#gold blue sconce lighting

[likeimseventeen]

Multiuse Laundry Boston Example of a mid-sized transitional light wood floor and beige floor utility room design with an integrated sink, recessed-panel cabinets, white cabinets, wood countertops, white walls and a side-by-side washer/dryer

[chasingrainbowsforever]

~ Slate Blue ~

[intothewordless]

Powder Room Austin Example of a mid-sized eclectic marble floor and gray floor powder room design with a console sink, marble countertops and blue walls

[daughterofyore]

Even Days.

wc;; 1.5k approx.

a/n:: I love dominant women

summary;; another even day and you are fuelled with anger, you take charge until hi

contents;; dom woman, very light bdsm, breeding kink, degradation, praising, switch man,

!!W!!;; MINORS DNI!! No real warnings, nothing too crazy

music inspo;;

You stripped off your gown, the maids rushing to try and prevent it from being wrinkled or breaking a jewel. You were in no mood for pleasantries. Today was an even day. A day in which you had zero time to be polite, you had a job to do. A job which was demanding, time consuming, utterly stupid and yet… you secretly loved it.

The warm amber ambience of the sconces on the walls held a dim light in the room. The handmaidens hurriedly took off your undergarments, but began to approach you with lotion. “It is not necessary, just get me a nightgown.” You raised a hand to stop them, they nodded and one lady grabbed a silky blue nightgown. She slips it over your head and let’s it fall over you. It covers you yet does not leave much to the imagination. Your nipples were hard against the cold air, they pressed against the sheer fabric. A different maid rushes to take your hair out of its elaborate do, pins and jewels clattered onto a gold plate on the armoire. They sparkled, a fortune sitting right before you. What a waste. You looked out the window and towards the sky, looking at Venus. You said a silent prayer, begging, pleading that she make it right between you and George. Sure, this hate-fucking scenario was fun and oddly enough you enjoyed it, but you wanted a connection. A genuine love. You wanted your attempts at love to be reciprocated and for him not to be so… closed off.

The moment the maids finished tying the nightgown around your waist you turned and stormed out of the room. You strode down the hallways, Brimsley struggling to keep up. You felt tears prick at the corners of your eyes, why did he refuse you? Why were you diminished to appointments to fulfil your ‘womanly’ duties? Why was this how your marriage was to be, how had this become your role in life. To serve and adulterate for a King, a man you barely knew.

The guards opened the doors to the kings room, you were overcome with emotion and truly, you just wanted to fuck the ever living shit out of him. “It is an even day.” You declared as you stormed towards him. He dropped his quill at his desk and immediately stood to meet you. Before the large doors could close his hands were on your hips. Exploring your body as he pulled you to be flush at his front. He pressed his lips to yours, desperate for their touch. Your tongues mingling as you kissed feverishly. He gasped out between kisses, as he undid the robe around you, “Are you alright?” His voice heavy with lust, speaking only when your lips were not on his. “I am fine.” You say breathlessly, your fingers making short work of his loose white shirt and britches. Immediately your hands were diving to his cock, fingers wrapping around it’s length and massaging it torturously. He managed to strip you of your robe, and as you watched his cheeks flush, he bit his lip as he looked down at you. Your ministrations never ceased as you used your left hand to pull down his pants. You were in charge tonight. You were the one who was going to fuck him mercilessly like he did to you each even day. The anger you felt towards this arrangement would surely fuel you to make sure the man wouldn’t walk by morn.

Eagerly you steer George back, pressing him against the wall beside the bed. Your hand still working on his cock, only now it was free and hard, pressing flush against your stomach. George didn’t know where to look, his eyes darted down to his dick and your hand then back to your face. Sheer determination and lust filled those eyes, he knew then what was in store for him tonight. Or at least he thought he did.

As if reading his mind you wrap your fingers around his dick, holding it a little tighter as George winced above you. “Lie down on the bed, my King.” He nodded hastily, eager for you to relinquish your grip on him. It was only when he was laying across the bed did you let go, only to manoeuvre between his legs and take him in your mouth. Expertly swirling your tongue around his tip, one hand working his length while another held and squeezed his balls. His eyes were wide as he watched you from above, panting heavily. It was clear he was in shock over your sudden twist in roles, but he was enjoying it.

You’d make sure of it.

You pressed down onto his dick, taking one deep breath through your nose before taking all of him. Your nose pressed against his navel as he squirmed beneath you. You repeatedly took him deep, each time growing the intensity while playing with his balls. He was begging now, “Please, oh fuck- please.. I’m gonna cum!” His fists were gripping the sheets, arms straining. You could feel the growing tenseness and with one last suck you took him out of your mouth and aimed his dick back at him. His cum shot across his chest, making a home on his chin. He gaped at you, shivering after such a vicious orgasm. “When did you- How did-“ He could barely speak, in awe of what you had just done. You simply waved a finger at him, grabbing the panties you had worn and stuffing them in his mouth.

“You will do what I say tonight George.”

He seemed to melt at your words, nodding, albeit reluctantly. You moved back, straddling his lap as you lined him up with your entrance. The moment you felt his tip slip in you, you let yourself fall onto his cock. He let out a muffled moan, his eyes watering while he watched you ride him with expert precision. Your hips rolled back and forth, up and down, he was a moaning mess. Saliva dripped from the corner of his mouth, mixing with the cum that still rested on his chin. Your hands came to rest on his chest, balancing yourself as you rode him. His hands reached for your hips, bucking up into you and creating a titillating rhythm. “George…” you gasped, never truly adjusting to his size and girth as it plunged into you. He took it as a sign to fuck you even harder, skin clapping throughout his chambers, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. Your breath mingled as the pair of you neared release. His muffled moans and your cries for him to fuck you harder echoed around the room.

The wetness formulating from between your legs doused his lower stomach and your inner thighs. The wet slap every time your skin met only fuelled your desire for each other. George grabbed your ass as you continued to roll your hips on him, his fingers kneading your flesh before landing a light slap. A moan escapes you and fuck, you want him so badly. Each time he puts his full length into you, his dick perfectly pushes against your g-spot. Your legs and knees are weak, you swore only he could fuck you like this.

You couldn’t hold it anymore, the pressure in your core building, George gripping at you, still with your underwear in between his teeth, he was feral. Without warning, he grabs your hips and literally spins you on his dick to be on all fours. He starts ramming into you from behind, pushing down on your back to make you arch. “Oh fuck yes… you beautiful woman-“ He is gasping as he pistons into you repeatedly, you can’t even think. All that comes out of your mouth is saliva and moans. He’s so fucking delicious.

“I’m going to fill you up so much my beauty… you’ll look so sweet pregnant with our heir.” That was it, you came in one shuddering gasp and Alamo’s simultaneously George fucked you one last time before a warmth filled your belly. The pair of you gasped, tired and exhausted.

George picked you up gently, staying inside you as he rested you on top of his chest, brushing your hair out of your face. He placed a tender kiss on your forehead, as you get comfy on him. “I love you, my queen.” His face sweet, a glowing, tired smile evident now that he had spit out your panties.

You chuckled, kissing his chin. “I love you too, King George.”

[lexisartblog]

Title: An Ornate Palace

Fandom: DC: Nightwing/Deathstroke x Captive Prince (C.S Pacat)

This piece was a special gift for @shrikethegremlin - we had a lovely time discussing their Captive Prince SlaDick Au!

Thank you for sharing your amazing writing with me, my friend! 🥰

A very special treat! Shrike has given me permission to share a lil snippet!

Check under the cut!

This fortress could be nothing more dissimilar than the grace of the Greco-Roman fortifications they'd left behind.

The place was ornate, heavily embellished. It was all dark wood carvings and archways draped in velvet. The halls they were led down were stone, lit with flaming sconces. Finally, they arrived at a sturdy door, and one of the two attending guards pushed it open.

Inside was warm. Silk couches were carelessly strewn with pillows. Light refreshments of cheese, bread, and preserved meats were artfully arranged on a silver platter, on a table above a thick rug. A fire crackled in the ornately carved hearth. But these things were background noise to Slade, who had eyes for only one thing.

“Richard.”

He was dressed in the subdued and severe styles of this land's court, a subtly expensive brocade jacket with intricate lacings and fitted silk pants. But his ears were studded with gleaming sapphires, sparkling in the firelight, making the blue of his eyes almost unreal. A delicate gold circlet rested around his neck, and something that looked concerningly like gold cuffs adorned his wrists.

"My Dove."

- Written by @shrikethegremlin 🥰💝

[shepherds-of-haven]

What's the difference between a witchlight, a Magelight, and a Magelamp?

Good question! I'm kind of surprised I haven't answered this before (I probably have but can't find it lol), but here's the breakdown:

A witchlight is a small, roughly candle-sized flame that a Mage conjures. It's almost always a ghostly blue flame and is always attached to a Mage's hand, palm, or thumb. It can sometimes be different colors, like green or purple. Every person has a slightly different way of conjuring their witchlight: some hold it cupped in their upturned hand, others hold it in a 👍 position or even a 🫰 position, whatever is most natural to them. I think of it as a magical Zippo lighter. Looks kind of like this:

It doesn't usually get as big as the last picture, but you get the idea. Notably, the "mnemonic" gesture to conjuring a witchlight is always snapping your fingers together a few times, as if they're made of tinder and flint.

