#quick writes

[woundedsoul12]

😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️

A Word with Friends: Of Houses, Hearts and Hidden things

Thank you @hedwigoprah for this game and @woundedsoul12 / @jenn2d2 for the word and tags! 1.8k long - not that bad for me!

Rules: Use the challenge word to write a sentence or scene and then tag a few friends.

Read on Ao3

Balter

to dance or tread clumsily, without particular grace or skill

———-

Antiva City, for all its opulence, had never felt so hollow.

A month into her six-month contract and Lilya had already memorised the shape of the villa’s ceiling in the dark. She knew which floorboard creaked by the kitchen and which tile was loose in the bathroom and constantly threatened to fall on her head when on the privy. Her cover was intact, her intel clean, and her presence here welcomed if not generally accepted. And yet… she moved around the city like a ghost, wandering aimlessly and close to tears.

Officially, she was here under the guise of a Rivaini mage, with expertise in rare weaves and magical dyes, called in to consult on restoring priceless ancient tapestries. She was hired and paid for discretion, as the goods were not the kind quite legally obtained.   

Unofficially, she was watching a trade dispute unfurl between two minor noble houses, Maronne and Divalos. The head of the Divalos family had hired them to look into House Maronne as they had been showing sudden, unexplained prosperity. Their trade deals had expanded overnight, and along with it, their security measures grew tighter. Whispers of odd shipments arriving through private ports in the dead of night, talk that servants who had been with the family for years were suddenly disappearing and replaced with help imported from Tevinter, often a red flag for Venatori activity. No one could confirm if the Venatori were involved yet, but the pattern was too familiar. If the Divalos’ were right and the Maronne family was aligning with old blood magic cultists, it wouldn’t just destabilise the local economy, it could ignite something much worse. 

It wasn’t her job to fight a war, let alone stop one single-handedly, only to report if one was brewing, unless the orders changed. She wasn’t even there to kill anyone. At least, not yet. The Divalos’ weren’t in the business of murder- not without just cause. Her instructions were clear: embed, observe, confirm. Wait for the order- if there was one.

But Viago hadn’t chosen her just because she could stitch wards into fabric or speak with a soft accent. He’d sent her because no one would question a foreign woman living quietly in a half-forgotten villa in the artisan quarter. Because she was someone who could vanish in plain sight. And maybe, because keeping her far from Treviso kept certain things from unravelling. Viago had called it a contract. But she knew better. It was an exile, temporary sure, but still exile- even when wrapped in silk.

She wasn’t sure if the mission had come before the fallout with Illario. Or if the mission was because of the fallout. There were still nights she wondered how thin the line was that Viago balanced upon, if he sent her there because she was valuable to its success or because she’d become a liability to him. The worst part of it was that she was there and he, they, were there and she couldn’t do anything to help. She just had to smile in the salons she was requested to attend, pass information through to Viago and the Divalos’ contact through coded stitch patterns, and wait for the name to land in her lap.

She may have been an idiot when it came to her life choices, but she wasn’t naïve enough to think that name wouldn’t be familiar. A name she recognised from so long ago, she even impressed herself. Stefania Andretti, formerly just Stefania. Slave under the ownership of the Vitelli Guild. The irony of her current contract being tied to the very job that introduced her to Illario in the first place was not lost on her.

That job was a success, of course, but things still went sideways. She had left the contract intact but not unchanged, and by the time they returned to Treviso, the distance between her and Illario was barely a memory, and their attachment was already tangled-  inextricably. 

---

The job had come directly from the Crown. Discretion was of the utmost importance. Failure, never an option. So, of course, the Crows had sent their best. One from each of the Eight Great Houses.

Seven Masters.

…And Lilya.

She knew she wasn’t chosen for her rank. She was a political inclusion, because everything Viago did was with purpose. She’d been chosen to show the kind of power her Talon had under his control. Where even his newest Crows could be considered on par with the other Houses’ best. Of course she’d been hated from the start, they’d assumed she was there for what she was once to Viago and not because of her talent… or perhaps they thought he’d snapped and finally wanted to stick it to his old man so he sent someone who’d screw up the contract. Maybe all of it, really. 

