cookedmaruchan

[ttheodoropoulos]

New York Poolhouse

A mid-sized beach style backyard with rectangular pool house and concrete pavers is an example.

[shunkoku]

New York Beach Style Pool

[conquerorofallempires]

Contemporary Patio - Patio Ideas for a mid-sized, modern backyard renovation that includes a fire pit and a pergola

[theonewiththefanfics]

Seal It With a Kiss (one-shot)

Synopsys: After a looting session goes wrong, Astarion and Reader have to face the music and confront their feelings. Whatever they might be.

Pairing: Astarion x fem!Reader

Genre: angst, fluff

Warnings: talks of blood, injuries, swearing, mentions of abuse, but nothing explicit

Word count: 3234

A/N: I have not played Baldur's Gate 3 (I don't own a PS or a PC where to play it. all of this is based on the info gathered online and through Neil's own gameplay etc. Please be kind :) )

The light was too bright. And the ground was too hard. And the pillow too tough and lumpy. And why did Y/N feel so hot when it was literally snowing? And, actually, when had it started snowing? From bright blue skies, might she add?

Slowly, haziness dissipated from her eyes, and the world around came into sharp, painful focus. The light was too bright because half of her surroundings were on literal fire. The ground was too hard because she was half on rubble that once was a palace roof, and the tough, lumpy pillow was a rock her head had smashed against, while the snow was ashes flowing down, covering everything, including her, in a grey layer of soot, the sky peeking in from the hole above.

Although her sight was clearing, a sharp ringing pierced her ears. Or was it shouting?

A shadow crossed the sky, and above her, she could see their resident vampiric elf’s mouth moving.

“ – were you thinking?!” Finally, her ears started to clear as well. “You absolute imbecile! Why would you do that?!”

Y/N just groaned in response, as her memories came back in quick flashes. Everyone was arguing about where they should look for another magical artefact, Astarion shooting down what Gale had proposed, Wyll trying to make a sensible plan while Lae’Zel interrupted Shadowheart at any given moment. A deep rumble from the depths of the abandoned palace they were in silenced them all, Karlach throwing them a worried expression. And then the whole building exploded.

On instinct, Y/N had pushed Astarion as far away as she could before the ceiling came crashing down on top of her. It was nothing short of a miracle, she had managed to survive. Bruised, battered, no doubt with broken bones, but alive nonetheless. Maybe she’d have to thank a goddess or two. That was if Astarion didn’t rip her to pieces beforehand with how furious he looked.

Slowly Y/N tried to lift herself onto her forearms, and for all his admonishments, Astarion was quick to crouch down and help her, putting his arms under her pits and letting her rest against his chest.

“Oh dear,” she mumbled, noticing a large bannister lying across her leg. “That’s not good.”

“Not good?!” Astarion practically shrieked, his hands tightening around her ribs. “How hard did you hit your fucking head? This is so beyond not good I can’t even think of a level!”

Y/N winced at his tone. “Can you stop shouting, please? Gods, my head is splitting.”

“Oh, is it now? It would be quite the fucking miracle if it wasn’t, seeing as a whole fucking palace just toppled on you!”

“Quit being so dramatic and help get that thing off me! Where’re the rest?”

“Frankly, I don’t fucking care right now!” Astarion gently laid Y/N back down and went to the large boulder.

His arms strained as he lifted the piece of the pillar, her eyes widening at the display of strength.

She sometimes forgot how strong Astarion actually was, how easily he could snap her neck with just a twist of his hands if he so wished while Y/N allowed him to drink from her. But he was always gentle instead, with how he held her nape, fingers soothingly pressing into her scalp and knuckles brushing against her collarbones once he was done in a sweet gesture of thanks.

As quickly as she could, Y/N scooted from under the rubble, Astarion dropping the boulder back unceremoniously, and he was back by her side in a second, an arm wrapping around her waist, so she could lean on him.

“We have to find the others,” Y/N hissed as she stood. Her whole body screamed in pain, but they had to get out of the now-ruined palace, lest another explosion happen.

“They can find their own way out,” Astarion grunted, as he led them towards the exit.

“Astarion!”

“No!” He snapped his head to look at Y/N, and his scarlet eyes held such a desperate gaze in them, that she pinched her lips shut. “I will knock you out if I have to. I am not letting you get hurt again.”

“Astarion, they’re our friends,” Y/N’s voice was gentle. “We have to help them if we can.”

For a moment, Astarion truly looked like he might just throw her over his shoulder and march out of the place. But then he sighed, hanging his head in defeat before looking at her with pain distorting his features. “Why do you always have to be so good?”

Something tugged at her heart. That expression on his face, as if it physically put him in agony to lead them around the ruined palace in search of their companions, as he flinched and tightened his hold on her whenever something crackled, ready to throw his own body atop hers, in case something happened. It wasn’t selfishness, not one bit. Something deeper lay beneath Astarion’s reluctance.

It took them a while to find their party, but luckily no one was injured, and Y/N was the worst one off.  Shadowheart was by her side in an instant, giving her a healing potion.

“Should keep you set until we get back to camp.” She patted her shoulder. “I’ll heal you fully once we’re out of immediate danger.”

“Thank you.” Y/N smiled at the cleric.

She was just about to ask Astarion whether he was alright, but the vampire had already detached himself and was glaring at the ground, arms crossed over his chest ten feet away from her.

Y/N couldn’t deny – it stung. He’d been so worried just a few moments ago, yet now he couldn’t even look at her?

Her feet worked on their own accord, moving in his direction, but the way he turned his back to her, told her all she needed to know – he didn’t want to talk.

Pain shot through her heart, and it was definitely not because of the explosion, but Y/N respected his privacy, so she didn’t approach him any further, even though they always, always, walked next to one another.

“We should head back,” she spoke up, eyes remaining on Astarion’s taut back. “Maybe get some rest as well. We still have tomorrow anyway to search this place.”

When Astarion left the palace without even waiting to see if anyone was following, Y/N could do nothing but sigh and depart as well.

The walk to where they’d set up their camp was uncharacteristically quiet, especially from the pale elf’s side. He’d usually fill their travels with mindless talk and sarcastic quips, but this time around, he hung towards the back of their group and was as mum as a grave. He didn’t even comment on whatever Gale was saying, which made Y/N all the more uneasy.

She couldn’t wrap her mind around why he’d become so distant all of a sudden. What’d happened at the palace was nothing unusual. They risked their lives on the daily, saving others and themselves, so why in the world was Astarion so pissed about this, she had no clue.

Karlach leaned to the side, watching as the vampire entered his tent, closing the laces immediately. “Fangs is quite in a bad mood. Anything we should know about, soldier?”

Y/N huffed. “Probably broke a nail or something. In any case – nothing important enough to be acting the way he is.”

“Maybe I should go and – “

She put a palm on Karlach’s shoulder, stopping her, and giving her friend a wry smile. “I’ll talk to him. Better he’s angry at me and only me, not someone else as well. Apparently, I’ve pissed him off as is.”

“You sure?” the tiefling asked.

“Yeah.” Y/N nodded. “I think we need to have a talk anyway.”

With a “good luck” from Karlach, she sighed and steeled herself against whatever the vampire would throw her way. She unlaced the ties and lifted the flap to the side. With crossed arms, she entered Astarion’s tent, only to be greeted by his back as he stubbornly kept looking at a book in his hands, not even acknowledging her.

“Are you seriously pouting right now?” Y/N asked after a minute of silence.

“I’m not pouting, I’m brooding. There’s a difference.”

“Well, does brooding involve giving the silent treatment, or can we talk?”

Astarion threw a withering gaze over his shoulder. “What is there you want to talk about? Unless it’s an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”

Y/N let out an exasperated huff. “I’m sorry to disappoint, but I won’t apologise for saving your life.”

“By putting your own life in danger?!” Astarion spun around, throwing the tome he’d been holding onto his bedroll.

“Comes with the territory.” She shrugged. “You should know how it is.”

“Letting a whole building collapse on top of you is very different to knocking a blade out of the way!”

“Why are you so angry with me?” Y/N raised her voice, matching Astarion’s furious tone. “I saved your life!

“I didn’t ask for you to!”

She let out a disbelieving scoff. “Well, sucks to be you then! Because I was not just going to let you get crushed underneath all that rubble! Your life is just as important as everyone else’s!”

“Not to me! Not when it comes to you!”

Now that shut her up completely, her lips pinched in a thin line, eyes wide in shock. She and Astarion were friends, at least Y/N would've liked to think so. She most definitely had developed deeper feelings than that, but would only admit to it over her own dead body. The thought of Astarion’s rejection made her want to crumple into a small heap, but his reaction put thoughts in her head that maybe, just maybe, her feelings weren’t one-sided.

“What do you suppose I would do if you – if – if,” he stumbled on his words. “If I had to go on without you? If you were no longer with us… with me…”

“Astarion…”

“Do you understand how it felt to see you go down?” He sighed, hanging his head. “When I saw the roof caving in and then felt you push me away before you vanished beneath rubble and dust and ash… I’ve never been more terrified in all of my life, two hundred years of which were spent under the rule of an absolute sadist, where horrors awaited around every corner.”

His eyes bore nothing but pain and despair he’d felt in that moment. “I heard everyone else screaming - Shadowheart calling out, Wyll and Karlach making sure Gale and Lae’Zel were alright but nothing… not a single whisper from your voice. You tell me I’m pouting, but all I can see when I close my eyes is you… how you would look… dead. Your eyes closed forever, your blood spilling out of your body and I… I have to stand and watch as I am unable to save you.

“But I’m alright.” Y/N stepped up to him, taking one of his palms in hers, and squeezing it. “Astarion, I’m alive, and I’m fine.”

“But you almost weren’t!” he hissed, pulling her closer, bringing their clasped hands to rest against his chest. “And all I would have been left to do was wait for the dust to settle and dig out your broken body. You would have condemned me to eternity without you… I just almost lost the person I love... and that fear is something I never wish to experience again.”

Y/N’s breath hitched in her throat at such an honest confession. “I umm I didn’t know you felt that way about me.” Friendship was one thing, but love? That threw her completely off balance.

“Feel? Felt? What does it matter anymore? Clearly, it’s not like it’s reciprocated.” He scoffed, back the mask of bravado and not caring, but Y/N wasn’t having any of it.

“It matters to me.” Her brows furrowed. “It matters a great deal to me. Why do you think I did what I did, exactly? Because it’s fun? Because I enjoy blocks of buildings dropping down on me? Because it’s such an absolute delight to realise - if I don’t push you out of the way, you will be in direct line of fire, and I might lose you?”

Astarion’s mouth opened and closed. “I didn’t – I –“

“No!” Y/N pointed an accusatory finger at him. Now she was angry. “You don’t get to play the "I'm in love with you" card and be angry with me. Not if you dare tell me how I feel without asking first!”

“You...” He shook his head, a crease to his brow. “You never indicated you held anything more than… friendly affections towards me.”

Y/N rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Yes, because I let everyone in this party use me as their personal snack each night. I’d say that should’ve been your first clue.”

“I’d say you’re a full-course meal, my darling, but I understand the sentiment.” And though back was his usual air of sarcasm, a deep vulnerability could be seen shining in his crimson eyes as he weaved a gentle hand to wrap around the small of her waist, brushing underneath her sleep tunic to rest against her skin.

Cold met warm, and Y/N gasped as a shiver ran down her spine. His slender fingers dug into her back as he pulled Y/N closer, their breaths mingling, and if they only moved just a couple of centimetres, lips would touch.

“I just – I cannot stand and watch you throw your life away for someone like me. The thought of your brightness being extinguished because of it… I couldn’t bear it.”

Y/N tilted her head to the side. “Someone like who exactly? Someone who I’ve grown to look at as my dearest confidant? Someone who I know will always tell me the truth and be there if I cannot handle it? Or someone who so deftly has stolen my heart, he cannot even comprehend it’s been his the whole time? Besides, even if it wasn’t reciprocated...” She played with the string of his shirt, “you can’t tell me to be more careful, to not save you when you do the exact same thing.”

“How can I not?” Astarion’s voice was uncharacteristically soft, and for once, he seemed to want the moment to reflect what truly lay in his soul. “You make my heart beat on its own. If I had to give up walking in the sun for the rest of my life, I would. As long as it meant you were safe and happy. I’d even gladly go back to Cazador if you were on the line. Without a second to spare.”

“Don’t you dare fucking say that!"

“But it’s true.”

“Not if I can help it,” Y/N grumbled, tightening her hold on his shirt by his hips, pulling him closer like she had to make sure he wasn’t going anywhere. “He’s not ever going to get near you. I’ll level the whole of Baldur’s Gate if I have to.”

“And I am being honest when I say, if I had to choose between you being unhurt or me being imprisoned, being used as I was, I would always put you first.”

Y/N was on the verge of tears. “You listen to me you pompous blood-sucking elf – you will do no such thing. Whatever comes, we both will get through it. And Cazador will have his head ripped from his shoulders, but not before I gouge his eyes out, and do every single vile thing he did to you back onto him. I will skin him alive and then throw him in a tomb with nothing but cockroaches. Let him drink his own blood and see how he likes it.” She shuddered, taking in a deep breath. “Your life is not worth less than mine. Don’t you ever dare think that way.”

A watery chuckle escaped Astarion, and his eyes brimmed with silvery tears. “Can I kiss you?” He didn’t dare lift his gaze, focusing on their intertwined fingers, resting against where his heart no doubt would have been rattling a crazy rhythm if it still beat.

“If you want to.” Y/N’s reply was as quiet as his question had been, but there was no teasing in her tone.

His eyes flashed for a second, but she didn’t get a full grasp on what it was she saw. Maybe surprise. Maybe gratitude? She couldn’t tell really, all she knew was that the emotion caused a pang to ring to her very core. She’d kill Cazador with her own bloody hands.

“I want it.” He nodded. “More than anything.”

“More than my blood? That first night you almost drained me dry,” Y/N’s words, though true, held no malice, only gentle teasing.

“And how do you know that first time I wasn’t trying to wake up the sleeping princess with a magical true love’s kiss? The feeding just ended up being a bonus.” He brushed her nose with his, and couldn’t help the way his own lips turned up as Y/N smiled.

“Well, this sleeping princess would’ve punched you in the nose, had you awoken her for such silly things. Besides, you did miss my lips.”

Astarion chuckled, relishing the way her body pressed against his. “But I am allowed to awaken you to drink from you?”

“Well...” She nudged his nose with hers now. “Seeing as you become absolutely unbearable when hungry, I think for my own peace and everyone else’s, that does count as a vital reason to rouse me."

Gentle hands cupped her cheeks. “Allow me to demonstrate then how vital a kiss can be to one’s survival.”

And then their lips met.

She’d never admit it out loud, for his ego would surely grow larger than it already was, but it did feel like a magical kiss of life. Her whole body sang as his fingers slid against the nape of her neck, pulling her closer, almost like Astarion was afraid she’d pull back, but she could never. Not when he slipped his tongue past her lips, and her knees almost crumbled.

