Newt Scamander: Surprisingly, he isn’t that bad of a liar. He can pull off a fairly convincing innocent look that most people won’t question, because those bright green eyes and pouty lips allow him to get away with murder. BUT, that doesn’t mean that his lies are always fool proof sometimes. Maybe it has to do with his lack of social interaction with other people; he has only a vague idea of what lies people might believe, so it’s a hit and miss at times.
Tina Goldstein: Tina can’t lie to save her life. She’s just not cut out for it, especially under pressure. It’s why she rarely gets assigned to undercover missions, because Percival knows it’s a risk to let her in a situation where her life, and those of her partners’, depend on her (non-existent) lying skills. She does have one ability that’s stronger than many people: Occlumency. Sure Queenie can easily read her mind, but it’s her sister, so she doesn’t mind as much. But she used to take Occlumency lessons from Percival, who is both a skilled Legilimens and Occlumens, and from Queenie as well, who helps her practice warding her mind. So Tina can’t lie, but she can keep a hell of a secret. Just don’t ask her what that secret is outright.
Queenie Goldstein: Queenie, like Newt, gets away with lying because people never bother to look past her innocent blue eyes and blonde curls. She knows this, and uses it often to her advantage. A bat of an eyelash here and a sweet smile, and she’s home free with whatever lie she’s concocted. It helps a lot that she can tell what people think of her lie; if there is still that bit of suspicion radiating off them, she’ll throw in a few more very convincing lines. She doesn’t like to lie, however. Because of her skill as a Legilimens, she’s used to open minds and opening up herself to others as well, and feels uncomfortable lying because she feels bad and somewhat guilty at manipulating people that way. But whenever push comes to shove, she will lie her (figurative) pants off and get the job done.
Jacob Kowalski: Jacob has never lied his entire life. Not when he was told to lie to his superiors about who botched a job, or when he was supposed to lie to his Gran about the surprise party everyone had prepared for her for weeks. He’ll stutter and sweat and hmm and haww and confess that he’s lying (or was trying to) after about a minute. He’s an honest man, and it’s what Queenie loves about him the most. There are no secrets between Jacob and the people he cares for, and he’s the literal embodiment of an open book.
Percival Graves: As the Director of Magical Security and an Auror, he is one of the best liars out there. He can pull off any lie, no matter how unbelievable one would think it is, without batting an eyelash. His sharp wit and intelligence allows him to think on his feet quickly, which is helpful when he has to change the lie or come up with a quick and believable back story for the lie. It’s not surprising therefore, that he is one of the best interrogators in MACUSA, and prior to being captured by Grindelwald, used to run interrogation workshops for MACUSA, where he teaches the attendants to be professional liars. Only two people can see through Percival’s lies; Queenie feels Percival’s frustrated screams when he lies about being fine whenever someone asks. Becauseno, I’m not fine. I’m not fine because no one believes me anymore, and I’m not fine because my leg hurts from when Grindelwald broke it, and I long for warmth that doesn’t exist. After being rescued from Grindelwald’s clutches, no one seems to trust Percival anymore, because really, if he’s that good of a liar, who’s to know he wasn’t in cahoots with the Dark wizard? And Queenie is sad whenever Percival’s frustration and hurt and anger oozes out in slithering coils, even though his face is a mask of perfect composure and the words fall mechanically from his lips. She can do nothing however, to stay the tongues of naysayers and lies that spill from eager lips, but there’s always a cup of steaming coffee on Percival’s table when he’s had a bad day, with a little cookie on the side, and he’s touched that she notices. Newt is the second person who can see through Percival’s lies. Whenever the dark haired man nonchalantly tells Newt that he’s not tired, that Newt should go on home and not to worry about him, because he’s fine, Newt sees the weariness in Percival’s dark eyes. There are wisps of defeat and anguish that make him seem years beyond his age, and if Newt squints hard enough, he can see Defeat settle about Percival like a cloak of midnight and despair. And for all of Newt’s lack of social grace, he handles Percival’s lies with the uttermost subtlety, and coaxes the Auror to head home with him, because he doesn’t feel like being alone tonight. When Percival is sat upon Newt’s little couch, draped in warm blankets that smell faintly of grass, and there’s the warm weight of another body next to him, he thinks he’s glad someone sees through his lies, for once.
Seraphina Picquery: If Percival is the best liar within MACUSA, Seraphina is the physical manifestation of a solid block of wall. Seraphina doesn’t lie as much as she conceals, and people know things about her that she allows them to know. Percival, arguably her longest friend, knows only that she loves chocolate and coffee (but not in the evening), and that she has a sister and a loving pair of parents. Everyone else knows her as the almighty, all-seeing President of MACUSA, the very picture of grace and elegance. What they don’t know is the little bud of darkness hidden behind the austerity of her eyes and sweeping speeches, which seems to grow as the darkness surrounding the wizarding world grows. She wonders, idly, as she burns a report from a reliable source about the possible location of the missing Percival, if one day the bud should burst forth from her and devour everyone around her. But her secretary knocks on her door and it’s time to address the International Confederation of Wizards, and the report is nothing more than pieces of ash in the wastebasket by the time the door closes.
Credence Barebone: Innocent, and painfully shy, Credence has learned that sometimes, a lie or two is what will save him from Mary Lou Barebone’s whippings. His first lies are clumsy; he stutters and hesitates, so much so that the stern woman sees through the lies so very easily, and as the leather bites into Credence’s back, he vows that the next lies will come more easily. The first time he successfully lies to Ma is when he gets home late after meeting with Percival Graves. The words roll smoothly this time; he tells her, timidly, about a man who threw his leaflets away and how he had to gather them all and hand them out again so more people would know about the Second Salemers and their cause. She’s displeased, but believes him and sends him off to bed without supper, but Credence is joyous that for once, his shirt won’t dig into the wounds and be stained red. He goes to sleep smiling that night, ecstatic from the protection lying has given him, and dreams of a magical flower that bloomed in the hands of a man who promised him the world and a family.
i hope you guys are enjoying this au as much as i am! it starts getting serious in this part (mostly bc of angsty baek…)
5614 words; soulmate!au; baekhyun/reader scenario; general, slight angst
“What do we do now?”
“First things first: we do not tell your father about your soulmate being a peasant in the village you’re forbidden to go to. That will just stir up trouble we don’t want to deal with.”
You look down at your hands and twiddle your thumbs. You’re seated at the desk of your study with Luhan and Yifan standing on either sides of the room. Luhan is turned toward the window, looking out with a blank look on his face. Yifan, on the other hand, is slumped against the wall with an old book of yours in his hands, although you know fully well that he isn’t reading at all.