She had wanted to laugh when she was paired with Illario. Viago only gave her three instructions- don’t ever be in a room alone with the King, try to keep her being a mage as quiet as possible and keep away from Illario Dellamorte, he was Caterina’s grandson- craftier than people gave him credit for and more charming than they believed. Figures that she’d somehow manage to break one of his instructions without even trying. 

They worked surprisingly well together. Better than she expected, at least. He moved like someone born to do this, silent and observant, his hands always a second ahead of hers. She had been too reckless, too loud on a roof, baltering around instead of sneaking. It had nearly cost them their casualty-free entrance. But he caught her, adapted and distracted the incoming guards and led them safely down a different route… and he never once looked at her like she’d failed. 

When they finally found cover in an overgrown courtyard behind an abandoned villa, vines and lemon trees heavy with fruit that hadn’t been picked. She had expected a lecture from the Master. Or worse, silence.

Instead, he handed her a blood fig.

She looked at it, startled. Illario pushed it into her hand and quickly checked they were truly in the clear, only to return to her, still staring at the fruit in her hand. It was soft and warm from being in his pouch.

“These… this is my favourite,” she said before thinking, still looking at it like she expected for it to grow a head and start singing opera. 

“I know,” he replied, taking the fig and breaking it in half and handing her back the bigger piece. 

He didn’t say how he knew, but then again, she didn’t ask. They sat on the fountain’s edge and ate in the dark, and for the first time since the contract started, she let herself breathe. Illario had already seen her falter; there was no need to pretend she was perfect to save her Talon's face. The cold touch of almost failure was still fresh against her skin, but his warmth made it bearable. The sweetness had caught her off guard, from the fruit and Illario both. She could feel the juice on her chin, the sugar on her tongue. He was watching her as she wiped up the errant droplet and sucked it off her thumb. Not obviously. Just enough to notice.

It made something shift in her chest.

And then she almost kissed him… Stopping just close enough to feel the warmth of his lips feather over hers. She had just wanted to see what might have happened if she stopped pretending she didn’t want to. But it was a mistake, and she pulled away immediately. Viago was right; he was far more charming than anyone truly gave him credit for. 

“I… I apologise,” she said, voice low, already hating the way she sounded so young and pathetic. “My mistake for skipping dinner. Hunger makes me do ridiculous things.” 

Illario didn’t flinch. He merely smiled at her. “There are worse mistakes, don’t worry about it,” he said lightly.

It should’ve made her feel better. It didn’t. Because she knew him too well already, a few weeks spent together with barely any time apart and she could tell which expressions were real and which were part of his mask, the one everyone thought they knew so well, not realising that Illario Dellamorte was very careful to hide away the real parts of himself. Like this calm and collected reaction- it wasn’t real. There was something behind it, something quiet about it that looked a little like disappointment. 

He didn’t try to kiss her again, and she didn’t stay long enough to see if he would have.

She had been warned. Illario wasn’t just another Crow. He was the First Talon’s blood, Caterina’s grandson. If she touched him and it meant something, it wouldn’t just be her head on the line. It would be all of theirs. 

---

Lilya blinked after pricking herself with a needle because of her lack of concentration. She had been warned years prior, and… Well, shit. She really didn’t learn, did she? 

Now, five years later, she found herself living in the once-abandoned villa, back in that same courtyard, the scent of lemon and earth thick in the air. The vines had grown longer. The fountain was more cracked. But the memory hadn’t dulled at all. She rested a hand on the edge of the stone and let herself think of him. Just for a second.

He was probably in Nevarra or Tevinter by now. Doing whatever it took to make peace with Caterina. Or he was in Treviso. Probably smiling at the girl she’d picked out for him, the one with the right name, the right background and connections, the right everything. If he were smart… he’d just do it. Make it easier for both of them, and she’d return to the news of their engagement or marriage, or with how quickly Illario worked, their pregnancy. 