Y/N had to tighten her hold on his waist to not completely lose it, and she could feel the smirk growing on the vampire’s face, as he realised just how incapacitated his kiss had made her. He nipped at the bottom of her lip and relished in the small whimper he got to devour.

After what felt like ages, they pulled back, panting, but not going too far as Astarion rested his forehead against hers.

Y/N smiled. “True love’s kiss you say?”

“It feels like it,” he mumbled, allowing himself to indulge in the tender touch of her fingers skimming up and down his back. “Though I don’t know much about… love… I’d like to experience it with you. All of it. The good and the bad that might come with it.”

“I’ll be here,” Y/N promised. “As long as you want me to, I’m not going anywhere.”

“And if I ask for forever?”

She let out an over-exaggerated, dramatic sigh. “Forever’s quite a long time, don’t you think?”

“Not long enough,” Astarion replied, a smile tugging up his lips. “It’d never be long enough with you.”

Y/N quirked a brow. “Is that a challenge?”

He chuckled at that. “I’d say it’s more of a promise, if anything.”

“Seal it with a kiss?”

“Deal, my love.”

Tags:

Everything tags: @palaiasaurus64 @supernaturalbaesduh @thatawkwardlittlefangirl @sea040561 @staryeyedgirl @deathbyarabbit @m-a-t-91 @maladaptive-ninja-returns @averyrogers83 @gallifreyansass @dewy-biitch @avxgers @unlikelygalaxygiver @magicwithaknife @ollyoxenfrees @bnhvrdy @tvwhoresblog @thatkindofgurl @sj-thefan @lestersglitterglue @im-squished @strangersstranger

Astarion tags: @spacebarbarianweird

A/N: my tags are always open, so just drop a message if you want to be tagged :)

P.S. do not plagiarise my work or repost it on other platforms!!!

[simkaswriting]

What if…Eris had danced with y/n instead?

A/N- Hi hi! This is a one shot from a series I'm currently writing for acotar, if you're interested in reading about other beloved characters like Cas, Az, Mor, Rhys and Lucien and their own 'what if' moments, make sure to check back❤️

Dull. That was the only word coming to mind when Y/N surveyed the large, cavernous room. The inner circle was paying their supposed yearly visit to the Court of Nightmares, according to the little information Mor let slip at the dinner table last night. It was not the lack of decorations, or even the monotonous colours throughout the room, but rather it was the fae that were dull. Music echoed around them all, hundreds of males and females clad in varying shades of grey and black talking quietly amongst themselves as if unaware of the festive holiday they were gathered to celebrate, yet only a handful indulged in the compelling music. Y/N stood quietly on the far end of the unintentional line the inner circle formed around the two thrones, right next to quiet Elain, who in turn was leaning lightly against Feyre’s throne. It wasn’t like she tried to blend into the background the way the Azriel’s shadows allowed him to, or that she stood out like a sore thumb the way Elain did with her exuberant energy and bright eyes. Nor did she entice every male the way her eldest sister did with her fierce glare and head held high. No, Y/N was simply just there. Startling in beauty, ferocious in demeanour, and quite frankly a little disappointed at what the Court of Nightmares regarded as a party. Which is perhaps what piqued the red headed Autumn Court male’s attention. Y/N, just standing off to the side yet not seeming lonely, almost as if placing an invisible barrier between herself and the rest of her new family. He wondered why she stood there instead of dancing with some lowly scum like the eldest sister did, hanging off the brute’s arm, though he was almost certain nobody in this room would dare ask her for a dance. If only out of fear of aggravating the High Lord sitting a few feet away.

An hour goes by with minimal conversation between Y/N and Elain, and even then, the words dry out due to her sisters’ fear of drawing attention to themselves. Mouth dry and legs slightly stiff from her unmoving position next to her sisters, Y/N quietly walks over to the large table coated with an array of refreshments, in search of something stronger than water to help the time flow a little faster. Her eyes narrow in on a bottle of red wine, from the Summer Court if the writing is anything to go by. She reaches for the bottle, fully intending to keep it all to herself, when a cedar and cinnamon smell fills her nostrils.

“If I may, I’d suggest this wine, call it a personal favourite and a matter of good taste.” The voice is deep yet oddly soft, so very out of place in this pit of despair surrounding her. It’s as if the tone caresses her.

Stomach in knots, Y/N looks up at the male next to her, and fights back the gasp that surely would have escaped her if she didn’t know better. A tall male clad in hues of green and brown stands next to her, holding a bottle of white wine which looks comically small in his large hand. His height has her almost subconsciously take a step back, looming over her like a bad omen she’s sure he is. His face is sculpted as if by the Mother herself, though she can tell he isn’t just a pretty face to look at by the red scar barely visible under the collar of his shirt. No fae male in the Court of Nightmares on this festive day is just a pretty face. Yet it’s the male’s fiery red hair, bright as if fire itself courses through it, that has Y/N repressing the urge to marvel at it and reach out to run her hand through the fiery locks.

She schools her expression into one of calm indifference instead, perhaps a second too late, and glances at the bottle in the stranger’s hand. Autumn court wine. Her arm falls back to rest at her side, now fully facing the mysterious male, even if it drives her heartbeat crazy and floods her mind with static.

“Good taste would be finding yourself in better company on this joyous night.” She draws out the latter half of her sentence in mockery. Yes, the winter solstice is a time of mirth and expressing appreciation for your loved ones in Velaris, at least from the rare glimpses she’s managed to steal. However, the holiday loses its meaning in the Court of Nightmares. Surely the red head has better options than spending his time in this joyless pit of despondency, attempting to strike up a conversation with the forgotten Archeron sister?

A haughty chuckle comes from him as he sets the wine down on the banquet table and extends his hand, an inkling of a bow following.

“I was hoping you could be that company. May I have this dance?”

She studies his hand, eyes raking over the large surface of his palm and following the veins as they disappear below his tunic, throat growing a little dry. Unsure of why she should say no, especially since she can already feel the tediousness of the next few hours seeping in, Y/N accepts the strangers offer.

Y/N feels eyes burning holes in her, through her, a sour pit churning in her stomach. With a surprisingly gentle touch, the red head draws their bodies together, chest to chest, his hand coming to rest on her lower back, placing himself between her and the inquiring eyes of the inner circle, much to her relief.

Is it such an issue for Y/N to dance with another male? Was she expected to stand by her sisters and the Illyrian males doubling as bodyguards all night, bored to the stars, and counting down the minutes until they could winnow her back to the House of Wind? Nesta and Cassian were enjoying themselves, Feyre and Rhysand were enamoured with each other, and Azriel and Elain were engaged in quiet conversation. So, what is the problem with Y/N enjoying the harmless company of this mysterious, and not to mention breathtakingly beautiful, fae male?

Placing her hand on his shoulder and the other in his hand, large and calloused from centuries of experience she could probably never even begin to comprehend, Y/N looks up at the male.

“How do you find yourself in this cesspool of ingrates on such a beautiful holiday? Surely the Autumn Court would be more…” She pauses, weighing the words on her tongue before letting them slip on a cloud of playfulness to her surprise.

“…favourable.”

Eris guides the two of them in wide circles, knowing he needs not pay attention to the other fae around. Only fools with a death wish would so much as approach the red head and Archeron sister. As his fingers brush across the exposed skin of lower back, the low-cut fabric of her dress revealing enough to please his eyes and send sparks up his fingers at each contact with her, he wonders if her skin is flush to the touch from this nausea-inducing pit or perhaps his proximity.

He hums in approval. Of what exactly, he isn’t sure, coherent thoughts slowly slipping out of his reach.

“You are correct. Though it seems fate would have it that I come here tonight. And what a lovely stroke of luck that I find myself in your company.” He purrs, voice low enough just for her and only her to hear.

He watches heat creep up her exposed neck and settle on the tips of her newly pointed ears with the hint of a smile playing on his lips. And he can’t help but wonder if that truly is the case. If the reason he turned down the invitation to his families own festive ball had something to do with fate, destiny, perhaps the Mother. If the stars intended for the two of them to end up in each other’s paths, each other’s arms.

Voice soft, fighting to keep her eyes on the male’s face despite feeling like the floor may open up and swallow her whole, she asks “May I at least know the name of my dance partner?”

A mischievous, silently knowing smile tugs at the males’ lips as he glances over his dance partners head with ease. Y/N knows who the teasing look was meant for, her High Lord, Feyre’s mate. But as fleeting as the moment is, his bright eyes find themselves looking into hers again.

“Eris. Eris Vanserra, General of the Autumn Court forces. Future High Lord of the Autumn Court. If you’d like the specifics.” His voice flows over her, teasing tone setting in as he finishes his sentence. His eyes are playful, low, and amused, as if he was in on a joke she wasn’t, as if she was some innocent pawn in a game the male who just declared himself the future High Lord of the Autumn Court was engaged in with Rhysand.

She rakes her brain for that missing piece of information, that last piece of the puzzle to really place this male. But instead of finding it within herself, she follows his gaze, fleeting as it was, only to find a tight-lipped Morrigan with eyes set on Y/N, icy and reticent, Azriel’s hand discreetly hovering behind her. To protect or hold her back, she isn’t sure. The cloudy aura around the blonde, usually strikingly orange in its hue, borders on coal as the two of them exchange a knowing look.

And that last puzzle piece clicks. The male whose hands are sending shivers up her spine at their contact with the exposed skin of her back is the same male Morrigan was betrothed to, if Y/N can trust the little information Nesta let slip during one of her drunken tirades, shut down mercilessly by Cassian before she could reveal more. An easy feeling creeps up to (Y/N)’s chest. She didn’t need to know the full story of what occurred between the two fae to arrive at the conclusion that it wasn’t pleasant. And that accepting his invitation to dance with him, with Eris Vanserra, despite initially not being aware of who this male was, may cost her upon the inner circles return to Velaris.

But his gentle hold on her as he leads them around the room with feet skilled beyond her expectations makes her wonder if there was more to him, more to this interaction, than some ulterior motive. More than thrusting a red-hot iron poker at Morrigan’s trauma and showing Rhys and Feyre that their inner circle was not untouchable, unreachable, unbreachable.

As if sensing her growing discomfort, Eris manoeuvres the two of them across the large, cavernous room, past the dancing fae, away from the prying eyes of the inner circle and towards the music. A risky move, they both know, but despite her newfound hesitation, she can’t help but feel thankful. And not just for removing her from yet another unsettling situation she always seems to find herself in with her sisters’ new family. But for reaching out his hand, for grasping her attention, for making her feel seen and alive for the first time since she emerged from the Cauldron desperate for more.

“I don’t know if you’re brave or just plain foolish, Eris Vanserra.” Y/N quips, eyes set on the liquid-like amber ones looking down at her, unmoving, almost challenging.

He wouldn’t be the first or last to try lay claim on the fourth Archeron sister. To try find footing, a doorway into the inner circle. The elusive Night Court. Sometimes Y/N thinks her sisters got it easy. Mated practically right out of the Cauldron, to three brothers no less. They wouldn’t understand the pressure pulling her down each day, the feeling of being a bargaining chip in Rhysand’s pocket, a way to establish or strengthen alliances in the centuries to come. A precious and valued position to fill in all the High Lord’s eyes.

His eyes remain on hers, unflinching, lips slightly curving at the corner at her tone. Eris had heard the rumours. The three sisters of the High Lady of the Night Court, submerged in the elusive depths of the Cauldron, each gifted, each more beautiful than the other. Three sisters on lockdown in the Night Court, two mated. And he would be lying if he denied any ulterior motives, however his existing alliance with Rhysand was questionable but firm, his eventual succession as High Lord all but guaranteed. He had no real need to court the female in his arms. Though, being betrothed to any member of the High Lord and Lady’s family would be a good union for any male, however, betrothal to a mysteriously gifted sister of the first High Lady of Prythian would result in a more powerful union than any other in history. And despite this thought percolating every other thought in his mind, he can’t help but feel like the Mother was trying to play some cruel joke on him. Like she created this woman turned fae just for him, with the way her body feels pressed against his, each movement of her hair sending her scent directly to his nose and nearly buckling his knees. Her smaller hand in his, fingers intertwined with his like their grooves were made just for him. Her bright eyes on his, and he thinks, for the first time in his life, he wouldn’t mind looking into them until time ceased to matter.

“Why not both, dear?” His question is rhetorical in nature, and with heat creeping up her neck she wonders. Could this male truly be evil incarnate if he looked at her like he was ready to worship the ground she walked on?

Hand in his, she blindly follows his lead, never having favoured ballroom dancing the way her eldest sister did. However, she can’t help but find herself drawn to the stranger who has her on her toes. The music carries the two around the room, spinning, floating across the cold emanating from the chiselled stone of the behemoth mountain, eyes never leaving each other. His grip on her body is firm yet gentle, the fire in her very core growing, and she wonders if it has something to do with the male’s heritage or her own gift. The two glide around the large poor excuse for a ballroom with carelessness, lost in a trance, ending up near Rhysand’s and Feyre’s thrones. They can feel eyes on them, burning with questions, accusations, the latter originating from the Truth Speaker herself. But to them, time seems to be still rather than flowing. Their own little undisturbed bubble.

“I can sense it, smell it.” Rhysand whispers into the crook of Feyre’s neck, just below her ear, eyes on his mate’s sister and the heir to the Autumn Court. It was obvious to him, to his brothers and Mor, a sickening sight, one that only seemed to make sense to the High Lord and Lady of the Night Court. Yet he wondered, with the cavern full of monstrous fae, how was the scent so permeating?

Feyre, chest heavy with disappointment but acceptance, nods. She can too. The tether between the two, the bond making itself known. And all she can do is watch as Eris dips her sister low, her hair grazing the ground, and places the ghost of a kiss to her throat.

A shockwave of pleasure washes over Y/N at the gentle pressure of his lips on her neck, the embers in her chest igniting and rising to a flame threatening to consume her whole. A tug in her chest, the fire she thinks, begs her to stay close, pull him back into her embrace and not let go. So, she follows her instinct and draws their bodies back together, closer this time, chests heaving against each other, her lips parted, and his eyes so focused on her he almost misses his own name spoken by Rhysand.

“Composure, Eris, please.” Rhysand purrs, examining his nails as if he hasn’t just witnessed the pairing in front of him all but seal their fate.

(Y/N)’s eyes widen. Not from fear or apprehension at the words of her sister’s mate. But rather from the crushing feeling of need weighing on her chest, need to be closer to this man she didn’t know existed before tonight, need to claw out Azriel’s eyes from the glare he’s throwing Eris, need to shield him with her own body from the threat she knows the inner circle poses.

Feeling the ripple in the air, the unmistakeable tug in his chest despite his unwavering fear of what it spells out for him, Eris gently lets go of her body, instead opting for placing a hand on her lower back, long fingers brushing out soft circles over the fabric of her black backless dress as he walks them the few steps it takes to stop at what he deems is an acceptable, safe, distance from Rhysand.

