#is literally that ship that will have to pried out my cold and dead hands bc they're too fuckin cute

[flowerflamestars]

Now that the multiverse theory is real, I want your take on the whole "Nesta and Manon would kiss if they met" take.

Also, noticed how everyone outside of the Inner Circle, even people from other dimensions, instantly like Nesta. I think my girl was meant for more

Honestly, I hate the multiverse nonsense with a deep, deep passion, but I will forever engage with the showing off this nice fine hill I'll die goddamn mad on: Manon, witch queen goddamn supreme, would rather be fucking dead then beg some mortal man to MARRY HER.

Are you kidding SJM? Joking? Deranged????

(listen. The ship makes sense as a symptom- it's a straight journey from dead mortal true love > suicidal grief + life ruined > hey lets fuck the beautiful lady who might literally eat me, don't worry if I like her too much, she's basically indestructible. But for Manon? I'll accept that she fucks men but literally everything else happening makes zero goddamn sense.)

But back to the topic: I think they WOULD kiss (bi Nesta can be pried out of my cold dead hands), but I do not think they'd stay together. They're too alike! It's not a balanced relationship.

But you know what, it would be like. Soulmate level ride or die forever friendship. Manon and Nesta. Elide and Elain. (Are these friends or alternative versions of the same characters). Nesta is literally IN CANON called a witch (as an insult. For reasons. Because faeries hate...maybe not real witches? For sexism. Mostly).

And I would much rather see Nesta tromping around rebuilding a witchy kingdom than trapped as an abused baby factory. Much!! It would appeal to her skill set and she could have an appropriately mean best friend. They speak the same emotional language. They've been through some shit. They want a better world and maybe also to be free, forever. It's ideal.

[vitanithepure]

Tagged by the lovely @yrlietlanaevyss thank you💜

5 Songs

Fall Out Boy - Uma Thurman

Woodkid - Iron

Imagine Dragons - Bones

The Smashing Pumpkings - Tonight, Tonight

KISS - Heaven's On Fire

One from each of my favorite playlists :)

Questions

1. Three ships you like:

Gale/Astarion BG3! Nobody pried bloodweave from my cold dead hands yet.

never stopped being a Brienne/Jaime (A Game of Thrones) truther

Also not sure if it counts (it does because I say so), but I love each and every friend OC paired with literally anyone out there? They are my favorite characters and I love seeing them happy in my friend's loving daydreams.

2. First ship ever: Oh. That's a hard one, because for a very long time I just...didn't? I enjoyed romance in media I consumed but never went out of my way to ship any of the characters outside of canon. I think the first that comes to mind is Bishop from Neverwinter Nights 2 and my OC at the time? I think I even wrote some fanfiction with them those years ago. Does this count? :D

3. Last song you heard: Eisbrecher - Rette mich

4. Favorite Childhood Book: I remember having a beautifully illustrated fairy tales by Hans Christian Andersen, read that one so many times the pages started to fall out...I don't remember what happened to it!

5. Currently Reading: Malleus by Dan Abnett, as part of The Omnibus. (also am in tears over it, too)

6. Currently Watching: Nothing, no time!

7. Currently Craving: fresh orange juice would change my life for the better if I could have it now.

Tagging (a long one [for me], because I am filled with *feelings* today) @iamaweretoad, @malewife-mansplain-magus, @schmooplesthesecond, @mightymizora, @aylinvail, @lylakoi, @bnbc and anyone who stumbled upon this and wants to give it a try 💜

[kyle-valenti]

@elenajones23 asked me these questions literally like a month ago but I wanted to do some research to remember some of the anti-m@lex points and then my mom died so anyway I'm answering them now!

(keep in mind I haven't watched any of s4 yet)

Who do you ship Kyle with? Who do you want him to end up with? And why?

.... I've thought about this a lot. I was an enormous Kylex shipper and still love what they could have been if the show had taken things there. (As soon as I find a non-racist, non-white, actually Native actor to fancast as Alex for edits, I'm sure I'd be crazy about them again.)

Aside from them, I think the last ship I liked him in was either Guerenti or kyle/michael/maria (their one episode killed me). I did like kyliz in the beginning, but now I know they share a sibling it's further down the list.

Do you ship Michael & Maria and do you think they still have a shot of being endgame?

GOD YES i ship them. i may love guertecho, but miluca was my first michael ship that cannot be pried from my hands. That being said, no, I don't think they will be endgame. the m@lex stans are too loud and they've already decided to push maria off onto another side character because the cw hates woc.

Agree or disagree? Alex is TOXIC af and his relationship with Michael is TOXIC af. might seem sweet on the surface but it’s actually toxic just like Ross & Rachel.

... the friends reference made me laugh so much. i also don't like ross/rachel, mainly because of Ross, but I do think they're far different than m@lex. (i think liz/max post s2 finale are more rachel/ross honestly, but that's a different conversation)

as for Alex and by extension m@lex being toxic... definitely agree.

to begin with, Alex refuses or perhaps is incapable of seeing the class privilege he has while Michael grows up in poverty. he tells Michael with no compassion that he has to leave the only home he ever had that wasn't abusive or a literal truck. he constantly demeans michael in s1 for doing what he can to survive and brands him as a dirty criminal that's wasting his life. Whenever Alex talks about his trauma, he's always punching down.

he didn't care what was best for Michael consistently. he stole the part of Michael's ship, ignoring the significance. he guilted Maria after he finds out she slept with Michael, knowing that she didn't know, and knowing that she'd push Michael away for him. All when Alex wasn't sure he truly wanted to be with Michael the entire season? After consistently playing hot and cold?

I think one of the worst offenses to me is that after Michael was reunited with the mother he thought was dead who was then killed less than 15 min later, Alex wanted to trauma dump that same night. Without comforting him and then arguing when Michael said he couldn't talk at the moment.

And Michael knows all of this. It's why he chooses Maria in season one. She's the healthier option and someone who can make him happy without the pain that Alex brings via previous trauma. to quote @dylanobrienisbatman when Michael says love is the worst thing that ever happened to me... "sir, you are an abuse victim."

[starfirette]

Ok but Helena Bertinelli x fem!reader where Helena takes all her pent up anger out on reader thru sex and she just tops the FUCK out of R and it’s super hot and R lowkey loves when Helena gets angry when it leads to steamy sex👀 oof I need a MINUUUTE😫

a/n: this is very smutty. it is more emotionally angry, and y/n more takes her anger out on helena, BUT i think it's good. .......i think?? | 18+

masterlist | more helena | inbox | ships + requests open

Every single piece of furniture was toppled over.

The fine china that you’d once had shelved on display littered the floor in ground little pieces.

It was a shocking scene to say the least, especially when you were expecting to walk through the door and take an instant nap.

After being in Moscow for the week, both you and Helena had been looking forward to coming back to the shared Alaska home high up in the mountains.

As you stared around in a state of shock, Helena pulled you by the waist. It was as though she wanted to shield you from the destruction that laid before your eyes.

You weren’t naive. At least, not too naive. You could recognize what was going on.

The last time something similar happened was three years ago. At that time, you and Helena had recently been married. It was the threats and destruction that followed Helena which caused her to leave Gotham with you in tow. Together, you traveled halfway across the across the country, in search for a haven that would protect you from Helena’s enemies.

But they’d found you. Again.

“Get your coat,” Helena instructed as she pushed you towards the foyer. 

“But-”

“Get your coat, now, Y/n,” she snapped again, not bothering to look at you. 

You felt oddly embarrassed by the way your wife had spoken to you. You mustered a submissive nod as you hurried to pull on the coat you’d just taken off.

Helena’s angry, Italian cursing bounced off the walls as she turned through the house, her shoes crunching over glass. She spoke with someone in the phone. Her words were fast and icy. She rarely spoke in Italian, but you’d been with her long enough to learn some of the lingo.  She spoke about a safe house and about a rabbit--

Maybe rabbit wasn’t the right word. 