“But Paloma… we may also live.” 

No. He wasn’t smart at all. He was as stupid as she was. Stupider really. 

Lilya yelled and threw her embroidery across the yard. It had only been one month, and she was already going stir crazy. She still had five months to go… unless, for some reason, the contract had to be extended. Groaning as she stood, Lilya took a breath and stepped away from the fountain, stopping to pick up the piece she had been working on and wiping off the dirt. The contract wasn’t finished. It didn’t matter what she felt.

Her feelings wouldn’t keep her alive… but maybe his would. 

She hated it. She felt so useless, she hated not being able to help Illario with whatever he thought needed to be done and help Viago with whatever mess he was left holding when he sent her away. But all she could do was stay, finish the mission, and avoid making things worse. Further embarrassing the Crows and Viago by failing a simple mission, sure as hell wouldn’t change what had already passed, only further securing her position as Caterina’s most wanted. Dead or… Dead.

Lilya looked at her latest message to Viago. 

Nothing new. Surveillance. Stefania. Update next week.

Maker, she hated sewing.  

---

Softly tagging: @rookamell @davrinsleftpectoral @kabsey @mythals-whore @themontess @brennacedria @jukkaricity @selennes @serstolas @obsessed-with-book-boyfriends @blackwall-my-tiny-husband @basedonconjecture @the-sparrohawk @trash-nerd @the-font-bandit @gingervitus and anyone else who wants to play <3

[beforeyearning]

for @nosebleedclub jan 1, 2024 prompt.

[hobodeplage]

FOUND

I found the Somewhere.

A place for us to sit.

Me tucked into your side.

Silence the only dialogue.

Peace at last.

[nipuni]

"He's ancient and forever, He burns at the centre of time, He can see the turn of the universe. And... he's wonderful"

[xoxojisu]

thinking abt being scared to be too clingy w katsuki...

"jisu you seem like you think abt being too clingy a LOT. didn't you just recently write this fic and that fic that are basically the exact same prompt?" no you can sybau.

you’re standing in the doorway of his dorm, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, chewing on the inside of your cheek.

he’s sitting on the bed, back against the headboard, legs spread just enough to be inviting without trying. hoodie half-zipped, sweats hanging low on his hips, phone in one hand, completely relaxed.

you are not.

you want to sit with him. in his lap. be tucked in, held tight, kissed maybe once or twice until you melt into him like sugar in hot tea.

but your feet don’t move.

you feel like if you climb into his space first, it’ll make it obvious how badly you want it. how you’ve been thinking about it all day. how when you woke up this morning, a part of you was already aching for his arms.

and what if he doesn’t want that right now?

what if he’s tired, or busy, or just not feeling it?

you shift from foot to foot.

his eyes flick up for only a second before going back to his phone.

“you comin’ in or just gonna stand there lookin’ like an idiot?”

your cheeks flush a little.

“shut up.”

he hums. doesn’t banter. just sets his phone aside, like, completely, not even face-up, and looks at you properly now. tilts his head a little.

and you see it. the way his gaze softens. the way his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile, because if he does, the world will probably collapse or something.

he opens his arms. slow, easy.

“c'mere.”

you hesitate. not because you don’t want to. but because you do, and that’s the part that always scares you. you want him so much. you love him with your whole heart and soul and would spend every second being close with him if you could. but does he? are you being too much? too clingy? your own insecurity and self-doubt eats at you.

he catches that in your face. always does. so he adds, voice lower now:

“c’mon, sweetheart. don’t make me ask twice.”

maybe the nickname does it. or maybe it's his tone, or the look in his eyes. either way, it does you over.

you pad over quietly, still a little unsure, until you’re standing between his knees. he reaches for your hips, not rough like how he does most things, but careful, like he doesn’t want to rush you.

