#I want to experience autumn so badly

[loreofthegayuma]

Confession: I have a habit of calling ppl who dont live in tropical climates as four-seasoned fellas

[pellucid-constellations]

Trial and Error (5.5) - Bonus

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: Based on the request: "Azriel with single mom reader? I feel like being a single mom in ACOTAR would be tricky as hell… reader comes from autumn court and flees to night court because she got pregnant out of marriage? 😯 the shame"

Word count: ~700

Warnings: azriel's pov, fluff that will make you explode probably idk

a/n: Hi so I'm crazy and needed to write this after getting asks about it and getting inspo surrounding Az singing night court lullabies to Mel. Please enjoy and I'm sorry for two posts in one day 😅

read part one | part two | part three | part four | part five | part 6

Main Masterlist ♡

~~

Azriel was back in her room the moment he heard the call. 

He’d placed Melanie down in her bed only ten minutes prior, but her sleep had been fitful and disjointed over the past day and Azriel hadn’t expected her to stay down for long. It was strange—the way the bond connecting him to you burned with the same protectiveness for Melanie. 

“Hey, Melanie,” Azriel whispered, kneeling beside her bed with his fingers resting on the outer edge of her quilt. “What’s wrong? Can’t sleep?” 

Melanie sat up in her bed with a small groan, the braid you had put in her hair earlier in disarray. “Yeah. Don’t wanna sleep. Where’s mommy?” 

Azriel hummed and pushed a wild curl behind her ear. “Mommy’s sick, so she’s sleeping. Like you should be.” 

“You aren’t sick, Mr. Azriel?” 

“No, I can’t get sick like you. Not right now, anyway.” 

Melanie’s brow furrowed and her head swayed. “Can you hold me like mommy does?” 

Azriel’s heart shattered in his chest at her request. Her sleepy eyes blearily stared up at him as he let out a shaky breath and attempted to push down some of his joy at her request. 

Maybe you didn’t fully trust him yet, but Melanie did. 

“Sure, sweetheart,” he replied, reaching out beneath her arms to hoist her up. When her head immediately found a home in the juncture of his neck, Azriel melted. “Are you feeling any better?” 

Melanie fisted Azriel’s shirt as he situated her against his chest. “Little bit.” 

Sometimes, when she spoke, Azriel could hear you in Melanie’s voice. 

He wanted so badly to be part of that connection. 

The want often scared him. 

“Can we go to mommy’s room?” she asked, pulling her head up to send him a sleepy question. “Not to wake her up. Mommy’s room is just nice.” 

The two of you always sought each other out—always found safety in being near. 

Azriel rubbed Melanie’s back and nodded with a smile that was fueled both by adoration and melancholy. 

Your room was dark when he entered. Melanie had taken a glance at your sleeping figure and then rested her head back into the crook of Azriel’s neck. He could feel each breath she took and felt each clench of her fists into his shirt. 

“Is this better?” Azriel asked, voice so low and careful he wasn’t sure if the five-year-old would hear him. 

But Melanie nodded and whispered back a small confirmation that made Azriel’s chest hurt. He held her closer to his chest and watched the rise and fall of yours as you slept an arm’s length away. When Melanie’s breathing didn’t even out after a few minutes, he placed a hand behind her head and started lightly swaying. 

“You have to try and sleep, Mel. That’s how you get better,” he whispered into her ear. 

“I’m trying,” she whispered back, strained and trying to keep quiet for her mom. “It’s hard, Mr. Azriel. My head doesn’t feel good.” 

Azriel tutted and hated that there was very little he could do for this illness. “I know, Mel. I’m sorry, sweetheart.” 

Her only response was to bury her face further into his shoulder. 

Azriel thought back to his youth, to the perils and hardships he had endured, and he sought after the light—the good moments. His mother’s singing stood out, the melody of a Night Court lullaby gently lulling in his mind. 

Azriel didn’t have much experience with children other than Nyx, but, with Melanie, that didn’t seem to matter. With Melanie, everything came to him with a practiced ease that didn’t feel deserved. But he took from it anyway. 

So, Azriel began to hum the lullabies from his childhood, wrapping a wing around the child in his arms to block everything else out. 

And she was able to sleep. 

part 6

[discotenny]

WAIT! You can't love me! - Day 1 Demo

I've spoken about it long ago in my tags- but here it finally is! For Otome Jam 2024- I bring you WAIT! You can't love me!

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩ Synopsis⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

For all of your academic career, you were always second best to Satoshi Fujihara. And while you seemed to care too much about it, he never seemed to care at all. In your final semester of community college together- he suddenly says he's going to confess to you in four days!

Do you choose to accept his feelings, or is this going to be the one time you can get the upper hand on him? 

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩Demo Features⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

A completed Day 1 of 7 days of events

13k+ words of playable script - roughly an hour to experience everything

A nameable MC with the ability to pick from she/he/they pronouns

1 cute romanceable sleepyhead 

A variable cast of eccentric side characters

4 "routes" for the Day 1 date

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩Characters⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Obnoxiously smart, aloof, hopelessly in love, hella sleepy

Ever since high school he’s had a crush on you, but didn't want to deal with any awkwardness. With the horizon of your transfer looming, Satoshi decides to go out of his way for once and ask you out. Not wanting you to be nervous, he lets you know beforehand that he will be confessing.  

Unfortunately that’s not really how it should go but he doesn’t know that.

Incredibly stubborn, incredibly dense

Throughout high school, you were always labeled as “second best” compared to Satoshi. You have a lot of pent up resentment towards him because he never seemed to care about his successes despite you wanting him to so badly. 

You think his carefree attitude towards his studies is some level of spite towards you. 

Elias Bolkiah - 5'8" - Same age as MC - June 7th - 491/524

Your childhood best friend with an unreasonable amount of hatred towards Satoshi.

Lilit Alighieri - 5'10" - One year older than MC - November 27th - 10/210

Considers themselves in a best friend trio with you and Elias. Questionable whether you feel the same.

Paden Canmore - 5'5" - One year younger than MC - June 1st - 45/120

Couldn’t care less about your love life but feels dragged into it because he likes that Lilit includes him in their gossip.

Yamato Suzuki - 5'9" - 49 - January 17th

Your statistics professor and advisor for the art club. Cares for his students like they're his own children.

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩Credits⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Iotenny - Director, programmer, lead writer

kezukaity - Sprite artist

Autumn - CG artist, co-writer

mellonaes - CG artist

itspsyklone - Main theme composer

⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩Final⋆｡°✩⋆｡°✩

Thanks for reading, and thank you so much more if you choose to play :3 ! I'll be posting some writings revolving around the characters to celebrate the release, thanks once again <3 !

[lexluvswriting]

ꔫ L'autunno.

☆ Ch: 1 [next page]

-> Pairing: Eris x ballet dancer!fem!reader.

-> Content Warning/CW: x fem!reader (she/her), slow-burn, rivals to lovers, tinkle of angst on occasion, fluff, non-specified identity Summer Court!reader, regarding canon ACOTAR time: after defeat of Hybern. live, laugh, love 2 lesbian mothers!!

-> Trigger Warnings/TW: Eris Vanserra, mentions of racism, mentions of discrimination, mentions of forced removal from homes (cant think of the name rn), Beron Vanserra is a massive cunt.

W/C: 2.8k

╰┈➤ Lex's note: omg eris fic is here grahhh!!! the title for this comes from Vivaldi's Four Seasons Concerto album, which i do listen to while writing this, yes yes. Eris has is a massive dick, but i'd like to hope he's a massive dick for a reason that will (hopefully) be revealed better. Hopefully, reader holds him accountable & gives him a run for his money!! (you will). While reader is fem for this fic, there's no specified identity (except being from Summer Court). There are a few referrals to racism using the Courts of Prythian & the fae, so if this feels triggering or hurtful, please let me know if it feels like it's written badly/insincerely! i'm merely basing such references off of personal & researched experiences. TYSM for reading, please enjoy <3

A violin filled the studio, wafting around like a strong scent- hypnotic as you inhaled deeply, eyes shut to steel yourself and count in before your arms swung up and out, fingers and feet pointed within your ballet shoes as you began to dance. Careful, calculated steps sent you spinning around the room- the perfect prima of your time. A prime example for those who dream to even come close to your level.

In a room of fire, your movements were fluid. In a room of embers, you were a tidal wave. Your body poise and malleable as you stretched yourself alluringly to those who watched as you swayed for the sweet symphony of violins. Eyes watched you from a concealed viewing platform high above- russet spheres simmering with a flame of interest that was bound to end in a fiery mess.

“Her. I want her to perform for the Equinox.”

“She’s quite the star, isn’t she?” Your mentor nodded, eyes twinkling with pride, before he wore his favourite facade- an arrogant smirk on his lips as he inspected his manicured nails. Eris’ face was impassive, yet any trained, or similarly minded individual would see the need for greed in his russet eyes as he glared down at you, pupils flaring possessively.

“She’s my starlet, young Lord. I cannot let her perform without any… payment. She will be put through harsh training- stretching, extension of her muscles, and her diet will be limited- to ensure she is tamed and perfect for the Lord’s family. I know the Lady of Autumn thoroughly enjoys the…” He trailed off nervously as Eris held up a silencing hand, the young heir fixing him with a cold stare- despite the fire in his veins.

