#what if I just keep trying to carve out my soul and there's nothing left

[dj-of-the-coven]

Y'all ever just spontaneously lose the ability to make art

[ashfdhfgdsfk]

might remake to a new account entirely and change the name i go by

[jolapeno]

cold, biting

frankie morales x f!reader | masterlist

Painting you in it, all varying shades, a masterpiece he thinks he’s came across, but really just became the first to admire.

wc: 1.3k warnings: smut (18+). mentions of smut. keeping warm. jo writing. my spelling. notes: I wrote this on limited sleep, cold, and very much wanting to have some form of body heat next to me. so maybe I should warn about spelling too.

It’s cold, biting.

All wintery breath trying to pierce through, bleed over memories of warmer months.

It makes your skin practically weep if it slithers from under the thick duvet, it trying to kiss you, the air tinged only with bitterness. It’s crawling, climbing—sliding up over surfaces, its icy touch desperate to create steam by meeting something warm.

Seeking, hunting—it wants to wrap its claws around flesh, seep into bone. It wants to nestle down deep inside of you so you carry that chill around all day.

It isn’t able to, because of him.

Him and his broad shoulders, loose curls, summer-kind smile and wiry hair that doesn’t grow in full places along his beard—a little space you trace, pretend it’s a heart. It’s where I kissed you all those years ago, wasn’t it? You would tease. Remembering a time when you were more cowardly than confident, more afraid than unforgiving. You’re thankful that isn’t you now

Yeah, he always says, left a mark on me. It’s always said with warmth, all comforting. Usually, his arms come around your waist, a kiss on your forehead.

You hope he’s aware he’s left marks of his own. Little things imprinted on you, carved in you, perfect places for his favourite colour to go, his favourite song, the things which make a bad day a little easier to get through.

You’d let him in during the spring, what feels like a thousand years ago. The flowers opening, the air warm and the sun shining. But, you fell for him in the summer over a year ago—BBQ smoke and little lanterns, fingers finding the softness of his skin and liking the way brick felt on your bare shoulders when the two of you stole a moment.

In the fall just gone, his things found themselves with yours, merged, a house becoming a home. Surfaces no longer innocent, but a playground, nails scratching, leaving marks of your own against things as he made your eyes head fill with stars and your body thrum with nothing but pleasure.

Winter brings something else.

It brings softer declarations whispered against the soap-sud glass. It brings the hungry look from him when he sees you in his clothes, even handing you a pair of socks just because. It brings longing when the bed feels too big, hand stroking out where he’s supposed to be—his voice down the phone doing nothing to fill the void.

He’s always wanted, practically a necessity, but in the colder months, it’s a demand. There’s room for complaint in the warmer months when his skin is clammy, legs far too desperate to slide themselves around yours. Body letting heat escape, it all rolling out, washing over the room.

But, it’s welcomed in the winter.

Pull me a little closer, you think. Lashes fluttering, smile half-sleepy. And he does, arm coming out, palm on your back, pushing and guiding until you’re more him than you are you. No clear line where the two of you part, just one singular soul.

There’s frost on the outside, and condensation on the inside glass. But the yellowing of the morning is still persevering in blanketing you in natural warmth. You look so beautiful, he whispers—and when he says it you believe him. Staring into his eyes, unwilling to find a single fabrication. Your stomach pooling with heat, a hunger awakening in you—one you have more often than not around him—as you lift your eyes to the incoming morning.

The window has popped, need to fix that, he continues, barely above a whisper, following your eye line, lingering on it.

So, you kiss him. Icy lips against his, feeling warmth bloom in your throat, descend down to your lungs. You lick into his mouth, tasting fire, hoping it fills your stomach, and forces heat to bathe your bones. Smother me, you want to ask, but instead, he makes flames lick up your spine. Pushing fabric to the side, fingers tracing, finding your seam—teasing, taunting. Making toes curl under sheets and fabric, little whispered pleas coat the skin close to his ear. Is this all for me?

Yes.

Always yes.

Frankie is precise, and knows just what to do. Listening to you, trained in doing so, even when words don’t leave your lips. It’s a gift, he smirked once, mouth coated in your slick, tongue flicking out against your core.

You couldn’t argue, he was a treat.

At some stage you’d wondered, practically suspected he’d found a manual for you. Figured out each zone that made you putty—thank fuck he did. He never leaves you wanting, never lets you beg for too long. Too eager to please, too happy to give.

You want my cock, yeah? Your response comes out breathless, more air punched from your lungs when he finally answers himself. So thick, so long—all compact, all you can think about as he stills, as he rubs two circles on your hip in that way he does until you relax around him, allow him to move. So tight, baby.

There are worse things to be than full of Frankie. You’ve experienced a portion of time before it, it doesn't hold a candle to the time that came when he rested his arm on the doorframe, and told you (in the most asking, polite way) that he was going to kiss you. You want to be full of him always, in all the ways it counts—like this, and in your heart, and in your soul.

A need for waffles on Sundays where At Last plays, and Wednesdays when he brings home a bag of takeout and the two of you see how long you’ll make it through the show before you’re on his lap. Insatiable, some would say, but it’s hard not to be when you’re happy.

His hand fans out over your lower back, skating over your skin—murmurs of softness, of perfection. Painting you in it, all varying shades, a masterpiece he thinks he’s came across, but really just became the first to admire.

Never stop.

You’d told him that then when his mouth—chapped and salty from pretzels—slanted over yours that first time. You repeat it now as his hips move, as he slides his hand up and across your shoulder blades.

And it’s not long until you’re panting, until his name forms part of your unconscious narrative. Repeating it, interspersing it with expletives and moans, each he takes, captures, bottles and keeps.

He’s a collector like that, a person who has a drawer solely of things which don’t make up anything on their own—screws, bolts, plugs and cables. You often wonder if he has a drawer for you inside his head, an array of Polaroids, made up from moments like this where he tells you how good you look, how beautiful you are, how perfect you feel hugging his cock, how good your pussy feels—

The room is filled with sinful sounds, wet, skin slapping. Music to the ears.

More, you shout only in the void in your head. Nails gripping, body tense, taunt and coiled.

Then you’re shuddering, blissfully turning to warm lava—spreading out, relaxing, unspooling. Held in place, mouth finding his, writing poetry on his tongue before his movements twitch, break their pattern, and your throat is coated in a moan of your name.

You swallow it, the way he says it. Makes you hate it a little less, and makes you want to hear it over and over—because in the day you prefer the nicknames, but at night you prefer the one on your certificates.

Breath caught, little wisps of air leaving both of you with each pant, he brushes your cheek—skin like a blaze, keeping the shiver from ever gracing you.

Let’s not go anywhere today, you say, sleep-filled and soft. Okay, he responds, sliding against you.

It’s less cold, and less biting.

But that’s because of him, your nose buried into his neck, heart hammering against your side. Then you hear the heating click on—but you still prefer him to keep you warm.

— for @secretelephanttattoo because it’s cold, I adore her and I want to make her smile.

[alyrasturnz]

Can you pleaseee do The Bolter with Matt!

Maybe reader and Matt had a fast love and then she left him heartbroken because she was afraid.

Can be happy ending or not, you decide!

LOVEEE your writing

 ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎THE BOLTER

❐ summary » when matt unveils to y/n the profound truth that fear holds no dominion in his presence, he gently dismantles the walls of trepidation, revealing a sanctuary where vulnerability is met with unwavering strength and compassion.

❐ pairings » bf!matt x fem!reader

❐ warnings » toxic relationship, slut shaming, arguments

❐ a/n && w/c » when the writers block is so bad you discontinue two fics 😭 this was a cm away from getting discontinued • 1.75k

the air in the room is thick with unspoken words, a tangible tension that seems to press down on your chest. liam stands by the window, his silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the curtains, his back rigid, fists tightly clenched. you draw in a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment, and attempt to steady your wavering voice.

"why won't you just talk to me, liam? what's going on?" you inquire, your voice tinged with a growing frustration that simmers just beneath the surface.

he whirls around, his eyes glacial and unyielding. "you really want to know? fine. let's talk about how you always run away when things get tough."

a heavy weight descends upon your chest, pulling your heart into a chasm of despair. "what are you talking about?"

"don't play dumb, y/n. every time we hit a rough patch, you bolt. you can't handle anything that isn't perfect." he forces the words out through clenched teeth, each syllable laden with barely restrained fury.

a tumultuous blend of guilt and anger churns within you, each emotion vying for dominance in the labyrinth of your heart. "that's not true. i just need space sometimes."

liam's visage transforms into a mask of unyielding resolve, his features set in an unforgiving rigidity. "space? is that what you call disappearing for days without a word? leaving me wondering if you're ever coming back?"

you advance with deliberate steps, your voice crescendoing with each word. "i need time to think! you never give me that. you suffocate me."

he retreats a step, his voice laced with a biting sarcasm that cuts through the air like a sharpened blade. "oh, so now it's my fault? you're the one who can't stick around and work things out."

your eyes narrow to slits, the glistening threat of tears teetering on the brink of falling. "i try, liam. but you make it so hard. you push and push until i can't take it anymore."

liam's face contorts with a fury that seems to burn from within. "you know what your problem is, y/n? you're a bolter. the minute something goes wrong, you run. you're nothing but a coward."

the words slice through you like a dagger, and you feel your heart fracture into a thousand irreparable pieces. "how dare you say that? i care about us, but i can't keep fighting if you don't believe in me."

he fixes you with a piercing glare, his jaw clenched so tightly that it seems to be carved from stone. "believe in you? how can i, when you keep running away?"

with that, he storms out of the room, the door slamming shut with a thunderous crash that seems to shake the very walls. his final words, dripping with venom, reverberate in your mind, leaving a lingering, painful sting that burrows deep into your soul and refuses to fade, casting a shadow over your thoughts and emotions.

"whore."

the silence that follows is almost tangible, an oppressive force that presses down upon you, amplifying the weight of his words that hang heavy in the air like a storm cloud. you sink to the floor, your legs giving way beneath the burden of your emotions, tears streaming down your face in a torrent as you grapple with the overwhelming sense of loss and confusion, wondering how everything unraveled so disastrously.