“lemme hold you, yeah?”

you nod.

and that’s it.

he pulls you in, smooth and easy, guiding you into his lap like you’ve always belonged there. one arm wraps firm around your lower back. the other slides up under your hoodie to settle warm against your spine.

he exhales deep, like tension he didn’t even notice was there just fell out of his chest.

“fuck. there you are.”

you melt.

your face tucks into his neck. your arms go around his shoulders. your whole body curls up like it knows exactly how to fit against him now. no more guessing. no more hovering.

he rubs your back, slow and steady, fingers dragging ticklishly but soothingly along skin.

“you don’t gotta wait for me to say it every time,” he mumbles into your hair.

“if you want this, just take it. always want you close.”

you nod against his neck, lips brushing warm against his pulse.

and he holds you tighter, just for a moment, like he needs to be sure you believe it.

you do.

masterlist

[theorphicangel]

cat kuna who sits in your suitcase when you're packing for a trip. he's stubborn and he won't move.

he's not...sad. just a little distraught that you're leaving and you didn't tell him in advance. (you did tell him but he was too busy scoffing down that tuna fish to listen to you)

your eyes meet his little red ones and by the rapid movements of his tail you can tell that he's getting a little agitated. your maine coon takes half of your suitcase space and every time you try and place your clothes down he either hisses or attempts to swat at you.

'i'm just leaving for a day or two kuna. nothing more, nothing less.'

'meow.'

'don't give me that attitude, someone will be looking after you.'

silence hits the room. sukuna's tail stops.

'yes, it's gojo. our neighbour who pays for your vet check ups and your monthly food bill from that expensive, luxury cat food company, be grateful.'

grateful? grateful his ass. he'd rather eat nothing but dry corn than eat another dish paid by your neighbour who always loves to come over for a quick chat. and best believe sukuna has given him all the scratches and bites in the world but that white haired freak keeps coming back.

like fleas.

'kuna if you're going to act this way I might as well not even go. you're being a pain in the ass and you know it....'

he gives no response, deciding to lick at his paw whilst remaining in your suitcase.

'but I guess that's what you want huh.'

[the-raindeer-king]

You're sitting at your desk, typing away at your computer as you work, totally in the zone until there's a nudge at your chair. And then you're moving, chair turned around as Simon spins you around. You blink in surprise, before giggling softly, tilting your head back to look up at him.

He leans down, hands on the arms of your chair, blocking you in as he leans in for a kiss. When he pulls away, there's a furrow in his brows, and he grumbles quietly, "I'll be back." He's gone before you can question it.

A few minutes later, he's making his way back into the room, a screwdriver in hand. He spins you around again, before dropping to his knees by your chair. Without a word, he starts to tighten the screws on your chair.

The arms had been wobbly since you got the thing, something that you had just grown accustomed to. Never once did it cross your mind to bring it up to Simon.

You can't help but giggle softly, watching the way his arms flex as he swings you the other way so he can reach the other arm. He doesn't even glance up at you, solely focused on his task at hand.

"Thank you, Simon," you giggle out, as he rises to his feet, finished.

He leans down, catching your lips in another quick kiss, mumbling a soft, "Welcome, love."

[kawareo]

Frog...

Illustration for the previous chapter of Godsbound!

[legolambi]

say it with me melvik pre series toxic situationship

[wolviesdoll]

jason who drives fast but never when you're passenger. not that he's a careless driver normally, he just cares much more about what could happen to you than what could happen to him. normally he's the type who accidentally runs a red light because he misjudged the distance and thought he could pass a yellow. maybe he's went over a couple curbs here and there when turning, and maybe his stops aren't the smoothest either. what could he say? it's not like he ever took a drivers ed class. however, when his everything is sitting right next to him, how could he not be careful? he's slowing down into his stops, eases into his turns, and doesn't speed before the yellow light could turn red. he takes passenger princess literally in the way he makes sure you're comfortable and cared for.