Kravitz receives an unusually urgent summons – his Queen wishes to speak with him, and she seems less than pleased.
The grim reaper receives a reprimand. The god of death always gets what she wants.
Kravitz knew when his Queen wished to speak with him, because She would make it known. Sometimes it would be through the small medallion with Her crest that never left his neck, other times through another emissary – the birds were Her favorite, heralds of Her will – but, on rare occasions, She eschewed any such formality.
Sometimes Kravitz simply felt Her pull. Aggressive and insistent. She was, after all, a part of him – or, more accurately, he of Her. Kravitz could not resist Her command, just as his own hand could not resist his. Not that he had any desire to.
(Kravitz did wonder, at times, what precisely he was to his Queen. When She looked at him, did She see a person? A being? Or was it simply another aspect of Herself, like looking into a microscope and regarding one of the millions of cells that made up a mortal creature?)
Now was not the time for wonder or introspection, however. Kravitz tore open a portal, stepped through, and found himself in his Queen’s chambers.
The Raven Queen lived apart from the realm She held dominion over. Kravitz always felt a strange sensation pass through him whenever he entered Her presence. He guessed they were at some mid-point between the Astral and Celestial planes, a space between spaces in which the Raven Queen conducted Her business.
He stepped forward, looking around. The room appeared the same as it always did: an endless sea of stone columns, lit by torches of blue fire and the delicate wisps of pyreflies. The columns stretched in all directions, each marked by the same unending pattern of runic symbols – the names of all those who had ever lived, their births and deaths, carved into the stone in an artful and wholly incomprehensible script.
Kravitz turned in a slow circle. The Raven Queen was not present to greet him. Odd. He cleared his throat.
“My Queen,” he said respectfully, voice echoing into the distant darkness. “You summoned me?”
Kravitz startled, but didn’t jump. He turned to face Her.
When he had first crossed over to the Astral plane, the Raven Queen had appeared to him. She took the form of a woman in black, a dozen feet tall, hooded and veiled with a feathery cloak the color of midnight. Kravitz threw himself on the ground before Her, said the words he’d repeated in Her temple all his life, done the sort of things one supposed they should before a god. The Raven Queen had conducted Herself with the dignity and gravity befitting Her position, and when She had bent Her knee and lifted his head, his Queen had offered him the job that would come to define his new, unearthly existence.
How different things were now, he thought, as he saw Her now; not a woman at all, no, nothing so simple. He had learned later, from others in his line of work, that whenever She appeared to mortals, She took a simpler form for their benefit, something they could parse and comprehend. It made the initial job offer go smoother. As time had gone by (in as much as any time truly passed in the Astral plane) his Queen had revealed more of herself to Kravitz, a sort of familiarity growing between them, until She appeared as She did now.
The Raven Queen filled his vision. A barely-comprehensible assemblage of pitch black feathers, strong wings, sharp beaks, gleaming talons, and shining eyes, all in a multitude of shapes and sizes. There was a vague shape to Her, an outline that seemed to shimmer and warp, as if space itself struggled to capture what She was. When She moved, it was in indistinct billowing clouds of shadow that formed as She needed them and disappeared when She didn’t.
Kravitz bowed, deeply and respectfully. “My Queen.”
“Kravitz,” She said, in a voice that was many. “How good of you to come.”
He was glad he hadn’t bothered to put on his skin for this; it made it easier to hide his frown. What was that tone She took? And why did She say that? Of course he came.
“I exist at your pleasure, my Queen,” he said, hoping that was enough to convey his meaning.
The Raven Queen drew closer to him, large taloned feet clicking against the stone floor while great wings stretched and flapped behind her. Sometimes She didn’t bother defining a specific head for Kravitz to look at or speak to, and he would end up keeping his eyes low to the ground, or staring somewhere in the center of Her mass. Kravitz found this frustrating and uncomfortable. Initially, he had wondered if his feelings were simply so far beneath Her concern that they didn’t register. These days, he was certain She simply enjoyed making him squirm.
“That is true,” the Raven Queen said, one of her great feathered heads briefly looming over him. “You exist at my pleasure. You serve my will. You do only as I wish. Is that not so?”
Kravitz would have swallowed, had he a throat to do so in that moment. He looked up to meet one set of Her eyes. “Yes, Your Highness. That is so.”
“You are a part of me,” She said, Her voice growing somehow larger as the head he’d been addressing shifted lower, down towards the center of Her. “As I am a part of you. Intrinsic, and inseparable. Like all mortal things. Is that not so?”
Now he would be sweating, if he had the capability; his Queen had not spoken so formally to him since the breakout from the Eternal Stockade, some years ago. It had been a reprimand, then. So what did that make this?
“That is so, my Queen,” he said solemnly, lowering his gaze.
She lowered one of Her many heads to his eye level. Its dark eyes blinked as it tilted.
“So, then,” She said slowly, an edge of regal menace in Her echoing voice, “if you truly understand that all this is true…”
Kravitz braced himself, though he didn’t know why – it wasn’t as though the Raven Queen had to physically strike him to destroy him. What had he done that had displeased Her so? What sin had he committed that deserved this scorn?
“My Queen,” he ventured cautiously, “I–”
One of Her massive feet slammed on the ground and She loomed closer. Kravitz fell silent. He didn’t move, his hands still held behind his back, his head still bowed respectfully.
“Kravitz,” She said, her words dripping with disappointment. “Of all my emissaries, I had thought you better than this. So many faithful years of service, so much shared between us…”
Kravitz ground his teeth in his skull. He squeezed his hands tightly and heard the bones creak.
“…and you don’t even invite me to your wedding?”
He jerked his head up instantly. The head in front of him, as grim and unreadable as any common raven, seemed to grin somehow. It tilted its head and its feathers ruffled as it clicked its beak.
“I – you – that is–”
The Raven Queen’s laughter filled the chamber. The pyreflies danced, bright blue lights flickering in the dark.
“Dear boy,” She drawled, Her size shrinking considerably, “forgive me, but you are such a stiff, sometimes.”
Kravitz sighed, pinching the bone above his nose as She laughed at Her own terrible joke. This, he was far more familiar with. “Forgive me, my Queen, but is that what this is about?”
“Of course!” She said lightly, now only around ten feet tall, a thin sliver of the massive presence She had taken before. “Birthdays, I understand. Time is looser in my realm, and they stop having meaning after a while. But weddings? Kravitz, I should think I merit a wedding.”