But you’re positive it’s something about a safehouse. 

You waited in the foyer, shivering in the heavy coat you wore despite the warmth it was generating. 

Helena came rushing to you after her phone conversation ended. “We’re getting back in the car,” she instructed you, using her hands to physically turn you back to face the door. 

“Wait, what’s going on?” you asked, feeling dumb as she snatched a random sweater from the coat closet. 

“We’ve been found, so we’re leaving,” Helena said again, slowing her words as if she was trying to dumb it down for you. She put her arm around your waist, ushering you out of the house and carefully down the snowy pathway that led to your driveway. The fresh powdered snow had two sets of footprints, your own and Helena’s. You didn’t see any others, nothing that would have alerted you to thinking someone had broken in. 

Your face burned with warmth as Helena buckle you into the passenger seat. You don’t like being babied by her. You were tempted to bitch about the way she was treating you, but you knew better. At least, right now. You try to remember she’s in a panic, and she’s running on auto pilot. 

The car raced down the long driveway that wrapped in a spiral down the mini mountain. 

Your heart thumped in your throat as she sped away from the house. You clutched into your seatbelt, letting it dig into your palms. “Slow down,” you finally blurted out.

Helena grunted in response. Her foot reluctantly pumped the break.  

You know she doesn’t like to be told to slow down, or to relax, or to be safe. Even so, Helena knows you don’t like when she drives to fast, or goes into a rage, or puts her safety on the line. 

The drive was silent as she expertly navigated some snowy backroads. You wanted to talk to her, maybe even distract her from whatever was boiling in her brain. She didn’t explain what was happening. You were left to your own devices. You could only assume she was taking you to one of her safe checkpoints in Cordova. That had been ingrained into to your mind; Cordova is safe. If anything happens, go to Cordova and call someone, whether it be Harley or one of Helena’s contacts in Italy.

You slumped down your seat, shifting all of your body to lean against your door, your head against the window. "I love you," you muttered.

Helena didn't say anything.

The underground house in Cordova spans 500 square feet. It's nothing fancy. It's more of a basic studio flat than a house, really, with a very well structured lay out. The kitchen consisted of a two burner stove and an old fashioned ice box. On that same note, the given bedroom was really just a queen size mattress on the floor, shoved in a corner against the north eastern wall. It had a pile of new pillows, still wrapped in their Macy's store liners.

You dropped your coat on the little coffee table in the dead center of the room. It faced an outdated, but thorough, television set, with a boxy TV and VHS player. Stacks of worn VHS tapes and magazines were laced neatly on the little coffee table, alongside the clunky television remote.

A single door was on the western wall, and you assumed it led to the bathroom.

You pried off your shoes as Helena closed the heavy vault door, turning all of the metal spires so the locks clicked, leaving only you and her within the room.

It was a heavy silence for a couple minutes. Helena didn't do anything but stand, staring intensely at the vaulted door, as if it was responsible for destroying your mountain top mansion.

You curled into the bed. The quilts had the consistency of hotel blankets, thin and flimsy, allowing all the cold air to pass through the threads.

The side of the bed sank when Helena sat down, her long legs bent at the knees awkwardly. Her hand placed softly on your back, which was huddled in the corner of the bed, pulled over with the quilts.

"Are you okay?" Helena asked. Her voice was hard. She sounded as if she were in a great deal of pain.

You rolled over. You faced your own wall, turning your back on her. When you did not answer, Helena asked again. "Don't ignore me," she snapped.

You jerked upright.

Helena looked momentarily surprised, as if she'd watched a corpse rise from his grave. You stared at her with wide, angry eyes.

"Don’t even start,” you snapped, holding up a finger to stop whatever words Helena was about to start blabbering out.

"You're not allowed to speak to me any way you want, any time you want," you added with a jab of your finger. You scrambled to leave the bed, tripping over the bedding as you clumsily plunged out of her reach.

"I understand that you're stressed," you said, trying to control the volume at which you spoke. "But you always take it out on me. You always make me feel like the world's going to end."

Helena pinched her nose, bending so her elbows rested on her knees. She looked stressed, just so stressed, just about as stressed as you were feeling, but maybe less angry and shaky. "This is serious, Y/n," she said slowly, as if she didn't think you would have understood her otherwise.

"Even so, we have to keep our wits about us. We have to keep our relationship steady, otherwise we're just going to fall apart and fail. This relationship will not last. It will not last. We are always going to be chased by these troubles, by your enemies. I think I could handle it if we didn't get into massive fucking fights every time it happened. It feels like I'm a kid again, watching my parents go back and forth, staying together 'for us kids', when it's pretty clear that divorce would just be better for all of us."

Helena by now had released her face. She had a blank expression as she stared at you.

"I'm sorry," she finally said.

You couldn't muster much energy, so you shrugged and collapsed on the little sofa. "I don't care anymore," you muttered. "I just want water. I want to sleep."

Helena ran to your side. She knelt at your feet, quite literally on her hands and knees for you. She braced her hands on your thighs. "How can I make it up to you?"

You stared down at her, unsure of what to say.

"I cannot lose you," she said next. "There wouldn't be a reason to have such safehouses like this if I lost you."

"I cannot handle these fights anymore. It's too much."

"What can I do?"

"I just want to sleep," you sighed. "I'd rather just...listen to the television."

Helena led you to the bed, straightening out the mess you'd made when you'd trampled out of it. You shimmied out of your pants, throwing them out so you could sleep comfortably.

"Please just talk to me," Helena begged as she laid behind you. She wrapped her arms around you tenderly, your back pressed against her chest. "I'm just tired, Helena," you sighed as you let your eyes fall shut.

Helena dragged her hand up the stomach of your shirt, her calloused palm tucking close against your belly.

"I'm tired," you whispered.

Her fingers slipped beneath the band of your underwear. Her palm cupped your warmth, her lips pressing soothing kisses behind your ear.

She did not tease that night. She swept two finger tips into the opening of your hot, twitchy cunt, swiping drops of arousal and then spreading it around your clit. The lubricant beneath her fingertips made the sensation slippery and slick. You slowly gasped at the feeling. The sensation got you to slip out of your body for a split second, as if you could see the scene playing out in front of you. Your hips were grinding fast and hard into Helena's hand.

You snatched her wrist and pushed her hand down. "Inside," you snapped. "If you're really sorry, then inside."

"As you wish," Helena murmured. Her three fingers pushed up and in, stretching the velvety walls of your cunt out. You wanted to scream. Her fingers curled and reached up at the spongey spot way inside of you, like the brightest star in all the galaxy.

"Shit!" you cried. You lurched your head back, your hair scrunching up into Helena's face and nose. She didn't seem to care as she slowly pumped in and out, always making sure to press up at your starpoint.

"Never again," you cried as you gripped at Helena's forearm. You used this as an anchor point to keep you grounded while you wiggled your hips into Helena's hand. "You're never again going to treat me this way. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dove, yes," Helena assured you in a soothing voice. "You're such a good bird for me," she sighed, her cool breath tickling your ear. "And you deserve good things. You deserve to cum all over my hand."

Yes, an internal voice shrieked within you. You thought another version of yourself would punch through your chest and take over, take over everything.

Your entire existence rolled up into nothing but pure light as you felt your high coming on quickly. You knew you were cumming, and Helena did too, for she used her other hand to simultaneously stimulate your clit.

The pressure released, like a balloon snapping in your belly.

You were breathing heavily as you sank into Helena's arms. You hadn't realized how tense you'd been until all of your muscles relaxed.

"I'm sorry, Dove," Helena murmured into your ear. She held you tight and close. Her natural perfume, a blend of rosewater and fresh flowers, flooded your senses. With your energy dwindling after such an exertion, you didn't have the strength to argue or complain. You laid there, silently accepting her apology. No longer were you distracted by the wanton desires for orgasm and relief. And in the same way, you were no longer consumed with bitter anger.

