#bloodletting my beloved

[frownyalfred]

the thing I love so much about writing a Mandalorian Batfamily is that in Mando culture, the forehead tap they do (Keldabe) can be very sweet and gentle and also the most passionate thing ever where you’re basically head butting your brother and might actually hurt yourself if only one of you is wearing a helmet but it doesn’t matter, that’s how much you love them and that simply describes the Batfamily to a T. Just slamming your heads together in love and relief so hard one of you bleeds.

#thoughts #mandalorian batfamily AU #bloodletting my beloved #something something harsh but all consuming love #wordless love #mandalorian culture #bruce wayne #batman #dc #batfamily #Star Wars

[lavenderlevetan]

you guys are never going to believe it but

#it's back #ronance vampire au: bloodletting #ronance #robin and nancy my beloved #nancy wheeler #robin buckley #lavenderlevetan writes

[em-writes-stuff-sometimes]

jorrāeliarzus (beloved) │ Chapter 2: Need

terms of endearment ‘verse: see my Masterlist for the correct series order!

Chapter 1 │Chapter 2 │Chapter 3  (In Progress!)

Synopsis: Daemon guides you on a journey of healing and self-discovery as you learn to raise your children and build a family of your own. You crave.

I am sorry for how long this took - to be fair, it's been months since I wrote actual smut and I was nervous to re-pop my smut cherry, ahahahaha. Yes, this chapter features actual smut, hallelujah for Reader! This doesn't technically mark the end for the troubles, however deceptive the ending is. Depression is a process, and sometimes we go through ups and downs with it. We're facing an up here! Ish.

Thanks be to @ewanmitchellcrumbs for beta-ing and offering much-needed pointers to make this chapter coherent and well-rounded. I cannot post without you holding my hand ever, and I love you for putting up with it.

Triggers: incest, age gap, purity culture, detailed depictions of PPD, penetrative s*x, lactation and lactation kink.

Wading through the waters of this curious state of mind is no easy process.

Melancholy. Mother’s malady. Madness. Whatever it is called among differing circles, you now know it is not uncommon. This knowledge does not ease the despondency that comes in waves, threatening to shatter any semblance of the control you are tenuously rebuilding. There are days when you feel as though you cannot even bear to lay eyes on your boy and girl, that the merest act of sighting them will somehow cause their unhappiness, that you will ruin them by being near them. There are times when you believe yourself to be the only woman in the world who cannot simply love her children as mothers ought to, free of the complication of treacherous notions slithering through the mind like draughts of poison, silent in their destruction. There are moments when you think that perhaps you should never have allowed them to spring to fruition, that you should have found a way to tear out the blooms that had sprouted within your belly before they had the chance to become living, breathing creatures.

That last thought is particularly repellent.

It is not your fault for thinking these things, though. They are ideas sprung from this affliction, designed to cause uncertainty and create chaos. It does not stop you from thinking that you may well be the most despicable monster to disgrace the earth. If you were left to your own devices, it is indeed likely that you would remain abed for days on end, resigned to misery.

But it is not a fate that you are allowed to succumb to. On the mornings when you find yourself unable to depart the cocoon of your sheets, your ladies coax you up with surprising and uncharacteristic purposefulness. Gone is their cloying timidity, replaced by creatures of determination as they all but drag you bodily upright to clothe and feed you, to immerse you in cheerful chatter while they work.

Gerardys comes to visit you, followed swiftly by Ūlla, newly returned from her journeys. The two rather predictably bicker over how best to approach any potential treatment.

“My colleagues at the Citadel recommend bloodletting,” the maester says with a frown, glancing nervously at your healer, “to restore imbalanced humours.”

Ūlla levels him with a foul look. “Are you stupid? Princess making milk. Losing blood is bad for her, and the babes!”

“If she remains hydrated, any complications will be minimal.”

“Tell Prince,” she shoots back challengingly. “See if he agree.”

“Forgive me, but Prince Daemon does not have the final word here, my lady. As Maester of Dragonstone, it is my responsibility to ensure residents are—”

“Losing blood hurt Princess, and babes, too! Stupid man!”

She storms out of the room with nary a word further, and you find yourself resigned to the possibility of enduring fattening leeches hanging off your skin. Gerardys begins to talk you through the process, though in truth you are not minding him as closely as you ought, but it does not seem to be long before Ūlla re-enters.

“Here,” she says, pressing a nondescript pouch into your hands. All the while, she is glaring at the maester. You inspect the contents, your nose tickling at the mild citrus scent that emanates from within. “Lemon balm,” she explains. “Make into a tea.”

Alas, you think ruefully. More tea. At this rate, it is a small wonder that your urine has not taken on the various aromas and hues of the remedies you are made to consume.

The tea does help, though, or perhaps it is simply in your mind. Perhaps the tea is not the cure, but time. Perhaps it is the magic that lives in your blood, that unites you to your dragon and ties you to the fate of a long-dead dynasty, that best eases your path forward. You still have hours and days where you fare poorly. But gradually, these moments come with less and less severity, feelings that do not fade but are ones you can muse upon, chew about like toffee sticking to the crowns of your teeth. Uncomfortable, difficult to cleanse yourself of, yes, but possible where you perhaps had not even been aware of their existence before. You learn to appreciate them for what they are, no more or less than calls for a defeat that is not yet yours to claim…

Because, despite the war in your head, your babes are happy. They are settled. They thrive. If you truly had been failing, this would not be so.

And thus, you persist with the teas and tonics and tepid baths recommended to you, with the dogged joviality of Jeyne and Bethany, with long walks at Ser Lysan’s side marked by the whip of salty sea air and the faint pulsing warmth of the sun. With visits to your boy, your Athfiezar, his smoke-breath and scaled mass and the thrum of a secret kinship clearing the muck of unhappiness from your view and restoring, in parts, a clarity well-missed. Through it all, you realise—bit by bit, hour by hour—that there is more beyond the sorrow. That something is blossoming, weak and spindly and scarcely living, but there, right there below your ribs and growing, a sickly weed straining toward the light. Something like hope.

It unfreezes the most poisonous of your tender ambitions, slackening the bonds of your inflexible drive to nurse Rhaenar and Aelys alone. ‘Tis a hard-won concession, but one necessary to your wellbeing and theirs. Still, you cannot help but feel your bond closest when they are swaddled against you, tiny hands pressed against your breasts and greedy suckles drawing from the wellspring of nourishment your body has created for them.

“Have they latched well, Princess? Ought I assist in any way?”

You glance up with great effort, nearly incapable of tearing your eyes away from them both. Freda feigns nonchalance, but it is easy enough to tell that she is anxious. Your rather spectacular histrionics are not easily forgotten by all.

Shaking your head, you smile. “They are fine, thank you. They are perfect.”

Never have you spoken truer words. You are constantly marvelling at how dissimilar they are to the shrivelled little beings that you had laboured to bring into the world scarcely two moons ago. Their hair, pale at birth, has only grown brighter, solid where it had been opaque. Much of Aelys’s has fallen out, which you have been assured is quite usual. It certainly makes it easier to differentiate between the two on sight, though this is becoming more and more simple as their differing features have begun to assert themselves. In Rhaenar, you see the promise of Daemon’s strong nose; in Aelys, the shape of the eyes. They share your mouth, even if Aelys’s pout reminds you more of Rhaenyra. These little things make them individuals with each passing day, untangle the singularity they are oft referred to as and begin to show those around them that they are becoming their own person.

You know now that your wish to gather them close and tuck them out of sight of all others is not simple maternal instinct, and instead a symptom of this malady. Through Freda’s tales, you learn that many are involved in the rearing of common-born children; through Ūlla’s considerable experience and your sister’s anecdotes, you begin to understand that your original undertaking was never feasible. It grates you so, but you try to take heed of their womanly advice more than you truly desire to, obliging their recommendations to allow the twins to sleep in the nursery during the night. But in the daytime—in the now—they are all yours.

“That they are,” Freda says, snapping you from your hypnotic reverie. “A bonnier lad and lass I’ve never met, you can be assured of that!”

Even though you know she likely feels duty-bound to say so, you cannot help the flush of pleasure. Their nursing has slowed, eyes heavy-lidded and noses huffing warmth against your skin. It is gratifying to see them so satisfied.

As soon as Rhaenar’s lips pull away, smacking wetly as he gurgles and smiles, Freda is ready to lift him into her arms. His head rests upon the cloth tossed over her shoulder, fists waving with each pat she makes against his back.

“Another meal for the little Prince and Princess,” she says, grinning. “Well done, Your Highness!”

“It would seem so.” Aelys is done, you think, but working her mouth still for comfort. It seems to please her to continue the act long after your milk has emptied. You cup her head, running your fingers through the wispy locks in a manner you hope is soothing. “It is relieving to have finally managed it.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” Rhaenar belches, kicking his legs when Freda makes a startled noise as she always does. “But what an impressive feat, milady—nursing one babe to a full belly can be difficult enough, never mind two! That thistle tea must be something special, indeed.”

It is not only the tea, you think.

The memories of Daemon’s lips at your nipples, his body hard against yours, the low lusty grunts of more than just gustatory delight—and there are many, as many memories as nights in which his faithful service so oft takes place—elicit a soft, secretive smile even as heat rushes to your face. This heat travels further, down, down, reminding you uncomfortably of another dilemma you are facing.