“Of course you do, my Queen. I merely–”
“I mean, really, what the hell do I have to do? Ask to come?” She huffed, and all of her feathers ruffled at once. The sole raven’s head atop what passed for Her shoulders turned away in disgust. “And here I thought we were more than employer and employee.”
“Your Highness, please–”
“Now, I know that I haven’t been able to offer you a retirement package, or allow you to use your accrued vacation time,” She said clinically, “but that is simply the way things are. We’re swamped! What am I to do, let the laws of life and death slip a bit here and there because one of my employees went on honeymoon? We’re not a stationary store, we’re the guardians of mortality itself, you know that–”
“I’m well aware,” Kravitz said loudly, taking the risk of interrupting Her. “I’m not ungrateful for the time I’ve been given, I can promise you that.”
The Raven Queen bent and peered at him. “Well, then?”
Kravitz made a noise in the back of his throat and scratched at his cheek with a bony finger. “I… merely thought you had more important things to do.”
“Do I seem busy to you, my boy?” She said sardonically, sounding simultaneously old and young, petulant and aloof.
“Not at the moment, my Queen, no.”
Her head tilted, peering at him with one large black eye. “Well, then?” She repeated.
Kravitz sighed and settled his shoulders. “Would you do me the honor of attending my wedding,” he said flatly.
His Queen gasped, rearing back to Her ten-foot height. “Why, Kravitz, what a lovely thing to be asked by a friend! The honor would be mine!”
Again, he was glad he had no skin, that She could not see his sneer. “Many thanks, my Queen.”
“Shall I give you away as well?”
“I–” Kravitz froze. “Pardon?”
Her head seemed to grin again.
“That won’t be necessary, Your Highness,” he said wearily.
“No, I’m quite alright, thank you.”
She tutted. It sounded like a caw. “You’re no fun.”
“Yes, my Queen,” he said rotely. “The wedding is–”
“July the 27th, one o'clock, just north of the village of Greendale, with a reception to follow.”
Kravitz stared at Her. Her many wings flexed, out and in. He imagined She thought this made Her look innocent, somehow.
“Shall I bring a hot dish?”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said quickly. “My husband will be minding the catering himself.”
“Ah, yes. Of course he will.” The Raven Queen tittered, and it sounded like a schoolgirls’ choir. “And no need to worry about my appearance, I’m sure I can find something unassuming to slip into.”
“I’m sure,” Kravitz drawled. “If that’s all?”
“Yes, my boy, that’s all for now.” She dismissed him with a wave of Her wing, sweeping as She turned away. “I won’t keep you from your family any longer.”
Kravitz bowed, as deeply and respectfully as he had when he entered. “Thank you, my Queen.”
“Thank you, Kravitz. Give my best to your fiancée,” She replied seriously, Her head turning towards him in profile. “I’ve not forgotten what all of you did. I never will.”
Kravitz had no response to this, no words that could adequately express what it meant. He merely nodded and turned away, cleaved a hole into the Astral plane, and left without another word.
He was already rehearsing how he’d explain this to Taako. He’d probably find it deeply amusing. Probably.
The day of the wedding, all the invited guests arrived, save one. It was only when he stood waiting at the altar that Kravitz noticed the raven perched in the oak tree behind the audience. A fair bit larger than average, it regarded him with a thoroughly imperious stare.
When Taako finally made his appearance – strutting down the aisle with his arms thrown wide, glittering pyrotechnics and fountains of sparks shooting up behind him as he walked – Kravitz was certain he saw the bird grin.
And as the ceremony concluded, and Kravitz dipped Taako down for a passionate kiss, he was equally certain he heard a raven’s caw intermingled with the cheers and applause.
Summary: If you know that the time you have with someone won’t last forever, what do you do? Do you avoid the moment to avoid the agony of what comes next, or do you claim the moment and relish it with all you have despite the pending heartbreak?
Author’s Note: Imagine your MC being with an LI they know they can’t be with forever. This fan fic is written for that ship in mind. In my head, it’s very much a Jake x MC piece, but I also see it as a The Freshman LI x MC piece, right before breaking up with Chris/James/Kaitlyn/Zig formally. Written while listening to Novo Amor’s Holland.
A Love That Isn’t Ours (MC x LI: Can be Jake x MC OR Pre-break-up James/Chris/Kaitlyn x MC)
We know this is a love that isn’t ours.
The way our fingers intertwine so perfectly just delays the breaking of each other’s hearts. I already feel mine cracking at the core.
Yet we still hold on to each other, loving the feel of warm hands, satin against flannel, soft lips on stubbled skin.
The evening swallows us whole, and we surrender to the comfort of the small hours, the safety of cloaked midnights, the hint of moonlight hitting the arch of your neck, the small of my back, the white, crumpled sheets that beckon us. Questions are not allowed.
Courage comes from the shadows we make. My hands run through your hair as your lips crash on mine, hungry, hopeful, knowing that while this is a love that isn’t ours, the evening is.
Your fingers dance on bronze skin, making a pattern of swirls and staccatos on my waist. Midnight deepens and we surrender to languid kisses alternating with a hurried pace, knowing that dawn is nearing, knowing that this midnight may not come again.
Darkness gives us permission. You whisper words in my ear I’ve never heard from you — a mix of curses and sweet seduction, a tremor in your voice culminating in primal groans that say more about what’s between us than any language can capture. Heavy breathing gives way to quiet moans, quiet moans give way to throaty ones as the use for words are lost.
This is a love that is not ours. But at the climb and the peak and the waves and the crash we fall into each other - limbs on limbs, mouth on mouth, sweat on sweat, breath on breath, again and again. And again.
At the final crash, we hold on to each other, feeling each other’s heartbeats, skin on skin, soul on soul.
The way our fingers intertwine so perfectly just delays the breaking of
each other’s hearts. I hear yours cracking as mine begins to fall apart.
#32-"I think I'm in love with you and i'm terrified" Marichat
Thanks! I really liked this prompt, and figured I don’t do enough fics from Marinette’s perspective. I wanted to try a different take on the marichat dynamic, so have some semi-angsty Marinette feels! Enjoy! :) (under a cut because I can’t do drabbles jfc)
Also, apologies for any typos, it’s 2am and I should probably be in bed but oH WELL
In Your Dreams, Princess: A Throne of Glass Series Short Story~Part 6
Here it is, finally, after so many weeks of me not publishing anything. The writer’s block has been unreal lately.
I blame school.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy where this story is going. It is, in fact, coming to a close. There may be one or two parts after this one.
