(Not edited and maybe not even all that coherent this just sort of…happened and I went with them.)
For @cuddles-and-chocolate-cake (thank you!! this got a bit longer than a small dabble so I formatted it properly like this instead of just answering your ask!)
Summary: Prompt: Moriel + slowly. Projected towards the end of ACOWAR, the Second War is over and Mor and Azriel finally acted on their feelings. But Az still has some reservations over whether or not he’s ready to completely accept them.
Second War washed away that line between them, like footprints on a beach,
until it was as though it had never been, as though it had always been nothing
more than an impression printed on both of their souls, the ghost of their
demons trembling before them. Fear and battle and the threat of losing each
other, of losing everything had
shattered the illusion like a thin pane of glass struck by a hurricane.
Five hundred years. Five hundred years they waited.
Half a millennia they spent apart, their entire lives in limbo, watching,
waiting, never daring to cross that line between them.
He would have waited another five centuries, another hundred
immortal lifetimes for her and thanked the Cauldron for every second he was
allowed to just be in her presence.
Now she’s told him that she feels the same way. That she waited.
Waited for him. That she would have kept on waiting for him, for him to be
ready, until her last breath if that had been what he had needed. Sometimes he
still struggles to believe her. Sometimes he still wants to step back over to
his side of the line where he still thinks he ought to be. But she gently holds
his hand and keeps him by her side, always. And that is where he belongs.
The Second War washed away that line between them, like
footprints on a beach, until it was as though it had never been, as though it
had always been nothing more than an impression printed on both of their souls,
the ghost of their demons trembling before them. Fear and battle and the threat
of losing each other, of losing everything had
shattered the illusion like a thin pane of glass struck by a hurricane.
He still does not know which of them moved first. Perhaps they
moved together, as they always have, in dance or in battle, seamless,
effortless, perfect. As though they were made for this, as though when the
Cauldron forged them they were one; one being split into two but never
forgetting where it came from, never forgetting what it ought to be.
All he knows is that one moment that barrier was between them, a
rippling veil of uncertainty beyond which lay something neither of them dared
look at for too long in all their years. And then it was gone. Gripped by two
hands; one large, one small, one callused, one delicate, one scarred, one
smooth, and together they tore it down.
Then his lips were on hers or her lips were on his but his
fingers were in her hair and her hands were gripping his shirt and pulling him
closer and…And he was kissing her. Her lips were parting for his tongue and
her taste was filling his mouth and he was drowning in her. Azriel was no
stranger to staring the waiting abyss in the eyes and denying it just once
more. Death and he were old friends now, a friend he visited regularly,
delivering others or himself it made little matter. But this.
When his lips met hers he knew he had never truly courted
death at all. Death was not a dark, cold apparition like the shadows that
flitted about his skin, his soul. Death was not a hooded male shrouded in lies
and gleeful smiles for the souls he could claim. Death did not taste of sorrow
and bitterness and frozen ashes, no.
Death was a lover. Death was a woman wrapped up in silks, gilded
in sunshine and drenched in wonder. Death was warm and tender and gentle. Death
tasted like the whiskey they had shared in his tent just before the call to
arms was issued. Death smelled like citrus and cinnamon and cherry scented
shampoo. Death was this moment, this kiss, rich and deep, that he had waited
for for more than five centuries. Death was worth every second it had taken to
claim him. Death was a love so deep he knew it would now be impossible to live
without it, without her.
Azriel is still afraid, still so afraid of everything. That kiss
seems to mark a break in time, there was before that moment and there is after
that moment and it feels impossible to reconcile the two.
Before the kiss was safe, was structured, was known and
familiar and comfortable. They had lived in that for five hundred years and it
had been good. Not everything he wanted, not everything he secretly hoped for,
not everything he had dreamed but…It had been enough. It was enough. His
mantra for the five centuries they’d spent apart. Her mantra too, she had
whispered to him one night as she lay curled in his arms. A position that felt,
so right, yet his demons still hissed snidely was so wrong.
After the kiss is unknown, unpredictable, and wild. Like trying
to fly through a storm he has no say in where the sky will carry him to, he can
only flare his wings and pray it does not let him fall. It has not yet but if
it does some day, he thinks, he will gladly tumble into that waiting void and
there will be a smile on his lips. He thinks that means they did the right
thing, no matter what comes next.
That does not stop him wanting to be careful. Always careful,
always precise, and in this above all things…He wishes to handle her with
care, with the tenderness and delicacy that she deserves. He wants to take his
time and had quietly insisted they move slowly with this. The last thing he had
ever wanted to do, and the thing he had been most afraid of, was doing
something that she might later regretted.