"Do you promise we're going to be alright?" you asked, voice cracking and hoarse.

Helena kissed your neck.

"I do."

[alirhi]

Toy Soldiers chapter 1

Title: Toy Soldiers Chapter: 1/? Fandom: MCU Rating: 18+ Focus: James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes Summary: Wounded and delirious but grateful (and shocked) to be alive after his fall from the train, Bucky thinks he's been rescued when he's pulled from the snow. It doesn't take long for him to realize he would have been better off dead. WARNINGS: Language, references to (and possibly graphic depictions of; we'll see how it goes) torture, brainwashing, violence, rape Notes: I don't want to give much away here, but I do want to assure you all that no, I don't ship anyone appearing in this chapter. I'm also not yaddayaddaing the arm thing. more detail on that later.

Once, he would have been grateful to be brought back home to the States. He didn't know it, really, but he was so close to home. It didn't matter, though; just like in Europe, he never left the lab.

“How-” His throat hurt. Was it from how little he'd spoken lately... Or from how much he'd screamed? Wincing, he swallowed, coughed, and tried again. “How long...?”

“Your arm should be operational within the week,” the pretty brunette with the clipboard and the funny accent told him. She looked and sounded so familiar... “If that's what you're asking. Just relax, Sergeant Barnes. You're in good hands.”

It wasn't what he was asking. He didn't even know what she was talking about.

“I trust you'll take excellent care of him, Doctor Zola.” Her clipped, accented voice was steely as she turned to face the small man in the corner that Bucky hadn't noticed. Voice softening as she laid a hand softly on the prone Sergeant's shoulder, she added, “He meant so much to...” She stopped abruptly, cleared her throat, patted Bucky awkwardly, and turned away. “Well. Anyway. Do what you can; I'll be in touch.”

Forgetting for a moment that he didn't have a left hand anymore, Bucky reached for her. He was stunned when her skirt caught on something shiny.

Even more so when that 'something shiny' turned out to be attached to him. “How... What...?”

Dark brown eyes, warm, soft, and so familiar, locked with his as she gently pried the metal fingers loose from her skirt. “Rest, Sergeant. It will be alright.” She stepped lightly out of his reach and the authority returned to her voice as she headed for the door. “Surprising level of dexterity already. Do pass my compliments on to Stark, Doctor, won't you?”

“Stark?” Why did that name ring a bell?

“Of course, Agent Carter.” The little toad in the corner, Zola, sounded so insidious. Bucky hated him already. There was something unnervingly familiar about him, too. As the pretty brunette left, Zola approached him with a grin. “Sergeant Barnes,” he hissed, “You will be the new fist of HYDRA.”

So, he was still in HYDRA's clutches. They'd moved him, he knew, but-

Stark. Agent Carter.

He gaped at the toad, barely registering the reflection of his own stunned, scruffy face in the smaller man's glasses. Zola. Son of a fucking bitch.

The little bastard was quick. He darted out of the way as Bucky surged up and made a swipe for him. He grabbed someone else in a lab coat, instead, and didn't even hesitate. HYDRA. He hadn't nearly died trying to bring them down, only to turn around and let them keep experimenting on him without a fight. The scientist's neck snapped with a very satisfying audible crunch before Bucky was pinned, subdued, and injected with something that made him woozy.

So, Howard Stark and Peggy Carter were working with HYDRA. Fucking traitors. He was still fighting, flinging people off of him and watching in vague amazement as a couple of them flew clear across the room. Apparently deciding the drugs weren't working fast enough, one of them injected him again.

As it finally took effect and the world started to slow and dim, Bucky's last coherent thought was I hope Steve doesn't know.

“How long have I been here?” he finally managed to ask in a scratchy, gravelly voice the next time he was aware.

“A few weeks,” was the dismissive answer he got from one of the younger lab coats. He noticed they stayed out of easy reach as often as they could.

Weeks. That didn't seem right, but it was a relief to hear. If it'd only been weeks, then maybe Steve was still holding out hope; maybe Bucky hadn't been declared dead yet. They'd be looking for him...

His head cleared a bit more, and his heart sank. He'd said 'here', and they'd probably interpreted that literally. “How long,” he tried again, swallowing several times when his throat still ached, “since the train...?”

“Train?” That confused the kid he was talking to, and he glanced at one of his companions.

The other man, late thirties at least by the looks of him and annoyingly familiar, stepped forward. His voice was soft when he spoke, as if he was trying to soothe a frightened rabbit. “It's 1955, Barnes. It's been ten years since you went missing on that mission. We all thought you were dead.”

Ten years?! “Ten... fucking years?” He surged up off the table, only to be caught and held back down.

“Take your hands off him,” the other man snapped, waving the lab coats back. “This man is a hero.”

“He's dangerous, Stark!”

“He's Cap's right hand, for god's sake!”

“Stark.” Eyes wide and feeling panicked, Bucky reached for him. Howard didn't so much as flinch; he let Bucky grab his arms, and even helped him sit up. “Howard. Howard Stark – I remember you. I... Where's Steve?”

The pain in Howard's eyes answered him before his mouth could. Shaking his head in desperate denial, Bucky sank back against the chilly steel. “Don't. Don't you fucking dare.”

“You've never been afraid of anything, Barnes.” Howard winced, hands twitching like he wanted to reach for him, but he didn't. “What did those bastards do to you?”

Closing his eyes against the stab of pain did nothing to ease it; all it did was bring up a rush of dizzying, confusing images. Cold. Blood. Bright lights and gleaming steel. Foreign tongues swirling around him. Pain. White-hot endless nauseating pain...

“Where's Steve?” This time his voice came out a choked whimper, and he appreciated the kindness when no one around him commented on it.

The answer, when it came, was exactly what he'd been dreading: “He's dead. I'm sorry. He went down...”

Tuning out the soft cadence of his once-idol's voice, Bucky sagged against the table. Dead. He's dead. Stupid, reckless, good-for-nothing punk...

“Is he crying?”

“You wanna mind your damn business, Johnson? He lost a brother; let the man grieve.”

“I-it's just... He's been so volatile... I didn't expect-”

“What, human emotion? Try showing some, or get the hell out.” He felt Howard lean closer, and his voice was weirdly gentle again as he murmured, “I'm sorry, Barnes. I know you two were close.”

“Get...” His throat closed. He swallowed a couple of times, allowed a tiny sliver of gratitude when the rim of a cup was pressed to his lips and he got a sip of water, and tried again: “Get out.”

“Alright, Sarge. Alright. I was just checking on the arm.”

There was a soft thunk thunk against something metallic, accompanied by an odd tickling vibration in his shoulder and chest, and then some shuffling. It sounded like someone was moving away, and someone else was coming closer. Bucky didn't bother opening his eyes to find out what was going on.

“He's overwhelmed. Let's- Is that really necessary?”

“He's dangerous, Stark.” That voice sounded too close for comfort. He felt something cold and hard clamp down on his right wrist, and heard the clack of metal against metal on his left, and then a jab on the right. “We either leave armed guards, or this. We can't just let him wander.”

“You're treating him like a crazed murderer.”

“Well, he did kill Simmons.”

“...Right. I forgot about that. Oh, whatever. Fine. Sorry, Barnes, these guys...”

Bucky faded out before he could hear the rest of what Howard had to say. It was just as well; he didn't care what he had to say. Steve was dead. Stupid punk went and got himself killed. It'd been ten years, which meant Bucky's whole family thought he was dead, too. He had no one. Did anything else really matter anymore? This time, when oblivion came, he didn't fight it. He embraced it.

“You will be the new fist of HYDRA...”

The next time he woke, he was screaming; it wasn't enough to drown out the echoes of the little Swiss toad's insidious voice in his head. Why the fuck was he so cold?

“I told you not to put him back on ice!” That clipped voice, the lilting accent... Who was she, again? “He's a human being, for god's sake! He's not an ice cream cone!”

