#read reach. the flood. and first strike.

[josie-cd]

I love how... supernatural slipspace felt in the early Halo novels. Like it works and we know how, but there so much we don't know and can't control. It's fickle. Very much like the sea. You can sail through slipspace but take care. You never know when it will claim what you owe it Nevermind when we learn about Causal Reconciliation in the Forerunner saga and yes, slipspace will exact its due toll.

[ghoulbrain]

Animal Instinct

18+ 3.5k ghoul x f!reader. graphic depictions of violence, wound tending, hurt/comfort, established relationship, feral/protective cooper, cannibalism, blood, dirty talk, vaginal fingering. gif credit. read on AO3. written as part of the Saddle Up, Sweetheart verse, but can be read as a stand-alone.

When you're both ambushed by raiders, Cooper comes to understand the lengths he'll go to keep you safe.

This never would have happened if Cooper was still traveling alone. He would have been more aware of his surroundings, he would have seen the signs of an ambush long before he stepped into it, and he wouldn’t have been so focused on you instead.

It’s lazy to blame you, though. The fault is his. Without preamble or flourish he draws his revolver and starts emptying shots into the spill of sorry sons of bitches that decided they would ruin his evening.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees you move forward, weapon drawn. His lip twitches. Your grip is good, but your stance is horse-shit. If this is going to become a thing–you taggin’ along like this–he’ll have to show you how to properly fire a gun.

He refocuses quickly, stepping forward to keep himself angled between them and you. The ambush isn’t anything special: just a bunch of jumpy junkies with twitchy trigger fingers looking for their next score. He takes a shot to the shoulder, another to the sternum. He doesn’t feel anything but the impact and pressure of irradiated flesh being forced apart around the bullets. There’s no pain, not so long his system is flooded with chemicals.

It’s your cry of pain that sets his nerves ablaze. He fires two more shots–dropping the men who hit him–before he whirls around, a hot rush of fire rolling through him at the sight of you with a man pressed up against your back, one arm fitted around your throat while he crushes your wrist in his other hand, squeezing hard, keeping your gun pointed at the ground as he chokes you out.

That’s when he sees the knife sunk into your thigh, blood soaking a wide crimson circle into your clothing around the knife’s hilt. In this infinitely long and horrible instant that your gaze meets his. The pain and fear in your eyes trigger something in him, and the whole world becomes both brighter and slower all at once.

Cooper aims, fires, but his revolver clicks emptily. He doesn’t reach to reload. Instead, he moves on pure animal instinct, bearing his teeth and charging with a guttural snarl.

Adrenaline mixes with the chemical cocktail in his veins and he moves faster than the man reacts, ripping his hands from you and throwing your assailant to the ground with such incredible force it dazes the man, his eyes glazing over. He roars in the raider’s face, spittle and yellow flecks coating his dirty skin, before he lunges, sinking his teeth into the pulsing jugular below.

He lends no thought to how natural it feels to bite into warm, living flesh.

Rearing up, mouth bloodied and full of viscera, Cooper winds his fist back and strikes the man in the face. His first blow hits his jaw. The next strikes his temple.

Straddling him, he doesn’t stop hitting. One fist after the other. He aims for the jaw, the temple, the high of his cheek. He misses and shatters his nose with a satisfying crunch, blood spewing from his nostrils to coat his knuckles. His jaw breaks with a pop. Broken teeth and bone slice flesh, mixing with gore and falling to the dirt in wet chunks.

The violence feels raw and good, like the first deep inhale of a vial or a hot wet fuck. He swallows the blood and meat lingering in his mouth and lets out a rough breath. Gritting his teeth he hits harder, driven on by the scent of blood and dirt. The gurgle of choked breaths. The slip of split flesh against his fists. It's all gasoline on the flames your peril sparked.

Cooper thinks of him stabbing you. Choking you. He thinks of your watery eyes, bright and terrified. He thinks of everyone he’s ever let down, ever failed to save, and he keeps hitting. Even when the man beneath him seizes. Even when he drowns in his blood.

Even when he dies.

Cooper is beating on a hunk of ruined flesh when he finally stops, drenched in the blowback of it.

Wheezing breaths saw from his lungs as he places one hand on the dirt road, lifting himself off of the mess of battered meat. He stares down at his knuckles where pain throbs with every heartbeat. It's a welcome sensation. Not because he deserves it, but because the raider did, and because he delivered. Destruction with his bare hands. Suffering where it’s meant to be found. He drags his tongue along the soaked leather of his glove and greedily swallows what collects on his tongue.

Heart thundering in his ears, Cooper stands, dipping briefly to pick up his gun. The grip slides around in his bloodied hand before he holsters it, cloudy eyes scanning for movement until his gaze lands on you. Down on the ground, clutching your wound, you look like a doe with a bum leg, your eyes blown wide and afraid. You look… irresistible. Not just as a woman, not just as his woman, but as an easy meal.

He takes a step forward, lips parted. The edges of you are blurry to his addled mind. The only part of you that’s in focus is the bright red of your wound seeping into your clothes. His memories of lapping the salt from your skin cross wires in his brain and all he can imagine is holding you safe and sound as he devours you.

“Cooper?”

The sound of your voice acts like a shock to his system that drags him back from the sweet coppery tang of warm, fresh blood in his mouth. He’s standing above you, closer than he realized he got. The sweetness in his mouth sours into putrid rot and he takes a step backwards, rasping out a cuss under his breath. He turns his head and spits, aggressively wiping at his mouth with his sleeve, smearing away blood and little chunks of flesh, abruptly and horribly aware of himself.

Shame blooms in his gut, unfurling all the way up to a tightness in his chest. He looks down at the mutilated body on the ground. There’s no head left, just wet gore soaking into the hungry dry earth below.

He completely lost control of himself. He spits, wipes, spits, wipes, rubs his mouth raw against his sleeve in an attempt to scrub away the taste and feel of it before he dares look at you again. He contemplates shoving a handful of dirt into his mouth just to chase away the lingering tang. He never wants to see you–to think of you–like that again. Like you’re just another hunk of meat.

Your touch makes him jerk away. He looks at you sharply, furious that you would come so close after what he’s done. What he could have done to you.

“Cooper–”

“M’not right,” he says roughly, taking hold of your wrist. You flinch and he realizes that he’s snatched the same wrist the motherfucker he beat into a paste had been crushing. He softens his grip, throat tight like there’s a hand squeezing it. “Fuck, would y’just–m’not right,” he says again, an edge of desperation in his emphasis.

“I know,” you say, voice tender, as if somehow he’s the one in need of gentleness. “I know. So come back. Don’t shut me out.” There’s more authority in your voice than you have any right to have in your position, shaking like a leaf while you touch his face, hushing him with such tenderness it fractures something in him that he thought long dead and buried under the weight of the last two hundred years.

Wish I could, he thinks, wiping his hand on his thigh. That you would look at him like that even now, as if he’s somehow still a man, eats at the very core of him. Makes him want to shy away, prove you wrong, and disappear into you all at once. He takes in a steadying breath before he clutches both of your arms, moving you to the ground. 

“Easy,” he says, voice barely above a rasp. “Y’bleedin’.”

You’re holding onto his elbows as he lowers you, gritting your teeth against the pain. He focuses on your discomfort, on the risk you face, fragile thing that you are, to keep his mind far away from the abyss he walked the edge of while maiming the body behind him.

His first priority is to stanch the bleeding. His movements become practiced, hands that of a soldier. He uses a strap from his pack to create a makeshift tourniquet, twisting it around a scrap rod. All the while he’s hyper aware of your gaze on him and the shallow huffs of your breath, the way it catches when he pulls the binding tight.

“Hurts,” you say tightly.

“I know,” he says, drawing his knife. He lifts your blood soaked pant leg–don’t pause, don’t think, don’t breathe it in–and slices open the fabric. “S’about t’hurt a whole lot more. Gimme a count, I’ll pull it on three,” he tells you, bracing one hand on your thigh, the other gripping the hilt of the knife.

“Okay, okay,” you say, sucking in a deep breath. “One–”

Cooper yanks the blade free, startling a yelp out of you that carries into a pained groan.

“What happened to three?!” You ask sharply, fingers digging into the dirt.

He hurriedly smothers the wound with the cleanest cloth he has before he works on tightly wrapping the wound. “S’better when y’don’t know it’s comin’.”

“Asshole,” you breathe.

The faint twitch at the corner of his mouth is reluctant, as if there’s an invisible string tugging at it against his will. “Can’t be that bad if y’still mouthin’ off.”

“It’ll take more than a measly stab wound to keep my mouth shut,” you say, familiar playfulness slipping in alongside the strain in your voice.

“Don’t I know it,” he grouses, glancing up at you. There’s nothing reluctant about your smile. It’s the opposite of his, earnest in a way he’s long forgotten how to be. You’re making an attempt at comforting him, he realizes, looking back down to finish his work, removing the tourniquet once he’s satisfied with the dressing.  “It’ll do for now. Y’need stitches.”

“I’ll be fine,” you say dismissively, shifting onto your knees.

He makes a skeptical noise in the back of his throat, sheathing his knife. “Would it kill y’not to be so damn contrary?”

“It might,” you say, catching the lapel of his jacket and pulling at him, bringing his attention back to you. He looks down at your hand, stained now with the crimson wetness spattered all over his coat. His clothes are soaked heavy with misery and blood, but it doesn’t dissuade you any. You touch his jaw with your other hand and lift his eyes to meet yours.

“Hey,” you whisper. You’re close enough that he should feel the ghost of your breath on his lips, but he can’t. Most of the subtleties of life are lost on a man so close to death. The only ghosts he knows now are those of his past. “You okay?”

Holding your gaze, he doesn’t answer you. Sometimes you feel like one of them, like another specter haunting him. The only difference is that you haven’t died yet.

Yet.

“Come back to me,” you murmur. His vision refocuses, finding you closer than you had been a second ago. The warm pressure of your lips grazing his cheek makes him falter, wanting the tenderness of your touch so viscerally it feels dangerous to admit even to himself. “Stay with me.”

Your hand lightly cups the back of his neck, holding him without caging him. You move closer, settling in his lap, grounding him with the weight of your body against his. He moves at that, grasping your hips and squeezing.

“Stay with me,” you say again, the words as fervent as prayer. His own lips parted, he can taste the breath of each word, sweet and warm, the way a distant part of him remembers things like love could be.

Why? He nearly asks. You won’t.

He had thought himself immune to this sickly feeling. This sense of grief for someone who isn’t yet gone, but you rip it out of him. The truth of the matter is that the Ghoul should never have entertained your company. He should have left you where he found you and been on his way without ever casting a backwards glance. The Ghoul would have.

It’s Cooper who didn’t. It’s Cooper’s hands sliding up your sides, squeezing your ribs and pulling you closer, deeper. He kisses you hungrily, craving you the way the Ghoul can’t. The way a man craves.

I ain’t dead yet.

And neither are you.

Two hundred years of surviving for tomorrow has eroded his ability to exist in the here and now, but your touches demand it of him. Your lips against his bring him into the moment as he lives it. As you live it with him.

“I ever look at you like that again,” he says gruffly, swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, catching yours in the process. He moves you back enough to lock eyes with you. “You put a bullet between my eyes.”

Your lips curve in a bittersweet kind of anguish. “Like you’re gonna eat me? Because right now–”

He gives you a sharp little shake. “Y’know what I mean,” he says, startling the smile off your face. From day one he’s liked your wit, the cavalier way you face life, but on this matter he needs you to hear him. “You ever look at me, and I’m not there, you promise you’ll put me down.”

The set of your mouth turns to a flat line, your gaze somber, and you nod. “I promise.”

Some of the tension in his haggard lungs eases and he kisses you again, need shooting up his spine like a hot geyser. “That’s my girl,” he breathes, leaning back and bringing you with him, saddling you properly astride his lap, his long legs stretched out behind you.

You kiss him back just as hungrily, heedless of the blood and gristle between your melding bodies, and he’s forced to remind himself that this is the only world you’ve ever known. There’s no time before this, not for you. Your life has always been full of horrors, and for reasons he’ll never fully comprehend, you’ve decided he’s one that you want close.

He slips his hands under your thighs and squeezes, hiking your legs around his waist until you’re seated closely enough to feel the growing ache between his legs. You don’t miss a beat, grinding down against him so fervently his breath breaks into a low groan. Not even he can deny his humanity in this. You turn his blood hot and shock the deadened thump of his heart into thunder. You make him feel alive.

He’ll return the favor. He’ll turn his spit to wine on your tongue and make your whole body fucking sing.

Breaking from your lips, he uses his teeth to tug his glove free, letting it fall to the ground. His mouth feels sandpaper dry, but your lips are plenty wet. 

“Open up for me, sweetheart,” he rumbles, parting your lips with the tips of his middle and index fingers. Your eager tongue slips molten wet between his fingers, your eyes hazy on his. He pumps his fingers slowly, cups the back of your head to keep you still while plunging all the way to his last knuckles before drawing them back. “That’s it… Get ‘em good and wet.”

It’s agonizing how easily you fall apart under his touch, and even more so how good you look doing it. Somewhat reluctantly, he withdraws his fingers from your mouth and with practiced ease maneuvers his hand down the front of your pants, curving his fingers to follow the contour of your pelvis until his fingertips slide through hot, wet arousal.

“Cooper,” you exhale, the pitch of your voice canary-sweet. If you have any care regarding the death that surrounds you or the blood between his body and yours, you don’t show it, nor pay it any heed. You’re focused entirely on him, lips parted on shallow breaths of pleasure. He strokes your clit in slow, deliberate circles, the rest of the world falling away the longer he watches your euphoria build.

Fuck, you’re goddamn beautiful. Why the hell you let a creature like him have you is beyond him, but he won’t let go. Not now. Not so long as you still look at him like this.

He swallows dryly, finally slipping his fingers into the welcoming heat of your pretty cunt. You’re soaked, his own personal oasis in the Wastes, velvet walls quivering around his toughened fingers. He angles the pad of his thumb against your clit and starts to finger fuck you in earnest, his cock throbbing beneath you. 

“Fuck,” you keen softly. Your hands braced on his shoulders, you meet every thrust of his hand, huffing divine little sounds while he fucks you with his fingers, crooking them until he feels you shudder.

“Yeah,” he breathes, enraptured. “That’s it. Got y’now, don’t I? Ah ah, don’t get shy on me,” he tsks when your eyes fall shut. “Eyes on me, darlin’. Eyes on me,” he says, voice frayed. You pry your eyes back open and hold his gaze, your own heavily lidded. “Good, s’good. Y’close now, ain’t’cha, sweetie?”

You nod fervently, moans bubbling up instead of words, your sweet features twisted in the exquisite agony that comes just before climax. You roll your palms against his shoulders, fingers digging into the thick fabric of his coat. He wishes he could feel the bite of your nails on his bare skin, wishes it were his cock sinking into you, but all that wistfulness is erased the second you cry out, your back arching, your cunt squeezing his fingers as you’re pitched forward into the throes of release.

Cooper grits his teeth, baring them like an animal as he fucks you through the tremors, grabbing hold of your jaw to keep you from collapsing, to keep your eyes on him. You slide your hands up and cup either side of his face, yanking him into a messy kiss. He falls into it easily, slowing the thrust of his fingers as the aftershocks of your orgasm settle until his hand is still against you, fingers pressed in deep, savoring the feel of you.

You kiss him leisurely with tongue, teeth and barely sated hunger. Your bliss slows you, and Cooper is content to simply feel. Even the lingering ache of his own need is a welcome sensation in a world he so often walks through feeling numb.

After a time, he slides his fingers from your pants, wiping them absently on his own before wrapping his arms around you. You sink into him in turn, nuzzling into the crook of his neck. The sun has almost disappeared completely, and the chill of night is beginning to nip the air. All of this carnage will attract predators soon, but he finds himself unable to rush the matter. His embrace tightens.

“I love you,” you murmur.

There was a time long before his heart became an open grave that he would have been eager to return the sentiment, but hearing those three little words turns his tongue to lead. They flood him with memories of an era where love came naturally–the way only violence does now–and shooting a man in the head was the most abhorrent act he could fathom for himself.

These days, a headshot is a kindness.

His stomach is tight, a bile-like burn creeping up his throat. He screws his eyes shut, swallowing it back. To his relief, you aren’t tense with anticipation. Instead, you pepper butterfly light kisses along the scarred column of his throat, paying special attention to the nicks and scars along the way to his jaw.

You kiss him. He takes your face in his hands and deepens it, pushing into you until your back arches. 

“I’ll keep you safe,” he whispers against your lips, the words both a promise and a prayer. Not to God–He gave up on God a long time ago–this prayer is for you. It’s what he knows. It’s what he is. No matter the monster that threatens you, you’ll always have one of your own to bite back. You’ll always have him.

Strained, quieter yet, he says, “I swear.”

Or so help me, I’ll swallow the bullet myself.

“I know,” you say, thumbs brushing over his cheeks. There’s a blissful kind of sorrow in your expression, but so too is there understanding. He kisses you, closing his eyes against the dry burn of them. He’s not sure he’s even capable of tears anymore. He’s been worn down to the bone by sandstorms and bloodshed. Nothing goes untouched by the misery of the Wastes. No one goes through it unscathed.