It has been almost a month since that first kiss and though
everything has changed, in some ways nothing has. He still hovers, still
hesitates, still resists her and holds himself back from doing everything he
wants. She sleeps in his bed, in his arms, her head pillowed against his
shoulder as though this has always been the way it’s been. But still he insists
that they wait. He wants her, Cauldron he wants her more than anything in this
world but…He swore to himself that he would give her time, time to change her
mind, time to leave, time to realise she deserves better…
Groaning, Azriel rolls his shoulder and flexes his wings,
shaking out the stiffness that’s gathered in them. Meetings. In some ways,
fighting in the war was preferable to sitting in all of these discussions
listening to the High Lords and Ladies talk over one another as they debate
politics. But he’s free now, free to seek her out.
Opening the door to his, their, chambers, he
pads inside and freezes in the doorway, blinking. Mor stands just inside,
obviously waiting for him, obviously just having stopped pacing up and down his
usual path in front of the fire. She looks stunning, the dress she has on a
deep, rippling cobalt, the same shade as the siphons he bears. She also looks
Shutting the door quietly behind him Azriel walks towards her,
concern darkening his hazel eyes. “What is it? What’s wrong?” He asks
softly, reaching out to her and instinctively tucking a lock of her thick,
golden hair behind her ear so he can see her face. So odd, so odd not having to
fight those instincts, so odd to be allowed to touch her this way, intimately,
lovingly, the way he’s always wanted to.
She shakes her head, “Nothing’s wrong, Az,” she says, but
her voice trembles slightly as she says it and he’s sure she’s not being honest
with him. Before he can question her further however she stands on her toes,
curling a hand behind his head, the tips of her fingers brushing the hair at
the nape of his neck as she coaxes him down to kiss her.
Each one still ruins him in a way he never thought anyone could.
He never expected to give anyone else this power over him, only her, and he
never expected that she would ever wield it in this way. Her tongue brushes his
and he melts for her, every mask cracking and crumbling to dust, every bit of
armour sliding from him as though molten, pooling on the floor at her feet and
leaving him bare before her.
Mor breaks the kiss between them but keeps his face cupped in
her hand, her eyes searching his for something. He wishes he knew what it was,
wishes he could gift it to her, wishes he could stop her looking so uncertain.
But then a smile is spreading across her face, slow and warm and deliberate as
the rising sun and he can’t help the ease that settles over him too in
“I love you,” she whispers softly, sincerely, without a trace of
doubt or hesitation in her as she looks into his eyes.
He swallows, blinking, startled at this. She hasn’t said those
words to him, not since their kiss and never in this way and he can’t breathe.
His chest is tight, as though his heart has swollen up and crushed his lungs,
leaving no room for anything inside him but the way she makes him feel.
“I love you too,” he breathes onto her lips. The words come
without permission, without thought. Because they’re true. He loves her. He’s
loved her from the moment their eyes met and she looked at him the way she did,
smiled at him the way she did and he has never been able to deny her that love.
That smile on her face broadens until it’s radiant and he feels
like it could sustain him for years. Then she draws back slightly, fishing in
her pockets for something he can’t see before she turns back to him.
“I know tattooing is traditional,” she begins, her voice
strangely breathless. “And we can do that if you want, I I’d like that,”
he blinks at her, utterly lost as she moves closer. He’s never seen her so
anxious, so unsure of herself before and he wants nothing more than to take her
in his arms and make her feel safe and secure.
“Mor-” He begins softly but she continues on, heedless of his
“But…I wanted to do it this way.” Swallowing she reaches
out and takes his hands softly in hers. Placing one over the other she covers
them both with her own and he jolts as the realisation of what she’s about to
do hits him a moment before she does it.
“Morrigan,” he rasps out in warning, his eyes wide, his throat
constricted as he stares at her.
She smiles, a hint of sadness in her molten brown
eyes. “I’m sure,” she whispers, nodding her head. As though she’s heard
every protest, every doubt in his head she goes on, one hand reaching up to
caress his cheek, stroking with her thumb. “I love you, Azriel,” she
breathes quietly. “I’ve loved you almost our entire lives. I will always love you, Az.” She kisses him
then, quick and brief, as though she can’t help herself, as though she needs
the contact, needs to express what she’s feeling in some physical way to try
and make him understand.
Taking a deep breath
she straightens, holding herself like a queen, like a goddess carved of mortal
flesh, she looks at him, looks into his eyes and he knows she sees everything.
She’s been there for it all, every shadow, every demon, every stain upon his
soul and still. Still she looks at him like that. As though he’s as precious to
her as she is to him. As though she might burst from the depth of her love for
him, even as he thinks he will for her. As though…As though she truly means
every word she’s just spoken to him.