Desire. It is something which you ponder greatly upon over the next days.

When you had just given birth, you did not think you would ever be capable of it again. Of course, this sentiment had followed a rather gruelling several hours of agony, much of which you cannot recall, and the overwhelming fear that you may perish as your mother had done. With your lower half all but mangled and shedding the remains of what processes your body had devised to best facilitate your children’s growth, the notion of letting your uncle couple with you had seemed positively dreadful. ‘Twas akin to the thought of him rutting into the gaping maw of a fresh wound. But the blood of that night had passed, and the pain had faded, and in your mind, it is almost like it had never happened at all. You do not remember the sensation.

You have not resumed your courses save for some light spotting in your smallclothes, though that is apparently to be expected. Your breasts are ever noticeable, large and leaking or shrunken and soft depending on the time of day, always sensitive regardless of state. Your belly is quite nearly back to the state it had been before carrying the twins, save for an additional laxness and the crawling lines of dark delineating the places where your flesh had most stretched. These are all changes, differences that you have come to anticipate, understand.

It is likely why the return of carnal longings is so utterly strange, so abnormal in its normality. How can a form so changed experience something so… banal?

Even so, you find yourself drawn to the minutest of details when in Daemon’s presence: the corded strength of his arms; the elegant line of his ringed fingers; the set of his jaw and the shadow of his brow. His voice singing lullabies of old to the twins brings a sort of frantic exhilaration, a dampness pooling between the legs instead of drowsed comfort. His easy grin makes your heart pound as though from great toil. When his attention is elsewhere, you admire the span of his shoulders and the planes of his chest, knotting scars of savagery setting you to swooning.

You feel like one of his fawning admirers, breathless and fluttering and giggling at his innate charm. You feel desperate.

And, worst of all, he does not notice. He fails to recognise the reciprocation of your sighs and moans as he feasts from you for the invitation that they are. His touch is gentle, like he is afraid you will break, even when you press yourself into him so eagerly that it seems no small wonder that he cannot read it for the provocation you intend it to be. He is careful not to make his acts of self-pleasure too obvious, pushing your hands away with a kind murmur of, “Rest now, sweetling, I’ll take care of this,” as though you are incapable of doling out the satisfaction he had taught you so well to perform, as though it is an inconvenience to you rather than he that his member rises so readily at the sight of you.

This state of affairs cannot last. It ought to be an easy thing for you to entice him to act on your shameless thoughts, the way you had so often before the babes had entered the world. You feel frozen, trapped in your abstemious existence as you have been for sennights. How to make him see? How to make him comprehend?

When Rhaenyra hears of your plight, disguised in the politest terms you can muster, she laughs.

“Go on and tend to your brother,” she says to Luke, nodding towards Joff. Based on the quiver of little Corwyn’s lower lip, Joff has thrown one of his toys at him again. He appears poised to do so a second time, wooden dragon carving clutched tightly in an upraised fist. “Have him build a tower with you, perhaps.”

Luke sighs, ever wearied at presiding over the play of the younger two. Still, he abandons the book before him, revolves on his heel and trudges over to the pair of tots, prying the dragon from little fingers and leading them both to the far safer pile of blocks.

Satisfied, Rhaenyra turns back to you. “Have you tried speaking to him?”

The abrupt shift takes you aback. You must cast your mind past the immediate happenings—away from the sound of delighted giggling, the thwock of blocks placed by clumsy hands—to recall your previous conversation.

Oh, yes. Daemon.

“Not… not exactly,” you say, hesitant. “I did not think I would need to ask my husband to… well…”

“There are occasions where you think too highly of him.” Rhaenyra shakes her head wryly, a fond curl to the corner of her lip. “This is one of them. Just because he knows you best of all doesn’t mean he’s not still a man.”

“But he is a man who… enjoys certain acts! Perhaps even more so than other men.” Your thoughts supply you with ample evidence of such a claim, unbidden. How frustrating it is that your thoughts are your only source of carnal satisfaction at present. You swallow nervously, praying that such lewdness or its resulting vexation does not reveal itself in your expression. “Why is he being so obtuse?”

She tilts her head sympathetically. “You forget he was there during your labours. They’re pains easy enough to forget when you’re the one experiencing them, but not soon disregarded as the spectator. He remembers your suffering—he does not wish to revisit any further upon you.”

A flattering observation of him, though you note the lack of supposition in her tone. Intrigue washes through you.

“How do you know? Has he been speaking to you?”

“Oh, darling. He’s frightfully easy to read.”

For a moment, you envy her. She is so alike to Daemon that it is hardly any wonder that she knows his thoughts so well. You, on the other hand, do not share their temperament. It is a fact you often appreciate, for the gods know how calamitous such a warring pair would be in matrimony. It had once been said, you recall not by who, that you were the ice to their fire—but now, you feel the comparison is lacking.

If Rhaenyra and Daemon are a blazing conflagration, then you are the steady warmth of the candle flickering in the evening. Soft, controlled, but carrying the same propensity to burn and maim. A dragon, same as all the rest, but with one rather unique quality: mastery of will. The calamities inflicted by your family might have been averted had past generations indulged their wild spirits a little less.

An odd, haunting echo whispers along the back of your neck, a voice you feel you ought to recognise yet lies beyond the precipice of knowledge, just out of reach. “Zaldrīzes buzdari iksos daor. A dragon is not a slave.”

No. But Targaryens have ever been beholden to their tempers. Mayhaps there is freedom yet to be won.

Rhaenyra clears her throat, brow raised pointedly at your obvious distraction. “Use your words. If you want him to fuck you, you’ll have to make it clear beyond implication.”

You flush, and not only for your inattention. You may be far more accustomed to vulgarity now than you were before marriage, but it does not mean that it is entirely comfortable to hear your sister speak it. Never mind the fact that she is discussing the affairs of your marital bed in so cavalier a manner! You remind yourself that it had been you who had approached her.

“Thank you.”

“I hope I helped. And to be frank, I hope I never need to help again. It’s difficult enough to contend with unspoken.”

A clear enough dismissal: you rise from your seat beside her, squeezing her arm in silent farewell. She catches you just before you turn toward the door, a wicked glint in her eyes.

“And remember,” she says. “If all else fails, just drop your shift and grab his cock. That ought to be enough to encourage him.”

“Rhaenyra!”

It takes a great deal of strength not to follow through on your sister’s recommendation when next you meet with Daemon.

He returns to your chambers following another of his training sessions, sweat-soaked and streaked with grime, grunting as he slips the belt from his waist and sets Dark Sister against the wall. Your ladies avert their stares as he unbuckles the clasps of his leather jerkin and discards the thing across the table. At the sight of his disrobing, Jeyne and Bethany stand, genuflecting hastily before all but rushing from the room. Try as you might, the pair are still somewhat uneasy around him. Characteristically, he appears not to notice their departure—indeed, it is unlikely he truly even noticed their presence.

“I do hope you plan to wipe that table clean,” you call out to him, doing your best to affect a tone of light-hearted teasing. In truth, you feel more than a little faint. It is positively sinful, the way he looks.

Daemon rolls his eyes, bundling up his tunic. He tugs it over his head, exposing the undershirt made translucent from the vigour of his activities. Through it, you can see the scars of old, the firm planes of his chest and belly.

“We have people for that, or did you forget?” he asks. The tunic falls atop the jerkin. A chair screeches across the stone, and your husband seats himself with a wearied sigh to work at the buckles on his boots. “Fucking miserable, this lot. I’m half tempted to drag them to the Stepstones. Perhaps the threat of war might make them more inclined to follow orders. Best way to turn the green ones into true men.”

You know it is mere complaint, but the thought of his flying off to battle is still enough to make your chest pang with worry.

“Not funny,” you say, thumbing the needle in your hand. ��Aelys would never stop screaming with you gone. Rhaenar would keep himself awake until your return.”

He grins. “Never fear. I’ll not leave you to manage our little beasts alone.” He pauses; glances toward the cradle. “How are they?”

“See for yourself.”

Hardly needing encouragement, he pads sure-footed toward the sounds of soft gurgling and cooing, the sturdy frame keeping the pair of infants out of your immediate sight. Bending low and extending both arms down, you can hear him murmur, “Rytsas, ñuhys zaldrītsossas.”

Hello, my little dragons.

A high-pitched squeal is his response, no doubt Aelys’s welcome. You try to focus once again on the seam you are patching, though it is hard not to be drawn into the conversation that appears to be taking place to your far left.

Rustling, and a plaintive whine. Daemon sighs. “Daor, ñuhus jorrāeliarzis—jemī ōregon koston daor. Yne aōhi muña asēnilus lo jemī vaogēdan.” No, my loves—I cannot hold you. Your mother would kill me for dirtying you.

“Kony drēje issa.” That is correct, you say archly. You nod toward the screen. “Kōdrion aō syt ilza. Īlvon parklondo go, aōlot rāenābā, kostilus.” There is a bath for you. Wash up before our supper, please.

When he pulls away, the pair squawk their dismay. Luckily, he knows best how to resolve the ensuing fit before it can reach fruition—he jerks his final layer off over his head, depositing the threadbare shirt into the cradle. Their cries fall abruptly silent. You wrinkle your nose at the prospect of their bedding wicking the odour of perspiration, though you are forced to acknowledge the efficacy of such an action. Babes find comfort in the scent of their parents.