What he does know is that he will do everything in his power to see that you’re never broken by it.

[just-some-random-blogger]

Break Bones?

There has been nothing but tension between you and your ward, and Breakbones has only added to it.

bodyguard!Gwayne Hightower x Lannister!Reader x Harwin Strong | 4k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has golden lannister hair, enemies to lovers, forced proximity ig, im just a girl!reader, angst?, jealousy, typos, etc.

A/N: this the '3rd part' to Seeing Red (1) and Seeing Green (2) but you dont have to read either to understand what's happening <3. Also, I think a lot of facts are skewed here in this fic but... Roll with it pls thx. I hope someone enjoys this because I do nawt 🥲

Tagging: @lancedoncrimsonwings @targs-on-zorses @barbieaemond @arabellasleopardcoat @dreamsandconstellations

@uniquecroissant @holdingforgeneralhugs @b00kw0rmsworld

Lunch was my favorite meal. This time of day was most pleasant, with the sun high in the sky and the birds singing. Normally at this time, whatever grogginess the morning gave me would long be gone. But today, it was not so.

Gwayne turns to me as I pointedly smack on my meal to annoy him. If my day is grim, then so should his.

He chews harder than he needs to then swallows, "I see frolicking with Breakbones has made you forget your pedigree."

I raise my brows, "nay," I set my spoon down, "my meal is simply so scrumptious that I cannot contain myself."

Gwayne releases a breath. I watch him as he reaches for his teacup. He looks as though he's using all the muscles in his body to withhold an eye roll. He takes a sip; the heat of the tea leaves his lips ruddy.

I watch him set his floral cup down. I watch him as he leans back on his chair. When did his get that long? The locks by his temples go past his cheeks now. A line forms on his face when I stare too long. I avert my gaze to my own teacup. The milkiness of his face is reflected in my drink. My stomach churns.

"So-" "How-"

We look at each other after speaking at the same time. I open my mouth, meaning to tell him to go first, but he cuts me off and simply speaks, "how is Breakbones?"

Offence latches on my being. How ill-mannered of him not to even feign the courtesy of allowing me to speak first. Irritation springs forth, so I quip, "what?"

Gwayne scoops some honey and stirs it into his tea. He licks what remained on the silverware.

I avoid his eyes as he does so.

"Your whereabouts have not gone unnoticed by me," he says dryly, "I am aware that you have since been accompanied by Breakbones to the market more than once."

A horrid scowl finds my features, "and just who is this foul creature?"

Gwayne's expression falls until my scowl is reflected on him. His jaw sets, "I can assure you; you have already wholly vexed me this morn; you needn't feign ignorance to add to it."

"But I am not acquainted to this brute who breaks bones," I hiss, "and I need not feign something which comes easy for me."

He realizes then that I was sincere in my own vexation when I heatedly continue.

"Your delusions of my character will not bleed into reality, Ser." I pointedly raise a brow, "whichever part of my body you think would associate with such people who garner such names would surely rather strike your cheek."

He furrows his brows as he tilts his head, "yet it seems you are ignorant to the fact Breakbones is your beloved City Watch commander."

My brows furrow. I am silent for a moment before speaking, "Ser Harwin?"

He scoffs out a chuckle, "oh, yes," he takes a sip of his tea, "the brute with such a name is the one you have extended such warm amity to as of late."

A moment of concern and even alarm floods me. But it is fleeting the next moment, and my expression falls. I huff. A pit grows in my stomach, "how acrid and crude."

Gwayne's brows quirk as he gulps his tea. The manner in which his lips curl pierce through my belly in the most unpleasant of ways.

"I am well aware that you and I have never met eye to eye, that you disagree with my interest in beautiful things-"

His expression slips.

"-but your want to deter me of my only companion here is repellent, even for one as you."

Companion? Gwayne's blood rises just as I from my seat across him, "such as I?"

"Such as you!" I maintain, chucking my table napkin onto my half-finished plate.

"I see your unfeigned ignorance has made you callous to my efforts to please you," he words harshly, slowly rising from his seat.

"But it is not your work to please me!" I snap, "your work is to keep me safe!"

"From library books?!" he raises his voice, "from cakes and dresses? What is your danger in King's Landing when not only do a thousand guards reside within these walls, but your own lord brother is seated upon the council of the king?"

My nostrils flare at his words. I decide to maintain my dignity by forfeiting my response. I gather my skirts and flee him.

He releases an irritated laugh, "oh, how very like of you!"

"Do not wait. I have errands to accomplish."

"Ha! Do accomplish them well with your beloved Breakbones."

I storm away from him. I storm and storm until my face rains. It annoys me how my breath shortens and how my throat constricts. I run off to my chambers and dismiss any ready servants there. I crumble to my bed and wring out my melancholy.

The letter I received late last night calls to me from my vanity. I sigh and reach out to it. I slide down my bed and will the contents of the letter to change.

It does not work. The words are as clear as they were last night underneath my lamp, if not clearer now in afternoon shine.

Highgarden would be honored to receive Lady Lannister. House Tyrell presently prepares its home in hopes it will be hers in the apparent future.

I rip the parchment to shreds, as if its riddance would destroy the reality it held.

It does not.

It comforts me, nonetheless.

I wash my face and reapply rogue before exiting my chambers. I begin to walk off but freeze when I see Gwayne at the end of the hallway. He does nothing. He says nothing.

I turn the other way.

I find myself heading to the guard's quarters, where I soon learned Ser Harwin was not. A guard informs me that he was in the training grounds, and so I promptly make my way there.

The moment Harwin catches the golden glint upon my head, he is distracted. He pays less attention to his pupils, offering me a smile and nod in regard. Soon, when I am close enough, he says a quick word before abandoning his post altogether.

Harwin struts up to me with another smile and nod, "my lady Lannister."

My heart swells at his kind regard, a stark contrast of Gwyane, "lord Strong."

"You must forgive my state," he wipes the sweat dripping from his temple, "an hour remains of our session, then I will be free to accompany you to the baker's today," he assures. He smiles but it quickly disappears as he adds, "after I wash and change, of course."

I press my lips tightly together, yet it does not contain my giggle.

Harwin crosses his arms at the sound, his own lips unable to contain his own giggle.

"I am in no hurry, commander," I clasp my hands together, "feel free to ignore me until you are ready."

He walks backward, "I pray you do not require me to do something impossible."

I chuckle at the sentiment, but I roll my eyes. I sit myself on a crate nearby and watch as the man instructs his pupils. He demonstrates the proper handling of a sword and strikes the dummy. For a moment, I think of Gwayne training.

Then suddenly, I remember our argument and find myself calling out, "break bones."

I watch as Harwin turns to me.

I flatten my skirts on my lap but do speak any further.

"You call, my lady?"

I straighten my back, slightly taken aback that he responded, and shake my head, "never mind."

Harwin does not think twice on it. He continues with his lesson.

Watching him teach was... titillating. His voice was rich and sure, his actions more so, and his demeanor was truly that of a commander. More and more, I thought of 'break bones' and continued to convince myself that this was not him. Soon, I was not enslaved to my thoughts and became thoroughly entertained by Harwin's instruction. It was almost a shame that the hour passed as quickly as it did.

Harwin quickly comes to me, announcing he will not take long to tidy up, then leaves just as quickly. Unable to help myself, I decide to ask a guard about this break bones fellow. Before I can even ask if that man was truly his commander, he's already droning about See Harwin Strong. Before he could finish, the said man was beside me, face and locks slightly damp.

Harwin and I make our way to the stables after and I immediately start, "I did not realize you had quite a reputation."

I watch my feet peak out from beneath my dress as we leisurely make our way to his steed. Harwin, with his hands behind him, turns to me with a quirked brow, "and what reputation might that be?"

"Breakbones," I look up.

He simply stares.

"I thought Gwayne thought it up to deter me from your companionship."

He purses his lip, "...does it?"

I give him an incredulous look, "perhaps if I had known it before I knew you. I was testing the name on you. I did not expect you to respond."

"Is it very ill-fitting?"

"Yes," I speak immediately. I tilt my head, "you are very gentle."

He laughs. It is quiet but hard enough that he must clutch his gut and take a moment to gather himself.

Though it was not like him to mock me, I could not help but feel perhaps that in this moment he was. A frown finds me.

I think of Gwayne and his condescending laughter. My chest tightens.

He breathes in deeply before finally calming. Harwin notices my dejected demeanor and it wipes the grin off his face, "forgive me. I laugh only because I have not yet been called gentle in earnest."

It does not rid my frown.

"It pleases me," he mutters.

I stop in my tracks when he reaches for my hand. My pulse quickens when he takes and lifts it.

"I am glad to appear as such to you," he speaks carefully, blue eyes locked on mine. He presses a chaste kiss at the back of my hand. He maintains his hold until we are in front of his horse.

Harwin helps me up the brown stallion. He maintains a respectable hold and even fixes my dress as I seat myself. I look down at him and his smile. I nod, indicating that he can now climb up.

He shakes his head, lips still curled upright, "I do not think it wise for me to ride with you today."

I furrow my brows, "why ever not?"

Harwin takes the reins of his horse, "well, I fear my hasty washing was not enough."

I roll my eyes, "I-"

"And I desire to uphold the gentle nature you recognize in me." Harwin begins to walk.

"I do not understand."

He snorts lightly, "I fear my softness will not remain if I ride behind you."

My brows only furrow deeper.

Harwin catches this and chuckles. He mumbles under his breath, "the lioness is but a kitten."

"I heard that."

He raises a hand, "a jest. An innocent jest."

I spent a good part of the afternoon scrutinizing cakes and frosting, meticulously ordering the perfect assortment to be delivered to me tomorrow.

By the time Harwin and I were back in the Keep, I could tell that he was worn, not only from being made a taste tester against his will, but also from walking back and forth.

Another image of Gwayne flashes in my mind. Guilt and dread threaten to spill from my lips.

Harwin helps me down his steed and softly smiles once I am stood before him. My heart stings at his drowsy expression. My forehead curls as I reach for his cheek, "you have been most patient and kind."

His face perks at my touch.

"I am most grateful," I brush his curls away from his face, "I would not have been able to accomplish what I have today without you."

Harwin straightens when I pull away, seemingly reinvigorated.

"Forgive me if my meticulousness cost us a longer trip than expected."

He chuckles and shakes his head, "you award me more credit than I am due. It is an honor to witness the care you put into your gifts."

I watch him as he leads the horse into the stable. Harwin continues once he's walking back towards me, "I am sure Gwayne's nameday will be heartfelt, knowing his lady took great measures to prepare her gifts for him."

The thought makes me want to pull my hair out. I sigh and simply walk off.

Harwin's expression falls. He follows after me, "is something wrong?"

I watch my shoes peak from beneath my skirt with my steps. I turn to him when he calls me by my name. Harwin has a look of concern upon him. I comb the tips of my golden hair in agitation, "I... do not wish his nameday to come."

A line forms between his brows.

I sigh, "surely you are aware that my move to King's Landing was to secure myself a husband."

Harwin did, in fact, not know this, but does not have the chance to say so.

"My brother says the only house interested in me is that of the Tyrells."

His brows quirk. A doubtful thought.

"I did not..." I turn to the ground, "think my demeanor so odious that I am able to attract but one marriage proposal. Surely my family name weighs more than that."

The thought makes Harwin's forehead curl.

"I am not due to leave for Highgarden until the next moon, but I figured if it pleases Gwayne, I would set him free on his nameday. Another gift for him."

Harwin frowns, "do you not think your decision rash?"

"Rational, perhaps."

He does not seem to like my resolve on the matter, and yet he does not press any further. The rest of our walk is silent, and soon we are in the hall to my chambers.

Both Harwin and I slow at the sight of Gwyane standing attention at my door. He shifts in his spot, turning to us. When we reach him, I notice the way his jaw feathers.

The auburn haired man lifts his nose slightly, "Breakbones."

Harwin nods, "ser Hightower."

"How kind of you to return the lioness to her den," he turns to me, pale blue eyes ripping into my flesh, "I do hope she did not bare her teeth and claws too much."

Harwin raises a brow, "her company is most welcome, teeth and claw included."

I turn to Harwin. He smiles at me. Gwayne watches. His blood curdles.

"She tells me tomorrow is your nameday," Harwin looks to Gwayne, "what plans have you made to celebrate?"

"Whatever my lady has planned for me," he chuckles dryly. His begins to turn red in the face.

My brows furrow, "worry not, Gwayne. There shall be no errands to attend to on the morrow."

"How magnanimous," he smiles, or rather sneers, "your commander seems to need the day off. See how worn you've made him."

"Enough," I quip.

"Agreed," he blurts, "you should retire," he motions with his head, "I will treat the man to some wine," he turns to Harwin, "and perhaps he will the same, as a nameday treat."

Harwin nods, "perhaps on your nameday itself. I have an evening patrol I must cover."

Gwayne's nostrils flare, "unfortunate."

With that, I thank Harwin for accompanying me and head inside my chambers.

Gwayne places a hand on Harwin's shoulder, leading him down the hall, "I must express my appreciation for lightening my load as of late."

"My duty is to serve, but it is a pleasure to do so for the lady Lannister."

Gwayne pulls his hand away then brings both behind him, "I'm sure for one who is daily surrounded by sweaty men, it truly is."

Harwin does not respond. They continue walking down the hall.

"I am glad to know she did not forget my nameday and neither of us will need to be worked by her tomorrow."

Harwin gives a lopsided smile, "if it comes down to it, ser, I will do any work she may require of you in your stead."

Gwayne's face twitches but he expertly covers it up with a low chuckle, "oh, how good. Do not deny me then if it happens."

The two men part ways at the end of the hallway. Gwayne heads for his chambers, feeling irritated and suffocated. He bathes but it does not soothe him as much as he hoped. The next morning, he wakes up groggy and attempts to bathe it away, but the water was as ineffective as the night before.

He gets dressed and makes his way to the solar. He stops in his tracks when he hears the ruckus from inside. It doesn't take him long to recognize the voices, which is why he decides to enter and interrupt the argument taking place inside.

I gasp softly at the sound of the door opening. The sight of Gwayne's concerned expression only makes the tears from my eyes spill further.

Tyland turns to him. He does not mask his ire, which is why he does not greet him. My brother simply quips, "you will not leave her today."

Gwayne turns from my brother to me. It takes a moment before he realizes it was an order, "of course, my Lord."

The master of coin sighs and heads for the door. Before leaving, he raises a hand, "a servant will come to deliver your nameday gift tonight or tomorrow. Lannisport has been overflowing as of late, but I was assured your delivery will be swift."

Gwayne nods, "you have my thanks."

Tyland leaves after this, and Gwayne walks over to me.

I pull away before he can touch me. I lean towards the table and push the assortment of cakes towards him, "you will not need to steal my sweeties today, ser."

I walk towards the window, turning my back on him, uncomfortable with the idea of the man seeing me in disarray. He is insensitive to this and follows after me. I move away, but he does not relent.

"You need not tend to me!" I snap, strands of gold sticking to wet cheeks. I brush my hair away and helplessly point to the table, "there is a box on your chair. Tend to it! I have no use of you."

Gwayne pulls his head back. The sentiment stung, but he decides not to take offence. He cannot, not with the red eyes staring back at him. He decides to walk off and head for his usual chair.

Sure enough, a smallish wooden box tied in a red velvet bow rests on the cushion. He sets it down on the table before seating himself. He turns to me then back at the box. He undoes the bow and opens it. He stares at it. His silence reads to me as disinterest.

"Gloves. Practical but stylish," I walk towards him. He turns to me as I pull the chair beside him. I sit down, taking one glove and the hand it belonged to.

Gwyane spares a moment to watch the red leather be slipped on him hand, the rest of his moments are spent observing the tear laced lashes before him.

After buttoning the glove in his wrist, he stretches his fingers, opening his closing his hand to test the fit. His eyes do not leave me as he does so, "it fits me perfectly."

"As it should," I say, reaching for the other, "I paid the artisan well for this."

He grabs my hand just before I can do that with his. I stare at the veins that run past his sleeves, "I am exhilarated by the knowledge the shape of my hands are known by you."

My lips part.

Had it been any other day, had the circumstances been different, I would have received that statement with offence, for it was one of clear mockery. Yet, with how his dimples vaguely made an appearance and how his lips pressed softly into a smile, it seemed... genuine.

And it seemed to make my heart skip.

I mutter, "I stole a pair of your gloves and had it fitted."

Gwayne chuckles.

My heart skips again.

"Clever girl," he releases my hand and removes the glove I put on him. He takes the ribbon on the table then turns to my hair, "red goes well with gold, wouldn't you agree?"

"... my hair is already made."

"You would be glad to know that I am skilled in unmaking it," he pulls my chair closer to him.

My body burns as he reaches for my curls. My hair was braided by the sides in a fashion I quite enjoyed; I did not enjoy the idea of him unmaking it.

"-just as I am skilled in braiding," Gwayne adds.

I knit my brows at the idea.

"Do not look so shocked," he chuckles, "my sister has as much hair as you, and I did not enjoy how it flew to my face when we were children."