His teeth were chattering so hard his jaw ached as a blanket was thrown over him and tucked up under his chin. What was happening? Who were these people? Who was he? Everything was so foggy...

“Doctor Zola said-”

“Ugh. I'll deal with the good Doctor. Just... Get out of my sight, you wretch! Sergeant Barnes, are you alright?”

Barnes. Sergeant Barnes. “Three two,” he croaked automatically as memories slowly began to resurface. “Five five...”

“Shhh. Enough of that, soldier.” A soft, warm hand stroked his cheek and he smiled softly, leaning into it. “You're safe now.” There was a sharp hiss, and she whispered, “You're still so cold.”

A rustle of cloth made him open his eyes, and he was somewhat startled to see the pretty brunette hastily tugging off her clothes. “Um... Hey, now, you're lovely, Doll, but...”

She snorted, rolling her eyes. “Half frozen to death and your brain scrambled and what little mind you've got left is still in the gutter. Typical bloody man.”

“What-”

“You need body heat,” she snapped as, down to her underwear, she slid under the blanket with him and pressed in close with a shiver. “You haven't got any at the moment. So take mine.”

“Seems like you kinda need it.” He was pleased when that comment earned him a soft chuckle from her, and he brought his arm up to wrap around her. She was so warm...

“I'll survive.”

“Thank you.” I know her... How do I know her? Punky? No. Punk loved her. P... Pe... “Peggy.”

With her face pressed against his chest, he felt her soft smile, and a little warm glow inside when she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed. “That's Agent Carter, thank you, Sergeant,” she teased.

Bucky managed an exhausted smile at that. It hurt; his lips were chapped from the cold, but he didn't care. It felt nice to smile, like he hadn't done it in years. “Right. Only Steve got to call you Peggy.”

They both went rigid at that, and Bucky winced as memories started to float back to him. Steve utterly failing to flirt with this woman, pining for her, talking about her, staring at that photo he stuck inside his compass... Steve...

“He's dead.” Howard's words, soft though they'd been when he spoke them, rang like a gong through his head.

“How...” He choked, shivering from more than the cold, and tried again. “How did he die?”

“Stubborn foolishness,” Peggy whispered, her voice just as choked with pain as his own.

Bucky nodded to himself, closing his eyes. That made sense.

“He saved the world.”

He smiled softly and held her just a bit tighter. That made sense, too. “Did you love him?”

She was silent for what felt like an eternity. At first, he thought she might refuse to answer, but then, so softly he almost didn't hear her, she murmured, “I always will.”

“Me, too.”

Another long silence stretched on, and then she told him, “You're all that's left in the world of him, Sergeant. The two of you were as close as any family...” She lifted her head and he glanced down at her, surprised to see how intensely her eyes shone; she was trying not to cry. “So you're forbidden to die, do you hear me? I won't allow it.”

“Then maybe you should turn up the heat in here a little,” he joked, trying to make them both smile, but failing miserably. “Feels like a morgue.”

“Yes, well...” She dropped her head back onto his chest. They were both shivering now; dimly, Bucky recalled that he hadn't been in the first few seconds after he woke, and that it was supposed to be a good sign that he was. “As long as a certain appendage doesn't suddenly get 'rigor mortis',” Peggy was saying, drawing his attention back to her, “I'm sure all will be well.”

The joke wasn't all that funny, but he was so surprised the prim and proper Englishwoman had made it that he laughed. With a rueful grin he shot back, “I'd have to find it first, Doll.”

That got a startled, tired giggle out of her, and then they both lapsed into a pensive silence.

[pettyelves]

the girl on fire

[ the boy on fire, the man on fire, the home on fire] [ Heart of Courage- Two Steps from Hell ]

Eilonwy fought the whole way through the portal, even after they’d crossed over into dampening wards. She dropped to dead weight, forcing her captors to literally drag her. A kick to ones jaw saw a back hand across her cheek that blurred her vision. 

“Cease,” one of the lackeys said, just close enough that Eilonwy could rear back and bash his nose with her forehead. This time he all out punched her, which she answered with a spit. “Gag her.” 

Hands and feet bound, they stuffed a cloth into her mouth and hauled her to a camp not far. She was tossed into the dirt and left there, while the agents of Shadeala reported in, ate, drank, and waited. 

“If we sail on skiff to shore we’ll be free targets for four miles,” Eilithe argued across the seal to Kurel. It was the first time she’d spoken to him. To anyone. 

“Then you sail up to shore an’ sink the Vengeance.” It was almost a dare. One she didn’t take. One land she ruled-- on sea, he did. That was the rule. He drilled into her, one final time, that this was her fault before they agreed. 

On the deck, she shouted to those gathered. “By the Admiral’s mark, weigh anchor. We sail under cover of dark for shore.” Miles off the coast, The Gambit dragged anchor first, before the ships in the fleet followed a lurch as the entire fleet stopped. 

They made it a mile. 

Overhead a massive fireball went sailing like a comet. It less than sixty seconds, The Gluttonous Prince and The Rude Wench were in splinters and nineteen men aboard were dead in the water.  “Incoming fire!” She barked, “Protect the magi!” 

The skiff carrying Endessa and Svetloba was promptly shielded, the two working together to drop the wards that covered the small island. Canon fire rained down on them and Eilithe’s skiff was among the first hit.  It tore through the front of the boat and she kicked backwards off the side and into the ocean, wood splintering against her back. She hit the ice cold water and sank three feet down before the shock wore off. As she crested the surface, Eilithe searched the waters. Xavier and Mairdrin, down but getting back up.  She started swimming, but swimming the far was a worse idea than sailing it in a skiff.  The ice magus Zephidra stood in her skiff, commanding a water elemental into the sea to assist the drowning. “Zephidra! Freeze a pa--” Canon fire struck so close to her that the only thing that saved Eilithe from shattering to pieces was the way the water slowed the attack.  Blackness swallowed her and pulled her down toward the bottom of the ocean. The water, already cold, chilled. When her eyes opened she realized that ice was forming  just above her. Thrashing back to the surface, she pulled herself up and  got footing on the rough ice. It was just in time for the rush of magic when wards dropped, her grandmother shouted, “Go!” 

Eilithe kicked off into a dead sprint down the path, weaving cannon fire and eventually gunfire as the shore was within her reach. Svalte broke from Eilithe’s shadow, assuming his beastly form to charge out ahead. “Stay in back and stay out of my WAY,” Eilithe shouted at Zephidra, before she went drew swords and collided with fury into a group of men. 

Overhead fire split the sky and it had come from the direction of the ships. She could not understand what the boy said, but by just a glance. Silthas was zooming overhead. The have second of hesitation saw a cut across her chest, that she barely caught the second attack which would have ended her. She could not save the boy. Not now.

“Get her into the inner chamber and seal the door!” One of the commanders shouted, shoving Eilonwy into the arms of another captor. The man turned and rolled his shoulders before marching toward the beach.  One of the magi, whom Eilonwy had heard called ‘Literia’ spoke calmly as they stalked into the halls of a stone chamber. “He is going to kill your mother and father, dear girl. If you beg the Lady, she will allow you to join them quickly.”  Eilonwy stared at the woman nose crinkled into a sneer. The doors were shut behind them, two mages activating the wards to keep it sealed before a mundane lock clicked loud. Unbeknownst to any of them, the chamber was less than secure.  When they dumped her onto the floor, a shimmer of arcane brought a projection of Shadeala into the room. “Remove her gag,” the Kaldorei called. Eilonwy counted four men and the two mages, knowing what her chances were-- she waited. 

Shadeala’s hand opened up and when it did a projection of the outside. “Such a selfish child, all these people will die trying to save you. Is your life worth more than theirs?” 

Eilonwy scowled, “I’m not selfish. You’re selfish. You stole me from my home.  It’s not my fault they’re here. It’s yours. You are a coward. ”  Her eyes were firey, fixed upon the projection. Shadeala wasn’t even brave enough to stand there in person. Her mother’s word’s echoed in her head, if you are taken, show them no fear. We are An’Diels and we do not cower. “I am not afraid of you.” 