Daemon drops a strip of leather on the desk, shaking his head of now-loose hair. On his path to the tub, he stops before you.

“Ynot tolī syz iksā,” he says, rough-hewn palm dragging your chin upward. You are too good to me.

It is all you can do not to moan like an eager slattern as his lips slot against yours and the musk of him rattles your bones like tinder to firewood, bursting and sparking with banked heat. Acerbic, mingled with smoke and the particular fragrance of ashy mud found nowhere else but here upon the isle, it is strong enough to taste upon his mouth, feel upon your skin. Before you have the mind to deepen it, to drag him down and haul your skirts up, he is gone, naught more than a tender dirt-smudged stroke to the cheek to mark his departure.

You collapse back against the chaise, bewildered and hot, the heavy glide of his favourite coat finally breaking free from your lap and to the floor, needle and thread and all. Meanwhile, you hear him whistling to himself as he removes his breeches, his groan of relief as he steps into the water.

You have half a mind to disturb his bathing, for how dare he leave you so bereft? But it is not his fault. Well, to be fair, there is no fault at play here, for there has been no fault committed. Unless being far too handsome is a fault, you think.

Alas, there is no recourse but to wait for the opportune time to strike. It cannot be now—supper is still to come, and the babes must be put to the nursery.

‘Tis this thought you must repeat over and over again. Not now: Daemon is dressing for the evening meal, even if you truly only want to have him remain without clothing, to prowl about with his considerable endowments on display for your avid gaze, and something alarmingly like grief twists in your stomach with each item of clothing that further conceals him from you. Not now: you take your girl and he takes your boy and the four of you make your way through the halls, and you must ruthlessly quell the driving lust from your core with each step, for there can be no notions of lechery with a babe curled in your grasp just so, an innocence you will not dare risk tainting with the impurity of your designs. Not now: the Keepers are explaining that the twins’ dragons “are becoming unruly, my Prince”, and “they will need far more outdoor enrichment than we had previously discussed”, and you must nod your head in sage agreement even as you press a kiss to Rhaenar’s forehead, then Aelys’s, all too aware of the low thrum of Daemon’s voice while you say goodnight to Freda and the children.

Supper comes and goes in a burning haze, marked by the knowing looks you receive from your sister across the table and the pervasive awareness that he is right there next to you, so close and yet untouchable, not now, not in the way you want. When you are done eating—and honestly, you do not even remember putting food into your mouth, but your plate is empty and your belly pleasantly full so you must have—you are forced to just sit, all too conscious of the arm Daemon has carelessly draped across the back of your chair, the rumble of his laugh as his cups flow amply with the free and easy conversation between he and Harwin and Laenor. And then, and then, you are returned to your chambers after minutes or hours or days, so wound up on the inside that you feel close to madness of a different kind, near to bursting, blood bubbling effervescently like the sharpest of Northern wines.

All night, you had been anticipating this moment. Why now does your nerve fail you?

“Come here,” he says, disturbing the panicked wheelabout in your mind.

For a moment, you wonder whom it is he is speaking to—but then he glances up at you, frowning quizzically. You realise you are the only other being in the room. Wringing your hands and cursing your foolish transparency, you trail toward him, stopping expectantly when you are within reach.

Silence.

“Well?” he asks, raising his eyebrow. You look about, trying to determine what it is he wants. He sighs, and adds, “Do you plan on sleeping in that dress, or would you like a hand with the laces?”

“Oh!”

Like a poorly performing puppet, you whirl around spasmodically, breath stuck somewhere between its starting and finishing point, suspended in your chest as he shifts your hair to one side and begins the methodical task of unthreading you from your fabric prison. Each wrench of cord is as keenly felt as a thrust between your legs, or the memory of it, hushing your careening passions to the metronome of the tug tug shwip at your back. Daemon’s breath is sweetly fragrant, hot upon your neck, near enough that you can hear his every exhale before the pressure of air caresses your skin. It is an eternity before the gown slithers to the floor, followed by the soft-boned corset you have favoured in recent moons.

“Shift, too?” is his next whispered query, fingers already at the ties and tugging, palms dragging it clear from your collarbone and down, down, down. It bunches at your waist, but it is far enough for his liking, and he turns you in his grasp to back you unerringly to the bed. A kiss, then, “Make yourself comfortable, talītsos,” and he moves away to remove his own clothing.

Your heart sinks at the familiarity. The routine. Make yourself comfortable, followed by abortive sensual touches and the hard suckle of man at teat before your breasts are dried up for the night, then squirming alone in the dark to the furious beat of his fist over his length across the room and the barely groaned “Fuck!” as he spurts his release on something, anything that is not you.

Even so, you crawl onto the mattress, nipples tingling with the gentle sway of movement and shift pooling over the convergence of your thighs. Kneeling, you wait, torn between hiding and fully baring yourself to the cooling chamber.

He joins you thereafter, body rising over yours as his mouth sinks to touch your own, tongue chasing the give of your lips to feed you the heady prickle of inebriation in a plush glide. Too soon does he break from you, the ridge of his nose pressing a warm line through the wet of his kisses along your jaw, your throat. He bears you slowly down, back against the pillows, grip sliding up your thighs and bypassing where you need him entirely, up your hips, up, away—

“Wait, wait,” you gasp, fumbling at his wrist to make him pause in his pursuit.

He leans back, concern carving lines in his face. Before he speaks—before you lose all semblance of courage—you try to make it plain without words.

You part your thighs flat to the bed. Slowly, without thinking too hard, you draw the rumpled hem of your shift up over your belly, rasping against your flesh, and you show him the dewy softness that awaits, begging for his favour. You imagine it glistens in the low light of candle flame there, dappling gold on tender flesh starved for touch.

Daemon stares unblinking, surprise transforming liquid, dark. “What’s this?”

“I need—” You drag his fingers to your mound, resisting the urge to shudder. “Please?”

He huffs, not a sound of amusement but one of seeming triumph. Idly, as though indifferent, his thumb coasts a path along your folds, taking care not to part them. The nail catches just so upon the hood of your half-hidden bud, sparking and fizzling straight to all the pleasure centres of your body. “Look at you. I’ve left you wanting, have I?”

“Ye—yeah.” You tip your hips up invitingly, breaths like little pants coming quicker, too loud in the quiet. “It’s been so… so long since…”

You bite off a gasp as he crawls forward, lowers, deliberately splaying you open with the blunted, veiny drive of his shaft. He hisses at the pressure, the sleekness, the heat. You feel it too, the scorch of iron striking molten, and you tip your head up in search of some relief from the ache of it.

He stirs himself there, making no attempt to push in where he catches.

“Since what, sweetling?” His arms lock you in place, hand falling warningly to your throat as his teeth make divots in the lobe of your ear. “Since I touched you? Fucked you? Put my seed in your belly?”

“Yes!”

You nod furiously, clutching his fist around your windpipe tighter, squeezing so that you can feel the threat of it through layers of muscle. Grinding your hips up at him, your entrance tightens painfully as he once again slides above where you want him, knocking where you are most sensitive. Need drips slickly to the bedsheets beneath your core.

The enthusiasm of your agreement lures a noise of satisfaction from his chest. “Thought I was doing the right thing. Thought I was being a good husband, keeping my cock away from my poor little wife, scarcely free of the birthing bed.”

He reaches between your bodies with his other hand and grasps the root of himself to slap his cockhead against your petaled opening, the collision of skin producing an audible sucking sound. Your nipples strain to the ceiling, your reason tethered like wire to the churning of your belly.

Daemon grunts, grip shifting to wind against your nape, tugging sharply at the hairs there. “But I forgot, didn’t I? That you’re a whore.”

“I am,” you say, pitchy and breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you, kepus.”

He tugs again, grimacing as finally—finally—his girth aims true. The broad head of him slips inside, filling the empty spaces in you with weight and heat and heft until your cunny is as wide open as your lips are, a silent scream of sensation. Time slows and all the ages of the earth roll into the seconds that he piles himself inside you, forcing through the stubborn clench straight to the root. You wince, the fit tight like you remember, struggling to breathe at the deep-seated throb from somewhere below your ribs where he has engraved a path.

“Fuck.” He moans quietly against your shoulder, more to himself than to you. His cock digs deeper, harder, and you cry out, neatly unable to bear it. “Fuck, how are you still so tight?”

You squeeze around him at the words, revelling in the choked growl even as your body tries to curl in on itself from sheer stimulation, legs hitching up around his waist to drive him to your will. Embracing him, you bury your nose in his hair as he tilts you to his liking and withdraws, returning with a jolt that sparks uncomfortably in your gut. His mouth drags and leaves bruises along your neck as his thrusts start tentative, grow bold.

It is a testament to his own longing that he does not continue rattling off the filthiest declarations imaginable, fists clenched over your thighs and at the base of your skull with a strength that will mar you come morning. You smile at each throbbing plunge, bask in the squelch and judder of your forms moving in tandem, sweat smoothing the way. He pants, overcome, and you echo his sounds in a rhythm like ancient music.

Daemon’s lips venture lower, spine hunching atop you. He crows, jubilant, and you realise that your arousal is not the only fluid your body has released. Rising up, he takes you by both hipbones and settles you atop his thighs, tugging you over his lap and admiring the sight you make below him. He does not stop moving, length sluicing in minuscule revolutions, a constant bevy of sensation.