Before I can speak, he grabs my shoulders and turns me away. He gathers my hair and my skin pricks at the feel of his fingers against my nape.

He is silent when he begins. I close my eyes and focus on the feeling of his light touch.

"I would braid Alicent's hair when she wept as well."

My eyes open. Oh.

"Thankfully, it was not a frequent occurrence."

I turn to my skirt.

"I do not tell you this to press you for answers," he softly clarifies, "merely to express how I think it comforted my sister... and how I wish to do the same for you."

I do not reply. My lips wobble.

"I was instructed not to leave your side today and I do not wish to add to whatever offense that could bring a lioness to tears."

I silently wipe my face.

Gwayne says nothing more after this, not until he finished braiding my hair.

He rests the braid on my shoulder. I inspect it, seeing he incorporated the ribbon into the pleats and even managed to make a small bow at the bottom. I look up at him. He frowns and reaches for my cheek, wiping my tears.

I take a deep breath to calm myself, "my brother received an offer for my hand."

Gwayne stills.

"Well," I turn to the box on the table, "he received multiple."

He leans on his elbow. He smiles, though against himself, "we came to King's Landing to find you a match, did we not?"

"It seems my brother has other plans," I mutter, "apparently Tyland means to use me as leverage for the crown. He wishes to wed me to the Tyrells so that he can have a firmer hold on Highgarden. Jason does not know this. He was led to believe I was simply going to King's Landing to purchase new dresses."

A line forms between his brows, "I presume Jason found out about Tyland's plot."

"Yes. Jason writes that I should put my dresses to good use and entertain any suitors that come to me whilst I am in King's Landing."

He nods curtly. He sighs and shrugs, "why the tears then? Does the idea of entertaining men upset you so?"

"..."

"..."

"... Tyland reminded me of what happened last time when I had many suitors at my beck and call."

Gwayne clenches his teeth. He rests his hand in front of me, "I swear on my life that no one will come close enough to take advantage of you again."

His hand itches to reach out, but he instead goes for the cakes, dragging it in front of him. He shoves a chocolate cake into his mouth and chews.

I watch him lick his lips. He notices how I lick mine. He speaks through a mouth half-full, "do not think I will share simply because you are sad."

I snort and roll my eyes. Gwayne is relieved this was the reaction he garnered.

"I had enough cake from tasting them with Harwin yesterday."

He stops chewing.

I notice the frosting on the corner of his lips and wipe it with my thumb, "enjoy your cakes."

Gwayne is perfectly still.

"Happy nameday."

[suashii]

— 𝓂𝒾𝒹𝓃𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓈𝓃𝒶𝒸𝓀 ౨ৎ

miya atsumu x reader. 0.8k wc. ﾉ sfw ﾉ fluff ﾉ papa!atsumu ﾉ repost!

a/n: another drabble for father's day — atsumu's turn! here's kuroo's version if u wanna give it a read :3

in the dead of night, something is making noise.

at the muffled racket, atsumu shoots up with a start. he’d blame it on his years of being a father, but during moments like these, atsumu is glad that he’s become a light sleeper. he turns to his right to see if you too had heard the noise, but you’re still sound asleep. after spending nearly an entire day with the kids, he can’t say he’s surprised to see that you’re out like a light.

tossing the comforter aside, atsumu stands up. his eyes begin to adjust to the darkness as he makes his way to the bedroom door. slowly—quietly—his hand takes a hold of the knob, pulling it towards him. the first thing he notices is that the door across from yours is open. he definitely closed it on his way out after putting the kids to bed. panic floods his chest at the thought of an intruder in his children’s bedroom, but the feeling quickly subsides once the strange noise returns. because it isn’t a strange noise, it’s a small voice—two small voices.

“help me!”

“shh! you gotta be quiet.”

atsumu steps out of the room, quietly padding down the hallway. he stops just before the kitchen and right out of their sightline to get a look at the show. the two have dragged a chair from the table and positioned it in front of the counter. as her brother holds the chair steady for her, the little girl climbs up on the piece of furniture. it makes atsumu anxious to see them so comfortable with the lousy set-up, but he’s more than ready to jump into action if it even looks as though she’s losing her balance.

“i can’t reach,” she pouts. her eyes find their way to the counter as if she is considering climbing on it.

“move, i got it.”

“no, i want to.”

“just move,” the boy tugs at the girl’s pajama shirt.

“no!”

atsumu’s first instinct is to chuckle at how quickly they turn from partners in crime to adversaries (it reminds him of another set of twins), but it’s better that he puts an end to their bickering before the two get into it further and someone ends up hurt. atsumu clears his throat to gain their attention.

their heads whip in his direction, two pairs of wide eyes identical to his own staring back at him.

“what are you rascals up to?”

“nothing,” they say in unison.

“really?” atsumu uncrosses his arms and makes his way over to the twins. “because it looks like you’re trying to get into the snack cabinet.”

he holds his arms out to his daughter. with a sigh, she grabs onto him so he can safely lower her down from the chair. the kids stand beside each other—obviously not too happy that they were caught. he wonders if this was the sight his mother was met with when he and osamu got into any sort of trouble.

“so, were you?” he questions. of course, he already knows the answer.

“maybe,” the boy confesses.

“only ‘cause we didn’t get one after dinner,” his sister quickly adds.

after telling you and atsumu how excited they both were to have received holiday treats in school, you both decided that they could go without their regular after-dinner snack for a night. he wonders just when the two of them started formulating this little plan of theirs. the smart little things even knew to wait until they thought you and atsumu were asleep.

“well, you already brushed your teeth for the night and it’s late, so you can’t have any sweets now.” both of the faces before him are painted with dejected frowns. he’s never liked seeing their lips turned downwards, but he has to be firm with this. though, that doesn’t mean he can’t strike a negotiation.

“but if you go back to bed now and don’t cause any trouble tomorrow, you both can pick out two snacks after you eat dinner.”

their eyes light up with joy at the thought of extra sweets. they don’t need long to think about accepting the deal. they turn on their heels, ready to return to their beds, but atsumu grabs both their hands before they can run off too soon. “one more thing.”

they stop in their tracks, seemingly exasperated that he isn’t allowing them to hold up their end of the deal. atsumu squats down to their level, each of his hands resting on top of their heads. 

“promise dad you won’t go climbing chairs on your own anymore. it’s not safe.”

the kids turn to look at each other before nodding their heads. “we promise.”

“good.” he scoops them both into his arms. they’re getting so big but atsumu won’t let that stop him from carrying them around like they’re still tiny, like they’re still the little babies he brought home from the hospital all those years ago. he plants a kiss on each of their cheeks. “now let’s get you gremlins back to bed.”

thanks for reading! reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

[oneshotnewbie]

Could you write a one shot where there is a really bad storm hitting Seattle. Maya and Carina are stuck at the hospital and the fire station, and are trying but unsuccessful at reaching Reader. So they are both worried out of their minds. Then Maya has to go out on a call and find it was R who wrecked their car trying to get home before the storm hit. (Could be severe or non-severe injuries) R goes to the hospital with Maya in the aid car and Carina joins them in the ER.

Authors note: I heard the song "What the water gave me - Florence + The Machine" while writing this story. I would advise you to listen to the song as well while reading through this story to get the feel of a real Station 19 rescue mission like in the series. Of course it's not a must! ♥

ᕚ---ᕘ

The sky over Seattle steadily darkened as pitch-black thunderclouds rolled in like a tidal wave. The wind began to howl as if playing its own somber tune, rushing restlessly through the skyscrapers of the city. Streets were quickly emptied as people rushed home for shelter. The trees bent under the force of the storm as if begging for mercy, but the storm was relentless. It thundered as if Zeus himself wanted to keep the crowds in their place while the rain fell in thick, large drops and threatened to drown Seattle. The sound of the wind, the falling of the rain and the thunder symphoned in a unique melody and conveyed a frightening atmosphere.

The telephones of the active fire brigade beeped in unison, a warning of the approaching storm that came in way too late. The tough captain of the fire department swallowed hard as she could not reach you, who worked just a few minutes away from her. But you did not answer, the connection was already disrupted, appearing to be off. "She wanted to be here fifteen minutes ago, Carina," both her and the brunette's worries grew with every minute through the phone as they imagined the worst possible scenarios without having any sign of life from you.

"Calm down, Bambina. There is probably total chaos on the streets. Fallen trees, flooding. Maybe she is just stuck in a traffic jam or an emergency came in."

The fire station was flooded with red alarm lights, while the walls shook from violent gusts of wind, preventing the young blonde from speaking further. Raindrops pelted against the roller shutter door, which opened more with every second, allowing the lightning strikes to break through their vision. -Fire engines 19 and 23. Ambulance 19 to Cedar Road Lane 6. Car struck by tree, person seriously injured and trapped.-

The firefighters rushed around, donning their suits and gear before grabbing their helmets. Like-minded, they rushed to the waiting vehicles, only Maya stopped briefly. „Please let me know if you hear anything from her. Stai attenta, bambina!" (Be careful, bambina!). She nodded, knowing that Carina could not see the gesture and hung up before hopping into the squad cars and starting the sirens. Pressing the accelerator, they raced through the whirlwind around them, trying to avoid the tree branches as much as possible.

Lightning flashed across the dangerous-looking sky, and thunder rolled at the same time like an angry demon. Maya clung to the steering wheel as she tried to keep her eyes on the wet, blurry road. They made their way through the flooded streets, branches flying through the air and trash cans tipping over and spilling across the sidewalk.

It was as if the world around her was collapsing in a chaotic dance of wind and water. "Listen guys, I know you want to help the person in the car, but first and foremost, think about your health and your life," the storm roared so loudly that it seemed like it wanted to tear the entire city apart and hardly anyone understood what the captain was saying over the radio. "This is one of the worst storms in years, a state of emergency has been declared and normally no one should be on the roads, so it is a mystery to me why anyone would be so dumb to be driving,"

Her team was clearly tense, the radios crackling in their ears, but they nodded to the captain as confirmation that they had understood the message. Maya did not want to lose any man or woman in her group to the storm. "We are approaching the scene of the accident. Be ready for anything, people. We can do this!" she said calmly and encouragingly while the fire engine´s sirens blared through the dark night.

When the team from Station 19 arrived at the scene of the accident, they were confronted with a dark and serious scene. The car is crammed in by a huge tree and is badly deformed, the hood of which is completely smashed and dented while some branches have pierced through the windshield and turned the interior of the vehicle into a field of rubble.

The fire team jumped out of the emergency vehicles and fought through the wind and rain to reach the car. But the captain remains rooted to the spot in front of the stern of the wreck, looking absentmindedly at the license plate, which was hanging askew. "Y/n.. IT IS Y/N!" she shouted unhindered amid the raging and deafening thunder and her team stopped their tasks in shock, Andy and Gibson focusing their gaze from the thick tree over to the woman in the driver's seat, who Warren was already trying to find vital signs on.

Maya lunged forward, her heart pounding with worry. Her helmet was almost blown away by the wind as she stepped closer, the flashlight shaking in her hand as she shone the light through the shattered window. Her heart seemed to skip a beat as she recognized the familiar features amid the devastation. She was confirmed that she did not have a number twist on the license plate, but that it really was you. Seriously injured and trapped in the car. “Y/n!” she cried, her voice filled with a terror she had never known before. Maya knew she had to stay calm now, that she had to be the professional captain, but her heart was screaming with fear and worry.

The other members of the fire department worked quickly and precisely. "Dean, Montgomery. Grab the hydraulic cutters! We need to get her out of here as quickly as possible. Her vital signs are at risk of plummeting!" shouted Warren. They used cutting tools to fight against the metal of the car on the passenger side and the resistance of the tree while Maya knelt next to the wreckage and held your hand, which was probably thrown out of the broken window after the impact and was now lying on the scratched paint of the outer door. "It looks bad in there! Be careful not to hurt her any further, approach carefully!"

Your eyes were dazed with pain and fear, but you were breathing, albeit weakly. Hearing her voice, you seemed to find some peace for a moment, your dull eyes glued to hers. Desperately wanting to say something, you opened your mouth from which blood began to ooze, but your crushed and injured lungs did not even let in air.

"Hold on, darling. Do not say anything, I am here. We will get you out of there, I promise." The blonde whispered, her voice firm to reassure you even as her own thoughts were caught in a chaos of worry and despair. The minutes stretched endlessly as her team struggled to bend the metal and free their captain's fiancée. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the metal gave way. Using their combined strength, Vic and Warren pulled you from the wreckage, carefully, yet as quickly as possible. As soon as they freed you, they carried you to the ambulance. Maya followed them, never taking her eyes off you. Your condition was serious, but you were still clinging to life. "Carina is coming. She is going to be at the hospital, she will be by your side the second you get there. But you have to fight now, okay? Fight for us."

The rain continued to beat down on you, the storm was still raging, but in the midst of this darkness and chaos there was a glimmer of hope- you were saved, and she would do anything now to help you fight through this storm. But it was hard to keep positive thoughts as the storm continued to sing its destructive song. She closed her eyes tightly as she rode in the ambulance and prayed, with your bloodstained hand in hers, that the next morning would bring a certain light to your health.

[nahoney22]

Hi! i love your writing and was wondering if you could do the tbb (or just tech if you dont wanna do all of them) reaction to their gender neutral S/O pulling out their old instrument or color guard equipment from their marching band days and practicing what they remember (i dont even know if star wars has an equivalent to marching band/color guard lol but i picked an old practice flag up for the first time since high school earlier and the thought popped into my head for this request..) feel free to disregard this if it’s not something you wanna write, keep up the amazing work!!

Colour Guard Memories

The Bad Batch Boys X GN!Reader

How The Bad Batch react to you pulling out your old instrument or colour guard equipment.

warnings: none, gender neutral reader, can be read as platonic or romantic, Batchers admiring/encouraging reader.

authors note: this is a really cute idea and sorry it has took so long to do anon. In the UK we don’t really have marching bands/ colour guards aside from royal parades from what I know so I’ve relied on Google to help me out 😅 enjoy!

Echo

"Think we've got everything?" Echo asks, sealing the final box of your belongings.

As you survey the sea of packed boxes, you're struck by the realisation of just how many possessions you've gathered over the years. It's only now, in the process of moving out of your family home, that the extent of it hits you. After what feels like an eternity of packing and stacking, you're finally done and you couldn’t be any more grateful for Echo's helping hand.

"I hope so," you reply, wiping your brow and straightening up, hands on your hips. "Now, all that's left is to get it onto the ship." The prospect of lugging boxes onto the ship isn't exactly thrilling, but you're itching to kick back and relax.

Echo chuckles and reaches for one of the sealed boxes, but disaster strikes as the bottom gives way, sending its contents tumbling to the floor. "Well, that's just great," he says wryly.

Letting out a sigh, you join him in gathering up the scattered items. Amidst the chaos, something catches your eye: an old, familiar object. "No way!"

Startled by your sudden excitement, Echo turns to you. "What is it?"

"It's my Sabre!" you exclaim, holding up the cherished item for him to see.

He blinks in surprise. "Uh, your lightsaber?"

You playfully roll your eyes at Echo, a mischievous glint in your eyes, as you take the equipment into your hands and wave it at him. "You've known me long enough to know I'm not a Jedi, Echo," you tease, giving the Sabre a quick twirl. "It's from when I used to be be a colour guard for a marching band."

Echo chuckles, shaking his head in amusement. "I didn't know you did that."

"Yeah! I loved it. Want to see what I can still do?" you ask, a hint of excitement in your voice.

"The floor's all yours," he says, stepping back to give you space.

You take a moment to steady yourself, feeling the weight of the stainless steel Sabre in your hands. With a deep breath, you begin your routine, the familiar movements flooding back to you. As you twirl the Sabre with practiced precision, you can't help but feel a surge of nostalgia. However, in the midst of your performance, disaster strikes as the Sabre slips from your grip, narrowly missing a nearby window.

"Okay, okay, I'm a little rusty. Give me a second," you laugh sheepishly, quickly retrieving the saber and regaining your composure but Echo was still smiling and impressed throughout.

Determined to redeem yourself, you focus on each movement, executing smooth transitions and intricate spins. With each flourish, you feel a sense of satisfaction, the familiar rhythm of the routine bringing back fond memories. As you finally come to a graceful finish, you can't help but feel a sense of pride wash over you.

Echo applauds, a smile playing on his lips. "That was really impressive. You should've told me you could do that before."

"We all have our hidden talents," you grin, a twinkle in your eye as you admire the old memory in your hand before carefully tucking it back into the box. "Anyway, we should probably get going before I get distracted again."

“Well,” he says, resting a hand on your shoulder, “you should perform for me again sometime. If you want to that is.”

There’s a shine in his eyes, genuinely in awe of you and your talent. “I’ll definitely think about it.”

Hunter

Low on credits and desperate for some food to fill your stomachs, you and Hunter venture into a bustling market on a remote planet, hoping to find some opportunity to earn a bit of cash.

"See anything?" Hunter asks, strolling alongside you as you take in the sights and sounds of the market.

"Not really," you reply with a frown. The market is dimly lit, offering little in the way of useful materials, and the locals don't seem particularly welcoming. It's no wonder Hunter insisted on accompanying you.