“Spare me. Your pocket will be stuffed accordingly. But I warn you,” With one hand he grabbed the collar of the weaker male’s shirt with a predatory grace,

 She must be perfect, or else we won’t have her, and the only old you’ll see is the Vanserra signet ring imprinted in your cheek.” His hand clenched accordingly, the Vanserra signet ring- the emblem of the Autumn Court banners carved in the pure gold, making Gustav still and nod compliantly. The heir dismissively waved for a servant to hand your instructor a list before storming out- ignoring your dancing figure.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

“Wrong! When we kick, our leg must come out-”

A cold hand clamped around your calf, another hand pushing just above your knee, the joint loose like a hinge. Your face was impassive- unmoving even as a small ‘pop’ echoed from somewhere in your knee. One of the junior dancers recoiled visibly, hiding her face behind her hands as a cluster of them watched you be used like a demonstration doll for your instructor.

“Stiff! Strong! Not flabby and weak. We are not caterpillars- we are butterflies. We are not brutish fires, we are?”

“Dancing flames.” The dancers replied in a drone of young feminine voices, with a few meek boys who looked like they were on the verge of clawing their eyes out. Gustav was being a right pain in the ass as always, but today he seemed more sharpened. Another lecture, another scolding, but it was always,

“For the better! I do this for your own good, my dears! When the Equinox arises and we are in front of your esteemed Lord, I know his lordship would enjoy seeing his dancers disciplined. Lean and poise. Controlled.”

The cold hand that held your leg squeezed once in warning- ‘I’m talking about you too’, before letting go, as your instructor sighed with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“That is why we dance the way we dance, and why I speak the way I do. Now leave me! And warm down appropriately or I will personally see to it that the muscles you take for granted will tear.” A curl of the lip in a low, warning snarl, before he waved with a sweeter disposition. 

“Adequate work today, my dears!” Footsteps echoed as the younger dancers left first, whispers filling the halls as they eagerly complained about their instructor. The older ones bid polite greetings of farewell as they followed, until you were the last to leave. The prima. Gus liked to call you the ‘Summer jewel in the Autumn box’.

“Ah, ah, ah! I mean it, my jewel. No going off and doing your own thing.” You pause. His voice carried a weariness of someone twice his age, before he covered it up with his usual airy arrogance, “The Lord will be hosting important families at this gathering. Something big is on the horizon and I know he will be watching you closely.”

Ah, yes. Kicking out all the non-fae and those who hail from other courts. The nationalist prick seemed to have no lost winks of sleep as he commanded his soldiers to haul families out in the night, dispatching them at random borders with no cares for the creatures that lurked with a taste for fae flesh.

“I’m aware, Gus. No sudden movements, no flashy shows of skill, Mother forbid I reveal I’m not some worthless foreigner with no talent.” You mocked mirthlessly, earning a sigh of defeat. 

“Wait a moment.” He roused, and the fingers that curled around your bag strap tightened slightly, your pointed ears twitching at the tone of his voice. But you slowly turned, a scowl on your unimpressed face as you nodded airly.

“You were selected personally to perform for the Vanserra family. Something about honouring the magic in the Autumn Court territory with dance and such.”

You paused, mind blanking, yet your demeanour remained even, “And you’re looking at me like that, why?”

He winced, knowing how keen you were to snap at any male- or anyone, really, who rubbed you up the wrong way.

“They left a list of… expectations. As in, mandatory requirements or they won’t let you perform. They expect you to be… um… Be polite, and uh, as he put it, ‘socially acceptable’. Speak in turn and only when spoken to-”

“He?” You snapped, visibly unimpressed and ready to pull out completely. What kind of prick-

“I don’t let you anywhere near me on a good day, Gustav. What in the Cauldron makes you think I’ll just-”

“They’re offering coffers of gold. The Equinox… well, after Amarantha… they need to regenerate the magic of the Autumn Court specifically, so they want to use the Equinox.”

You cringed at the mention of that sick tyrant, yet you weren’t going to just roll over and lie down because someone jingled a purse of gold. “What of the Spring Court and Calanmai?”

“I didn’t ask, because I know my place. And don’t start. I didn’t exactly feel like getting ripped a new one by the son of the Autumn Lord, [Y/N]-”

“Son? As in, Eris Vanserra? That oaf- that misogynistic, foul-mouthed, mentally decayed pig was here? And he spoke to you about me?” You snarled, lip curling back as you advanced forward slowly like a fox- a wolf, eyes narrowed.

“He’s offering coffers on behalf of his father, [Y/N]! Enough for you to be paid out well, and then some for the studio.” Damn right he put you first on the pay list, otherwise he wouldn’t have a damned head. Though, you personally couldn’t give a flying fuck about the Vanserra coffers. You wanted nothing of it, as tempting as it might have sounded.

“Get Nerissa to do it.”

“He wanted you-”

“I thought the family wanted me.”

“I… oh, fuck it- Fine! Eris came here alone! Came here alone, saw you, insisted on you with this list in mind and he said either you or no one at all.”

You or no one. You or nothing. You made a retch of disgust, laughing at the mental image. Who did he think he was? “Then I will snap my leg in half and shatter my bones into teeny tiny pieces for good measure.”

“[Y/N]-”

“I will swan dive off the nearest staircase.”

“No.”

“I’m not performing personally for a good-for-nothing family that are backwards in everything they do.” You reaffirmed, shaking your head, but Gustav stepped forward.

“[Y/N].”

“They singled out the non-Autumn Court dancer to perform for them. What powers do I possess to help the court that doesn’t even want us? A ‘summery breeze’? A ‘foreigner’s’ complexion? Absolutely not-”

“Please. We…” Silence, before a sigh. A sigh that made you glare silently. “I received a letter last night from the building owner. I’ve been falling behind on payments, and Beron’s financiers are… hungry- they see this old building and want to knock it down for something else. Something miserable and drab.”

You frowned, blinking at your instructor. Well, fuck. Your shared silence was long- his pleading, hopeful silence swirled like smoke with your prideful refusal, that melted like wax the longer it lingered.

“... Fine. But only because I enjoy this damned studio.”

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

Your life was, what you thought at least, a mixed bag. You were brought up in an orphanage- housing mostly Autumn children, all who seemed to smell the ‘impostor’ blood in your bones, weeding you out as an odd one out. Your appearance led the governess of the orphanage to believe you hailed from the Summer Court- as did russet and teal muslin you were wrapped in. You repurposed the seemingly sentimental piece of fabric into a scarf- letting it rest around your neck currently, as you walked down the path of the bustling town.

You were lucky to be recognised for your artistic performative abilities, earning a grant to allow you to perform in the Autumn Court’s national dance academy, as well as live in one the apartments they provided. Two old ladies next door adopted you as their honorary daughter, and you were grateful for their familial company, even if there was no blood relation. One of them, Ordelia, even pushed you to study at the grand scholar’s library, using her former connections to grant you access to all the education you could need.

It wasn’t wonderful. But it could be worse. At least you were making it on your own, sort of.

“Afternoon little doe! Will you come for dinner? Delia-dearest made pumpkin and feta soup the way you like it!” ‘Madame’ Primrose, one of your makeshift mothers, waved to you from her balcony, and you offered a small wave.

“Not tonight, I’m afraid. I’m on a strict diet of greens and grains.” You pat your stomach with a sympathetic wince- greens and grains. Like a bloody farm animal. The silver haired fae seemed to nod sympathetically and wave a hand.

“You’re always welcome, dearie.” 

You stopped for a moment, looking at an old fae sitting on the corner of the little road, a vendor selling flowers. The sun was dipping behind the horizon, staining the sky pink amidst the grey from the overcast weather that settled. You smiled at the older male who offered you a bouquet of lavender stalks and crocus bulbs.

Pretty.

Your eyes widened slightly as you beheld the bouquet, cradling it against your arm while you fished out payment. As you dropped some coins into his hand, a scream made you both look to one of the older complexes, where a woman was pulled out by some Autumn Court guards with two wailing children behind her. Any passersby walked quicker, ducking their heads, and when you looked back at the old male you realised he had been watching you. He gave you a nod, as if you’d know what it meant, and you swallowed before walking past, your head lower than before.

Beauty was hard to come by in the Autumn court, no matter how colourful it looked.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

“Oh, it’s nasty business, it really is. My darling Ordelia was telling me how shameful he is- that Beron Vanserra. Nasty business. I remember his father- he wasn’t much better, but certainly more handsome.” You had succumbed to the dinner with your neighbour-mothers, though your portion of soup was smaller, as the sprouts and stalks you miserably chewed filled most of your stomach.

“You know, I could have married Beron.”

Your eyes widened, hand shooting up to cover your mouth as you didn't know whether to choke or chortle. “Primrose!” Ordelia huffed,

“I could have, you know! But I wasn’t interested in a man with no morals.” ‘Madame’ Primrose sighed wistfully, and you laughed softly behind your mouth while her wife rolled her eyes. While Ordelia had raven hair in a tight, disciplined bun, Primrose wore hers in a loose braid that cosied on her shoulder- her silver hair glistening in the gentle faelight of the small dining room you all sat in.

“You know, I hear that Lord Vanserra is looking for some pretty girls to match his sons. The heir will be attending the Equinox alone, can you believe it?” Primrose hummed, thriving off the gossip, but Ordelia watched you with a knowing stare- amused at the soft snort you let out.

“How fares the paper? Arwen mentioned that you were hitting some brilliant points. Politics might be your strong suit, should you grow tired of glamorous costumes and fast dances.” The Autumn-born female brought up your most recent studies, a ghost of a smile on her lips as she heard her wife scoff.