A Magelight or magelight is less of a flame and is more of a golden orb of softer ambient light. The difference is that they are always gold, white, or pale yellow in color, illuminate a much wider area than witchlights, and notably are more "autonomous": they can float ahead of you or bob alongside you pretty much on their own, whereas a witchlight is attached to your hand and has to be held aloft like a torch. Magelights are more independent and don't require much active thought once summoned, serving more as levitating balls of illumination than little flames.

A Magelamp is a physical item that resembles a Victoria-era gas lamp. They're usually set into walls as sconces or overhead as ceiling fixtures and provide diffuse ambient light, pretty much how a gas or electric lamp would. They're constructed from anbar and zharril, Mage materials that can be charged with magical energy and spellwork, and are powered purely by magic. (Magelamps used to be just chunks of zharril crystal that would hold magical light really well before slowly fading... kind of like... glowsticks?... but they've been around for a really long time and have gotten much more advanced over time.) Because the magic lies within the lamp itself, Magelamps can be operated by both Mages and non-Mages. The Shepherds' compound is lit largely by these--so you can walk into a room and they'll automatically light up, or you can speak the command word and they'll light up according to your directions (like "light only the western sconce" or "turn down the intensity by 50%"), but this last part is finicky if you're a non-Mage and you'll usually have to get a spirit to help you if you want to do really fancy things--but they do have to be recharged by a Mage every five years or so. There are also oil and gas lamps and candles/braziers throughout the compound, too, though!

Hope that all makes sense! :)

[bonesofapoet]

even dragons must yield

[ aemond targaryen x you ]

author’s note: literally just a stormy atmosphere and aemond flailing around like a fish out of water bc What The Hell Is Healthy Communication when ur family is Like That??? a bit of hurt/comfort. language.

word count: 2098

The afternoon air was thick with tension and dripping destruction, though you seemed to be none the wiser. So swept up were you, in the beauty of deep blue skies and the path of charcoal gray clouds as they passed by on the warm wind. The parchment balanced on your knee was half forgotten, the pot of ink and writing quill sitting on the windowsill as a mere figment, now. A storm must be brewing over the sea, and you wondered if you would experience it before night fell and sleep welcomed you with wide open arms.

Prince Aemond was many things, on many occasions, for many people. He was calculating, yet tempered. Unforgiving, attentive. Impulsive, and intelligent. He was wild, yet subtlety - veiled or otherwise - had proven to be a quality that he had shown little interest in practicing. It was something he never seemed to regret, even if it meant spiraling petty feuds into further disarray, or simply tugging on fraying threads during family dinners that lead to hurled threats and slamming doors. It was a little cocoon of his own making, this calmly crafted life of controlled chaos.

Yet you were the exception - both you and Heleana - until, of course, it was only you that remained shielded no longer.

You were oblivious, in your daydreams, to the chaos raging fierce and strong in your own home - until the door to your rooms flew open to crack sharply on the wall behind.

Aemond didn’t expect to find you here. With the evening promising rain and fury, he assumed you’d be enjoying the fresh air as long as time allowed, but. He had come here to breathe, yet the irritation simmering slow and hot and vicious under his skin craved a release of any kind, as it always does. Regret was hardly an intimate word for Aemond, yet it lingered, unyielding, clouding his mind once the red melted from his vision and his blackened heart returned to gold. 

The way he’d allowed his lack of care to send you slamming the door to your apartments as you left him - fuming, in the wake of your own reciprocated wrath - well. It left him feeling anything other than comfort.

It was a whirlwind in the flesh, truly, the tense words he had flung to bite at your heart. Cold, calm fury battered them aside, broke through the weakening shield Aemond held fast around himself in an excuse to project without circumstance. Without consequence. He hadn't been able to draw blood of course, you knew him too well to know it wasn't you that had cracked his everlasting dragonskin.

You, however, had always been a different story.

Armed to the teeth with words that would puncture, pierce, cut to bleed and twist, when pushed too hard, too far; a cloak of blame had been settled upon your shoulders, and it was not yours to bear. You tore it off with a simple tug, flourished the fabric in such a way that it clung to the Prince himself, the villain in this particular instance, but not a villain at heart.

Aemond was left staring where you had once been; a window that was open, brilliant view of the darkening sky echoing behind you, the sole outlet for the latest qualm that had been one push, one prod, one irrelevant instance too far - because, well.

As collected as he usually was, there was always something that would push anyone over the edge.

Regardless, he had never once abandoned the training grounds to take his ire out on you. He sought only your company after all; a sun, a saint, an equal to temper what always tried to break through the rising tide.

Seven fucking hells.

It wasn't a surprise, when he did not follow you through your rooms, or down the glowing hall.

Sconces were being lit as a false twilight fell, the sweet, early arrival of blue hour inspired haste in the servants lighting your way to the library. The shadows were chased away, one by one; yet the shadow that still enveloped your path was not of nature's doing, nor was it your own.

Wooden doors loomed before you, bracketed by torches bright and warm and welcoming. You had stalked all the way here you realized, swift and mindless in where your feet had been taking you. Anger still burned through your veins, when you pushed the door open with your whole body. Hinges groaned with the sudden movement jarring them awake.

Silence engulfed you once the door fell shut. Familiarity took you into its arms under the soft light of candles guttering in the fresh stir of air - rarely, did anyone come here at this hour. The knowledge that you wouldn't be disturbed tempered your fire.

The sigh that left your lips was ragged. Shaken. Hurt.

This was something new from Aemond - something that made you wonder what in the seven hells just happened.

Your feet carried you to the nearest window, and the breeze that met your skin was a soft caress tasting of salt and comfort - probably - since that was something you would not be receiving anytime soon, you imagined. Not from the one you wished, at least.

He made that quite fucking clear, actually.

The drawl of distant rumbling welcomed you as you journeyed farther into the room, fingers trailing along the old wooden tables in your wake. The emptiness was peaceful, the candlelight warm and soft in stark contrast with the scene you just left to simmer. You went to the windows, drawing them in tight, before the rain could intrude where it did not belong.

Anger was a fickle thing, you thought, turning a corner. The goal was to become lost in the maze of shelves piled high with long forgotten crumbling volumes. To find a tome that caught your eye in the looming shadows, then settle in with it while you tucked yourself up into one of the few window seats with the raging sea below as your steadfast companion.

You’d stay here with your false peace until your eyes drifted closed and your head leaned against rain spattered glass. Unless, of course, you were confident that retracing your steps to venture back wouldn’t reignite what brought you here in the first place. Perhaps then, you would be cooled enough to seek each other’s company, as your heart so longed to do, even now.

Even so, the distant rumbling grew louder with each page you turned. Rain crackled into the glass as the wind whipped past. The more you read, the pages became even more brown and stiff as they slowly shared with you their age.

The storm, once far out of your sight, seemed to be right on top of you now as it unleashed its fury hard and strong and fast as it battered itself again and again and again against the city below, and punished the castle walls themselves.

It was because of this, that every sound coming from within was, of course, as good as silent.

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His voice filled what little lull a storm of this magnitude could give. It slid over your skin, soft as silk, slipped in through the little cracks along with the rain and wind and thunder alike.

Prince Aemond stood in the glow of torchlight, illuminated wholly in the warm caress of flickering flame. He remained some distance from you, mindful of the space you held both for yourself, and, more pressingly - the distance you created when he pushed you oh, so splendidly away earlier that evening.

“Well,” your eyes slid away from the prince, to instead find the paragraph they had been pulled away from. Your next words were spoken idly, if not with remnants of ferocity coating them as you resumed reading. “You do know where I like to hide.”

Aemond shifts his weight - it’s caught out the corner of your eye - and a shadow promptly slips across you to blanket the words on the pages. It was, by design, a darkness you weren’t able to see through, not with the storm outside batting aside the sun’s dying rays with its gray clouds and veils of rain.

Intentional.

“So you are hiding from me.”

“‘Hide’ is not the word I would use.”

“Isn’t it?”

The book snapped shut in your hands on a sigh dragged from the weary depths of your heart. They were both, unfortunately, swallowed by another rolling volley of thunder. The timing was so dramatic, so absolutely you, that it wasn’t Aemond’s fault when it inspired a harsh roll of his eye.

He could be dramatic too, if only to distract you from the way his lips quirked, the flash of a smile threatening to show itself in the darkness, or in the shine of the firelight still kissing fragments of his skin. Aemond knew this wasn’t the time for jokes, yet even he could appreciate the irony of the trap he laid, and, quite gracefully, stepped right into.

Lightning forked through the sky on another crash of thunder, the flash cold in contrast to the warmth of the library. It was jarring, how the harsh, white light exposed everything, always, quickly and quietly before it melted back into the safety of blowing rain and raging waves.