»--•--«

you squeeze your eyes shut at the memory, your back pressed firmly against the headboard, as if seeking solace from its solid presence. the recollection floods your mind, each detail sharp and vivid, causing a shiver to run down your spine as you try to ward off the haunting images.

you and matt had engaged in a similarly heated argument just the other day, the crux of it revolving around your tendency to shut him out. the words exchanged were sharp and biting, each one a dagger that deepened the chasm between you, leaving an echo of unresolved tension in its wake.

but you had immediately bolted, your feet carrying you away in a desperate flight before he could utter another word, leaving his unfinished sentences hanging in the air like ghosts, haunting the space where you once stood.

and you won't deny it, whenever you catch even the slightest hint of vulnerability, the smallest leak in your emotional armor, you feel an overwhelming urge to bolt. it's as if an invisible force propels you to flee, to escape before the floodgates open and drown you in a deluge of emotions you fear you cannot control.

the mere thought of facing such raw, unfiltered feelings sends a shiver down your spine, compelling you to seek refuge in the safety of solitude, where the walls you’ve built around your heart remain unbreached.

you have always been a runner. people would often hurl insults, calling you a whore for it, but their words never penetrated the fortress you built around your heart. it didn't matter to you because, in the grand tapestry of your existence, you needed to prioritize your own happiness, to shield yourself from the ever-present fear of getting hurt. the prospect of emotional pain loomed like a dark cloud, and so you ran, seeking the clear skies of self-preservation.

all your fucking lives flashed before your eyes with every word matt uttered that day. each syllable seemed to unravel a tapestry of memories, yet it wasn't as harrowing as the venomous words that your previous boyfriends had once wielded like weapons. their cruelty had carved deep scars, but matt's words, though piercing, were but a shadow of the pain you had endured before.

you were terrified. the mere thought of it sent chills down your spine. you didn't want to relive the harrowing sensation of the first time you fell through the ice, when the cold gripped you like a vice and the world above seemed to vanish into a blur of panic and desperation.

the memory of that piercing cold and the suffocating fear was enough to make you shudder, a reminder of the vulnerability you never wished to feel again.

your thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the resonant chime of the doorbell, its sound slicing through the silence and scattering your contemplations like leaves in the wind.

you rose from your seat, each step echoing softly as you made your way out of your room and down the hallway. with a deep breath, you reached the front door, the anticipation building as you turned the handle. as the door swung open, there stood matt, his presence filling the threshold with an air of familiarity and unspoken emotions.

"matt?" you whisper, your voice barely audible, as though the mere utterance of his name might shatter the delicate tension hanging in the air.

matt stood a few feet away, his expression a turbulent blend of concern and frustration, his eyes searching yours for answers unspoken.

"why do you always shut me out?" he asked softly, his voice tinged with a mix of vulnerability and desperation, as he attempted to bridge the chasm that had grown between you.

you sighed, the weight of your past relationships pressing down on you like an invisible burden. "i just... i can't help it," you murmured, your voice tinged with a trace of sorrow. "you're the best thing i've ever had. every time things get tough, i feel this overwhelming urge to run. it's like i'm constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, bracing myself for the inevitable disappointment."

matt took a step closer, his presence a comforting anchor amidst your swirling doubts. "i'm not like them, you know," he said, his voice gentle yet resolute. "i'm not going to abandon you just because we hit a rough patch. i'm here to weather the storms with you."

you looked up, your eyes a storm of doubt and uncertainty, searching his for a glimmer of reassurance. "but what if things get really bad? what if i mess everything up?"

he smiled softly, his touch gentle yet grounding as he took your hands in his, offering a silent promise of unwavering support. "then we work through it together. no matter how bad things get, i'm not going anywhere. you're stuck with me, remember?"

you bit your lip, the memories of past heartbreaks flashing through your mind like ghostly apparitions, each one a reminder of the pain you've endured. "it's just... every time i start to feel safe, something happens. it's like i'm always on edge, waiting for things to fall apart."

matt's grip on your hands tightened, his eyes steadfastly locked onto yours, a silent vow of his unwavering commitment. "i get it. you've been hurt before, and it's left scars. but i'm not them. i'm here, and i'm not going to let a few bumps in the road scare me away."

a solitary tear traced a path down your cheek, a fleeting testament to your vulnerability, before you hastily brushed it away. "i don't want to push you away, but sometimes it feels like the only way to protect myself."

he gently cupped your face, his thumb tenderly sweeping away the lingering tear, as if erasing the sorrow etched upon your skin. "you don't have to protect yourself from me. i'm not here to hurt you. i'm here to love you, flaws and all. even if we argue, even if things get tough, i'm not leaving."

you took a deep breath, the remnants of fear still clinging to your heart, yet gradually being eclipsed by the burgeoning light of hope. "promise?"

matt nodded, the sincerity in his eyes speaking volumes, conveying a depth of understanding beyond mere words. "promise. we're in this together, for better or worse."

you felt a warmth radiate through your chest, the tendrils of fear gradually dissolving. perhaps, just perhaps, you could entrust him with the fragile treasure of your heart. "okay," you whispered, leaning into his touch. "i'll try."

matt smiled, his lips bestowing a tender kiss upon your forehead, a silent promise woven into the delicate touch. "that's all i ask. we'll figure it out together."

as you rested your head against his shoulder, a glimmer of hope began to flicker within you. the warmth of his presence seemed to chase away the shadows of doubt, and in that quiet moment, you dared to believe that perhaps this time, the tides of fate would shift.

maybe, just maybe, you had discovered someone truly worth holding onto, someone who could mend the fractures of your heart and walk beside you on the journey ahead.

[catboybiologist]

Sappy emo time? Sappy emo time. Or idk, sappy beauty time. I'm a bit burnt out of graduate studies atm and reminding myself a little of why I love science in the first place.

I very explicitly consider myself Atheist, not really even agnostic. But a huge part of that is because I think there's something a bit more beautiful and even a little holy in the way the universe exists on its own. Without something making it "tick".

There's no creator that carved those valleys, but the eons of the river running through it have left their mark in every pebble, every rock, and every living thing that takes refuge by them. Maybe there's something divine in that without a god.

There’s nothing that designed the animals around me and the environments they live in, but I still see how everything from the invertebrates in the mud to the megafauna around them lives in a weird, discordant harmony, an amalgamation of every erratic piece of behavior that any of them ever exhibited. Maybe there’s something a little holy in that without a congregation.

I've felt the skin of the ones I love, and the pleasure in the erotic, expressing themselves as an array of action potentials from sensory neurons so dazzlingly complex and chaotic that even studying every detail of them doesn't come close to bringing the human mind to understanding its own existence. Maybe there's something spiritual in that without a soul.

I've seen more that is sacred in a bustling street, with every person walking at a particular tempo, with their own hopes, dreams, and fears, than I ever have in the few religious ceremonies that I've participated in. Maybe there's something religious in that without a religion.

None of it is coordinated. You see chaos everywhere. You see pain everywhere. It's all an unoptimized, barely functioning mess. But its a mess of a million components, and by peeling back that veil one layer at a time

Science, particularly biology, lets me parse it out. Lets me engage in it. Let me pick apart each and every aspect of the living things around me and see them, witness them, even worship them in ways that I wouldn’t be capable of without it.

Is that a religion? Is that what religious people feel? I wouldn't know. I've never been religious, I was raised atheist. But maybe its something that keeps me on my feet and sparks my curiosity.

I'd also ask that you don't try to classify this as anything but what it is. I’m still atheist. The core of it is still empiricism and the lack of a god. It's just a kinder look at it, and maybe just a bit more of an attempt to see the beauty in the world after years of pessimism. The universe, at its core, is an incredible, gorgeous mess. Every negative emotion in my life has been a result of being blocked from seeing it like it really is.

Idk what I’m trying to do with this. Sorry if this sounds too much like the shitty cringe poetry book I wrote when I was 15.

[bucking-mustangs-with-wings]

Buck x Bucky Sorcerers vs Fae AU - WIP

I've got this one now in the works, as well as more for the Rodeo AU, my brain is fluttering back and forth between them atm, but I wanted to show a small bit of one of the scenes I'm working on for this. (Rough Draft).

The trees blurred in his peripheral, everything disappearing like the breath disappearing from his lungs, the panic pushing everything to the forefront. Just an adrenaline fuelled staccato beat thundering in his chest. Sweat beading at his brow.

Keep running. Just keep running, don't look back. Don't look back, or you're dead!

It was second nature to avoid the roots underfoot, the gnarled branches grabbing at the edges of his clothes and brushing his skin like long dead fingers trying to pull him down to the depths of hell. A cruel voice echoed in his head, that he was already there. He had already seen it. Hell was not far behind him, left in the debris littering familiar streets and captured under crumbled walls and burning in the flames of deliberate blue fire.

He could feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes, stinging and harsh. Could still feel the remnants of those flames licking at his skin. Could still hear the screams, anguished, terrified. Dead.

The sounds of magic, whirling like bullets past his ears still echoed in his skull, still kept their grip on his psych. It was as if he could still feel that dangerous energy in the air nipping at his heels like savage dogs, maws foaming with the need to watch him fall, clip his wings like a bird and send him tumbling down into the dirt.

"You can always tell, when that magic is about," his mother would always say, sitting in her chair at the dining table with a pair of knitting needles between her fingers, silver yarn spread over her lap and trailing off somewhere throughout the house. "It's like when a storm is coming, you can feel the shift in the air, the un-easiness settle in your stomach like you've swallowed iron weights. The hair on your arms stands on end like it's trying to sway away from it. You can taste it, on your tongue. You'll always know when it's close, Gale. When they're close. You'd do best to listen to what your instincts are telling you."

He tries to shake the image from his mind, vaulting himself over another moss covered root as thick as his arm. Of a familiar mouth, usually in a smile not unlike his own, now parted in shocked slack, crimson dripping from it's corners. An old, worn calloused hand with red painted nails outstretched in his direction, but still, lifeless. Eyes the same. Boring into his soul, frozen forever in an expression of pain and fear and emptiness. Nothing behind them. No light, no gleam. Just vacant and haunting and carved forever into the back of his mind like an etching in cement.

The air around him burned with every inhale, searing his over-worked lungs. His whole body was screaming at him to stop, that it couldn't take much more. It couldn't keep him going. It was on it's last legs, starved and exhausted and battered and bruised. Everything hurt.

A split second decision had him digging his heels into the soft forest floor, banking a hard left and flattening his back against a huge tree about three times his width. His shoulders heaved and shuddered, trying to draw in air, trying to keep his breath steady enough so that no un-necessary noise was made. The blood pumping through his terrified nervous system sounded like crashing ocean waves in his ears, his vision pulsing in and out with his heartbeat. He couldn't hear anything around him, could hardly see.

Squeezing his eyes closed, he kept his focus on the rhythm of his breath, palms squeezing, nails cutting into his flesh with enough force he was half expecting blood to drip between his fingers into the moss covered ground below.

His father's voice echoed in his head now, low and gruff but strong, serious and brave.

Controlling your breath can mean the difference between life and death out there, Gale. You control your breathing, you control your heart. They can sense your heartbeat, they have spells for that now. Shows them the echoes of it like damn fireworks. You don't want the wolves to hear you. Don't want them to see you. Or they'll empty those fireworks out of your chest and show it to you before they crush it under their boots.