“—and be sure to do your part. For our Queen.” Rowan Whitethorn only caught the ending of Lorcan’s laboriously long and entirely unnecessary instructions regarding the mission they were due to embark on.
“Honestly, Lorcan,” said one of the members of his cadre, Gavriel, “You give us the same speech every time we go on a mission. Hell, you still badger the twins about when they ought to take baths.”
Lorcan’s lip twitched ever so slightly. “They’re still boys,” was all he said.
“They’re nearly two-hundred and fifty years old,” Gavriel defended with an incredulous look about him.
Lorcan sheathed his bow and more than a few knives before turning his back to the two men.
“They’re still boys,” he repeated. Rowan just shook his head, inspecting each of his weapons and asked, “So what’s the plan of action, exactly?”
“Gavriel, I want you and I to travel on the ground. Rowan, I want you in the air. You know the rest.”
“What about when we arrive?”
Lorcan glanced back at them once. “Worry about that when we get there.” He said nothing more before shifting into his animal form. He was off, faster than lightning and did not look back to see if the other two Fae warriors were following him.
With a weary sidelong glance at Rowan, Gavriel followed suit and dashed to catch up with their leader. Rowan could not help but think that there was one good thing coming out of this, at least.
He couldn’t help the feeling of elation that bubbled up in his chest as he changed into his hawk form and shot up into the sky. There was always a feeling of freedom when Rowan flew.
He tucked his wings into his sides, diving nose-down towards the ground and releasing an ominous cry. At the last minute, he opened his wings again and flew. Up, up, up he went until even Gavriel and Lorcan were nothing more but tiny specs beneath him.
“Celaena, you won’t even be truly partaking in the night’s festivities,” Nehemia, the devastatingly gorgeous Princess of Eyllwe scolded her friend. Celaena Sardothien, Adarlan’s most notorious assassin, held up another cloak. This one was a midnight blue, nearly black in color with a deep colored maroon piping around the hem and hood of it.
“I quite like this one. What do you think?” Celaena continued as if she had not heard her friend. When Nehemia merely folder her arms across her chest and arched a brow, she sighed. “What? You never know just whom you could meet at a festival. Besides,” Aelin slipped the cloak on, tying it about her neck, “one must always be fashionable. Even if it is for just a few moments.”
“I can’t say I disagree,” Nehemia closed the book she had previously been reading. “But I can’t help but wonder if you’re going through all this trouble for a certain prince we both know…”
“I really do wish you’d go about your own business.” But even as Celaena said the words, she could not fight back a smile at the thought of Dorian. “Anyway, Dorian and I’s relationship is strictly professional. He is the Crown Prince of Adarlan, no matter how much I wish to ignore it and absolutely despise the title, it’s the truth. It’s against the rules for us to have anything other than a mutual respect of each other.”
“Good thing you always damn the rules and do what you want.”
If only that were true, Celaena thought. But she merely plastered on a smile and gestured for Nehemia to hand her her boots.
“I wish I could go with you, Elentiya,” Nehemia said so softly, it was nearly a whisper. In those words were all the longing Celaena knew all too well. The desire to be free and do as you wish, to not feel so very much like a bird trapped in a cage.
Celaena finished tying her left boot and came to sit beside her dear friend on the bed. Nehemia rested her head in Celaena’s lap and she could not help playing with the beautiful braids adorning her head.
“One day, Nehemia. I promise. We will go to a festival. We will dance until our feet are red and aching; we will laugh until our stomach’s pain us; gorge ourselves on the food until we are fat as a rich man. One day you will be free. I know you will.”
A look Celaena could not decipher passed behind the princess’ eyes. The look was gone so quickly, however; replaced with a smile and an eagerness that nearly overwhelmed her.
“I look forward to that day. Until then, you must have all the fun for me.” Nehemia paused. “Don’t let me keep you! I believe His Highness is waiting for you.”
At that precise moment, a knock sounded and Celaena did not need to look to know that Dorian would be standing there, probably looking more handsome than all the previous times she’d seen him.
The assassin placed one more knife in each of her boots before leaving a swift kiss to her friend’s cheek.
“I’ll be sure to tell you all about it when I return,” she said in parting. Nehemia smiled at her just as Celaena exited her bedroom.
What the young assassin did not see, however, was how her beloved friend’s lips turned to a frown, deep lines between her furrowed brows as she whispered, “ Kuwa salama, Elentiya. Huenda miungu kuangalia juu yenu.”
Rowan, Lorcan, and Gavriel had stopped only once during their long excursion for a quick snack and plenty of water and then it was back to the skies.
He had to admit that he had not a clue as to what they were going to be doing once they got to Adarlan. Rowan had, however, heard rumours of there being absolutely no magic there, which he had to admit worried him a great deal. He had never been to a place where he would not be able to change into his animal form or have no use of his Fae senses.
Rowan was beginning to see the many trees and plains of grass give way to buildings and a strikingly large palace that winked at them. They had arrived.
Lorcan bellowed a terrible snarl, signalling for Rowan to come down and join them. It took great strength for him to return to his Fae form; everything in him was screaming to fly. Fly forever. Fly until he was certain his wings would fall off.
Alas, he landed beside Gavriel and transformed back so that his wings and feathers were replaced with powerful, toned arms and long, deft fingers. Both of Rowan’s companions were stretching out muscles that they had been using since early this morning.
It was now evening, the sun just beginning to set. And even Rowan had to admit that, as the sun was sinking into the horizon, the vivid blues and whites of the sky turning to majestic purples and oranges and pinks, it was absolutely breathtaking.
“The rumours you’ve heard are true,” Lorcan announced. “There is no magic inside the walls of Adarlan. There has not been for many, many years now. We will not have use of our Fae senses, nor will we be able to change into our animal forms. We must be careful and tread lightly. We do not wish to cause any unexpected attention to come our way.”
Gavriel and Rowan nodded silently before following Lorcan. The entrance to Adarlan was quick as someone met them on the very outskirts where they changed into less conspicuous clothing and switched from travelling on foot to in a two-horse drawn carriage.
It was cramped, to say the least. None of the men included in the cadre were small, each of the no shorter than six feet. Their guide, whom was dressed in entirely black clothing was
a bulky man with thinning reddish hair, crimson cheeks, a sandy mustache, and obsidian eyes. There was something about those eyes, a glint in them, perhaps, that caused Rowan to be exceedingly aware of his presence at all times.