“Look at you,” he says again, palm smoothing flat over your stomach and gliding up over your breastbone, diverting to tweak one of your leaking nipples.

You squeal, feeling the rush of milk dribble down your breast. His nostrils flare, thumb stoppering the fall and chasing to its source before withdrawing and licking it from his skin with a lewd pop. You think he means to incite the other, only his digits venture lower and twist cruelly at your straining pearl. Tears spring to your eyes as something like the memory of peaking kindles in your stomach.

“Ah, there—all of you cries for me now, little girl. Isn’t that nice?” Callous satisfaction harshens the curve of his grin. “Eyes, tits, cunt… weeping for Uncle. And I’ll drink everything down.”

He presses the backs of your knees to the bed and descends, latching onto your nipple as his onslaught renews, pleasure in duality crystallizing at your chest and below and melding into one. You lose track of where you end and he begins, where the relief is greatest. He drags you to that elusive end in a swirl of writhing limbs and salt-musk sticking to the roof of your mouth as you call for him.

His thrusts come faster, shallower, making direct contact with the locus of feeling with each forward movement. The entirety of you gears toward the crest of the mountain, that moment of great and glorious bliss. When you finally reach it, you keen, bones and muscle coiling inward as a great wave surges outward.

You twist uncontrollably, fingernails scoring through his flesh as you come.

“Kepus,” you hear yourself babbling, clinging to his head at your other breast as you lurch discordantly across the mattress. “Harder, harder, more—”

You turn into a glutton desirous of this particular form of punishment, ravenous for the ache and the sting and the burn of it, and he responds in kind.

“Yes, yes, yes…”

Each plea for more meets with a plunge of girth that sets you to shrieking, pushing yourself into them though your body urges you to flee. More, more, more. You are drunk on it, greedy for the assault. He is ever obliging to fuck harder, harder, faster.

And then—

Daemon withdraws, climbing over you with frantic disregard, hand a blur between his legs. He pushes you down, wrenches your jaw up, apart, digging into the hinge.

“Open your fucking mouth,” he snarls, mean and monstrous with his cock aimed straight for your face, panting and slavering as he works himself over.

You stick your tongue out for good measure, straining against his hold for just one taste, but he does not let you. His fingers curl into the meat between your skull and spine, pain making you cross-eyed, and he shifts urgently on his knees.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck—”

Seed spurts hot on the corner of your mouth, along your cheek, across your closed eyelids before he brings his length to your lips. You pull eagerly at him, rising to bring him further into your mouth even as his fist knocks unkindly against your teeth. His caustic flavour, familiar and missed, spreads across your palate, and you drink of him like a penitent come to worship at the altar of the gods.

Mindlessly, he grinds down at you, softening girth making you gag ever so slightly. Spend clings to your lashes and stings in your eyes as you look up at him, but you cannot care.

He stills, winded, chest expanding and collapsing with a thirst for air. Then, with a gentleness lacking in these last moments, he works himself free of you, flopping to your side with a sigh and a weak noise of contentment. He looks relaxed, truly relaxed, for the first time in weeks. Moons, even.

You brush stray strands from his forehead, smoothing starlight from his weathered temples. He turns into the touch, mouth meeting the inside of your wrist.

“You really are too good to me, sweetling,” he murmurs.

His lips press to the tip of your nose, palm warm and comforting on your back. Fingers trace patterns into your flesh, at first seeming meaningless until you recognise the strokes, deliberate and sure, for what they are.

‘Avy jorrāelan.’ I love you.

“I know,” you say, answering both spoken and unspoken sentiment, your heart utterly full. In turn, you trace the same glyphs on the skin of his chest. From the smile that fills his eyes with light incandescent, he knows, too.

You lay in the quiet, basking in the surety of each other.

But it cannot last. You are loath to break the serenity, though you speak nonetheless, making a weak gesture to the pearly gleam that clumps your lashes, streaks your face.

“Do you mind… perhaps getting me a washcloth? I… cannot see.”

It is only now that he appears to notice the state he has left you in. With another kiss and an amused bark of laughter, he moves to do your bidding.

You settle back, content, watching your uncle stride fully nude to the wash basin to wet the cloth he has scrounged from its resting place. While you wait, you count all your many blessings: your babes, happy and settled and thriving. Your sister, skilful and kind in her confidence. Athfiezar, fierce and devoted and liberating when the walls feel as though they are caving in. Your tutor, your healer, your maester, your attendants, your life here on this isle, in this time and place and season. Your husband, your lover, the very benefactor of all you have come to hold dear.

Daemon kneels beside you, sponging away the worst of his deeds with a sure hand and steady smirk. “I’ll be sure to mind my aim next time, hm?”

Next time. An implicit vow.

You feel it again—a glow like the pinprick of daylight at a tunnel’s end, warming the chill from your bones and the frost from your heart, slow and sure and stubborn in the face of the complications that are yet to come. Something thawing, soothing, deadening the weight of grief and hardships past.

“Yes,” you murmur, eyes closed at the sensation of his frame moulded against yours, real and true and necessary. “Next time.”

Something like hope.

Read on AO3:

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#terms of endearment │ daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen fanfiction #daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen x you #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfiction #hotd #hotd fanfiction #daemon #daemon x oc #daemon x reader #daemon x you #matt smith #a song of ice and fire #a song of ice and fire fanfiction #asoiaf #asoiaf fanfiction #game of thrones #game of thrones fanfiction #dance of dragons #fire and blood

[seabirdtxt]

What if the reader in the Bloodletting au had a lover (one of the playable characters) that they thought cared and loved them as they were, but ended up being one of the power hungry acolytes that drove the reader to the ground?

i was in the middle of writing p.2 of the voice au but this ask came and slapped me directly across the ass

Through Their Teeth

Notes: Extension of [this]. Genshin SAGAU, cult/bloodletting AU. my favourite trope of "well well well if it isn't the consequences of your own actions". no specified LI/character, feel free to imagine who you want!

WC. 760

----- ⚘ -----

In a world where You bleed Your love both literally and figuratively, there is only one person who treats You with gentle care, tending to Your wounds and urging You to reduce the frequency of your bleeds.

You sink into their embrace when they finish wrapping bandages around Your arms and legs, closing Your eyes as you rest Your head on their shoulder, never quite noticing as they bring their gold-stained fingertips to their lips behind your back.

With the Abyss and Celestia closing in on all sides, all Vision bearers who were fighting-fit were sent to the front lines. Your dear heart left you reluctantly, making You promise to take care of Yourself in your cold, lonely temple with only blades and rivers of Your own blood for company.

With every rotation of troops, You eagerly welcome Your beloved home with open arms and open wounds, though they seemingly adamantly refuse to drink from You like the others.

With every rotation, they return increasingly exhausted. You beg them to share in Your blood, to let You give them the strength to continue on, not knowing that as You sleep Your dearly beloved steals down to the channels and dips both their hands into Your ambrosia, and laps the liquid blessing from their sinning palms.

When the troops are worn thin and begging You to bless them further, You teeter on the precipice of uncertainty, unsure if You are willing to give so much more. Until Your beloved looks up at You from where they kneel, exhausted and bruised.

‘For you,’ You think, as you drag your favourite blade across your patterned skin. ‘I’ll do it for you.’

Your acolytes waste no time gathering each precious drop, sucking Your blood down like greedy leeches, light pulsing under their skin as Your blessings take hold.

It’s to Your great surprise and heartbreak that Your beloved barely flinches as they consume their share, already accustomed to and eager for their part of the communion.

The others are all already turning away when Your dearest heart turns back to You with golden lips and a golden smile, enveloping You in a sweet embrace with whispered words of worship even as they lick the last traces of You from Your blade, gently lowering You into the plush, bloodstained seat of Your throne.

‘Sleep now,’ they soothe you, ‘and dream of the victory that we will win in Your name.’

Your beloved had grown used to seeing Your beaming face as You stood in front of Your temple, scarred arms flung open in anticipation of a welcome hug.

And so this makes it all the more shocking when the troops return, barely days after their final communion, to find Your temple crushed and scattered to the wind.

The acolytes tear through the rubble frantically, as those involved in the search begin turning over every broken stone for signs of You or Your attackers.

They thought they’d won! They thought that the victory they earned would guarantee Your safety in the balance of the world of Teyvat.

Days pass and the chances of finding You alive become slimmer with each passing moment. Among the last acolytes to continue searching is Your beloved. A fervor has overcome them, fanatical in their insistence on finding You. Any piece of You.

What started as a simple manipulation on Your dearest’s part spiraled much too quickly into a deception they couldn’t control. First to sneak closer into Your good graces, and then a means to guarantee a source of Your blessing for themself, and finally as a way to covet Your love and trust selfishly for themselves and them alone.

Thousands of questions swirl through your beloved’s mind as the last of the rubble is cleared. Have You ever known honest love from them? Has Your beloved ever sincerely thanked You for Your service to Teyvat?

When the temple grounds are cleared and there is no sign of You anywhere, not even in smears of gold on the ground, only a few questions remain.

In the last moments between you, did You finally understand the scope of your beloved’s lies? Were they worth that final, terrible sacrifice that they’d asked of You?

… if they found You, would You forgive them?

There was no way to know who broke first, not really, but the rest of the acolytes can agree that only one person could make such a terrible, raw sound of grief that they’d all heard in the last moments of twilight, as the sun finally sets on the ruins of Your temple and the golden light fades from the world.

