person may enter the barrier: Lan Wangji.

What has long been concealed, by Gaby007

The Burial Mounds change everything falling in their grasp, Wei Wuxian is well-placed to know it. Lan Wangji is rather nonplussed when he learns his beloved's secret yet seizes the opportunity to finally bring the Yiling Patriarch to Gusu and keep him safe.

Now, he just has to keep Wei Ying hidden from the cultivation world, and maybe he will get to learn some secrets of the Lan sect as he does.

Hand in Hand Together (All Your Life), by sami (37th in a series)

He tells his sister, "There's a little boy in Yiling with no parents and he's in trouble. We have to go and find him."

His sister smiles and says, "This is a good story, A-Cheng. Tell me more."

"It's not a story," he says. He's frustrated by his own childish petulance, but he can't seem to stop it. "I'm from the future. I know."

His sister laughs, and he glares, and then she clears her throat and stops laughing, but still has a small, indulgent smile. "Of course, A-Cheng," she says. "And what's this little boy's name?"

"Wei Ying," he says, and his sister's smile freezes. "His name is Wei Ying, and his parents are Zangse Sanren and Wei Changze, and something bad has happened to them. Wei Ying is alone in Yiling and he needs help," he insists.

Jiang Cheng starts again from the beginning.

Into the Dark, by milesofheart

Wei Ying stood at the edge of the cliff, fists clenched and trembling, his face twisted and broken. Blood stained his chin; sweat beaded against his sallow skin. Unacknowledged tears fell from his tortured eyes.

"Wei Ying," Lan Wangji pleaded, ignoring the noise of the battle and the desperate quiver in his own voice. "Come back."

Wei Ying's gray eyes turned toward him, but they were blank, lost and hazy. He knew Wei Ying was in that place again: lost to the agony of his own inner world, beyond the reach of any words.

Lan Wangji had always preferred action anyway.

Before he even finished the thought, he felt the cold bite of Bichen's blade as he pressed it gently against his own neck.

Bruises be damnded red and green, by amykissthedark

If Mingjue were any other man, he too would’ve paled at the sheer power like the Jin insects. If Mingjue were any other man, he too would’ve felt a bile coming up at the distinguished whispers of those black shadows surrounding the man. If Mingjue were any other man, he would’ve missed the trembling of those hands as they let go of Jiang Wanyin’s sleeves, the grimace as he hissed Wangji’s name, and the odd look he gave the Lan as he left them there,

Huh, interesting…

Mingjue was no Huaisang, Mingjue did not enjoy teenage drama yet…

Mingjue was really, really interested,

These Marks Upon My Skin, by LittleNarwhal

Deep in the Burial Mounds the Yiling Patriarch bleeds. Desperate to starve off the madness creeping deep into his soul he tattoos protective charms and talismans across his skin.

This changes everything.

Talking is Better than Silence, by KuroiWrites (blackcatkuroi)

"This path harms the body. Harms the nature of one's heart even more." Lan WangJi spoke those words upon first seeing Wei Wuxian alive after the Burial Mounds, unknowing of the truth.

Wei Wuxian, though, didn't need to be told, and he accepted that he'd lost whatever he might have once had with Lan WangJi. Several nights later, in a moment of drunken weakness under the melancholic light of a full moon, he tells Lan WangJi the Truth. He'd never needed Lan WangJi to spell out his fate for him - he'd known since he walked out of the Burial Mounds alive.

But one small bit of honesty can go a long way, and Talking is far better than Silence.

In My Defence, I Have None (For Never Leaving Well Enough Alone), by SemiLocalCryptid

Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, and Wen Ning are unsure of how they feel about Nie Huaisang trapping them in a soul-transferring array that sends them to the past, long before the happy ending they had suffered so much for. Reliving their most traumatic memories is not what they had planned when they went out on a seemingly innocuous nighthunt. But now that they're here, apparently to stay, they have no intention of making the same mistakes twice.

(Or, a Time-Travel AU where Nie Huaisang sends Wei Wuxian, Lan Wangji, Wen Ning, and himself back to their first night at the Cloud Recesses with an agenda: save everyone, especially his brother)

The Twin Ghosts of Yunmeng, by sandupommelfrog

After months of planning to resettle the Wen remnants and stop Wei Wuxian’s terminal decline from demonic cultivation, disaster struck, and Jiang Cheng was left alone, throwing away everything to try to save his brother including his life and his sect. But, he can’t let his own death stop him from his duty to his people or his love for his nephew, and Jiang Cheng breathes again to begin the slog of rebuilding. The years are long, the world is dangerous, and his own health is a daily battle, but Jiang Cheng is not alone this time.

Even with Yunmeng Jiang destroyed, the outside world still fears the vengeance the Twin Ghosts of Yunmeng will wreak upon them, and they will rise again as snakes writhe in Koi Tower and the tangles of deception gradually untwist.

Also a mer au :D

Updates twice a month on mondays!

General:

Lies and Truth, by parodismal

What happen if Lan Wangji decided to actually check Qiongqi Path after Wei Wuxian leave?

....

It leads to a domino effect towards a new Chief Cultivator

Is it a better?

Or worse?

After the end starts a new beginning, by Hellcat8340

It's been a few years since the whole thing with Jin Guangyao and Wei Wuxian and Lan Wangji are happily married. however, strange beasts are starting to appear and they may or may not be related to the mysterious death of Wei Wuxian's parents.

Love Blooms So Easily, by Evenstarr

Lan Wangji knows his days are numbered when he coughs up a flower petal. Even so, he will never stop loving Wei Ying.

Rating may change later.