And yet, it was enough. Enough to see the tension weaving its way through Prince Aemond’s jaw, and the set of his shoulders. How he hid his hands behind his back, no doubt clasped and curled in an unbreakable grip. Aemond clearly found no comfort here tonight. He held himself wound tight - even more so, almost, than he did when all the eyes watched him while at court.

You, on the other hand, were relaxed, given the circumstances. Lounging comfortably in the window seat while allowing the peace and the stillness to wash over you in the place you felt safest in all of King’s Landing.

Guilt, you realized, still sitting in his shadow. This was what his guilt looked like.

You had wondered if Aemond could even feel such a thing.

“No,” you answered his question slowly. Let the bite fade from your voice and fall into the storm. Let it melt back into nothing. “I believe I would choose ‘isolate'. I assumed neither one of us wanted that conversation to continue while clawing at each other’s throats, as we were.”

Aemond took a breath, inhaled loud and sharp in time with a sheet of rain being pushed against the windowpane. He looked away as you watched him, your feet uncurling from their place on the seat, the volume slipping through your fingers to rest beside you.

“No,” he says, “I suppose you’re right.”

You stepped from the shadows and went to him, still hiding in the safety of the dark. He longed to reach for you, longed to feel your skin, warm from the fire, warm from the peace you always seemed to carve for yourself - but his fingertips were cold from the time he spent solitary in your rooms after you had gone. The fires burned to ashes as he tempered himself, once again, into honed steel that the prince sheathed - if only so he could see you again, without drawing blood once more. Now that he found you, he feared you would find only ice under his touch, instead of comfort.

It made his heart ache.

And you -

Aemond shouldn’t have been surprised, when he found his fingers threaded through yours. A hand glided up to rest on his jaw, guiding it gently to face you. The fire was gone from your eyes, tension nowhere to be found in your body language. He could see in you, just how much you could read him, even when he said so little. Even when he said everything he didn’t mean.

“Come on,” you took a step backwards toward the entrance, tugging on his hand as you did so. The corners of your lips quirked, the prelude of a small smile illuminating the shadows Aemond still hid in. “Let's go brew some tea and. . .maybe we can talk.”

His head dips in agreement, oddly silent since he last spoke. It was almost as if. . .as if he wasn’t sure the words that wanted to spill out would be the right ones. Kind ones. Instead, his chilled fingers finally curled gently around your own.

All he can bring himself to say is, “Lead on, darling.”

So you do, leading him through gloomy shadows deepened by the storm, to hallways illuminated by torches, by lightning, by you. 

[super-ion]

Such Lovely Fur

[Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3]

Chapter 4

I go on alone.

The passage through the mountain winds and branches, confirming my suspicions of a labyrinth. The light from the entrance persists for a time, longer than it would before my eyes were changed, but soon I am enveloped in pitch darkness. I am guided only by the faint sounds of the space, the subtle smells and whispers of breeze.

I make my way ever forward and ever higher until I discover the faintest light once more. The walls become carved in sharper lines and I begin to pass sconces bearing torches with a strange blue fire that gives off no heat. Eventually the stone walls give way to ice. As I proceed, the temperature drops. The chill of this place penetrates even my thick fur coat and my breath comes out in great clouds.

The further I go, the smoother and more ornate the walls become until I find myself wandering a grand palatial space. It is unnervingly empty, the study paws of my feet barely make a sound, but my footsteps still echo ominously.

That is until I hear the music. The music is somehow worse. It means someone is here. This horrible frozen palace is someone's home.

It is true that I have spent the past few days cavorting with a demon, but Rook was a physical presence, something I could relate to. This place is saturated in some primal elemental power that I cannot fathom.

The music grows ever louder as I make my way higher, drawing me ever closer to my goal. I know that when I find the source of the music, I will find my betrothed.

I finally reach a grand hall, grander than any I have passed yet. Every surface of the ice is carved in exquisitely fine details. The music emanates from a pair of mighty doors at the end of the hall.

As I walk, I suddenly spy a figure out of the corner of my eye. I am so on edge that I leap back in animal fright, laying my ears back and fluffing the fur on my tail. My reflection responded in kind.

What I mistook for another parallel hallway is actually a mirror… or at least a sheet of ice polished mirror smooth.

I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I have been frightened by my own reflection, but in my defense, I have not seen myself since my transformation.

I stare at the thing that I have become.

I had at least some idea of the fur and the paws and the tail, but Rook's final gift comes as a shock. My face is still generally my own, but the leopard features are unmistakable. My eyes are the color of polished gold, with the irises covering most of the visible surface. My nose has flattened and the tip has darkened. Feline ears poke out from snarled hair that has become the same silver grey color as the rest of my. I bare my teeth and find that my canines are larger than I initially thought.

I have become a beast, more animal than human.

Resolute, I walk to the doors and through the translucent ice, I can make out dim figures moving in time with it.

I take a breath and push them open to reveal a grand ballroom. The space is impossibly cavernous, larger and more extravagant than any room in the manors of any of the merchant princes in my home country. The space is filled with hundreds of dancers garbed in finery from every conceivable culture, from far distant lands and ages long forgotten. Each one of them is more beautiful than the last. The court of the Lady of Winter. Her collection.

All of them have a strange bluish cast to their skin and frost rims the edges of their clothes. Upon my entrance, the nearest dancers fall impossibly still to stare unblinking at me with impassive expressions. The stillness spreads out from me like a ripple in water and the music fades away.

The room is absolutely silent, I am distressed to discover that the only sound is my own heartbeat. Terror siezes me as some mysterious animal instinct tells me that these people do not smell alive. Nor do they smell quite dead. They are frozen, kept animated and eternally beautiful by the everpresent unfathomable power of this place.

I hear another sound, a slow heartbeat at the far end of the chamber.

I take a step forward and the crowd parts. They all stare at me. They stare at my torn and filthy clothes. They stare at my fur and my tail and my ears and my eyes.

I want to run. I want to flee this horrible place.

I take another step forward and another and another until I finally reach a raised dais.

A woman sits on a grand throne of ice that gleams iridescently behind her. Her skin is impossibly pale and perfectly smooth as if she were carved of ice herself. Her hair is white as snow and her eyes are the color of the pale blue ice around us. A crown sits atop her head, gleaming silver and studded with diamonds. Her dress is some sort of silvery silk, shining impossibly like a mirror made into fabric.

I have heard tales of her. All children have. Be good or the Lady of Winter will come for you in the night. In some versions of the tales she is a witch who gained the secret of immorality. In others she is a spirit made flesh, a physical manifestation of winter itself. She is a collector of souls, stealing people away from their homes and bringing them here.

I am so terrified by her presence that I only belatedly notice the figure seated at her side.

My betrothed is clothed in the very same regalia he wore on the celebration on the eve of what was meant to be our wedding. His heart beats so slowly in his chest and his eyes are glazed over, surely in the process of being frozen like the rest of the people here.

He blinks and some of the fog lifts from his eyes. He stares at me for a long while before recognition finally sets in.

“Astra?” he gasps. “What happened to you?”

I should be relieved that he recognizes me, but terror and doubt and uncertainty eat away at me.

“I came to rescue you,” I confess. “Along the way I met a demon. In exchange for her freedom she granted me gifts to not only help me survive but to reach you.”

His eyes widen in horror.

“You did this to yourself?” he asks. “You made yourself into a monster?”

A monster?

My doubts and fears crystalize in my belly. A wave of despair floods through me, but to my surprise it is followed by a wave of hot anger. Rook has given me incredible gifts, they are unorthodox certainly, but they are beautiful.

“Is that how you see me?” I snarl. “A monster? I did this to save you!”

He recoils at the heat in my voice. He opens his mouth, but the Lady of Winter silences him with a raised finger.

“It seems you have a choice, my pet,” she says, her voice resonating unnaturally from the very walls. “Remain here, unchanged and beautiful for eternity, or return home with your fiancee and the knowledge of what she has done to herself.”

He casts her a wild desperate look.

“You would simply let me go?” he asks.

“There are powers in this world great enough to challenge mine,” she replies. “This one has shown great devotion in making the treacherous journey here. If it is indeed true love that drives her, I dare not go against it.”

He looks back to me.

“Astra,” he pleads. “Tell me there is a way to break your curse. We can return home, we can have the life we were meant to have.”

A curse?

“This… this is not a curse,” I gasp. “It is a gift.”

“Astra,” he pleads. “A demon has addled your mind. You have dabbled in magic. If we return and you stay as you are, there will be no place for you in civilized society.”

His words hit me like a hammer

He truly cannot see the gift that has been given to me, can he?

He asks me to change for him?

What is it that your heart desires?

Rook's gifts, the changes I have wrought upon myself, they were not for him. They were never for him.

They were for me. Rook has granted me freedom. She saw through to the heart of me. She saw the truth in me that I could never acknowledge.

I have been a fool.

“No,” I say.

“No?” he replies, aghast.

“No,” I repeat. “I will not change myself for you. Not any more. I do not care if you leave this place or not, but I will not marry you. I have seen too much, experienced too much. I will not go back. I cannot go back.”