And before he can consider his words, really take in their weight and implications, they slip past his lips. “What do I need to do for her hand in marriage?”

Of course, Eris suspects the hold Rhysand possesses on all his inner circle members. But judging by the disdain in Y/N’s eyes he observed from the moment they arrived to the moment he approached her, Rhysand wasn’t too interested in this particular Archeron sister. Eris was intelligent, well versed in courtly socialite behaviours. He knew of the hoops he needed to jump through, pleasantries to exchange, even if they did not matter. He only really needed the confirmation from one fae, and it was the one his blood raced for, the fire within him craved.

“The choice is Y/N’s, of course.” Feyre chimes in, sharp eyes focused on her sister as she takes in the scene before her. Y/N’s look bordering on feral, fists clenched at her side, jaw rigid. And in her mind, Rhysand’s chuckle echoes, because she may not yet realise the obvious spark in the air.

The illusion of freedom Rhysand and Feyre paint is laughable, Y/N thinks. She always knew her sister to be cunning, and her mate turning out to be Rhysand was something nobody ever questioned, for all the right reasons. Two peas in a metaphorically corrupt pod. She swallows the hate threatening to spew through her clenched jaw, her heart threatening to break her ribcage if it beat any faster at the words of the male next to her. She knew of the courtly games, had been living their nightmare from the moment the cauldron let her take and take and still gifted her with more, knew his words were really just a necessity. And, with bone chilling horror, realized that the entirety of the Court of Nightmares was gawking at them. But the steady and reassuring hand on her back brings her to reality.

Head held high, knowing if she is to accept Eris’s proposal she will become a significant pawn in Rhysand’s game, she thinks that it would all be worth it if she gets to fall asleep in the arms of the stranger who somehow found the sliver of life left in her and pulled it to the surface. She feels, deep down, that marriage will be just a formality for whatever connection she’s feeling between the two of them. His question isn’t something she has to ponder over.

“Yes.” Her voice echoes around the cavern, loud and clear and heard by all.

She doesn’t miss the slight smirk on Rhysand’s lips, the kind look in Feyre’s eyes, the betrayal laced with defeated understanding on Mor’s face. Y/N knows the fiery haired male is on shaky terms with the inner circle at best, for reasons she hopes to understand, but some innate part of her feels whatever grievances will be aired, she will not be moved from his side.

“Congratulations, lovely Y/N. May this union be blessed by the Mother.” Rhysand hums, voice low, double-edged sword that is his tongue savouring the moment. As his eyes meet the amber of the eldest Vanserra brother, he can’t help but grin, because he knows. Eris knows that that hum in the air is, that fire in his chest. Reigning in his smirk, Rhysand sends a quick prayer to the Mother, thinking that Eris may need it if he is to survive by Y/N’s side.

Y/N lightly bows her head, an inch, just enough to show her gratitude for the sake of the onlookers. And before any other fae has the opportunity to pluck up the courage and approach the newly engaged pair, Eris is already gently leading her to the edge of the grand hall, hand still on her back.

“How would you like to sample some of that Autumn Court wine in your new home, my dear (Y/N)?” Eris purrs, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. And the scent that permeates his nose, one of want and need and anticipation, is the only answer he needs as the shadows grow around the two. As the pair winnows, she thinks that perhaps the festivities will be more joyful next year with Eris by her side.  

[rippersz]

ℌ𝔬𝔩𝔶

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(Rebel Angel who somehow doesn’t know who Lucifer is)

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It seemed that the Almighty had reached his limit. His breaking point. His last straw. You exhausted him- worried him- pushed him too far and he had had enough. Too many broken rules. Too many annoyances. Too many thises and thatses and one or the other. So many complaints… so many arguments… so many accounts of general public disruption…

God never allowed insolence. God never allowed anything less than perfection.

And you were terribly flawed.

That was the reason- surely- as to why you found yourself waking up on a dark cold marble floor instead of in the cool holy waters of your ivory bath.

The wings at your back ached and something in your chest was bruised, swiftly gathering atoms of divinity to weave the pain away. Too, your hands were red when you turned them over - stinging with the remnants of a hard fall. And your knees were skinned; epidermis peeled back and raw. It looked as though you’d been brought to the pearly gates and pushed off of the silver city’s edge. It felt like you’d been brought to the pearly gates and pushed off of the silver city’s edge.

“Stuck up- bastards-,” you grunted, pulling yourself up onto your hands and knees.

The fucking lot of them - every other single fucking angel up there in those clouds… they were morons. Idiots. None of them knew how to have a good time. None of them knew how to have fun. There were no parties in Heaven. There were no parties in paradise. There was no difficulty in Nirvana. And you loathed that. Hated that. For years you sat on your ass, from childhood to adulthood, watching with wide bright eyes as the world went on around you. Your parents made you the way you were, keeping you sheltered and happy and strong while the other little angels played outside and were born with glowing lights around their bodies. They learned all sorts of things out there - mingling in the ‘real world’ - watching as guardians.

But your human died one day after being born - and you had no one to guard. And God sort of looked at you after that and thought ‘Meh. Do what you want with her.’ and that was the end of it. From that point on you were just- there. A distraction for the others. A nuisance for most. A good time for few. But it seemed God decided you’d fucked around for the last time - and he cast you to-

…well. You weren’t exactly sure where you were.

Unlike Eden, the place you were in was dark. Desolate. Lit with something… unsettling. The air smelled of sulfur and burn - and you swore you could see ash float about in the nonexistent wind. There were no clouds either, and no subliminal gentle hum that typically played on a loop within the city - meant to carry the angels and souls through their hours. Inspiring joy. Happiness. Obedience. The tune was bloody annoying was what it was - you’d always held some type of disdain for it. But there, surrounded by a very sudden eerie quiet, you wished you could hear the choir singing again. It would, perhaps, only slightly lessen the sudden feeling of being entirely out of place. The metal bowls of flame fixed between long marble columns… the strange fire-pit you faced upon standing on your feet and shakily turning around… the- oh… the color of the sky… no such phenomenons existed in Heaven. Flames were rarely seen. And the sky was never- well you would have remembered if it were ever red. Or a weird mix of fiery orange and black. Or even grey. But it wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t. There were no silver pathways leading from this place to the other; and there was no distinct shine to the universe itself. No… divinity. No divinity at all.

So where in the Lord’s name were you?

“How peculiar…” a voice purred, “…an Angel? In my realm?… It appears you have fallen quite a long way.”

You turned, body tensing with discomfort. You didn’t know anyone else would be present. You hadn’t even heard them come in. Yet when you looked around, searching and curious, having to do a complete 360, you found there was someone present.

Something present.

The fire in the great pit that separated you had grown into an inferno. You could barely make out the creature’s face through the heated disruption. The blonde curls, you saw. The way they fell just so across a pale forehead. And the wings… by God, the wings. You were drawn to them almost instantly. A set far different from your own, laying poised behind the thing’s strong back. Dark, you noticed. And sharp. Leathery? Yes - definitely. Nearly… bat-like… and powerful, without a doubt. You squinted, trying to see through the flames, but it was to no use. The stranger was tall but drowned in shadow. Hidden, almost - even though you could see the midnight color of their silk robe.

How intriguing… You blinked, wondering if there was a chance that you were possibly hallucinating (and ignoring the fact that angels couldn’t hallucinate), but you weren’t. It was real. And it was silent. And you were staring.

“Who are you?” The volume of your tone made you wince. In Heaven, everyone had to raise their voices over the soft din of the choir, eventually giving them the natural disposition of talking loudly. But in the silence of that strange land, it sounded like the ‘gunshot’ some humans described when first stepping into the silver city. Noisy, booming, and honestly embarrassing.

Though the creature didn’t seem to mind. In fact, they didn’t seem to care. Not at all. Instead, you noticed the slightest shift in the robe’s sleeve and could just barely make out the velvet outline of long fingers floating delicately through the ashen air before the fire in front of you- the fire separating you- the only thing keeping you strangers and safe- disappeared. Went out. Settled into heated coals and sizzling sounds. And thus, revealed the monster.

The very… very… very… very attractive monster. The handsomest of monsters. The most beautiful monster. With shining crystal eyes, blue like the holy water you rested in during times of sleep, and soft pink lips, putting human flower petals and sunsets to shame. And with a pale pallet, nearly… nearly glowing…

“I am in no mood for games, little Angel,” the pretty monster hummed, tilting its head as it began moving.

Slow step by slow step, you watched in awe as it grew closer… and taller… and more glorious. You’d never seen anyone like them. No soul, no divine thing, no creature in the silver city looked like that. Looked so- so- well you didn’t even have words. Literally and figuratively. Your mouth dropped open and you floundered, searching for something to say, trying to find your sense as each thought in your mind began fraying - destroyed by their proximity. Destroyed by the soft hard line of their jaw and the curve of their chin and bridge of their nose. So glorious… so holy…

“I-” your voice croaked, “I don’t- I don’t know… who you are,” you confessed, voice softening into something innocent.

It was the truth - the honest truth! - but for some reason you felt… stupid. For not knowing what it was or who they were. From a young age, angels were expected to know everyone and everything. Nearly every other angel’s name by heart; every religion and each God; every world and all things in between. Including greater entities. Anomalies. Beings with great power - like Dream of the Endless and his friend, Desire. And most angels did know such things. Most angels did retain such information. But of course, as it goes in any walk or form of life, one must always slip through the cracks. And that was you. There were many things you didn’t know and many things you didn’t care to know. But standing there in front of them, below them, looking up to see the way some stray beacon of light made their fair curls shimmer, you realized you probably ought to know them. Their presence felt so… intoxicating… it was hard to understand how you hadn’t come across anything like that before. Especially when you felt your hands shake as you realized just how much they loomed over you… Like Azrael. But they- it?- was not Death. You knew Death. You had tea with Death once… before trying to poison them. Just to see what would happen of course! Just to know. (Nothing happened, unfortunately. They just sort of blinked and gave you an exasperated look and told you to go away. There was no more tea after that.) But despite not being Death, they still held that air about them. That distinct aura of doom. Of glorious defeat. It swelled in the pits of those icy eyes.

And such glorious icy eyes they were. So beautiful. So intense. You felt frozen beneath them, any hint of scorn directed at the Almighty suddenly gone in the face of the new creature. Entirely overshadowed by morbid curiosity… and the tiniest hint of fear. You’d never really felt fear before. But the rushing in your heart, and the sound of golden blood in your ears, and the whimper that nestled in the depths of your throat could only mean terror, couldn’t they? You watched realization slowly dawn on the creature’s face. You watched their brows furrow slightly, then you looked down to see those peach lips parting - slowly, softly, god-like.

“Intriguing…,” their breath smelled of wine and dying stars, “…you really have no idea, do you?”

Their tone was lilting; their accent sublime. So pronounced, so gentle, sounding almost like a song within the crackling silence of the fires going on around you. It had you leaning closer, drawn like a foolish sailor to a siren’s whims. Just utterly transcendent. Just inexplicably marvelous. It had a weight to it that you’d only seen in God… but the creature before you was most certainly not God. Not in any religion. No, it was something else. Something more abstract. Something darker. But you couldn’t place even a single fingertip on it.

“No, no clue.” You sounded breathless.

Hearing that seemed to please the creature in some odd way. There was a glimmer to their eye that wasn’t there before - and they appeared… delighted?

“Well,” it sighed, sculpted pale hands poised in front of a soft abdomen. “I believe that calls for an introduction.” And then there was a pause. An ominous, strange pause - as if the being was silently telling you that you had one last chance to be honest; coaxing you into admitting a truth that you didn’t know nor understand. But when you just blinked at them, hanging onto their words for dear non-life, quite unsure of what they wanted, they seemed to finally accept reality and internally concede.

“Lucifer,” they cooed, voice ringing and smirk evil, “Morningstar.”

Morningstar…

…The Morningstar.

The one whispered about… the one gossiped about… the name passed from one seraphic mouth to another… the occasional ‘talk of the town.’ Everyone seemed to know about them but you. They were formidable, yes, but that was the extent of your knowledge. Their origins were unknown. Their story was a shot in the dark. Perhaps that’s why you felt so odd within their presence - like a sweating blushing thing that wasn’t sure of its place in the Heavens. Or in any realm, for that matter.

You sort of felt the need to bow. It tingled in your shoulder blades, wormed beneath your ribcage, but refused the instinct. You were an Angel. You bowed to no one but God, and even then you rarely did so. Everyone in the clouds knew you to shirk such an honor. A brave few even murmured about the Morningstar and how you’d ‘fall’ just like them. At the time you ignored them, having no clue what they were talking about. But looking around you then, feeling the weight of the burning air, you knew you were a long way from Heaven. Perhaps in its very antithesis, though you had no name for that just yet. Did everyone in that realm have a figure like Lucifer’s? Did all of their hair shine like that? Were all of them fair-skinned and untouchable? Was it Heaven reversed?

You couldn’t control the way your eyes slid over to their wings. They were far larger up close… and taloned, you noted. Was there a chance they were soft? They looked soft. Leathery and strange, with skin stretched over bone, but soft nonetheless. And as if sparked by your thinking, they twitched, flaring for just a moment before relaxing once again. You looked back up into Lucifer’s eyes, not at all surprised to see the lingerings of malice. They did not look like they wanted to kill you, but they did not exactly look welcoming either. No, there was no warmth there. Just curiosity. And openness. You were no threat to this being… and that irritated you. Every religion knew to respect the angels. Every religion knew to understand that they did the bidding of God. Every religion knew to welcome them with open hands and a smile.

But you were not welcome. Not with open hands and certainly not with a smile.

So how dare they? How dare it? How dare this- this- Lucifer? You felt your back straighten, renewed with energy as you found your mental footing. The ache in your body was gone, whatever wounds you’d sustained just faded memories of some minutes. That’s right - you were angelic. Divine. This Lucifer had no idea who it was speaking to.

“And I am Y/n,” your voice was hard, “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but it doesn’t feel like it.”

You were expecting bared teeth. A growl, maybe. Perhaps the full extension of those glorious wings. A hand around your neck would have done enough all on its own. But the only response you inspired was the slightest twitch in the Morningstar’s right cheek. It tugged at the corner of their lip, making them smirk and sneer all at the same time - but only for a moment. A very quick moment that wouldn’t have happened at all if you hadn’t been watching. And just as swiftly, they were back to neutral; a pleasant little expression on their face as their eyes suddenly ran over your body - from top to bottom and back again. You were grateful that you were still wearing your toga; pristine and white, draped over your one shoulder and tucked under your other arm, tied tightly at the waist with a thin golden band - divine in nature and very handy. Your feet, on the other hand, were bare. And the golden cuffs that usually graced your wrists were gone. You felt disheveled. You felt less than pristine. You looked… exactly as you had always felt. Like a mess. Like a bright glimmering mess. Like a pile of abstract art that existed among the carefully carved statues of Heaven. You felt… you looked… far more beautiful than you ever had before.

It was hard to tell if Lucifer agreed.