Lifting his chin skyward, he focused what little eyesight he could properly see with with on the small sliver of blue sky peeking through the branches above his head. So plain and bare, normal. Completely oblivious to the horrible events taking place under it's enormous expanse. The more he stared, the more the roaring of his blood quieted in his skull, the more the incessant pulsing behind his eyes settled and he was able to take in the complete and utter silence that was enveloping the forest.

The thump-thump-thump buried deep in his sternum flowed more smoothly, but that hint of fear still had it's grips on him. Was still sinking it's teeth deep into his core like a splinter that would never be able to truly be plucked out.

If he could just get his bearings, could just sit for a moment, he could gather what few sensible thoughts were rattling around in his head and figure out where the hell we was supposed to go from here, what he was meant to do.

He could feel his legs trembling underneath him, his knees all but ready to give out and send him sinking down onto his haunches. He had to find somewhere safe. He had to find somewhere to rest for a few moments, a few hours if he was lucky enough.

He was just about to give in to his body's inconvenient exhaustion, let himself sit and allow his muscles and his still mildly racing heart to calm just that tad more, but the indistinct snapping of a branch far off to the right made every muscle in his overworked body freeze. His eyes shot down from the sky to stare straight ahead, his breathing caught in his throat, even though his lungs still protested at having their much needed supply of oxygen once again denied them fully.

But he couldn't let himself.

An acrid, sour taste crawled up his throat, coating his tongue like he'd just licked a copper penny, sparks dancing over his teeth and sending painful pulses through the very bone of his jaw. The fear quickly followed it again, his heartbeat beginning it's frantic and loud race and gripping his very soul like a cold blanket of electricity. He felt the sensation creep it's way through every cell, every vessel, every nerve. Like being submerged in freezing water.

Like a deer cornered by a wolf, he flickered his gaze down to his arms, held down by his sides.

Every hair was lifted and pointed skyward like they were trying to get away from something sinister.

"We got another one up ahead!"

[ofduskanddreams]

This Lovely Enigma

For @catboyjamesbond. The prompt: Royalty AU Azris, Eris is king and needs a consort. Azriel is the one who catches his eye.

Azris ✦ Rated M ✦ 2.5k words (yeah ik) ✦ on AO3

"The Ruler shall take a consort within a year of their coronation lest they forfeit the title to the Heir. The Crown is too heavy a burden to bear alone." 

Eris knows that particular stipulation so well that he sees it in his dreams and behind his eyelids whenever he blinks. 

His crown hits the ornately carved walnut throne with a dull thud as Eris looks to the paned glass dome of the ceiling above the dais in the empty throne room and groans. 

A wry laugh echoes from his left, “Ah, let me guess: woe is me, I am but a king facing the truly arduous task of choosing a partner from a selection of the most competent and beautiful of my subjects.”

Callan has been Eris’s most loyal guard for nearly a decade. Eris would never allow such flippant sarcasm in public or from any other member of his staff, but Callan is the closest thing he has to a friend, not counting Eris’s brothers.

“I just don’t understand why my ancestors felt that such a useless clause would be one of the few immovable laws. Why do I need a consort in order to keep the title that is rightfully mine? I’ve been perfectly fine on my own so far,” Eris allows a granule of petulance to lace his words.

Cal just smiles and softly shakes his head. It’s unsettling to witness because that gesture is identical to one his mother often makes. 

“There’s nothing that can be done to change it, you know that. It’s been six months since your father’s passing—stars smile gently on his soul even though he was a right bastard—and now that the mourning period is coming to a close you know you can’t afford to waste another minute. This way you are giving yourself a little time to get to know them at least.”

“If I meet them today,” Eris points out, tracing the vines carved into the throne’s arm with a ringed finger. 

Knowing it’s better to voice his feelings than quash them, Eris sighs and begrudgingly continues the thought, “What if I can’t stand any of the people I meet today? Aren’t they all the children of the gentry? I don’t care about liking them, but I need to be able to tolerate them. You know how I hate sycophants, and that’s all they’re going to be—hoping that they can woo their way into the royal family and a better title.”

“Defeatism does not suit you, dear.” Serafina Vanserra, the Queen Mother, approaches the throne at an elegant glide.

Eris rises and descends the three steps of the dais. “And black did not suit you, Mother. It’s wonderful to see you in color again.” 

She’s donned a wine-red gown for the occasion, the rich color making her fair skin appear lit from within. The black they’d been wearing always made her look sickly pale. This, Eris thinks, is a very welcome change. 

Her lightly painted lips tug up in a smirk. “Flattery, while always welcome, will not divert my attention, Eris. Try having a little more faith in humanity. Giving up before the race has begun is the quickest way to ensure defeat.”

“I know,” Eris agrees. She’s right, of course, she is. He knows that he frequently walks the line between realism and pessimism and, while such an attitude guarantees that he is always prepared for worst-case scenarios and puts secondary measures in place for every plan, it is not an ideal outlook for the day ahead of him.

His mother raises a brow, waiting. 

“I promise to try,” Eris tells her. “I wouldn’t have bothered setting up this whole affair if I did not intend to make an attempt. It would have been far more efficient to simply select a name from a list but, believe it or not, my heart is not made of stone.”

“I know that, darling.” Her hand is soft and warm, the touch to his cheek a brief allowance of the affection that they’d been denied for so many years. “But it’s my hope that you will permit others to learn this as well.”

The ‘now that he’s gone’ hangs unspoken in the air between them.

“I hope so too,” Eris replies. It’s the best he can do while remaining honest. 

Hope, an ember banked for years upon years has, against every odd, retained its glow. Eris might even go as far as to say that, since his father’s death, the ember has sparked a flame.

 ✦ ✦ ✦

Azriel tries his best to hold still while his mother fusses with his jacket collar, but he’s restless.

“There,” Zahra smiles proudly as she steps to the side so he can view his reflection in the long mirror.

He scarcely recognizes the man staring back at him. His typically unruly hair is swept back off his forehead and tamed by something that smells faintly sweet. The clothes he’s wearing are finer than anything he’s owned before. The jacket is sapphire blue, laced up the back in gold—the same gold laces that begin at his wrists and end at his forearms. 

He’d thought the process of donning the garment ridiculously complicated, but Azriel can’t help thinking that the effect might be worth the effort. He looks… elegant? Everything is tighter than he’s used to. The jacket clings to the curve of his waist, and the breadth of his shoulders. The trousers are impossibly soft and fit like a second skin. His boots are supple black leather and buffed to a shine. 

It’s not just the clothes though. What really makes his reflection so foreign is the tint on his lips and cheeks, making it appear like he’s slightly flushed; it’s the hint of kohl smudged into his lashes and bringing a new brightness to his eyes. 

“My beautiful boy, my Azriel. Look at you,” his mother murmurs and the rosiness of his cheeks darkens at the sheer pride in her voice. 

“Thank you,” for this, for everything. The emotional rasp of his words embarrasses him.

It’s a public secret that Azriel is Lord Blackwell’s bastard despite his father’s begrudging formal claim. He’s certain that, had the decision been left to his father alone, he would have turned them out on the street. It had only been his paternal grandmother, to whom his mother was and is chief caregiver, threatening to change her will and cut him off that made the lord claim Azriel as his own. 

Sometimes, less often now than when he was young, Azriel wonders if life may have been better had they been forced to fend for themselves. It’s a notion he quickly shakes off. Who’s to say what could have happened? It was pointless to dwell upon.

“I’ve raised you for this, there’s no need to be anxious.” She takes his fidgeting hands in her own, thumbs tracing arcs over the pale web of scars. 

“I know,” Azriel assures her, dropping her hands with a squeeze to pull on his gloves. Knowing that he is thoroughly prepared has no effect on how he feels though. 

Only a fool wouldn’t be nervous before being presented as a potential consort to the king.

Azriel has caught glimpses of the then-prince now-king over the years, but there’s one memory that stands above all the rest: 

He was five and hiding from his brothers. Azriel had wandered into the stable as he often did and climbed the rickety ladder into the hayloft. 

Unlike all those previous afternoons spent up there, however, the hayloft was already occupied. A red-haired boy was sitting on his heels on the far side, his hand outstretched to something in the hay.

“What are you doing?” Azriel asked as he approached. 

The boy startled, his honey-colored eyes narrowing at Azriel. “Who are you?”

“My name is Azriel. Who are you?”

“You don’t know who I am?”

“Should I?”

The boy had laughed then and beckoned him over to come see. 

One of the barn cats had given birth to a litter of kittens. Azriel forgot all about his brothers as they passed the afternoon watching the kittens stumble around each other as their mother took turns licking them down.

It was only after the boy left that Azriel realized he’d never been told his name. 

The next time he saw the boy, a few months later, he was crossing the west courtyard with his mother. 

“Bow!” She hissed at him, dropping into a graceful curtsey as the boy and two guards walked past them. Azriel bent at the waist, waiting for his mother to rise before straightening his spine.

“Who was that, Mother?”

She looked at him, astonished. “That was Prince Eris. One day he will be our king.”

“Oh.”

It’s childish but, as Azriel makes his way down to the carriage his grandmother has arranged to take him to the palace, he can’t help wondering if Eris will remember him. If, maybe, he will look at Azriel and be reminded of golden dust motes and the sweet smell of hay just as Azriel is whenever he sees the king. 

He chides himself for being foolish as the carriage trundles through the city streets. He cannot afford to let something as asinine as sentiment distract him. This is his only opportunity to secure a better life for his mother, and he refuses to jeopardize it because of one afternoon a lifetime ago, even if that afternoon is one of the best he’s ever had.

✦ ✦ ✦

Eris smiles politely as the next prospect is introduced. The firstborn of Lord Arminta has an education overseen by a herd of tutors and an admittedly impressive number of instruments they play proficiently. They’re beautiful in the way a painting is beautiful—attention grabbing and pleasing to the eye—but Eris carries out a brief conversation with them as he has with everyone else who has been escorted through the throne room doors and feels nothing. 

As they go to join the other dozen prospects already milling about the refreshment tables, Eris leans over to ask his mother, “How many more are there?”

“You’re about halfway through.”

Eris swallows his groan, kings aren’t allowed. Callan’s posted by the doors and Eris looks at him with a subtle nod, signifying that he should send the next one in.

A hush falls over the room as the doors swing open to reveal what may just be the most striking person Eris has ever seen. Familiarity nags at him but he can’t recall why.

“Azriel Blackwell, he is the son of Lord Blackwell,” his mother supplies as she’s done for all the others. 

Azriel.

Azriel.