Shadeala sneered at Eilonwy, just as the pair of mages walked into the hall. The Kaldorei and the Draenei both took up position on either side of the projection. "A coward. How rich. I don't suppose you think hiding within the wards of your little harbor is a cowardly thing, hmmm?" It was about this time that a blast of fire roared down the hall, a phoenix of fire shrieking towards the women holding Eilonwy captive. The mages lurched to the side but the projection of Shadeala merely turned to stare at her son. "Ah, the failure. The betrayer. The traitor I birthed and raised. There is nothing you can do here, Silthas." Shdeala turned and looked at Eilonwy. 

We are An’Diels. And we survive. Eilonwy did not hear what she said, because magic ran wildly through her body, freezing her bonds. She took her chance then and slammed her bindings against the ground before shooting up to her feet. If they come for you. Remember your training and do what you have to. 

"Kill him first. Make her watch him die." The projection of Shadeala then faded as both mages turned on Silthas, arcane and fire blasting against pillars and shields. The boy returned fire with blasts of fiery magic, even managing to land a blow on the Draenei. While this was happening, the four mercenaries came for Eilonwy, attempting to subdue her as opposed to kill her, so she could watch as the mages ended Silthas. “I am NOT AFRAID OF YOU,” Eilonwy screeched out, ice bursting from around her. It tore into mercenaries. As rage filled her, the magic within her rippled violently and went out of control-- fire shot from  her fists that punched the air, targeting  the magi on Silthas. She scrambled across the floor to pick up a knife and sprinted for the Draenei burying it in the woman’s back. 

The Kaldorei magus clutched her hand around arcane which formed a spear. She hurled the weapon at Silthas and Eilonwy watched as it ripped into Silthas and sent him to the ground. “It is time to go, Destrianka,” the magus said, helping her injured colleague through an open portal. Before Eilonwy could react, three more portal opened up, men pouring out of them. 

Silthas wasn’t getting up.  She snapped. 

Purple consumed her eyes and  and static filled the arm around her, raising portions of her midnight hair. Her fists clutched and her mouth tore open with a scream that was bone chilling. Arcane rocked the halls of the inner chamber. 

Mavas was the first to the door, in time to watch the runes on the door pop with color as inside, Eilonwy’s instability rocked against them. By the time Eilithe and Kurel where catching up with the vanguard he was over loading the door with chaos magic. 

Eilithe was impatient, even as Zephidra got the doors to open a fraction, it wasn’t fast enough. When it became clear they could not be pried, Eilithe looked to Peter, Mairdrin, and Bengal. “Blow it.”  The charges set, cover taken a series of more urgent beeps were crescendo to a loud explosion. Eilithe was second into the chamber, if only because Kurel was lumbering like a juggernaut ahead. 

Inside, Eilonwy was wielding a knife ice pick her other hand up to guard. She had completely lost herself in rage and sadness. Men lunged at her and this time she did not freeze.  Kurel’s seals broke rapidly as he fel rushed for his daughter fighting in the center of the room. Zephidra and Azura rushed to Silthas to save the boy’s life, and one of the men went trudging toward them. Screaming, Eilonwy leap on the man’s back stabbing down and down. Eilithe didn’t pause, not because to see her daughter like that didn’t disturb her, but because another mercenary was going for her daughter’s turned back. 

Eilithe sprinted forward and flung her swords in an arc to cut up the man’s back. The man lunged and caught Eilithe’s sword with his own whilst another enemy went for her back. A sword buried into her shoulder, and Eilithe quickly turned to kick the man back. The first attacker went in for Eilithe’s spine but was quickly met by the hungry maw of Svalte at his throat.  Stumbling back Mairdrin must have caught the man and held him in place, but blood sprayed up  and out as Els’ blade eviscerated the man with precision. In minutes, Dead Sun had decimated the last of Shadeala’s forces. At least the ones on that island.

Kurel rushed Eilonwy and pulled her into his chest, a hand on her head. In her hand a knife was clutched so tightly her hands were shaking. Her words were whispered, just for her father to hear. “They..said they were going to kill us. She said.. she wanted me to watch him die.” 

Eilithe came up behind Eilonwy and touched her head to the back of her daughter’s. Even as Kurel seethed into her ear that they should leave the boy to die, she felt relief.

There were a few moments of peace before Eilonwy’s eyes got distant and she pushed out from between her parents. It was that funny way she had of knowing things. The knife hit the floor and she immediately jammed her fingers down her throat to induce vomitting.  “Wha’ are you doin’? Stop,” Kurel tried to grab her but she jerked away from him. “They know where I am,” she said, puking across the floor.  “Mavas!” Kurel bellowed, “They forced her to swallow somethin’.” 

The process of removing the tracker was easy, a single slug that writhed around in the jar Mavas. Designed to be near undetectable, yet not very sturdy. As Mavas mused over the thing, Eilithe pulled her daughter in close and spoke.

“I am proud of you, kallah,” she whispered, resting her head against the girl’s temple. “You did the right thing. You fought for yourself and for that boy. You’re going to be okay.” 

Eilonwy mumbled, “Is Silthas going to die?” She dared not ask if he was already.

“He is fighting. And he is strong. But,” Eilithe’s hands gripped in her chest. “The safest place for you. Is with your father. Go with him.” Eionwy gripped her mother’s bloody leathers, “What about you?” 

“I am never far behind you.” 

@kurel-andiel​ @revthepunchbear​ @xavier-sunshadow​ @velerodra-valesinger​ @elsylynneverbright​ @shaded-hawke​ @deadsunharbor​ @liora-tarinval​

[alchemisland]

The Moors Mutt - II

https://www.wattpad.com/676844776-the-moors-mutt-ii

II. Limbo

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

When the machine architect of our world was in infancy, men of old, men of renown, used more than sight in their primitive observations of our world. Already we, we as mankind, had realized what appeared as reality was deeper yet than simple tangibility. Further back towards the chaotic and infinite churn of the burning epoch, when mankind had not language to manifest destiny and lived subordinate to Echidna's descendants still fearsome on the plain, parts of the brain which one day became memory centers first stirred to life, elongating the possibility of human memory. Scent still is brother to memory.

The air was heavy with scent when I relinquished vision, only for a short time, and let wind corral me. The breeze carried faint lavender.

A pebbled stretch I crossed stirred a memory of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he purchased, whose high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six, maybe seven years old, tales of old Arabia appealed greatly. Fabulous kingdoms wrought of yellow stone against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot sun bemused of countenance, scorpions armoured like chargers sending rodents to their redoubt, the cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumping from the path of unruly camels, watching the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of Royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often broody boys who preferred quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger stories, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards. Older, into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales most. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand moved me. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where the pyre burned. Since, when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the beach at Troy.

I heard the crunch of a trap and waited hopeful until the crude plume fixed atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the man, a being of wind, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood in disarray. A peak stole his brow, but a smile waved me aboard. He never spoke, though carried me within shouting distance of the manse.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper, not coin. Hundreds, thousands of jaundiced sheets, all in disorder busying every surface. Before a single coin changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in the avoidance of work that should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day was required before I indulged my cryptozooligcal fancies.

*

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived prematurely. I gathered my belongings, wondering where the time went, then ran to the track and the sounds of the the last husbandmen bound for Sperrin. I found easy passage. Too easy perhaps; I was cursed to endure indignity on a wagon halfheartedly scraped of its stinking contents; with my legs lolling over the side, I was soaked in every splash. I arrived back mud-caked, a shambling golem. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating my thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel, enjoying relief akin to weightlessness by contrast, and we drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, speaking of weather. I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to seem overeager, I spared him my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision.

Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted, pretending to clean.

'Short delay actually. I'd have said from the doorway, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.'