“No I suppose it doesn’t,” they hummed, referring to your earlier response. “Though I should hope you know that’s the point.” The Morningstar spoke nonchalantly- as if they weren’t the most strangely intriguing thing you’d ever come across.

Their words, on the other hand, were confusing.

“No. I don’t know where I am,” you glanced around for a moment, still stuck without a clue, “so I wouldn’t know. Care to enlighten me, Morningstar?”

“You will address me as ‘Your Majesty’ or you will lose your tongue,” they replied quicker than light, voice deep and sharp enough to cut.

It felt like the air changed then, becoming nearly suffocating in its depth. It crawled into your lungs, into your veins, making you swallow around a sudden lump in your throat while your eyes started to water. Clearly, Lucifer was powerful. Not someone to be messed with. And not nearly as patient- nor ‘kind’- as God. At the brief thought of him, you glanced up; like you’d suddenly see the city gates open again and you’d be welcomed back and lightly chastised before being sent on your way around the clouds; like you’d somehow be saved. But there was no reckoning. There was no call. There was no miracle. There was only Lucifer.

“Do you wish to return to the silvery city, little Angel?” You turned back to those calm frozen eyes, resisting the urge to get lost in them.

“Yes, of course,” you said as though your answer was obvious (which it was).

“Interesting,” they hummed, tilting their head to the side slowly - like a hungry snake, “…I felt that way once, too.”

You frowned. Just what in Heaven’s name was the Morningstar talking about? No, you’d never heard of angels being cast from Eden, but you assumed that it was maybe like a one time thing? Like a mini punishment and you’d be summoned in any coming minute? For a second there you even considered the dark marble and flames and strange domed ceiling and weird cave walls were all part of an odd dream. But the sincerity in the Morningstar’s hushed tone said otherwise. Like they- like it was the truth. Like they truly had done what you did (though many more times) and looked to the sky in hopes to hear the choir once more. Like the weight of whatever happened to them would become a similar weight for you. Their words sent your head in circles.

“What do you mean?” You finally demanded, crossing your arms over your chest.

That seemed to amuse them as they smirked, eyelashes fluttering slightly. “I fell too. Once upon a time,” they paused, watching your eyes for any understanding. When they didn’t find it, they continued. “Right after succumbing to defeat.” A flicker of something dark rushed through their gaze. It unsettled you.

And sparked more outrage.

“What- what are you talking about?!” You exclaimed, throwing your hands up in clear exasperation.

What ‘defeat’? What ‘fall’? How long ago was all of that? What even happened? How did they get those wings? Who were they really and what were they capable of? And honestly, dear God, would someone just tell you where the fuck you were?!

“Ah,” they pursed their pretty lips, “It’s no surprise you’re here now. Angels are not meant to be so foolish,” the Morningstar declared, still lilting and song-like and beautiful and terribly insincere.

Their insult had your blood boiling. Who the fuck were they to say that? They were no Angel. They didn’t understand a damned thing. They didn’t know you and they didn’t deserve to know you. No matter how sublime a creature - such glory only existed on the outside.

“You wouldn’t know a fuckin thing,” you spat, giving them the best glare you could, “you’re no Angel.” A sneer painted your face.

“Foolish and blind, it seems…,” they mused as they began walking around you, lining your arms up at one point before continuing their small trek around the round bowl of the fire pit.

They paid you virtually no attention as they went, keeping their eyes trained on what appeared to be a balcony a few feet away. Interestingly enough, although their realm was warm, they seemed to be ice cold. There was not an ounce of heat that passed through the silk of their robe when they brushed past you. The proximity to something so powerful again had that feeling of needing to kneel traveling up your spine, but you pushed it down and worked on keeping the Morningstar in your sight. If you stopped looking at them, it was only a wonder as to how easily they could catch you by surprise.

“But you don’t look very…,” you trailed off, knowing you were going to say ‘angelic’, but realizing that you were… well you were wrong. Quite wrong.

Lucifer kept walking, not caring to stop for your reconsideration. But you didn’t need long. Those curls actually seemed rather… familiar. The way they surrounded the head, covered the ears, accentuated the cherubic features, glowed despite there being no light; and the willowy glide of their body, slow, methodical, full of undeniable beautiful grace; and their voice, distinct and delicate and precious and captivating; and their height- and their jaw- and their lips- and eyes- and proud nose- and perfect posture- and heavy wings- and… well… every bit of them seemed almost… holy.

Seemed almost like… like… like something you’d seen before. Briefly. In a painting and in a scroll. Only once or twice.

“Samael.”

It came out as a whisper but the monster still heard. And it made them stop in their tracks, wings swaying while the world paused.

You sucked in a heavy breath, feeling a very small shot of fear run down the curve of your neck.

They were Samael. Or they used to be Samael. God’s favorite. God’s best creation. The wisest, handsomest, strongest, most glorious Angel to ever be. The staple of divinity. The most beloved and the most cherished. There was a time once where you walked past an elder and heard them murmur about Samael. They had called you the antithesis. They had called you, in short, the most un-divine angel. If the fallen Samael was the best, you were the worst. And though you did not fully understand the story, though you did not know how they fell or when they fell or why they fell, you knew that their power had changed. The light had gone out and made room for the dark. Their wings shed their feathers and their skin lost its warmth. And they changed. They rebelled.

You frowned, feeling a tug in your heart at the sight of them standing there - glorious and tall and never beaten down. Never one to be truly defeated. They chose that risk - they knew of the consequences. But you? You? You were young. You were not wise, no, but you were clever. Smart. Hot-headed. Wasn’t Samael hot-headed once too? Wasn’t Samael flawed once too? Your small pathetic acts of rebellion were nothing in comparison to all that the Morningstar did.

So why did you wake up in their realm? What did God mean to say?

“Things have changed, little Angel,” their voice grasped you by the throat and brought you back to the present, “dwelling on the past reaps no benefits.”

“But I-” you swallowed, looking around wildly, finding that the gravity of what happened had begun to sink in. “No. No no no, I don’t belong here. I didn’t- I didn’t choose this. I don’t belong here!”

“Why shout when he has closed his ears to you?” The Morningstar asked, turning to face you with curious innocent eyes. “Why fret when you know what you’ve done?”

You squinted, confused, finding yourself taking panicked steps backward.

“That’s the thing, I didn’t do anything!” You insisted, hands clenching and unclenching into fists at your sides. “I didn’t lead a- a- a fucking rebellion against God! I didn’t hurt him! I’m- I’m pure! I want to go home!”

Lucifer stared at you, face blank.

“…This is your home now.”

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:) - Ripley x

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[icannotpickanamewtf]

ᴛᴡɪsᴛᴇᴅ ɴᴇʀᴠᴇs (PT. 2)

EVAN PETERS AHS x READER

SUMMARY: 𝖸𝗈𝗎 𝗁𝖺𝖽 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖫𝖠 𝖽𝖾𝗍𝖾𝖼𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗌, 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗇𝗈𝗐 𝖺 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝖽𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗂𝗇𝗍𝗈 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝖽𝖾𝗉𝗍𝗁𝗌 𝗈𝖿 𝖽𝖾𝖾𝗉𝗅𝗒 𝖼𝗈𝗇𝗇𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖼𝖺𝗌𝖾𝗌. 𝖠 𝗌𝗂𝖼𝗄 𝖼𝗎𝗅𝗍𝗂𝗌𝗍, 𝖺 𝗁𝖺𝗎𝗇𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝗁𝗈𝗎𝗌𝖾, 𝗍𝗂𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗏𝖾𝗅, 𝖺𝗇 𝖺𝗉𝗈𝖼𝗈𝗅𝗒𝗉𝗌𝖾, 𝖺 𝖿𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗄𝗌𝗁𝗈𝗐…𝗁𝗈𝗉𝖾𝖿𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗀𝖾𝗍 𝖺 𝗋𝖺𝗂𝗌𝖾.

Chapter Focus: Kai Anderson x Reader

🚨WARNINGS: 𝖠𝗆𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖼𝖺𝗇 𝖧𝗈𝗋𝗋𝗈𝗋 𝖲𝗍𝗈𝗋𝗒, 𝖮𝖻𝗌𝖾𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗈𝗇, 𝖬𝗎𝗋𝖽𝖾𝗋, 𝖢𝗎𝗅𝗍, 𝖱𝖾𝗅𝗂𝗀𝗂𝗈𝗎𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗆𝖾𝗌, 𝖲𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝖾𝗍𝖼…

You officially decide that Michigan is a complete bust. 

As soon as the plane landed and you’d made your way out of baggage claim, you were hit by a blasting cold. 

Is it possible for someone to shit out a block of ice? 

You had to pile on coat after coat, your grey fleece detective jacket rested on top of your layers. 

The service was awful, the people acted like NPC’s, and overall, your first impression was a 3/10. 

You held your suitcase and bags in one hand as you rung up your phone to call for an Uber, your motel was right outside Brookfield Heights but far enough so you wouldn’t run into any possible suspects while you were off-duty. 

After making a pit stop at an overpriced airport cafe for some mid-afternoon coffee, you hurriedly rushed to the front exit once you got a message from your Uber Driver that they’d arrived. 

The car was a silver chevy and was low to the ground, it had just barely enough room for your three bags in the trunk, but you were grateful nonetheless. 

An older man sat in the drivers seat and his grey hairs were slicked back to expose his wrinkled forehead. He seemed pretty jolly the whole ride to your motel, until you mentioned Brookfield Heights. 

“It ain’t the town for a vacation, that’s for sure.” Was all you managed to get after your numerous questions, clearly the news about Kai had followed all of Michigan and haunted the witnessing residents. 

The drive was mostly quiet after besides the Christian-pop that subtly played over the rusty car speaker, you resided to staring out the window. 

‘Welcome to Brookfield Heights!’ decorated the bright green sign outside of the ghost town. Trees flew past the window as you tried your best to absorb your surroundings.

The more you knew the better.

You’d already spent weeks holed up in your office studying the towns layout, from each fire-hydrant to large corporations and events. 

Fall had come in full swing, leaves were brown and the grass shook from the chilly breeze. 

The barren farmland and empty fields soon turned into old buildings and little country-side stores. If you weren’t investigating a cultist, you’d have thought it was a cute little town. 

The driver, whom you noticed you forgot to ask for his name, pulled over when your run down motel entered your sight. 

The older gentleman unlocked the doors and said his farewell to you as you left the Honda Civic. It felt weird to have both feet on the ground after traveling for so long, but it did absolute wonders to finally have some fresh air. 

The Honda Civic closed the doors from behind you and the Christian-pop faded in the distance as the car rolled out of the motel parking lot, leaving you to face your soon-to-be home for the next few months.

The motel’s sign was barely hanging on for dear life, the walls had chipped yellow-ish paint, and the doors were falling off their hinges. It was practically invisible amongst all the regal and historical hotels that littered Brookfield. It was perfect. 

You grabbed your small suitcase by the handle and made your way to the check in, a little hut outside of the motel. Your luggage bounced from the rickety cement and overgrown weeds, but your grip kept it from flopping over. 

The door to the check in creaked from the force of your palm, screaming in age as you stepped inside the small room. 

The floor was a dark mahogany, a vending machine ran brightly to your left with miscellaneous snacks, and dust covered the few chairs that lined up on the wall to your right. But the main attraction, was the older woman standing behind the reception desk in front of you. 

She had red curly hair, down to her shoulders, and her eyes sagged with exhaustion. Her skin could be compared to a sickly green but the bright red lipstick she adorned made you think that it was a thick application of make up. 

Oh, and the resting bitch face. Yep, you were definitely going to enjoy this woman’s presence. 

“Uh–Hello, I’m here to check in for a room?” You had made your way up to the counter, standing awkwardly in front of the woman who continued to apply the same bright red color of her lips to her fingernails. This made you half-ponder when was the last time you painted your own nails. 

The woman’s crooked name tag read “Louise” as she blatantly ignored your attempt at interacting. Louise barely even looked up to meet your eyes as she slowly turned to grab what you assumed as your room key from behind her. 

Louise spoke with a know-it-all tone, a snide grin lit up her features, “There. No parties. No dealing before seven A.M. and no fucking past eight.”

Part of wondered why she announced the last rule like it was a pointed remark at you, but the other half of you knew exactly what she was trying to get at.

Fortunately for her, you hated confrontation in these situations. 

You were also jet-lagged as all hell. 

So you just kept your mouth shut and dragged your deranged detective ass out the check in door and to the stairs that led to your room. 

The key read “17B” indicating it was on the second floor and almost all the way on the other side. The wooden stairs wobbled under your feet and you almost thought they would completely give out, but you carried your suit case all the way up the two-flights of stairs. 

When you made it to your room, you haphazardly threw your clothes into one of the drawers (locking the door and moving the chain above it) and practically collapsed onto the old bed. It was fairly small for a motel room, and the same yellow paint donned the walls but with a 80’s pattern of lines and crescents. 

You laid with your back on the mattress, feeling all the lumps and creaky springs underneath. 

It was quiet in the room. 

It’s not that you weren’t used to quiet. 

But this time, you were completely alone. Your leather shoes felt heavy on your feet, and you could sense that a migraine was well on its way to your skull. 

You were so fucking tired. 

But you had a cultist to expose, lives were at stake, you couldn’t just sit here and rest.

A dark corner of your mind infested with guilt shunned you for thinking that you could possibly deserve the comfort of a bed. Or the comfort of a job. 

Or the fact your alive–

“Fuck this.” You stood quickly and shrugged off your large trench coat, opting to brace the cold and sit down in the shaky chair in front of the wooden desk the laid in front of the bed. You flung open your laptop and spread out your papers. 

A room temperature energy drink that you packed found its way in your hands as you typed away. 

You didn’t sleep at all that night. 

———————

Morning came slowly, and with it a fresh pair of deep circles engraved themselves under your eyes. 

But with morning, came more opportunities to explore. 

You freshened up, applied some dry-shampoo and washed your face, before heading out to explore Brookfield. 

You had to get a sense of your surroundings in person, online maps and insane amounts of internet research could barely compare to being able to experience the real thing. 

Your trench coat sagged on your shoulders, but without it, the fall-chill would’ve given you a cold so you tiredly walked your way into town. Your bag with your laptop, recording device, and USB drive sat heavily on your shoulder. 

You easily mixed into the crowd of locals, sneakily taking time to take pictures with your phone of the posters of Kai Anderson that popped up every now and then. 

All of which had “FEAR” written in at least one sentence, you’d think he’d be more subtle but it was almost like he was trying to get more negative attention than positive. 

Hm. Weird. 

After about an hour of just walking around and exploring Brookfield Heights, your lack of sleep caught up to you. So you decided it was time to get a nice something to eat and a whole lot of espresso. 

Thankfully, there was a tiny cafe near the Butchery that was owned by the victim of a majority of Kai Andersons harassment, Ally Mayfair-Richards. 

You glanced back at the restaurant before making your way into the little cafe, the warm scent of coffee and scones filled your nose at your entrance. The cold chill turned warm and you were finally able to take off your coat. 