At a first glance, you used to wonder how they could possibly be mated. Ordelia, with her firm, reserved rigidness and disciplined personality, and Primrose- a Spring Court fae who was gossipy and eclectic, always buzzing with something to share. Ordelia was a former scholar for Beron’s family before she retired, while Primrose was the prima ballerina of her time, moving to Autumn in search of a grander role where she met her mate. Their love-story made you sigh a little every time you heard it, but you shook your head of distractions as you answered Ordelia.

“It’s um… definitely going. I feel a little foolish writing it but every time I hear about another family getting kicked out, I get even angrier, and determined to write more. Although… um, Gustav spoke to me about… performing a solo dance for the Vanserras. A part of the Equinox celebration-”

Primrose gaped at that, as if she had been asked to dance herself, “Oh, little dove! Well, what did you say? You worked for that position- I’ll tell you that for free! I can’t fit on my fingers the times I had to remedy your torn muscles. Did you say yes? Did you accept?” 

Ordelia nodded, taking a thoughtful sip of her soup before chuckling softly. “I would not be surprised if your radiance catches the heir’s eye. You’d be a different splash compared to the other dames he usually parades around on his arm. I think you’d certainly give him a run for his father’s money.”

“Ordelia dearest! What makes you think our little summer shell would even consider him?” Primrose voiced the disdain etched on your face, and you joked dryly, “I didn’t think you believed in fate and whatnot.” The Autumn female scoffed softly, shaking her head, “I don’t believe in fate, or destiny. I believe in the laws of attraction. You are everything his family lack, thus making you a match. Opposites attract.” You glanced at Primrose, and both of you made a childish noise of disgust as you shuddered, shaking your head as you finished off your meal.

“I’d rather have a kelpie as a bedside companion than Eris Vanserra.” You muttered, before taking all three plates to be cleaned. Laughter sounded softly behind you, and as you felt a small smile curl on your face, you abhorred the idea of being anywhere near the Lord of the Autumn Court and his family.

--- ⋆⁺₊✧˚ ☁︎ ˚｡⋆｡˚☾⋆⁺₊✧⋆ ---

After bidding your goodnights, you retired to your own apartment, basking happily in the moonlight that shone through the silent space. Peace and quiet. The best way to finish off a bleak day. Your calendar stared you in the face, the Equinox marked in an angry scribble of orange ink. ‘End of the week!!’

What a day. You rubbed your face, feeling a stirring in your stomach as you thought about the Autumn Court. You glanced at the daily paper slid under your door, seeing Eris’ face on the front page- his smug, arrogant, wicked, slightly crooked, unnecessarily charming grin staring you in the face, making your stomach tug. ‘Eugh. Imagine being fated to that beast?’ You’d rather eat glass.

You looked at the paper, baring your teeth at the male’s face before ripping it off and crumpling it up. A swift kick sent it across the small apartment, under your couch, and stayed there for a while as you grumbled softly. You got ready for bed eagerly, excited for the day to be over, only to reach under the small sofa it had rolled under and pick it up again, making a face at it before leaving it on the small table.

╰┈➤ Lex's note 2: i think that's all for now!! readers, pls let me know how we feel about this!!! (privately, in comments, on inbox, i don't mind)!! also in search for a beta reader [i draft everything on google docs, don't hurt me] (T-T)

[therealvinelle]

Favorite month for each of the cullens? For James’ coven?

I'm fascinated, why James's coven? But alright.

The Cullens

Alice likes parties, she likes decorating, she likes to have a reason to decorate the house for a party. And nothing says parties, decor, and finding a way to be modern, somehow sexy, yet tasteful and teaming up with Esme like Christmas and New Years' Eve. Plus the sun sets much earlier so she can go shopping at human hours, use atmospheric outdoor lighting, and have all sorts of seasonal fun that simply doesn't work the same in the Summer months (and Spring and Autumn are... so wet...). It's December for Alice.

Carlisle likes when he can be out longer, when the snow is still pristine and when there are happy festivities happening. He would uncomplicatedly be a December person, except the festivities are... dampened... by the family and partner violence and suicide attempts he gets at the end of the month. He's a December person who sees it as the time he has to save more people than usual, and also the snow is pretty.

Edward is for the fall months, because fall is such a beautiful time of year and more importantly he can think gloomy thoughts about nature following the cycle of life, every year it comes to life then dies again while he lives on. November... the twilight of the year, that brief flash of rapidly passing weeks just before the darkest time of the year and the death that is winter rolls in.

Emmett loves Christmas. There is no doubt in my mind Rosalie does a "Happy birthday, Mr. President" routine, and that they have some horrible lane about making their own fireworks for New Years' Eve. December is awesome, bro.

Esme loves family, festivities, and the joy of exchanging gifts with loved ones. Christmas is a wonderful time of year, but so too are the days leading up to Christmas, when she can put out the decorations and have a meaningful way of marking the passage of time for a few weeks. December.

Jasper enjoys the happy emotions coming from his family. December.

Renesmee's concept of the passage of time is completely warped. She dutifully says "December" when asked about her favorite month because that seems to be the done thing in this family.

Rosalie has thoughts about how Christmas is a time to be spent with family, specifically with children who believe in Santa Claus and miracles, and while she has a family there's a very central part of Christmas she'll never have, just as she can't enjoy any of the little things that made Christmas what it is, such as gingerbread cookies. It's another painful reminder, but so is her entire life. Renesmee helps heal this for her, in that there's now a child she can have many if not all of these Christmassy things she wanted to experience with, and also in that I somehow know several years of Christmases with the entire extended Black-Clearwater-Cullen-Swan family will be such a clusterfuck, everyone except Bella sensing the tensions, that Rosalie will be completely disillusioned as to what "family Christmas, just like the humans have it!" will never be appealing to her again.

James & co

Victoria prefers whichever month of the year rains most in whichever region of the world she's in. Rain washes away her scent, she can hide, and that makes for a happy Victoria.

James shares Victoria's preference, as more rain makes the hunt more difficult and he loves a challenge

Laurent thinks these people are fucking weird, rain ruins his hair and clothes and can we get a house? Laurent would like a house. ("How badly" is a question he must ask himself chez the Denali.)

[wanderingcas]

since ao3 is down and we're all suffering here's chapter 1 of my destiel lighthouse keepers fic (not the prologue. that's a secret)

title: where there is darkness pairing: dean/cas summary, written badly, because i did this in 2 minutes: Cas is trying to escape his past by taking a job as a lighthouse keeper. Little does he know the love of his life is waiting for him there. Historical au. Gay sex later. Just read it.

Chapter 1

 1949. Autumn.

The bus drops Castiel off on the outskirts of Kittery, just over the bridge connecting Maine and New Hampshire’s borders over the water. He watches the bus as it hisses, lifting its aching joints and meandering down the windy highway 101. 

Castiel decides to stand for a long moment, staring out into the empty field.

Behind him is Kittery Foreside, the center of town: beyond it, the harbor, with the lighthouse just a speck in the distance. It’s a clear afternoon, not quite twilight, so he was able to track the dot through the window as they crossed the bridge. 

But now, he’d rather stare at the field and the deep blue of the sky as the sun sets. 

In his left hand is the official letter detailing his new job. In his right, a leather suitcase containing everything he now owns (three outfits, one wool sweater, a toothbrush—and a stack of letters, stained in the left corners where he dropped them accidentally into a puddle). 

He watches a seagull’s trajectory as it lands on the fence post, scratching at a wing with its beak.

A lighthouse keeper—arguably an insane job to take, considering he has no experience. But the sailing portion on his resume (from a handful of times he sailed at his family’s lake house as a boy) seemed to set him apart from the rest of the applicants. And the job was going to put him exactly where he wanted to be: away from society. Away from people.

Taking a sharp breath, he turns on his heel, and follows the road to the town center, street lights illuminating the pavement in the twilight. 

There’s only one hotel that took his reservation at such short notice; as he fills out the registration form, the bellhop eyes his lack of luggage suspiciously. 

Swallowing a nervous lump in his throat, Castiel takes the key from the woman at the front desk. “Do you have any recommendations for somewhere to eat this time of night?”

“Only thing open on a Wednesday night is the Roadhouse, sir,” the woman says as she files his paperwork behind the desk. She shoots him a smile. “It’s good food, though. Place is almost as old as the town itself. I recommend the lobster rolls, personally.”

“Thank you, uh…”

“Bela,” she replies. 

“Bela,” Castiel repeats. “Can you tell me which direction to go?”

Pulling out a map, Bela splays it on the counter, uncapping a pen. 

The Roadhouse is clear on the other side of town, across yet another bridge. The amount of islands that the area is divided into baffles Castiel. It’s well past dark when he arrives, pushing the door into the warm embrace of the diner. 

A rush of nostalgia hits him as he realizes it’s similar to the one in Boston that he frequented, just a couple of blocks from the parish—their similarities extend even to the paraphernalia on the wall. Whoever owns this diner seems to have an obsession with John Wayne, just like the ones in Boston. 

“Be one sec!” a waitress calls as she flies past him, a tray of drinks balanced on her shoulder. “Just pick an empty one!” 

Dutifully, Castiel slides into a chair by the window, setting his cold hands on the table. He glances around at the buzzing diner; there are more people than he expected, considering that the town seemed to already close its eyelids as the sun went down. A family with two whining toddlers are crammed into a booth in the corner, another taking up multiple tables shoved together, kids running around and chasing each other as their parents snap at them to sit down and eat. Other tables are filled with men in fishermen’s overalls and boots, a group of women poking at their plates of food, babies in their arms. 