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen folks pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' He shot a glance at Fergus, a pale lance cleaving his brow.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a cask, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the splash of ale. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. Fruity, potent, sickly almost. 'This expedition diary I mean to publish, any thoughts?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes is the answer. Humbly, in my hand, the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?'

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of the last, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch spoiling any hope of a dramatic exit, but I hovered over the stool while I spoke. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once the story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored his step, slipping through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

*

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground.

Waking, it seemed I fell to the mattress from a height. Not far enough to endanger, but enough to worry the springs. I lurched, took my journal from the bedside locker, levered its purple tongue to split its leather cuirass and let it whip to a clean page.

One mark on the opposite face demanded attention. A black circle, subtle as a bearded chin, formed by the swift fury of a graceless wrist, its blackness total.

How strangely the lines blended. One moment a nest of fastened rat tails, one mark indistinguishable from another, the next a clear set of growing rings. In its swirling centre around the maelstrom's eye, the paper tore with the fury of the quill.

I found the pockmark on every page. Someone strained greatly to make an impression so indelible. First I thought Fergus with his ham hands, unknowingly forcing the nib through the page. When he had the chance, or the notion? It seemed unlikely. Throughout the workday it was with me, resting once for a moment unattended on the desk.

Despite concerns, I knew no progress could be made at this hour. For now it seemed safe to be about my duties without much extra precaution. I returned the journal, pulled the duvet across my shoulders and turned to sleep, when suddenly a violent jolt racked the shutters so fiercely they juddered back into place with a great thunk.

I winced toward the disturbance and found mocking empty blackness. As my head sank back into the pillow, a shuddering pulse shook the building. A rippling seismic attack. Unlike quakes from within, which sally in waves, this was a single detonation, like a dying star; one magnificent shockwave that stirred everything in the world at once, only for a moment. I stemmed panic, falling to courageous platitudes that would embarrass the most shameless Kipling-mimic. Without panic, I deduced more likely my head sharply turning had disturbed my equilibrium, giving the walls the appearance of motion. As if in answer to my doubt, dust sprinkled from the rafters.

Nothing else came. I waited, steeled. I pretended to be brave and at some indeterminate point, felt into a brave slumber.

*

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove.

He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping his pipe twice on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' The rain beat harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.'

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday, despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.'

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left more spritely than when he entered.

[bethabunnywrites]

A little scrap of Mal

I was going through old Discord text channels last night to see if I could weed any out, so of course, by that I mean I ended up reading through a bunch of old roleplays. In it I found this lovely hidden gem - it was supposed to just be an intro post to get us set up but clearly I took it several paragraphs further than that, with the abrupt cut off being where my partner posted. People of tumblr, have the most I’ve ever written on my Death Knight in one sitting. (Also, forgive my formatting. Mobile is a bitch.)

The sky was dark, the plains of white lit solely by a sliver of moonlight that made it seem far more like purgatory than Northrend. But really, was it that much different? Of all the hells Malayeh had been through the past few years, the spires cutting through the sky before her were the only one that still put fear into a heart that no longer pumped any blood. Delicate snowflakes landed on her fur and mane like the softest of kisses, remaining there shining and untouched with no heat to melt them. The skin around her lips and eyes had drawn tighter and begun to crack and flake - she clearly hadn’t taken the time to care for herself in the last week or so.

She had been on so many missions, freed those that considered her their kin and helped to raise more comrades, anew. She had heard of his input on the situation, but she had managed to convince herself that they were somehow wrong about it. He had not spoken directly to her until the day that they sent her to retrieve the Maw.

It was a beauty of an axe. It literally seethed with corruption, blood would only drip from it for a moment before being absorbed into what she could only assume was metal. Not the sword she typically favored swinging, but the longer she held it the more its hunger seeped into her own bloodlust and she found herself enjoying it rather more than she had ever intended.

She held it in her hand as she made her way up the steps toward the transporter, drawing a strange comfort from the way that it all but begged her to slay everyone around and let both of them feed on their blood and energy. Maybe she would, someday. The citadel lined with corpses once more is a mental image beyond pleasing. Still…

There must always be a Lich King.

But no one said he had to fucking interfere.

The first time that she had heard his voice in her mind after all these years…Her heart must have beat for that tightness to have taken hold in her chest. She could not breathe, despite not even needing to beforehand. That sheer panic stirred an old memory, more of a flash of a piece of a second. A sword that was not hers there before her eyes, the point slick with blood that stirred no cravings in her brown-furred frame.

Brown. You could tell that it had been brown once. It had greyed and was frozen over in her current environment, but the brown was clearly there. She finds herself pondering that as she hesitates before the teleporter. The Upper Spire is the last place she had ever wanted to find herself again, and yet here she stands.

She wonders if she should have told anyone she was coming here. The Ebon Blade knew, of course, but what of…well, there was no one but Daz. She scolds herself for sneaking out in the middle of the night, but immediately scolds herself again for having such a thought. He doesn’t own her. Hell, there’s no guarantee he even cares about her. She definitely wouldn’t care about herself, given the opportunity. He probably awoke, shrugged, and staggered off to find a replacement.

Something about that rather logical conclusion lights a fire in her belly, her eyes flashing with something that she would never at all admit could have been anything like jealousy. She didn’t care if he found someone else. Why would she? She’s a fucking death knight, and a damned good one, at that. Which brings her…

To the Spire. The ice is so thick and solid that it does not even crunch beneath her heavy hooves. It rings almost like marble as she takes a step, her heavy plate shifting and a sprinkle of snow falling from her broad shoulders. Her tail flicks as she approaches the throne, her chin up and confident in a way it had never been in his predecessor’s presence. The other knights sunk to their knees as they came upon the bottom step, holding up swords for his blessing and pledging themselves as if nothing had ever changed. Every single Knight bowed, at the very least, save the tallest.

Mal hesitates as she sees her comrades so quick to kneel. The Ebon Blade had assured all of them that he was simply an ally - it would not be like last time. Her free hand clenches into a fist, the eyes of the skull in the center of the Maw glowing brightly with her anger at her brethren’s behavior.

And so, he spoke.

His voice echoed hollowly just as Arthas’ before him, and just as those of all of the Knights. It was otherworldly, to say the least, marking them as dead even more than the cold light emanating from their eyes. His words were of praise laced with passive aggressive warnings, he sought to manipulate them into doing his bidding “for the good of all of Azeroth”. Mal resists the urge to spit at the foot of his throne, instead listening quietly and debating her next move.

Her thoughts were cut short, however. “MALAYEH BLOODROAR” rang in her ears and mind, causing her to flinch involuntarily and tighten her grip on the axe like a violent safety blanket. He wanted her to serve him. He knew how well she had served Arthas. A new Scourgelord was needed. someone to do his bidding and lead the Knights on this new Crusade against the Legion. Fight Fire with Ice and Blood, infect them with the Unholy curse that was the presence of the Knights. He wanted…

He wanted the Maw…

The Maw is not his to take. The Maw is HERS. She pried it from the hands of that filth and it would stay in hers until the last frozen breath left her body. It was hers and she was its. They had bonded, they were one. Her mind is a fog of rage and hunger, and she felt the axe screaming in her hand. The other Knights looked to her in shock, she was bellowing her refusal and yet hardly aware that it was even happening.

She did not recall even opening the death gate, she did not feel the waves of razor-sharp ice jetting out of her very pores. Her blood was boiling, her ears hot and the glow from her eyes so bright that it nearly blinded her as she stepped through. She closed it behind her before any of her “siblings” could follow.

Her hooves hit wood already slick with frost, the swirl of snow and ice that was her rage spreading quickly across the ship with crackling so loud that one might think the ship was being crushed in the embrace of an Old God. The sails snapped in the wind, the waves of her anger syncing with her breaths and each one sending a new swirl of snow into the air. Her hooves sink and break the ice beneath them, and she lets the Maw slip just low enough to touch the wood of the deck.