But then, something does catch your eye. "Hey, that looks like one of my old flags," you remark, pointing to a colorful flag tucked away at the back of a small pop-up stall.

Hunter stops beside you, his interest piqued. "You used to spin those, didn't you?"

You chuckle at his phrasing, yet surprised that he remembers since it was just something you mentioned in passing once. "Yeah, I did. Not sure if I still have the touch, though."

A smirk spreads across Hunter's face as he holds up a finger, indicating for you to wait a moment. A bit embarrassed, you watch as he approaches the seller and strikes up a conversation. After a brief exchange, Hunter returns, flag in hand. "Let's put that theory to the test, shall we?" he suggests with a grin.

"Hunter! Did you just pay for that?" you exclaim incredulously as he shoves the pole into your hand.

"No," he says with a mischievous grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "But they said if you can impress them, you can keep it."

You narrow your eyes at him, a mixture of amusement and disbelief dancing in your gaze. "Fine. But I'm warning you," you declare, stepping into a clearing and scanning the area to ensure there's enough space before attempting to recreate a routine you haven't performed in years. "I'm not as good as I used to be."

Taking a deep breath, you grip the pole firmly and let muscle memory take over as you start spinning the flag with practiced precision. The fabric unfurls in vibrant arcs, catching the sunlight and casting colorful patterns across the ground. With each twirl and flourish, you feel a surge of nostalgia as memories of your days in the colour guard come flooding back.

As you continue your impromptu performance, you can't help but lose yourself in the rhythm of the routine, the flag becoming an extension of your body as you spin and swirl with grace.

Hunter is watching you silently and appears to be actually enamoured by your performance. His eyes are wide in surprise.

When you finally come to a graceful finish, you turn to Hunter with a triumphant smile, the flag held aloft in your hand. "How's that for impressing them?" you ask, a hint of pride in your voice.

“That was… wow.” Is all he says, a proud smile on his face. He takes one look to the seller who just gives a brief nod. “And the flag is yours it seems.”

Hunter comes up beside you once more but you feel a tug on your top, turning to face a young child who was holding out credits to you. Bashfully, you accept and the credits swiftly came flooding in.

“Heh, seems like you still got it.” He nudges your side playfully.

This could be a pretty safe way to earn some extra credits it seems.

Wrecker

"Wrecker, come look at this!" you call out excitedly, beckoning your companion over.

With Wrecker's assistance in tidying up the Marauder and transferring some items to the Remora, you stumble upon an unexpected treasure: an old snare drum tucked away amidst the clutter.

"Woah, what's tha’?" Wrecker asks, intrigued, as he joins you on the floor, his eyes fixed on the instrument in your hands.

"I used to play it in a marching band. Forgot I even had it," you reply with a wistful smile, the memories of your band days flooding back, tinged with nostalgia and a touch of sadness for times gone by.

Wrecker notices the flicker of emotion on your face and decides to lift your spirits. "Well, go on then. Give us a beat," he encourages, nudging the drum closer to you and offering a drumstick.

You smile gratefully, feeling a rush of anticipation as you accept the drumstick from his outstretched hand and pick up the matching one from the ground. "Just so you know," you say with a playful glint in your eye, "it sounds much better in a chorus rather than individually."

With a deep breath, you position the drumsticks in your hands, feeling the familiar weight and texture of the material. Closing your eyes, you let muscle memory guide your movements as you begin to play. The rhythmic tapping of the drum reverberates through the air.

As you lose yourself in the music, your fingers move effortlessly across the drum's surface, producing a lively beat that echoes off the walls of the ship. With each stroke, super fast and then skilfully slow, you feel a sense of liberation.

Wrecker watches in awe, a grin spreading cross his face as he listens to the infectious rhythm you create. For a moment, all worries and cares fade away, replaced by the joy of listening to you play. Flourishing a finish, your cheeks warm to Wrecker applauding enthusiastically.

"Tha’ was amazing!" he exclaims, his voice filled with genuine admiration. "You've still got it."

You grin, feeling a surge of pride at his words. "Thanks, Wrecker," you reply, a sense of contentment washing over you. "Maybe we should start our own band."

“Definitely!”

Tech

"Is this yours?" Omega's voice interrupts your thoughts, drawing your attention to the slim case she's holding. As you approach, a wave of nostalgia washes over you at the sight of the familiar case.

"I haven't seen this for a long time," you smile warmly, taking the case into your hands. Kneeling down, you blow the dust off and flip open the lid, revealing your old clarinet nestled inside.

Omega's eyes widen with curiosity as she peers at the instrument. "Wow, that's cool! Did you play it?"

You nod, a fond smile on your face. "Yeah, I used to. In a colour guard and in parades."

"Can you play something now?" she asks eagerly.

Before you can respond, Omega suddenly calls out, "TECH! COME HERE!"

Tech, engrossed in his data pad, looks up in surprise and heads your way. "What is the nature of my presence this time, Omega?"

Omega launches into an exaggerated explanation of your discovery and her request. "Listen to them play."

Tech adjusts his goggles and looks down at you with curious eyes. "I was not aware you could play any instrument."

"I haven't in a long time," you admit sheepishly, wiping the mouthpiece and adjusting the bridge keys. "But I can give it a try."

With a deep breath, you bring the clarinet to your lips and begin to play a soft, melancholic tune. The notes fill the air, weaving a gentle melody that seems to resonate with the quiet stillness of the surroundings. It was a gentle tune, a stark difference to the ones you played in parades.

As you play, you notice Tech glancing up from his data pad, his expression softening as he listens intently to the music. It's a rare sight to see him so engrossed in something other than his work, and you can't help but feel a sense of satisfaction knowing that your music has captured his attention.

By the time you finish the piece, Tech is still watching you, a thoughtful look on his face.

Omega bursts into a loud applause meanwhile Tech smiled at you. “I would not mind you playing that whilst I do some repairs... it’s rather relaxing.”

Crosshair

“What are you doing?” Crosshair's voice breaks your concentration mid-performance, and you freeze as your arms flail, causing the wooden rifle to slip from your grasp and clatter onto the grass.

You spin to face the clone, feeling a flush of embarrassment creeping up your neck. "I found my old rifle from when I used to perform," you explain quickly, bending down to retrieve the prop. With a flick of your foot, you send it spinning into the air, catching it effortlessly as it falls back down. "Want to see?"

Crosshair eyes the rifle with a hint of intrigue, his skepticism giving way to mild interest. "Perform? Rifles are for shooting. Not messing around with.”

“It’s wood, idiot.” You knock on the equipment before you then shrug, a sheepish grin tugging at your lips. "Anyway, it’s called rifle spinning. I used to do it as part of a routine in a performance group. It's more about coordination and showmanship than anything else. Wanna see?” You ask again.

Crosshair nods slowly, his gaze lingering on the rifle as you twirl it expertly in your hands. He stands back as you shows off your moves and he couldn’t hide the small impressed smirk forming on his lips. "You’re quite impressive I’ll give you that. But don't let it distract you from our mission." The compliment was rare but not one you were going to refuse as you give him a smile of thanks. But, he was right. There were more pressing matters at large.

You chuckle, nodding in agreement as you secure the rifle back in its holster. "Of course not. Just a little trip down memory lane."

Masterlist

Tags:

@littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @captxin-rex @jesseeka @theroguesully @ladykatakuri @jambolska-grozdova @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @chrissywakingup @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter @erellenora @zippingstars87 7 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi @greaser-wolf @tinyreadersmur @seriowan @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @raevulsix x @mssbridgerton @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @imalovernotahater @id-rather-be-a-druid @the-bad-batch-baroness @lulalovez @green-alm0nd

[youryurigoddess]

Maggie’s pendants and good omens

Yes, you’ve read it right. This post is going to deal with some literal good omens, not just title drop! But first things first, let’s take a closer look at the topic of this analysis.

A toucan

The top necklace is a lovely design involving a crowned toucan — believed to be a messenger of gods able to travel between the spiritual and the physical world, often associated with rain and rainbow (a Christian symbol of divine love, grace, and mercy, a reminder of the covenant between God and humanity to spare the latter from future trials like the Flood) — encircled by a gold band (a symbol of infinity, eternal love and promise) spun by a small butterfly (a symbol of transformation, hope, and rebirth). All three symbols combined seem to deliver a divine message of hope for rebirth, possibly resurrection, and the eternal life. Very fitting in the context of the Second Coming.

The fact that toucans were revered by the native South Americans as rainbringers strengthens the symbolic meaning of another type of bird we can spot on Maggie’s clothes in the very first episode, as her character introduction — a swallow. Swallows flying low are also believed to be harbingers of rain and bad weather. If you see one close to Earth or a building, it means that there’s a storm — or a certain biblical tempest — on the horizon.

In Ancient Greece and Rome swallows were representing Aphrodite, goddess of love. In Christianity they were considered to be of God and symbolized hope, awakening, and revival of life as messengers of spring and protectors from winter colds. Also helped Jesus on the Cross — according to a Christian legend, a group of swallows was supposed to take out the thorns from the Crown of Thorns and alleviate His Passion on the Cross. Humans banding together in the name of good have been a big theme in the series ever since The Them made an appearance, and from what we already know about the unpublished Good Omens sequel, we can assume that Jesus is going to take the spotlight in the upcoming season.

Maggie definitely attracts sudden inexplicable weather changes, like a thunderstorm with weirdly localized lightning strikes or a sudden downpour. And we’re still waiting for some vavooming (and the following happy ending) to happen in S3.

A heart with an eye

Now, the more nuanced clue hidden in the bottom necklace. I know that some of us were trying to tackle the concept of Maggie’s eye in a heart pendant suggesting her Masonic connotations, but this symbol (or the Eye of Providence in general) isn’t strictly Masonic, it isn’t even limited only to Judeo-Christian art. And while it is used a lot in Christian iconography, we should focus on a very specific example of it already referenced in the show.

Buckle up, we’re making a parachute dive into S1.

It seems like our old friend, Agnes Nutter, still has our backs.

Prophecy 4020:

Let the wheel of fate turne, let harts enjoin, there are othere fyres than mine; when the whirl wynd whirls, reach oute one to another.

If you look closely at the bottom right corner of this frame, you will see that as an illustration for the above prophecy the production team chose a 1611 engraving titled The Minde should have a fixed Eye On Objects, that are plac’d on High first found in Gabriel Rollenhagen’s Nucleus emblematum selectissimorum.

In 1635 it was published in A Collection of Emblemes, Ancient and Moderne Quickened With Metrical Illustrations, both Morall and Divine, Etc by George Wither with the accompanying hymn:

A Heart, which bore the figure of an Eye

Wide open to the Sunne; by some, was us'd,

When in an Emblem, they would signifie

A Minde, which on Celestiall Matters mus'd:

Implying, by the same, that there is nought

Which in this lower Orbe, our Eyes can see,

So fit an Object for a manly thought,

As those things, which in Heav'n above us be.

God, gave Mankinde (above all other Creatures)

A lovely Forme, and upward-looking Eye,

(Among the rest of his peculiar Features)

That he might lift his Countenance on high:

And (having view'd the Beauty, which appeares

Within the outward Sights circumference)

That he might elevate above the Sphæres,

The piercing Eye, of his Intelligence.

Then, higher, and still higher strive to raise

His Contemplations Eyes, till they ascend

To gaine a glimpse of those eternall Rayes,

To which all undepraved Spirits tend.

For, 'tis the proper nature of the Minde

(Till fleshly Thoughts corrupt it) to despise

Those Lusts whereto the Body stands inclin'd;

And labour alwayes, upward to arise.

Some, therefore, thought those Goblins which appeare

To haunt old Graves and Tombes, are Soules of such,

Who to these loathsome places doomed were,

Because, they doted on the Flesh too much.

But, sure we are, well-minded Men shall goe

To live above, when others bide below.

And hey, guess what 4020, i.e., the number of the prophecy, symbolizes in Strong’s Concordance? Periergazomai, a Greek word meaning “to waste one's labor about something” — to meddle, going beyond proper boundaries (where a person doesn't belong); to fixate on what others are doing, instead of doing what the person himself is supposed to do.

It appears only once in the Bible:

2 Thessalonians 3:11: We hear that some among you are idle and disruptive. They are not busy; they are busybodies. Such people we command and urge in the Lord Jesus Christ to settle down and earn the food they eat. And as for you, brothers and sisters, never tire of doing what is good.

To make things slightly more interesting, in the Hebrew version of Strong’s Concordance 4020 has another meaning — migbaloth, meaning “twisted things, i.e. cords”. Which doesn’t make much sense until we read the actual passage:

Exodus 28:24 and two chains of pure gold, twisted like cords; and you shall attach the corded chains to the settings.

And compare it to the most recent post on the topic published directly by Word of God:

What if all these clues didn’t apply to Maggie and Nina, but Aziraphale and Crowley instead? What if Maggie served as a messenger — consciously or not — just like the toucan, delivering the prophecy to those who need it most?

“When the tempest comes and darkness and great storms, and the dead will leave their graves and walk the Earth once more and there will be great lamentations for the end is near, don’t lose hope, hold hands and look up.”

Basically what Aziraphale and Crowley already did when they performed the 25 Lazarii miracle, only with no interference from Gabriel this time around.

And, if both Strong’s Concordance and Maggie’s personal addition to her second pendant are to be believed, with a wedding band somehow involved in the process.

[secret-smut-sideblog]

Heat Signature

Karlach x F! Tav

(Girl Talk part 3, can still be read alone)

18+ drowning, near death experience, hurt/comfort, temperature play, urgent sex, grinding, face sitting, oral (f!), fingering (f!), mild restraint, karlach being absolutely feral, love triangle situations uh-oh

After nearly freezing to death Tav needs Karlach near. Very near, it seems...

Part 1, Part 2

-

The sword coast was hit by a cold snap and the camp woke in surprise to frost on the air. Even the lake they were set up by freezing over.

Everyone gathered their warmest clothes and made a day of it. Gale excitedly planning soups for their dinner. Lae'zel rolling her eyes at the camp entirely, going back to grinding her whetstone.

It quickly became a game to throw increasingly larger objects onto the surface of the frozen lake to see what falls through first. There was even a bet underway.

Tav had stepped out, sneakily she thought, to throw a stone farther in. (She may have been part of the bet) Only to feel the rogues even colder fingers push her, sliding her out. Insufferable man.

"Astarion, don't." She turned and huffed at him, only getting a wider grin in return.

He had already tried, and failed, to get Karlach to throw for him as tribute. Seemed he had switched to more underhanded tactics.

"Oh come on, I've got a lot riding on this." He winked, pushing her one more time. Sliding surprisingly far.

"You bastard, I'm going to get y-" Was as far as she got before the world broke away underneath her.

All air pushed out of her lungs as she submerged. Shock tore through her body before the freezing cold. But when it reached her the pain was excruciating, striking her blind. Somehow white hot. Vaguely aware of her limbs fighting dumbly to get back to the surface.

Time stretched on endless as her lungs burned to near bursting, then flooded with ice water, a slow sort of peace beginning to blur her vision. Her kicking legs hushed by the enticing exhaustion.

Her mind slowed, winding down. Only one thought pulsing through.

What a silly way to die.

A pale hand plunged into her vision and caught her by the collar, yanking her slackening body up.

Suddenly the world was full of noise again. So many shouting voices.

"Karlach, hurry!" Astarion bellowed, pulling her to shore. Releasing her against the coarse sand, his hands shaking over her.

Shadowhearts determined face rushing into her vision, turning her on her side and beating hard into her back.

Suddenly aware that she was going to live, it was like her body remembered breath again. Great gurgling waves of water rushing cold from her, burning her throat raw.

When the adrenaline wore off she wanted to go back to that peace beneath the water. Freezing alive. Teeth chattering, body trembling like an earthquake only she was privy to.

Warmth only a memory, this bone numbing cold was all she knew now.

Astarion continued to hover over her, afraid to touch her with his always cooled hands. Searching her pallid face in frantic glances.

"Tav, I'm so sorry. Oh God's forgive me, please please keep breathing. Stay here please don't-" A tearful torrent of words poured out of him, only stopped by Karlach crashing down at Tav's side. Pulling her shirt open, the buttons flying everywhere.

Astarion looked at her in shock.

"Get her wet clothes off! Now, Astarion!"

Tav moaned in protest, being exposed to the elements further surely couldn't be the answer?

But she knew Karlach had survived the hells and back, literally. She knew what she was doing. She would trust her with her life. But Tav didn't have to like it.

Astarion wrestled briefly with her wet leathers stubborn on her thighs. Relented and took his dagger and sliced a clean line up the fabric, peeling it away.

Shadowheart running back to camp to get potions, nodding in confidence at Karlach.

"Hold on, love." Karlach encouraged in a knowingly pained voice and pulled her bare torso hard into her.

Immediately Tav needed to pull away, her body scorching unbelievable heat into her.

She pushed against Karlach's chest but she would not release. Moaning in pain.

"I know, I'm sorry soldier."

She was burning, her breath gone again. Thrashing weakly. "It's too much." She tried to say, but it just came out as garbled whines.

"Just a little longer. You're going to be okay, baby. Just hold on."