One baby, held by a woman in a plaid dress, coos and holds out his hands towards the plate. The woman smiles down at the baby, kissing the top of his blonde head.

Castiel’s heart constricts and he looks away before the familiar tears can prick at his eyes.

“Whaddaya havin’?” 

Castiel whips up his head at the same waitress from before, blinking. “Oh. I don’t have—”

“Ah, damn it, I didn’t give you a menu did I?” she says with a roll of her eyes, pulling out a plastic one from underneath her arm and setting it on the table. “Sorry, the dinner rush is crazy on Wednesdays. You wouldn’t think it, my brother had the big idea to make Wednesday the day we offer crab at market price, so everyone’s goin’ nuts.” 

Castiel stares down at the menu, feeling a little shell-shocked, and realizing he hasn’t had a proper conversation with someone for weeks—especially not someone so energetic. “Should I not order the crab, then?” he asks, solemnly. 

“Not order the—?” She lets out something closer to a snort than a laugh, smacking his arm. “Oh, you’re yanking my chain, huh? No, order the crab if you want, damage is already done. I’ll just give you a minute, okay? Oh, and name’s Jo, if you need to yell at me across the room.”

Before Castiel can reply, she’s already walking away at a quick pace, ponytail swinging. 

He orders the lobster roll when she finally comes back around to his table twenty minutes later; when he explains it was on Bela’s recommendation, Jo scoffs, “And you trust her?” She waves a hand at his raised eyebrows. “Whatever, she’s right, actually. Lobster was fresh caught this morning, too. Any fries with that roll to keep it company?”

Castiel nods, handing the menu back to her. “And an iced tea.” 

She takes the menu, narrowing her eyes. “Say… if Bela gave you the recommendation, does that mean you’re staying at the inn?” 

Castiel sucks in a breath. The lines he rehearsed are already slamming into his head like a film playing too quickly. “Yes. I just got into town.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, welcome! What brings you to Kittery?”

“A job.”

When Castiel doesn’t elaborate, Jo leans in, smile conspiratorial. “And what job would that be?”

Castiel considers lying. But he already has enough lies to keep track of. “Second assistant keeper at Whaleback Lighthouse.” 

Jo’s eyebrows shoot up her brow, and she says, emphatically, “Oh. The stag light, out on the harbor? Really?”

“I don’t seem the type?” Castiel jokes weakly. 

Jo doesn’t even try to hide the way her eyes scrape up and down his suit and trench coat, more tax accountant than sailor. “No, actually. Not at all.” 

“I’m trying a career change.”

“Uh-huh.” 

“I have sailing experience.”

Jo purses her lips. “Oh. Yeah. Sure.”

It was beginning to feel like he was interviewing for the job all over again. Castiel crosses his arms on the table and stares her down as intimidatingly as he can: the same stare he gave the children when they forgot lines of their catechisms. “Is that all?”

“Hey,” Jo says, hands raised, “just making conversation. I’ll go put in your order.” 

Castiel watches as she makes her way to the kitchen, glancing over her shoulder at him as she goes. There’s a small window where the orders are passed between the kitchen and whoever is at the counter: Castiel can see Jo talking to another man through it as they glance intermittently at Castiel. 

He scrubs a hand over his face and curses under his breath. Lying would have been the better option.

The news spreads like wildfire: from Jo to the cook to other patrons in the diner to an older woman at the till. They all stare at him with curious glances, sizing him up. When Jo delivers his lobster roll, Castiel can barely eat it, his stomach is so twisted up in knots.

Someone is going to ask questions; investigate. Or, worse, someone is going to recognize him from the papers. His suitcase is still at the hotel; he could run back to his room, grab it, get out of town. He could just ditch the suitcase altogether if it weren’t for the damn letters. He curses himself again for not putting them in his pocket. He begins to fish out his wallet, fingers shaking as he pulls out a few bills because he can’t just add dine and dash to his list of offenses, but the walls are also closing in and everyone’s looking at him and—

A man appears beside the table. Castiel stares up at him, eyes wide, hands hidden under the table.

He’s wearing waterproof overalls and gumboots, like the rest of the fishermen types at the adjacent table. He scratches his beard and narrows his eyes as he sizes up Castiel. 

Castiel wonders if he could take him in a fight. Based on Castiel’s lack of fitness and the size of this man’s arm, his guess is a resounding no.

“You the new keeper at Whaleback, huh?” he asks. 

Castiel wills his voice not to shake. “Yes.”

The man stares at him for another long moment, frowning, scratching at the dark beard peppering his jawline. Finally, he sits down at the chair across from Castiel, leaning toward him. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?” Castiel asks, frowning. 

The man shakes his head. “Just… watch yourself out there. Okay? Place isn’t exactly… normal.”

Something akin to cold water rushes down Castiel’s spine, extinguishing the fire of anxiety freezing his limbs—people aren’t wary of him. They’re wary of his new place of occupation. He almost laughs with relief. 

“I can manage,” he says, placing the bills back into his wallet. “Thank you.”

“No, see, there’s—” The man blows out a gust of air. “The Principal Keeper, you see. He ain’t right in the head.” 

“I’m sorry, who even are you?” Castiel snaps.

“Cole!” 

Both Castiel and the man turn their heads in time to see the older woman from the register approach and cuff Cole over the back of the head. “Spreading rumors again, huh? Got nothin’ better to do?” 

Cole crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair with a scowl. “Not rumors if they’re true, Ellen,” he mumbles.

“Then the next thing you can gab about is how I kicked your ass across this diner and out onto the street,” Ellen snaps, smacking at his shoulder. “Go on, get up and join your buddies, you good-for-nothin’.” 

With a roll of his eyes, Cole rises, then points his finger at Castiel. “I mean it, okay, guy? Just watch yourself around that psycho.”

“That’s enough out of you,” Ellen growls, shoving his back as he goes. She hooks a thumb over to the table of fishermen. “Ignore those superstitious idiots. They latch onto a Jonah in town and don’t stop talking about it.”

“A Jonah?” Castiel asks.

“That’s what they call anyone who’s bad luck enough to stop them from getting a catch.” Ellen shrugs a shoulder. “But they’ve had the best fishing around here in decades since Dean Winchester rolled back into town from the war, so it’s just prejudice.” She nods down at Castiel’s plate. “Lobster roll no good?”

Castiel blinks down at it; he’d forgotten the food in front of him. “Just haven’t had the chance to try it yet.”

Smile sympathetic, Ellen nods over to the counter. “If you want, we can move you over there. Then the eyes of the town will be on your back. Easier to ignore.”

Despite himself, Castiel’s lips quirk up into a grin. “I like that idea.”

With a wink, Ellen scoops up his plate for him, holding it aloft as she weaves through the tables. “Sorry about them,” she says over her shoulder to Castiel as he follows. “You’re not exactly the first keeper this year to come into town for the job, so they’re just a little excitable.”

Castiel slides onto the stool at the counter, frowning. “I thought the job just opened up last month?”

“Oh, it did.” Ellen rounds the corner to the other side of the counter, depositing Castiel’s plate. She quirks her lips, thinking for a moment. “You’re the fourth, I think.”

Castiel gapes. “Fourth?”

“This year, at least.”

“I…” Castiel works his jaw to find the words. “Did they—are they…” He doesn’t finish the sentence, too absorbed in the image of his body splayed out onto the rocks as an ending to this story.

“Oh—no,” Ellen scoffs, waving a hand. “They didn’t die. It’s a dangerous job, but people don’t die… often. No, these men quit after a few months. One didn’t even last a week.” 

Because she keeps glancing at his plate, Castiel picks up the lobster roll and takes a bite. Perfectly salted lobster and toasted bun explodes flavor in his mouth. He makes a mental note to thank Bela profusely for the recommendation. 

He realizes, two bites into his food, that he forgot to pray.

He frowns, wiping his face with a napkin, inwardly chastising himself. That kind of thing doesn’t matter anymore.

Jo skips up to stand beside Ellen, placing her empty tray down on the counter. “What are we talking about?”

“Don’t listen to her about it, either,” Ellen tells Castiel firmly, taking the tray. “Jo’s got fanciful notions about the sea.”

“Oh, we talking about Whaleback?” Jo’s eyes glint mischievously as she leans forward to say to Castiel in a lowered voice, “It’s haunted, you know. That’s why all those keepers quit. Only the Winchesters stay there ‘cause they got used to the ghosts by now.”

“I see,” Castiel says slowly. 

“But, hey, kudos to you for trying it out,” another voice says, patting him on the shoulder. Castiel balks at the man who’s suddenly appeared next to him, a hand offered in greeting. “I’m Ash, Jo’s brother, Ellen’s reluctant son. Nice to meet ya.”

Castiel rubs his temples and sighs. “This is beginning to feel like a circus.”

“Let me give you the skinny,” Ash says, pushing back his hair that’s somehow short in the front and long in the back—something Castiel can barely get his mind around. “Lighthouse used to be totally normal, right? Besides the normal rumors that lighthouses just always have. Daddy John Winchester and little brother Sam Winchester looked after it while older brother Dean Winchester was off fighting the Nazis—he came back and that’s when things started getting weird.” 

Weary from traveling and the overall conversation, Castiel decides to tuck into his lobster roll, hoping that if he doesn’t reply, they’ll all go away. 