Somehow he knows that name, but he’s too distracted by the sight of his present to wonder about the past. Sharp hazel eyes watch him from a face that would not have been out of place on one of the statues in the sculpture gallery. This is a man who has been crafted by a mastered and magnanimous hand. His clothes are well-tailored, hinting at the power of lean muscles and showcasing elegantly proportioned limbs. 

The way he moves, grace belying strength, reminds Eris of a mountain lion, and yet those lovely eyes betray him. He’s not as confident as he is pretending to be, but Eris can hardly fault him for that. 

Before the thought is fully formed, Eris stands as Azriel stops before the dais. He’s remained seated for the others but something is urging him to go to him so he does. 

Azriel’s eyes widen before they drop to the floor, and he quickly folds into a bow. 

Eris doesn’t stop until he’s only an arm’s length away. “Rise,” he bids. His voice is softer than intended.

Azriel does, but his eyes remain fixed on Eris’s boots. Eris is only an inch or two taller than him which is a nice change. 

“Have we met before?”

“Yes, Your Majesty. Once, when we were children.” Azriel’s voice is rich and smooth, and Eris grins a little because he finds it pleasing. 

“Azriel,” Eris ponders aloud. It’s a beautiful name, unusual too. So why can’t he… “Kittens in the hayloft.”

Finally, Azriel looks up at him and there’s a questioning intensity in his gaze that sends a thrill up Eris’s spine. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Eris’s smile widens, and he dares to hope it’s that expression which causes a soft grin to spread on Azriel’s face. 

“By the stars,” Eris muses, scarcely resisting the urge to trace the curve of Azriel’s lower lip with his thumb, to press and see if that mouth would open to him.

“Is something wrong, Your Majesty?” Azriel inquires carefully.

“Far from it.” It’s just that his memory of a small scrawny boy with dirt on his forehead and a scraped knee poking through a hole in his trousers is difficult to reconcile with the person who stands before him now. “You’re rather exquisite, you know.”

This time, Eris allows himself an indulgence. He brushes a dark curl off Azriel’s forehead where it had fallen out of place with his bow.

Whether Azriel’s beautiful blush is the result of the compliment or Eris’s touch, Eris doesn’t care—either is a delightful prospect. 

“Your Majesty is too kind,” Azriel says, dipping his head as if it will conceal the color on his golden brown cheeks. 

“I assure you I am no such thing,” Eris huffs a laugh. “But if you fear my words are contrived, allow me to press upon you the sincerity of my confession over tea?”

“Tea, Your Majesty?” Azriel looks confused and Eris thinks it’s rather adorable.

“Yes.” Eris glances over his shoulder, giving his mother a pointed look which is met with a pleased grin. “I’m very curious to learn more about you, Azriel. If you’ll do me the honor of joining me?” On impulse, Eris holds out his hand. 

“The honor is mine, Your Majesty. I find myself plagued by a similar curiosity.” There’s a hint of a smirk in Azriel’s polite smile, an edge of something that Eris cannot wait to unearth. 

Azriel takes his hand but, to Eris’s dismay, he’s wearing gloves. That won’t do. Eris needs this man’s skin beneath his fingers. He takes Azriel’s wrist in one hand and tugs off the glove with the other, bowing to press a lingering kiss to his scarred knuckles. 

Eris’s thumb trails over the ridges and divots. When he glances up at Azriel, he’s surprised to see the man’s eyes wide in horror. That won’t do either. 

Of course, Eris had anticipated that he’d worn the gloves for a reason, but he didn’t care about how the scars felt though he was curious to know how they got there and knew he wouldn’t like the eventual answer.

Holding Azriel’s gaze, Eris lifts his hand to his lips this time. “Beautiful,” he says, then kisses the word into the scarred skin. 

Azriel inhales sharply; the sound wavering a little even as the tense set of his shoulders vanishes.

Not yet willing to release this lovely enigma named Azriel, Eris tucks his hand into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we get that tea, then?”

“It would be my pleasure,” Azriel says, fingers flexing on Eris’s arm.

Oh yes, I intend to be.

“The pleasure,” Eris lets some of the hunger stirring in his gut fill his gaze, “is all mine, Azriel.”

✦ ✦ ✦

tagging: @damedechance @ablogofsapphicpanic @iftheshoef1tz @panicatthenightcourt @moonpatroclus @the-lonelybarricade @krem-does-stuff @octobers-veryown @foundress0fnothing @melonsfantasyworld @fieldofdaisiies @lady-riel @queercontrarian @valkyrieassassin @brokeneveningstars @areyoudreaminof @itsthedoodle @xtaketwox @talons-and-teeth @thelovelymadone

[bullet-prooflove]

You’ve created a monster 👿 and because you told me to request you best believe I’m gonna %1000 come thru! So BETCH I am on my knees begging you to please do a part 2 or better yet even a full update 😆 of your Nero/Cam girl series please! I would love her reaction to him confessing his feelings for her and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD WOMAN PLEASE GIVE US THE SMUT WE DESERVE FINALLY!!! You are literally torturing me with these two because every time I read an update you post of them Im left yelling in frustration because the sexual tension is legit torture when you leave us with just a tease of them!!!

So please put me out of my misery and don’t let me endure another moment of torture because I just might break

💛💛💛

Keep up the awesomeness and can’t wait for your next update Queen

Companion piece to Day Off

This did not go the way I planned...

“I love you.” He tells you. “I’ve loved you since the moment we met.”

You don’t believe him; Nero can see it in your expression. You turn your head back towards the sky, your fingertips slipping from his so that your palm comes to rest upon your stomach. There’s a tension in your shoulders that resonates through your entire body.

“Is that what you say to all the other girls?” You ask him, your voice a rasp as you stare up at the clouds. “Is that why they sell themselves for you?”

“What?” He spits the word out like a curse because never in a million years did, he expect this from you.

There’s an agony blossoming in his chest, and he tries to shut it down, to be rational but truly you’ve shaken him. He can’t understand how he could have been so wrong about a person.

“I know when I’m being played Nero.” You say quietly, toying with the silver rings on your fingers. “I know what it means when a man says that he loves you, I know what’s expected in return.”

“That’s not what…” He trails off, his lips clamping together as he forces himself up into a sitting position, his elbows coming to rest on his knees as he inclines his head towards you. “You’re fucked up you know that?”

You lay there still sprawled on the grass; your arm thrown up over your head like in one of your boudoir shots on the website.

So fucking tempting and so fucking infuriating all at the same time.

“Do you think I’d be doing this job otherwise?” You ask him as you flick your sunglasses down from their place on the top of your head so that they cover your eyes. “Do you think I’d be selling myself if I was ‘normal’?”

Something happened to you, he feels it in his bones. Someone turned you out and once that happens you can never go back. You re-live the ways you’ve been used even when you step away from the life, it carves itself into your psyche. This he realises must be the compromise. The camming.

You don’t hook anymore, but you sell yourself in a different way and it erodes at your soul little by little until there’s nothing left but an emptiness right where it used to be. He thinks that’s what he’s looking at right now, that vastness. Someone reached into the depths of your spirit, and they tore it to pieces. He sees exactly who you are, and he loves you for it, the problem is your experiences have always been transactional, no matter what he says you’ll never believe him.

“I can’t do this anymore.” He tells you with a sigh. “It’s too much. I can’t be around you.”

There’s no way to win, he understands that now. In your mind, he will always be a pimp and you will always be a whore, trying to claw your way out from underneath him, even if it wasn’t him that put you there in the first place.

“Alright.” You say, your voice devoid of emotion. “I’ll get myself out of Diosa tomorrow.”

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

eternal youth is overrated - a good omens one shot

Summary: Heartbreak and loneliness have left Crowley marked in more ways than one. Aziraphale helps him see that this isn’t such a bad thing.

NOTES: I’ve always had a bit of a bittersweet fascination with aging (David Tennant’s crows’ feet make me emo in ways I cannot hope to describe), with the sadness but also the beauty inherent in it, and I thought it could be interesting to bring this idea to good omens. The concept was “what if Crowley started getting grey hairs after Aziraphale leaves, if, over time, his physical appearance subconsciously changed to reflect his mental state?” The fact that I wrote this as a 19 year old honestly just shows how much I need therapy, but it was honestly incredibly cathartic to work through some of my own mental struggles via Crowley in this fic. Aziraphale’s pov was equally fun to write, as I basically just got to write how he feels about Crowley based on what I feel about David (lol). Hope you enjoy my first Good Omens one shot- I may or may not make an A03 account if it gets enough engagement, I’m honestly pretty proud of it! Special thanks to my wonderful partner in crime @flyingfluse for providing some much needed inspiration!

PS: The title is actually from a song I wrote called Grow Old With Me (hopefully will be available someday fingers crossed)

——————

It had been a year.

Nothing to a demon, really. In the vast expanse of six thousand years on earth, not to mention the innumerable eons Before The Beginning, a year didn’t count for much more than a blip. But heartbreak is a funny thing. Time, for Crowley, now seemed to pass in a much more human fashion- the year that had elapsed since Aziraphale’s return to heaven, a year devoid of anything resembling laughter or joy, a year spent largely either sleeping or stewing in self-loathing, had seemed longer than the past hundred combined.

Crowley’s gaze blearily wandered to the rearview mirror of the Bentley. His reflection, as everything seemed to these days, mocked him.

Those sickly yellow eyes, reminding him of all he was and all that he could never be, like the sulfur he had been cast into all those millenia ago. On his worst days, it was like he could still feel it, eating away at him from the inside out, decaying his soul and with it, his body. It carved shadows into his cheeks and circles beneath his eyes, deep and dark as caverns. It rose in his throat until he choked on it, leaving his voice hoarse and acrid. It spewed out of him onto everything and everyone, every time he opened his mouth, an acidic bile of rage and bitterness.

He had been destroyed and rebuilt over and over through the millenia, and the product was a rough, hardened callus of a being, like a patch of skin that had been picked at too many times. He felt grotesque, untouchable, damaged- there would be no point to pursuing any new connections when no one would understand, nor why would they want to, when he seemed to turn everything he held to ashes? 

A ray of sunlight leaked through the window of the Bentley, catching upon Crowley’s hair, revealing it to be littered with strands of grey, collecting dust-like in his copper mane. How the mighty have fallen, he thought bitterly. Falling, always falling, like leaves in autumn, their color draining as their forms grow brittle and they become one with the earth. From dust they were made, and to dust, they shall return.

Perhaps in a year, he would be dust too. What would he care?

Demons didn’t naturally age, or so he had thought. But loneliness seemed to have made a mortal out of Crowley, centuries of it crashing down upon his corporation, wearing it to the bones, etching his torment into his skin. He could always just miracle any part of himself back to the way it was, reverse all this damned erosion… but what would it matter? Why even try to keep his hair from losing its color when all the color had drained from his life the second his angel had left it?