None of them talked during their ride. In fact, Rowan did nothing but stare at the spot above their guide’s head until he felt the carriage come to a stop. It wasn’t a long journey, but they had barely rolled to a stop before Rowan hopped out. In front of him stood a very inconspicuous house in an even more inconspicuous neighborhood. The lawn out front was a rich green with flowers popping up in seemingly random spots. The house itself had many windows and a balcony on the topmost floor. There was only one way to get in—from the outside at least—and their mysterious guide took out a key from his pocket and promptly twisted it in the lock. He gestured for them to enter.
Rowan quickly surveyed his surroundings, Gavriel doing the same with a skeptic eye. Lorcan, however, was chatting lowly with their host. Both their voices were muted by the sound of the crackling fireplace. Rowan realized that if he had his Fae hearing, he would have been able to hear their conversation.
His knuckles tightened; his jaw clenched in frustration.
“We’ll rest here for the night.” Lorcan turned to the two other men and inclined his head towards the stairs. “Both your rooms are upstairs. I trust you can find them yourselves.”
Apparently, Lorcan was not going to be joining them.
As he was climbing the stairs, Rowan became aware of the fact that their guide had not once spoken directly to him. In fact, Rowan did not know what the man even sounded like for he always spoke in whispered tones.
Gavriel and his companion parted ways to their own separate sleeping quarters without so much as a glance in the others direction.
Exhausted from the day, Rowan had barely rid himself of his clothing before dumping himself onto the bed that creaked underneath his weight.
In moments, he was dragged into a deep slumber.
Rowan opened his eyes and was startled at the familiarly unfamiliar gold-ringed blue ones that greeted him. They were wide and framed with thick, blond lashes and were gazing at him with an emotion Rowan could not quite decipher.
Her hand reached up between them; she gently placed it on his cheek, rubbing her thumb back and forth across the tattoos that decorated half his face before hers tilted up and her mouth was on his.
It seemed to be instinct for him to lean into her touch and though he was certain their lips had never met before, they moved together like old dance partners. Rowan did not know what came over him, but before he could stop himself his hand was cradling the small of her back and she was straddling his lap.
Fire coursed through his veins as she pressed a gentle kiss to the curve of his neck. The sonorous growl that elicited from the back of his throat caused gooseflesh to appear on her flawless skin.
Everything about her came rushing at him. The curve of her lips; the smoothness of her skin; the light in her eyes; the smell of lavender that seemed to envelop her whole person. The way she clung to him as if she was drowning and he was air, but somehow they were not close enough.
Suddenly, she trapped his face between her hands. The panic in her eyes sent his heart galloping faster and he found himself about to ask what could possibly be wrong when she whispered, “Come find me, Rowan.”
“Wha—” She cut him off, repeating her words from before and all Rowan could wonder was how. How was he to find her?
When Rowan awoke, he was sweating and gasping and helplessly confused and a bit self-conscious of the fact that his body seemed to have reacted to the dream he had just woken out of. The covers were thrown in a heap upon the ground, as were a few of his pillows. Without a second thought, he grabbed his clothes from earlier and threw them on.
With stealth that could only have been perfected over years and years and years, he exited his room, creeped down the stairs, and was out the door. Rowan lifted the hood of his cloak and began walking the streets of a place that was totally unfamiliar to him.
And yet strangely, there was something about Adarlan…something that called to him as if he had been here before. The wind, he realized in astonishment. It spoke to him, whispering ‘welcome back’ on his cheeks, though he had certainly never been here before.
As he continued to walk, Rowan’s ears picked up a sound…music. And people. A few moments later, he could smell food. His stomach chastised him; he had not eaten before he’d gone to bed and was now paying the price for it.
It did not take long for him to stumble upon a type of festival that was going on in Adarlan. Everyone was dressed strangely; Rowan saw one woman in a cat-like get up; one man dressed comically like a pirate; another like a court jester.
Atleast he wouldn’t be in danger of sticking out.
Rowan scowled as a woman came up to him and strung colorful beads around his neck. She smiled up at him, obviously hoping that he’d take some interest in her as she leaned in closely to speak above the music. She was dressed scandalously as a…well, Rowan could not entirely tell but whatever it was, he was sure that the amount of flesh she was showing was entirely unnecessary.
“Are you enjoying the festival?” She asked. Rowan ignored her. With a wicked twist to her lips, she took one of his hands and began dragging him over to a cart. “You look like a man who needs a drink,” she said.
Before he could stop her, she was winking at the merchant and handing Rowan a mug filled with a chilled beverage; whisky, by the smell of it. The woman took one for herself and was already chugging hers down.
She turned a speculative eye to him, clearly admiring his intimidating presence. Rowan could practically hear her devilish and inappropriate thoughts.
“Now I’ve paid for that drink so you may as well drink up.” She took another sip of her drink.
“I don’t drink.”
She rolled her eyes, clearly not believing him but she took his drink from his hands and began sipping on it. Rowan noticed she had already downed hers and she was beginning to sway dangerously to one side.
It was then that Rowan truly regretted leaving his room.
“—, everyone dresses up in ridiculous costumes and gets drunk, so we shouldn’t have to worry about getting recognized,” Dorian explained.
Celaena nodded in understanding. “So where, exactly, is the Hall of Restricts located? Is it far?”
“No, not at all. My father wanted it far enough away that no one would stumble upon it, but close enough that he could get to it quickly should need be.Definitely nothing Adarlan’s Assassin can’t handle.” He nudged her shoulder, but Celaena did not smile. Dorian took notice. “What’s wrong? Is it something I’ve said?”
“It’s not you, it’s just…” Celaena paused as they rounded a corner and entered a dark alleyway. Hearing something from further down, she pressed a finger to her lips, signalling for him to be quiet. A small dagger appeared in her hands. She pressed Dorian against the wall behind them just as a man appeared. He was holding a mug of ale, clearly drunk. He didn’t even flinch when Celaena brought the dagger to his throat.
“Wow,” he slurred. “Thas’a nice cossssume you gothere.”
Celaena heard Dorian snicker behind her.
She sheathed the dagger, pulling Dorian along and leaving the helplessly drunk man in the alley.
They exited the alleyway and came out in the middle of Adarlan’s Square. There was more music and food and dancing and people than Celaena could ever have imagined there being in one place. She was completely awestruck; it had been forever since she’d seen something like this.
“Would you like to dance?” Celaena locked eyes with Dorian and found him offering her his hand.
“But what about—”
“We’ll still have time to search The Hall,” he assured with a smile. “Besides, it’s been forever since I’ve been able to dance without a dozen girls trying to throw themselves at me.”
Celaena grinned and placed her hand in his.