“Tell him what happened with his uh, uh—what do you call it?” Jo asks, snapping her fingers.

“Oh, yeah! Dean’s agoraphobia,” Ash says. “Shifts at the lighthouse are usually 25 days on, 4 days off, right? Well, Dean stopped going to shore more and more, until he just stopped leaving the lighthouse altogether. Don’t think that kid’s been out since—what? ’47?”

“Of course he has,” Jo says with a roll of her eyes. “He stopped coming to the mainland when his dad died last year, remember?”

Castiel lifts his head at that one. “He died?”

“Yeah,” Ash says, shaking his head. “John Winchester—he was the Principal Keeper for, what, twenty years at least. Fell over the railing on a clear day. Since then, people keep sayin’ they see weird things—like a woman in a white dress walking up and down the landing, lights flickering on and off during a power outage… Weird things like that. But people are jumpy after the war, they need something to talk about. Get their minds distracted.”

Castiel sipped at his water, mulling over the information. “Who was on shift with Mr. Winchester when he fell?”

Jo grimaces, exchanging a look with Ash. “Dean was in the kitchen when it happened. Saw his dad falling past the window.” 

“He’s Principal Keeper now,” Ash adds. “So you’ll be serving under him. Sam Winchester is the first assistant. And Adam, their half brother, still in high school—he helps out from time to time, picks up shifts if Sam needs it. But now, with you here…” Ash lets out a chuckle. “Well, as long as you last, anyway.”

Castiel takes another long gulp of water, wishing it was beer so he could calm his jangling nerves. “The Coast Guard didn’t tell me I was walking into a situation.” 

Ellen, who stayed on the sideline of their conversation, comes back to lean against the counter. “Officially? You’re not.” She points her finger at Castiel. “Loyalty runs deep in this town. No matter how weird Dean gets, he still fought for this country and he’s done a lot of good for the town since. So any sideways look or word against him, and people will sooner run you out of here than take your side. Got it?”

Castiel sets down his iced tea. He nods. “I got it.”

“Good.” Ellen leans back, arms crossed. “That all being said—if you last after a shift, be sure to visit here while you’re on shore, okay?” 

“Yeah,” Ash chimes in, “we’re placing bets. So last at least two shifts so I can stay low, okay?”

“Or at least three,” Jo adds. She nudges his elbow on the counter with her own. “Don’t worry, champ, I got faith in ya.” 

Incredulous, Castiel scoffs into his water. “Yeah. Right.”

The bell to the diner door rings, heralding a group of sweaty children in baseball uniforms and their parents. The sudden flood of people distracts Ash and Jo long enough for Castiel to finish his lobster roll in peace. When he’s done, he places a ten dollar bill, enough to cover the meal and then some, beside his plate as he shrugs on his coat, winding around the crowd clamoring for a seat to sit.

He hunches his shoulders against the damp shock of cold, blowing warm air into his hands. Living in Boston was cold, but not like this: here, the very air feels hostile, stealing your breath to toss into the harbor’s winds. Castiel paces down the main street, past the dark windows of a flower shop, antique store, and a movie palace. At the end of the road, nudged up a slight hill, is a drug store—and a payphone tucked in beside it. 

It’s a bad idea. He knows it’s a bad idea. But then he thinks of the letters in his suitcase, and the answer is made for him. 

Picking the phone off its cradle, he dials for the operator and asks to make a collect call to Boston, fighting the tremor in his voice. 

The line trills once. Twice. Castiel’s palms spring sweat despite the cold. On the fourth ring, the receiver is picked up. 

“Hello?” 

Hearing his sister’s voice releases the vise that’s constricting his chest. “Anna,” he chokes out.

There’s a long silence on the other end. Then: “You have to be kidding me.” 

“I know I shouldn’t be calling—”

“I told you not to. I’m hanging up.”

“Just—” Castiel clutches the phone tight to his ear, his body a taut string. He can hear forks clinking in the background on Anna’s end. They’re probably having dinner. “How is she?” he asks, unable to hold the words back. “Her and—”

“They’re fine,” Anna says with a sharp sigh. “Listen, someone could be listening in. It was stupid to call. Don’t do it again.” She pauses. “You get in okay?”

“Yes.” Castiel closes his eyes against the sudden tears that spring into his eyes. “I start the job tomorrow.”

“Good.” Anna’s voice is gentler as she adds, “They’re fine, little brother. Just—don’t call again. Okay?”

“Okay.” Castiel can hear a familiar laugh over the line. He quickly slams the phone back into the cradle; an instinctual reaction. 

Panic, fear, sorrow—it all mounts in his chest as he stumbles away from the payphone, blindly down the road. His feet find their path away from the downtown, toward a cluster of trees and green overlooking the harbor. 

The lighthouse is on now, its lens bright and twirling across the water like a ballerina suspended on a string. Castiel follows the movement as he breathes unsteadily, desperate to catch his racing heart.

Eventually, as it always does, his pulse slows. The fear, the panic—it all leaves his body like water trickling off a ledge. Regret and shame remains, pooling sourly in his gut. 

The water below is dark, murky. It would be so easy to get lost in, with one step in the wrong direction. 

He stares at the lighthouse for a moment longer. Then, with a straight back, he turns away and walks back toward the town.

****

As with most things in his life, Dean has a love-hate (but mostly hate) relationship with this lighthouse. 

It’s easy to take care of on sunny days and clear nights, but it’s grueling during a storm or fog. Sun shines through the window in the midday, providing warmth, but it’s ever-loving cold the rest of the time. 

It provides him with shelter from the outside world. 

But it traps him in, like a caged animal. 

Love, hate—day in and day out. And right now, standing against the railing of the balcony with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips and the wind whipping at his back, it’s hate.

The light’s ready for the dusk that’s beginning to settle on the harbor. Dean’s cleaned the lens and brewed the meths. He turned on the tap, set a match to the mantle. The routine is so familiar, he could do it in his sleep. The light rotates behind him, illuminating his back briefly before turning its watchful eye to the rest of the harbor. 

Bright, dark. Bright, dark. Around and around like a carousel. 

Him and this lighthouse go way back, like a bad relationship that he can’t quit. When John moved him and Sam to Kittery and started work on this light, Bobby would bring Sam and Dean to visit during the fortnightly supply runs. Every visit was like a further punch to the gut to remind him of what he’d lost. It wasn’t like the light they’d all lived at when Dean’s mom was alive, with a cozy house that always smelled like freshly baked bread. This was a cold, sterile environment that smelled like three guys living in close quarters. And John—

He could barely look Dean and Sam in the eye when they visited. 

After a few months at Whaleback, John seemed to relax into the work and his smile came more easily, but Dean would smell the whiskey on his breath.  

After a while, Bobby stopped taking Sam and Dean at all.

The lighthouse took John and swallowed him whole. During his brief few days of shore leave, he’d just sit with a bottle at the table. Dean came to dread it, since it meant that the money he’d squirreled away in the coffee can on top of the cupboard would inevitably be pilfered for booze money.

Dean doesn’t know why he’s thinking about all of this, or about John. Maybe it’s because of where he’s currently standing. 

Muttering a curse, Dean pulls the zippo out of his pocket and lights the cigarette.

“Got you.”

Dean turns as his brother comes onto the walkway, collar popped and hands deep into his coat pockets. His cheeks are already pinched red from the cold. 

Dean adopts an easy posture, arms settling on the railing as he leans back with a grin. It hides the bitter taste of nostalgia still on his tongue. “I said I wanted to quit, not that I was going to quit.”

Sam rolls his eyes, then joins Dean at the railing. “Light all set?”

“Yup. Everything’s good. Go get some shut-eye.” 

“I thought it was my shift tonight.”

Dean shrugs a shoulder. “Not tired. I can take the whole night.”

“You took the whole shift last night, too,” Sam says with a frown. “What about that chamomile tea Bobby brought last week? Did you try that?”

“Not drinkin’ a flower. I’ll sleep the old-fashioned way.”

“Clearly that’s not working.”

“I’ll take the shift tonight.” Dean levels his brother with a stare. “Okay?”

Lips twisted into a frown, wind sweeping at his hair, Sam suddenly looks like a younger snot-nosed version that had that same miserable look when Dean tried to tell him that Dad volunteered himself for a double shift that month. Before the Coast Guard took over during the war, things were more relaxed—less regulated. John was able to take all the double, triple shifts as he pleased, drinking himself stupid with all the bootlegged liquor in the cellar. 

It always upset Sam, when their dad didn’t come home. He was a sensitive kid. 

Just like all those years ago, Dean’s heart is punched out with a desire to make that frown leave Sam’s face.

“You wanna sneak back with Bobby tomorrow when he comes for the supply run? Go see Eileen? I can cover things here.”

Sam rolls his eyes with a scoffed laugh. “That’s a pretty terrible first impression to make on the new keeper Bobby’s bringing in.”

Fuck. Dean had forgotten about that. “That’s tomorrow?” he asks with a wince. 

“Yes, and we need him to last more than a week, unlike the last guy. Otherwise the Coast Guard is not going to let us have a say in who comes or stays anymore.”

“Last guy was a pansy,” Dean grumbles around his cigarette. 

“You punched him in the face, Dean.” 

Dean glares out at the thin line of the distant shore and doesn’t reply.

“Since you’re a vet, they’re taking it easy on us,” Sam continues, “but Bobby was talking to someone up in a higher rank the other day and—I think this is our last chance.” He clears his throat. “Your last chance.”