As they sat around the fire everyone came over to check on her frequently.

Or well, both of them.

Tav was wrapped tightly around Karlach, a blanket shrouded around them.

As soon as her body temp had come above frigid Karlach's heat had gone from unbearable to deeply needed. She couldn't get enough.

Draped in a spare shirt that Astarion had offered up sheepishly, in her underclothes and a pair of Wyll's warmest socks.

Though Tav was aware the modesty was needed she felt best where their bare skin touched. Pulling her endless heat into her greedy skin.

"Oh Fangs, stop hovering! She said she forgave you!" Karlach laughed good naturedly.

"I can't help but feel awful." He scoffed, pushing his hands on his lower back. "Only two nights in my bed and I've nearly killed her. And not even in the expected way."

"I'm right here, you know." She tried for annoyed but was as slow and contented as a housecat in the sun.

Is this how Astarion felt against her? No wonder he always pressed into her so thoroughly when he fed.

"Go on, she's in good hands tonight." Karlach encouraged, Tav nodding happily in agreement into her chest.

He sighed shortly. "Fine, but I will make this up to you darling."

Tav hummed in a vague agreement, nuzzling further into her living furnace. "G'night Star."

He paused, came forward and planted a quick kiss on the top of her head and walked away quickly. The tips of his ears burning pink.

"Well, I'll be damned..." Karlach chuckled, looking after him in blatant disbelief. "He's lucky we're the only ones left awake. Shadowheart would never let him live it down."

Karlach wrapped her arms loosely around Tav's waist, resting her head against her auburn hair in a happy sigh. "God's I missed this. Touching. I could stay here all night."

"I can't even imagine." Tav murmured, pulling closer. "This is heaven." She sighed.

Her legs wrapping around the small of her back. Her core now pushed flush into her heat.

Oh.

Tav blushed but couldn't bear to pull away.

"You feel better, love?" Karlach intoned, oblivious. Pulling her long hair secure over her shoulder.

"Mhm," Tav purred, the heat against her cunt making her slow and stupid. A creeping of wetness pooling.

"I'm so glad. You really scared us." Karlach tipped her face up to look at her, holding gently by her chin. "You're so precious to us, you know that? To me."

Tav stared up at her, dumbfounded by her tender words. Karlach's eyes pouring with adoration.

Without thought, Tav pushed up and slid her lips into her.

Karlach jolted in surprise, then leaned into her. Kissing back with a restrained desire.

The heat against her mouth was devine. Karlach's plush lips melding into hers. The tenderness of their touch giving way to hot desire. Tav pulling her waistband closer, moaning into her mouth. Karlach holding her by the nape of her neck, kissing hungrily. Both of their breathing strained.

"Bed. Now." Karlach moaned into her.

Tav nodded and was lifted under her thighs with a surprised squeak. She was not a small person, eyeline with most of their male companions. But Karlach lifted her like she was nothing.

If the desire wasn't already coiling in her pelvis, that would've done it.

Finally reaching her tent they were shrouded in soft light. Karlach kneeling back down hastily, Tav still wrapped around her waist. The air thrumming with need.

Tav crashed her mouth back into hers, grinding her hips into her torso. Gods the heat was so good.

Karlach's fire burned blue then, hoisting her up and gripping around her ass. Pulling her into her body in time to the pulse of Tav's hips.

Tav mewled into their kiss, the heat and friction incredible. "You feel so good." She moaned, pulling away to lean into her neck.

"Gods, soldier. The feelings mutual." Her talons digging into her ass. "How are you so soft?"

Tav giggled, kissing along her neck. Suckling down on the spot behind where her jaw began.

"Ah!" Karlach moaned, pulling her in harder.

Oh?

Tav licked hard little circles into that spot and felt Karlach shiver. Her chest sending out a pulse of heat.

Karlach pulled Astarion's shirt off of her, throwing it down and slid onto her back, holding Tav's hips still. Her face now straddled under her open thighs.

Tav stared down at her in surprise. Suddenly feeling exposed, embarrassed.

"Tav, please," Karlach moaned, the bright blue glow of her eyes intoxicating. "I need to lick your cunt."

Tav groaned, her words burning a hole of desire through her.

She released her thighs, lowering down onto her. Karlach gripped her hips, moaning happily. Tongue flat against her underclothes.

The fabric separating was driving her mad. The hot strokes of her tongue dampening the fabric, a tortuous teasing.

"Karlach, please," She moaned, anchoring her hands on hers as she lapped. Grinding her hips as much as she could, strong hands holding her in place.

She heard her huff in agreement, pulling the offending garment away with her teeth. The yank against her hips, the sound of tearing fabric.

Tav moaned loudly, clapped her hand embarrassed over her mouth. Oh Gods, did anyone hear?

She considered casting Silence but her concentration was nothing but a puddle now.

Her core now free the onslaught began. Karlach pulled her down hard, laving fast hungry stripes into her.

Tav buckled forward, biting back a string of moans, coming out as urgent squeaks. Her hips already quaking. Hells below she had never been taken this ferociously before.

The heat of her ravenous mouth radiated up through her whole pelvis, her lower half an inferno of pleasure.

The need that her tongue worked into her was vulgar. Suckling down hard on her clit then pushing hard into her center with her tongue.

She prayed that none of their campmates were still awake cause the sounds coming from them were already obscene, and if this continued, about to get worse.

"Oh gods, please, please," She begged as quiet as she could.

Her mouth clamped down around her clit, suckling in hard pulses. Hand coming up and thrusting two fingers up into her without warning.

Tav nearly shrieked, hands falling in front of her to brace her collapsing body. Her hips trying to find rhythm against the tornado beneath her in futility.

When she curled her long fingers Tav almost snapped. Barely biting back an indignant whine. It was too good, it wasn't fair.

Her fingers and mouth both punishing her was sending her to the edge. A world ending orgasm threatening.

In one last act of lucidity she grabbed Astarion's shirt and shoved it hard into her mouth. Barely enough time before she was screaming out her end.

The world shattered beneath her again. Unbearable pleasure thrashed through her. Beating her fist into the ground. Shuddering in deep release. Endless muffled curses pouring from her mouth. Torrential waves of perfect agony striking her blind. Near death a second time.

Karlach hummed her approval, scooping up her creamy spend like honey. Massaging her hips with strong fingers.

Pulling Tav's hips down to be above hers, she ground into her for a few urgent moments then threw her head back. Face crumpled in pleasure. Already incredibly close just from Tav's sounds and sensations. Her orgasm face so adorable.

Tav finally, blissfully, collapsed into her. Unlocking her jaw around the fabric in her mouth. The pale elf's smell still lingering. Sending a different thrill down her back.

As if reading her mind, Karlach spoke up in a panting voice. "Oh shit, aren't you with Fangs?"

"With? I don't think he thinks that highly of me." She laughed. "I'm pretty sure it's just sex to him."

"Well he's a damn fool if he thinks he can find better."

"Careful with the sweet words, unless you want me to drown in a different way."

"And what if I do?"

Tav pinched her side playfully. "Bad. Bad tielfing."

It made her head swim to have two lovers. Pushed the more pressing thoughts about complications into the back of her mind. That's a later-her problem.

"Can I stay the night? I don't think my legs work anymore." She laughed, pulling playfully at her useless limbs.

"Baby, you can stay forever."

~

Part 4

(Narrator Voice: It was not, after all, just sex to him...)

[sgiandubh]

Jottings: Season 7, episode 8. Just fucking try me

By TPTB's Sovereign Decree, this season is - as we all know - split in two, which proved to be at the same time abysmally disrespectful to ***'s subscribers, frustrating - to say the least- to Netflixers, but involuntarily prescient, given the current SAG-AFTRA stalemate. The protracted strike scenario (still a possibility) would have truly flunked OL, drowning it in a sea of irrelevance and effectively making all promo impossible. So, let us count our blessings and bide our time: it ain't over till the fat lady sings. For the time being, we are still haunted by Sinéad's moving huskiness. For the sake of speculation only, I wonder if they are going to stick with this option until the official end of Season 7, as an homage of sorts. Or promote somebody else, while time and space are still available to do so.

You are definitely going to need tissues for this one. And any random type of your favorite comfort food. It is intense. It is almost impeccable. SS & RR sketches are tolerably short. S is supercalifragilistic. C is giving it her all and she is just perfect. And all the rest are flawless. So, pardon the sarcasm deficit and perhaps also my less fluid quill: you surely know, by now, my struggle with encomium is real.

The bonnie wee swordsman moment immediately brought to this book outsider's mind the exceptional fanfic author on AO3. So, if you still missed Flood My Mornings, by some obscure glitch in the Matrix, do give it a try. It is one of my top 3 , with #1 being @zeya-zg's TRS (it packs a punch, takes great risks and does so with grace). And yes - blasphemy ensues - the swordsman's fic is simply better than Herself in so, so many ways. A good starting point for a Droughtlander of undetermined amplitude (what in the name of hoo-ha is 'the story continues next year' supposed to mean?), for example. But I digress.

With Saratoga 2.0 in plain, inevitable sight, I incorrectly presumed we would see the blue light mojo - is it in Bees...? more plausibly so - and I am glad C saved JAMMF's finger. My sick mind did try to imagine a mutilated limb at some point in time, failed to do so and had to reboot entirely. I am grateful to the writer for having spared me a potential ordeal, in this respect. I am, however, less grateful to the same writer for butchering up to the point of no return the very delicate scene between Rachel Hunter and Young Ian, who initially fail to get their (impossibly to reach) bearings. It feels contrived at first, reads as injudicious as trying to become proficient in Thai after spending three hours on Duolinguo and jumps on the storyline's windshield out of virtually nowhere. The main weak point of this season (spare SS/RR's endless death row sojourn) has to be the blatant injustice done by the writers to characters I wanted to see and hear more of: the Hunter siblings, Buck Mackenzie and yes, William himself.

Speaking of William, there is an epic but fleeting moment outside Simon Fraser's tent, just after Jamie gives him his tricorn hat, that made me wonder out loud. Who are you, first and foremost, Ellesmere: a courtier? a soldier? a son? All three avatars briefly cross his face and if that is not prowess, I don't know what is. Enthusiastic kudos, again.

Cynical, lunatic, despicable me ugly cried three times in a row. Laudanum. Simon Fraser. The Scottish shores. That is a lot for one single intake.

Spoiler: I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. For such an inconsistent character, Simon Fraser saved his soul with this intense, dignified and subdued moment. There is something akin to a Roman deathbed scene one could perhaps find in Tacitus' Histories, essentially thanks to S's perfectly mastered gravitas. So yes, you can cry for the sudden demise of a secondary character you had no sympathy for and on top of that be surprised by your own tears.

A death that proves instrumental for their return to Scotland. And maybe it is time we acknowledge the simple fact that Scotland never really was just a trope of all this intricate narrative scaffolding, but a character in its own right. It is alive and it prompts the kind of raw, irrational emotions able to make your tears well up all the same in Bilbao, in Vancouver, in Seattle, in Athens or in Cairo. And it doesn't matter if you could not place Inverness on a map before finding out that well, people do disappear all the time, or if you were haunted since forever by majestic visions of glens & lochs. You will fall and you will fall hard, despite all the misgivings and the shortcomings, of which there are many.

We leave them teary-eyed on a boat sailing near the Scottish shores. It is a carefully chosen and very effective parting moment. Overall, this was an excellent half-season, if you chose to ignore Mordor's endless, reckless and soulless bitching. I sometimes wish for all these people to suddenly develop an interest for origami or find another obsessable rookie duo or simply try to be happy on their own. Nothing more, but nothing less.

This Droughtlander will be a massive pain in the rear. Mark me. And I am finally allowed to hope for better sleep patterns. But hey, no regrets: it was worth it, always is. They are worth it. A lot.

Gif choice could only involve a ship. Credit given to @avasetocallmyown. Very elegant :)

[lilacmuse]

Morning Theft // 7.20.24

It's a beautiful morning in July- just three days before my birthday- and i wake up right around Fajr time. I slip out a bit before sunrise, and am delighted to find that the weather is blissfully, unseasonably beautiful. A soft, tranquil breeze gently stirs through the trees as the birds greet the morning, and wispy clouds cascade across the still-dark sky. It's so quiet out, i almost feel like i'm intruding on the universe, but it greets my shy soul with open arms and fills my heart with a warm sense of belonging.

As i enter the park, i come to rest on one of the beautiful stone benches situated on the outer edge. Something about them reminds me of the Acropolis, or some ancient place where philosophers might've gathered to have discussions. I lie down on the bench for a while, gazing dreamily at the sky as night slowly trades places with morning. When i was in Canada, i used to get excited every time the weather was nice, and i'd grieve about how i'd probably have to wait until October to experience that again. But as the first light of dawn creeps across the horizon, i realize that the wind has gotten cooler- almost cold enough to make me shiver. I smile as the swift breeze envelops me... i love being wrong. The cold, rough smoothness of the stone bench penetrates my shirt and kisses my skin, adding to my sensory bliss.

As subtle pinks and purples begin adorning the sky, i praise God and take in the beauty of one of my favorite sights in all of creation. The sky fills with soft, gentle streaks of light, and the armor around my heart rattles and melts away... i am entirely defenseless in the face of His beauty. The world buys my time and steals away my attention often, but this time is Ours- for not the first time, i feel completely alone with Him, and my shyness melts into a deep, quiet longing to be closer, ever closer.

As the world fills with noise and light, the daydream of my soul wakes up, as if a passing thought in a stranger's mind; perhaps a monk living in a monastery in the mountains, peering up as my beingness floods him for a moment. Perhaps he doesn't know why, but the sight of the sky he had never noticed before suddenly makes him want to explode with wonder. Sometimes, i wish i could reach through time and space and plant a soft kiss on the consciousness of every person who secretly looks at the world this way when they're alone. The thinkers complain that it hurts to become, but lovers exist to remind them what a bliss it is to be.

After witnessing the sun's slow qiyam, i gradually make my way home, stopping to say hello to my favorite tree and admire the way its branches look in the early morning light. I had never seen it at this hour before, but i'm always awestruck by its beauty.

On the street before mine, i notice a small garage sale being set up, and a striking white dress covered in vibrant flowers catches my eye. I don't normally shop in Muharram, but i greet my neighbor with a smile and browse her offerings. I pick out a stunning yellow dress that goes beautifully with the white one, and she gives me both for a steal. I sleepily try them on when i get home- i'll have to get the white one altered or it'll slip right off my body, but the yellow fits me like a glove and makes me feel like a goddess of summer. What a beautifully perfect morning :)

If you're reading this, i love you- may the remembrance of Hussain ibn Ali (as) plant seeds of Divine, eternal love in your heart ❤️

x r

[c-e-d-dreamer]

When We Howl, the Moon Will Cower: Prologue

A/N: I know it's technically November first, which means Spooky Season is officially over, but what do you say we keep the spooky vibes going just a little bit longer? And what better way to do that than with witchy Nesta! And future werewolf Cassian ;) I am very excited for what I have planned for this fic, and I hope everyone enjoys! And if you don't, well, this is a love letter fic to @dustjacketmusings only, so I don't care. Also, gold star to everyone who can pick up on the 3 easter eggs in this prologue.

Read on AO3 // Chapter Masterlist // Next Part

Darkness from the west trembles in the light As the sun rises on a new empire Shatter, crack, and take back what is right The golden bonds escape the pyre Mother blessed unity births power unforeseen The gods will bow before the strength of three

~ * * * ~

“Again.”

Nesta swallows down her wince. Swallows down the tingling pain in her cramped fingers. Swallows down the throb that's taken up home in her head, the way it makes everything fuzzy around the edges. Instead, she takes a deep breath, reaching for that well of power within herself. Sometimes, she likes to imagine it as a cat, napping in the sun when it's resting. She imagines that now, imagines stroking her hand along its fur until it begins to purr to life.

“Nesta.”

The cold, clipped tone has Nesta flinching instinctively. “I'm trying, Mama.”

“Clearly, you are not trying hard enough,” her mother scoffs, and even without looking at her, Nesta can imagine the disappointed scowl that's sure to be pinching Elinor Archeron's face. “You are an Archeron witch, or did you forget?”

“My magic is drained,” Nesta defends, squeezing her eyes tighter and trying to focus. “I just need another moment.”

“Drained?” Elinor's laugh is nothing short of mocking. “Your ancestors could do this in their sleep. You are a disgrace to our family name. I don't even know why I bother.”

“I can do it.”

Nesta knows her snapped words mean nothing if she can't prove it. She reaches for that beast inside her again and grabs fur until it roars. Until she can feel her magic slink between her fingers, wreathing its way up her arms. It sings in her veins and floods her lungs so every breath is pure power, writhing like a dancer in time to her pounding heart.

A hard strike across the face has Nesta crashing back down, a pained gasp tumbling past her lips. She cradles her cheek with her hand, blinking up at her mother, but Elinor's rage is potent. A fire practically blazes in those blue eyes, its path of wrath and destruction pinned right on Nesta.

“You stupid girl. Are you trying to burn the whole house down?”

“I'm sorry, Mama,” Nesta whispers before she swallows hard and stands up straight again, holding her chin high. Never cower, never let her see the cracks. “I'll be better next time.”