#genshin sagau #sagau #self aware genshin #genshin self aware au #genshin isekai #sagau cult au #sagau bloodletting au #genshin x reader #sagau x reader #seabird.inbox #seabird.txt

[aquilathefighter]

Fluffbruary 18: Recovery

Yet again the ficlet gets away from me! Hob can be hypermobile, as a treat (for me)

Find all my @fluffbruary ficlets on AO3 here!

Fandom: The Sandman (2022)

Relationship: Dream of the Endless/Hob Gadling

“Turn that light off or I’m gonna rip up that book you’re reading, I swear,” Hob grumbles, arm thrown over his eyes.

A single lamp is on in the hospital room, overlooking the armchair Dream has sat in since Hob was admitted.

Dream scoffs, “Darling, you could call the nurse for painkillers. That is what they are there for, no? I recall many dreams of comfort from nurses.”

“You must be missing the nightmares of ‘em too. Fine, I’ll do it for you,” Hob fumbles for the call button in his bed. “You really don’t have to stay, love. I’m sure you’ve work to do.”

Dream shuts his book and sets it on the side table. He crosses the room to hold Hob’s other hand, the one free from IV line and oxygen monitor.

“Beloved, you are unwell. My place is here with you.” He presses a kiss to Hob’s forehead, sweaty and tasting of hospital as it is. “I will not leave you.”

Hob weakly squeezes his hand.

“How did I ever survive without you? Hell, even I don’t know how I’ve managed this long. Imagine what it was like when bloodletting was the in thing.”

Hob attempts to stretch his legs, wincing at the twinge in his knee. It’s reset in its proper place, held in place by braces and tape. The physical therapist will be there in the morning, no doubt to tease him about another go-round in hospital and to assess the damage to his connective tissues. They’ll let him go in a couple of days, it’s not too serious considering everything Hob’s dealt with over his lifetime. It wasn’t until he settled into a more comfortable life in the 16th century that his body started to fall apart. The musculature of soldiering and later working the printing press kept his joints in place, but when he no longer had to use his body as a tool, the joints soon felt loose in their sockets.

Eleanor had helped him then, massaging his shoulders through the twinges and calling the local physician to provide him laudanum before he wrenched the bone back in place. If he weren’t immortal, there would’ve been much more damage than lasted. There was certainly a lot of scar tissue that stuck around, but Hob retained his hypermobility and occasionally had to break through it to keep moving.

Things got better as time went on, though he’d rather forget the 17th century altogether. Medical knowledge advanced and by the time of the 20th century they had words for people like him, more than double-jointed, more than flexible. Sometime during the 70s, he saw a rheumatologist who told him he had abnormal collagen that lead to the scarring, dislocation, and bruising. Ehler’s Danlos Syndrome, he said. The doc had introduced him to the brilliant world of physio, which kept him moving most of the time.

But like anybody, he got lazy. Skipped his exercises for too long, and inevitably he’d dislocate something he couldn’t put back himself. Somebody would call an ambulance or he’d drag himself to A&E and spend a couple days in hospital. It was lonely, then. Days staring out the window into the dreary London skyline, nothing to entertain himself with but the telly.

But now Dream is here. And Dream understands. He’s explained it like this: having a corporeal form is in itself a form of body horror. He’s grown used to it, spending more time in the Waking with Hob, but still it is frightening to be trapped within skin and bone, muscle and sinew, to take damage and feel pain. So to Hob who’s body seemingly fights against him, Dream’s being fighting against his body is not so different.

Dream comes with him to A&E, rests in the uncomfortable armchair on the observation floor, brings him a phone charger and crossword puzzles and reads to him. Like sitting in this dreadful room, pungent with bleach and alcohol, is no hardship at all. And it isn’t, not in Dream’s eyes.

Dream leans down to kiss his lips, soft and gentle. He pulls back, staring at Hob’s face. Even when he is sweaty and pained and hasn’t bathed since Thursday, Dream gazes at him like he is a masterpiece. His heart clenches with how much he loves him.

“I am glad you survived alone. And I am glad you no longer have to.” He releases Hob’s hand and goes back to his seat as the nurse comes in.

“Hi, Robbie, sorry it took so long. Busy day up here! What can I getcha? More juice? A blanket for your other half?”

“Hey, Michelle. I was wondering if I could get my PRN? My head’s killing me more than my knee, frankly,” he chuckles.

Michelle pulls up his chart on the little computer she’s brought with her. She hums as she clicks, and clicks, and clicks about five more times before arriving at the correct tab.

“Looks like it’s certainly time for you to get more pain meds! Let me page Dr. Lansing and we’ll get that in right away.”

Hob smiles at her, grateful for the beauty of modern medicine. He can wait as long as they need to get his pills.

“Do you need anything else while I’m here? I can grab one of the nursing assistants for ya,” Michelle says as she drags the computer cart towards the door.

“I think we’re alright, right love?” Hob looks at Dream, already lost in his book again. He doesn’t respond.

Hob smiles. “Yeah, we’re good. He gets lost in a story so easily.”

Michelle leaves, shutting the door behind her. Hob sighs and lays back in the bed, replacing the arm he’d thrown over his eyes.

“Dove?” Hob calls out. Dream hums in response, looking up from his book.

“Can you come up here with me? These rooms are too damn cold.” Dream closes the book once again and climbs into the bed, lifting Hob’s bum leg to help him scoot over. He lays on his side, gazing at his love. Hob buries his head against Dream’s lithe chest, inhaling as much as his lungs can hold of his scent. Dream pulls the thin blanket over the both of them, then brings his hands up to hold Hob and stroke his hair.

“Rest, my love. I will be here as long as you are to recover. Then, we will go home. I will not let you ‘forget’ to do your exercises anymore.”

Hob huffs and snuggles closer, drifting closer to sleep with Dream’s aid and ministrations.

Michelle gives Dream a soft smile when she returns to the room with a glass of water and two giant pills in a plastic cup.

“Have him take these when he wakes up,” she whispers. “Promise I won’t tell on you.”

For once, Dream gives someone else a gentle smile, knowing his Hob is loved and cared for.

#fluffbruary #aquila writes #dreamling #dream x hob #hob x dream #hob gadling has a chronic illness #eds!hob gadling

[acewithapaintbrush]

I just realized that I have never actually shared the end result of my tattoo. I love it every day a little bit more, least of all because it's actually got some hidden meanings and nods to some important things in my life. It got a bit long (and pretty emotional, oh my) so more under the cut if you wanna know

The colors, rather, the brush strokes in the background. Red, blue, purple and orange. If you know me, you know that I am a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Fan. But that is not a big enough word tbh. The turtles have accompanied me all my life. My first pajama was turtles themed, I wanted to learn to ride a skateboard because of Mikey pretty much all my teen years. But most importantly, and most emotionally for me, I distinctly remember watching a turtles episode from the 1987 cartoon at a friend's house while my mother attended my father's funeral. I don't remember much of that time, only being 5 years old, but I remember crouching behind a sofa and looking over the back of it to watch the turtles have adventures. Maybe that's where it really started, who knows. I just know that these funky guys mean a lot to me for reasons I might not even be able to explain to myself properly. These colors bring me joy, so they had to be there.

And then, the sunflower. I wanted that there because of Mob Psycho 100, an anime that has not just changed the way I look at the world and at myself. I am the protagonist of my own life. My life is my own. If I can change then others can change too. It's easy to want to be easily palatable (is that the word?) for others, to get their approval, to get them to like you. It's taken me some odd 34 years to realize that I only have to be palatable for myself. I have to look in the mirror and see someone that I can get behind, a person worthy of love and friendship and I am worthy of it, everyone is worthy of it no matter who you are, how you look or what you can do. You are worthy already by just being you and even if you aren't quite there yet you are still worthy. We are all worthy of being happy. I am allowed to be silly and cringe and not act like my age. I live my life the way I want.

Because I am the protagonist of my own life and if I don't write the story, who will?

The last one is the crows feather with the green accents. This is a bit of an obscure one. As some of you know, I have written fanfiction for years. It got me through some tough times during high school. Then adult life hit and I stopped. I stopped writing my original stories too. I can't even say why it just felt like a chore, probably because I got so discouraged with my own skills and my own expectations for myself. Then I slowly got back into it, writing a real short one shot for Monkie Kid and realizing that I have missed it quote a lot. And then Encanto came along. This movie that has inspired me so much that it felt like I suddenly couldn't stop writing even if I wanted to.

And then I got the idea for "A place for crows" and the rest is history I guess? The love and encouragement I received where phenomenal. That story made me fall in love with story telling again, it consumed me for pretty much a complete year. And it brought some of the most wonderful people, beloved friends from all over the world, into my life. I am so greatful to this Fandom, to this story, or rather the things this story has brought into my life.

So the feather symbolized my love for writing and just fandom spaces in general, this wonderful microcosmos I can call home.

The brushes and pencil are a given, my love for art and drawing which have also been big factors in rediscovering myself

This text got long, I just typed it down without pausing and I'm not gonna go over it again for spelling or something like that. Take it as it came out of me, with all my love and emotional bloodletting.

Love you all.

#Tattoo #fandom culture #fandom things #Personal #teenage mutant ninja turtles #mob psycho 100 #encanto

[phociian]

So yesterday (Dec. 14) was Alexander Hamilton and Elizabeth Schuyler's anniversary. They got married in 1780. It was also the anniversary of George Washington's death in 1799.