I turn to the Lady of Winter and bob a quick curtsey. I do not know how far her hospitality and tolerance for my presence in her court will last. I turn and walk away from them. It takes all my willpower to not break into a run until I am well and truly away from the ballroom.

But once I do start running, I cannot stop. I run and I sprint and I fall to all fours and lope easily down the twisting paths. I need to be out of here. I need to be away. I need… I need…

I retrace my steps through the maze of frozen stone until finally I step into the sunlight and breathe in the cold mountain air.

The world is alive. I am alive.

I survey the landscape beyond the cliff. Somewhere out in that rough craggy terrain is Rook. I need to find her. I cannot rest until-

“Forget something?”

The voice behind me makes me jump, which in turn produces a familiar snicker. There, lounging on an outcropping above the passage is Rook.

“I can't help but notice that you're alone, little cat,” she says.

“He didn't want me, not like this.”

“His loss,” she scoffs.

I do not fully know why, but the words make my heart flutter.

“It is probably for the best,” I admit. “I cannot go back to my old life… and there is something else.”

She sits upright and cocks her head at me curiously.

“A demon stole my heart,” I confess.

She stiffens and very real jealousy plays across her face. Her reaction is enough to summon forth a mirthful giggle from within me. She hisses and hurls a clod of snow at me before hopping off her perch and standing before me.

“It's me, right?” she demands. “Because if I need to go murder somebody-”

“It is you,” I laugh.

Before she can respond, I grab her shoulders and pull her to my level. The kiss is wild and frantic and not at all proper for a lady of my station.

But I am no longer a lady, am I? I have become something else entirely. I do not know what I am yet, but I intend to find out.

She makes a soft self satisfied moan against my lips and her sharp teeth nip at me. She pulls me close and spins us around, pressing my back into the stone of the cliff. I gasp in surprise, which only goads her more. I melt into her attentions and forget myself

I only pull away reluctantly. Her eyes open and she gazes hungrily at my lips. She wants more. She wants so much more.

I want so much more.

“Please,” I gasp. “I want this… just not… here.”

She glances upwards towards the peak of the mountain.

“That's fair,” she admits. “Where would you like to go, little cat?”

“Anywhere,” I respond. “Everywhere.”

[chocoblep]

#5: Putting Out Fires

Prompt: Stamp

The early evening’s dying light streamed in through a large window, illuminating Illian’s workroom in a soft coral glow and casting shadows as it caught on the various magitek parts and enchanting materials strewn about every surface. He had already lit the work lamp on his desk, though he knew that soon the entire room would be dark save for that one little bubble of space if he didn’t take a break from his project to see the wall sconces lit. Sighing, he rose to do just that, striding over to the wall and flicking a wall switch next to the door. The sconces flared to life with a soft, yellow-white arcane glow, courtesy of the connection that the switch made to the crystals housed within, and soon enough Illian was sitting back down in front of the small machine he had taken apart to repurpose.

This little heating unit was mostly done, and with fall’s cooler weather fast approaching, he wanted to get this installed as soon as he could. He’d been making sure the new suite of rooms that Rath had ordered prepared for his new bodyguard were in working order, and unfortunately, the temperature control unit had had to wait until he could source more of the airship controls. He’d never outright made them before, but he knew how to modify them to handle arcane energies from crystals rather than their ceruleum. As he brought his welding gun close to the bottom casing, the door flying open caused him to jump and nearly singe his pants as he dropped it. He hastily grabbed a towel and dropped it onto a small patch of rug that had caught fire as he turned the gun off, and then stomped the towel to ensure the fire was out before glowering in the direction of the interruption.

“Do you mind? I was nearly done with–” he cut himself off when he saw that not only was it M’rath who’d stormed in, but he had a look on his face that was perturbed, which was unlike him. “Whoa. What’s wrong?”

“I had to put him down,” the Miqo’te began. “As soon as I got into his head he latched on and I couldn’t get out.”

After setting the welding gun back on his worktable, Illian came over to stand in front of his employer and best friend, laying his hands gently on the other’s shoulders. They were tense, as he expected, and he tried to send calming energy Rath’s way as he worked his thumbs gently against the muscles there. He knew how the man got when he was in this specific mindset, and to have it turned on its head and directed back at him… He couldn’t imagine how badly that had probably messed with Rath’s mind.

“If you would like, I could draw you a bath… or perhaps you would like to see your partners? I’m sure they would love to hear from you.” Illian fixed his bright blue eyes on Rath’s green-and-golds, and the pair stared at each other for a moment. He couldn’t really read what was going on in Rath’s head right now–but then, he wasn’t the one with that sort of power, anyway.

“I…” The emotions that passed through his expression were uncharacteristic of him to show. Worry. Discomfort. A sort of vulnerability he’d only seen a handful of times. “I do not wish to bother them with this. I am not in the best mindset to be good company for them.”

Illian just sighed. Of course M’rath would not want them to see him in this state. Especially not after the activities he’d been partaking in just a short time before. Still, this was as much a part of the man as all the others, and what sort of friend would Illian be if he couldn’t call him out on that?

“You do realize,” he began, “that this sort of thing is precisely something they would want you to talk to them about?”

Rath’s hands curled into fists at his side, his knuckles going white, and Illian wondered if he’d have bloody nail marks in his palms when he relaxed them again. “I know,” he ground out. “I just…”

“Call and see if they’re available,” Illy replied firmly. “Do not shut them out. You will come to regret it if you do.”

When the Miqo’te looked into Illian’s face again, there was something else in his eyes that Illian hadn’t seen in a good, long while. Guilt.

“I would not be surprised if they refuse, it has been too long” he said, his voice quiet. “I just need someone steady right now. An hour, and I will be fine.”

Illian glanced back at his work table and the nearly finished control unit, and then back at M’rath, who still looked a bit rattled. “Fine. But you’re calling on them tomorrow. I know you’ve been busy with your quarterly visits, but you’re nearly done with them now. Come, let’s go relax.”

As he led his friend from his workroom to Rath’s quarters, he tried to think reassuring thoughts. M’rath was not a bad person. His manifestation of the Echo had never treated him kindly, and sometimes when he picked up a new guest, their crazy seeped into his mind a little more than it should. Rath had spectacular impulse control, and he’d never acted on any of his borrowed neuroses, which always managed to impress the half-elezen. Regardless of how he felt about the torture that Rath put his guests through, it was the only way that the man had found to cope with his own traumas, and Illian couldn’t begrudge him that. Especially when his guests were the worst sorts of people, and deserved every mindfuck they got.

As he settled in a lounging position on Rath’s bed, he waited for the Miqo’te to lay down beside him before pulling his head onto his thigh and massaging his scalp.

“They do, don’t they?” Rath asked, his voice wavering a bit as he relaxed into the touch and curled in toward Illian.

“Mmm?”

“Deserve it.”

“You were listening in, were you?” Illian asked with a little smile, and then allowed his thoughts to become more intentional.

You are not a monster. You are loved. And you are doing everyone a service by taking out the trash.

The silence following those thoughts was heavy with hesitation, and Illian calmly reached over to Rath’s nightstand and found the remote he’d made for the room’s orchestrion. Clicking it on, he set it to play one of Rath’s favorite calming piano pieces. It wasn’t until the Miqo’te began to melt against him that he responded, sounding tired and only half-convinced.

“I am not a monster,” he repeated. “I am doing a service.”

“You are,” Illian agreed aloud. “Unless you’re trying to cook. You do no one a service, then.”

He didn’t even know where the pillow came from, only that it flew into his face with a decent amount of force, and he grabbed it before it could get away so that he could smack Rath back with it. “Excuse me, I did not deserve that!”

M’rath’s mind suitably diverted from the horrors he’d been subjected to before, Illian kept bantering with him until he fell asleep, and then tucked him in and crept out of the room. 

He was lucky that Illian was the kind of friend who would absolutely dispose of a body.

[talesfromaurea]

Tales from Aurea - Session 5 Now Posted!

Session 5 - Operation Black Cloud is now posted on Royal Road (link here). Enjoy!

Chapter summary: At the behest of Linnea, the companions attend an Ordo Draconis council session. There they meet a ratfolk agent named Kisha Flickwhisker, who claims she has evidence of an Irkallu plot taking place right in the heart of Aurea.

Taglist (ask to be +/-): @drippingmoon, @kainablue, @splashinkling, @space-writes, @aroyalpaininthecass, @thelaughingstag

Curious what this story is about? Check out the WIP Introduction here

Chapter preview under the cut

Ordo Draconis agents filed into the subterranean audience chamber. Light from freshly-oiled sconces reflected off the bright white walls and the gold threading on banners bearing the Imperial sigil. The seating was arranged in concentric circles, with a curved council table off to one side. Linnea led the companions to sit with her in one of the middle rings. It had been almost a week since they arrived in Aurea and the long-awaited meeting was about to get underway.

“Grandmistress Anya,” the herald announced. All the agents stood in salute and the companions clumsily rose to their feet to do the same.