“You better be,” Elinor sneers, brushing her hands down the skirts of her dress and turning toward the door. It's a clear dismissal, an end to today's lessons. “Do not disappoint me, Nesta.”

Nesta can't help but flinch at the too loud sound of the door closing behind her mother. She presses a hand to her mouth to quiet the shuddering breath she lets out, blinking hard around the stinging heat pressing behind her eyes. When she presses her fingers to the skin of her cheek, she can still feel the lingering soreness from being slapped, but she's hopeful there won't be any bruising.

There certainly won't be a scar.

As if of their own accord, Nesta's fingers absentmindedly slide along the raised skin on her thumb. At least her mother's lessons aren't like the ones with her grandmother.

A knock at the door has Nesta almost jumping out of her skin in surprise, and for a fearful moment, she half wonders if her thoughts somehow summoned her grandmother back from beyond the grave. But then she hears her sister's voice, tentatively calling her name through the wood.

“Go away, Elain,” Nesta calls back, rolling her eyes even though her sister can't see her.

“But I need your help,” Elain protests, a hint of the whine Nesta knows always works on their father bleeding into her tone.

With a huff, Nesta stalks over to the door, yanking it open and not even bothering to hide her annoyance as she demands, “what?”

Elain chews on her lip, fiddling with the skirts of her dress, before admitting, “I lost Feyre.”

“What do you mean you lost Feyre?”

“Well, we were playing hide and seek, and she must have chosen a really good hiding place because I can't find her.”

“For Mother's sake,” Nesta sighs, already stepping out into the hall. “You know, next year, you'll be of a witch's age, and you won't have any more time for baby games.”

“Just because you came of age last year doesn’t mean you have to be so mean.”

Nesta’s steps stutter at Elain’s words, and she turns back around to find her sister still standing by the study door, her arms crossed and her expression less than impressed. Nesta knows that she’s right, but Nesta would also give anything to keep Elain and Feyre from turning thirteen. To let them play hide and seek and run through the gardens forever. To protect them from their mother’s clutches and her cruel lessons.

But Nesta has yet to find a spell for that.

So Nesta lets out a soft breath and offers Elain a small smile of apology. “Where did you already look for Feyre?”

Elain huffs quietly, practically a lamenting sigh, as she continues down the hall and to Nesta’s side. “I checked all the normal places. Under all the beds. Under Papa’s desk. All the closets.”

“Did you check the cellar?” Nesta asks, leading the way toward the main staircase.

“We’re not allowed down there, remember?”

“Exactly. And this is Feyre we’re talking about.”

Elain hums, and that’s answer enough for Nesta. With a shake of her head, she hurries down the main staircase and down the hall that leads to the cellar door. The dark wood looks unassuming, exactly as their mother intended it, but Nesta can feel the magic imbued within it. It seems to hum and whisper to her, seems to jump off the wood and skate across her skin and up her arms. If Nesta squints, she can even make out the protection runes carved beneath the wood stain.

Checking both ways down the hallway to make sure no one is watching, Nesta reaches forward, her fingers curling around the handle of the door. She closes her eyes and sucks in a deep breath, feeling the magic pulsing through her hand before the handle twists and the door opens. She grabs Elain’s wrist and tugs her inside, the door closing behind them with a quiet thud.

Neither of them say anything as they follow the winding staircase down, Elain keeping her hand firmly in Nesta’s own. Nesta can’t say she minds the contact. The cellar has always made her feel uneasy. It’s the way she always feels like she’s being watched when she’s down here. The way whispers seem to creep along the floor and the walls like fog, Nesta never quite able to hear the words being spoken, but always having the undeniable feeling that they’re saying her name. It’s the way the air is always thick and still, as if whatever ominous presence calls this dark place home is holding its breath, even as it smiles from the shadows with too sharp teeth.

Nesta lets out a quiet breath when they reach the bottom of the stairs, giving Elain’s hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. Or perhaps it’s to help ground herself. She turns her attention to the left, unsurprised to find the door at the very end is cracked open, watery light spilling out around the edges like some sort of eerie beacon.

For a moment, Nesta hesitates, swallowing hard around the churning in her gut, the lump threatening to press into her throat. But then she swears she feels it, a presence beside her and Elain. But it doesn’t bring with it any of the unease the shadows of the cellar do. Instead, it feels almost warm, comforting. Like a mother’s hand curling around her shoulders, it urges her forward, guiding her through the door and into the room.

“You found me!” Feyre exclaims, jumping up from her spot crouched beside the door with a wide smile.

“Feyre, you know you’re not supposed to be in here,” Nesta seethes, already grabbing her youngest sister’s arm to tug her out of the room and back upstairs.

But Feyre yanks herself free, crossing her arms across her chest. “Just because you’re the oldest, that doesn’t mean you can tell me what to do.”

Feyre sticks her tongue out, belying her eleven years of age, and Nesta merely rolls her eyes. “I’m serious. Mama would be furious if she knew.”

“We get it, Nesta. You’re Mama’s favorite, always the perfect child. That doesn’t mean the rest of us want to be.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about, what you don’t know.”

“Um…” Elain speaks up quietly, breaking up her sisters’ glaring contest. “Is it supposed to be doing that?”

Nesta snaps her attention to the center of the room, to the magical object she’s always refused to look directly at for too long. The Cauldron stands on a slightly raised wooden platform, the wide circumference large enough that Nesta is sure it could swallow all three of her and her sisters whole if it wanted to. The black iron it’s made from is dark as night, dark enough to drown any light, any life, even as the legends sing of life being poured from it.

And for the first time since Nesta ever laid eyes on it, the Cauldron truly seems alive.

The liquid inside bubbles and pops, dark smoke rising and curling from its depths. The smoke spills over the edge of the platform, slithering down the platform and across the floor to them. Nesta swears it looks almost star flecked as it creeps closer to Feyre, threatening to curl around her ankles. Feyre jumps away from the smoke, hiding behind Nesta and curling her hands tight enough around Nesta’s arm that her nails bite into the skin.

“What’s it doing?” Feyre demands, her voice barely above a hushed whisper.

“I don’t know,” Nesta mutters, her own voice quiet, as if the Cauldron might hear them if they’re too loud. “But we need to get out of here.”

Nesta turns on her heel to do just that, keeping Feyre with her, but her feet stutter before she can even take a single step. Elain’s eyes have completely glazed over, the honey brown color of them foggy, and her gaze is focused solely on the Cauldron. Her expression is entirely blank in a way that has alarm bells ringing in Nesta’s head, has every hair on the back of her neck standing on end.

“Elain…” Nesta starts cautiously, watching with wide eyes as her sister starts to walk closer to the Cauldron. “Elain, what are you doing?”

Whether her sister can hear her or not, Nesta isn’t sure. Elain continues walking until she’s stood right at the foot of the wooden platform, smoke dancing and curling up her calves like flames, sparking against her skin like daylight. Like a puppet on strings, Elain’s hand slowly raises from her side, her outstretched hand reaching forward.

“Elain, don’t!”

Nesta’s free hand curls around Elain’s wrists at the same moment Elain’s fingers curl around the lip of the Cauldron. Nesta’s chest heaves, her entire body tensing up in anticipation, but nothing happens. There’s no explosion, no blinding light. The ground doesn’t shake and rumble beneath their feet. There’s just that choking stillness.

“Darkness from the west trembles in the light,” Elain speaks, her voice somehow sounding far away, like it’s not her own.

“Elain?” Nesta whispers, giving her sister’s wrist a tentative squeeze.

“As the sun rises on a new empire—”

“What’s wrong with her? Why is she saying that?” Feyre asks over Elain’s still speaking voice.

“I don’t know,” Nesta hisses, turning over her shoulder to glare at Feyre.

“The golden bonds escape the pyre—”

“Elain,” Nesta tries again, tugging on her sister’s hand more forcefully. “Stop that.”

“—unity births power unforeseen.” Nesta drops Feyre's hand and steps forward, physically prying Elain’s fingers off the Cauldron. “The gods will bow before the strength of three.”

With a soft gasp, Elain stumbles back, Nesta curling an arm around her waist to try and hold her steady. Elain blinks a few times, and it’s stark relief that floods through Nesta as she takes in the bright brown color, pink flooding back into her sister's cheeks and face.

“What happened?” Elain asks, her words slightly slurred together.

Before Nesta can answer her, Elain’s eyes flutter closed, Nesta practically crashing to the cold, hard stone floor in her effort to catch Elain’s deadweight. She wraps her arms tightly around Elain, tugging so her sister’s head is cradled in her lap. Her heart starts to pound when she lifts her hand to Elain’s cheek, the skin cool and clammy beneath her touch. She snaps her attention back to Feyre, her youngest sister standing with wide eyes and her arms curled around herself.

“We need to get Mama.”

~ * * * ~

“Think harder, Nesta.”

It takes everything within Nesta to swallow down her sigh. She already knows what making such a sound will earn her, but it’s easier said than done. They’ve been at this for what feels like hours now.

“I told you, Mama. I can’t be sure,” Nesta explains, keeping her eyes downcast and away from where her mother is pacing across the room. “I was more focused on making sure Elain was okay.”

“Honestly, Nesta,” Elinor sighs, and though Nesta keeps her attention firmly on her own lap, she can perfectly imagine her mother’s expression. “Your sister gives a prophecy in the Cauldron’s presence, and you couldn’t bother to remember it?”

“There was…” Nesta squeezes her eyes shut, trying to focus. “There was something about unity. Blessed unity and it creating unforseen power… something about an empire, I think?”

“An empire? What about an empire?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Dammit, Nesta. Focus.”

The slap sings hard across Nesta’s cheek, the metallic taste of blood spilling in her mouth from how hard she bites her tongue to keep in her cry of surprise. Her fingers curl into fists in her lap, nails biting into her skin to ground herself, and Nesta takes a shaking breath in and out of her nose. She can tell that her mother’s patience is wearing beyond thin, that soon her mother will tire of this back and forth. And she knows that if she doesn’t do this, Elinor will turn her methods on Feyre next.

So taking another, more calming breath, Nesta imagines herself back in that room, in that cellar with her sisters. She imagines the Cauldron before her, bubbling and smoking. She imagines Elain’s face and the faraway look in her eyes. She imagines seeing Elain’s mouth move, the words spilling forth.

“The gods will bow before the strength of three,” Nesta recites back, just as Elain had.

She waits for her mother's clipping words, perhaps another slap over only remembering the single, final line, but there's only silence echoing in the room. Tentatively, Nesta raises her head, intent on meeting her mother's steely blue gaze head on, but Elinor's focus is far away, her attention snagged out the window. Nesta turns her own attention outside, curiosity piqued, but whatever her mother is staring at, whatever she sees laid out before her, it's only in her mind. Finally, she turns back to Nesta, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at her painted lips.

“Perhaps you won't be a disappointment to the Archeron name after all.”

—

Taglist (let me know if you’d like to be added or removed): @moodymelanist @nesquik-arccheron @sv0430 @talkfantasytome @bookstantrash @eirini-thaleia @ubigaia @fromthelibraryofemilyj @luivagr-blog @lifeisntafantasy @superspiritfestival @hiimheresworld @marigold-morelli @sweet-pea1 @emeriethevalkyriegirl @pyxxie @dustjacketmusings @hallway5 @dongjunma @glowing-stick-generation @melonsfantasyworld @isterofimias @goddess-aelin @melphss @theladystardust @a-trifling-matter @blueunoias @kookskoocie @wolfnesta @blurredlamplight @hereforthenessian @skaixo @jmoonjones @burningsnowleopard @whyisaravenlike-awritingdesk @ofduskanddreams @rarephloxes @thelovelymadone @books-books-books4ever @tenaciousdiplomatloverprune @that-little-red-head @readergalaxy @thesnugglingduck @kale-theteaqueen @tarquindaddy

[whispersinthedawn]

Concealed in the Coriolis Ch 7

“First time I saw you, I thought you were a model,” Percy blurted out. “Models are – supremely attractive individuals people buy pictures of and would follow into danger simply because they crooked a finger.” 

What a convoluted way to admit to attraction – except Percy couldn’t make himself confess to something he’d never entertained. Oh, Apollo had been hot. 

But Annabeth and Rachel were hotter.  

“Sure, waking up from unconsciousness just to see your face would be terrifying, if you threw me on the ground, I’d probably break all the bones in my body, and if you tossed a hairbrush at me, you’d knock a hole in my head,” Percy kept talking and just talking despite the horror filling Coronis’s features.  

“I’ve never seen you fight, and you never stole a toothbrush for me or sent someone to medical with hives so I could go on a quest, but I’m certain you have your talents.”  

What talents did Apollo have again? 

“Like setting fires or speeding up vehicles,” Percy enthused. “Or ensuring that my arrows strike the target. No wait. That was Hera.” 

Or whatever they called her in the city with a name that resembled the Phlegethon that Percy had already forgotten except to note it was one of those self-aggrandizing, egoistic examples of aristocracy that culminated in changing perfectly normal names into some reflection of your own name.  

As if they were so terrified of being forgotten they needed to merge their legends with those of an entire city so that their shadow would endure for eternity. 

A crackling noise from the ceiling drew Percy’s attention upwards. Even as he watched, dust from dried mortar rained down and cracks appeared around a rectangular piece of the roof. Percy peered up at the spot, trying to figure out whether this was an extraordinary circumstance or if the entire roof was about to collapse on his head.  

The wooden tile dangled for a heartbeat, allowing a beam of sunlight to illuminate dust motes dancing in a column just an inch from Percy’s bare foot. Then the aged mortar gave up the fight and the wooden shingle collided with the horizontal rods forming a lattice below the ceiling, before crashing next to Percy’s foot and sending splinters and sunlight everywhere.    

‘Oh, just apologise and say you’ve hit your head and keep spouting the opposite of whatever you mean!’ Coronis pleaded, covering her face with her hands yet peeking out through the gaps between her fingers. 

“I mean,” Percy said hesitantly while staring at the drops of crimson blood beading up on the back of his hand, “You’re a wonderful healer. But is it really healing if you’re the reason the wounds were inflicted in the first place?” 

Another shingle fell to his left. 

“You didn't listen to the whole thing!” Percy tried instead. Apollo was the god of truth, wasn’t he? Perhaps he’d appreciate some unfiltered honesty instead of whatever unhinged narrative had escaped Percy’s mouth while trying to reach a compromise between the inevitability of crafting the future and the unwillingness to participate in that creation. 

“You and I – can create the best child ever!” 

Silence.  

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful?” Percy wheedled. “A child with your hair and my eyes? He’d inherit your skills at healing and be able to cure even death. And he’d inherit ... a love for mortality from me and use those talents to cheat death. And then get murdered in a very messy manner, but until then it would be a land with neither droughts nor floods!” 

‘Why?’ Coronis moaned. ‘Why would you say that?’ 

***

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A spotify playlist for the whole series

[chaoticdelinqueerwithglitter]

I'll love you better when I'm dead

(chapter 206 from Sanzu's POV)

(tragic MuSan drabble)

(link to ao3 in case some one preferes to read it there)

First of all...I'm sorry for this (not really but yes a lot at the same time, but I did this to myself too). An evil snail shared with me this AMAZING AND BRUTAL essay on Sanzu & katana-chan and reading the last pages about Mucho, this fic happened. So first of all...

GO, READ THE ESSAY NOW!

Summary: "We are both dying here today, captain."

[or why Sanzu looses his grip]

Warnings: Manga Spoilers. Major Character Death (chapter 206, duh). Hurt/No Comfort. Like for real, comfort has been slashed with a katana and is sinking in the bottom of the ocean.

The title is from "Love you better" because I listened in a loop for two days while reading the essay and writing this.

Oh, I played with Sanzu name (again, yes) but this time doing a full Jinx, ooopsie!

(English is not my first language, so be nice please 🙈)

It’s been six months since the Kanto Incident. Six months of planning for this day, of imagining how he’s going to punish that damn traitor. Of pretending his whole body doesn’t ache at the idea of killing the only person that made him feel like he mattered.

Haruchiyo is good at that, at hiding his true feelings from the world, lying to himself as much as he needs as a way of achieving it. He’s good at rationalize the overwhelming whirlwind of emotions that threaten to flood his mind all the time. He’s used to repress the pain, keep his anxiety at bay, bury all of it next to the memories he can’t face without having the need to scream and break everything at his reach (including himself).

Six months that seem to crumble the second his captain’s eyes light up when he spots him outside the detention center.

The ride is dominated by silence, that only breaks with Muto’s simple questions about how he’s been doing during this time. Genuine concern plastered on the face he’s supposed to hate. Haruchiyo wants to laugh hysterically at this, the irony that even now the older boy is only worried about him. Instead, he just gives short answers, knowing the other won’t push his boundaries.

They are finally at the wharf and his resolve flatters for a moment, overwhelmed by a kindness that he forgot how warm it feels.

“I’ve been waiting for this day...”

Haruchiyo trails off, talking mostly to himself. His hands grip the hilt of the katana, steading his inner turmoil with the reminder of why he’s doing this. The tangible proof of his vow, of the promise that gives him purpose. Wielding it with years of practice, preparing himself to strike a fatal blow.

