There’s a war brewing, they say.  But she doesn’t need to told; there’s blood on her hands and bones beneath her feet.  Frank takes her hand, but it slips, slips, through the spaces between her fingers, he melts from her, like a memory.  There’s a war brewing, they say, but the battleground is unclear.

allydia week → au (day 4)

AU | When Allison’s Aunt Kate is killed by the Hale Pack, Allison kills the Hale Alpha, Laura Hale.  But what Allison Argent isn’t expecting is for the Head of the local coven and girlfriend of Laura Hale, Lydia Martin, to come at her with all the fury of the magic in her blood.  With the help of fellow coven member, Stiles, and the secret support of the Hale Pack, Lydia sets out to bring Allison down.  The last thing Lydia wants or expects is to fall in love with very girl she’s hunting.

—-

“You can’t keep doing this, Lydia,” Stiles is saying, running his fingers and palms over his scalp, like he’s trying scrub all of this off of him.  And she doesn’t blame him, not really.  ”It’s killing the coven, it’s killing you.”

Stiles voice cracks and it physically pains her.  She sighs, “I can’t, Stiles, not, not, not after Laura.”  It hurts to even say her name, like somethings being dragged from her bones.  His eyes are pleading and she just can’t, no.  ”She killed my girlfriend, Stiles, Derek’s sister, how can you just —”

“I’m not,” Stiles says, his eyes steely and strong, “We have to do this together. Can’t we just. The wolves and the coven.  If we did it together, we could. We could do this.  It could be over.”

“No. It has to be me.”

After talking to Surrexi, I decided that I really wanted to jot down all of my feelings and reasonings about everything (well not everything) Caroline, Stefan/Caroline, and Damon/Elena from this week’s episode.  This is Stefan/Caroline and Damon/Elena friendly, so beware of that, I guess.

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it takes an ocean not to break; t; lydia/allison; 400 words

Argent. Silver. Sometimes she can see herself reflected in Allison, and it terrifies her, makes her want to shake her, tell her to stop, tell her that she can be better, lighter, happier. But she doesn’t, because that dark hair and those eyes like mirrors are the only things that keep her grounded. Keeps her sane, maybe.

Katie grabs a stalk of celery with a maneuver that Colin can’t help but call sneaky.  Her hair is straight and shiny tonight, and it works as a curtain hiding her mouth as she bites into the vegetable with a loud crunch.  Hey!, he says half-heartedly, pointing his knife at her.  She shakes the stalk of celery at him and he laughs.  Thief.

She laughs as she sashays her way to a bar stool.  You’re no fun. Plus, she says with a mischievous grin, it’s not my fault you make them look all enticing. 

I’m chopping them! How is that at all enticing?

She waggles her eyebrows, biting her lip, as she twirls the stalk between her fingers. I don’t know, Col, you just have that effect I guess.

He smiles sheepishly.

It’s still stealing, he mumbles.

hi, um, warnings for lots of violence! yeah.

Once, he thought that the truth was the weapon that he could fold under his armor.  He thought it would be the thing that guarded him, that saved him.  He held onto the truth.  He thought that if he showed her it, peeled his armor back and lay his skin bare before her, that she would slice him open and take all that he was.  

In the end, the truth is what broke both of them, took their jointed humanity and burnt it dry.  

The poison is still dry in her throat and the remnants of his soul are etched into his cheeks.  (Later, when the days and reasons have become a countless blur, she will blame him for the beginning, a hand sealed over his mouth, poison searing its way down his throat.)

Blood is pooling at her feet, her hand clutching her wound, but still there is a gleam in her eye.  He drops the blade in the grass, and dips down to whisper a final plea.  Let this be over.

The magic holds him against the wall, pins him, crushes him, his lungs feel like they are about to burst and there is a blackness behind his eyes that is creeping into the foreground.  Her hand is outstretched, white and angry and he can feel his heart speed and slow.  Before the world spins into numbing darkness, he hears her whisper, Now. Now it’s over.

He holds her underwater, the expanse of her neck white under his palm.  Her hair and her eyes are wild and in the moment he wonders if she is Medusa turning him to stone.  

Poison and magic are always her favorite methods, while he prefers the things that scar.  He wants to see him on her skin, see the evidence etched in her body.  

He kisses her, burning and scarring, bites down until he can taste her blood.  