The leader of the Ordo Draconis made her way to her seat at the council table. Despite her noble bearing, she was humbly dressed in a plain, navy blue robe, her curly gray-blonde hair pulled away from her face with a simple tie. The simplicity of her dress seemed at odds with the enormous reverence shown to her as the room fell silent when she entered. Though elderly, she was tall and stood up straight, her eyes clear and piercing. Kaja’s stomach churned as she watched the Grandmistress take a seat. Something about the old woman made her nervous.

“The meeting is called to order,” the chairman said, her deep, strong voice easily carrying to the back of the hall. “Our first petitioner is”—she squinted at a sheaf of parchment papers—“Agent Ulla. Step forward.”

As Agent Ulla stood in the center of the room, reporting on the growing difficulties on southwest trade routes, Sakrattars couldn’t help but wonder why he and his companions had been invited. They were the only people in attendance not wearing the navy blue of the Ordo and, furthermore, Jo was the only natiuhan present and Amale the only lycaeon. In short, they stood out like a sore thumb. Sakrattars noticed more than one agent eying them discreetly but Linnea either didn’t see or didn’t mind, and Grandmistress Anya had not looked their way at all.

“Agent Dimitri Vasiliyev,” the chairman summoned once Agent Ulla was finished. A young man in his early thirties entered the circle. He was handsome, with suntanned skin, wavy black hair, and a short, well-groomed beard. His dark brown eyes had an alluring, mischievous sparkle.

“My friends,” he began cordially, his Volgarian accent thick. Leif frowned. Stjornugaard and Volgaria were ancient enemies, with no love lost between their people. “Gorzog Ironfang of the Snowskull Steppes can no longer be ignored. He has amassed an army of several thousand strong and has been slaughtering all who stand in his way. The only city he has yet to breach is the ferix stronghold of Forgeheart.”

“It’s Forgeheart Keep, actually,” said a bored agent seated in the front row.

“No, actually, it’s not. Only outsiders call it that,” Dimitri said, gaining a few murmurs from the crowd.

“The orcs and the ferix have been killing each other on the other side of the Datharian wall since the beginning of time,” an older man seated at the council said. “Why should it be any concern of the Empire? We have plenty of our own problems.”

“Because, Councilor Barla, if Forgeheart falls, Ironfang is out of targets in the Steppes. There will be nothing stopping him from uniting the last of the Snowskull orc tribes, and then he will turn his gaze southward to Datharia. And, as you so eloquently stated, the Empire does not have the resources to repel such an attack, especially since the Balthissican front is draining many of our supplies as it is.”

Barla was unmoved. “We don’t know that—Ironfang could go north too. Into Volgaria.”

A flash of anger ignited in Dimitri’s eyes, vaporizing his easy-going persona. “Volgaria! If he was, I would lead him there myself!” he snapped. “The ferix could be a powerful Imperial ally. Grandmistress,” he implored, “you must see the wisdom of what I’m saying. Ironfang is no petty warlord; he’s a conqueror. And conquerors don’t stop until someone stops them.”

Grandmistress Anya nodded her head once in assent. “I understand, Agent Vasiliyev.” Her voice was deep and calm, at once commanding respect and gentle from age. “However, Councilor Barla also has a valid point. Our legions are few and our agents fewer. I’m afraid we cannot ask this of the Empire.”

Dimitri’s jaw tensed and he turned away, heading back to his seat without another word.

[theladysherlock]

"Welcome to Lockwood & Co."

ID Under the Cut!

ID: A picture of Lucy Carlyle and Anthony Lockwood shaking hands in the living room of 35 Portland Row. Lucy has shoulder-length light brown hair and is wearing a black and blue bomber jacket, dark denim jeans, and black sneakers. Lockwood has short, dark brown hair and is wearing a black suit, a white button-up shirt, black dress shoes, and a black tie.

To the left of the two of them is a cluttered bookshelf filled with books of varying colors and sizes, some are lined up neatly and some are stacked up on top of each other. To the right of the bookshelf is a wooden mantle over an empty fireplace, with a large mirror above it. On either side of the mirror are two small sconces. To the right of the fireplace is a hutch, with tall upper cabinets and a small desk portion. The wallpaper is a decorative circular pattern with a beige and gold color palette.

End ID

[waterdeep-weavemoss]

The captain takes the steps two at a time at hearing the commotion, but his senses zero in at the smell of blood – warm and familiar. 

Doe. 

He finds her among the fray immediately, striding across the deck to her side and gently taking her by the shoulders, searching her panicked face. He pulls her aside and into the shade of one of the massive sails, cupping her jaw within his ringed fingers and brushing stray strands of dark hair from her face. 

“Darling, what’s happened?” 

He listens as she explains the situation with Gale and with Tara, Astarion’s eyes never leaving hers. He nods, reminded of the volatile nature of Gale’s condition. Once Doe finishes speaking, the captain gives her a sweet, sympathetic smile. 

“Not to worry, Doe. Come with me.” He gently takes her hand in his, careful to focus on anything other than the blood on her, the scent driving him mad. Astarion swallows hard as he leads her from the main deck and towards a set of ornate, crimson-stained doors. He turns one of the silver-filigree handles and pushes into the room beyond, escorting Doe inside with his hand softly pressed against her back. “I’d like for you stay here and make yourself comfortable while I retrieve the healer. Captain’s orders.” Doe only nods, her vision focused on the scratch. He slips back through the door, and it’s only when the latch clicks! shut that Doe looks up at the room around her. 

The captain’s quarters. 

The room is much more expansive than Doe would’ve thought. The walls are dark, with various drapings of crimson, onyx and maroon covering the windows on the far wall. Most of the light comes from candle-lit sconces along the walls and red paper lanterns, gilded with gold. Doe’s eyes trail along the strands of crystals and baubles draped between the walls and the ceiling, each surface glinting in the warm light. 

The room is clearly a treasure trove of his collection from his years traveling the world. There must be artefacts from every region of Faerun and beyond – old, leather-bound books in languages Doe doesn’t recognize; odd shaped glass figures in vibrant colors she’d never thought imaginable. Plants, native and exotic, tediously placed on every surface imaginable. An ancient looking wardrobe in the far corner, the paint on the front cabinet doors cracking, but depicting a beautiful spring scene. And in the center of this glorious trove, a long plum-hued velvet chaise in place of a bed covered in several perfectly disheveled blankets, resting on a plush patterned rug. 

It hadn’t been what she’d expected from the captain, but she couldn’t help but feed her curiosity, exploring every corner she could before his return.

'Wow.' She makes a beeline for the plants, examining the leaves- all healthy and flourishing, which makes her smile. Her eyes fall on a book of poetry in an elegant scrawl, clearly in use. She reads curiously while she waits, ignoring the sting in her arm.

Dusk fallen on the city glittering and pretty its fragrant flowers and blood-red towers of crystal and stone make one feel strangely alone; but this dark ship's deck and her pretty pale neck- The poem trails off, unfinished. She examines the strings of crystals and precious metals next, particularly admiring a pair of bright silver earrings inlaid with sapphires. They put her in mind of the navigator and his preference for blue.

She reaches for the deep purple petals of a strange flower, its intoxicating scent making her feel slightly dizzy- unless she'd lost more blood than she thought.

[unchataparis]

Colder Than Titanic Water

Liladrien Week 2024 | Day Seven: Date

Lyle checks himself out in the mirror before he leaves. Red leather jacket, white shirt with a dramatic v-neck, distressed blue jeans – looking good!

The gold ring he wears on a near-invisible chain around his neck bounces gently against his chest as he scrunches his nose at his own reflection. The metal is warmed to skin temperature and its pretty metallic surface reflects the dim lights of his apartment. Lyle’s hands are covered with gel that he carefully applies to his pompadour.

One last spray of Acqua Dell’Elba’s Arcipelago and he is good to go.

Outside, it has started raining lightly. The faint aroma of petrichor begins to infest the city as Lyle makes the brisk walk down to his car. He shudders as he pulls himself inside his red coupé Porsche. As much as he had been enjoying Paris, its weather had been testing him lately.

As he drives through the streets, he sees mature women with children on either side of him. Cafés beginning to close as final coffee orders are called out. A bookshop with a black cat in its window front squints its eyes suspiciously at him as Lyle flips it his middle finger back. When the light turns green, Lyle makes sure to squeal his tires loudly enough to startle the wretched feline.

By the time Lyle pulls up before the great glowing mausoleum of the Graham de Vanily Estate, the Sun has all but set. The sky is a Prussian-indigo colour and the clouds are wisps of grey smoke.

Lyle leans out his rolled-down side window and quickly jams his thumb against the intercom button.

The speaker cracks.

“Yes?” comes an irritated, gravelly voice.

“It’s me,” Lyle says, just as irritated. The fucker can see him through the camera. He bears a toothy false smile at the lens. “I’m here to pick up Adrienne.”