He felt so, so old.

A single, desperate sob escaped Crowley’s mouth, cracking out of him like splintering firewood.

As he weeped against the steering wheel, the Bentley switched on its radio in sympathy. 

I’ve walked too long in this lonely lane,

I’ve had enough of this same old game.

I’m a man of the world, they say that I’m strong,

But my heart is heavy and my hope is gone.

-----------------

    The demon lay curled in Aziraphale’s lap, clinging to his chest as a snake might in search of warmth. It clutched at Aziraphale’s soul to see Crowley this vulnerable, the swaggering and smirking stripped away to reveal a heart in desperate need of care and healing- a task Aziraphale considered his greatest duty and greatest pleasure, for he knew Crowley would do the same for him. 

    Aziraphale ran his fingers through Crowley’s hair, earning a deep sigh from his beloved, whose brows turned up in fragile, stirring comfort. He loved doing this, both to see how much his touch moved Crowley and because he simply loved his hair itself. Bold, striking, an instant head-turner, just like everything else about him. It was now the longest it had been since biblical times, falling in elegant waves past his shoulders. But oh, something else was different… it was streaked now with rivers of silver, gathering in deltas at his temples. It lit a familiar flame in Aziraphale’s chest; that bittersweet blend of desire and sympathy.

    “You’ve changed your hair, I see”, he said softly. 

     Crowley takes a labored swallow, strain and self consciousness seeping into his face. Whatever he says next, it’s clear that the admission is going to cost him.

     “When you left, I suppose I… let myself wither away.” His voice is lodged deep in his throat, thick and murky, leaking out of him like tar, a sound from the depths of his own personal hell. “Oh, Aziraphale…” he exhales, and it’s one of the most poignant Aziraphale has ever heard.  “I’m so tired. So worn down. So bloody ancient.”

      “So am I, my dear,” he says, trying to come across more soothing than concerned.

     “Yes, but you still shine in the same way you did all those millenia ago… still so bright, so soft.  I’m all tarnished and rusted up… I don’t know how you still want to touch me.”

     Aziraphale gazed down into Crowley’s eyes, piercing and pleading and fragile, like shattered stained glass. At his craggy, rough-hewn cheeks, all bones and edges he’d happily cut himself on to caress. At the deep, deep lines around his eyes, carved there by every grin and grimace and longing and ache. And oh, the silver in his hair… it suited him so, both rejecting and combining black and white with a color all his own. It wasn’t normal for immortal bodies, ethereal or occult, to bear the marks of time and experience as Crowley’s has. But then, Crowley was never an ordinary demon, or angel, was he? No, he was something far more exquisite. 

    “Oh, but I do… I  do…” Affection surges through Aziraphale as he kisses every crease and wrinkle, every scar and every glorious grey, every sign that his dear Crowley has lived. He feels Crowley’s hands winding through his hair in response and kisses those too, those eloquent, spindly fingers and calloused palms…

   “Crowley, my most cherished books… the covers are peeling, the pages are torn or yellowed with age… so why would you be any different?” His heart seizes up, his voice breaking a bit. “I have seen the fire and rain rage within you for so long, and I have seen the marks they have left upon you, and each one is precious to me. You know how I love to read… Why would I not want to see the story of my beloved written upon their face? My 

dear old serpent, my survivor…you don’t have to fight anymore…”

     He pulls Crowley tightly to his chest, drawing the tension from his shoulders and back before cupping the sides of his face as Crowley stares back, looking overwhelmed and old and so, so beautiful. “I want you exactly as you are. Rough and hard and frayed at the edges… you will never be too much of any of these things for me. In fact…” A slightly wicked twinkle forms in his eye as he smiles pointedly at Crowley: “They make you more tempting to me than ever.”

    Crowley processes this for a moment. “Well…” he croaks out, that hint of playful snark finding its way back into his throaty timbre, “I suppose there is something to be said for… shades of grey.” Aziraphale laughs, remembering the words he himself said to Crowley all those years ago, on the same night he realized just how much he adored him.

   Crowley smiles, that crooked, twisted, perfectly imperfect smile that Aziraphale missed, his eyes crinkling magnificently at the corners. “Kiss me,” he whispers, and Aziraphale is happy to oblige. Happy that Crowley, bold, fierce, independent Crowley, could finally let his guard down, could finally embrace that all of his scars and imperfections, every mark of time upon his face, everything he ever thought made him damaged and ugly only made him more beautiful in his sight.

[painsandconfusion]

The Whispering Woods

I wrote a little thing showcasing one of my oc's magic in rp and she (Aris) made me write a song for it so idk enjoy is suppose

Aris takes a moment, minding the proper melody. Translating in her mind and adjusting as she can. The instruments in the corner seem to play themselves, the wood of the string rapping to a harmonic rhythm to set an eerie cadence as the woodwinds blow like literal wind, fogged and eerie and nearly toneless. Her hums create the rest of the soundscape. Finally, she beings to sing.

All good children know Of the whispers of dark Of the stories of shadows And the blood of the lark They know to stay put And to hide in their beds When the whispers of woods Creep inside their heads

As she speaks of the woods, golden plumes of trees sprout up from the ground, nearly unnoticeable at first until a person or two points them out. Slowly, throughout the song, they grow toward the ceiling, outlines only with the texture of bark like golden threads woven through the air

The trees grow the sweet words That cloud a man’s mind That coax him to come With his kin dragged behind Theyll creep in your ears And split through your skull Theyll carve you to pieces And pluck out your soul The woods, the woods, The whispering woods Won’t you lend them your softest ear? The woods, the woods, The whispering woods How can one man decide what to fear?

The trees are in full bloom now, leaves twisting through an invisible wind and fluttering around them in the darkness. A woman made of the same golden thread blooms to life as well - just in front of Aris. There's a single beam of light that follows as the young (quite young, perhaps 16) woman begins to spin and roam in a dance.

Pliana was kind The fairest of maids With the voice of the lark And songs in her head She’d roam yellow hills And tell all the tales Of the creatures she met Of blight, wind, and gale

Darkness grows and the notes and echoes enforce this. The face of a man peeks over one of the windows - far larger than life and taking up much of the wall like a projection. Like a chess master's angered ponderance from the viewpoint of the chess piece he's scrutinizing.

A sorcerer saw And wanted her song To cut out her throat And bottle it up Pliana ran fast U’til her feet blistered The sky fell to dark As she ran She ran She ran She ran to the whispers

Pliana's golden outline dives and skitters around the 'stage', dodging firey attacks that the sorcerer aims at her. Often losing her footing, she leaves her dropped flower basket behind to sprint toward the woods.

The woods, the woods, The whispering woods Won’t you lend them your softest ear? The woods, the woods, The whispering woods How can one man decide what to fear? No one had ran there For shelter before The woods knew of nothing But how to keep score They wrapped her in smoke And clad her in bark Let her sing through leaves And live in the dark

One of the trees has wrapped the sobbing girl into a hug, comforting her in the embrace. Slowly, So slowly, Bark forms around her, encapsulating her completely until she's one with the tree. The tree stands again, just as it was before.

The sorcerer plunged Through thicket of trees Snarling cruel words and Dark vows of defeat Yet he could not survive, Try as he would, The goddess of whispers, The scream of the woods

The sorcerer's scream is highlighted by something betwixt the screech of the violin and the cry of a human voice, floating the line between them effortlessly in a distant echo that backdrops the song rather than playing an active part in it. Slowly, the trees start to fade into darkness.

The woods, the woods, The whispering woods Won’t you lend them your softest ear? The woods, the woods, The whispering woods How can one man decide what to fear?

When the trees have faded completely, the only thing left is Aris still encapsulated in her glow. But even that has begun to fade. By the time the final note and the reverberations are completely gone, so too is the light. And they are left in darkness. Stillness. An eerie, cool peace.

[whiteshipnightjar]

Marie At The Mill

by Joanna Newsom

(HORNS)

I see you coming down in your cherry wool coat bare to the throat like Marie at the Mill. Where might you go from your lowly amour where they hoard you like gold in the hill.

Sent from my side to the cold riverbed, Marie, you go ahead; I will follow in time. The work keeps me here with a few pioneers magnetizing a permanent line. Save for the coat, there was nothing to bring. It was found you could sing, you were sent to the Bay. At Seminary, you passed and were buried; I rose there the very next day.

For if you weren’t born at the right time, my dear, just keep trying and trying and trying again. As for the end, it is not what you fear, you’re just slipping a glove from your hand.

Like this: down, down, down, down your wrist down, down; the list of lives, husbands and wives, dozens of times around again and then,

out of all of the girls, heartbroke, alone, and to rot, and called me the heir of Melba and myth. I crossed the Atlantic, from Boston to Nantes on the hand of my dear Mr. Smith.

Then came his talk of perdition and sin like a cold winter wind come to blow me away. I was impatient and sought education on stage and the Champs-Élysées. I left on my own with the clothes on my back and my old name intact, and my own bills to pay. I left him in debt with his feathered grisette; alouette, je te plumerai. I had the honor to sing Mendelssohn on the Ternary lawn for the brave and the few. But it was my joy to be called to Bayreuth from who toiled a slave comes anew.

They prance for gentler worthiness and everyone who ruled a king may wander in rags for things done and undone and done and undone.

I wed Mr Russak, a fan, and producer of amateur music. All embedded in pearls, held court in Newport, amused myself before I threw off the veil of the world. And when in time he sank under the sea, what he deeded to me was enough to begin as secretary and past emissary; I rose through the ranks from within.

My carnelian snuff bottle carved as a peach and a small sterling wagon — well, that was part of the set — consigned to the waters of Elliot Beach, left behind with your Pall Mall Gazette.

And it was not luck, put me there by his side when the old Colonel died, and the adepts appeared, and all* what they share, well, you had to be there but I’ll tell you if you wanna hear.

Henry, your work here is done, Annie will carry it on, Marie, write it all down, ‘til the keynote is found. You run it up and down and round and round and round and

so I filled as I could all the gaps as a pilfer for good and only good, through some lapse that I’ve long forgot I wanna write to King and only transcribe the thoughts of the boy from the beach with his pervious soul. Poor little teacher got you, do it as you’re told. And even so there is danger here in the sun. Honey, tell me what has Sirius done? I hear it all but I cannot assume none may I follow to the Octagon Room; the boy from the beach beckoned and called, Lord, he’ll leave and unhand it all.

I see the clock on the wall, I hear the knock on the door but that is all.

(HORNS)

And when my work here is through, Henry, will you find me anew a little stranger, my old friend, hold me and win me again and again and again, all over again, all over again, all over again.

There’s a lodger in me larger than me saw the cross in the garden where your process came to be and cut you free, though your father tried to reunite with you and yet* he was allowed to die. Despite the lies, we are grist in the mill.