“Would you like to dance?”
Rowan had just gotten rid of Drunk Girl #2 when another feminine voice approached him. He was about to whip around and sternly tell her all the things he had had to repeat what felt like a thousand times.
No, he did not want to dance.
No, he did not want a drink.
No, he would not accompany her to a dark alley or her home or her carriage.
Yes, he was certain.
But this time when he turned around, he was startled to find that the girl that had approached him was dressed simple, but fashionable blue dress and white gloves. Her big brown eyes met his gaze unflinchingly, yet her posture suggested she was quite shy and quiet. Both those eyes…they were something entirely different; owners of having seen things a person should never have to, of having experienced things that would cripple your average person.
It was something about her quiet strength that had him agreeing before he could truly think about it.
They were swept up into the flurry of people dancing to the flutes and violins and wind and crickets that all came together to compose a song that was strikingly mellifluous.
“I can’t help but notice that you don’t quite seem to be enjoying yourself,” her quiet voice observed.
Rowan found himself responding. “Well, I’m not usually one to partake in these kind of festivities.”
“Me neither,” the woman admitted. “I don’t particularly see the fun in drinking so that you remember nothing of the previous night.”
Her small, slim body moved effortlessly, gracefully about the floor, Rowan took note. And she was encaptivating, if not entirely beautiful. She was interesting to look at, with wide brown eyes set in a pixie-like brown face.
The wind blew her dark curls across her face, but that was not what caught Rowan’s attention. It was a scent that was carried along the wind that made his heart stop.
It smelt like her.
Rowan scolded himself. Anyone could smell like lavender. It was not as if it was an uncommon scent.
It wasn’t just the lavender, Rowan apprehended. It was the way the scent was distinctly feminine and peculiarly intimate; how it was mixed with the smell of old books; the slight pine smell incorporated in it. It was entirely ethereal, this scent.
He looked down at the woman in front of him and promptly detached himself from her. “I’m sorry,” he began to apologize. “I must—”
“You will find her,” she said. His stomach dropped.Surely he must have misheard her.
“What did you say?”
“The woman you seek. She will be the beginning of a new era, Rowan Whitethorn.”
And with that, the woman vanished right before his eyes, the words she had muttered just seconds ago running rampant through his mind. How did she know he was looking for a woman? How did she know his name?
Rowan realized he would have to worry about it later as the redolence of the mysterious woman from his dreams was beginning to fade. He followed it, pushing through people who were so drunk they didn’t seem to notice.
She was here. She had to be. Somehow, the gods had encouraged them out and brought them both at the same place at the same time. If the situation proved otherwise and she was indeed not here, then Rowan’s impetuous behavior was certainly a sign of him going mad.
Rowan followed the scent until he was well away from the raucous laughter, captivating music, and delicious scents. This part of Adarlan was much more quiet; whether that be a result of the festival or not Rowan was not sure.
But what he was sure of was that he had caught a fleeting glance of blond hair running across the roof of one of the nearby shops. He couldn’t be certain, but it seemed like the type of thing the woman in his dreams might do. So without further thought, Rowan quickly scaled the closest shop and was staring down at the city of Adarlan. He had to admit, it was quite beautiful at night. But he had no time to revel in the night’s beauty as a figure dashed…
Right there, just a few roofs over, was definitely a person; their cloak billowing behind them as they moved with impossible prowess. They moved as silent as death, but Rowan had no doubt that they were aware of his presence.
With a newfound determination, the Fae warrior set out at a run.
Celaena was not entirely sure how she became aware of the fact that someone was following her. The feeling came sometime while she and Dorian had been dancing. When she had told him as much, they set out a plan for her to lure the person away whilst Dorian followed a distance behind.
And she had been right.
This person, whomever they were, was definitely following her. She could tell by their size and gait that it was assuredly a man. Their moves were soundless, swift and sure in a way that Celaena both appreciated and was apprehensive about.
She dashed across the roofs of the shops she frequented and found with more than a little satisfaction that her stalker was no more than three roofs behind her. He was catching up to her.
Celaena, comforted by the warmth of the blades in both her hands, came to the edge of a roof and jumped, feeling the air and gravity drag her down. She landed, without a sound, in a cramped, dark and rank alley. She could smell something dead not to far down from her. Whether it be man or beast, Celaena found she could go the rest of her life without knowing.
And continued to wait for an imposing amount of time. Perhaps he hadn’t seen her duck into the alley?
No, Celaena thought. He definitely saw her. But he wouldn’t have just come directly after her. If the roles were switched—and many times they had been— and Celaena was the pursuer, she would have circled back around and landed—
Celaena barely had time to defend herself with her blade before he appeared beside her.
She could not see a thing in the intimidating gloom that surrounded them, but she thoroughly scrutinized what she could see. Her pursuer was tall—well over six feet— and possessed broad shoulders. He was massive, and Celaena was all the more impressed at his lack of sound as he had chased her.
And then she tilted her head back to meet his gaze.
Her heart stopped.
She had seen these eyes before.
They were just as overwhelming as they had been in her dreams; a pine green color that flickered, even in the dark.
It seemed to be years before she found her voice.
“How did you find me?”
He was just as dumbfounded as she was, apparently, because she heard him suck in a breath.
“I…I followed your scent.” His voice sent unexpected chills dancing down the length of her spine.
Celaena was still unsure of whether or not this man posed a threat, but she lowered her blade nonetheless.
“I must be losing my mind. I thought you were just a figment of my imagination,” the man said, more to himself than to her.
“That makes two of us.”
“Hmmmm, I haven’t ssssmelt Fae blood in ccccenturies.”
Simultaneously, Celaena and the man beside her had drawn their swords. They moved so that his back was aligned with hers; Celaena found that she was overly aware of his presence behind her, the way his heat seemed to break through every layer of clothing she had and warm her.
They both took a breath as the creature slithered from out of the dark. With horror, Celaena realized that the smell of death had been coming off of the beast in front of them.
Celaena had no time to ask questions as the man dashed ahead. She was right on his heels. They turned a sharp left at the same time that the creature spoke again, “You will not be able to outrun me.”
Celaena hadn’t had a fighting partner since Sam, but the familiarity of having someone cup their hands so that she could scale the wall was equal parts exhilarating and frightening.
She stretched out her hand to help the man.
“Do you trust me?” She asked.
“Do you trust me?”
Finally, the man nodded.
Good, Celaena thought. Because you might absolutely hate me after this.
She hauled him up, and they sprinted over the roofs. Celaena inwardly counted.