Washington died between 10 and 11 P.M. of a severe throat infection (though I will argue that the bloodletting his doctors did is what actually killed him) at his beloved plantation of Mount Vernon with his eternally devoted wife at his side. His final words were instructions to his secretary, Tobias Lear, that he was not to be buried immediately (he was terrified of being buried alive) and then he said "'Tis well," before his death.

Anyway, I wanted to make this post because I've been researching (like I said in my previous post) a lot lately and I fell down the Lafayette/Napoleon rabbit hole. (BTW, Napoleon was really good, I was not expecting it.) Anyway, I found out that they had a memorial service for Washington in France in February 1800 and everyone expected Lafayette (who if I'm not mistaken had his French citizenship taken away at this point, methinks, making him a man without a country) to give the eulogy, seeing as how, y'know... he knew the man and served under him??? Napoleon, asshole that he was, didn't invite him/allow him to attend. Poor Lafayette, who was always so loving and loyal to Washington, could not attend his funeral in Virginia, or his memorial in France. Though, during his tour of the United States in 1824, he visited Mount Vernon with his secretary and I think also Georges Washington de Lafayette and George Washington Parke Custis, who gifted him with a ring that contained locks of both General Washington and Lady Washington's hair and was engraved with the phrase "Pater Patriae" which means "Father of the Country." Lafayette visited the tomb where the Washingtons were buried(? entombed?) alone and came out with tears in his eyes. He then took the two Frenchmen by the hands, guided them inside where they knelt by the coffins and kissed it in respect. Also, Lafayette wrote Mrs. Washington after he found out about her husband's passing to give his condolences and that letter was one of the very few that Martha answered herself, instead of letting one of the secretaries doing it. She also sent him two pistols that Washington had left him in his will. They were British pistols taken from the enemy during the Revolutionary War.

Anyway, there's a handful of fun lil facts about Washington's death/his relationship with Lafayette.

#george washington #marquis de lafayette #american revolution #amrev #history #alexander hamilton #elizabeth schuyler #hamilton

[the-teddy-bear-butch]

Hey I have nothing better to do, here’s some fic recs for y’all!!

If you have followed me for any amount of time you know which one I’m about to lose my mind over—

Bloodletting by agentgenevra / @agentgenevra

Nancy is a vampire hunter… And also a vampire. Robin is a vampire. The plot of this fic is SO incredibly woven, I am NOT kidding guys. Every character has their place, and everything connects in just the coolest way. I’m literally obsessed. The slow burn dynamic between Robin and Nancy is incredible and full of tension as well! I am feral about this fic.

dancing in the moonlight by summersociety

Nancy is a monster hunter and Robin is a werewolf. This fic is the PERFECT mix of wacky and serious and I adore it for that. The tension is incredible, I would kill for the side characters, the internal struggle for Robin is so well written! The way this author writes for the werewolf in a different way is such a cool creative choice. This fic will have you crying over “aroo.” Just saying.

a never ending story by summersociety

Robin and Nancy play D&D and their in game romance definitely has nothing to do with Nancy having a big fat crush on Robin. Their dynamic in game and out of game is just so lovely and we love a little comphet Wheeler. Plus!!! This author just has some very poetic writing and I adore it

Raise Dead by EskaWrites / @eskawrites

Robin died in the Upside-Down. Nancy is grieving, but the kids are scheming. One (1) fic has brought actual tears to my eyes. I don’t usually cry over media but this one will pull at the heart strings. Go in knowing that this fic will devastate you, but it will fix you afterwards. I found myself holding my breath through some of the more intense portions, and the way this writer describes Nancy’s grief and uses symbolism just broke my heart.

you’re the reason that i’m hanging on by EskaWrites / @eskawrites

Robin gets Vecna’d. INCREDIBLE angst, I don’t want to say too much and spoil it, but the dynamics are wonderful and the ending is fantastic.

choke up (on my bat and on your heart) by gfbuckleyxwheeler / @werewolfxwheeler

As a bitch who didn’t think I’d be into sports aus, this fic!!! Ronance are on a softball team and they have a wonderful hate/love relationship and I adore it!! And Max and Chrissy are both lovely in this au <333 Em also has a wonderful blog here, please check them out!

feels like I’ve been gettin’ anointed (ever since the day that I met you) by khalasaar / @sapphicriley

Catholic school au with the partner project trope PLEASE. This one is spicy. The writing is incredible, the tension is fantastic, and also I think you can tell she writes/reads poetry in her writing, which I happen to think is cool as shit. Inappropriate use of religious imagery my beloved <333 Did I mention tension—

put me in the movies (on a king sized silver screen) by khalasaar / @sapphicriley

Robin works at a drive in theatre and Nancy keeps visiting her because she’s a dumb lesbian. This is one of my favorite fluffy, sweet stories, oh my god. They are so!!! I want to squeeze them. Their dynamic and their banter and Nancy being So Totally Smooth is the best. I need to reread this one

Handle With Care by ElFandomBirb / @el-fandom-birb

Centering around Robin thinking about love and her Handle with Care patch. Oh. My. God. The types of love actually killed me, this fic is so soft and so sweet. Repetition as a plot device!!! Seriously one of my favorite one shots. Also another great Ronance blog

400 Bones [series] by DearApparition / @anxiouswerewolf

You want to read some of the most delicious angst out there? Here you go. Ronance is messy and angsty but they’re there for each other and I could easily cry about any of the fics in this series

here and wherever you are by penguinwritesbooks

The Half Of It au. Steve recruits Robin to write love letters to Nancy. One of my favorite movies and my favorite ship lovingly rolled into one. Everything feels very true to the characters and the dynamics without being a scene by scene retelling!! There’s a Steddie sequel if that’s your thing

#will probably do another list soon #I’ve read so many incredible fics #this was also an excuse to yell about how cool my mutuals are #fic recs #ronance #ronance fic rec #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #robin x nancy #nancy x robin #werewolf robin buckley #monster hunter nancy wheeler #stranger things #forgive me if any descriptions are a little off #it’s been a minute since I’ve read some of these : #vampire Nancy wheeler #vampire robin buckley

[mintywolf]

A Long Road Home - Page 40 Author Notes

Page 40

She culled the Karens. ;)

Also alas Imogen can’t use Mage Hand to get things off high shelves at work because some customer would complain. Probably Esther Hayes.

In Ye Olden Times when the theory of humors in disease was still prevalent (debunked with the advent of germ theory in the 1850s but the practices based on it remained in common use until the late 19th century* ) the first treatment given to a patient would be to rid them of “excess” humors by bloodletting and inducing vomiting, doubtless rendering an already miserable person even moreso. Leeches, fire cupping, or a lancet were used for the former, and mustardseed or antimonials (made with the toxic metal antimony :[ ) were used for the latter. Mustardseed was also used to make poultices for sore throats and respiratory ailments. Licorice was used for sore throats and itchy skin. Baths from epsom salts or oatmeal were (and are) used to relieve the itchiness from rash-causing diseases like the one the town is currently experiencing.** Quinine was actually mostly used for malaria so one person is confused about what’s going around. Belladonna (aka deadly nightshade), although toxic, actually had some effectiveness as a preventative for scarlet fever if taken early after exposure. And laudanum, as I have mentioned before, was used for everything. So there’s some context for all the assorted shopping lists bombarding Imogen over the first three panels.

(* which I mention because Exandria’s technological level as of C3 seems to be early Industrial Era, although my Gelvaan aesthetic also has some 1880s and 1930s elements. And magical healing seems to be reserved for the privileged, given the high cost of healing potions, how many strings the relatively-anonymous Bells Hells had to pull to get help for Laudna, and the number of people who seem genuinely surprised when FCG offers them healing out of kindness. Most people probably rely on home remedies.)

** which hasn’t been made obvious yet but it will on the next page. You can see some suggestion of the eponymous scarlet on Imogen’s neck in the bottom left panel though.

So a long time and several fandoms ago a friend used to give me a hard time about my over-reliance on melodramatic Victorian novel disease as a plot device (specifically, targeting the heroine — or her best beloved — with it) so I imposed a rule on myself that I could only deploy it once per fandom (with the assumption that I’d have a different audience every time) and it had to drive the story forward. And friends, the time has come.

But I mean, come on. I couldn’t hang that gun on the wall and not have it go off and hit one of them.

This fandom’s enthusiasm for sickfics and whump in general has relaxed my stance a bit though. Before coming here I didn’t realize it was an entire genre and moreover, one that seems to target Imogen almost exclusively. If I had I might have leaned towards the alternative I also considered where Imogen tries futilely to convince an angry mob that obviously Laudna didn’t curse the town with a plague if she has it too. But then they’d be on the run before she had a chance to recover (you know, like after she got resurrected no I’m not still salty about it*** ) which isn’t a very satisfying chapter end. But fear not, this is all reciprocated in a later chapter.

A common thread I’ve noticed in sick Imogen fics though is that Laudna always seems to be much more calm and reassuring about it than she should be, haha. Imogen is the only thing in the world she genuinely cares about and she’s already half convinced that she’s always just a few missteps away from losing her forever. She’d be panicking.