“The hell you mean?” Dean asks, drawing up to a straight back. “They’re gonna sack me?”

“Move you, I think. To a solo light on the shore.”

Dean throws up a hand. “Well, fine. Let them. What’s the problem?”

There’s that miserable look again. Sam won’t raise his head as the unspoken words hang between them. Dean stays silent, challenging Sam to say it. 

“You know what the problem is, Dean,” Sam quietly says. 

Yeah. Dean knows. He knows that without Sam, Dean at a solo light would probably end with him hanging from the rafters. 

Blowing out a drag of smoke into the wind, Dean hunches back over the railing. “I’ll try,” he concedes. “But if he’s a dumbass—”

“Then I’ll train him,” Sam interjects. “You don’t even have to be in the same room as him. We’ll put him on the early morning shifts, make him sleep in the afternoons.”

Dean huffs out a laugh. “Make him stay in the service room listening to the radio.”

A grin forming on Sam’s face, he adds, “Tell him that shore leave is ten days instead of four so he stays off the lighthouse for longer.” 

“Yeah, the Coast Guard won’t notice that.”

“Whatever it takes for you to cohabitate with this guy, I say we do it,” Sam says with a shrug. “Get creative.” 

Dean makes a move to flick the stub of his cigarette away; Sam grabs his arm to stop him. “I just cleaned the gallery, Dean.” With a scowl, Dean tosses it into the ocean instead.

Sam runs a hand through his messy hair and sighs, the disapproval evident in his frown. “Need anything before I go down to the bunks?”

“Nah. Get some sleep, Sammy.” Dean gives his brother a smack on the chest in dismissal. “I’ll wake you for the morning shift.”

“Okay, but actually wake me this time. Don’t let me sleep in until nine.”

Dean taps out another cigarette from the carton he fishes out of his pocket. “No promises.” 

“And let me actually make breakfast tomorrow, too!” Sam calls before he disappears through the door.

“I would if your eggs weren’t shit!” Dean barks back. His words are snatched up by the wind. He turns back toward the ocean, clicking the lighter as he holds it up to the cigarette butt. “Seriously, who raised you?”

Blowing out another puff of smoke, the cigarette still caught between his teeth, Dean eyes the shoreline. Their new keeper is probably staying at Bela’s place, if it’s still even running. The inn nearly went under last year after her parents declared bankruptcy. He ran with her a few times in high school before he cut town—she was sharp around the edges. Misunderstood. Just like him. 

He remembers the new guy’s resume. It had stood out to him among the rest, mainly because he seemed the least qualified. Didn’t make sense at all why the Coast Guard chose him as the new rookie, when five men before him—way more experienced, to boot—didn’t last.

No family, no money. Maybe that’s why they took him. That’s better, for these stag lights—bunch of single men with no families means there’s a better chance of them staying. It’s why the Coast Guard is itching to get a new keeper for the light, what with them eyeing recently married Sam, and Eileen, who’s in the family way.

It would make more sense for Sam to leave, get a position at a light with a house. Where he could see his family every night. 

What Sam and Dean used to have, before Mary died.

Dean runs a hand down his face, letting out a curse. Whatever the word is for wishing for a time that he can’t get back to, ever—that’s what tonight is. Memories he didn’t ask for turning around and around in his head like a wheel. That’s what the sea does when you look out into it: shimmers back at you, showing you what you want to see. And sometimes what you don’t. 

The door behind him creaks open again. With a grumble, Dean lets out a breath of smoke, a reprimand on his tongue for Sam to get the hell to bed. 

A bang echoes through the air. 

Dean drops his cigarette in surprise, whipping around to face the door. It yawns open, mercilessly blowing in the wind, banging against the side. Dean strides over to it and pulls it firmly closed before it breaks one of the windows. 

The lens, green and opaque, flashes across his eyes; he squints as the light rotates away. Turning back to the railing, spots dotting his vision, he sees a shadow. 

One taller than him, broader; stumbling toward the railing with a groan. 

Dean closes his eyes, briefly; chest constricting. A trick of the light. It happens.

“It’s haunted!” one of the failed keepers had shouted as he stuffed his clothes into a carpetbag, stumbling down the stairs. “This place is fucking haunted!” 

But that keeper had got it wrong—it wasn’t the lighthouse doing the haunting.

It was the person inside of it.

[wishcamper]

Nessian Week Day 5 - Behind Closed Doors

I meant to write a sexy, Casino Royale-esque poker scene but it somehow ended up as Cassian fangirling over his wife for 3k words so uh. Here you go.

Read here or on ao3!

High Stakes

A/N: This prompt really made me want to play with the idea of layers of intimacy in long-term relationships because a) I don’t think we have enough representations of healthy, fulfilling, functional monogamy and b) I‘ve always thought there was beautiful potential for Nessian to know and understand each other to the point where they can see all the layers of the other person, and be able to hold space for the other’s complexity. I’d just really like to believe that’s possible. So I hope that comes across. 

I’m exploring some of these same ideas in ACOVAV, my ongoing ACOSF fix-it. Questions around the character’s experiences and my own, like: what does it look like to build tension in a story and depth in a relationship without miscommunication or people treating each other badly? What if it’s two people trying their best to get close while also wrestling with their own individual shit in very real, understandable ways? What exists at that intersection between me and us? Something interesting, I think.

If that interests you too, you can read that fic on ao3 :)

---

“Mr. Archeron.”

“Marlowe. How’s she looking tonight?”

Two males stood before the door of a long-vacant tavern, sweating slightly in the night air thick and lush as it only was in summer, Velaris bursting with vitality after dark. The cobblestone streets were full of revelers who passed by without a second glance, ignorant that beyond the hidden entrance lay a world where fortunes were won and lost, where the honor of courts rose and fell at the discretion of a female known only in whispers as the Queen of Cards.

A female who just happened to be Cassian’s wife.

“A strong start,” Marlowe said as he ushered Cassian into the candlelit basement, flickering shadows belying the bustling street above. “The High Lord from Autumn has cheek, though.” 

“Yeah, Eris gets like that when he’s losing.”

They shook hands and Cassian made his way down the dim hallway, the sounds of chatter and shuffling and clinking coins drifting toward him. He could hear Eris braying high above the others, Rhys’ smooth voice giving back just as good. When he reached the arched entrance to the playing room, everyone had their backs to him except Nesta, who glanced up from her three-card hand and smiled. 

She always faced the door during games, ready to protect her players’ privacy in case someone got past Marlowe, though it had the unintended effect of giving him a moment to take her in uninterrupted. Her gown was midnight blue tonight, long sleeves in tiers of iridescent silk like a dragonfly’s wings, hair cascading over one shoulder studded with opals that turned fiery in the faelights.

A glittering queen holding court. And damn if Cassian didn’t want to go to his knees before her, still, after all this time.

“Can we get on with it or do I need to send you two to time out?” she asked the still-squabbling High Lords without missing a beat, tossing her cards in and signaling to the silver clad dealer to begin the next round before. She threw in her ante next, silver bracelets chiming at her wrist with the movement.

With some grumblings the players turned to their hands, and Cassian edged along the wall to where Emerie sat at a high table on her own, grazing on the arrayed refreshments and accounting her winnings in a worn ledger. 

“I was up and didn’t want to push my luck,” the female whispered when he nodded in greeting, giving him a sly smile. Cassian smiled back - Emerie always came out on top. He suspected Nesta was subtly losing to her friend on purpose after the female refused to let her fund an expansion of her shop. And he suspected Emerie knew it, too, but both were too proud to say it aloud. She licked the tip of her pencil and made another note. “Plus, it’s fun to watch your mate knock a few High Lords down a peg.”

“Sometimes I wonder if that’s the real game,” he confessed, and Emerie grinned smugly, wings ruffling with delight.

They observed the game in silence for a moment, allowing Cassian time to survey the other players in attendance tonight. There was an endless rotating cast of characters at Nesta’s now-famous monthly games, the invitation so coveted they’d had all manner of bribes delivered to the House of Wind by very confused messengers. Thankfully all gifts were now rerouted to a third-party location, after a lesser lord of Summer sent a dozen peacocks they’d chased about the House for hours.

There were seven of them tonight as usual, including Emerie, all faces he recognized buried in their cards around the half-moon table. Granted, it helped that nearly half the players were his wife, her best friend, and Rhys, whose pile of coin looked so pitifully low Cassian couldn’t help but smirk when he caught his brother’s eye.

“We should raise the blind,” Rhys interjected. “What's the point of playing if you’re eschewing risk?”

It still surprised Cassian sometimes that Rhys kept coming back despite showing no taste for gambling in the past. But he supposed Rhys had always been weirdly competitive with Nesta, and even though they’d buried the hatchet long ago Nesta still loved winning her brother-in-law’s money fair and square. Which she did without fail, hand over fist, with a silent pact between them not to tell Feyre.

Neither of her sisters knew, by design he suspected, and Mor was off in Montesere ‘finding herself’ again, whatever that meant. Azriel had a brief, brilliant run before his competitiveness got the best of him and he was banned for brawling at the table, one of the only standing rules. Emerie and Eris were regulars, and he’d seen the others in attendance before: broad-shouldered Megrin Stonecutter of the Velaris maester’s guild and Nuan of Dawn, who perched cross-legged in her chair, a pair of elaborate spectacles whirring on her round face

Opposite Nesta tonight sat the High Lord of Day, still radiant despite having foregone his usual golden adornments. Helion looked nonplussed by his own losing streak as Cassian watched him toss his cards face down in front of him, leaving only Rhys, Eris, and Nesta still alive in the hand.