She halted at the edge of one of the roofs. The man whirled, questioning her with his eyes.
“Remember when you said you trusted me?”
“I’m already beginning to regret that decision,” he retorted.
This is a one-shot, has nothing to do with Hear My Voice. This is for ydlover808 – you’re a sweetheart and I can’t give you more than this little excerpt, but I hope it makes you happy just for a little bit.
The storm was raging outside, hissing and cackling as it saw them run through the house, trying to navigate through the darkness. It had cut off the electricity, making them blind.
“Choi Young Do? Where are you?”
She felt his sweaty hands grasp hers.
“I’m here,” he said. She heard a clatter and a curse from him as they both tripped over something.
She laughed softly and felt the walls, trying to go down the stairs carefully.
“In the basement there’s a supply of water bottles and canned food,” he whispered as they made their way.
She squinted and saw the black clouds foaming outside, the rain hitting the windows with vengeance.
“Hopefully it ends soon,” she said, mostly to herself.
The house was quiet– Young Do had sent the servants home for the day when the thunder and lightning started.
She had stayed because she wouldn’t have made it across the city in time.
They got to the basement.
There were only two doors– a small bathroom and a spare bedroom.
In the darkness, she could barely see him but he guided her through the room, trying to find the water bottles and spare supplies.
“It doesn’t seem to be here,” said Young Do from the corner.
“Maybe it’s in the bathroom? Omma sometimes puts the emergency supplies in the cabinets.”
She opened the door, hitting her hip on the counter.
She cried out in pain.
“Cha Eun Sang? Are you hurt?” he called out, running into the bathroom.
Their heads collided and they both cried out.
He rubbed his forehead and then touched hers, his fingers cold against her warm skin.
“I am fine,” she said quietly, peering up at him.
They were so close now. She could hear his heart hammering against his chest.
She swallowed and whispered, “we should find the supplies.”
“Right, the supplies.”
He touched the walls, trying to find the cabinet.
She sat down on the floor as he searched through them.
He slammed them shut angrily. “There’s nothing in there.”
“We should check the bedroom then,” she said, getting up.
She tried to open the door but the handle wouldn’t budge.
“I think it’s broken,” she said.
He cursed. “I forgot about that, we never had someone come and fix it.”
There was a pause.
“I guess we’re trapped here, then.”
Remember, requests are open! If there’s anything you’d like to see written, drop me an ask :)
A little angst/ asshole Luke for you guys.
A fake relationship gone wrong when arrogant and wealthy Luke Hemmings betrays and humiliates you in front of a large crowd of prejudiced onlookers.
Luke clenches his jaw harder as his dark eyes scan the
ballroom. The dangling pendants of the extravagant chandelier above his head
reflect specks of light on the polished floor, their image distorted as his
shoes cut sharply over the tiles. His grip around you tightens as he leads you begrudgingly
through the outskirts of the dome shaped ballroom, your heeled feet struggling
to keep up with his determined stride. Coloured dresses meld into each other
towards the centre of the ballroom as dancers twirl and dip in their partners
arms in time to the string quartet perched atop the small stage.
“Champagne?” Luke asks, turning to you abruptly as he swipes
a tall glass from the tray of a passing waiter.
“No… I don’t drink,” you answer softly.
His cheekbones become taut in annoyance, before he presses
the glass into the hands of a second passing waiter, not bothering to apologise
as the liquid partly spills on the floor.
“Come, Y/N,” Luke demands, hooking his arm through yours and
scanning the dancefloor again.
“Remember what I told you about meeting Father. He isn’t to
know who you are, or where you came from. As far as he is aware, you are the
daughter of a wealthy business owner based on the other side of the country,
and my girlfriend.”
“Sam!” you whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “Sam, wake up!”
He groaned and shifted in his cramped position in the back seat of the Impala. “What? Y/N? What the hell time is it?” He could see that it wasn’t even close to sunrise, the surround blackness still cloaking the car.
“Midnight? Are you crazy? We just went to bed like an hour ago after no sleep for two days…” He rubbed sleepily at his eyes.
“Yeah, I know but… IT’S YOUR BIRTHDAY!” You couldn’t keep going with the whispering any longer… Sam jumped and looked at you with an amused smile.
He laughed. “I know…but it will still be my birthday after some real sleep.”
You pouted at him. “Fine. If you don’t want your present now…”
“I want it now!” He grinned and sat up eagerly.
You handed him a wrapped package and he eagerly tore into it. There was a beautiful pistol inside. Sam picked it up gingerly and examined the pearl inlay on the handle.
“It looks almost exactly like Dean’s,” he said.
You nodded. “They were a set. This one was your dad’s. Dean and I tracked it down.”
Flames slithered and danced across blistering wood and shattering glass. The sound of invisible voices whispered behind midnight cloaked ears, veiled by the softest of raven colored locks. The purest of blue hues looked on with a sense of pure sexual desire as she watched the small bar catch ablaze by her own sick, twisted villainous ways. With just a break of a bottle and a strike of a single match the witch had added a small number of innocent souls to the list of lives taken by her own hands.
She watched on with dark obsession as her pale pink lips twisted into a demonic smirk growing wider with every scream and cry of agony that echoed off of the deteriorating walls and into the milky, ash filled smoked that enveloped around the small confinements of the hellish prison of her own creation.
“Shouldn’t have charged me double for such a shit drink-” she spat as the wooden floor boards began to crack beneath her boots. With a soft chuckle, she stepped back into the safe, clean air of the night. Flames still reflecting a venomous glow as she continued to stare on as she backed away from the crime scene. With sirens bellowing in the night, above the roar of the flames and screams of fear and death, the witch took it upon herself to call it a night, calmly stepping away from the obvious case of arson.
With a sigh, she placed an unlit cigarette between her still smirking lips, lighting the end with a match from the box linked to the burning building, “shouldn’t have double charged me…” she breathed, “Shouldn’t have double charged me…”
So in my meta I was discussing the whole idea of Parrish as the Raven. Then the mid-season trailer was revealed with him all sooty and all fired up looking like he could possibly be a phoenix rising from the ashes so on and so forth. So I had added more to my meta regarding just that. That original meta can be read here (http://legacy-and-ploy.tumblr.com/post/92780217413/parrish-and-the-raven-trope). Anyway the point of this new post is to continue talking about the whole Raven vs Phoenix conundrum, because upon doing more research I have found some interesting comparisons.
The biggest thing I have found was possibly where the phoenix legend first came from.