On the list I am Helios still, Sun-Wielder, Brunhilde, spun in shields, running round, and round, and round, and round, and round, and round, and round.

[the-void-writes]

• the devil, he whispers in your / my ear

Thank you for the prompt, friend 💖 Sorry I went on a month-long writing hiatus, but I finally felt well enough to finish something. This is just some Jasio stuff for venting.

TW: Mentions of child death, and a brief mention of possibly suicidal thoughts (nothing graphic, though)

Freaks of Preston - Nicer Things

Nightmares were commonplace when working for Vesely. No matter where someone worked, they would always end up seeing something that would haunt them forever— a failed test, an experiment gone awry, or even the horrific states that most of their patients were found in. Rio was no stranger to these nightmares. In some messed up way, he was starting to get used to them.

But it broke his heart to hear that kind of terror in his partner’s voice.

Rio never screamed in his sleep— though he would wake up in tears if Jin was involved. Nothing scared him as much as losing his daughter, and yet he still never screamed. Those feelings simply festered in a darker corner of his mind, one that he tried not to bring out.

Jason, on the other hand, couldn’t help it. He was a sensitive soul, and that showed in everything he did, even in sleep. When the nightmares claimed him, his whole body would tense with pain. The screams that left him were more haunting than any dream Rio could imagine.

It took a lot of gentle reassurance to wake Jason from one of his episodes. He’d forget where he was, and what had happened to him. It pained Rio every time he had to remind his partner about the accident.

One night, after having to relive the tragedy in his mind, Jason went into a state Rio hadn’t seen before. He stared ahead at the wall, still laying on his side as he pressed his back against Rio’s chest, and he mumbled to himself. Rio pulled him into his arms and sat with him in the dark.

“I’m right here, Jay. I’ve got you.”

He hoped that his voice would provide some comfort. Jason didn’t turn around, but he did close his hand around Rio’s. They sat together in the darkness, listening to the soft breeze outside their window.

“He wanted to be an astronaut.”

Rio knew exactly who he was talking about, if only from the shattered, heartbroken sound of his voice. At least he was speaking, at all, Rio told himself. It was better than having him cry himself to sleep again.

“Where did he want to go?” Rio asked.

Jason tightened his grip on Rio’s hand. “Saturn, first and foremost. He loved the rings.”

“That’s a long trip.”

“I told him that. He said it would be fine because he’d bring us with him, and when we got back home… all of his bullies would be gone.”

Even Rio wanted to cry for this kid. He wished he could have done more for this family, anything to save them from their cruel town. Jason was starting to tremble, so Rio rubbed his arm gently.

“Hey, we don’t have to talk about that.” He kissed the shell of his ear. “Tell me about the nicer things. What was his favorite food?”

Jason sniffed. “Strawberries. He adored them.”

“How about his least favorite?”

“Not much, he loved trying new things… except coffee. He couldn’t stand coffee.”

Rio chuckled. “Must have sucked for you, huh?”

“I didn’t start drinking it until I got here.”

“Ah, sorry we converted you.”

Jason laughed into his pillow, a big win for Rio. His smile, however brief, lit up the entire room. Rio rubbed his shoulder, hoping to keep him in this improved state.

“What else did he like?”

“All sorts of things,” Jason said with a smile. “He loved music and dancing, even though he said he couldn’t dance. He tried to read every book, and learn every story. He loved flowers and buttons and little wooden carvings— and postcards.”

“Postcards?”

“The older, the better. He’d keep them in a box and pretend they were from distant friends. I took him to those antique shops by the sea, and we’d spend the whole morning looking at cards. You should have seen his smile… It was like no one had ever hurt him.”

His voice broke as he cried again. Rio held him tighter, pressing his head against his back.

“I’m so sorry, Jason.”

Then came the words that shook Rio to his core, whispered in the dark like a final confession.

“I was ready to die,” Jason said. “Phil was gone, my parents wouldn’t even look at me— Everyone I loved had left, and it was my fault. I had nothing, until I met Will. He dragged me out of the dark, Rio. He made me want to live again… and I killed him.”

Rio had nothing to say. He knew it wasn’t Jason's fault, but he also knew that it was near impossible to drive that kind of guilt away in one night. If it had been Jin, Rio didn’t believe he could go on living as Jason had. This quiet, broken man had more strength than any soldier Vesely could hope to train.

Delicate, lingering kisses traveled across Jason’s back, up his neck, and along his face. What Rio couldn’t express in words, he made up for with his comforting touch. Jason finally turned around and buried his face in Rio’s shirt, wrapping his hands in the fabric as tightly as he could. He could feel Rio’s chest rumble as he spoke.

“You did everything you could, Jay. It’s not your fault that the world is full of monsters.”

Jason shuddered and let himself cry for a minute more. When the world seemed to settle down around him, he loosened his grip on Rio’s shirt and laid still. Rio kissed the top of his head.

“It’s hard, I know, but I promise it’ll get better. I’ll make it better for you.”

Jason relaxed against his shoulder. “I’m so thankful for you, Rio.”

“No, I should be thanking you.”

[themculibrary]

Bucky And Loki (Winterfrost) Masterlist 3

part one, part two

A Sacrifice Far Greater (ao3) - lionessvalenti E, 16k

Summary: In order for the Asgardian refugees to stay in Wakanda, Bucky must marry Loki to keep an eye on him. What he's giving up is nothing compared to what he gains.

Asteroide (ao3) - SailorChibi T, 6k

Summary: When Loki hears rumors of an unstoppable killing machine that could aid him in his quest, he goes to Wakanda. But the James Barnes he finds is not the Winter Soldier he expects, and it changes everything.

Bad Ideas (ao3) - Unforgotten M, 6k

Summary: "How old are you?"

"Eight-hundred and two. Why?"

On one of the screens in front of them was Loki's basic stats. Under Age, it said 1053.

Bucky and Shuri exchanged a glance.

"Who's the current King of Asgard?" Shuri asked.

Loki rolled his eyes, then grimaced, like rolling his eyes had hurt. "My father. Odin. Obviously."

(After the destruction of Asgard, an amnesiac Loki falls into Wakanda.)

Cellies (ao3) - gwyneth rhys (gwyneth), RenneMichaels T, 9k

Summary: Rolling his eyes, Stark said, “Whatever. I’m decidedly unthrilled about Goth Barbie and Murderbot Ken being in such close proximity, and such close proximity to me. What happens if he decides to whammy this one?” and he pointed at Bucky.

Confession Is Good for the Soul (ao3) - Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum T, 2k

Summary: While Bucky and Loki haven't actively been trying to keep their fledgling relationship a secret, nobody else has any idea about the pair's habit of sneaking into each other's beds and they're happy for it to stay that way. But in Stark Tower, things don't tend to stay quiet for long.

Cracked Actor (ao3) - Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum E, 11k

Summary: Everybody had secrets. Most people's weren't nearly as interesting as they liked to think they were.

There were always exceptions to that rule, though. Loki had just never expected Bucky Barnes to be one of them.

On Earnestness and Other Hassles (ao3) - Unforgotten M, 6k

Summary: Loki only slept with his new husband on their wedding night.

Once was enough, apparently.

On the Subject of Time (ao3) - lionessvalenti E, 8k

Summary: When staying on Earth is too dangerous, Bucky goes into hiding on Asgard. He expects to wait out his time in boredom, until he meets the king.

Restless Nights (ao3) - thehellfire G, 3k

Summary: Request: "Maybe where Loki has to live with the Avengers in the tower and Bucky joins in, or the other way around...?"

Rub a Dub (ao3) - Unforgotten M, 2k

Summary: After Bucky breaks his right hand and his metal arm in the same week, he has trouble with pretty much everything.

Loki's surprisingly good about helping out.

Salvation {Bucky x Loki AU} (ao3) - itellmyselfstories E, 75k

Summary: Set in modern day NYC, where Bucky is a former US Marine now employed as a computer scientist at Stark Research after losing his left arm in an IED blast. Through his colleague Natasha he meets a group of friends, including bookshop-owner Loki, where he is accepted and welcomed more readily than he expected.

the rubble or our sins (Loki x Bucky) (ao3) - LokisxMischief M, 10k

Summary: Mentions: flashbacks of trauma (torture/abuse), self loathing, torturing, mild violence (including torture), angst and some fluff

The Winter Wolf (ao3) - RenneMichaels T, 84k

Summary:: If there is one thing this damn mission did not need, it was a leather wearing bastard with horns getting between him and his target. Not that Loki gives a good god damn what Hydra Assassins want.

To smooth the jagged edge from a stone (ao3) - cruellae (tinkabelladk) M, 11k

Summary: When the dark-haired stranger shows up at the door of the simple Wakandan home where Bucky has been living quietly for the past few months, Bucky has almost completely repressed the urge to grab for the carving knife hanging on a magnetic strip on the kitchen wall. He doesn’t slink toward the door with the weapon concealed behind his back. He has been to enough therapy that he can open the door like a normal person and greet the man on the other side. It feels wrong, but he does it anyway, because that’s what’s healthy and sane and what he’s supposed to be doing.

The man in the doorway gives him a charming smile, his artfully messy black hair a shock against his pale skin, his eyes an unsettling shade of green. “The Winter Soldier, I presume?”

Bucky shuts the door.

(Infinity War never happened, and now after the events of Thor:Ragnarok, the Asgardians are settling on Earth. Bucky is chilling on that farm in Wakanda. AKA the Bucky/Loki fic you didn't know you needed.)

You've Seen the Butcher (ao3) - Dont_touch_the_phlebotinum T, 3k

Summary: They didn't stay the night in each other's beds. It was a simple rule, one they had never even felt the need to formally establish, clear as it was. Their encounters were about flesh and nothing more. If they drifted into sleep afterwards, as they often did, they would simply return to their own chambers within Avengers Tower long before the sun rose. In the light of day, their nocturnal activities had never happened. But as it turned out, even the simplest of rules could be broken.

[outpost51]

Happy Blorbo Blursday! How are your ocs holding up in a fight? What would it take for them to win?

Happy Blursday!

OHO OH BOY. I write fights a lot, especially with my main girls, so! Here’s some strategy breakdowns and snippets for you, content warning forrrr violence ALSO THIS GOT VERY LONG OH NO:

Atria fights like only one person is walking away in the fight: her, or them. There’s no draw; she fights to survive, and mercy be upon the poor soul who threatens her. Biotics, fists, teeth, knife if she’s got it — whatever it takes. She’ll keep going until someone brave enough pulls her off her opponent. If it makes you feel better, she'll probably feel bad about it.