he was much more precautious about his motorcycle. jason hesitated for months to finally let you on. he originally wasn't going to let you on at all, but unfortunately for him, he's susceptible to your pleading and gave in eventually. he gave you a lecture about the proper clothes and making sure your helmet was on at all times beforehand, setting a clear rule that could not be broken. there's nothing he's more serious about than your safety. he keeps your arms wrapped around his torso and gently taps your thigh when he feels you're not hugging him tight enough. he even got a custom helmet made to fit you perfectly, despite him rarely letting you join him. that's not to say he doesn't like it when you're with him. he likes feeling you behind him, likes the way your hair is tousled by the wind and helmet combo. but best of all he likes the way you smile afterward, a toothy grin with stars in your eyes and adrenaline still coursing through your veins. he loves making you happy most of all, and if a late night ride on his motorcycle does the trick, he can be persuaded.

[serensama]

A Word with Friends: Of Houses, Hearts and Hidden things

My eternal thanks to @hedwigoprah for this wonderful game and to @jenn2d2 for assisting and giving me such a juicy word to use. Thank you to @woundedsoul12 and @davrinsleftpectoral for your tags- Bless your cotton socks <3

I promise, prompt willing, the next chapter will not get away from me. Approx 1.8k.

Read on Ao3

Word prompt given: Mendacious 1. (adjective) Given to or characterized by deception or falsehood or divergence from absolute truth. Additional context: Mendacious and lying have very similar meanings, but the two are not interchangeable. Mendacious is more formal and literary, suggesting a deception harmless enough to be considered somewhat bland.

---

Illario pulled at his gloves and thumbed them into his belt, taking a moment to breathe before entering the lion’s den. Villa Dellamorte. His grandmother had ordered both he and Lucanis to attend ‘family’ dinners on the 10th of every month, and they were unbearable. Even when one of them was out of town, it was still expected for the other to attend. Thankfully, his cousin had returned two days prior, and he wouldn’t have to face the old woman alone, especially with everything that had happened with Lilya. 

How he was going to survive between the antipasto and the digestif was completely up to the Maker. Knowing his luck, he’d unwittingly look at Caterina wrong and the old battle-axe would somehow kill him with a hairpin. Or perhaps just try to drown him in the soup. Illario had his hand up and ready to chime the bell when Bernardo, the majordomo of the household, answered the door. A genuine smile tugged at the assassin’s lips at seeing the kindly old man. 

Growing up, he was one of the only people who showed both he and Lucanis kindness. Well, as much as one could whilst under the employ of the First Talon. He would turn his eye whenever possible when the maids would leave leftovers in the kitchen, or buckets of water around the house when they were cleaning, just to make sure they didn’t die under Caterina’s draconian regime. He was the one who remembered that Lucanis liked churros whilst he preferred cannoli. He remembered that he liked his espresso with a slight hint of sugar, but none for Lucanis. He remembered it was Lucanis who broke the priceless Nevarran vase in the music room when they were sparring, and he who broke the window in the first-floor study playing kickball… and he remembered the amount of whips they each got for both offences.  

“Master Illario, welcome home!” he beamed, opening the door wide and bowing low. Illario stepped through the door and clapped the man on his shoulder fondly, careful not to show too much affection, lest it seem unseemly. 

“Thank you, Bernardo, though this has not been my home for many years,” he replied. Home in name only, never in warmth or welcome. It never really delivered on the word’s meaning. “How are you? Has your knee been giving you trouble? Is my cousin already in?”  

“I am well, Master Illario. My knee has seen kinder days, and your cousin is already in the main dining hall with Madam Caterina. They have been expecting you for some time,” his voice dipping to a knowing tone, eyes with a subtle look of warning. Be careful, she’s in a mood.  

He almost rolled his eyes. Of course, she was in a mood; he was, after all, unravelling her carefully laid plans for the glory of their House. He half figured she’d be happy that he was living up to her very low expectations.  

“Thank you, Bernardo.”  