(*** this is a lie. Also you know what else I’m still mad about? That she didn’t get that lil gryphon toy!! She clearly wanted it, she went in looking for a toy because she was feeling vulnerable and childlike and wanted the comfort of something simple intended to make a child happy. (Which is even more clear now since she was in the same regressive emotional state then as she has been recently after Ashton ate the lava shard, which she coped with by making another doll.) Fearne bought it and totally forgot about it. :( We could have had another meat-named doll character this entire time!!!

#a long road home #author notes

[liesmyth]

Your recs are ON FIRe and I was wondering if you have any more Harryanthe recs (any POV)?

Harryanthe my beloved! I'm a multishipping mess these days but THIS is actually the ship I got back into fandom for

Harrow/Ianthe

A Little of You, A Lot of Bloodletting by monochrome_agalma; rated E, HtN era

Horrors pile upon horrors when Harrow walks in on Ianthe masturbating and finds her unwilling to stop.

Burned Out from a Joyride by @theriverbeyond; rated E, HtN era

“Or,” she said lightly, folding her long legs up to sit in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off her skin. “I can show you how very grateful I am for your assistance, and we can fuck each other until we both forget what a horrible place this nightmare station is.”

or: Ianthe tries to thank Harrow after The Bone Arm scene. It's complicated for both of them.

docile, unkind, fraught by @meikuree; rated T

By the time you returned to Ianthe’s room from another practice session for Ortus the First’s ill-advised murder, it was late, or the Mithraeum’s moorless definition of late.

Or: Ianthe invents intricate rituals to touch Harrow. Harrow has a twisty time about it.

gallery walls by goldentwin; rated E, violence

Ianthe is very fond of the nude portraits that decorate her room aboard the Mithraeum. Harrowhark vehemently is not.

Some rough and horny Harryanthe content for art history enjoyers who want to wax poetic about iconography and religious ecstasy in your Lyctor porn.

Glory and Gore go Hand in Hand by quiriusblack, rated E

Harrow makes Ianthe a new arm. Then she fucks her about it.

thought that love was a kind of emptiness by @banrions; rated E, soulmate AU

The first time that Ianthe sees Harrowhark Nonagesimus, Reverend Daughter of Drearburh and Heir to the House of Ninth, she seems like an unremarkable little twit with some idiotic face paint.

to settle in a kingdom made of sugar by rosedamask; rated M, HtN era

Ianthe the First crashes a party in the River.

Repeat recs! I've recced these before but they're GOOD

a never feeling pleased when pleased by peacockbutchboy; Ianthe/Harrow + Ianthe & Corona, rated E, up to HtN

Despite wagging tongues claiming the contrary, Ianthe is capable of waiting patiently for her spoils. She and Harrow are caught in each other’s orbit for good, and there is no need to rush. She has an eternity at her disposal to capture her heart, and an eternity more to keep it for herself.

the cellar door is an open throat by 2wisheslikeafool; Ianthe/Harrow, rated E, HtN era

Ianthe experiences human emotions and tastes Harrow’s blood, only one of which is pleasant.

Harrow/Ianthe-ish

(Fics that aren't ONLY Harrow/Ianthe but I would rec specificially to Harryanthe fans)

(bad, bad news) one of us is gonna lose by valancytrinit; rated E, modern AU with powers

"You're not actually going to send Ianthe nudes, are you?" says the Body, in a tone that suggests she sincerely disapproves. Harrow never entertained what she thought the Body's views on pornography might be. She certainly never considered they might be quite conservative views.

Harrow sends the picture anyway.

[This is a modern AU with necromancy where Ianthe and Harrow sext. Also Gideon's ghost is there AND so is Alecto's ghost and they both have horny vibes with Harrow. This is just as weird and even better than I'm making it sound]

Lies Found Favor In Heaven by monochrome_agalma; rated T

God looked at you and saw everything wrong with the world he had wrought. It was painfully clear. So, when he asked about you and Harrow, you told him a lot of hot bullshit.

Or: what if John tried to talk safe sex with Ianthe too?

real love is a heart attack by @augustmourn; rated E, canon-setting AU (incest CW)

Harrow arranges a political marriage. Ianthe chafes under Ninth customs. Babs has a bad time. Corona will always come first.

[Ianthe marries Harrow and moves to the Ninth; this is primarily a Ianthe-centric fic and there's Corona/Ianthe alongside Harrow/Ianthe but I'm reccing it for the STEAMING HOT smut scene of Harrow punishing Ianthe in sexy ways.]

The Emperor's Daughter by @naryrising; rated T, Divine Highness AU

"Does anyone here actually want to marry the Emperor's daughter?" Harrow asked.

"That's a great question," said Palamedes. "I assume someone must. Lady Dulcinea Septimus says she's, and I quote, 'stacked.'"

[Harrow and Ianthe both try to flirt with God's daughter. They're competitive about it]

there is only one thing by @slashmarks; rated E, HtN AU

Resurrection Beast Seven stays on the original timeline, and Harrow's plan unravels anyway.

[This is Gideon/Harrow/Ianthe in a Gideon&Harrow bodysharing situation, but I'm reccing it here because the Harrow/Ianthe content is A+ Two words: sewn tongue]

#Anonymous #fic recs #harryanthe #tlt fic #tlt

[fervency-if]

What inspired you to create major characters? Do their first drafts differ in any way from what they turned out to be? (Feel free to talk about any characters who have interesting behind the scenes stories.)

That's a really fun question! My reply is quite long, because I always end up going on tangents, so I'll put it under a cut.

The story itself (or rather, Part I,) is actually based on a short story I wrote a long time ago for fun (it was just a quick writing prompt, "write a story about vampires," about 1200 words I wrote in some hour,) so there wasn't really any planning to talk about there, and when it comes to the first part of the game itself I never intended it to grow any larger than perhaps 5000 - 10 000 words or so (since it was just supposed to be an entry for the Halloween Jam 2022 for fun, my plan was just "alright, let's adapt the short story to a short game since the themes align") - it's very improvised, I wrote 65 000 words in perhaps two and a half week, so there were never any early drafts or even things I had written down beforehand.

When I wrote the short story, I think I just thought that I wanted to write something about a plague doctor, because I've always been interested in them (and found their design cool.) I just made her up on the go, and then took the small amount of characterisation she had in the short story and fleshed her out - she's pretty much the same, but a bit more morally ambiguous in the game. I do believe she might have been a tad more callous (in her motives, not demeanor) in the short story, but not to a great extent.

I'm not as sure about Aubrey, even though I did create his character specifically for the game (he was just some young man who started the pandemonium when the main character was busy having fun and a good meal in the cloakroom in the short story, the narrator never even interacted with him.) I think I just wanted a crazy, unhinged, and morbid little guy, because I find such characters fun and fascinating overall, and he grew from there. His name actually comes from when I was picking out names for the player to choose for their main characters if they didn't type it in themselves. I thought of a couple of nice, androgynous names, "Aubrey" came up in my head, and then I thought "no, wait, that name is perfect for the Mayor's son, I'll give that to him."

Bess and Francesco were inspired by the entire "old-timey lesbian/gay salon patron"-idea. Those were characters I could see sitting there looking dapper with a glass of liquor in their hands, charming women and men respectively with their dashing smiles.

Vesa's looks are inspired by the flapper aestethics, as well as the silent movie era. (She's definitely the character who looks most "modern" by real-life standards.)

I created Narciso partly because of my interest in opera, and also because the city of Pearlmoor holds art in high regard - I wanted to show the love of the arts in a more sinister manner by having a castrato being their current superstar, with people ignoring the suffering he's gone through for the sake of their beloved music.

Changes:

Bryars changed his colours. At first, he was just some nameless young man in a pretty gown that you could eat or bloodlet, so I just gave him a random appearance - blond hair and light skin; one couldn't even interact with him aside from eating or healing (I didn't write the mingle scenes or the scenes at the square in the prologue until I started to flesh the story out) so it didn't matter, I cared more about describing his costume. When he became an actual character and I decided that he will be a RO in a certain route, I changed his hair colour to black and his skin tone to olive since there's already a young, pale, blond, male RO as it is.

#fervency #fervency if #interactive fiction

[frownyalfred]

Bruce gets so scared that jason is hurt one time during patrol that he doesn't see a bullet being shot his way and gets severely hurt

Yessss! The dad instinct! I had something similar like this in my Mandalorian Batfamily fic because I was struggling to figure out a good weakness for Mand’alor Wayne since he was such a good fighter and had the Manda/psychic stuff to help.

Then I realized. If one of his kids got hurt, that would overrule all of those skills and advantages. The sound of Cass screaming — the sight of her blood, of her going down — that would distract him, even if just for a second. And one second would be all it takes.

#asks #anon #bruce wayne #batman #dc #myfic #theresurrectionist #bloodletting #bloodletting my beloved #batfamily

[lavenderlevetan]

happy halloween everyone <3 hope you enjoy!

#ronance #ronance vampire au: bloodletting #robin and nancy my beloved #cass thank you SO much for beta reading this oh my god #lavenderlevetan writes

[arcielee]

💕 Self-love time! Talk about which ones of YOUR creations (edits, artworks, fanfics or a fanfic chapter or a scene or an arc) you enjoy the most, for whatever reason. Send to other creators to do the same if you wish. 💕

(Emphasis on if you wish)

I know this is belated, but for you, my darling angsti 💜 I just want to gush a little about She Walks in Starlight.