Likelihood of victory: 75-80%

I charged while he was still frozen in shock. He was easy enough to take down with a well-placed shoulder to his belly; he was wounded, winded, and woozy. I wasn't thinking, couldn't think, blow after blow after blow hammering his face until nothing was left to be seen of the geometric lavender snaking across his brow and chin. With each subsequent strike, my hands got a little bluer and the crowd got a little louder. At some point human red started flowing together with turian blue; my knuckles stung. Some time after that, my hands glowed again and I felt the increased impact of every punch jolting into my shoulders. At some point he stopped screaming, but the spectators didn't, even when I was dragged off him and wrenched into a victor's stand by one still-clenched fist. They became ravenous. Insatiable. Consumed by their own hunger for violence. In my desperate bid to avoid becoming the corpse that whetted their appetite, I just managed to trade that burden for a different one, and still acted as their appetizer anyway. No one won in the Pits except the bookies. I learned two things that day: first, that drell came in size extra, extra large, if the massive marine mountain of muscle holding me six inches off the ground was any indicator; and second, that even in an adrenaline-induced fit of kill-or-be-killed desperation, taking a life took a part of you with it.

Dillon’s smarter. She knows when a strategic retreat is the best option, and when she’s got a fair shot at winning. It’s the magic she’s still trying to get a handle on — she might singe somebody’s hair orrrrrr... she might blow up half the block. Oops!

Likelihood of victory: 45-50%

Zadimus dropped down beside her, directing a current of air beneath himself on which he could recline. “The world won’t wait for you to be in optimal condition all the time, you need to be able to fight in any circumstance,” he quipped. “Particularly if you’re going to directly contradict your mentor’s advice.” Grumbling under her breath, Dillon spun around and slashed her hand through the air. The peak of a distant junk pile sheared off. She repeated the motion. A car went flying. The Abomination remained unscathed. “Goddammit!” she screamed. The resulting shockwave deposed the hedonistic emperor off his windy chaise.

Just don't go after somebody she cares about, or things might turn out a whole lot worse.

Likelihood of victory: start praying.

Dillon turned to give him one of the few pieces of her mind she could grasp in her half-inebriated state, and watched in slow motion as the horror swallowed him whole. Darkness closed in around her. A deep scarlet haze filled in what the void dared not touch. Static crackled across her skin, into her fingertips, her toes, her scalp, and zinged through her muscles, her bones, her veins, carving a fiery path straight to her heart. The pungent burn of ozone seared into her nose and throat until every breath was filled with the chemical tang of asphalt after a storm. She pulled the lightning from her body and let it dance a warning in her palms. The Abomination took one step forward. Dillon brought her hands together in a clap of thunder. Sticky viscera coated everything in a ten foot radius around a very whole, mildly offended Zadimus. “Oh, good,” he chuffed. “It was getting a bit stuffy in there. We’ll need to work on your timing, but overall, not terrible.”

Frankie would rather run, thank you. That’s what the gun is for. If she’s backed into a corner, better take her down quick before the big fucking robots she’s dating come to the rescue.

Likelihood of victory: 20-60%, depending on ammunition

Frankie drops a pin on her location and sends it to the only person she knows she can trust to hold their own with odds like these and have her back rather than stab it the second she goes down. Rough fingers dig into her scalp, rubbing their sickly, stale-cigarette scent into her hair so deep she thinks it might never wash out. The grip pulls her gut-first into a set of studded knuckle dusters. Sticky copper coats her tongue as her lungs try to remember what breathing feels like. She flails wildly, and out of sheer, dumb luck, the butt of her gun connects with her assailant’s face. It catches on the torn edge of his synthskin and tears it further; the monster lurking just beneath isn’t the man she thought it was, but a machine, and a few more pieces fall into place. If she can get at their memory chips, maybe she’ll actually have something substantial to back up her hunch. A manufacturer, an agency, a serial number, anything. Frankie swings again, this time more deliberately, and relishes the satisfying crunch of metal denting metal. A shower of sparks stings her hand where her gun has shattered the droid’s synthetic eye and it goes down in a hail of stuttered digispeak. There’s no time to celebrate, as another comes rushing forward with a shock baton — she ducks and rolls to the side, much to the displeasure of the bruise blooming across her midsection, but an angry ache is better than a cracked skull or fuck-you amps of electricity seizing up her entire body. The droid overcommits — not just regular AI, then, if they’re making mistakes, and another piece slots into the puzzle — and stumbles. Frankie takes advantage of the opportunity presented by delivering a kick to the base of its spine.

Jane is. Well, much like Atria, she was a street kid and the military never quite took that out of her. She fights to kill, though. If her opponent can still stand up, then goddammit, so can she. Somebody call John—

Likelihood of victory: there's a reason she's special forces.

Note: i had a hard time picking just one, because i love writing her fights. she's genuinely my favorite character to write fight scenes for, so i let the enablers pick lmao.

“Oh goodie,” Jane seethed over the rising cacophony of screaming and shouting and crying and gunfire and pain he was getting all too used to and never wanted to be. She pumped the shotgun in her hand. “I get to fulfill Jerry’s last request.” “Jane, don’t be—” “I’m not being stupid,” she called over her shoulder. “I’m being reckless!” All he could do was fight his way to her, over and over again. Keep himself standing as he watched her shoot, stab, punch, kick, rip, tear a path through the invading force. He kept them off her where he could, Sergeant Kieffer’s voice echoing over and over in his head. Do you think a turian pirate gives a fuck that he’s bigger than her? No, they didn’t, and they were so much bigger than her. Jane stormed straight towards the bastard who chatter had identified as the asshole spearheading this whole operation. Black armor, brown plates, swoops of red under his eyes, a bright red stripe down the center of his face — and a shotgun leveled at hers. Static crackled down his arms as he planted his feet and started moving through the mnemonics he could remember. Does that swashbuckling skullface give a fuck that he’s bigger than her? A blue corona engulfed his sister, but before she could strike, a batarian in red armor tackled her away from Haliat. She struck out with biotically-enhanced fists, kicked at the batarian’s chestplate, and finally managed to crack her brow into the pirate’s nose. The batarian rolled away from her, desperately clutching at his face with one hand and bringing up his pistol with the other. When Jane stood again, blood had painted a stripe down her face to match Haliat’s. The turian watched her intently, switching to his rifle. Jane ran both her middle fingers through the stripe, swooping them beneath her eyes and straight down to meet the corners of her mouth. She shouted something he couldn’t hear, but John could read her lips all the same: you’re mine. She looked crazy. Feral. Rabid. Maybe she was. Haliat turned and ran. Maybe they needed crazy.

[luverofralts]

Arkhelios University

“That’s the king of Strangetown! What is he doing here? Does Roman or Abe know him?”

Jorah watched the crowd starting to form intently. It was hard to believe that he was standing in the same area as the famous faces he saw on the international tv channels and that Roman and Abe’s wedding was big enough to draw foreign royalty to it.This event was much bigger than just a wedding between two Arkhelios citizens; it was a chance for the international community to show Twikkii Island that they weren’t responsible for the attack that had suddenly left Maura the throne. No one had claimed responsibility for the attack, but rumours were beginning to fly and fingers were being pointed. No one wanted to be accused of the crime, so foreign governments were going out of their way to show Queen Maura their sympathies.

“Look at her dress,” Jorah gushed as more people walked by. “It’s probably more expensive than our house.”

Valerian laughed at his husband’s enthusiasm. Out of all the Arkhelios guests at the wedding, Jorah had to be the only one who knew about foreign celebrities and customs. Growing up relatively sheltered in tiny Arkhelios, reading about the rest of the world was his escape. At night he’d dreamt of exploring the stars with Lucy and during the day, he’d fantasized about visiting the remarkable things he’d read about in books. The world was a huge, mysterious place and Arkhelios was only a small sliver of it. There was so much to see of it and Jorah wanted to see it all.

“Are you going to keep out of trouble during the ceremony? You can’t ruin this for your brother no matter how much he frustrates you.”

Cindra was trying to remain firm with Nathan in order to keep an international incident from occurring. She could see the the resentment on his face and knew from experience that nothing good ever came from that look. She hadn’t approved of his “antics” with Kaeileen, but what was done was done. All she could do was encourage Nathan to act better in the future.

Nathan shrugged and shot Cindra what looked to be a genuine smile.

“I’ll do my best, for your sake,” he promised. “Not that Abe deserves all of this. He’s marrying a monster. I know that whenever they do find the people responsible for the yacht explosion, it’s going to be demons. It’s always demons. They feed on death and pain and-”

“Shush!” Cindra commanded irritably. “There’s already enough paranoid people here, you don’t need to fan the flames. The demon Lucy’s dating seems to be perfectly fine. You’re just being prejudiced.”

“She’s dating her boss, the head of the soul stealing department!” Nathan gasped. “How on earth is he fine? Oriana is going to die before her natural time because of them! It’s unnatural!”

“She seems happy to me,” Cindra replied, with an indifferent shrug. “She’s married to her lost teenage love and they have a family. Would you rather she be miserable and alone until her “natural time” comes? You might want to re-think your priorities in life, Nathan. You don’t seem to be very happy yourself. The only one complaining here is you.”

Nathan rolled his eyes and murmured something under his breath that Cindra couldn’t quite hear. It was probably for the best she didn’t hear whatever it was anyway.

“Look how happy your sister is. No one else is stewing in negativity like you are,” she stated flatly. “And she’s probably not even dating that guy anymore. She looks pretty interested in some of the guests, so you may not even have to worry about a demonic brother in law.”

Maura watched the crowd vigilantly for any sign of danger. The intricately carved wooden throne she sat on felt hard and uncomfortable to her. It had always been her grandmother’s seat that she was forbidden to touch. Even now, she half expected her grandmother to suddenly jump out from behind a tree to scream at her. She still flinched when the staff addressed her as “Your Majesty”. She was apparently the queen of Twikkii Island, though the title still seemed foreign to her. Hopefully over time she’d get used to it.

She watched the other royal families carefully as they waited for the grooms to arrive. King Liam of Crystal Cove had been the first to arrive with his heir Princess Theodosia. Maura had been warned to watch him closely by her advisors. His youngest daughter had been killed in the attack on the yacht, and while his government hadn’t yet blamed Twikkii Island for their loss, it was always possible. Their nation had a sizable army, a coven of powerful witches and strong ties with Strangetown and Pleasantview. They weren’t the biggest threat to Maura, but she’d been warned to watch them all the same.

Fortunately for Maura, her close friend and cousin Claudia was the head of the strongest, most feared country. Pleasantview was absolutely ancient with populations of magic users and demons and who knew what else that had grown over the centuries into a force that historically crushed anyone who opposed them. With Claudia’s support, Maura could probably present enough of a threat to keep the other nations at bay, even if Crystal Cove retaliated against them.