‘Is that it? Is that the only reason I’m doing this?’

He hesitates, consciously loosening his grip on one hand and landing a sloppy cut that buys him some precious seconds.

“You damned betrayer!”

‘Liar, you made me think I could trust you, made me feel safe, seen. How can you say you love me when you couldn’t tell your treason would rot everything we shared?’

“Sanzu...?”

Muto looks at him in shock, trying to stop the bleeding with his hand and falling on his knees. He’s the perfect image of bewilderment, like he can’t comprehend what is happening, why is happening.

“I’ve been fooling you all along.”

‘I’ve been fooling myself, pretending this never meant anything to me. Pretending you never meant anything to me.’

Haruchiyo keeps talking, winning some time in order to collect his thoughts, to understand his own feelings in order to let them go and fully put his heart on the second hit.

“Remember our conversation that day when we were playing shogi? I said it, right?”

‘Do you remember how you told me I also mattered? You made me yearn for more, you were the first person that taught me to be selfish, to listen to my own needs.’

It’s almost ironic, realizing killing Muto is a sick way of putting himself first. Realizing this is personal.

“Protecting the king is the priority. You betrayed Mikey, didn’t you?”

‘You betrayed me, didn’t you?’

He takes off his mask, the scars reminding him of his place, letting go the faint illusion it could ever be somewhere else. That it could be next to his captain. He can’t forget it again, can’t keep hiding his devotion behind his craving for affection.

A sadistic grin on his face. That’s the new mask he’s going to show to a world that will never be the same for him.

“Now it’s checkmate.”

This time the cut is fatal, slashing a lot more than flesh and bones and severing the ties between them.

‘We are both dying here today, captain.’

Somehow, Muto hears the words he never says. But his will be the only tears shed, no one else will mourn the Haruchiyo that knew genuine love.

Sanzu can’t allow himself to grieve. He can’t be weak again, these seconds that felt like ages will be the last entertaining the idea he could be more than a loyal knight to his beloved king.

He made a promise and Sanzu is willing to do anything in order to fulfill it. Even killing a part of himself forever. His weakness, the love that tempted him to break free of his sacred vow. In a twisted way, he can’t avoid thinking how fitting it feels burying it with his captain.

Haruchiyo is dead.

Only Sanzu prevails.

[towine]

[alhaitham/cyno] be sweet

~900 words / rated T

i was digging in my WIPs folder and found a ficlet i’d forgotten about. i remember the idea striking me on a long car ride a couple months ago, just one of those random things that i Had to start writing while the idea was in my head.

the idea was, simply, ‘what if cyno could tie a cherry stem with his tongue?’

- -

“Come now, you can’t tell me the General Mahamatra has not a single party trick up his sleeve.”

Alhaitham’s voice had taken a syrupy quality. It could be attributed to the wine he was nursing, though Cyno knew he hadn’t had more than half a glass. Alhaitham so rarely spoke without a point, and time had given Cyno more experience discerning what that point may be, in any given conversation.

In this case, he was trying to get a rise out of him. To what end—well. The what was always easier to figure out than the why.

“I don’t wear sleeves,” Cyno replied.

Alhaitham rolled his eyes. “Oh spare me, Cyno.”

Cyno hid a smile by taking a cherry from a bowl on the table and popping it in his mouth.

Around the cherry pit, he said, “I thought you wanted me to entertain you.”

“I don’t believe I’m the first to tell you your jokes are far from entertaining.”

“Allow me to explain—“

“No, no,” Alhaitham said with a wave of his hand. “Please forget I said anything.”

They went quiet after that, in their secluded corner of Alhaitham’s dining room. The rest of the attendants of that night’s group dinner were gathered in the living room, seated on the couches or on the rug and hotly debating different home rules for a game of mancala. Alhaitham and Cyno had elected to refrain from participating. Kaveh was making a heartfelt, if meandering, case for himself. Dehya was savagely denying him.

Cyno said, “If you’re so bored, you can join them, you know.”

“Not really where my interests lie.” Alhaitham set down his now empty glass. “You are a far more fascinating subject.”

Maybe he was drunk after all, Cyno thought. Alhaitham would not otherwise be so candid.

“You don’t prefer to read one of your books?” Cyno asked.

“No—no more books on dinner nights. I learned my lesson last time when Kaveh spilled wine on my lap. He was lucky it wasn’t one of my more prized books.”

“That was pretty funny, though.” Cyno nearly smiled recalling it. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so angry. Your face turned puce.”

“Puce,” Alhaitham said, wrinkling his nose. “Ugh.”

“Not much can crack the Scribe’s exterior,” Cyno continued. He plucked another cherry from the bowl. “At least, that’s what the rumors say.”

“And you believe them?” Alhaitham asked, tilting his head.

Cyno shrugged a shoulder. “There’s some truth to it. But I don’t think you’re as unflappable as people say.”

“Really? And what data do you have to support this hypothesis?”

Cyno regarded him for a moment, mouth closed but teeth still chewing on the cherry he’d eaten, its tartness flooding his tongue.

He spat the pit out, then twirled the stem between his thumb and forefinger.

“You wanted a party trick, right?” he said.

Alhaitham blinked. Before he could respond, Cyno stuck the stem into his mouth.

He made a point of locking eyes with Alhaitham. Alhaitham looked confused. Already he was proving Cyno’s point. Cyno would have grinned if his mouth weren’t preoccupied.

He hadn’t done this in a while, but the motions came back to him quickly enough. His jaw flexed slightly as he worked his tongue behind his closed mouth. Alhaitham’s gaze melted from confusion to something hazier, his eyes occasionally flitting down to Cyno’s mouth.

Finally, Cyno parted his lips and reached for the tip of the cherry stem, bitten between his teeth. He pulled it out.

The stem was now tied in a small knot.

“Ta-da,” Cyno said flatly. He allowed himself one smirk. “Impressive enough for you?”

Alhaitham grabbed him by the jaw.

It caught Cyno by surprise, prompting a small gasp. It was a sudden movement but not an ungentle one. Alhaitham’s palm was broad and warm, cupping Cyno’s chin easily. His thumb settled against the hinge of Cyno’s jaw and pushed, not hard, just applying enough pressure to encourage Cyno to part his lips. Cyno’s heartbeat pounded in his ears.

“How did you do that?” Alhaitham murmured, eyes fixed to Cyno’s lower lip. Perhaps the cherry had stained it.

“Practice,” Cyno breathed. He snuck a glance at the others in the living room. They were still focused on the game.

“That’s all?”

“I could show you.” Cyno’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Just not here.”

Alhaitham hummed. “What if I’d like to see it here?”

Cyno scoffed. Beneath the table, he moved his foot to brush along the inside of Alhaitham’s calf, then upwards, towards the bend of his knee. Alhaitham inhaled sharply through his nose.

“Trust me,” Cyno said, “I can show you more somewhere else.”

Alhaitham seemed to consider it. “Fine,” he said. “Your place?”

“My place. I’ll leave first. Follow in five minutes.”

Cyno rose from his seat, pulling himself out of Alhaitham’s grip. He swallowed against the sudden loss of warmth. He glanced at the others who continued to pay them no mind, then he looked at Alhaitham, staring up at him expectantly. Cyno supposed he deserved something to tide him over.

He bent down and pressed his mouth to Alhaitham’s in a quick, heated kiss. The taste of cherries mingled between them, sweet and heady, before Cyno pulled away. Alhaitham leaned in to chase his mouth.

“Don’t keep me waiting long,” Cyno murmured.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Alhaitham said. There: a hint of a smile. Too easy.

Cyno popped another cherry into his mouth before walking away, feeling the weight of Alhaitham’s gaze on him the entire time.

[theskeletonprior]

This Tav Tale was commissioned by @quaintrix. Thank you for coming back, and entrusting me again with Solinore! Interested in a Tav Tale of your own? Look here for details. Kar’niss has developed a new fascination. Content Tags: Consensual blood-drinking, attempted cult deprogramming via tadpole Read it here on AO3!

Kar’niss has developed a new fascination. He does not forget his Queen, no, but she has sent this True Soul to him for a reason. Solinore. So much slips away into the dark, but the taste of her blood is emblazoned on his mind. A single bright spark in the shadows, too eye-catching to ignore. He has not been so drawn to anything since he first held his Moonlantern in his hand to light the way. It’s difficult to think of anything else. His hunger is sated. There are not yet new faithful to guide to Moonrise. So Kar’niss follows this fascination. In spite of his size, it’s easy for him to move relatively undetected. The True Souls are not all created equal, and most keep their eyes ahead. They don’t look up. Kar’niss moves in the rafters with a second nature he hadn’t had before Lolth had changed him. He hears Solinore before he sees her, and as he peers down over the broken stone, he understands why.

Araj Oblodra. Her name rings out as clear in his mind as his own. That blood thief. His lips pull back from his fangs, his stomach twisting at the wrongness inside her. The stink of it. The taste. She has his blood, too. Taken from him when the third day had come, and his body was weak, and his desperation had made him incapable of saying no, fighting back. The cut was swift, long healed, but he feels it still. That vampire spawn is with Solinore, the object of Araj’s interest. Kar’niss knows without having heard it, what Araj must have asked of them. The swift cut. The bite. Flood his mouth with the foul taste of her.

They must tell her no, Majesty, he thinks. Say it, True Soul. No. Kar’niss doesn’t realize it when his tadpole connects to Solinore’s, doesn’t realize that she hears him, and is gone before she can look up and answer him. Back to his web, where Araj will not come, for fear that he might fling her from the walls. She does not have enough of his blood to control him anymore, to make him recoil from the idea of harming her. She has not learned now to make it last. His Queen in all of Her great glory protects him. Still, he knows it’s best not to linger, to let Araj see him. She is cunning, and wicked. If she sees him, she will watch, wait for that third day, when he is weak, when he is fragile. Kar’niss scuttles back to his nest, up high, higher, close to his Majesty. He settles in the silks, amongst his threadbare cushions, clutching one to his chest. He breathes slowly, closes his many eyes. The darkness comforts him. He is alone with his Queen, enfolded in her grace that softens his great forgetting. He is not lost, shattered. Merely adrift in the soft shadows. They can be beautiful again, as they had been in the murky before. Sometimes he tries to reach for memory, to what was lost. He knows House Oblodra, the wicked things they’d done before Lolth had leant her aid to House Baenre to strike them down, he knows that the enemy of that spider bitch is his friend, but he knows just as well that Araj Oblodra is not so dear as that. She wants his teeth in her, to watch what her filthy blood does to him.

Kar’niss’ grip tightens on the cushion, the stuffing itching against his chest where it pokes through, but in time, he relaxes again. He is nearly asleep when he hears ascending footsteps. Not the quickstep of goblins, in a hurry to reach his nest so that they can summarily flee from it, not the brisk, soldierly footsteps of one of Z’rell’s minions.

“Who comes, my Queen?” he wonders aloud, moving up in his web, clinging to the outside of the tower. Perhaps he will be fortunate, and it will be some poor fool who doesn’t know better to stay out of the silks. His hunger is not so urgent, yet, but he feeds when he can. The dry bones littering the ground are evidence of this, cracked open so he can suck the marrow out too.

“Ugh, this place is filthy.” Kar’niss has heard this voice before, how it shifts nimbly from honey into venom, thick as blood in the air. A decadent voice. Another answers, and this one he knows, too. Feather-light, relaxed, but in a practiced way. Delicate as lace, and as intricate. He stays out of sight, listening to their banter. Perhaps they mean to go elsewhere, or they’ve become lost in Moonrise. But the voices grow louder. Closer.

“You could’ve stayed downstairs if you’re going to complain the whole time, Astarion.”

“Oh, not to worry, darling. I shan’t complain the whole time. Just most of it.” The heavy curtain draped over what amounts to the doorway leading into Kar’niss’ nest flaps aside. “Wonderful! Nobody home. I don’t suppose that means we can leave now, does it?” Solinore doesn’t bother to respond. Kar’niss can hear her footfalls clearly now, brisk, fearless. She calls to him. He wonders if she knows she’d barely have to speak to conjure him. It is a wonder that she has come back to him of her own accord. You bless us, Majesty.

“Kar’niss?” He hesitates, barely daring to whisper to his Queen for guidance. What if she has struck a bargain with Araj Oblodra? The thought makes him bare his fangs. He doesn’t show himself. “I just want to talk,” Solinore tells him. He can feel her mind, so she must feel his. He’ll be found. His Lady is a bridge between them. “I saw you watching us.”

“What did you tell the blood merchant?” he asks from his place on the wall. Solinore chuckles, and it’s such a bright, airy sound that it almost lures him closer.

“We told her to fuck herself, obviously.” It’s so vulgar that Kar’niss believes it and he moves into sight. He takes in his... Visitors? Solinore, bright and pretty as the first day he’d seen her, and Astarion, handsome in his way but with a lip that’s curled in disdain for his surroundings. Squeamish. “I’ve got a question for you,” Solinore says.

“Ask. We are listening.”

“Why’d you warn us?” Those mismatched eyes look up wonderingly, a curiosity that Kar’niss meets with his own. He hadn’t. Unless he had merely forgotten.

“Did the dark swallow up another piece of us, my Queen?” The vampire spawn scoffs at him.

“Nothing in his head but cobwebs and a wriggling tadpole, I’m afraid. Let’s go.” Solinore waves him off, a faint furrow in her brow.

“You were watching us. You wanted us to tell her no. Why’s that?” Kar’niss has to contain himself.

“Araj Oblodra has stolen blood from us,” he says. “Her House is wicked, and none of what she offers will do you any good. You were wise, spawn, to keep your fangs out of her neck. She would prey on you.”

“You don’t say.” Astarion rolls his eyes. Red like rubies, deep underground. Jealous, he remembers. Solinore had called him jealous, once. Make me patient, my Queen. Kar’niss inhales through his teeth. This man means something to Solinore, and what he knows for certain is that she has been blessed by the Absolute. He must be here for a reason. For the moment, Solinore pays him no mind.

“You helped us,” she says. “So now, I’m here to help you.” Kar’niss cocks his head. Another strange offer, and one made for nearly nothing.

“We did not help. I watched, nothing more.”

“Well, then this is a steal for you,” Astarion chimes in, dodging nimbly when Solinore elbows at him. Kar’niss descends from his web. See my faith in you, Majesty.

“There is nothing that I need that my Queen cannot provide,” he says, and the vampire spawn laughs at him. The mocking sound makes Kar’niss bare his teeth.

“Quite a boast, with an illithid tadpole curled up nice and snug inside your brain.”

“Lies!” Kar’niss nearly lunges. “They call you an abomination, Majesty! An intrusion.” The snarl reverberates deep in his chest, his hand itching for his sword before Solinore comes between them. He bends, snatching her face in his hand, long claws brushing against the delicate skin as he searches her eyes as though he could see the truth in their mismatched color. This is not enough to frighten her, though he sees it when Astarion reaches for his scimitars. Solinore’s hand closes gently around his wrist, and then her mind touches his. It isn’t the overwhelming force of the Absolute, but something gentler. She is only asking, and he yields. He lets her in, and she shows him a vision of true horror. The illithids, the nautiloid... All of it through her eyes. It is a torment that passes in an instant, crowding his mind with day after day of this infection. Kar’niss cannot believe it. He has been taken in. Deceived. When he recoils, it’s with force enough to send Solinore stumbling. “Blasphemy! Blasphemy!” This cannot be, my Queen. There is steel at his throat before he can rear back, before he can arm himself.

“I think that’s more than enough.” The vampire spawn is not so gentle, but Kar’niss sees it in his mind, too. There is a presence, enfolding them in its protection, and when it reaches him too, he can only cry out. His memories... His thoughts. They are shattered.

“What have you done to me?” Kar’niss growls out the question, almost heedless of the killing edge resting on his throat. How could even a moment’s fear live inside him now? He does not need his sword to gut Astarion, to cast Solinore down from the tower. She has raised her fists to defend herself, but in seeing her, he cannot believe that someone who would save his life, who would turn away the blood thief, would lie to him. Something has disconnected inside him, and the anguish is more than he can give utterance to; he wants to retreat into the embrace of his Queen. Speak to me now, show me the truth. Show me Your light again. But there comes no light. There comes no voice. None, but Solinore’s.

“I’m sorry. It was the only way to help you see what’s really happening here. Your lantern... It’s just a pixie, in there. You’ve been lied to, but not by us. I know you want something to believe in, Kar’niss, but you won’t find that in this place,” she says.

“So you can try to relax,” Astarion chimes in, “or I can kill you out of mercy.” The challenge makes him bristle, but he relents, his posture slackening. It’s only his pride that keeps him from collapsing outright. He hangs his head, feeling the powerful reflex to call out to his Queen. Is there truly nothing but an illithid scheme?

