are part of my heaven

Quote ~ Submitted by @wintertoque

“So long as my body lives, and yours - we are one flesh,” he whispered. His fingers touched me, hair and chin and neck and breast, and I breathed his breath and felt him solid under my hand. Then I lay with my head on his shoulder, the strength of him supporting me, the words deep and soft in his chest.

“And when my body shall cease, my soul will still be yours. Claire - I swear by my hope of heaven, I will not be parted from you”.

James Fraser, Drums of Autumn (Diana Gabaldon)

Dark Plankhandles, Show Me The Forbidden Shadow Ascendant Thadrics 

I enjoyed this a lot, it was fun to get to play up his physical deformities and FINALLY get a chance to draw his Consecration scars. Why’s he drippin’? Why’s he arcane pink? It’s a #aesthetic, I don’t have to answer these questions. 

It’s the monstrous fate my shadow priest Forsaken is trying to avoid. Don’t worry, Thadric, I won’t let anything cool happen to you.

Stumble Through Heaven- Part 1: The Calm - A Morrigan/Selene Fic

MAJOR ACOWAR SPOILERS AHEAD 

Sooo @tbhfangirl19 asked me for Mor/a lady someone basically. So now you have a two part Mor/ladies fic with Mor and…who is effectively my OC (she’s like…canon in five lines, she’s Viviane’s sister and this all definitely happened in canon) Anyway. I got carried away so now there’s lots of lesbian emotions flying around. Have at it. @king-havilliard figured you would appreciate the tag. Thank you for reading this/humouring my yelling about it @pterodactylichexameter

Title: Stumble Through Heaven - Part 1: The Calm 

Summary: (my timings are wonky, this doesn’t technically work in canon but it’s close enough and by the time I realised it didn’t work I was already attached to the idea and it was too much effort changing it for a relatively small detail) After her fight with Feyre Mor seeks solace in the Winter Court camp and runs into an old flame, Selene, Viviane’s younger sister. They revisit their history with one another. Rating will go up in the next part but this one is SFW. 

Teaser:  “How are you?”

There’s enough pointed emphasis in the last word that Mor knows the female can still read her as easily as she remembers how she prefers her tea. She turns away, looks down the sharply sloping hill to the battlefield again, churned and ragged and raw. A good mirror for the way she feels. All she says however in answer to Selene’s question is, “Fine.”

To her surprise, that response tugs a soft huff of laughter from the female sitting by her side, legs folded beneath her, back perfectly straight, “All these years, Morrigan,” she says quietly, taking a drink of her tea before shaking her head. “All these years and you still think you can hide from me.”

Link: AO3 

Despite the thick heat of the Summer Court, the air wet with blood after a day of battle and the mourning tears that followed, the Winter Court encampment still somehow feels cold to Mor. A sharp breeze lifts, tugging at her hair, stirring it around her face, as though trying to pull her away somewhere. She ignores it.

Still in the clothes she had worn when she’d descended down into the battle, not bothering to strip out of it. The armour feels like a lead weight now, dragging her weary limbs down. Exhaustion gnaws at her and she should sleep, should go back to her own camp, her own tent, curl up and let that fatigue drag her into tomorrow but…

She had needed to get out, to get away from all of it. Cassian’s injuries had rattled her, even if the stupid prick would be alright. She had been there, feet from him as he’d been torn apart before her eyes and she’d felt sure she was watching his death, helpless. Helpless again when she had returned to the camp and found Feyre gone, had to restrain herself from shaking that sister of hers to make her tell her where she had gone so she could find her and drag her back. Helpless as she had looked into Rhys’ terrified eyes and been forced to confess that she had been tricked, that she had been lied to, again, that those closest to her would rather go behind her back than trust her.

Then the fight with Feyre in her tent after she had returned. In one piece, thank the Mother, the things that she had said to her, the things she had heard come tearing from her friend’s lips. She closes her eyes, hugging herself, her fingers gripping onto her arms until it hurts. That breeze lifts again, carrying with it the tears that burn her eyes and fall as she bows her head, shaking, attempting to master herself.

They’re at war she doesn’t have time to sit here and feel sorry for herself, she should be in camp, helping, planning, doing something. Instead she’s sitting here, like a child pathetic and frightened and helpless all over again. She holds her head in her hands, shaking, not caring who sees. None of the Winter Court soldiers are likely to bother her. They would have to come seeking her, where she’s huddled on the edge of this war camp, over-looking the battle field that Feyre had tricked her onto, where Cassian had nearly died right in front of her, where-

She looks up at the soft, lithe footsteps that sound at her side. A beautiful Winter Court fae stands there, looking down at her. Selene. Viviane’s sister. It’s been decades since they’ve been this close to one another, not since before Amarantha. Yet she hasn’t changed. She remains the same. A tall, willowy pillar of frozen steel, cold and unyielding, precise and elegant as a sculpture. Her long silver hair restrained by a thick braid wrapped around her head like a crown. She looks strikingly like her older sister, except her eyes, they’re sharper, colder, and of a steely grey, a windswept mountain to her sister’s bright ocean sapphire.

For all they look alike however, there are no squealing outbursts and desperate hugs between the two of them. Only quiet. The same kind of quiet that always fills Mor whenever she looks into those pale, fathomless eyes, the same kind of quiet she wishes she could exist in for the rest of her life. The tension seems to bleed from her as that silence sweeps through her, a bone deep calm that she only ever feels around a few people in this world.

Wordlessly, taking Mor’s lack of brusque demand for her to leave her alone as acceptance of her presence, Selene carefully lowers herself down onto the ground, then passes over a cup of tea. Mor accepts it gratefully, holding it between her hands to warm them from the chill night that’s starting to draw in around her. She sniffs at the tea before she takes a sip. The mixed scents of citrus and apple draw a small, sad smile from her. All these years…All these years but Selene still remembers her favourite blend.

They sit in silence for a long moment, sipping their tea, Mor grateful for the other female’s company, despite the faint knot of tension that starts to pulse in her stomach at her presence. So long, it’s been so long since they were together, all this time, both likely fearing the other lost after Amarantha’s conquest and yet…Yet still the quiet embraces them, holds them tight, somehow more intimate than the tight embrace Viviane had swept her into when they had seen each other again.

It’s a gift, this respite that she offers her. But eventually, Mor finds herself asking quietly, “How are you?”

Selene stiffens almost imperceptibly, takes a sip of her own tea, mint, if Mor isn’t mistaken. Even without the scent she would have known. She remembers her too. Then she says, “Well.” Her voice is the same as she remembers it, like snow melting from a mountainside, cool and heavy and smooth, with that soft rasp to it that makes her shiver.

It had been a loaded question, a question asking after how she had fared all these years they had been apart, with the distance of grief and loss between them. That she had chosen not to answer it, to confine their discussion to the present…Says all she needs it to.

She turns to face Mor, her eyes seeming to glow a dark silver as the light from the camp behind them catches, “How are you?”

There’s enough pointed emphasis in the last word that Mor knows the female can still read her as easily as she remembers how she prefers her tea. She turns away, looks down the sharply sloping hill to the battlefield again, churned and ragged and raw. A good mirror for the way she feels. All she says however in answer to Selene’s question is, “Fine.”

To her surprise, that response tugs a soft huff of laughter from the female sitting by her side, legs folded beneath her, back perfectly straight, “All these years, Morrigan,” she says quietly, taking a drink of her tea before shaking her head. “All these years and you still think you can hide from me.”

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