The red light remains on for a few seconds more. Lyle imagines that Nicholas is debating whether or not it’s likely Lyle will leave if he ignores him. Fat chance. Lyle will ram his Porsche through the fucking gates of the Estate and make Nicholas pay for the damages to his baby.

The red light blinks off and the doors creak open, an electronic signal commanding them to part as slowly as possible. Lyle growls and flips up another middle finger at the dead security camera before driving through the gates to park neatly at the foot of the stairs. 

The doors of the Graham de Vanily Mansion are already cracking open, sending a pillar of aureate light to filter through like a hand reaching down from Heaven.

Émile Graham de Vanily, in white trousers and a cashmere sweater, beams at Lyle who has just slammed his car door shut and is moving up the stairs quickly, wincing at each cold drop of water that falls from the sky.

“Goodness,” Émile says, seizing Lyle by the shoulders when he reaches him. “You should’ve called ahead, I could’ve met you with an umbrella.”

“Ah, it’s no bother, Monsieur,” Lyle says. “A little rain never harms anybody.”

Lyle says this while wanting to throttle someone for the state of his hair.

“Come in, come in,” Émile says, gesturing for Lyle to walk into the warmth. “No need to catch a cold on this lovely night.”

The doors shut behind them and Émile leads the way into the foyer. Lyle squints down at the marble between his feet, trying to judge by his murky reflection whether or not he needs to duck into a bathroom to freshen up.

Inside the Graham de Vanily Mansion, every last light in each sconce and chandelier is on, making Lyle feel as if he has walked into a hardware store or a house on fire. The rain has started earnestly outside, fat raindrops the size of bullets hammering against windows and drizzling down. 

Lyle feels pity for any poor fucker caught in that storm.

Read the rest on Ao3 here.

[alannacellucci]

The Breakers Music Room —

The MUSIC ROOM, designed by Richard van der Boyen and Allard et Fil, reflects the French Baroque interior the Vanderbilts would have seen in places like the Paris Opera House, and was the setting for family weddings and debutante parties. Gold and silver leaf, blue-grey Campan marble from France, mirrors, and crystal light fixtures combine to make a glittering effect for evening concerts and receptions. The spirit of music and numerous great composers are celebrated in the ceiling painting. This room and furnishings, in addition to those in the Morning Room, were designed and constructed in France then shipped to this location for installation.

————————————————————————

The Breakers Morning Room —

The wall paneling in the MORNING ROOM was designed by Richard van der Boyen, who carved elaborate garlands and figures in the late Renaissance style. Classical mythology and allegories decorate this room, from the painted allegory of the four seasons on the ceiling, to the Muses who appear in the corners of the room, painted on platinum leaf panels.

The room also displays portraits of Cornelius Vanderbilt II by the preeminent American portrait painter, John Singer Sargent, and the Count Laszlo Széchényi and Countess Gladys Széchényi, by the Hungarian artist Philip Alexius De László. Countess Széchényi was born Gladys Vanderbilt, the youngest of Cornelius and Alice's children. In 1908, Gladys married Count Laszlo Széchényi, a member of Hungary's premier aristocratic family and a minister to the Court of St. James in London and, later, to the United States.

When her mother Alice passed away in 1934, Countess Széchényi inherited The Breakers. In 1948, to raise funds for the Preservation Society's restoration of Hunter House, Countess Széchényi opened The Breakers to the public for tours. That same year, she leased The Breakers to the Preservation Society for $1.00 a year and continued to fund the maintenance of the house. The Preservation Society purchased The Breakers in 1972 for approximately $400,000. As an early member and supporter of the Preservation Society, Countess Széchényi made a major contribution to the preservation of Newport's architectural heritage.

——————————————————————————

The Breakers Breakfast / Dining Room —

The BREAKFAST ROOM served as both breakfast room and informal family dining room. The table, which may be extended to seat 16 would have seated the entire family or served as seating for a small, informal dinner or luncheon. One of the premier decorators for America's elite families, Jules Allard et Fils Cules Allard & Sons) of Paris, supplied the Louis XV style furniture for the room and decided on the room's color scheme. The Vanderbilts were surrounded by imagery of the harvest.

Look around to see fruits and vegetables plentifully adorning the walls. The 12 rose-colored stone columns are solid alabaster and draw your eyes upward to the ceiling painting of the goddess Aurora heralding the dawn. The massive chandeliers and wall sconces in the Imperial design are made of French Baccarat crystal, and were piped for gas and wired for electricity at the time the house was built. The crown shaped tops indicate the style, while the rings on the chains were used to adjust the flow of gas.

Allard and Sons of Paris assisted Hunt with furnishings and fixtures, Austro-American sculptor Karl Bitter designed relief sculpture, and Boston architect Ogden Codman decorated the family quarters. The mansion covers nearly an acre of the 13-acre property and has 70 rooms including 48 bedrooms for family and staff. There are 27 fireplaces. It was equipped with electricity – still a novelty in houses during the Gilded Age – as well as gas for lighting.

The Breakers has entertained presidents, royalty and guests from across the world for more than 125 years and today is visited by hundreds of thousands of people each year. It is the flagship of the Newport Mansions and a world-famous iconic image of the City-by-the-Sea. The Breakers was designated a National Historic Landmark in 1994.

[raisindave]

[Chapter 58] Seeing the World Through Ballistic-Tinted Glasses

This career feels like you're running uphill on a sandy dune. Every step makes you slip, and as soon as you feel upward momentum, your feet are swept under you. Clawing all the way. Scalding sand punishes your palms, and sticks in barbed grains under your nails. Still, you know nothing else but to persist. Why? Why do you persist? Habit? Marble floors, sickeningly bright thanks to overhead chandeliers, clack under your heels as you surge through another hallway. You'd found an offshoot office area off the main ballroom, and green overhead signs directed your attention to a nearby fire escape. Lofty walls and vast spaces have a way of making you feel claustrophobic and strangled. 

There's a steel door at the end of that branching hall, easily missed if your head wasn't on a swivel. Cool metal stung your forearm, and you took a deep breath of reviving fresh air. In the coolness of the night a thin layer of mist hung in the air, making distant streetlights along the gilded fences become hazy. You were met with a terrace and a concrete sidewalk lining the periphery of the grand castle. As far as the eye could see from either end, smooth stone hugged tall gilded walls, illuminated in measured parts thanks to wall-mounted sconces. Gurgling fountains gilded in gold and copper peppered the sprawling terrace, interrupted by angular shrubbery and drooping lemon trees. Not a petal out of place. Not a single fallen fruit was left decomposing in the turf. 

It took you nearly ten minutes to unwind from the initial outrage, pacing and digging pointed heels into the stone. The jaw-splitting agitation sapped you of the willpower to swallow creeping rage, cruelly contrasted by an occasional spike of hopelessness. Flattened grass spreads across your sight, linear and measured, taking in the feat of manpower with a wall of marble at your back. The distant murmur of the gala goes on, thundering percussion piercing above the hum. Moths fluttered around balls of light, yet you'd settled on a space between their luminance, finding peace in the anonymity. But of course, there's no anonymity. Not around these guys. 

"Hey," a husky voice called to you from the shadows beside you. 

Your body didn't even flinch. It's expected at this point, as if privacy was never a consideration. That deep blue suit steps into your peripheral vision, but you can't stand to meet his approach. Hateful conviction made it impossible to respond, even if you wanted to. Enough built-up ice will hopefully make your body language readable as hostile, to the point where it might be possible to will the dancing mist into snow. Ghost has always had a habit of interrupting your brooding, which rarely ends well. 

"Cricket, what're you doing out here?"

"What're you doing out here? I'm sure there's someone wanting to lick your boots in there," you scoff, snarling your lip. "Just fuck off."

"You think I want to be in there?" he professed calmly, the whites of his button-down becoming visible in the edge of your vision as he approached. 

"Don't you," you spat, turning your shoulder to him. 

He seemed perfectly satisfied to stand there, getting his ass licked by the honourable mister-so-and-so and his stuck-up wife. Even from the corner of your unfocused gaze, flashes of silver and gold on his chest signified a long history with award ceremonies. You sucked your teeth, feeling tension in your jaw radiate down your neck. He should know he's the last company you're interested in seeing right now, that you're still far too prickly to talk to. Especially from him in his decorated suit. If only you could go back to being ignored by all. 

"Lu- Cricket, I can't stand any of those posh cunts either. 'Listen to that bollocks speech, how pleased they are with themselves," he scoffed coldly, huffing in agitation. "I couldn't give less of a shit." 

"Spoken like someone who actually gets rewarded for your hard work," you spat. 

He sighed deeply, turning away from you to follow your gaze back to the tree line. Tidy cypresses separated manicured grass from the untamed wilderness beyond. Neatly tucked out of view. Even so, you could smell the wilderness beyond, splitting wood and mulch, the kind of all-encompassing freshness that an expensive cologne can't mask. All it takes for a deer or bear is to cross that imaginary fence of tall cypress, yet they remain. They opt to remain in the gruff, untamed wild. Why?