He walked the halls without thought, knowing his way around the Villa from the time he and his cousins could walk. It had seemed so much bigger then, so much more than the cavernous, lonely space it had become, when there were more of them around. If he thought hard enough, he could remember his grandmother joining in on the games of hide-and-seek they played when he was barely four. The idea more than laughable now. It seemed more likely that it was Bernardo in a wig than Caterina.  

He could see the candelabra’s glow emanating from the main dining room, and he almost stopped, knowing that his grandmother would be watching him like a hawk, even more than normal. Bernardo walked ahead of Illario and introduced him, as if he were an honoured guest instead of the screw up grandson, but still- he had to play his part.  

He walked in and immediately clocked his cousin standing at the large bay window, leaning against the frame as he looked out over the gardens. The moment he stepped through the doors, Lucanis’ eyes swung to him, a tightness in his shoulders as he almost smelled the air like an animal. He wondered what he smelled- fear? Anger? The way he turned his body toward him, he knew it was neither. Lucanis could probably smell the scent of vellum, ink and dust on him. And if he could…  

Caterina’s expression did not change. She sat at the head of the table, her hand on her cane like she expected to stand up and leave at a moment’s notice. Illario gathered his emotions and made his way to his grandmother, leaning in to kiss both cheeks, just as he'd been taught. He still loathed it. He hadn't forgotten the wounds she left- on him, on both of them- yet he was still expected to press a kiss to the cheek of the woman who caused them, as if in thanks. At least the fledglings in the Capital weren’t expected to do that. “Good evening, Caterina, Lucanis. Apologies for the wait,” he said smoothly, picking up the bottle of wine that sat in front of Caterina and topping up her glass before filling his. Illario took his seat to the left of her and felt his cousin walk behind him and clap his hand on his bicep before moving to his seat on her right side. “We were beginning to wonder if we needed a seat for you at our table, Illario,” Caterina said, her words chosen perfectly, each one wielded like a blade aimed for him.  

“Now, now, Caterina, he was only 15 minutes late. He’s made us wait longer for dinner when we were growing up just because he was fixing his hair,” Lucanis cajoled, doing his best to cushion the ire that had already reared its head… and the antipasto hadn’t even been served yet.  

Caterina let go of her cane and balanced the polished handle against the edge of the table. “And where were you that was so important that you were late for our meal?”  

You will find out soon enough. 

“I lost track of the time, the Treviso skyline is so beautiful this time of year, I sat atop the Chantry for hours watching it before I realised I was starving.” Lucanis chuckled, obviously knowing he was lying. “Not your best effort, cousin, but commendable nonetheless.” Illario tipped his glass toward him and grinned. “My thanks.”  

She did not bring it up again.  

The three shared what was one of the most uncomfortable dinners they had in recent memory. The only chatter was between Illario and Lucanis, or Caterina and Lucanis, with Caterina pretending her only other living relative was magically absent. And if Illario were being honest, that suited him much better. It was not until the main course was served that she chose to look over at him, cutting off Lucanis, who mentioned that the courtyard was looking a little worse for wear and wondered where their gardener had gone. 

“He had a family emergency in Arlathan, apparently. He’s been away for the last two weeks- I thought he’d be back by now, but I suppose he’s been detained. Perhaps it is time for me to find someone new to replace him,” she said, her keen stare focused solely on Illario. “It’s strange, how some people drift out of our lives so easily… almost as if they were never meant to stay. Don’t you think?” 

Maker. His grandmother was such a bitch. If she hadn’t been his grandmother, perhaps he would have appreciated her brand of brutality a little more.

“Some departures are necessary.”

“Mm. Necessary,” she nodded, taking a long sip of wine. “Like pruning a garden is necessary. You don’t hate the creeping, flowering vine that’s grown over your fence, but you cut it anyway- to keep things where they’re meant to be, and for the health of the tree.”

Lilya was not a fucking vine. 