I read this amazing story by @softcoreparadise called bloodletting and her note said: Aemond definitely feels more Hades coded but that felt cliche and that was a siren's call for me.

So I delved into Greek mythology like a madwoman, reading everything I could and found that it knitted so well with House of the Dragon lore...because, well:

Anyway, I dwelled on what would cause Aemond to meet Kore and found the tragic story of Menippe and Metioche, and how Persephone and Hades took pity on them and turned them into comets.

This became the tragic tale of Baela and Rhaena, with Kore desperate to help her friends who were tragically killed by the failed ploy of Aegon/Zeus, who was trying to wingman, unnecessarily, for his brother.

So they met in the Gō vys because this line kept repeating in my head. I literally could hear Aemond's timbre saying:

I made a playlist and everything as I wrote this (some of the songs sent to me by my beloved @annikin-im-panicin) and the rest fell into place.

I was so nervous to post it because at this point, I wrote some ridiculous Modern!Reader smut and I didn't know if people would enjoy it or not.

And my heart just swells anytime someone does.💜

#ask arcie #and i will ponder my response for literal weeks #thank you for this ask #angsti my darling tumblr kindred spirit

[hurtthemgently]

Emoji whump ask game that I’m gonna come up with at random and not edit. Sry if any of these have been done before I’m just in a mood to write asks. Under cut cos it’s long and random

Warning for violence blood gore dismemberment torture, and a ton of other whump stuff

Note- this got completely off track very quickly. I’m not apologizing.

You all know the drill, character plus emoji -read to charge send ask to cast:

⛓️ restrain them

🪚 remove something (specify)

🔨 break something (specify)

🔪 cut them

🧪 drug them (specify effects)

🪣 drown them

📍 pin them down via implanted object

🩸 bloodlet them

⏳ isolate them

📷 send pictures to their loved ones

🪝idk this one kinda looks like a meat hook

⚓️ tie them to an anchor and throw them overboard

🪢 tie them up

🫴 lift their chin

🫁 control their breathing

👁️ blindfold them

💋 give them kisses

🌧️ tie them up outside in the rain.

❄️ lock them up someplace cold

🧊 ice water

🔥 burn them

⚡️ electrocute them

✨ hit them so hard they see stars

🌶️ there’s something here I know it

🌯 this one is making me hungry

🫙 ooh tiny whumpee goes in jar

⚽️ kick them

🥊 punch them

🧂pour salt on their wounds

🍋 lemon juice on wounds hurts too

🎧 sound torture my beloved

🎤 take their voice away.

🎲 pick something random

🔇 sensory deprivation

🚗 stuff them in a car trunk

🌈 this one also means random, I just wanted to add a rainbow

🍃 chase them through the forest

😴 knock them out

🥺 make them beg

😭 make them cry

🤕 patch up their wounds

🫶 Praise them

😘 kiss them

😚 more kisses whumpee is very kissable

☕️ sleep deprivation

🍽️ no food

🧃 give ur whumpee apply juice

🦪 wtf is this

🥨 stress position, preferably if they’re contorted

🏆 reward them

🧭 mess with their sense of direction

🕘 mess with their sense of time

🔄 give them motion sickness

💢 make them angry

🔜 make them anticipate the pain

🇫🇷 make them surrender

🏳️‍🌈 if ur reading this ur gay

🔢 make them do math

👄 yet more kisses

🫂 cuddles

#I’m too ADD for this #I’m literally only posting because it’s kinda funny

[writernopal]

NOPAL! It’s been a weird week, is it Wednesday yet? It feels like Wednesday.

Anyway so! WBW!

Pls (take your time) I must know about the diseases (absolutely no rush)

— @outpost51

KORB! Happy (late!) WBW!

I want you to know that I did not forget about your original ask for the diseased post but I've been so busy that I didn't get a chance to put it together T_T BUT now I have the perfect excuse to do it, so here we go! I'm going to limit myself to two per Common Race because otherwise, this post would be MILES long! (Also High Races don't get sick unless they're debilitated by other means but that is spoilers so I keep my mouth shut hehe)

Lizardfolk

Slugscale: Equivalent of the cold or flu for Lizardfolk.

They get very sallow-looking and develop a phlegmy cough. Body aches are common, but they don't experience fevers like we do; instead, the most uncomfortable thing for them is the amount of snot they develop. The structure of their sinuses is much different from ours, meant to drain rather effectively. This is normally for the purpose of expelling sand and other debris since they don't have nose hairs, however, this means that they are basically snot faucets LOL. A Lizardfolk with slugscale will travel with an abundance of handkerchiefs if they go anywhere at all!

Sockeye: An aggressive form of conjunctivitis that often causes blindness and irritation of the skin around the eye.

Unlike slugscale, contracting this is permanent, and it only gets worse with time. It's usually caused by poor sanitary or airborne conditions and, in the very late stages, makes the skin around the eyes puffy, giving them the appearance of rolled-up socks, hence the name. It's not contagious between individuals and can be managed with the appropriate poultices and cleaning of the eyes daily with a special saline concoction. However, since most who suffer from this typically live in bad conditions and can't see, they don't have access to these treatments or the ability to care for themselves. As you know, Jace, our beloved boy, has this, as observed by Axtapor, to a severe degree, but it's not as bad as it could have been. The only reason it hasn't progressed so much is because his mentor and pseudo-father, Rapheus, looks after him. 🥺

Humans

Orran's Wart: A condition similar to shingles, where painful, warty rashes develop on the skin.

Unlike shingles, which primarily affect folks above the age of 50, Orran's Wart can be developed by anyone, even babies. Medical science hasn't progressed to the point of understanding viral diseases and the like in Oepus, so it's generally believed that ill humors or hexing are the main causes of contraction and not due to reactivation of dormant viruses. This means that the treatments are usually bloodletting or something called smoke-sitting. And that is exactly what it sounds like; you basically hotbox yourself with starshoot until it goes away LOL. Starshoot, however, doesn't treat the rash. It just makes the person drowsy and has a bit of numbing effect on the nerves, so it's really just a waiting game with really fun Advil.

Leaver's Faint: A type of fainting/narcolepsy that affects individuals when they stand up too quickly.

I have to admit, I came up with this one as a half-joke because of those videos where goats go stiff when they get scared lol, but then I got weirdly attached to it, so here we are haha. The individual is usually only asleep for about 10-15 minutes before they come to, and unless they hit something on the way down, they are no worse for wear. However, people have been mistaken for dead because of this, so I have this headcanon that somewhere in Oepus, there is a retelling of Romeo and Juliet where one, or both, individuals suffer from Leaver's Faint haha.

Elves

La'hym: A condition that causes abnormal bioluminescence.

I haven't talked much about AASOAF's Elves on here. That is partly because I'm still working out a few things with them but also because much of their lore is intentionally hidden away from the rest of Oepus. They are very private people, so from the perspective which AASOAF is told, that of what Elves would call outsiders, we don't see much of it. That said, this ailment, while harmless, even cool sounding to us, is extremely detrimental to them. Elves rely on their connection to the earth to be able to hunt and know where to move as the seasons change; this bioluminescence interrupts those connections. This is due to the frequency of the light emitted by their bodies being just a degree or two different from the frequency that connects them to nature, resulting in garbled messages. This is essentially like cutting the whiskers off a cat.

Hincha: A chronic condition wherein just before spring, Elves grow branches from their skin.

I have mentioned before that my Elves are not quite the same as traditional Elves. They have skin with the texture and color of tree bark and hair made of leaves, so as you might imagine, skin conditions would vary quite a lot from anything more traditional Elves would face. Hincha is one of those things where a type of spore, usually airborne, lands on an elf and starts putting roots down in its skin. These spores are triggered by melting snows or winter rains, hence the cyclical nature of this ailment. It's quite painful, and the treatment is usually similar to removing leeches. There is no preventative.

Dwarves

Fielding: A type of cyst that is developed as a result of coming into contact with Fielder's Grass.

The Ironsong Hold is home to many large, grassy plains and also to special native species of grass called Fielder's Grass. This grass is mostly harmless unless you happen to be allergic to it. This allergy is usually developed by Dwarves, especially those that work in agriculture, as they are exposed to the grasses more than most others would be. That means that older Dwarves are more prone to it, so to prevent this, they wear thick hide trousers to protect their skin. Younger Dwarves will usually carry around blankets or animal skins with them to let the elderly borrow in case they suffer from this and don't leave their homes wearing said trousers. This might be due to forgetfulness or not expecting to have to come in contact with said grass.

Leaners: A type of vertigo developed from riding elephants.

I mentioned before that Dwarves keep elephants as pets and treat them like recreationally kept horses, which means they also ride them! However, as you might imagine, this is kind of difficult for them to do since their legs aren't very long, so they have specially made saddles for the purpose. I won't get into how they are constructed, but the idea of leaning in it and using the reins to dictate where the animal should go still stands. However, as you might imagine, you'd have to put a lot of weight and force into controlling an elephant. Elephants move pretty fast, so talented riders have to be throwing themselves around on the elephant's back the entire time the animal is moving, and eventually, that messes with their inner ear, and they develop vertigo from it. It does go away, but it takes a long time, and elephant riders love the thrill of the sport, so it's more or less permanent.

#thanks for the ask! #nopal answers #aasoaf #aasoaf lore #diseases #wbw #lizardfolk #humans #elves #dwarves #jace #rapheus