"Try not to worry about what they think because they're only satisfied when you're doing their dirty work," his bassy words sang through your system. "They don't care about you. They don't care about me. They don't care about anyone but themselves. Just as long as you're useful to them, and never a second more."

His words churn in your thoughts, creating crashing waves that smooth down your rigid edges. A harsh reality, but reality nonetheless. Maybe the deer don't cross that barrier because they know they'll find no sustenance in inch-long grass and thorny rosebushes, opting to stay where belonging is inherent. Pesticides and bleached petals must not offer the same nourishment as the real thing. Nothing can ever match the real thing. Nature has a way of creating accidental perfection.

"Laswell's constantly singing your praises to anyone who'll listen," that low voice crawled back into your conscience. "She's always going on about your adaptability and willingness to get your hands dirty. Price too. He babies you,-"

"Price does not baby me," you shot back hotly. 

"Like hell he does," you saw his jaw work side to side as he spoke, words giddy and mocking. 

"No he doesn't!"

He laughs, even when you turn to face him. He really has the nerve to laugh, folding his arms and leaning on the stone wall as if to dig his heels in the mud. Looking up to face him drags your eyes to brown hair, rendered damp in the misty evening, catching beading droplets in the radiance of the overhead wall sconce. Loose strands fell out of place as he tilted down to meet your gaze, neat hair unravelled by the less-than-optimal climate. You wanted more than anything to smack that stupid beret off his head, but you could only hope your expression communicated that enough. 

"I've been in this task force longer than you, remember," the sternness in his tone sends a chill down your spine. "He never raises his voice at you, he's always worrying about where you sleep. He asks Soap and Gaz to check in on you and make sure you're alright. He's had me sleeping on concrete floors while you're in a cozy van or a cot," he'd worked himself into a breathy chuckle. 

“That van in Verdansk? I call bullshit," you scorned, rolling your eyes back to the misty skyline. "Laswell said there were five other bedrooms."

"She said that to make you feel better."

"They forced me to master a language in ten days, I was under my own kind of cruel stress. And that doesn't mean Price babies me," you furrowed your eyebrows in agitation. 

"Oh yeah? When's the last time you went rucking?" He cocked his head. 

Fuck. He had you beat there. But you couldn't just give up the game like that. Your arms folded over your chest in an attempt to solidify your posture. Mirroring his. He'd leaned forward in his onslaught, his blue suit puckering from the misalignment. Close enough to smell that standard-issue bar soap on his skin. And it always somehow smells better on him. Distracting. 

"I went in London while you were using up all your sick days, turning the barracks into your spa."

No response. He just chuckles at your words. It makes your nails dig into your bicep. You already knew you lost, that your logic is marred by emotion. There's just so much to think about right now. The gala, rucking, Laswell's clone, Price's alleged favouritism, Lorenzo, your satisfaction with this career, and, above all, how much you miss your own bed. Overworked emotions left you percolating with rage, numbed by the desperation on the precipice of understanding. Your feelings are just too raw to understand, and they pour out of you like water in cupped hands. All you've sacrificed, all you've seen, going above and beyond what's expected of you for nothing in return. He's staring at you, you can feel it. A wall of shadow from a tall figure in your peripheral. Your dress constricted around your ribcage. 

"Still," you huff, your voice creaking with strain. "It makes it hard to give a shit if I don't get any recognition."

"If I got recognized for everything I did in my career I'd get the chair," he spoke in a gravelly, monotone temper.

That one got you for some reason. Without thinking, a chuckle erupted from your throat, and he also seemed to share one. Maybe your hotness got the better of you, and this is just one dumb event where your name must've been written out of the formal recounts. Hell, Price did explicitly say that a lot of your work would be off the official record. You laughed, and you couldn't help but hear his low chuckling under your gasps. Tears stung in your eyes, tears conjured from a menacing cocktail of hormones and emotions clouding your intuition. Maybe a rose is just a rose, and a lack of recognition from snooty politicians shouldn't be how you define your self-worth. That doesn't mean Laswell and Price don't owe you explanations, but alas, your rank doesn't entitle you to their strategy. Warmth returned to your skin after considering Ghost's words, and maybe it's just inefficient to approach every conflict at once. The benefit of the doubt soothes razor-sharp trepidation enough to let you register just how uncomfortable these shoes are. 

"Who was that woman anyway? The American IA standing next to Soap?" You mused with a lifted spirit. 

A wickedness lit up in his eyes, enough to make you flinch. If you could see the lower half of his face you'd definitely see that cheeky grin Soap and Gaz always sport whenever they're up to something. 

"I didn't take you for the jealous type," he mused sadistically, boyishly using your words against you. 

"I'm being serious," you glare up at him from the corner of your eye. 

"I have no idea, you know as much as me."

"Did you see the bouquet they gave her? Fucking ridiculous," you scoff, trailing your eyes on a breeze that danced through leafy foliage in the distance. 

"Yeah, I don't like it," he spoke with a seriousness that caught you off guard.

"I know, like… she wasn't even there. The most she would've done was proofread my tr-"

"Cricket, don't you see how suspicious that is?" Ghost cut you off harshly, voice husky and cold.

The sudden change in tone gave you whiplash. Just as you were starting to get over the rage. 

"What? " you stumbled. 

"You get a lookalike taking your spot beside us, and she gets handed an unusually splendid and specific reward by a stranger?" 

"What are you saying?" you pressed, turning to face him fully. 

"I don't know. I don't know- but whatever it is, it's on Laswell's radar. If I were you, I'd continue on with business as usual and not fuck with whatever's going on behind the scenes," he commanded down to you with dark, intense eyes. 

His words were registering as complete sentences, but their meaning slipped from your grasp. A surge of panic struck you like lightning, then simmered back into confusion. A chill hung in the night air, making goosebumps prickle on your skin. He's staring down at you like you're supposed to understand his words and inherently understand whatever strategy he's describing. Is it a half-assed disregard for your hard work and an easy mistake, or is it a grand scheme that involves a mysterious enemy you'd picked up for some reason, and the CIA being involved, ominously sending you some sort of message through a bouquet? Occam's razor says the former is the obvious answer. It's also fair to think the guy who wears a mask to conceal his identity 24/7 might also have a penchant for being overly paranoid. Nonetheless, the thought sticks in your mind like a snag in a quilt. A tolling bell in the distance chimes nine times, reminding you of the existence of time and space in this humid void. 

"Do you want to go back insi-"

"No," you cut him off coldly, staring intensely at the tree line.

That's the last thing you wanted. Maybe. You can't entirely be sure what you wanted, even if you tried. Too many moving pieces, too many unknowns. It's overwhelming, like you're sinking in turbulent waters. New missions are on the horizon, all while you're scrambling to process the past ones. Crawling along when you're expected to sprint. You should be back inside, but you can't. The wobbly heels on your feet weld you to cool cement, effectively paralyzed. The past 48 hours alone are enough for a novella, yet you persist. Out of habit, perhaps. Even when the beams of light narrow and your vision darkens, electric fear wracks your sinews. It's creeping up on you, crackling with distress. 

It reminds you of advice your Uncle Chucky gave you once when he was utterly sloshed on margaritas. That in times like this, when you're overburdened and overwrought, to return to the simple things. Details lead to complications. People-pleasing creates faults in ethics. Approaching every issue at once breeds sloppiness. Take a breath, and simmer down your broth to its most basic parts. From there, you add ingredients, and not the other way around. What do you want? Not for a career, not for a lifetime aspiration or a sense of belonging. What do you want right this second? Well, that's pretty easy. 

"Wanna have sex?"

He responded to your words, barely, with a blink in shock. Those were likely the last words he was expecting, evident by a quick exhale he let out. Things went quiet, but you didn't have the mental fortitude to consider whether what you said was inappropriate. You'd stormed out of that glitzy ballroom, disappearing into obscurity and hoping to stay that way. Maybe something inside you wanted someone to follow you. Maybe something deeper knew it would be him. 

"Are you sure that's wh-" his voice was uncharacteristically soft.

"Ghost," you could only hope your cold gaze would be enough to communicate your disinterest in talking about that right now.

A message he received instantly. You knew what he was referring to, and he has no business to pry. Like before, it's just practical. Just a transactional relieving of pressure. Nothing more. Part of you refused to let him have that control over you. You won't let Lorenzo's spidery fingertips leave trails of malaise across your skin that hot showers don't wash down the drain. You can't. He can't be a blotch in your history. This part of you wants to reclaim your sexuality, to rewrite apprehension and a sleepless night. Another part of you fears the absence of your interest altogether, praying that every sexual encounter won't feel as hysteric as with your trainer. There's only one way to find out, only one way to test this theory. And if you run off screaming for the hills, something tells you Ghost won't hunt you. Even if he has the unique capacity to do so effectively. 

"You seem eager," he tilted his head back, staring down at you past his cheekbones. "That's quite a change in attitude."

He must know how that low grumbly tone he picks up affects you. A certain change in his delivery that makes his words come out like a rhythmic growl. It sets your skin on fire. Stay cool.

"What can I say, I'm a sucker for a man in uniform," you curl your lips into a shameless smirk. 