“Is the garden in that dire need of a trim? Perhaps Illario and I should attend to it in the meantime,” Lucanis interjected, hoping to salvage the rapidly declining mood, not that it started particularly high to begin with. 

“And sometimes, when you cut it away, the tree bleeds,” Ilario said, finally meeting his grandmother’s eyes. She laughed, a harsh, cold-sounding thing with a throaty rasp of someone who had spent too long laughing at things others would have wept over. 

“Oh, Illario. Trees don’t bleed. They adapt. They survive. That’s the point,” she paused, watching him over the rim of her wine glass, lips stained with deep red as if she’d spent the evening feasting on his heart. “I hope you’re not… harbouring sentiment. For a vine. It’s a dangerous thing, sentiment. You know how it can cloud judgment.”

Illario bit down hard on his fork to stop himself from screaming out. “Sentiment is weakness. You taught me that.”

Caterina nodded once. “Yes. I did. And you were always a sharp student.”

The silence between them stretched on. Lucanis’ gaze flitted between them, as if ready to leap in should a dagger be thrown. Illario sipped his wine calmly and deliberately, not wanting to show any further vulnerability. She circled the truth like a vulture: never landing, but always watching, waiting for the opportune moment to strike, to tear him to shreds and then blame him for making her do it. Her words were laced with sweetness but reeked of poison. Mendacious. That’s what she was. Every practised smile, every gentle tone paired with a piercing gaze- each one a lie stretched thin over her brittle bone. “Pretty, flowering things don’t belong in our world. They wither, break, get torn apart. Better to cut them off cleanly- enjoy them and be rid of them before their beauty rots, and we forget it ever existed.” “I agree. Better for everyone when things are… clean. Simple.” Illario remembered his training; he could not allow his emotions to muddy his expression. He unclenched his jaw and loosened the grip on his cutlery. “Good. I knew you’d understand.” 

She reached out, and for a second, he stiffened, thinking she was reaching for him. He wanted to scream. She noticed his flinching and would find some way to make him pay for it. For feeling something for Lilya. For failing to hide it better. For showing her a crack in the armour she put on him. 

“I knew you’d see reason and make good on the Dellamorte name.”

She thought she’d won, that he was still hers: loyal, obedient, unquestioning. But she didn’t see it- that her lies had weight, and eventually, that weight could be used against her, to trap her. He would prove that even the First Talon wasn’t beyond the reach of the consequences she brought upon herself. Her downfall wasn’t a matter of if, but when. A blade pressed to her skin, sinking in so slowly she didn’t even realise she had been cut.

Illario nodded, eyes fixed on hers as she cut into her steak, the light red juices slowly eking out under her knife. “And I always will. Just as you taught me, Caterina.”

Softly tagging: @rookamell @hightowerqueen @mythals-whore @thedissonantverses @jukkaricity @talkmagically @kabsey @skullypettibone @brennacedria @basedonconjecture @the-sparrohawk @seaglassmelody @trash-nerd @gingervitus @the-font-bandit I can't remember who has done what, so if you have already done this, please tag me so I can read it!!! And of course, anyone else who wants to play too!!! <3

[rooksamoris]

Leona knew it was foolish to let something get between him and a nap. He looked down at the figure sleeping against his warm body. He could feel your breath against his chest. His ears twitched every time a little snore would escape you... he would have to bother you about that later. Just the night before you argued about whether or not you were a snorer. He should have taken out his phone to record some proof.

How did he let himself become so vulnerable? Like a domesticated house cat. He already collected the rodents and bugs because you were too scared to do it yourself.

The weather was nice today, the sun was up, but not blazing, the shade offered a comforting coolness. The grass was as welcoming as a bed after a hard day at practice. This was the perfect situation for a nap, and yet the slacker prince could not find it in him. He frowned at the thought. Watching you seemed to be so much more interesting. How did he get here, in his homeland, under a tree, with a bothersome rascal laying on his chest? And why did he want to keep you there forever?