It was quaint but reminded you of a cabin in the woods with their wooden accents and architecture on the inside. It was a nice comparison to the modernized celeb hubs in LA. 

There were few people inside, all were seated and kept to themselves. You quietly stepped up to the counter, deciding to order a large black coffee with four shots of espresso, and a blueberry muffin to nibble on while you worked. 

The teenager behind the counter smiled at you before preparing your order, there were only two people working but they seemed eager. 

Did they feel the impact of what was happening around them? Were they in his cult? What would happen the the kids if Kai Anderson succeeded? 

Would it be your fault–

Again, your thoughts were cut off as the teenager handed you your drink and treat. Allowing the person behind you to place their own order after you paid. 

Wait, person behind you? 

You didn’t even notice the man that had made his way to the line, becoming the sixth customer inside the shop. 

When you backed away from the counter, you were able to soak in his appearance. 

Kai. Fucking. Anderson. 

You pretended to find a seat and load up your laptop, but sweat pooled at the back of your neck. 

What if he caught you? What if he busted you? 

You had to act normal. Like it was a regular day in Brookfield Heights, and you were just a local getting some coffee. 

You sipped anxiously at your caffeinated monster of black coffee as you subtly analyzed his appearance. 

The cultist wore a black beanie, letting his oily blue hair dangle freely. His sweater was black, his shirt was black, his pants were black, and he wore black combat boots. 

Was he trying to scream out that he was some kind of villain? 

What was this guys fucking problem? 

You knew he was on adderall and taking an inhumanly sized dose, but god, so much for inconspicuous killer. 

But eventually you realized that if you didn’t have all the information you collected on this little town, you would’ve just thought it was a regular guy with eccentric style. 

He ordered a large cinnamon latte, extra espresso with no whipped cream and low-fat milk. He poured one creamer and no sugar. 

He carried his own papers and phone in one hand, while collecting his drink in the other. Kai Anderson walked over to the table right next to yours and sat down, scrolling aimlessly while taking notes? You couldn’t get a clear shot of what he was writing. 

So, you were literally sitting in the same space as a serial killer and cultist. Life was great!

You managed to get away with a few more glances before exiting out of your tabs, all of which had extreme dirt on Kai, and opened a decoy word document that looked like boring tax papers. 

You pretended to work on fucking taxes for twenty minutes without interacting with him at all, until Kai stood up from his chair (the only way you could tell was from the chair sliding against the floor) and sat in front of you. 

You barely looked up from your laptop until he fully made himself comfortable in front of you, propping his arms on the table and staring directly at you. 

Sometimes you wondered if fate had it out for you. 

“Hey.” Kai cleared his throat, which indicated that you should probably stop ignoring the elephant in the room and look up at him. 

In doing so, you got a clear glance at his face. Little bits of stubble decorated his cheeks, and his eyes were wide as they looked at you. 

“Oh, Hi?” The silence was much better than talking, but this guy would probably slit your throat if you didn’t respond. 

You tilted your head a little in faux innocence as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. 

Kai seemed to fall for your act completely, “Are you new around here? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” 

Fuck. Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck–

TO BE CONTINUED.

[lovelyladyabsinthewrites]

Tender Tragedy

Pairing: Arthur Dayne x Targaryen!Reader

Warnings: death

Words:2601

Day winding down to night, Dany took her intimate party on to her personal balcony where an iron pit sat at the center. Surrounding her great pyramid were small specks of orange light. Each one belonged to a family getting ready for slumber. Not Daenerys and her court. Their work tend to bleed into the late hours of the night. There was much work to be done in Meereen.

“Your grace.” Ser Barristan Selmy, a newly added member, holds out a jewel studded goblet to his queen.

Dany eyes the extravagance of the cup as she takes it graciously from the old knight’s hand. Growing up, such decadence was scarce for the once crown prince and princess. Viserys often complained that had Robert not started his rebellion, they would still have the Targaryen wealth that was owed to them.

Alas, Viserys’ own vanity was to be his doom. Now only Dany basked in such exquisite items. 

Taking a sip of the sweet wine she had been given, Daenerys can’t resist thinking on her other siblings; those long dead. She’d had Rhaegar, her older brother, and an older sister, (y/n). 

Rhaegar, the whole of the rebellion being his fault, of course had to die in order to restore order in the seven kingdoms along with the death of Aerys. That was a certainty that Dany had slowly come to acknowledge. She didn’t want to think that any fault lay on her family, but there were so many facts she couldn’t ignore. Targaryens were to blame for everything.

One thing she still couldn’t wrap her head around was why her eldest sister had to die as well. No one explained to Dany the ultimate fate of (y/n). Those like Jorah and Selmy who knew kept her in the dark. 

Turning back to Selmy, she watches as he seats himself in front of the fire that gently warmed his aging joints. Jorah was next to him, speaking quietly with Grey Worm who preferred to stand at attention in case his blade was needed. 

For a moment, Dany imagines how the guiding hand of a gentle, older sister might have changed her life instead of growing up with Viserys’ cruel tendencies. She grieves for what could have been. 

“What happened to (y/n)?”

Her inquiry has Grey Worm and Jorah ceasing their conversation all together. Even the introspective gaze that Missandei had while listening to them had evaporated.

Selmy sadly stares at his hands. He always became melancholic when the subject of (y/n) was brought up. “I don’t think right now’s the time for that. . .”

“Then when will be? No one talks about her. Why am I not to know about her, my only sister?” Her tone of authority has them averting their gaze from her drilling eyes. Must she be stuck with the knowledge that her elder brother Rhaegar died because of the accusation of rape and knowing Viserys was a monster in his own right much like their father? Were there truly no good members of House Targaryen that were worthy of life?

Pondering for a second, Selmy heaves out a weary sigh. “It is not a happy story. Many do not want to recall what happened to your sister because she was much loved and her death devastated every corner of the Seven Kingdoms. As if enough blood hadn’t been shed already.”

“It was utterly pointless.” Jorah murmurs, his own eyes glossing over. Dany had pestered him before about (y/n), any bit of information, but Jorah stood his ground and never uttered a peep about the elder Targaryen daughter. 

Quietly, Daenerys trails over to them and sits on the other side of Selmy. “What was she like? I just want to get an idea of who she is.”

That was an easier question to answer.

Light came back into Selmy’s eyes and the corners of his mouth twitch upward into a smile. “She was goodness incarnate, Your Grace. Much like yourself. And beautiful. (y/n) did much to help those suffering in the slums of King’s Landing. Was always trying to make things better and was an excellent problem solver. She was a burst of life in the Red Keep. Everyone thrived in her presence.”

So why was she too a casualty of the rebellion. Dany would tread lightly to that question. “Did she ever marry? She was very close to Rhaegar in age, right?” She’d be at the perfect age where young ladies were often pawned off to other influential families. Even Daenerys had been married to Khal Drogo when she was just ten and three.

Jorah chuckles at that. “Oh many tried. She was considered the perfect match. Constantly being hounded by old and young lords alike. Marrying her off though had never been Aerys’ top priority when his mind started to rot.”

“He never thought of marrying (y/n) to Rhaegar?” It was Valyrian tradition to wed one sibling to the other. Many generations of the Targaryens had kept the practice alive despite the negative views the Sept had toward it. 

“It had been discussed.” Selmy admits. “Maybe if he had done that to begin with, we could have avoided war. But. . . (y/n) had already pledged her love to someone else.”

**

Ser Arthur carefully scans his surroundings in the hallway to make sure no one saw or followed him to the destined rendezvous point. When he seemed to be completely by himself, he closed the door and turned to face you. Patiently awaiting him on the foot of the bed with a wide grin.

He’d mentioned many times how he’d never, in a million years, get used to the sight of your smile  and the way it illuminated your lavender eyes. Beacons that entangle Arthur in a trap he had no plan to escape from.

You stand and dissolve the small distance between you in a blink of an eye. Your hands, soft and smelling of the sweetness of spring, grab his cheeks to pull him down to your starving lips.

Arthur was all too ready to comply.

**

“She was in love with the Sword of the Morning, Ser Arthur Dayne.” He remembers Ser Arthur with the utmost fondness, but their relationship had been doomed from the very start. Selmy had been there when Arthur was sworn into the Kingsguard. Even by then the boy was completely enraptured by Princess (y/n). 

Dany, listening intently, originally this of this as a perfect story from some old fairytale . A princess and her lover knight, a classic. But (y/n)’s story did not end happily ever after.

Missandei holds Dany’s hand. She too had a sense of where this kind of story was going. 

“So great was their affections for one another, it was quite obvious to everyone around them. During tourneys, Arthur would ask for her favor. The dances before the war, they would dance with each other. When war finally broke out, we found (y/n)’s chambers empty. Arthur, before joining Rhaegar’s forces, spirited the princess out of the Keep.”

*

You jolt to a stop as Arthur held out an arm to stop you from advancing. You’d been crawling along the shadows in the corridors of the Keep as Arthur led you hall after hall to evade any guards. Like hell he’d leave you behind. What he was doing was punishable by death but he didn’t care. 

Thinking the coast had been clear, you’d almost gone around the corner but Arthur’s better trained ears heard someone coming. 

He holds you close to his side so that your cheek was pressed against his armor and you were partially hidden under his cloak. You didn’t breathe for fear of discovery.

Whoever it was walked right past you, none the wiser. Both of you release your breath simultaneously. Even if someone had caught you, Arthur wouldn’t hesitate to kill them; even if it was his own brothers from the guard. They no longer mattered anymore.

A single touch from Arthur had you jumping and he chuckling. He’d only reached out for your hand. He brings it up to his lips and gives your knuckles the most gentle of kisses.

Finally you smile as he coaxes you along.

**

At this point, Selmy pauses to quench his parched mouth and ignite the courage required to continue with the story. He wished it ended there, (y/n) and Arthur escaping and happily living out the rest of their days somewhere in Essos.

Dany as well as the others drink from their cups.

“Of course this caused such a rage in Aerys. (Y/n) tended to have stubborn strike, but for the most part she had been obedient to Aerys. It was the quite the blow to him that his treasured daughter had escaped with one of his personal guards.”

Aerys had sent whatever manpower he could spare to look for (y/n) and Arthur.

“They remained elusive for several months. But one day while Arthur was gone to fight in a battle, Rhaegar’s defenseless camp had been attacked. They dragged (y/n) out by force.”

**

You’re pretty sure your scream pierced a few of your assailants’ ear drums.

Someone grabbed a fistful of your silver hair and nearly rips your skull from your neck. Even though it caused you unspeakable pain, you fight and claw at any inch off vulnerable skin you could dig your nails into.

They curse at you, crown Targaryen princess, and treat you with outstanding abuse you had never experienced before.

You could taste the rusty burst of blood trickling out from your split lip. Feel the boning of your corset imprint itself into your torso as they beat you into unconscious submission. These could not possibly be natives to the Crownlands. Possibly someone Aerys had paid off. No person, knowing who you are, would ever treat you in such a manner. Whether you were the Mad King’s daughter or not.

Fight had fled from you as they hoist you onto the back of an awaiting horse. They keep their eyes open to scan the area once more before leaving. There was no sign of the Sword of the Morning.

Silent tears spring into your vision as you watch Rhaegar’s plundered camp consumed by flames.

Your captors waste no time and heed their mounts to move faster.

“(Y/N)!!!”

Your eyelids try to flutter open at the sound of Arthur’s voice stretching over miles. It was impossible.

Hooves cease to beat and quietly stop at the approaching figure. Men in armor dismount and brandish their swords. Arthur was greatly outnumbered.

His battle had been far away from the camp yet there was Arthur sizing up his chances as he hops off of his own war horse.

“Yield, Ser Dayne.” One called out to him. “The king wants you alive.”

Eyes that could have passed off for Targaryen flick over to you and a knife that had suddenly appeared tauntingly against your throat. You stay absolutely still unless the blades gives you its sharp kiss. The only way you could keep your fear at bay was to keep your gaze focused on Arthur’s eyes. Wisteria filled pools calm your racing heart although you knew there was still much for you to fear.

Arthur dropped the great sword of his house, Dawn, in front of his feet in surrender.

Countless knights descend upon him and bind his limbs in chains. It would not do to have a knight of Arthur’s caliber have any access to his limbs.

He’d be compliant as long as they kept the two of you together.

**

“Couldn’t Ser Arthur have taken them on? I’ve constantly heard of his mastery with the sword and how he was like no other.” To Dany, the infamous Sword of the Morning gave up quite easily.

Every line on Selmy’s face seems to deepen. “Alas, Arthur was still but a human. He knew when to pick his battles. This was not one he could’ve ever won by himself.”

He knew he must tie off the story of (y/n) Targaryen and Ser Arthur Dayne. Anyone could imagine the torture Aerys put his daughter and Arthur through before their actual death. They accepted their fate with their hand’s holding the other’s.

(Y/n) didn’t she a tear when she glared at her father as he read out their punishment. She kept her head held high as did Arthur. That’s how Selmy wanted to remember them. Not their grotesque corpses that had been left.

From the older man’s reaction, Daenerys knew she’d learned enough as her own tears spill over her bottom lashes.

Next to her, Missandei hastily wipes a stray tear from the corner of her eye. Her hand was trembling in Dany’s as they support one another.

From a hidden pocket, Selmy sighs and pulls out a leather drawstring pouch. “After. . . After they had died, Aerys wanted their remains to be tossed like common trash. Instead we properly buried them. However. . . Before all remnants of her life was scrubbed from the world, I saved this one piece of her.”

Once placed in her hands, Dany tentatively pulls open the pouch and pulls out a silver locket. Engraved into its metal were beautiful flowers. Each petal captured with intricate details. In the center was tucked a large pink pearl.

Dany opens it, her eyes instantly round and glisten. “I-Is this. . .” Her gaze falls back onto the contents of the locket. Inside was a perfectly curled lock of silver hair. Targaryen hair.

“Before she died, Aerys had her head shaved for further humiliation.” Selmy whispers.

Softly Dany pets the soft piece of hair. The only part of her sister she’ll ever know.

Shutting the locket with a gentle hand, Daenerys holds it close to her heart.

**

The strong beating of Arthur’s heart had nearly lulled you to sleep. His arm slung around you, daring anyone to put you in separate cells.

They granted you this one last request.

Aerys wouldn’t let you and Arthur live. Both of you accepted that when you were captured. The Mad King didn’t take prisoners of war.

At least you had one last night with him. To be held in his arms and gifted kisses upon the crown of your head. This was all you had ever asked for.

The Few months you’d spent with him evading Aerys had been the happiest. If this was the price you had to pay for it then so be it. You’d finally experienced true happiness

“(Y/n)?”

“Hmm?”

You shift in his hold to look up at his gorgeous face. The man was a work of art and possessed the looks of old gods of the sun. Despite the sultry pout of his full lips, Arthur had always been dedicated to you; no other woman had ever held such sway over him in his entire life. Sweet as it was he’d even tried his hand at poetry to try and explain how much he truly loved you. It was awful but to you it was your dearest possession.