“I fold. You all are vicious. Are you not joining us, Cass?”

“And add one more body to the slaughter? No thanks.” He’d never had much interest, content to watch Nesta splatter egos against the wall.

Megrin grunted in agreement and slid her cards to the dealer past the large pile of gold in the center. “I’m out, too. Clearly someone knows something I don’t.”

“It’s yours to call, Eris,” Rhys said breezily. “Unless you’re waiting to ask your father’s ghost for permission.”

Cassian snorted, making eye contact with Rhys again, who shot him a shit-eating grin as Eris covered his mouth with a stiff hand, brow furrowed. 

To everyone’s surprise, Beron Vanserra had been felled two years prior by an ordinary fever. No one in Autumn nor elsewhere could make sense of it - it was as if one day the hands of hel simply reached up and snatched him back into the earth. So a court that had once been destined for a bloody coup passed the crown peacefully, which was a good thing all around, though Rhys loved painting Eris as a cowardly dawdler whose target put himself in an early grave just to end the waiting.

The Autumn lord sneered at the insult, still waffling. “Some of us prefer to think about our actions, Rhysand, instead of barrelling forward with whatever scheme will inflate our self-importance the most. Stealing things from other courts, for example, books, brides -“

Nesta glanced over at Cassian then, crossing and uncrossing her fingers where they lay against her cheek, and he had to stifle the laugh that bubbled forth at the private joke, just for him. It was her signal that sexual tension was present in the room, sometimes to indicate she wanted to leave whatever function they were at, sometimes so they could share a roll of their eyes. In this case he knew she meant the squabbling lords, as many a late night they’d mused that Eris and Rhys could get past their rivalry if they just had sex about it. 

“As much as I enjoy seeing Rhysand’s self-importance punctured,” Nesta drawled when the latter opened his mouth to retort. “You can’t delay your bet with old, petty scores. We’re all rather bored with it. If you’re going to cheat, at least use some imagination.” 

She sipped at her glass of pomegranate juice, a frequent gift of affection from Helion and a nod to the other rule: no alcohol. 

Rhys’ expression flashed briefly with betrayal, but he schooled it quickly, knowing better than to give himself away. But Cassian knew Nesta’s smoky eyes clocked it before they turned to Eris. 

“I remember you once tempting me with an invitation to Autumn, to see how a High Lord plays. Is this what you had in mind?” She gestured to the modest pile of gold in front of him. “I rather think I made the right decision, don’t you?”

Emerie chuckled beside him, and Cassian felt a thrill low in his stomach to see Nesta so self-possessed, lit from within. After everything they’d been through with the Trove, with their families, a part of him wondered if he’d ever see her ferocity again, if the sharp point of that viper’s tongue would smooth over for good. 

She’d become very soft for about a decade after the Blood Rite, and they’d taken long walks through the Illyrian Steppes and the Myrmidons, swam in streams and lakes and the oceans of Summer, watched the bees drift lazily from flower to flower in Elain’s gardens in Day. It was as if she’d needed to come completely to rest before deciding what to do next. And the solitude seemed to give her a sense of clarity, but he’d been glad as fuck to be an exception to that rule, to witness the private puzzlings and support her in finding purpose in her life.

They’d only just returned to Velaris the previous spring, when the threads of family and duty pulled them home at last. Their time away was intimate and lovely, some of the best years of his life, yet Cassian enjoyed seeing Nesta confident out in the world again. The poker game had been the first of many things to draw her out, and he couldn’t wait to see what she’d surprise him with next, his strong, clever, deadly little wife.

Eris grumbled and tossed a few coins in the middle. “Happy now? Or would you prefer to seduce it out of me?”

Cassian watched her swallow the barb, which would’ve sent her into survival mode in the past and now rolled off her with barely a ripple. Leashed his own instincts to leap across the room and tackle Eris to the ground, because Nesta wouldn’t hesitate to kick him out for breaking the rules too, mate or no, and he’d miss his favorite show.

“Your luck doesn’t extend that far tonight,” she said demurely, and Cassian knew the smug prick was too stupid to see her coiling up to strike when the time was right. Nesta won the hand a moment later to groans all around, her Winter flush beating Rhys’ three pixies and Eris’ two pair, nymphs and kelpies.

“I propose a wager," Nesta declared as the next hand was dealt, her voice velvety and inviting. "The victor of the evening wins one favor of their choosing...” Eyes lit up around the table, anticipation deepening. “...from my husband.”

They all turned toward Cassian where he was leaning against the wall with an amused grin now, and he raised an eyebrow at his mate. Her eyes flashed silver where she stared back at him, and he felt her send a soothing wave down the bond, assuring him of her intent. Inviting him into the ruse. Cassian made a show of looking chagrined, shuffling his feet as he looked down.

Rhys was the first to respond, smirking. “I’ll take that bet.” 

Cassian knew he was incensed at the idea of losing, wrongly fancying himself more clever than his sister-in-law. Nesta knew it, too, and that arrogance made him play more recklessly.

“Count me out,” said Helion, winking. “You’re pretty, Cass, but my minister of finance will have my head if I lose any more.”

“Ah, why not?” Nuan flushed, uncomfortable with the attention now drawn her way, and chuckled nervously. “Not sure what use I’d have for you, dear, but who knows what worth it may hold!”

Megrin pursed her lips, sizing him up. “He has a strong enough back I suppose. I’ve been meaning to rearrange my forge.”

“Any favor of my choosing?” Eris mused, and Cassian felt the Autumn lord’s gaze roving over his body and then Nesta’s, possessive and hungry. The years hadn’t changed everything. Nesta answered with nothing but a feline smile.

The next few rounds passed in a blur of bluffs and bold plays. Nesta remained composed even on the hands she lost, an almost bored air to the way she watched the males bluster and crow. Eris' anger grew while Rhys shot daggers with his glare at her every win, turning each hand into an unnecessary battle of wills that made him play sloppy. Nuan ducked out when it became clear the prize wasn’t hers, and Megrin hung on for a while longer, bluffing her way through until her luck ran dry, to Cassian’s relief. 

One by one, Nesta outplayed them, her composure never faltering as she watched her opponents fume, each loss reigniting their fervor to win.

At last the players were down to the final hand, and the air in the hidden basement crackled with anticipation. The dealer laid down the community cards as bets went around: a wyvern, a lord, a lady, and a cave troll. Each still in signaled for new cards, Nesta tapping once against the table, her face revealing nothing. Cassian could feel his chest tighten as they sized each other up before Rhys pushed all his chips into the pot with a confident smirk.

"All in."

Unfazed, Nesta called his bet, gesturing idly at her pile for the dealer to sweep into the center with his crook. That left only Eris to decide his own fate, as well as Cassian’s.

He puzzled for a long while with his head in his hands before he finally spoke, low and deliberate. "I’ll call."

Coins cascaded into the center, a shower of gold. Then the final card was revealed—another lady. All coins in the center, it felt like everyone held their breath as the three remaining players revealed their hands. 

Rhys set down two lords, the grin spreading across his face triumphant and sure, the poor bastard. Eris only clucked his tongue and revealed his full house, ladies full of wyverns, smug despite achieving it on the last draw.

But Cassian knew it wasn’t over yet. He turned to where his wife was toying with the edge of her hand, and he’d seen that pose too many times not to recognize it at once: You Have Just Royally Fucked Yourself. Silver rolled over Nesta’s eyes, and with prim efficiency she laid down the three remaining trolls in the deck, one after another.

The room erupted, Eris upending his chair as he leapt to his feet, Rhys shouting about cheating and Helion tipping his head back to let loose a peal of laughter soon joined by Emerie and Nuan’s, by Megrin’s groan. Cassian couldn’t help the dopey grin that spread across his face, how at home Nesta looked in the sea of chaos when she winked at him, calmly piling her coins into neat stacks.

Once everyone had regained their heads they all passed a lovely hour in conversation, the air hazy from the cigarettes Nesta usually smoked with Lucien at their gossip sessions disguised as afternoon tea. Rhys departed first, claiming a return to his fatherly duties, though they all knew he was off to beg Feyre’s sympathies while he licked his wounds for reasons he’d never confess. Emerie left with a tight hug and a promise to have them up to Windhaven soon to see her new expansion, and Eris gave Nesta a begrudging bow before Helion swooped in and kissed her on the cheek. He did the same to Cassian, and they heard his warm voice echoing down the corridor, giving Eris shit all the way up the stairs.

Alone now, Cassian came up behind where Nesta was tucking a handful of coins in a pouch for Marlowe, looped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. She batted at him but he felt her lean backwards all the same, cracking the door to that soft place within, that only her loved ones were allowed to enter. He knew she liked the affection, even if part of her still hated to admit it, if she only wanted it when it was just them.

“Wicked woman,” he teased, and he felt her smile against his cheek, the press of her nails into his forearm. “Were you seriously going to let Eris have his way with me?”

Nesta turned in his arms and he took her in close up for the first time all day, having left her snoring softly that morning when he departed for Windhaven. He warmed to see her face still relaxed and open, the ease in her posture. 

“If he won, sure.”

Cassian snorted. “I don’t know if that’s a testament to your confidence or your willingness to torture me.”

The candlelight flickered silver around them for a moment and he drew her close once more, breathing deep the vanilla and jasmine scent of her hair, the lingering smokiness. Nesta linked her hands behind his back and squeezed him hard, impatient.