“You don’t have to say
yes,” she tells him quietly, “I know you,” she tells him quietly, “I know you’re
scared. I know you don’t- I know you wanted to take it slow, to give me time to
run, to change my mind, to find someone,” she breaks off, jaw tightening as she
refuses to force the word out, the word that’s haunted him for centuries.
enough she gets out, “But…I’m not going anywhere, Azriel.” She blinks rapidly
and a single tear slips from her eyes. He brushes it away without thinking and
she continues, “I’ll wait for you. For however long it takes until you’re ready.”
He opens his mouth but no words come out, emotion clogs his throat and tears
slowly fill his own eyes but he holds them back, watching her, awe in every
fibre of him.
“I will wait for you,
I promise. But I need you to know that…I want this. I’m surer of this than
I’ve ever been of anything in my life.” She swallows, breathing deeply as she
presses something small and circular into his palm then tenderly closes his
scarred fingers around it. “I want to marry you, Azriel.” His heart stutters to
a halt as he looks down at his hand, almost afraid to open it. “Now. In a
month. In a decade. In a millennia. I don’t care. I just…I want to be your
wife.” He looks up at her again in time to watch her say softly, “If you’ll
past the lump in his own throat he reluctantly looks away from her shining eyes
and down to his hand. Slowly uncurling his fingers Azriel looks down at the
ring in his palm. Simple, elegant, three thin bands of silver that are woven
through one another endlessly with no clearly defined beginning or end. It had
belonged to his mother and it’s the only thing he has left of her.
He glances back up at
Mor again and finds her staring at him, visibly trembling as she waits for his
reaction. “Az?” she whispers hesitantly, voice straining with nerves, hands
clenched into tight fists at her sides.
Az moves forwards and lifts her hand gently and coaxes her fingers to unclench.
Tears flow freely down both of their faces as he lovingly slides the ring into
place on her finger, marvelling at how well it fits. Her face splits into a
broad grin and she throws herself into his arms, her legs wrapping around his
waist and Azriel finds himself laughing as he slides his arms around her,
holding her close. Her lips meet his in a deep, slow kiss and he folds his
wings tenderly around them as he carries her slowly back towards the bed.
Five hundred years. Five hundred years they waited. It’s been long
Ok so you all knew it was coming. Yes Campwolfe Fandom Nan™ just has to weigh in on the shenanigans and current angst-fest unfolding on Holby City for our Goddess Serena Campbell oh her anguish someone hold me intrepid couple Serena and Bernie. Many things I will say have likely already been said. Some perhaps not. As per usual, I shall pop it under a read more because I am wordy as shit to save y’all’s dash.
asexual lesbians do not owe relationships to anyone
no one owes anyone a relationship – romantic or platonic, sexual or not. no one even owes anyone consideration
i can’t get over these little sexual autocrats running around telling us we don’t have to date or fuck MTTs, but we at least have to consider dating and fucking them, like no… no, we do not have to do that. and not doing that does not make us bad people. likewise people who say “you don’t have to fuck them, but you at least have to date them” no… we do not have to do that either. our time and love and friendship and emotional investment are not public resources available to anyone who puts in a request.
lesbians are perfectly entitled to form romantic relationships based on biological sex, whether they plan to have sex with their partner or not.
furthermore, lesbians are entitled to live life free of harassment on the basis of the relationships they choose.
harassing people for their sexual orientation is not progressive, it is not morally acceptable, and i cannot believe people are actually pretending it is
A continuation of this that I didn’t think I’d actually do but…here it is anyway. Again, Blackmadhi, with implied past Blackbright/Phantomquill and a lot of focus on Simon’s mental state. Deals once again with Simon’s PTSD and includes descriptions of a panic attack. Approx. 2600 words.
that first night, Simon would be lying if he said that things hadn’t gotten
better with Nahyuta within the next couple of days.
investigation seemed to run smoother, and even though they still bickered some,
it was mostly teasing, and the two prosecutors would smile at each other after
delivering some half-hearted insults.
Yes, once in a while they would actually get frustrated, but that was
mostly due to the contrasts in their personalities. Luckily, it would not really last.
was even able to find a local restaurant that specialized in Japanese food, and
surprised Simon with that one evening, which had made him smile rather happily
instead of just giving one of his trademark sly smirks. He could have sworn he saw Nahyuta’s cheeks
tinge pink after that, but perhaps he had just imagined it, because the foreign
prosecutor had turned his face away.
the nights had gotten a little bit better, if only because Nahyuta had been
able to drag him out of his nightmares almost as quickly as they began. Each time he slept, as soon as Fulbright’s
face materialized in his mind, Nahyuta was gently shaking Simon awake. It was poetic, Simon couldn’t help but
think…when Fulbright’s face – only existing in his unconscious thoughts –
disappeared and Nahyuta’s took its place.
At times, Simon had felt an overwhelming urge to reach out and touch the
other prosecutor’s features…his cheeks, his hair, his lips…if only because
Simon wanted to make sure that he was real.