It was displeased. It wanted her to take the lives of those who had wronged her. It wanted to feed. She felt its hunger deep in her loins and doubled over with the cramping desire, her free arm pressed into her abdomen in hopes that it would pass quickly. There was no one to kill here. No one that deserved her wrath. She could still hear them screaming that she had no right to take a weapon so useful against the Legion.

They would just have to fucking deal.

She stood like that, doubled over in pain with the axe by her side, harsh breaths hissing through clenched teeth as she tried to force at least some of the ship to thaw. Her eyes were clenched shut, her hair ragged and hanging in her face when her captain’s voice startled her back to reality.

[buddyfaith]

ok check this out right, this is The Great Skewing of AA Ships, in reverse chronological order by birth chunks for convenience.

2009-2011

Athena, Juniper (2009)/ Pearl (2010)/ Trucy (2010/11)

Because this category is all girls, Athena’s introduction is literally her being a Doting Gal Pal™ to Junie, Trucy and Pearl being psychic kid buddies is canon iirc? it’s a good time all around. There’s two years between the oldest member of this batch and the youngest, and as far as i can tell like no male character who shows up more than once belongs here. 

1999-2004

Simon, Maya, Franziska (1999) / Ema (2001)/ Regina Berry, Kay, Klavier, Sebastian (2001/02)/ Daryan (2002)/ Nahyuta (2003) / Apollo, Clay (2004)

okay so im gonna kick this off with the only “”feasible”” m/f pair I can see here, fey///quill. Don’t get me wrong, Maya is a lesbian through and through (imho), but for [straight person voice] argument’s sake: there’s a lot in terms of a potential relationship there? Maya would think Simon as equal parts too cool!!! and too dedicated….. and they would both collect steel samurai trading cards, dont even lie to yourself. This makes 300% more sense than….. the other simon one. look inside yourself.That being said!!!! I don’t think they’ve even met, really. Timelines have always been kinda ehhhhh and if capcom wanted this we would have had it down our throats, especially now that they’ve existed in the same game. I want them to be friends.

ANYWAY look at all of those girls. I admit Regina is only there because she tried to apply to be Kay’s gf  in the yatagarasu but aside from her, any and all of them have met. They’re an ot5 or less depending on personal preference, and honestly any combination of the girls (especially if you exclude Regina, who’s only here on two technicalities) stands as plausible. This is compounded by all of these girls in particular being popularly depicted as lesbians!

aaaand the back six. I admit Daryan shouldnt be here but he’s put with Klavier sometimes and he’s also an asshole. That’s something I’ve seen in fics sometimes so there he is. Anyway. Outside of that and, obviously, Brothers Nahyuta and Apollo, it’s fair game here too? everybody else has a ship with apollo and that’s just the start of it, the only person I’ve genuinely seen never shipped with anybody is Sebestian. 

ANYWAY i’m personally partial to the fan favorites of this generation in terms of the boys (klapoll/o + simon and nahyuta) but im always down to throw clay into the former for the truest ot3. this is my Unneeded Opinion™ to close the category.

1992-1996

Phoenix Edgeworth and Justine (1992-93)/ Larry, Dahlia, and Iris (1993)/ Bobby Fulbright (1994)/ Adrian Andrews (1994/95)/ Maggey and the wonderful couple The Delites (1995-96)

it’s worth noting that the established grand larceny power couple were both born at the same time, that’s cute. also, Adrian is just here for reference against Franziska, who’s in the next chunk chronologically, and Bobby is here for reference against Simon, who is the same. (*deep breath* black/bright….. what could have been…….) also maggey is here to go up with gumshoe but i dont even remember where that dude is.

This technically isn’t a complete chunk. Lang is born in ‘91, in between this batch and the last one, but im making the list and the rules.

Not much to say here except bi phoenix is pried from my cold dead hands? right. Also i’ve never seen justine/ edgeworth in my life and i appreciate that in retrospect, although im sure it exists.

1985-1991

Diego (1985)/ Thalassa, Gumshoe (1986)/ Lana (1987)/ Mia, Calisto Yew (1989)/ Aura Blackquill (& presumably Metis Cykes) (1990)/ Lang (1991)

i put the interpol furry in this half as opposed to the last one because calisto yew had us both going and i Love to Suffer c:

anyway the only romantic cyke///squi///ll i need in my life ever is Metis and Aura. Metis doesn’t have a birthday so im taking things into my own hands there but even if i wasn’t she’d be around here somewhere.

Observable phenomena: lana and mia were born consecutively and are big lesbians…… i should talk about diego here but i won’t, lemme save it for the end, i have conclusive proof mia is a lesbian.

1982-1985

Datz, Valant, Ray (1982)/  Dhurke (1983)/ Katherine Hall (1985)

ok this is kind of the point when things start getting irrelevant but we have the rebel leaders who were probably a ship? i havent done much fandom-ing wrt soj and also ray and kate who is like. the only person in his own age rage that he hits on. ray wyd stop being a creep.

ADDITIONAL NOTES:

There’s a 13 year difference between badd (1958) and faraday (1971), making them the largest age difference ship with any traction in my heart. The gap between Gumshoe and Maggey is ten years? wow.

Morgan’s birth is approximated, but she’s a maximum 3 years younger than Greg (1966). 

 Most differences of 6ish years (Miles and Franziska, Phoenix and Maya, Athena and Simon in the outlying 12 year case) are portrayed as siblings (I mean I guess the latter two are my humble onion but. C’mon.) 

Thalassa is closer in age to gumshoe, Katherine Hall, Lana Skye, and Diego Armando (to name a few, there are more) than Zak Enigmar. There is no documented birthday for Jove Justice, but if he was older than twenty when they were married, the same holds true for him.

Defense attorneys aren’t suited to each other! As far as i can tell nobody with a badge on their lapel tries to date anybody else with the same.*

Co-counsel doesn’t date!*

(*my idea that mia is a lesbian is vaguely rooted in this since mi/ego is the only thing that goes against it? and that ends badly! it turns out she didn’t feel that way for him and she realized that once he “died”, so hc that she only said yes to him to see if it would go anywhere/heteronormativity/realized she was a lesbian after dating him)

anyway every other co-counsel relationship is literal siblings or someone and Mr Wright.  

this got even longer than i was expecting but as a closing remark because of the story’s format and timeline we have a particularly large amount of gay ships! like the particular focus that the game casts upon the relationship between wright and miles, klavier and apollo, particularly NOT simon and athena, considering how similar the “i became a lawyer to save you!” narrative is to p+m and yet the story is about her mother, is about coming to terms with their own trauma etc, siblings, anyway. i’m done now.

[alchemisland]

Moors Mutt - II

Prefer Wattpad?

Rising early, if rising it was and not merely stirring from a wakened restive state, I left the tavern in secret and walked a barren stretch. At pale dawn birds like Aztec idols flighted at my stirring. Cold light stained the pasture either side. Sleepshod, the road to Cairn Cottage found me quiet company. Even the tinkers were not yet to the road in their triskeled wagons.

The air was heavy with lavender. A pebbled stretch stirred a reverie of my late father and a codex of heroic tales he had purchased for me, whose chronicles of high adventure stirred me like nothing prior. At six years old, tales of old Arabia appealed most. Kingdoms wrought of sunstones stark against a tangerine haze, swirling tarot star ever-visible, scorpions armoured like chargers; the sheer cloying madness of it all. I visited them in dreams, jumped from the paths of unruly camels, watced the impenetrable waves humbly part in the wake of royal palanquins.

Their heroes were unlike our knights. More often sulky boys preferring quill to falchion. Brooding teenagehood made me relish the stranger entries, tales without lessons existing solely to unnerve, speaking on the bleak lives of Tartarian wizards.

Into adulthood, I came to enjoy Greek tales best of all. The tragedy of Ajax in his lover's plate leaking on the golden sand. Waves, caressing the moored fleet in passing, bursting against the shale where his pyre burned. Always when I hear crunching pebbles, I think of soldiers marching on the strand near Troy.