All over again, you fall in love with him from the way he gazed down at you with naked love.

“Being with you has completed my life. No matter how short a time we had. I’d do it all over again knowing this would be the price.”

You blink back tears but it’s useless. His image is blurry. “M-Me too. Knowing that you love me and you’re here…”

Arthur caressed the side of your face and pressed his forehead to your’s.

Whatever what happened when the sun rose, you’d have no regrets.

[itsmeatballworld]

| to the night sky |

pairing | daryl dixon x f!reader

summary | It’s autumn in Virginia so Daryl invites Reader to spend a night cuddling under the stars.

wc | 857

warnings | kisses, autumn time in Virginia, and soft boyfriend!daryl... so nah, no warnings <3

a/n | note this has some spoilers for season 9 but nothing crazy. Also posted on my ao3!!

His eyes were so bright. Bluer than the sky. Bluer than the sea.

You’ll remember that ‘til the day you die.

You tore your gaze away for a second, just to glance up at the tiny twinkling lights above.

His callous hand latched onto yours as the hearth outside flickered in and out. “Should get some rest,” Daryl whispered.

“We should.” Your fingers twirled across his rough palm. “But look… damn, look at those stars. They’re beautiful. You gotta look. The clouds are gonna block them.”

Daryl smiled, his eyes never leaving your face as you watched the sky. “Yeah. Beautiful.”

“You didn’t even peek,” you murmured as his hands snuck around to caress your round hips.

“I did too.” His tone was playful as a smirk etched across his lips.

Tonight, the sky was black and painted in tiny twinkling lights. Dark and looming from the east, thick grey clouds slowly began to shadow the moonlight cascading through the trees.

You were somewhere in Virginia between a dried up creek and spacious woods. Location never mattered anymore. You were living—surviving—and enjoying the brief moments of peace left for the breathing.

Colors of cinnamon, brick red, and yellow as bright as corn litter the ground in piles. It was the fleeting beauty of Autumn, until the heavy rains and mud blur the colors in a dark, murky haze.

Atop the little hill was your makeshift campsite. Daryl tugged and tied each layer down as tight as possible. The lopsided tent with a worn clear-plastic sheet roof showed the sky. An old pail near the zipped-up entrance used as Dog’s water bowl. Wool and cotton blankets dragged from Alexandria covered the thin tent floor. The dying light of a small fire pit was nearly out after hours of ignoring its plea for more firewood. Daryl wanted to keep you safe when visiting. Less light, less problems, he’d murmur.

Tonight, you were snuggled up to Daryl. His arm around your waist, pressing your chest to his in a tight embrace. He loved holding your warm body close, trailing his hands up and down your hips and thighs, as if you were his lifeline.

Tonight was perfect. A peaceful autumn night alone with your lover.

“Aye.” He drops his voice. “You should head back in the mornin’. Safer in the sunlight.”

Back. Back to the group. Back to your home in Alexandria. Back to safety and walls.

“Sure,” you mumbled.

You didn’t want to admit it, but you liked being outside the walls of safety. You liked the wondrous and dangerous world surrounding you. Life was precious but you never wanted to waste time living in a bubble. “Come with me?”

Daryl paused, his fingers drawing light circles into your skin. It might not have been words, but you knew his answer. No. He had a job to do. Look for Rick.

You sighed, resting your head into the crook of his neck. “Alright… but if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Breathing in deeply you tried to bury the smell of him in your memory. He smelled like homemade soap and tobacco.

“Carol stopped by, huh?”

The stoic man let out a soft chuckle. “You can tell?”

“Soap… a new haircut… blankets without holes? I’d say she prepped you with the good stuff for this weekend.” Those blue eyes were glued on you. His fingers trailed your side until he dug in a bit deeper. He hugged your curves into his body like he never wanted this to end.

“Mmhm.” Daryl smiled. “Good stuff.”

Your hands slipped up his chest, digging your fingers into the cotton tee. “Hole-less blankets,” you giggled. “Gosh, Mr. Dixon, you know just how to please a girl.”

He grumbled as he tugged the waist of your pants down an inch. “Anythin’ for my girl.”

That deep, raspy voice scratched an itch deep in your soul. “Your girl, huh?” Your lips pressed into his as those rough hands wound underneath your clothes.

He grumbled a response as he continued to kiss you deeply. Every morsel of your being tingled and buzzed with excitement to be near him. To be so close to him.

Maybe it was the forced time spent together, but Daryl Dixon is someone you never thought you’d get after the world stopped moving forward. You never thought you’d have a man who loves you so deeply. Who pines for you. Who finds you funny—and genuinely laughs at your jokes. Some days he doesn’t talk much but hugs you from behind and kisses the crook of your neck. It was love. Pure, endless love.

He pulled back from your lips. The hazy look of exhaustion mixed with lust washed over him. “C’mon, I mean it. Get some sleep.”

“How can I when you kiss me like that?” You smiled as those blue eyes lingered on your swollen kiss-stained lips.

Daryl grunted. He pecked the edge of your smile before pulling you into a tight cuddle. “Sleep.”

You closed your eyes.

The night sky was beautiful but all you could think about were those bright blue eyes.

><<>><

><<>><

a/n 2.0 | ily *mwah* and ily daryl dixon

[halfbakedideas]

london's burning

The cottage had a fire pit, set right out in the open when they had first moved in.

Crowley makes the mistake of lighting a fire in it one morning, only they don’t realise just how much of a mistake that had been until it’s too late.

Notes:

Title from Bad Decisions by Bastille. It’s winter here and that means my family’s dusting off our fire pit again. And as much as I love the concept of sitting around a fire, Crowley wouldn't. Changed my formatting for fics again. CW/TW: potentially graphic descriptions of a corpse (imagined/hallucination!Aziraphale's; he does not die).

Read on Ao3

-x-x-x-

Winter had well and truly arrived. The weather had been getting colder. Cold enough that Crowley’s knees and ankles declared winter’s arrival with a vengeance. It was getting to the temperatures where it made sense to sit around a fire; where you could do that comfortably without sweating through all of your clothes.

Fire weather, some humans would call this particular shade of grey and cold.

The cottage had a small, moveable outdoor fire pit. When they had moved in, it had sat accompanied by two chairs and a bench seat just outside the back of the cottage where it looked onto the garden. Since then, the concrete and cast iron fire pit had been moved to where it was now, propped up against the wall of the cottage.

Aziraphale had gone out that morning, heading into London to check up on his bookshop. Crowley would have gone with him, but the rapidly dropping temperatures that made them awfully sleepy in the mornings had also made it hard to really focus enough to insist upon that.

“I’ll only be gone four hours at most,” Aziraphale had told them before he had left.

At some point around eleven Crowley had finally gotten up, wrapped themself in far too many layers to still be considered fashionable but still was and made themself a cup of coffee.

They were standing in the kitchen nursing the mug when they spotted the old fire pit through the window. They should set that up, Aziraphale would probably enjoy sitting by a fire.

A fire…they ought to be able to at least see one without seizing up in panic. It had been six years since the bookshop fire, they should be over that fear by now.

Crowley’s now-empty mug was left beside the sink before they headed outside.

They rolled the fire pit back out to where it had originally been in front of those chairs. A miracle took care of not having any wood. A box of matches appeared alongside the pile. Good, now all they needed was something for it to catch on.

There was an apple tree in the corner of the garden that had dropped a decent amount of sticks recently. Crowley scooped up the ones that hadn’t already gotten damp from the grass.

Setting up the fire pit was easy, lighting a fire in it was less so. Crowley pulled a match out of the box and struck it against the side. Orange bloomed from the tip.

Their eyes were stuck on it, unable to look away or even blink. But then they blinked, shook their head slightly to dislodge the memories that were rearing their heads, and tossed the match into the fire pit before it could snuff itself out.

The sticks and dry leaves he had gathered up from the base of the apple tree caught quickly, it grew from a flicker to a small fire within moments.

If the lit match had been bad, this was far worse. The flame was mesmerising, in the worst way. Their entire body threatened to freeze up at the sight of it — and not just from the cold. But at the same time, something within them screamed for them to get up, to run and find Aziraphale.

Then the memories hit them.

Brittle, centuries-old paper being swallowed up as fire races about. It surrounds them and the heat presses in on them from every side, closer and closer and closer. Aziraphale’s diary, still sitting on his desk surrenders to the torrent. The metal of the staircase leading up to the flat above creaks and groans as it gives way. Ash settles heavily against their tongue, clogging up their throat and making it hard to breathe, let alone speak. Yet they persist, pushing one name out through their ash-dry throat. Each time more frantic than the last. Shouting is made ever harder by the fact that they’ve stopped breathing, not that they’ve realised that.

“Aziraphale!”

Crowley whirls around, fully serpentine eyes raking over the burning shell of the bookshop.

Where is he? He’s always here; Aziraphale would remain in his bookshop even as bombs fell and destruction reigned loose on Soho. So why can they not find him?

“Aziraphale!”

There is silence, save for the roar of fire. But then their eyes fall on something — a corpse — and Crowley’s heart stops. The blood in their corporation’s veins freezes solid.

No. No. No. No. No. Please, no. Not him.

Their foot catches on something as they race towards the corpse of their best friend and they go crashing to the ground. They yelp rather undemonically as red-hot pain blooms across their palms when they hit the floor. Was the floor really that hot?

Someone is talking. Shouting their name? The firefighters? Why would firefighters know their name?

Crowley blinks, their eyes are stinging from the smoke. Someone else is screaming. Aziraphale’s corpse is lying mere centimetres from where they went crashing to the ground. They pull themself towards him — it.

The angel’s name falls from their lips frantic and distraught as the smell of burnt flesh hits them.

His vest and overcoat are blackened and unsalvageable. Near the cuffs, his pants are burnt away in parts to reveal charred flesh underneath. The flesh melted away to reveal bone beneath. The worst of all? Aziraphale’s face. An angry red line had been seared across the pale flesh like he had been struck by a fervent piece of wood. Stretching across his left eyelid and down across the bridge of his nose to end by the right side of his mouth. The rest of his face seems to have been pot-marked by embers, as small red dots litter it.

They touch burned-and-blistered fingers to Aziraphale’s neck in the futile hope that he’s still somehow alive.

Something rolls down their cheek and they swipe it away with their other hand, the back of their hand comes away wet. Their face is wet. Why is their face wet?

The voice is back (did it ever leave?). Is it the same as before? They’re not sure. It sounds like it’s coming from underwater.

Someone is grabbing at their arms, pulling them back, twisting around as they try to get free and get back to Aziraphale. But then a wave of something washes over them. It is so intense it would have knocked them clean off their feet if they hadn’t already been kneeling.

Crowley blinked, long and hard. The burning remains of the bookshop, and their angel’s corpse along with it, disappeared like someone took a cloth to the dry-erase board of reality. They blinked again and the sand-coloured pavers and the rest of the cottage’s back garden came into focus. The next thing they noticed was that Aziraphale, unburned and whole and alive, was holding them. The two of them were sitting on the pavers.

Oh.

“‘Ziraphale?” they croaked, then coughed. Crowley’s throat was raw, not from ash but from overuse.

“Crowley,”

“You’re—” They cleared their throat and then winced at how painful it was to do that. “You’re home early,”

The demon felt, rather than saw, Aziraphale nod.

“Yes, the shop that I was planning on going to after checking up on the bookshop was shut today,”

Crowley sat up properly, pulling themself out of their angel’s arms. They twisted around to check on the fire pit… which had a small pile of ash at the very bottom of it.

“It’s a good thing that I arrived back when I did because I found you’d started a fire,” Aziraphale said. “You’re terrified of fire. We both know that. So what were you thinking?”

They ducked their head, embarrassment colouring their cheeks.

“Thought you’d like sitting by a fire, it being ‘fire weather’ and all,” they said. “‘nd I should be over that bloody fear by now, it’s been six years since the— since that happened,”

How pathetic of a demon were they that they couldn’t even say the word ‘fire’?

“Thank you for that consideration, love. But you shouldn’t have done that. I wouldn’t have enjoyed it if you weren’t,” he told them. “And there is no deadline for you ‘getting over your fear’; There is nothing wrong if you never get over it,”

Crowley wished they could disappear into the ground (actually, what they really wanted to do was bury their face against their angel’s chest again but they’d never admit that out loud).

“Now, may I see your hands?”

It was only when Aziraphale asked about their hands that they realised they were still stinging, and rather badly at that. That hadn’t been part of the flashback…hallucination? Illusion?

Their palms were red and puffy, and badly blistered in some places. It looked like they had touched a hot stove.

Crowley hissed when Aziraphale poked slowly and gently at the worst spot right by their thumb and black spots appeared in their vision.

“What happened?” they asked as he finished looking at their hands and released them. They had no memory of doing anything that could have caused this.

“You tried to brace yourself on the fire pit when you tripped,” he said. “And I wasn’t quick enough to stop you from touching the metal rim,”

The angel said that as if it was some great failing. As if it was his fault that Crowley had been enough of an idiot to trip over their own feet and touch a fire pit with fire in it.

“Isn’t your fault,” they said. “‘s mine, shouldn’t have tripped,”

Then they waved their right hand over the left. The skin healed, mostly, with the miracle they weaved over it. But blisters were left behind, although less angry than before. They tried to miracle that away but nothing happened. So they repeated it with their other hand and got the same result.

“Hmh,” Crowley huffed, displeased.

“If miracles aren’t working, would you allow me to treat your injuries, the human way?” Aziraphale asked.

They shrugged.

“Sure, might as well try,”

The two of them got to their feet. Crowley stumbled a bit. Their ankles were stiff despite the boots.

Wow, okay, maybe they were colder than they’d thought.

The pair relocated inside. Aziraphale headed to the heater to turn it up before joining his demon in the bathroom.

When the angel made it to the bathroom, Crowley was standing with their back to the door, staring at nothing.

“Crowley,” he called, making sure that he wasn’t standing directly behind them when he did and that they could see him.

They blinked once. And then a second time. The dull look in their golden eyes receded as awareness filtered back in slowly. They looked up at him.

“Hold your hands over the sink, palms up, please. I’m going to wash them out and then bandage them,” As he spoke, a miracle made a roll of bandages and a cloth appear on the counter beside the sink.

Crowley did as he requested. Aziraphale turned on the faucet and dampened the cloth with it. A tremor ran through them when the cloth made contact with their palms but they didn’t say anything so he continued.

Their gaze drifted off again as he worked. Aziraphale finished with the cleaning part and picked up the bandage roll, planning to bandage their hands. The moment that it made contact with Crowley’s hand, they yelped and flinched backwards. So far back that their back bumped into the doorframe.

“No no no. Somebody, no. You— can’t be —you’re not,” They sucked in a breath that caught in their chest. “You’re not dead. You’re not!” Crowley was pleading, and Aziraphale’s stomach had dropped into his shoes. They hadn’t even said a name but the angel had a hunch he knew exactly who they were rambling about: him.

“Aziraphale!”

