seen from Russia
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seen from United States
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seen from Italy
seen from Taiwan
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Google is beginning to tire of my insistence on re-reading this fic at least once a month (that’s all i can handle because the ending makes me sob literally every time and i need time to recover after each re-read) (but it’s worth it because of how fucking amazing this fic is)
Fic Rec #737
shadows by superfluouskeys
Hermione x Bellatrix Lestrange
She had heard. Known. Been glad, even. In Hermione's opinion, death is nearly never better, never deserved, for who is to say when a person is beyond saving? Still, it's like seeing a ghost, or the beginnings of a nightmare.
COMPLETE: Chapters: 3 - Words: 7,066
illustration for chapter 28 of the prisoner by @superfluouskeys
DWC!!! "Fingers scrubbed to bleeding" ?
Thank you, love!! I’mma rip my heart into pieces with some angsty Solesta for @dadrunkwriting! (trigger warning for blood, death mention, panic attack, dissociative episode.)
Solas had tried to restrain her, but once her brother’s lifeless body was dragged out of sight, she tore from his grasp. It was surprising to him when she squared her shoulders, she knew; he had expected her to collapse into sobs against him. He followed at a distance as she strode with purpose out of the gates, half a mile down to the creek. Halesta knew he was behind her, could feel his eyes on her like a hand pressed between her scapulae. She ignored him. Tears of rage burned trails down her cheeks, ears hot and red-pink; they approached the stream. He merely watched as she clawed at her sleeves, frantically pushing the cuffs away from delicate wrists. He wanted to help—she could feel the concern he radiated—but he didn’t dare touch her yet. She fell to her knees on the bank, grinding her teeth until the muscles of her clenched jaw ached. It wasn’t sadness filling her boiling veins with broken glass and mercury. Wrath was a familiar taste, rusting bile and basalt at the back of her tongue—a flavor from a time that she almost missed. Halesta shook with panicked vengeance as she began to bathe the blood from her skin. The images of the arrow in Galifalon’s chest, the sound of his last rattling breath, a barrage of the waking nightmare flooding her thoughts…. She quickly lost track of how long she sat there, trying desperately to remove the stains. No matter how hard she scoured, it seemed the gore refused rinse away.
“Vhenan, you have scrubbed your fingers raw,” Still rapt as she was pulled back onto her heels, far away and rubbing her palms together roughly, “Halesta, stop!”
Once again, Solas wrapped his arms around her, clutching her hands in his. I can’t get clean; a whisper becoming a chant. Smoothing the loosed curls from her face, he shushed her gently though the tears had stopped by then.
“It is your blood,” Taking her face in his hands, she stared vacantly into his sea-storm eyes, “It is your blood, Vhenan. You are clean now.”
A good friend of mine sent me this awesome fanfic about the Malora (Maleficent/Aurora) ship and the story is so well written! I like everything about it, and this is my take of how I pictured them, though it is based on the disney animation, not the Maleficent one, and it’s on purpose that they look like the animation. There’s not really much to change about them, the ORIGINAL characters added by the author though! Those are gonna be interesting to sketch out :D
Read The Prisoner by superfluouskeys, it’s really good, though the chapters are long, but it’s really wroth it
DWC: “just don’t fuck it up.” :-D
Garrett Hawke x Fenris, for @dadrunkwriting
The first thing Garrett is aware of as he blearily opens his eyes and rouses is that he is not alone. After the battle with the Arishok, much of Kirkwall in flames or scrambling to recover, their unlikely little band of misfits had come back to the mansion rather than test their luck with whether or not the Hanged Man would still be standing, much less open for business. The wine cellar in the Hawke household was always stocked for such occasions they all gathered together, regardless of how frequent or rarely such things might occur. Fleetingly, he thinks of Bethany, of Carver, and misses them, though the latter would likely have said the wine was too weak and just given him the stink-eye all evening for once again stealing what might somehow have been his glory. Some things it seems, never change. Mother wouldn’t have wanted to intrude, but he hopes, she’s with father at the Maker’s side and that they might be proud of him.
The celebration, he recalls, did go on for some hours, and though perhaps not as rowdy as their evenings of Wicked Grace, the relief had been palpable in all of them. Some more than others, it seems, Garrett thinks sitting up a little to curiously study the tattooed elf who lies, still sleeping, sprawled across the covers beside him, one arm outstretched across his stomach, though whether to anchor him there or to reassure himself of the other’s continued presence, Garrett cannot be sure.
He stirs, despite Hawke’s best attempts to stay still, to let him rest a little longer. Immediately Fenris’ hand flexes tightening his grip on the mage as he sits up.
“Garrett,” the white-haired head burrowed into the bed grumbles.
He doesn’t use his first name much. He’s never particularly cared for it, and Hawke suits him just fine. But he finds he doesn’t mind so much when Fenris sometimes uses it. Rather, he finds a slight pleasure in the idea this is something shared between them. Besides the elf, only his m- his sisters use his first name with any regularity, and Carver generally preferring to avoid addressing his elder brother at all, a task made easier now he’s joined the Wardens.