"And you've chosen a career where you're surrounded by men in uniform," he pressed with a lilt of amusement. 

"So you better hop to it."

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Master List

[collierose1]

a small little unfinished etho/bdubs ficlet i wrote earlier this year if you want :)

Memory Box (1.9k)

The monolith towered high over the trees in the forest. Cicadas chirped under the almost-full moon, the light causing a shaddow to sprawl over the forest behind it. Etho made his way up the worn down path towards the structure, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the old birch forest. The path was trodden down to dirt from all the horses and foot traffic over the past year. He made his way over to the beautifully detailed door of the monolith, with an intricate carving of a tree with gold flowers hanging from it. “Hey Bdubs?! You home?” He laid his hand against the cold spruce door, feeling all the grooves carved into it. He wondered how long it took bdubs to carve. “The guy always pours his heart and soul into every build, why wouldn't he spend hours on one door?” Etho thought to himself. “Its kinda sweet.” He shook his head, where did that thought come from? After waiting a little more he called out to bdubs again.

“Bdubs? You in there?!” He yelled upwards, hoping the man may hear him better. “Hey, I'm coming in, say something if you don't want me to.” He said smugly, knowing Bdubs wasn’t going to protest. He pushed open the heavy door and a rush of cold air escaped from the diorite tower. He pulled out some flint and steel from his bag and lit a torch. “Gosh, why does he keep it so dark in here?” He said to himself, voice echoing off the walls. He walked through the dark over towards the staircase. Something brushed the back of his neck and he let out a surprised exhale. Etho quickly whipped around and held his torch out towards the offender. He opened one eye and saw that it was an innocent rose bush. It was a beautiful dark red that contrasted the glossy green leaves. Etho laughed to himself and picked a rose from the side of the plant, so as to not ruin the beauty of the main part. He tucked the rose into the side of his headband and lit a wall mounted torch to better illuminate the room. 

He walked up the mossy diorite stairs to the next floor, hoping to find bdubs just caught up with a project. He held the torch out in front of him, “ok I get it, darkness makes a cool atmosphere but isn’t actually seeing important too?” He peeked around the corner hoping to see who he was looking for, but the desk chair was empty. There was a cluster of candles on the back corner of the desk that were still lit, albeit almost melted down. There were detailed sketches of different projects and ideas sprawled out on the desk and hung up on the wall behind it. Diagrams of the crescent moon base from the past season, and his castle from season 7. Interiors that never saw the light of day were planned out across 2 papers along with some handwritten notes. His eye was caught by one paper with a building he never saw, yet looked oddly familiar. The corner was charred and there were rips and folds all over. Etho took it off the wall and sat down to get a better look. He mounted his torch in an empty wall sconce and read the messy notes. “warped hyphe = hard to break. Lava in walls.” At first etho thought it might've been a minigame, but he turned it over and saw very hasty plans for a familiar structure made of snow. He let out a small gasp when he realized that somehow Bdubs managed to get the plans for their base in Last Life off of the server without it deleting. He flipped it over again and looked closer at the first iteration of the snow fort. It was red and blue, made out of the materials they were unable to obtain from the nether. 

Back on a corner of the desk he saw a small wooden box that was slightly open, too full to close completely. Etho thought to himself that he shouldn’t be snooping around in things that dont belong to him… but bdubs looks through his things, so its only fair right? He slid it towards him and flipped open the lid of the box. The inside was full of letters and a book. Upon closer inspection, it was all the letters that he had sent Bdubs while he was gone for the better part of the season after Last Life. He unbuckled the leather strap that held the book closed, and flipped to a random page. A dried wither rose petal resided between the pages, dated with the day that Bdubs… No. Etho didn’t want to think about that. That wasn’t his fault. It's not his fault he wasn't there; wasn’t there when Bdubs had always been with him. He closed his eyes tight and flipped towards the start of the leatherbound book. 

There he saw old polaroid photos back from Mindcrack. The first base bdubs built on the server. Etho remembered that wooden structure, it was where they spent countless nights in the tower planning pranks to play on Guude, Pause, and the others. He laughed as he flipped the browning photos of the old pranks and builds on Mindcrack. He found one photo of him and bdubs sitting together eating lunch, with his one hand seemingly pulling up his mask and the other outstretched towards the camera in a failed attempt to stop the photo, which made him laugh to think about. It's not that he didn't want Bdubs to see his face… in fact he was one of the few people who have! It's just… he can’t remember the last time someone else saw his face. There had to be someone else right?

Etho flipped a few pages more and found pictures from season 5. A shiver bolted up his spine as he remembered the nHo and the Jungle. What had happened tainted his memories of the place, but looking at all the clumsy photos of the four of them having fun and laughing together put a smile on his face. He found some better quality photos from early season 7 of the selfies they sent back and forth over the end rod game. “Oh good, he finally got decent with a camera,” Etho laughed to himself. He flipped through more pages and they gradually got more put together and scrapbook like. The mayoral race flyers, Turf War memorabilia, and pictures of the different builds across the server. A few more pages over it turned to season 8. A selfie of everyone at the starting village, gem and pearl in a ditch in the ground and grian being launched into the air by a golem. He found the planning sketch of the Horse Course wedged between two pages, and then a half finished chart of all the horses and their stats. He did a double take as he flipped to a picture of himself feeding one of the horses. He didn’t know bdubs took a photo of him?! There were multiple pages filled with pictures of the horse course from the past season. “Bdubs always looked so happy with that project, too bad we didn't get to use it with the others,” He thought to himself. He remembered the late nights laughing together trying to get the horses to cooperate, and racing alongside each other. He saw the moon growing bigger in the background of every photo. A pain stung his chest as he saw a teary eyed selfie of bdubs with Lulu and Squakers, illuminated by the moon. The last photo of season 8.

He shut the book and put it in his bag. “Ok this isn’t helping me find him,” Etho said out loud. He thought about where to find him this late, and only one place stood out to him. “The Horse Course, of course he’s there.” He blew out the candles on the desk and grabbed the torch off the wall. He walked down the stairs and out the door, closing it softly. He headed to the side of the monolith over to the animal pen. He walked over to Bdubs's horse. He reached his hand out over the fence, “Shh shh its me, good ol Etho… are we good?” The horse snorted and nudged Ethos hand. “Is it this you want?” He pulled some sugar cubes out of his bag pocket and fed the magnificent white steed. He pet her snout as she ate the sugar. “You ready now?” Etho asked. 

He hopped up onto the fence to mount the horse. She shook her head as Etho set his feet in the stirrups. With one flick of the reins they were soaring over the fence and down the trail. Etho needed to duck under some low hanging branches as they went down the path. The stars shone overhead and the cool breeze rushed past them. The lights of the Horse Course illuminated the horizon. Etho flicked the reigns and they sped towards the course, hooves hitting the packed soil with a rhythmic thump. He hopped off the horse and tied a lead to a lamppost. “Stay here and be good, ok? I’ll be back soon,” Etho promised as he pet her snout and tossed her an apple. He made his way over to the stables and saw exactly who he was looking for. The man’s moss cloak hung over the back of his chair. Bdubs seemed to be restocking the feeding containers. Etho decided to try to sneak up on him.

He walked over quietly and grabbed his arms from behind “BOO!” Bdubs jumped and sent a half hearted punch to Etho. “ETHO! What was that for?!” Etho keeled over laughing and between hysterical breaths he managed to joke, “Isn’t it past your bedtime?” “You shut up,” Bdubs responded quickly. “You're the one putzing around late at night scarin’ people! Whaddya want anyways?!” Etho tried to suppress his laughter to no avail, which only flustered Bdubs more. “What?!” He said indignantly. “N-nothing,” Etho managed to calm down. “I found this…?” He pulled the book out of his bag to show Bdubs. “How long have you been doing this?” “HEY! Where did you find that?! Give it back!” Bdubs replied, trying to grab the book. Etho held it up over his head out of Bdubs’s reach, “Not until you answer me” He said with a smug smile hidden under his mask. Bdubs flushed red, “Why’s it matter anyways? It's just a dumb book,” He said, looking away and crossing his arms. “Well clearly it’s not dumb if you've bothered to keep it for a decade,” Etho responded, giving up and handing the book back to the shorter man who promptly snatched it back and held it close. “What were you doing snooping through my stuff, you?” “I was looking for you,” Etho responded, leaning back on the stall wall to avoid eye contact. “Now why would I be in a book box???” Bdubs responded. “I don't know,” Etho replied without missing a beat. “You're short enough to fit-” Bdubs punched Ethos arm just enough to hurt a bit. “Why so violent today?” Etho jokingly played innocent. “I just came all the way over here to find my best friend, and this is the thanks I get? I'll just go then…” He ended with a dramatic sigh and turned to walk out. “Hey wait–” Bdubs grabbed his wrist. The two looked at each other in surprise. “I-I mean, I guess you can stay.” He quickly let go of Etho’s wrist and folded his arms. “Please?” “Fine,” Etho exaggerated, “Whatcha doing?”