He sighed and slipped one arm behind his head while the other reached down to poke your sleeping cheek, “And you drool,” he muttered, but where disgust should have filled his tone, there was a hint of fondness instead, “I could attack you right now,” he added, but he and the leaves shading you both knew he would never do it. 

Your cheek was pressed up on your arm, which was splayed on his chest like it belonged there.  

A little breeze went through the savanna, brushing through his hair and the trees. It was not too warm and not too cool today. He wrapped his arm around you, letting his hand rest on your back where he rubbed up and down. It was a move he learned from you. When he would bring you to cuddle in his dorm room, you would roll your eyes and rub his back, up and down, soothing him. Leona was too proud to admit how much he loved it. It was a strange thing, wanting to bring someone the same comfort they brought you.

You belonged here. With him.

©rooksamoris 2025. do not steal or translate my work!

support me on ko-fi!

[hobodeplage]

Leaning On You

Forgive me

But sometimes I get tired of being an independent man

Of the 21st century.

I want to sit on a bench somewhere

With your arm around my shoulders.

I want to hear what you have planned for us.

Really I just want to listen to your voice.

It is calming and it makes me believe you can charm the birds out of their trees.

And that makes me happy.

[sunsburns]

guess

smut 18+, age gap, fem reader, underwear fixation

logan howlett loves to swear up and down that he’s too old to mess around with a pretty young thing like you. you’re out of his league in everything you do, from the way you can get up early in the morning and stay out late at night, stumbling back into your apartment in a fit of giggles, humming the last song that played at the club you were returning from.

he acts like he doesn’t notice, and he acts like you don’t exist. but the moment you bumped into him in the laundry room it’s been hard to ignore you.

it was wade who’d introduced the two of you to each other when he was giving logan the grand tour of the apartment complex, and they’d run into you while you were unloading a drier, tossing your clothes into a basket.

you in your tiny shorts and tight tank top, one earbud in and the other dangling by your chest. he tried hard not to stare, especially when you slowly straightened yourself up, holding your basket of clothes to your side, hair messy and sticking to your face a little bit.

it was hot in the laundry room, hell, the whole fucking building felt like a furnace now that the a.c. refused to work in the peak of summer.

but there you were, wide smile and open arms when wade shoved logan in your direction. you didn’t take it personally when he merely grunted at you, a slight nod to his head as a greeting. to logan’s surprise, your lips curled as you looked up at him, and you stared up at him like he was some kind of tree you wanted to climb.

no shame about it either.

logan’s eyes were drawn to your basket as wade spoke, retelling the whole story of how the two of you became ‘neighbour besties’, as he had put it. how you helped wade keep up with the ‘youngsters’, as he called them.

no, logan was too busy staring at a lacy black pair of panties sitting at the top of your basket. pretty little thing, pretty little bows to adorn it.

he slowly tore his eyes away from them and looked at you, then down to your hips where he could see your bright pink underwear, peaking out from the denim.

and maybe, in a dream or two, he imagined what those cute pink ones looked like in full. how it would be like to push you against your door before you could even unlock it, unbutton your shorts and dig his hands into them just to feel the soft fabric of your pretty pink underwear, soiled and ruined from how wet you were with want.

but for now, he’d have to do with the black lacy ones, he almost didn't want to take them off. running his hands over the fabric, grinning when your back arches against the bed, a little desperate, way too needy.

you’ve soaked them, all ruined just from him touching you, from the way his teeth teased you, pulling at the bows, running his nose over your clothed pussy.

logan hooked his fingers over the fabric at the center, pulling it to the side, tongue poking into your cunt, drawing out a whine from you. with an open mouth, he pulled back to see your slick, coated lips with a satisfied grunt.

logan pulled them back just to stare. fuck, they were so pretty. you were so pretty just sitting under him, in nothing but those pretty panties. yeah, logan might be old, but he can keep up for a night.

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Historians Hate Him

(Bonus: Lost footage of WWX's death)

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[blitzy-blitzwing]

Now kiss. :V