“My lantern...” he breathes. “My light...” He makes his way slowly to the only bright corner of his nest, taking the Moonlantern in hand. He has to see it, himself. It’s as plain to him, now, as the scent of fresh blood. A trick. An illusion. The thing inside curses his name when he drops it in a voice he has never heard before. He lowers his body, legs curling in as if he’d been hurt. He almost wishes it was something so simply mended as a wound. Kar’niss hangs his head, clutching the lank strands of his hair, shuddering with the sobs he struggles to keep behind his teeth. He is ruined, and ruined anew. If this is some new lie dressed up as salvation, he knows he will draw blood this time. He will take the revenge that is owed to him, or fight to the death in the effort of claiming it. Kar’niss winces when he feels the warmth of Solinore drawing near. Her hand rests softly between his shoulder blades. It’s that small touch which undoes him, and he crumples into her.

“Save me.” He’d pled for that before, so many times, it is the only thing he has left to want. Solinore gathers him up, and her voice is so close, so familiar. It feels as if it’s only the two of them. He can forget the curled lip and indifferent gaze of the vampire spawn, repulsed in his moment of fragility.

“You can save yourself.” She says it with the kind of certainty that only someone who’s done it can have. Kar’niss draws himself up, and Solinore takes his hands. “You just have to breathe.” He follows her lead, the strange breathing patterns, and for the first time in a long, long time, his mind begins to clear. The pits in his memory remain, long stretches of wreckage left from Lolth’s wicked sorceries.

“That’s better.” Solinore’s hands are soft, and Kar’niss leans into the touch. He lets out one more slow breath, his many eyes slipping closed. It is nearly clarity. This feeling has been so far away that it returns to newness. “See? Pulled yourself out of it. And now, if you want, we can look a bit deeper. Try to put our tadpoles together, pick up the pieces.”

“No.” Kar’niss rests his hands over hers.

“What d’you mean, ‘no?”” Astarion interjects.

“Were we unclear?” Kar’niss turns on him, scowling. “No. My mind is mine, barely mine... I want it to myself. This debt is too great.”

“So? Pay it! I’m sure we could conceive of a use for someone who is so terribly adept at scaling walls.” Astarion’s expression is hard to read; Kar’niss can see the layers of artifice at work. He is difficult to pay any attention to when Solinore is so close to him.

“Come with us.”

“And maybe, just maybe consider a bath.”

The requests come at once, and again Kar’niss whips around to look at Astarion. “It’s been a stressful day,” the spawn self-corrects. “Don’t you agree? Nothing like a nice soak to take the edge off.”

“You are just a bit muddy,” Solinore concedes with a chuckle. “A lot muddy. No mirrors up here, huh?”

“No,” Kar’niss bares his teeth at the thought. He has done well not to see what he’s become. He can’t bear to imagine the sight. The unfamiliar face.

“Well... No mirrors required. We do happen to know someone who can heat a tub in just a snap, though. I can think of a few other ways to sweeten the deal.” Kar’niss looks at Solinore questioningly and she beckons him close and whispers. “I still have blood to spare.”

“We will go with you,” he agrees, “but not for that. To honor our debt to you.” Astarion lets out an amused hum.

“More for me, then. Shall we go? Please?”

Kar’niss will have to spin a new web to dwell amongst these True Souls... No, not True Souls. He doesn’t know what they are, what protects them. Not really. He tries to stay present, to bear the scrutiny of the strange spotted woman who wishes to assess his combat capability, the fascination of the wizard. He rather likes the horned man, who seems to understand what it is to be altered by the monstrous hand of evil magic. And the burning woman, true to Solinore’s promise, makes the water in their makeshift tub steam just by sticking her hand in it.

“Old trick I picked up in Avernus,” she’d said, to Kar’niss’ incredible bewilderment. And he’d seen it, too, in glimpses. That horrid inferno, the dusty red skies. “Give you some privacy.” And Kar’niss is alone with the steaming tub, magicked large enough to accommodate him, and his mind is quiet. Only the old, dull whispers, but even these are blunted somehow. He controls his breathing, forcing himself into the moment, the particular difficulty of bathing.

“Brought you a bucket.” Solinore’s voice startles him, and she shows her palms, the bucket dangling from the crook of her elbow. “Easy. Thought you might need someone to get your back.” Kar’niss nods. This is better than being alone, than the silence of his Queen, the simmering rage he feels at her falsehoods. “Might as well get mine, too, if you’re not too shy.” Solinore smiles, tugging her shirt open. Kar’niss does not avert his eyes, though he doesn’t allow them to roam, either. She strips down, and despite himself, he catches a glimpse of a birthmark on her shapely behind, like a masterful blot of ink. Her beauty is composed of so many small details that he has no doubt that he has yet to find them all. Solinore sighs as she steps into the tub, filling up the bucket. “Give you a splash?” Kar’niss lowers his head, and Solinore spills the warm water down his back. It’s a delicious feeling.

“More, please.” Another rill of warm water, this time down his chest. Solinore reaches out, moving slowly, beginning to scrub away the dirt and mud. When she wrings out the rag outside the tub, it’s murkier than Kar’niss supposes. He hasn’t seen himself; he avoids his reflection in the tub, watching Solinore instead. A low, rumbling purr escapes him as she scrubs at his neck, leaning down so she can reach his scalp.

“There’s that sound again... Enjoying yourself?” Solinore smirks up at him, satisfied with her good work. He can see the marks on her neck from the last time he’d fed, and the hunger coils in his gut, entangled with something else that he dares not acknowledge. She’s so bright, so lovely.

“I am...” It comes out of him like a confession, like a forbidden thing. This body should never feel the way it does then. “Let us show you how it feels.” He leans down close, letting his breath chill her damp skin. “Turn around, Solinore.” She turns slowly and Kar’niss gathers some of the bathwater in his hands, pouring it down the cleft of her back. He smooths his hands over her shoulders, his talons lightly tracing over her skin.

“You going to bite me?” Kar’niss goes stiff, mechanically scooping up water to let it roll back down her back, gently scrubbing her clean even as he processes the question.

“It is not the third day,” he tells her. But a question rises in his mind, and he allows it to reach his lips. “Do you enjoy it?” It’s difficult to be sure if the flush that rises is from the warmth of the tub, or if he’s flustered her, but it’s a pleasant sight all the same.

“I--” He has not seen her stammer before. “It’s not like that.” She folds her arms over her chest, but she doesn’t recoil from him. “I just... It’s not like you can do without. And isn’t it... Isn’t it better, not to wait until the third day? I saw how you looked.” Kar’niss can see her pulse jumping in her throat. It’s beautiful. “Besides... Easy clean-up after, I’m already in the bath...” He bends his head and kisses the marks he’s left, following the impulse right to the edge.

“This is enough,” he says, breathing her in. “We are sated.” He waits, feeling the tension like a strand of spidersilk. “But in time,” he continues, “the hunger will return.” It is there, now, but he restrains himself. Carefully, so carefully. “If it would please you, Solinore, there is much I owe, already.” She shivers, but he knows she can’t be cold.

“Call it a need for mutual back-scratching?” She peers over her shoulder at him and then rolls her head, exposing more of her neck. Suddenly his need, that wretched appetite, is not as hideous as it has been, he feels no disgust for what he wants, for the curse that makes him want it. There’s only this moment. He nips lightly, slipping his arms around her, embracing the warmth. He reaches out with his forelegs, feeling her, holding her securely as he had done that first time. He’s heard the sound she makes when letting blood, and now he knows it for what it is. Pleasure. His purr rumbles low in his chest, but he never bites, lapping softly at the thin rivulet of blood that wells from where he’s nipped her, one delectable drop at a time. Solinore reaches up, one hand tangling in his hair, relaxing in his grip.

“What you ask of me, is yours,” Kar’niss says, applying pressure to the nick he’d made to stop what little bleeding he’d caused.

“You sure?” she asks, playfully. “I could ask for another ride on your back. Or...” He knows what that smirk implies.

“What you ask of me,” he says again, “is yours.” Solinore turns that delicious rosy color.

“Then let’s stay here a bit longer,” she says. “Just like this.” In this new clarity, he can see the color of his fascinations, how it shifts towards obsession. That part of him is not so eagerly severed, even with the illithid tadpole quietened, the Absolute shown for some new deceiver, he still craves something more than blood. He needs no light but this. He starves for it each day. Something to believe.

[wholoveseggs]

Moonlight - Chapter Ten

A woman’s life is turned completely upside-down when she encounters some demons in the woods.

I will be putting specific warnings for each chapter as they come out, there is smut and violence in some but I'll tag those chapters accordingly.

If you rather read this on Ao3- Link is here

2k Words - Warnings: Smut and Fluff.

{Masterlist} - {Chapter list} Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven

Flame

Emma woke in an unfamiliar bed, the room illuminated in soft candlelight. The events of the day prior flooded her mind, and she sat up. Peering into the darkness, she could hear the sounds of voices from a room below.

She got out of bed, moving quietly to the door. Elijah opened it before she could get to it, holding another candle, a soft smile on his face.

"I brought you something," he said quietly, closing the door behind him.

In his hand was a dark green dress, made of fine fabric. It was the nicest garment she had ever seen. She took it from him and held it up, admiring it, giving him an appreciative smile.

"Am I like you now? A beautiful demon dressed in finery?" she inquired, peeling off her tattered and blood-stained clothes.

It amused her when he averted his gaze, seemingly attempting to preserve her modesty. What happened the night before had cured her of any puritanical notions.

"Do you still see me as a demon?" he asked, directing his attention to the wall.

"Just a little," she teased, slipping into fresh undergarments, "But I like that part of you."

He turned to meet her gaze, his eyes filled with sorrow. "I wasn't always," he confessed, his voice barely audible as he sat on the bed, looking down at his hands.

"I think we all have a demon inside of us," she said quietly. "We define ourselves by how we wield it. You unleashed the darkest parts of your soul to save me."

Seating herself next to him, she studied the flickering shadows cast by the candlelight on the wall. "Mine took pleasure in watching you end him, feeling no remorse."

Elijah sighed, tenderly taking her hand. "That's alright," he said, pressing his lips to her palm.

For so long, she had lived in fear of Tomas, shattered in countless ways by his brutality. His darkness had tainted her, but she refused to let it shape her future.

"What do I do now?" she questioned, her eyes locking onto his.

"Live however you wish. I will provide you with anything you need," he assured her, reaching out to gently caress her face.

Her mind wandered to the vial of blood he had given her; it was nothing more than ashes now. She longed to be like him— beautiful, powerful, and eternal. To be absolutely free and give in to all her desires.

But before she could contemplate eternity, all she craved was him for the night. She studied his striking figure, bathed in the gentle glow of candlelight. "Can I have you?" she asked, her lips meeting his in a gentle, eager kiss.

Her encounters with men from the village had always been hurried affairs, consumed by lust, often against a tree deep in the forest, far removed from Tomas's reach. When forced to be with Tomas, her mind would escape to the clearing, seeking solace in the scent of lilacs and the caress of a soft breeze against her skin.

But with Elijah, she wanted to feel everything. A new, intoxicating feeling stirred in her chest as he responded to her kiss. He placed a gentle hand at the base of her neck, his other arm wrapping around her waist, drawing her closer. His lips were soft upon hers, and she savored the taste of him. She began to unbutton his shirt, lowering her head to kiss each bit of his chest that she revealed.

This was the first time she had experienced intimacy like this; her hands began to shake, not knowing what to expect. Sensing her unease, he took her hands, intertwining his fingers with hers. "It's alright," he whispered, "We don't have to."

He pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek and began to button his shirt. However, she halted his movements, locking eyes with him. "I want to," she said softly, her voice barely more than a whisper, "Ever since the first day I saw you." Her cheeks flushed with her own admission.

He responded with a warm smile, tenderly cupping her face. "With a demon?" he jokingly admonished, "They are dangerous, you know." 

She laughed as he pulled her onto his lap, placing her knees around his hips. She let out a soft moan as he began trailing kisses along her shoulder. She slowly pulled off his shirt, kissing his neck and chest, her hands traveling their way down his torso. He watched her explore him with a warm smile on his face then gently pulled off her undergarments. His gaze trailed over her naked form sitting perfectly on top of him then locked on to her face, searching for any indication of reluctance, finding none. 

His sole focus became demonstrating his love for her. He took one of her breasts into his mouth, gently swirling his tongue around her nipple then moving to the other one. She moaned into his neck, clutching his shoulders with her hands, with her hips slowly grinding against his.

They stayed this way for a while, letting out soft huffs as they kissed every inch they could reach from their positions. Her hands continued to explore him, her face was flushed and she giggled as he kissed along her neck and jaw. They both felt joyful and unhurried in the moment, satisfied in having each other just like this. Elijah loved the redness of her cheeks and her beautiful smile as her hands roamed his chest. He gave her a tender kiss as he flipped them around, placing her underneath him on the bed. 

His hands made their way down her body, gently parting her legs. "You are so beautiful, dark one," she whispered, observing his handsome face, her fingers softly grazing his lips. Their eyes met as his hands traveled between her legs, her expression widened then turned lustful from the contact. She let out a soft gasp, and he pressed his lips against hers again. Every gentle swirl of his fingers sent a thrill through her body, building layers of pleasure. Wanting to make him feel the same way, she reached into his pants, taking his length into her hand. She enjoyed the weight of it, slowly stroking him. 

His gaze turned intense, a hunger blooming behind his eyes. He dipped his fingers inside of her, slowly pumping as the heat between them built to a flame. She could feel a deep pressure building to a tipping point, it was something she never experienced before, but she didn't want it to stop. He removed his hand from her, pausing the rising flames. She was confused momentarily as he moved down her body, kissing her breasts, then her stomach and then her… 

She gasped loudly as he kissed her most intimate place, slowly savoring her with his tongue. Flames shot up behind her eyes, pressure began to build again, and she was absolutely lost in pleasure. He gently pushed his fingers back inside her, causing her hips to move involuntarily from the intensity of it. Sitting up a little, she looked down at his face between her legs, his dark eyes filled with lust as they gazed into hers. She fell back against the pillows, her eyes closed as she let out a loud moan. The concept of time disappeared as she squirmed and panted underneath him. He held her down, letting out a low hum into her. The vibrations he caused made everything snap; an explosive feeling like no other sent shockwaves through her entire body. Although her heart was pounding and her body was tense and shaking, she had never felt so good in her entire life.

Elijah looked up at her from between her legs, observing the look of shock and bliss on her face. He figured she hadn't known much in the ways of love and was honored he got to show her. He made his way back up, kissing and leaving soft marks along the way. She moaned underneath him, their eyes meeting as she came down.

"Can all demons do that?" she panted, pressing her hands into his chest as he kissed her.

"No, only me," he chuckled, then began to kiss her neck.

"Liar," she teased breathlessly.

He smiled and looked into her eyes, taking in her beautiful face. "Do you want more?" he asked gently. Her cheeks turned red from the question, and she looked down between them, reaching down and brushing his length with her fingertips. 

"God, yes," she whispered. He gave her a soft kiss before pulling back a bit and positioning himself, pulling her hips down to meet his. He rubbed his tip against her opening, causing her to quietly whimper. He gripped her waist and leaned forward, slowly plunging into her. His lips met hers as he moved his body slowly. She moaned into his mouth, one hand curled into his hair, the other gripping his shoulder, pulling him closer. 

He whispered sweet things into her ear as he continued his slow pace, wanting the moment to last for as long as possible. Any previous experience she had was completely overshadowed by the way he felt. His loving gaze set her heart on fire, and she could feel an intense pleasure begin to build that was even deeper than before. "Elijah," she moaned, and he quickened his pace, letting out a low groan at the sound of his name on her lips. 

She began to tighten around him, the intensity in his eyes turning them even darker. He leaned back and pushed her thighs up higher, making her tighten even more. She looked down at the sight of his length pumping in and out of her, wrapping a hand around the base of him, feeling her own wetness as he buried himself inside her. "Emmm-," Elijah stuttered, his movements becoming erratic. He leaned forward, pressing his body against her, intertwining her hands with his, pulling them above her head. The room was filled with the sound of moaning and their bodies colliding. Elijah couldn't hold on much longer, not after she touched him like that. But he needed to feel her release before he could let go. 

She was completely lost in the feeling, her eyes closed as her pleasure built to an unsustainable level. He kissed her passionately, pressing her into the bed, wanting nothing more than to consume her entirely. She felt as if her heart had cracked open; she never wanted the feeling to end, nor did she want to be parted from him. She cried out as her legs began to shake, then an explosion erupted within her, the sensation somehow more intense and pleasurable than the last. His mouth found hers, and he let go, letting out a low grunt as he finished inside her. They lay there, wrapped up in each other, kissing as though it were the only way to breathe.

After a while, Elijah pulled away, gazing into her eyes as he shifted them so she was lying on top of him. Her heartbeat slowly returned to a normal pace, and she rested her head on his chest, listening to his steady breathing.

"Is it always like that with you?" she asked in a shaky voice, still catching her breath.

"No," he chuckled.

Elijah ran his fingers through her hair, feeling her relax onto his chest. He glanced up at the ceiling, observing the shadows that the candlelight cast upon it, wishing he could stay in this room with her forever and that nothing would change. He had learned from his few centuries of living that his wish was impossible; change would roll over them regardless of what they desired. He looked down at her now sleeping face, watching her chest gently rise and fall. 

All he could do was love and protect her for as long as fate allowed.

{Masterlist} - {Chapter list} Chapter Nine - Chapter Ten - Chapter Eleven