Fenris’ voice is a little rougher than usual with sleep and disuse, and the mage thinks he sounds a bit… annoyed, perhaps because he woke him? But it’s good to hear, nevertheless. And waking up beside him? Well, he’s dreamt of such a thing plenty of times, but never truly expected it after what had transpired between them.
Their first and only night together had been… he struggles to come up with a suitable description that doesn’t sound like something out of one of those terrible romance serials his mother and sisters filled a shelf of the library with. Perhaps it’s foolish and he’s been waiting for nothing, but he can’t seem to help it, can’t bring himself to want or even think about anyone else. What began as his usual and casual flirting, his admiration of the other man’s skill has clearly long since become something else, something considerably more significant. He wants to wake up next to Fenris every day for the rest of the time the two of them have left.
But that can’t possibly be a welcome sentiment. Can it, the mage wonders, watching as Fenris stretches, back popping a little with the effort, and snuggles closer into his companion’s larger body even as he slowly begins to rouse and become more aware of his surroundings. Large green eyes blink back sleep and slowly come into focus on him, he doesn’t leap backwards, makes no efforts to pull away from him, but there is something uncharacteristically uncertain, vulnerable in his gaze that makes Garrett want nothing more than to gather him up in his arms and hold him as tight as is possible without the gesture becoming uncomfortable.
“I- I should go,” Fenris offers softly, ducking his head to avoid the mage’s scrutiny.
“You don’t have to,” Garrett replies cautiously, even as every bone in his body seems to scream for him to employ a more forceful and convincing argument. Something, anything to stop him all but fleeing his bed again.
“The others-” the elf begins.
“Will be fine,” Garrett interrupts confidently, trusting Sonja and Varric to see to them all either returning home or entertaining them in his absence. “I was injured yesterday-”
“You very nearly died yesterday,” Fenris growls, correcting him with a scowl.
“Exactly,” he nods, looking far too pleased about this than he has any right to be. “You’re helping to look after me,” Garrett continues, doing his best to adopt his usual lighthearted tone and smile about the whole thing. Don’t come on too strong, or too desperate, he scolds himself internally. He’s still here. Don’t give him a reason not to be. A reason to run. Don’t fuck this up. It seems to work, or if Fenris has noticed he isn’t in fact as calm or amused as he pretends, the elf doesn’t bother to call him on it, offering up a small chuckle of his own.
“You- You would like me to stay,” Fenris checks, cautiously after a moment.
Maker, yes. “Yes,” Garrett confirms before he can stop himself or think better of it. “Please,” he adds a bit softer.
“Then I remain at your side,” Fenris nods decisively, with the slightest hint of a smile.
superfluouskeys replied to your post “IN WHAT WORLD DO YOU COME OUT TO YOUR HOMOPHOBIC PARENTS AND THEN GO...”
WHAT ARE YOU WATCHING I WANT TO BE OUTRAGED WITH YOU
JENNY’S WEDDING. I HAVE SO MANY THOUGHTS ABOUT THIS SHITFEST ALREADY AND I AM ONLY 25 MINUTES IN
DWC: Moths in a forgotten shed
Thanks for the prompt! Have a sad story about my rogue Hawke and Carver :(
(I have a little brother in real life, so much as I love Bethany bad things happening to Carver gets to me in a more personal way.)
For @dadrunkwriting
CW: major character death (implied)
On the ship Ilora dreameda memory of moths. She was about twelve, which meant Carver would have been seven. It must have happened after Bethany began training with their father. That would explain her absence.
It had been just Ilora and Carver wandering around the old farm. Looking for their mother, maybe? Ilora remembered the crunch of dry grass, summer heat on her skin, and Carver’s small,sweaty hand in her own. He was little enough then to hold her hand without protest.
The shed stood just atthe edge of their land, right after the tall grass and before the eerie woods. Itwas tiny, lopsided from age and barely big enough to hold more than one person.Ilora didn’t think her family ever kept anything in there, and yet with the confidenceof an older sister she reached out and pulled the door open. The minute she did theywere overwhelmed by a dusty, winged brown cloud.
They screamed. Carver sank to the ground,hands over his head, and Ilora followed him, shielding him with her body. The cloudof moths whirled past them. It must have taken seconds for them to go but itfelt like an eternity of dusty wings and creeping legs.
When they were gone Carverrocked back and forth in his kneeled position, sobbing that some of the bugshad gotten in his mouth. Ilora hugged him as he coughed and spit. “Sorry,Carver. Sorry. I didn’t know.” But he was rigid in her arms and nothing shesaid or did consoled him.
In the dream, the moths didn’t go. They thickened until Ilora couldn’t breathe or see. Carver’s hand slippedfrom her own. She heard her brother’s screams and sobs, but when she reached forhim her fist closed on nothing but papery wings.