He stepped towards them, hands raised but not touching, yet. He didn’t want to make it worse.

“I’m here! I’m fine; I’m alive!” he said. The words fell on unhearing ears.

Unblinking, fully golden eyes, much like they had been out in the garden flickered about the bathroom, not settling on anything. And not a flicker of recognition anywhere.

Damn ‘making it worse’, Crowley didn’t appear to have heard him and he wasn’t going to stand around and watch his demon get tortured by whatever they were imagining any longer.

Aziraphale reached out again, but not with his hand this time. The miracle slipped cautiously into Crowley’s mind to rid it of whatever horrific thing they were seeing, and to bring them back to the present.

Gold started to shrink, white returned to the sclera. Their eyes settled on him, saw him.

“Alive?” The doubt and the careful hope in the single word made the angel’s heart ache. 

Are you alive? was what Crowley was asking.

He nodded. “Yes, I’m alive and I haven’t been discorporated,”

“We’re not in the bookshop?”

“No, we aren’t. We moved out here to our cottage last year, don’t you remember?”

“Right…” Crowley trailed off. “You were gonna bandage my hands?” They nodded towards the bandages that had been abandoned by the sink.

“I was, but I can do it later—“

“You can do it. Best to get it done now or it’ll never get done,” They stepped forwards, towards the sink.

Aziraphale nodded and picked up the roll again. This attempt went far smoother than the first and soon enough the demon’s hands were bandaged up.

If Crowley didn’t take their eyes off of their angel for the rest of the day and refused to be more than three meters away from him for the next week, well that was for only them to know. And when their closest neighbour woke up the next morning to find a fire pit had appeared in his living room, he believed it to be a Christmas miracle.

[creedock]

Can I ask for some jury headcannons please???

indeed you may

Alastor

-wears heeled shoes to make himself taller

-helps manage the jury's funds despite that absolutely not being in his job description

-i kinda have two separate sexuality/backstory headcanons for him that i frequently switch between lmao

-the first one is that he is a closet gay from a fairly wealthy family. he also has a wife and a child who he does not speak to or even think about a lot. deadbeat dad with INTENSE internalised homophobia.

-alternatively, he is transmasc + bi and also an actual immortal vampire who founded the jury hundreds of years ago as like. a scam that got out of hand. no ones realised its him yet because he keeps faking his death and then popping back up within the organisation.

-secret enjoyer of trashy vampire romance novels (writes fanfiction) (would kill anyone who found out immediately)

Lorelei

-has back problems that prevented her from actually being a dancer

-was in a lot of competitions/pageants growing up, kinda has a fucked up sense of self worth

-relies on her curse a lot in her manipulation and stuff, cos without it shes kinda. not a great liar??? like she just has a lot of trouble sounding genuine

-VERY dry and sarcastic sense of humour, can also be quite mean-spirited even if unintentionally

-has cut contact with her entire family, literally the only people she actually speaks to on the regular casually are alastor and diana

-she and alastor have private bitching sessions together where they talk shit about everyone else in the jury. they are besties your honor

Diana

-lesbian lesbian lesbian LESBIAN LESBIAN

-has a specific (all-female) group of jury captains she surrounds herself with. its basically just a massive polycule

-while on duty shes terrifying, very cold and detached, off duty shes actually pretty chill

-her reason for joining the jury isnt that she wants to destroy witches and more that she wants to protect non-magic folk and sees the jury as the best way to do this

-i could see her getting a redemption arc of sorts somewhere down the line where she starts seeing the many faults in the jury and changes her opinion

-she can play the guitar and will sometimes do little performances alongside lorelei by like. campfires and stuff for fun

Lance

-you can pry aussie lance from my cold dead hands

-he and alastor fucking hate each other. literally the only time lance can be remotely subtle about his emotions is when hes making passive aggressive jabs at al.

-surprisingly really good hygeine for a nasty little rat man, still ends up smelling like blood sweat leather and piss half the time anyway

-has to be tied up after large battles so he doesn't immediately loot every corpse in sight (he has severe kleptomania)

-calls people gay as an insult while tenderly kissing bandy on the mouth

-has a habit of developing intense one-sided rivalries with literally everyone he interacts with, eira is the only person to have actually reciprocated this which is why they are. like that.

Bandy

-has never been to clown school, doesn't even have a license to clown

-keeps dyeing his hair to a slightly different shade of ginger despite already being a natural ginger and wearing a hat most of the time, this is purely to fuck with people

-keeps trying to sneak into alastor and lorelei's bitching sessions

-the high juror keeps trying to have him fired, but he just keeps coming back

-actively embezzling funds. where are they going? who knows.

-hes meant to be morally grey, and i think thats how he'll stay. like the idea of a bandy redemption is nice its just. it would be more interesting for him to switch sides at a moments notice, and to instead put the work into redeeming a less morally grey character

Dock

-basically lives in a laboratory in the basement of the jury headquarters. said laboratory is filled with all sorts of medical equipment, preserved gore, and even a couple saw traps

-he also has a pit full of giant man eating leeches with a chair placed precariously over it. why? because he fucking can

-despite his status as a quack, hes actually pretty good at fixing any problems or ills his patients have. the issue is that he never says what he's curing. he could be removing your stomach pains, or he could be removing the part of your brain that controls your sense of self! its a gamble with him

-there are no records of where he's from. no one knows where he comes from, how old he is, or even his real name. any answers he gives are either entirely nonsensical or very contradictory

-under his mask he's either very hairy or very bald

-always insists that he's a pacifist and will obey the hippocratic oath. this is false.

there you go! feel free to fight me on any of these lmao but remember these are just my personal headcanons.

[berenwrites]

Falling - Stranger Things - Steddie - PG

A/N: This one came to me in a dream – no seriously, I had the initial line in my head when I drifted off to sleep again Sunday morning and I kind of had a dream within a dream where the rest of the fic happened 😆. Thanks for reading.  Also don’t forget to check out all the other great fics at @steddiemicrofic too💖.

Written for prompt: EDGE | wc: 509 | PG | cw: PTSD, mentions of torture

(Also on AO3)(check out my other ST fanfic on Tumblr here)

Falling: Who Will Catch Me?

Hawkins felt different. It was all over. They had come through the fire. Vecna/Henry/One was dead. The fissures were closed. The shadow over Hawkins was gone, it was obvious to everyone.

But Steve was falling apart. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff looking into a pit of darkness below.

For a month now he’d had Eddie to look after. Eddie who he’d carried out of the Upside Down on his back. Eddie who had looked like a monster when they first went back in, a creation of Vecna’s. Eddie who had turned on his master and helped them win, who had screamed as the monstrous parts of him melted away after Vecna died. Eddie who had been living in Steve’s house while he recovered as the others worked on clearing his name.

Eddie who Steve was pretty sure he was falling in love with.

Only now Eddie had moved back in with his uncle and Steve was alone in his house again. He had no one to look after, no one to focus on all the time, and Hawkins was free. Something inside him had relaxed for the first time in years, and he was coming apart at the seams.

Here he was in Joyce and Hopper’s new garden, surrounded by people celebrating their victory as well as the graduation of Jonathan, Nancy, Robin, and Eddie. Even Principal Higgins had had to bow to public opinion and allow Eddie to graduate with extenuating circumstances when the cover story had revealed Eddie to be the hero he was, not the murderer the town had tried to make him.

Everyone looked so happy. Steve couldn’t ruin that. So, he was smiling in all the right places, plastering over all the cracks before they could show on the outside. After all, he was always the strong one. That’s what he was good for. He couldn’t let anyone see, especially not Robin. He would not spoil her day.

He was doing a good job, holding a beer, watching the kids be kids, when the cliff edge crumbled beneath his feet. It was so stupid. Dimitri laughed. That’s all it was. And one second he was standing in a garden and the next he was in a dingy grey room.

His chest felt tight. It hurt to breathe. His face ached. And all he could do was beg them to stop hitting him. He worked for Scoops, he wasn’t a spy.

“Steve.”

That sounded like Robin, but all he could see was fists.

“Steve.”

And Eddie. But Eddie wasn’t in the bunker.

“Steve, you’re safe. We got out. We’re safe.”

That was definitely Robin. She said they were safe. She never lied to him.

“Robs,” was the best he could do, reaching out through the images his mind insisted were there.

“We’ve got you,” Robin promised as two pairs of arms wound around him and the waking nightmare slowly faded.

Maybe he’d fallen off the edge but, in that moment, he realised there were people to catch him.

(check out my other ST fanfic on Tumblr here)

[cherubispunk]

BITE MY TONGUE - Joel Miller x AFAB! Reader

summary: everything is kind of a mess. And it hurts when he sneaks in each night to see you as merely a warm body to sleep with. Never next to.

a note from lucy: I got emotional on my birthday and wrote this drunk on pinot grigio. I don't recommend unless you want to read your writing back in the morning and debate therapy.

wc: 1240 warnings: 18+ MDNI! unedited, smut, angst toxic relationship, dom!Joel and sub!reader dynamics.

Joel was a silent lover. His footfalls were as ghostly as the kiss he pressed to the column of your throat at night. You spent every moment painting the walls of your mind palace with colours of him. The brown of his eyes, the greying highlights of his hair. The red of his temper. A vivid image of him to keep you company in the colder mornings. The empty mornings. 

He moved with the precision of a killer. A smuggler. Not a lover. You were the lover. He was the fighter. It was oddly poetic how he would steal away into your bedroom like Eros did to Psyche. His face; a known incarnation to you while it sought you out. Muscle memory took its hold of him, a storm raging in his gut and you were the heat that needed to burn it off. The heat between your thighs that is. 

The way he loved you was poison. So self-destructive. Yet so comforting. You never knew pain quite like it, even with what he did in the darkest of the night. The secret he kept between him and the rain riddled, smog smothered, dirty, darkened streets his mind, and the sheets of your shared bed. How his growl could quite literally wrench your heart from your chest and tear it to shreds, but piece it back together like it was a delicate piece of china.

His hips would thrust with fever, letting his words fall short, shy of your ears. Decay into nothing but stale air. You’d crumble and decompose to mulch before he confided in you. But he cared, right? He still made you fall with a yelp of his name like clockwork. A well oiled machine. 

Because he was that. A product of conditioning. A man of stone, set shoulders sloped in their broad frame only when he stilled to release. Bones groaned and muscles laid a well trodden route into soil. The soil and earth of your body that shivered like branches under him. Limbs splayed out and twisted into sheets while a fire of guilt pitted in your stomach.  A gaping hole unfillable in his chest, a life of something messy. Something unsaid. 

Dragged to the undertow, tangled in pondweed and drowned by stagnant water. Your lungs breathed him, absorbed him. What noise he gave you, nonsensical as it was, it was a relief there was something. Something you could do. Part your thighs. 

It was; “Open your legs.” Never; “open your heart.” 

The feeling of his fist colliding with skin shot hot thrills through his spine. The bruising peppered over his knuckles would have been a sign to reign it in but he just couldn’t. Not when the feeling of a man’s bone cracked under his own clenched, balled hand was screaming to be felt again. It was electrifying. Blood. Saliva. The mixture lacing gums and teeth that looked darker in these specific shadows.

Not all people crave physical contact in the same way. Some people seek it out in violence. 

Lips, the texture of gravel, wind chapped, stayed parted to exhale puffs of air. But no word came. Just the steady build of pleasure, lights off to not see the grey of his lies. His silence. Seeping into the shadows…hiding from himself. 

The way he fucked you, was like holding a knife to your throat. It grounded you in the most harrowing way to each of his breaths. His panting in your ear. That hot breath. Lost in the fog, lung hollow, now filled with him. His smell that snared your senses. Too late, not early enough. Burning wooden bridges passion encased with fire, like mere kindling. Surrounded. Trapped. But free. Missing him. Too late to come home. Anchoring him to you, in a silent pleading motion. A way to beg him not to leave. But it never stopped him shattering your heart into pieces when he did. Leave fragments on the floor like a destroyed glass.  A heart of glass. Where were you when he was still kind? 

Long pauses between words. Going and going until one spoke. Never him. Always you. Saliva in your mouth, pooling while his thumb pressed your tongue down. It slipped past your lips, dribbled down his digits making a sticky mess. Moans of pleasure and fear of losing him to the young daylight again. 

You started to close your curtains sooner in the hope he wouldn't notice light and leave you soon. 

Hums, moans, on your own. Biting your tongue to the words as you slipped from lust to love and then back to lust, teetering to love. His lust. Your love. Torture to the mind, medicine to the body. Struck by lightning. Hanged to him as if he was a branch, connected by rope to neck on body. Separated, severed by mind. Showing him where he fit and hands tailed between your thighs, parting your legs to see the gleam of your cunt in the low light of your bedside lamp. Street Lights put out. But just him. Just you. His messy kisses. His hurried movements. Racing you at visceral pace to a peak of pleasure unknown to others, A vast wasteland of discovery, To all but you it was untold. Unhinged. So painfully unkind.

Begging, pleading to feel like you were loved, Making you fall apart in good ways and bad. Heaven and hell no longer just words. They had meaning now smothered to them like the scent of rich perfume. Or rotting earth and mulch after torrential downpour. Not seeing, feeling. Smelling. Not hearing. Waiting. 

Wasting. 

No thinking it over before he tangled with you in the dead of night. In the haven of the dirty mattress, bare naked and sweaty desperate bodies of animalistic innate passion. Lust. Not love. Never love. A need. A release. A waiting game. Lust not love. A feeling. A reverend in church to preach his belief with a sermon of hips clashing with hips and teeth clashing with teeth. Tongues mingling in heat. Yelps, groans. Shrill cries for him. Nails in Joel's back, his teeth in your neck. Daggers. Digging in silk flesh. Making the two of you almost bleed in every hyperbolic and metaphorical sense. Every vowel, consonant, syllable. It was left unsaid to the room. Rattled in your mind, caving in your chest.

‘Stare at me with the lights out.’ You told him when he refused to be seen. “To escape.” “Touch me to be loved.” you wished to add. Pleaded to tell. To whisper through the slam in skin on skin and rustle of sheets through frantic speed. 

Joel never shed his skin. Always held it close. It was hardened, an armour. Scars told a story. A tapestry you felt under fingertips. Fingers that grasped onto him, legs that hitched to his waist, pulling his hips closer, at his hilt inside you. Silent are his heartstrings. Lonely is your hope. Icy is your body. 

One day, you’ll be nothing but dust. Bronchioles in lungs will mimic roots. Navels will copy trunks. Organs will feed worms. Ribs will fossilise and lips that are kissed will mould back to Mother Nature. Its all you had ever been. Quick. Convenient. Easy to please, eager to help. Waiting lips, wanting cunt. Warm, never warm enough. 

“You should tell me.” You would murmur once rolling to your side, not face him while your skin crawled like fire ants. 

If we return our matter to the ground, if all that was to come…what is the point in trying?

And he would gruffly reply. “No.”

To do it all again in the twilight shadow of your heart.