There’s a small death in this too.

The truth is no longer his armor.  He lays it bare before her watching her squirm. 

You are my doom, she says with her teeth.

Ahh, it’s been awhile since I’ve written them and apparently I was in a ~mood? Future AU for both ASOIAF and Merlin. ~Angsty Merlin.

Daenerys, he greets her, scales of a dragon pressed against his skin.  She walks towards him, her braid singing as it moves with her and he wonders how much blood has been shed for each of those bells. War is no place for the weak, she once told him, her heart high in her chest and her eyes bright, like the eyes of a dragon.  Weakness is not what I question, he said.  They do not speak of war often.  War beats down on their bones, makes their hearts ashen and their minds livid.  There is blood imbedded in his skin and he cannot rid of it, no matter how he tries.  There are screams behind his eyes and it takes all of him to shut them out.

The dragon beneath his palm is red like fire, like blood.  It is the dragons, he finds, that connects him to the earth and to the sky and to everything in between.  And it is the dragons that connect him to her, Blood of the Dragon.

She greets him with a smile, and he relaxes into it.  His whole body seems to sigh at her smile and he returns it in kind, if not with less joy, with more heartache.

His coat feels too heavy in the desert lands of her kingdom.  He feels stifled, suffocated, but also alive.  He wonders, idly, how she would feel in Avalon with its trees and lakes, the mist around her knees.  Daenerys Targaryen was made for fire, he reminds himself.


You look tired, Emrys, she says kindly and he nods with a sigh.  He is tired, he’s exhausted.  His bones feel brittle and his heart feels dry.  Battle is etched into his pores.

He takes her hand, a small squeeze.  If he did not know better, if he did not see a familiar sense of war behind her eyes, he would think her fragile.  Tell me of your dragons, he says.

She begins her tales, of joy and triumph, and of all the things in between.

She reaches up, touches his cheek, Things will get better, I know it.  He smiles for the dragon girl and kisses her gently as if fearing the burn of her skin.





When he returns, the war ends with dragon fire. 

He laughs cruelly and she digs the point of the dagger deeper into his skin. She can smell the scent of blood in the air and she licks her lips, juts her tongue out to brush her teeth. They say you’re the big bad wolf, he mocks, what would they say if they knew what you really are. (x)

Her body, it cursed her, made her less than the King her mind was, but it also gave her life, gave her family, and she wouldn’t trade them even for power; power was nothing without someone to show it to.

Her back was turned to him, but instinctually she knew it was him.  It was always him.  She had to force herself to breathe.  This would be fine.  It was Colin.  This was going to be fine.  But, it was when she finally turned around that she knew it wouldn’t be.  She swallowed the lump in her throat and grinned.  You’re looking quite dapper, she says with a laugh.  He smiles, a question, and she nods, her hands landing on his shoulder with what is supposed to be a reassuring gesture.  But her thumbs have a mind of their own and they trail the lapel of his suit.  You look beautiful, he whispers so only she can hear.  It is this Colin, the one who whispers into her skin, that she can’t make herself let go of.  It is this Colin, all sharp lines and soft words, that has her breathless.  

where do people 
like us
float? 

“Morning, boy,” she sneers, her mouth twisting into a cruel grin.  He looks up, and her eyes catch his.  There is none of the hot red fury in her eyes that her voice carried and he holds her gaze.  He manages a nod, a barely there acknowledgement of her words.  He thinks he sees something akin to sorrow there, but he does not think on it.  For if he does, if he does, there will be no going back.  He watches her walk past, his steely gaze studying her.  Idly, he wonders if he should follow.

She clenches her hand around her shoes, the straps cutting harshly into her fingers.  She exhales and she feels the tears there at the corner of her eyes.  She squares her shoulders and makes herself walk away.  One step, two steps, she can make it if she continues and never looks back.  This is his fault, his fault, she reminds herself.  But she can’t make herself believe it.  She drops her cigarette and watches it burn.  Watches it burn.

   His heart was tickin’ click tick tick

   Synthetic hopes of a different day 

(via mcmorgans)

And when the world crumbles around her, when she can feel the ash on her fingertips, it is then when she feels something in her stir.  She can feel him calling her in her bones, in the heels of her shoes.

YOU GUYS

YOU GUYS

F I N A L L Y 

I FUCKING LOVE YOU, LYD.