Before long, a trap could be heard from the middle distance, the first in a network of wagons due to arrive at Cairn Cottage to transport the priceless contents of Lady Sizemore’s library back to Sperrin, where they would be carefully parcelled and carried by train to the Royal Academy Library. I waited astride the ditch until the crude plume atop the horses head appeared like the mantle of some deposed pagan lord. Ixion's disc four times divided had been fixed to bear this chariot. Its heavy trundle ground debris to powder. I hailed the driver, a wind being, every strand of hair or cloth lank enough to lift stood disarrayed. A peak stole his brow but a smile waved me aboard.

The driver never spoke. There was a sense of grim penitence about all I had met thus far. Their lines of deep regret boldened every jowl and furrowed brow. Each bore the weight of his forebears in full. A place without time and silent, where happiness and sadness could last all of forever. So silent were they, matched only by monks in their solemnity, I christened this ham the abbodrice of Sperrin.

Inside chaos reigned. Lady Sizemore's estate was measured first in paper above coin. Hundreds, thousands, of jaundiced sheets all in disorder busied every surface. Before a single penny changed hands, a great many hours I spent hauling boxes, within which were more boxes where spiders large as potatoes spun temporary wonders above the invoices.

I wonder what effect prolonged tedium has. Such thoughts are entertained in avoidance of work as should never be given lucid credence. An entire day dedicated solely to translating letters in incomprehensible cursive, it felt ridiculous. My mind, perhaps reflecting its surroundings, felt dulled, unfocused. So long I stared, when I pried my eyes I found feint margins plastered across reality.

The previous night's visitations I had pondered, ultimately chalking to anxiety. Nothing substantially portentous. Unfortunately, another day I required before I indulged  cryptozooligcal fancies.

Darkness in ravenfeather arrived premature. I ran to the track where the last impatient husbandman sat in stasis. 'Bound for Sperrin?' I called, already halfway inside.

I arrived at Lar's fiercely humoured. Tired, thirsty and caked in mud golemlike, my gladness at journey's end was quickly consumed by the fury of indignity, having endured the return trip atop a sewagesucker's swine van. Lar tended bar. I wondered had he stirred in my absence. Anticipating a thirst, two mugs were set.

I dropped my satchel and enjoyed relief akin to weightlessness by contrast. We drained tankards like soon-to-war Saxons, spoke of weather, I asked had anyone noteworthy visited, mostly from politeness. When asked had the room served, I replied it had done so more than adequately. Again, politeness.

Not wishing to appear overeager, I spared him details of my dream. If the tale was relayed to me, I should say how convenient the very man hoping to find the beast would experience a vision. Besides, in the unlikely event we found a mangy badger after I'd described a prehistoric horror.. perish the thought.

'Do we depart tomorrow?' Lar grunted as he pretended to dust.

'Short delay as it happens. I'd have said from the door, only for the ale calling. Alas, labour remains. My charges lust for satisfaction. They are at Rome's gates! Distant cousins write in droves. By air, land and sea their letters come, squeezing through grates, shimmying down chimneys. Forget the beast, if they find me I'm dead.' I said, picking at a heel of bread.

'We sank tankards enough last night. I've seen plenty pale on the dizzy morning after the night before. If this delay is to spite me, let me allay concerns, I'm the man for this job. We're the men for this job.' Lar shot a glance at Fergus. A pale lance cleft his brow through the slitted shutters.

I looked to my empty cup then longingly at his selection. Lar fingered a bottle, but reached further back and took another instead.

'My god, man. Boil a pot and toss it down your trousers. No such notions occurred to me. We're expedition mates! I didn't make a dent in the work, really.' I raised a silencing finger to hear the ale splash. 'There you have it. Mystery solved. If the mystery of the beast is this easy, we're laughing.' I inhaled its aroma. 'Listen, chap. There's something else I wanted to talk about before we go. I mean to publish an expedition diary. A chronicle of our adventures. Part scientific tome, part roaring adventure book. Your pub will be the busiest spot in the weald after this. Would you object to such?'

Lar's measured tone returned. Careful as a tiptoeing sinner, he asked 'You good?'

I smiled. 'Only Ben Adhem saw the book, ask him.'

Lar stove the ashen helm crowning his cigarette, plunging the embers into the cold bronze bowl. 'At writing.'

'You should say! I tease, I tease. To answer your question, yes. Humbly, in my hand the pen is like the master mason's chisel, from whence grand cathedrals spring forth from their less divine constituent parts.' Lar was fumbling for his tobacco already and I thought what small use that vice would be in peril.

'I'm convinced.' Lar spoke quickly, stumbling over the words to get them out. I took no offence at his zeal to change the subject. 'Do you have a manuscript at hand?' he asked.

'Not with me, unfortunately.' He stifled a sigh of relief. 'Upon returning home one story heavier, I'll ensure you receive signed copies of every one. I'll sing them My favourite tub of Lar. Yours literately, Beastman. That way you'll know it's me.'

Lar's ale, a home brew, was a swift agent, promising to travel from your mouth to the toilet's in twenty minutes. I joked he might patent it for a medicine. Call it the Midas touch. Everything it touched turns to gold: toilet seat, floor, shoes if you weren't careful.

I spied Fergus. His thumb led a blunt edge across the ribbed bark of a sprig, from which he had carved two lidded eyes and a pursed mouth.

Lar lit a cigarette from the flared end of another, then discarded it on the ashen pyre.

Lar had to raise the hatch for me, which spoiled any hope of a dramatic exit. 'Departure two days hence, on the strict proviso no unpleasant libel suit comes once my story hits print. Rest assured, I'll include nothing untoward, but I reserve the right to artistic licence. Print the myth.'

'Libel is a city crime.' Anticipating my desire, Lar walked while he spoke. I mirrored and slipped through the open portcullis to sleep, perchance to scream.

*

Lying in bed, I wondered what to include in my chronicle; exciting details only, or every charged exchange? Nobody asked how the shipwright felt constructing thousands of ships without prior notice. They only wanted Achilles. The reader will concede, I have included much of the mundane.

Well-oiled, I slept easily. Set like a star I saw things from the blind past, dark present and murky future, useless without chronology, stifling their prophetic nature. The beast came again, shaking the ground where it trod.

*

Lar, blackbird that he was, rose early. He emerged from the fugue state that best pleased his constitution and stretched, his wingspan filling the alcove. He found me in my linen cell, bewhaled as Jonah.

'Terrible day.' He drew the shutters. Groggily, I pulled the sheets down over my face to the sight of Lar's stocky silhouette in the dirty light. Tapping a cigarette loose on the sill, he plonked one cheek on the ledge and struck a match. 'Anything you want from town? I'm going to get supplies. I should be away most of the day. There won't be a return trip before we go. Speak now or forever hold your peace.'

'Ambulo in pace.' I tapped my journal, 'I have everything.'

'Do you have a mac?' he asked. The rain beat down harder.

'No, we're English, some Irish. Although I heard tell that a distant branch traded their roses for thistle stalks.' I smirked.

Lar shuddered, ill-humoured before midday despite protestations he needed no proper rest. 'I mean a waterproof.'

'Oh give me credit. That's humour.'

'We in the smiling countryside call it idiocy. There's a time for revels. Unless you've been up all night, dawn isn't it.' he said somewhat angrily.

'I don't have one and I'd like a loan if that's what you're asking, thank you. I didn't sleep well now you mention it' I tossed my feet onto the cold ground and felt for a sock.

Lar watched the rain spilling in romantic sheets. 'You'll need an ark to get back. It's like a bog when it rains. No one will be able to get you. Not me, not the constabulary, nor anyone else. If the weather worsens, make sure you get back in time. Otherwise, everything will be closed until further boatice.'

'Boatice?' I said.

'Now that is humour. Rain, boats, further notice. Get it?' Lar left, more spritely than when he entered.