[sonnenreich]

[ open starter */ mutuals only ! ] ⸻ you find zeev in the woods after he experienced a blackout, i'm fine with whatever reason!, can be answered in german as well.

When thinking of witchcraft, some see candles, fire pits and women dancing in the pale moonlight. In some cases there are brooms and wands, fancy hats and a black cat. They are believed to move in the shadows, hide in the woods and curse whoever they please. Honestly? That's partly right. At least that’s what Zeev would say. He never owned a cat and he hates hats with a passion — but he indeed has an entire storage room full of candles and sorts, and once or twice he had danced under the moonlight. Never naked though is what he’d always claim. 

However, in his particular case, he prefers the sunlight. The broad and warm daylight of summer hours, the golden rays reflecting on smooth surfaces like natural lakes and polished furniture, breaking into colourful rainbows whenever it hits crystals and rain. Sunlight was magic itself, turning his surroundings into glistening gold — the most valuable of all hues. Priceless in every sense imaginable. Worship is too active of a word and the sun isn’t able to react in any way, most likely she doesn’t care either. She’s a star, the most important for his life on earth. Essentially for all beings. Yet, worshipping is the closest noun one could use to describe his relationship with her. She’s the warmth and the protection, offers the light to see, the aspiration to be and the strength to create. She’s everything.

But as he moved in pain, the sun was nowhere to be seen. The sky grey and unruly, shielding her from a sight he himself would like not to witness. He choked out a breath, fighting for air burning his throat. After regaining his sight, he noticed immediately that he wasn’t at his home anymore. A part of the woods he couldn’t remember or was too dizzy to recognize. As the exhaustion and adrenaline dropped, the pain became easier to localise. Excruciating headache and cuts burning like purgatory on the inside of his palms. Sitting back on his heels, he stared at the blood sticking to his fingers and the dirt dangerously close to the wound. The bloodied tear wasn’t what unsettled him, but his forgetfulness.

Had he experienced another blackout?

His head snapped to the side when he heard the rustling of leaves, a frame unsheathed from the shadows. With narrowed golden eyes and dishevelled hair he tried to make out the figure. Was it a witness, a client or a victim even? Had he offered his services and it backfired? Zeev hated his lack of memory severely.

Still, he loathed his bedraggled appearance more. 

“Show yourself”, he demanded breathlessly, his strength insignificantly returning.

[gatheredfates]

Alaice - Distraught

CONTENT WARNINGS: Alaice's story deals in dark/mature themes surrounding toxic relationships, domestic violence and my personal interpretation of a woman's place in Ishgardian high society. Please do not read/scroll now if you're under eighteen or if these topics are personally triggering. The abuse is primarily emotional/mental, but there is also a mention of martial rape. I choose to be transparent because I believe in tagging/warning were appropriate, but I'm firmly of the opinion people must be responsible for the kinds of media they choose to engage with. Curate your spaces appropriately.

when is a monster not a monster? oh, when you love it.

Tight fingers wove around a bunch of forget-me-nots, flecks of azure in the grey. Ahead, a weary band of onlookers watched the procession while the stony eyes of The Fury bored, an irony both in material and stare. It wasn’t the kind of wedding Alaice had envisioned for herself; a tiny gathering, a closed ceremony, the absence of her father on her arm.

'It would not do to wait for a spring wedding,' he explained on the first ask, and who was she to deny? The duties of her House weighed heavy since her parent's death (little more than babe, to loose them so quickly - what a tragedy!) and the tender promise of protection nursed to love as she confided to the handsome man now called her fiancé. He knew better, of course, master of his house for a ten-year, how to conduct her affairs in a most delicate manner. It would not bode well for her to attempt to navigate the bureaucracies on her own; the paperwork, the proprieties — she was ill prepared for it! No, he would care for it out of his adoration for her. She need only pledge her love for him and he would make it so.

Sensible. Pragmatic. It was no gayly court and gaggles of gossip, but she would be safe. Her mother had prepared her thusly before she died; the second-nature braid was originally by her hand. The spattering of snowberries and frosted evergreen haloed around her head only furthered the picturesque portrait of bridely innocence on her ascension to the altar.

Past the threshold of virtue. Out of the furnace and into the fire.

He looked at her and she swore to herself none of it mattered. Not the awkward assembly of acquaintances, the Halonic choir singing a chorus closer to a requiem, or the rush-job priest that better suited such a lament. The man on her left loosened his hold and relinquished her to her soon-to-be husband, as if he had any ownership over her in the first place.

Draeir smiled. His mouth were a gate of shiny white teeth, an ivory fortress where she loomed in enamel prisons lashed by his cold word. She smiled back so sweetly, barely containing her excitement, ignorant to the grip that was two ilms too tight on her fingers or the way he pulled her to him with contained force.

She stumbled. He caught her in turn. A moment's panic escaped her mouth, regained in an instant, and she apologised for her mistake.

"You won't do it again," he answered her, and she took it for gentility.

You will know better than to do it again.

The choir lolled into silence.

a beast can never unlearn its nature.

A posy of periwinkles decayed by the windowsill, overlooking the drab gardens flanked by an ever-constant pattering of snow. They had been a gift on his return, a placation for the girl resting chin-first by the ledge, and placed on the mantle to gather dust. That was how she felt most days, now — a painting, perhaps a statue at best. Something to revisit when he pleased, brushed down and realigned.

Sometimes, when he were being generous, he would trot her out to the crowds he entertained — watched with those hawk-like eyes how she curtsied and smiled at their jokes.

"Such a pretty thing, Draeir, how lucky you must be!" The women remarked, dripping poison from the corner of their lips to be bestowed upon their husbands who stared too long. She felt the uncomfortable flip in the pit of her stomach, intensified when they turned away to talk business and pleasure and his hand would seize hers from behind, pulling her to his side.

"Darling," he cooed, his voice dropping so low as to make the others believe they were merely conversing. Then came the hissed "Feeding their egotism is not your job."

Which did he want — her absence or her presence? If she kept to herself he'd stumble into their room wine-drunk and longing, clawing for her company and absconding her for her avoidance. If she stayed by him and submitted to his whims, a toe out of line spurred his ire.

"You are my WIFE." The specks of spittle were like stains on her skin, no matter how much she tried to wipe them off, and the desperate cries for his redemption could not strip the varnish from the bed that creaked from the weight of them. It hadn't occurred to her then to wish for them to crack; to fling them, body and bloody, to the floor.

It hadn't occurred to her to fight back.

How was this love when she was hysterical? How was this love when he looked at her with rage?

Draier grabbed her face and demanded her silence. He kissed her. He bit her. He tore her from the inside out, wringing her out like a crone's cloth, and left her in tatters at the bedside.

When she finally rose, barely registering what time had passed, she bundled the sheets dappled by blood and retrieved her clothes from the floor. She barely registered handing them to her maid, only that she asked they all be burned.

Rotting flowers on a mantle, elegantly framed. Holy work, the church claimed.

Tell me then, father, why I feel so unclean?

Is it nature or is it nurture?

In her dreams, her daughter wrapped her fingers around her throat.

"A sapling cannot be saved from the seed," She said, pretty lips spreading to a bloodied smile that poured down her chin to the spear of ice lodged between her breastbone. When Alaice screamed and tried to tear her hands away, Alyna only pressed her weight harder upon the weapon until she could no longer swallow the blood.

Her complexion. Her father's hair. Eyes of clear ice and steel grey looking at her vapidly. He looked like that when he died, too; the hard lines in his face smoothing to a eerie stillness as he slumped forward on the rime, steam rising from his rapidly cooling body.

She should have been horrified. Yet, when she dropped to her knees in front of him, all she could feel was relief.

Nature made him cruel. Nurture made her desperate. What would be the fate for their babe?

She woke the way a person stepped onto thin ice — cold and all at once. It was as if she suddenly remembered how to breathe, gulping down air instead of frozen water as her chest heaved and the blanket tangled around her legs was crisp and patched with snow.

To her left her daughter cried, but it was only on her third inhale that her mother registered it with fright and turned to scoop her up.

Alaice pressed her to her breast, icy cold. Alyna didn't seem to mind. In the stillness of the night, she was still a babe — not an apparition to be feared or an inevitability to supress.

"I can't tell you if evil is born or made," she recalled the witch telling her. They were alone one night, Elandervier having been coaxed by the promise of wine and relatively silent company. But, as she swirled the red in her hooked fingers, she sighed and looked to Alaice in full. Her mouth moved as if she wanted to say something. Instead, she busied herself with her cup.

She wondered what she might have said if she pressed. In truth, maybe it was better she didn't know at all.

Instead, she grounded herself with the feeling of her weight connecting with the wooden floorboards and the way her daughter wriggled in her arms. Alaice soothed her with a coo and a kiss to the crown of her head, straying to the window were dried lavender was plucked from the vase and offered as peacekeeping.

She had no way of knowing the horrors of the world. In this moment, she was safe.

That had to be good enough.

[thelordofgifs]

a fic where maglor (or elrond, or anybody else) manages to stop maedhros from jumping into a lava pit?

I’M SO SORRY THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU ASKED FOR. I DIDN’T FIX IT I MADE IT WORSE.

“If none can release us,” says Maglor, “then indeed the Everlasting Darkness shall be our lot, whether we keep our Oath or break it; but less evil shall we do in the breaking.”

Maedhros looks at him searchingly, and Maglor holds his breath. At last his brother says, “You are right.”

“And?” Maglor asks, not yet daring to smile.

Maedhros steps forward and rests his forehead against the top of Maglor’s head. “Very well,” he says quietly. “Let us surrender to Eönwë. We will go home.”

“Thank you,” Maglor breathes, tears of relief beginning to sting at his eyes, “thank you, thank you—” And he knows what he is asking of Maedhros, knows that it is selfish, knows that his brother is so, so tired: but still he is willing to do this, for Maglor’s sake, and that means everything—

He wakes up.

***

“Wait,” says Maglor, when they spy the guards outside the tent where the Silmarils are kept, “we can’t—”

“We have to,” Maedhros says, tonelessly. His sword is already drawn.

“Not like this,” Maglor says, “no more slaughter, Nelyo, please—”

But Maedhros cannot listen to him, he cannot see another path out, and so Maglor summons up all the power left to him and starts to sing a lullaby: and Maedhros, who after all is so tired, drops to the floor in a dead sleep.

He does not wake until Maglor has dragged him far away from where the host of the Valar are camped; and he is furious, but by then it is too late, and Maglor cannot bring himself to regret it—

He wakes up.

***

They are surrounded, the startled dismayed faces of Elves who knew them long ago encircling them, and Maedhros and Maglor’s swords are wet and bloody but that will not avail them against so many.

“Halt!” comes a clear voice, and the crowd parts before the Herald of Manwë. His shining, terrible face is hard to look at directly.

Maglor sees his chance.

He drops his sword, drops the box that holds the Silmarils, flings himself at the Maia’s feet. “We surrender!” he cries, in a voice that is yet strong and supple, although all other blessings are long fled. “We surrender to the justice of the Valar – we will answer for our crimes – only spare us now—”

He does not raise his head to see Eönwë’s expression, nor the contemptuous ones of the rest of the host, nor even Maedhros’ own: but despite the reckoning that is to come, something in his heart is easy now, for he has put himself, defenceless, at the Maia’s mercy, and hence bound Maedhros too, for Maedhros will not leave him—

He wakes up.

***

“I suppose,” says Maedhros, “we might at least look upon them now.”

They have run some distance from the camp; there will be nobody to chase them down when the light betrays them. Maglor opens the box.

It is empty.

Maedhros makes a choked sound.

“How strange,” Maglor says mildly, “there must have been a mix-up in all the confusion.”

“You!” says Maedhros, outraged: but he is laughing a little as he speaks. “I thought you collided with Elrond by mistake!”

“He’ll give them to Tyelpë,” says Maglor. “Elrond understands, Nelyo. And if Tyelpë holds them—”

“We’re free,” says Maedhros, and he does not sound as though he knows what to do with that. But he is here, and starting to smile, and his grey eyes are clearing as he looks out at ravaged Beleriand, his gaze skimming over the rents of fire in the earth—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning, burning, and he can barely think, and Maedhros is standing at the edge of the chasm, the unforgiving light of the Silmaril making clear the terrible despair on his face, and for once in his life Maglor cannot summon up the words—

“So!” he says at last, and just in time. “So Varda Elentári marks us unworthy! But even if she hallowed the jewels she did not make them, Nelyo, they are our father’s work, and the right to them will always be ours.”

“Do you really believe that, Káno?” Maedhros asks, dreadfully soft.

Maglor doesn’t. He knows what he is. But he was a mighty wordsmith once, and the son of the foremost loremaster of Tirion besides, and he knows how to turn arguments to his own end.

“We crossed the world to get away from their false idea of judgement,” he says firmly. “Why listen to it now? And – and – come away from the edge, Nelyo.”

“Yes,” says Maedhros, and then with more certainty, “yes—”

He wakes up.

***

Maedhros is wavering at the edge of the chasm, the Silmaril blazing in his hand, the fire licking up behind him. He is always blazing, this brilliant brother of his, and surely – surely – nothing could ever snuff him out.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor. “Nelyo, drop it. Please.”

His own Silmaril is lying on the ground at his feet. He has given up everything he has for it, accursed thing, and it will not take the last person he has left; it will not take Maedhros, he will not let it.

“They burned him too,” says Maedhros, voice dry and desolate. “Morgoth. I saw his hands. They were black and withered.”

His own hand is crumbling, now. Still he will not let the Silmaril go.

Maglor’s face is wet with tears. “You are not he,” he says; “you are not as bad as Morgoth, Nelyo.”

“I cannot have dealt out much less death than he,” Maedhros counters.

“But you are loved,” says Maglor, “even now – if you would only step away from the edge – I love you, Nelyo, please—”

Maedhros stares at him. Stands very still. Opens his charred and ruined fingers, at last, letting the Silmaril fall into the fire. Looks down as if there is nothing stopping him from following it.

“Nelyo,” says Maglor, and Maedhros looks back at him and takes a step forward and away from the fire and then another and another until he is crashing into Maglor’s waiting arms—

He wakes up.

***

His hand is burning and his soul is burning and Maedhros, standing at the edge of the chasm, is burning too; or perhaps he was always burning, the eldest son of the Spirit of Fire. It was always going to end like this, Maglor has always known it, and yet – because he is selfish, because a part of him still believes he can cheat the shape of his own narrative – he cannot quite accept it.

There is nothing left to him, now, no clever arguments or impassioned sincerity or cunning tricks; and his throat, like the rest of him, is burning, too much so to beg anymore. Is he already screaming? But Maedhros is still standing there, his form wavering like a mirage in the heat from the fire. There – there – gone.

Maglor is screaming now, unquestionably.

Perhaps, he tells himself, perhaps it is just a dream, like those he had, repeatedly, after Maedhros was rescued alive from Thangorodrim: and he digs his nails into the terrible burn on his hand, for surely the pain will ground him, and now, now he will wake up, he must wake up—

He never does.