Beside Claudia, the king of Strangetown, King Charlie, and his heir, Princess Anneken, seemed to have the same idea as Maura. She saw their eyes darting around, sizing up the political scene for themselves. Despite Strangetown’s physical closeness to Twikkii Island, Maura didn’t know much about their royal family. Her mother’s half-sister was once the crown princess before her tragic death and the current king had just had a mild heart attack according to her advisors. Her grandmother had been the one with a connection to Strangetown, while Maura struggled to remember the names of any of the other Strangetown royals. Claudia seemed friendly with the family, so Maura was relying heavily on her relationship with Claudia to keep Strangetown friendly towards her home. That’s why she found it so nerve wracking to see her cousin and Roman Bellamy flirting the way they did. If he left Abe for Claudia, Maura would have to renegotiate her relationship with her cousin, and if she disapproved of Maura’s reaction or Ulyssa said something wrong, Maura’s home could lose the protection it currently enjoyed. Roman Bellamy could cost the nation she was now in charge of protecting absolutely everything. She didn’t know how her grandmother coped with the pressure of the crown without breaking. Every day seemed to add some new complication that she’d never encountered before and the pressure to keep everything together was becoming crushing.

At least one third of the Chun siblings were under control from what Maura could see. Nathan seemed to be scowling, but otherwise he looked non-threatening. Lucy had disappeared entirely, but Ulyssa was seated beside her wife, so the damage Lucy could do seemed limited. Even the kids seemed well behaved. Theo was standing quietly, waiting for his chance to perform his ring bearer duties and his sisters were calm beside him. As troubled as he’d been as a toddler, Theo had really begun to mature over the past few years. He still had his slip ups, but after receiving the proper support for his abilities, he was doing well in school and being a supportive older brother. His parents might sometimes disagree with her assessment, but to Maura at least, Theo was growing into a smart, compassionate young boy with a bright future. Adrian’s daughters were just as promising and Maura couldn’t wait for them to show more of their personalities as they aged. Without an heir of her own, those girls could be the future of her family and would need to be guided if she and Ulyssa struggled to start their family.

It’s funny how much of my life depends on the whims of an unstable demon hybrid. When did that happen?

To Maura’s relief, music began to play, indicating that the grooms were ready to start the ceremony. So far, no one had bolted from the altar or started a fight. Maybe this wedding might not be troubled after all.

[shinaa-fictions]

Roses on a grave (2)

Universe : Withered/Crystal Rose (fanskins)

Characters: Katarina, Garen

----

As he rode into the Du Couteau’s lands, Garen noticed a few pounds infested with rotten vines and invasive vegetation. He stopped by one of them, checking on the shores where clay had turned sludgy. Nothing valuable was to be harvested here, either in these dark waters or in the endless misty forests that, so people say, were hiding their share of terrific creatures.  

What kind of interest could his family have in these lands? Garen was slowly stepping closer to an answer as he headed to an open pit quarry at the very edge of the country. The villagers seemed quite busy, not even paying attention to the heavily ornamented armor the noble knight was wearing. An old man stopped by for a second and left his water buckets on the floor. Garen took this as an invitation and helped him out, carrying them to the roaring furnace.

“A simpleton from the town”, the ancestor joked. “What brings a fine flower like you in our cursed lands?”

Garen’s bright rose was bringing out legit questions from these workers living at the other side of their “world”. The Rose’s roots could go deep underground, even reaching the faraway lands of other countries: but for some reason, She had forgotten these poor lads.

“I try to understand what happened here” he answered, preparing the fields for a lot of upcoming questions.

The man shook his head and poured the water on the burning stones, instantly turning it into steam. 

“It wasn’t always like this, you know…”

Katarina gazed up at the tallest tree of her garden: its branches were reaching for her like sickly hands looking for help and its trunk, damaged by vermin and mold, was folding up like an old man’s skin. This vision would give her chills everytime. How could a single man’s doings bring such devastation to her beloved realm?

“You left me with this curse, and yet…”

And yet she wished he would be here to help her fix it. 

The smoothe rustle of the foliage bending made her startle. She turned back and saw a familiar frame stepping her way. 

No. It was not her father, Marcus du Couteau, but this man had the same kind of intimidating build. The main difference was the soft line of his jaws curving a smile.

“Garen Crownguard. So you’ve returned” she said with the tone of a queen announcing her guest.

The young man bowed before anything else. He had left for half a day but he felt like it was way too long since he had crossed Katarina’s emerald eyes.

“My apologies, Lady Du Couteau. Hopefully I’m not disturbing”

Katarina turned off her back to her future consort, her stance less threatening than before but still rigid. The peaceful and yet saddening atmosphere of the garden was easing her soul somehow: maybe something about the roses pollen. 

“I was enjoying the mourning silence of my dying gardens” she replied with a sad irony.

Garen put a strong hand on the gray trunk of what once was a giant oak. There was not much energy left running into the sap of this old friend. But he gave it a positive smile while running his glove on its surface, wiping off a bit of moisture.

“These roots can still grow strong again. Just like the people of these lands.”

Katarina blinked.

“You’ve been talking to them?”

“Yes. And I must say I’m starting to understand why my family had set their eyes upon these lands”

He looked back at her, his eyes filled with passion.

“Your people. They’re so resilient. They know hard times will come but they keep on building houses, carving wood and mastering their talents in craftsmanship. Their spirit cannot be bended by harsh circumstances, unlike many who would have ran away from their homeland. But the villages stay crowded and the forges are spitting the fires of perseverance. I have to say I’m amazed by their will to keep going.”

The short conversations he had this afternoon were enough to make him glimpse the true value of the Du Couteau’s house which was not written on the facade, but hidden inside its heart.

“No matter what happened to your name and reputation, this tree…no! this garden will grow stronger again. Just like you will”

Katarina confronted the softness of his gaze, yet unprepared. She blushed, feeling exposed to his never-withering radiance. If only he could have been right… But her own strong spirit had been severely torn apart after her father had cast shame upon their name before disappearing entirely. 

“After what my father did, not even your glow could fix this up” Katarina said, eyes lost on the ground.

Garen nodded respectfully.

“I know. He had betrayed the Rose”

Katarina half-opened her mouth, taking a short breath. Her eyes stayed stuck on the gnarled roots of the tree as a tear rolled on her cheek. 

“I’ve heard the Council talking about this.” Garen confessed, affected by Katarina’s struggle. “They even wanted to cast your family away for good, but my aunt opposed this. And until now, I was not really sure about her real intentions”

He approached his other hand and gently landed a finger under Katarina’s chin to raise her head up so their gazes would cross. 

“Once restored, this house would have the strength to build cities. And with the trust and hard work of its people, their resources could be put to good use. However…”

Garen removed his hand and Katarina felt like her heart was diving down into her chest. 

“I don’t think taking you away from here would help with its restoration. Your good lead is what makes this realm rock solid. Aunt Tianna does not realize it yet but if she wipes out its roots, the tree will die, irretrievably.”

Katarina slowly blinked. This man could see through her while they were perfect strangers a few hours ago. Caught in aristocratic plots since they were born, they both should have built themselves stronger shells to hide their own pawns in these cruel games: but yet, Garen was showing all his assets without hesitation. No matter the cards he would play, we would win. But he was willingly giving up on his advantage to fight the odds with her. To help her challenge the curse cast upon her house…

She wiped away the tear coiled up in the corner of her eye and said:

“I see you’ve been wandering around a bit. And yet, I’m surprised you’ve seen such potential in our cursed lands. I even hoped you would be running away with a sore taste in your mouth”

“Me? running away?”

Garen chuckled.

”It’s good to confront the world outside of the city’s walls. I’m tired of parading in the halls of the shiny palace pretending our festivities are the only allowed marvels of this world.”

His strong hand still inspecting the oak’s trunk, he discovered a tiny bud hiding beneath the dust. He gently placed it in between his fingers, watching upon it like a father would.

“There is so much beauty in every life form. And those who manage to cross the hardest storms have nothing to envy from those who had grown sheltered under a safety  dome.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, the deep connection he had to the Rose manifesting as a blinding ray of light radiating from his chest. 

“They even look… shinier to my own eyes”

The tiny bug got filled with a sudden energy and started shining with a pale glow. In a few seconds, it turned from a newborn to a shy growth. This magical trick left Katarina speechless. With the Rose’s blessing, only a few could claim to spread their influence on Nature’s gifts: she, herself, never had the chance to make a flower grow with her own aura. Her eyes narrowed. No matter how blinding this light could be, she wanted to approach it, merge with it and get swallowed by its warmth. Her inner flower was craving for such powers, crying out for a bit of sun as the dark forest kept covering her petals with a thick veil. 

How could one bear such vitality while she was withering? She felt a bit jealous, her fingers trembling as the rays of light tickled her cheeks. Balance had never been fair in this world and she was not even the most neglected flower of the forest: many had suffered from the rough Council’s decisions. One word from them could doom an entire realm, because they had the eye and ear of the Rose.

She managed to calm down. This light could never do any harm, she was sure about that. Embracing it would be the only logical thing to do, even more since the face going with it looked so caring.

“You are… quite different from what I envisioned” she spoke slowly. “Very different”

Her lips curved a smile for the first time in a long time and she rose grateful eyes in his direction.

“Your mouth can speak lies but not this bud I see, which means your heart is truly as pure as this rose on your chest.”

Garen felt flattered, staring away for a moment as embarrassment invaded his face. Katarina turned to the dead oak, a painful hiccups stuck in her throat.

“Fighting the odds is everything my family has ever done. This never-ending conflict with the haves from the city had become our strength. What they cannot beat, they try to tame. Today, I thought I had surrendered to their will with this contract. But you…”

She waved a hand in his direction, like an informal invitation to take it.

“You give me the hope there is maybe a brighter future for my house after all”

Garen smiled. He picked her hand in the most gentle way and left a kiss on its back. Then he stared back at her, his heart filled with such joy it was hard for him to contain.

“Could you maybe… give me a tour of the county?”

They learned how to tame each other, helped by a promise laid on paper. During the first weeks, the Crownguard family did not question Garen’s absences. But as he kept disappearing during notable events, her aunt confronted him about these new habits. He dodged the details, simply submitting a part of the truth: he was visiting his future spouse. 

Truth would have been hard to swallow: they were young lovers, caught in the attraction of forces they could not control and carried by the need to touch each other. Katarina would bath in his light, feeling the comfort of a new shelter: his arms. While Garen would sink into the infinite ocean of her eyes, unraveling the mystery of her personality, which was a treasure he would keep for himself alone. 

The wedding day would come, they did not even count. Time was something they would waste together. And as the season passed, the spoiled flower retrieved a bit of its magnificence. 

Love could have put an end to this story. But you have to know: this is no fairy tale.