“Ravens and crows have been known to practice a peculiar form of behavior called ‘Anting’. The bird will disturb an ant’s nest, or sit over something sweet (like spilled honey or an almost empty soda-pop can), spread out its wings, and allow ants to run up and down its body. It is thought that the ants give the bird a sort of 'back massage’ this way, or that they feast on feather mites which live on the bird and cause irritation. For whatever reason, they seem to enjoy the sensation and have been known to do it repeatedly.
In a similar way, some of these birds will sit over a hot surface, such as the dying embers of a fire, and spread out their wings. Perhaps they do it for the same reason we sit in a sauna - they just enjoy the heat - or perhaps they use the intense heat to encourage feather mites to find a different home. Since they won’t talk, it’s hard to tell.
However, if a bird such as a large raven sits on the embers of a fire, and for some reason chooses to flap its wings (maybe as a way to cool off, or maybe because it’s ready to take to the air) then it could stir the fire to life again. The sudden resurgence of flames around it would almost certainly cause the bird to take off.
And voila - you have a bird rising from the midst of flames and ashes.”
That in itself is interesting because here we have a bird which could have been the original inspiration behind the mythology of the phoenix. Then we go a little further into Raven.
“Raven is a juxtaposition of opposites: A provider and a thief. A hero and a fool. He brought light out of darkness, but he is himself cloaked in midnight black. He is a symbol of dark brooding sadness, and of death, yet he brings life, and unrivalled joy. He is credited with creating the earth and all its mysteries, but even the smallest secret attracts his attention. He is a silent spy, and an unstoppable chatterbox. He is many things…. And sometimes he is nothing. That is Raven.”
Again to me this sounds like Parrish. He in the show has been show as quite a conundrum. He is righteous but from the trailer obviously will do what it takes to help fight for his life. He is cloaked in midnight black in the trailer as well, and we know he has seen plenty of death.
Through research I also consistently see the idea of ravens and phoenix being drawn as comparisons to one another, either as source for the mythology or that the two would look very similar depending on the age and cycle of life of the bird.
In many societies the phoenix represented the sun, and took on the physical representation of such things. As stated in my previous meta the raven was also known to have flown to the sun in some mythologies in order to retrieve fire and light to bring back to mankind another parallel between the two.
And then furthermore in some cultures such as at the Mandan legend of “The Bird that made the Meat Bitter” we see that in this version the story of the White Raven and Phoenix are one in the same. So it has been seen that these two birds have been intricately linked throughout many histories, but are also vastly different at the same time.
Just a bit more information regarding both things that I find very interesting especially in how they can pertain to as far as Parrish is concerned.
The moss man has glowing blue eyes, like the dew on a flawless spring morning. His skin is woven from spider’s webs; his bones are made from gnarled tree limbs and old shed antlers; and his flesh is formed from moss and lichen. There is an ancient air about him, though he has the face of a young man, proud and stern, with a hint of a smile drawn across his narrow lips.
He is wearing a black robe, hewn from a patchwork quilt of winter’s darkest nights, holding a fire-hardened stag antler in his hand like a weapon. And he is staring right at me.
The battle has died down, but the chaotic static still lingers, and the smell of blood and sweat is so thick in my nostrils that I can taste it as I slowly step toward the moss man, enthralled and terrified all at once by those glowing blue eyes of his. He never takes them off of me, but I see the corner of his lip turn ever so slightly upward as he gives a defiant smile.
“I will not die easily,” he announces to me, though he does not move to attack. I let out an amused grunt of laughter and tell him, “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help."
The moss man’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, and for a moment, my curiosity is overrun by my fear. My heart races, and suddenly, just before I can turn to run from him, the moss man drops the antler in his hand and falls to his knees before me.
I near him, still terrified, but encouraged by this move. When I am directly before him, he still looms over me, even on his knees, and I realize that even without his weapons, he could crush me like the dried exoskeleton of a caddisfly larvae if he wished to. I am shaking as he pulls me under his sweeping midnight cloak and holds me close.
The glow of his sky blue eyes guides me to the empty spaces in his flesh, torn and burned in battle. I feel his hands around my waist as he stares down at me, waiting for me to heal him, and I suddenly realize with a jolt that I don’t know how.
I feel panic at first, then an overwhelming dread - not because I am worried that the moss man will be angered at me for my incompetence, but because I fear that if I can’t help him, he may die of his wounds. And somehow, that notion leaves an ache in my heart which instantly brings me to tears.
Bubbling streams of salty water roll down my face and gather at the edges of my lips while I cry there in the moss man’s embrace. I realize only now that I have known him for a very long time, though I cannot recall any other dream in which I’ve seen the moss man before. I know that there is an ancient bond between us, though, and the moss man seems to have confidence in me as he patiently waits for me to heal him. Not once does he cry out or complain; on the contrary, he is silent, and his face still holds that confident shadow of a smile.
Suddenly, I know exactly what to do.
With tears still flowing down my face, collecting at the edges of my trembling lips, threatening to tumble over if I make one false move, I kiss the moss man’s every wound, and where my tear-laden lips touch his body, the moss and lichen that form his flesh are given new life, and expand to fill the empty spaces where he’s been battered and bruised.
I kiss him until he is healed, and then lean back from him to look at his face once more, only to realize that he is crying tears of his own. In an ancient voice, the moss man tells me, "This is the third time you’ve saved me, now,” and my dream shifts away from the scene, leaving in my head the image of his glowing blue eyes, and in my heart, an intense longing to see him again.
I know that I have not dreamed of the moss man before. I can’t imagine where else I may have “saved” him. It’s been weighing on my mind a lot, and whenever I think about it, I get all tingly inside. I wish that I could fall asleep and dream whatever I wanted to, and dream of him, but I think that if I did that, I’d just sleep forever.
Turn off the lights and you
glow, like the plastic stars creating
the Milky Way on my ceiling.
Your silhouette draped on the
sheets, cloaked by the night.
The midnight moon – a halo showing
through the closed blinds. My bones
curl into yours like a question mark
and I kiss you as if the answer is on your lips.
Prompt: Arraigned Marriage Length: 1500 words A/N: Set in a world somewhat similar, but distinctly different from the Enchanted Forest we’ve come to know so well. I just really wanted to indulge my Dragon!Cora headcanon, alright?
Growing up with a dragon for a mother was never exactly a walk in the park. Not only was there the whole living in caves situation to deal with, but trying to blend in in town when your mother had been terrorizing the kingdom for decades was a nightmare. Regina loved her mother, really, she did; she only wished she might spend a little more time as
a human and a little less breathing fire and hoarding riches.