“Can’t it be both? Now take me home, Lady Death is tired.”

“Is that your favor for winning, sweetheart?”

“No,” she said, eyes dancing and devious when he pulled back. “I’ve much bigger plans for you.”

And oh, she did.

They ended the night in Cassian’s favorite way, with him sprawled atop her, head pillowed on her chest, her long fingers working through the snarls in his hair he’d earned in their pleasure. The House dimmed the lights in the bedchamber that was once his, the door now warded to both their hands. Hands that bore twin golden rings and tattoos of an eight-pointed star, tokens of their promises, both his and hers.

“Goodnight, I love you.”

Nesta’s voice was thick and fuzzy, and he felt a quiet contentment on her end of the bond. It was rare for her to inhabit it in public as much as she had tonight, and Cassian remembered when her end of the bridge between them had been locked tight, impenetrable. He’d made a fool of himself trying to break through early in their love, using brute force to smash past her defenses, leaving her exposed. 

But now he knew the secret that should’ve been obvious, that he only had to knock.

“I love you, too, sweetheart.”

She smiled with her eyes closed and pursed her lips, kissing the air before sleep dragged her under.

[swordheld]

how do you think in poems? i really enjoy the tags under your posts i've always wanted to write down my own thoughts that way bc in my head they feel so thorough and magical but whenever i put it in words i feel it just gets so much flatter and i no longer see a point and give up

oh oh oh, but lovely, can't you see that you've already started? it's a perspective that you hone, over time, something that is specific to you and you alone – that's the piece of it that makes it so special! you've already begun, and it only goes forward, up, sideways from here, wherever you wish to go!

think of it like a skill, for a moment, or a kind of muscle, if you'd prefer. you have to work at it, with it, over time and differing experiences, in order to progress.

(a quick important note: not progression as in the kind of quality-check of a grading scale, but progression as in evolution. shifting change. think of the leaves and their colors across the months of autumn, or temperatures rising with the sun and cooling with the evening dark. change isn't intrinsically a qualifying thing, it can just be, sometimes. this is difficult to remember, especially in the midst of frustration, but it is worth it. you are always doing better than you think you are – harshest critic, and all that.)

which is not to say that it's a simple thing to do! compare this to the vibe of me picking up crochet recently, with my shaking hands and too-quickly dwindling adhd focus – my first attempts at making a lil headphone sprout have not been going as well as i once hoped. my stitches are either too big and sloppy bc i'm not holding the yarn tightly enough to get clean ones, or i feel frustrated due to it not looking like how i'd like it to look in my mind when i started it, or even as i begin my umpteenth attempt.

but!! i know that it won't ever look the way i want it do if i set it down and never keep trying. it'll take awhile, like everything does, even the seasons take their time, the moon and its phases; but what i do know, is that, eventually, it'll resemble something i want it to. vaguely, maybe, but it is something. it doesn't have to look exactly like the guide i'm following, or the examples i'm inspired by, because it's mine – something made by my own hands, my own time and experience with every mistake and thrilling joy along the way to learn by.

take it from me: i want to be good at things i want to be good at so badly. and that excitement makes me want to be at the skill level i need to be at in order to do so right then and there, no learning curves or building blocks allowed. which is never how it happens, unfortunately, but –

i think, gently, that we tend to overlook what a pleasure it is to learn. to see the slow progression of things, to begin and change and continue and get better. and even if it's different as we go along, in a way it's our own little kind of magic, maybe, to create and never be done if we don't want to be.

which is all to say: it's already yours. why does it have to be anything else, anything more? why can't it just be good as it is now, where it might never be again? what is there to lose by enjoying the moment of where you are?

like everything, it will grow and shift and evolve with time, maybe into something you'd hoped for, or maybe into something you don't even have the words to describe right now at all. but that's the fun of it: how even now, even then, there, across time and distance and skill, there is a common thread of things; it will always come from your heart, your experience, where you are right then and there and now.

and if you think of that like magic, well, it becomes a little like magic, doesn't it?

also, something to consider: sometimes things you feel or think can't be put into words at that moment, or even at all! something else you could try (that i certainly do) is making something else with whatever it makes you feel - whether that's another form of art, or any other kind of media. if it makes you want to go outside and take a walk or get cozy and read or play a video game? that counts too! that's still an experience, you're still feeling.

i think that counts a little more than anything else, you know?

and as a little ending fun side-note, can i share something cool? i've never thought of it that way before, as thinking in poems. in my mind it's always been a kind of perspective of personal wonder, but you're right – it's poetry, in it's own way. you gave me that – so thank you, from the heart of me. i hope your journey finds you with every bright joy.

[shadowqueenjude]

Azris one shot

Lmfaooooo this was inspired by the roleplaying I did with @futureautumnhighlord @the-moon-on-a-string @shadowbabiesdaddy @that-spring-court-blond We basically kept reblogging each other's shit and it turned into smut so part 2 is going to be completely smut. 😭

Azriel’s arms wrapped around Eris from behind him as he snarled at Tamlin. “Stay away from Eris, Tamlin, or else…” Tamlin bared his teeth. His hair had shapeshifted to a night-black, quite like Rhysand’s and Azriel’s. He was a far-cry from the male he had been before Feyre had left him. “What are you going to do, shadowsinger? I’m a High Lord, and the male you’re holding is a High Lord’s heir. What’s an Illyrian ilk compared to that power?” Azriel chuckled darkly. “Oh, I can do a lot of things.” His shadows delivered them to a place far far away from the Spring Court forests. Accustomed to this travel, Eris kept his eyes wide open as Azriel winnowed them to the Autumn Court. Well, not winnowed, exactly. The shadowsinger method of travel was slightly different from winnowing; nobody knew exactly how it worked, but it was mentioned in old myths that those born of the death god could quite literally melt into shadows and reappear anywhere in the world as long as a shadow existed. The shadowsinger abilities appeared to be something like that.

Indeed, the shadowsinger willed them to appear underneath a tall oak near the Autumn Court forest in his backyard. Eris smirked ever so slightly as he turned back to look at Azriel. “Why’d you take me away, little bat?” The word little was hilarious here. Both males were of almost equal height, though Azriel was a wee bit broader than Eris due to his Illyrian heritage. Much as he denied that heritage (to the delight of Eris), it was still present in his complexion and build. His hands were a broad tan compared to the long pale hands of Eris, far better fit for playing piano than for fighting on a battlefield. Yet Eris was the general of the Autumn Court armies and had plenty of battle experience of his own; it just didn’t define him like it defined Illyrians. “What the hell were you doing in Tamlin’s territory?” Azriel said quietly; his voice barely hid the simmering rage beneath.

Eris laughed. It was hilarious how the male acted as if they were in a committed relationship. By no means were they in any such relationship; Eris was newly engaged to Cresseida of the Summer Court, and they were to be married within the next two weeks. True, their marriage was that of convenience, which left both of them to free to fuck whoever they want (including each other periodically). But that just proved Eris’s point: he was loyal to nothing and no one but himself and the crown he wanted so damn badly. Eris had made no promises to Azriel. Yet the jealousy simmering off of the Illyrian brute was such a strong stench it overwhelmed all of Eris’s senses.

“I was going to help him fulfill the Calanmai rite,” he said smoothly. “Tamlin was going to shapeshift into a female and our culmination would’ve under ideal conditions, magicked the Spring Court back to normal.” Though it was unlikely that would even work at this point, it would be worth it to try. At least to keep Beron away from Spring should his plan work. Of course, Eris didn’t need a reason to have sex with whoever he pleased. Azriel clenched his fists before pulling out his blade, Truth-Teller. “What, I’m not good enough for you?” Eris truly laughed then, leaning forward so that their noses almost brushed against each other. “You are nothing but my lover, little bat. I did not commit to anything with you, like it or not.” Azriel’s eyes simmered with dark rage that made Eris’s instincts stand up. “Is that how you’re going to play it?”

Eris smirked. “You’ve finally caught on. This is just a game, you and I. You couldn’t possibly believe I’d ever want to be with the male who killed and tortured my soldiers. Or lusted after my brother’s mate,” he added with more bite to his voice. Real anger flooded through him now. “Why would I want to be with the male who pined for my mate for nearly 500 years?” “Your mate?” Azriel gaped like a fish for a moment before the rage returned to his face. “And why would I ever want to be with the male who left the female I pined for for 500 years in her terrible state at your own border?” “I thought you were smarter than the bastard, shadowsinger,” Eris sneered. “Surely you know now that what I did was a mercy, not a spiteful act.” “It’s hard to know when everything is a game to you.” “When I play the game, it’s fun, Azriel. Females being brutally tortured is not my idea of fun. Or have you forgotten about my mother?” Azriel snarled in Eris’s ear. “So, fucking the High Lord of Spring is your idea of fun?” Eris shrugged. “Maybe it is. I’m a generous male, Illyrian. I’ve got to share the beauty of Autumn Court passion, you know.” In an instant, Azriel had shoved Eris against a tree. With his wings flaring out behind him and the feral look in his eyes, he truly looked the part of the dark angel. “Do you ever wear anything fashionable?” Eris asked because he knew it would infuriate him. Indeed, Azriel wrapped his hand around Eris’s neck and squeezed tight.

“I don’t need the clothing of a spoiled brat to kill you,” Azriel sneered in his face. Eris only let a lazy smile form on his face as he drawled, “Kinky, shadowsinger. But I know you won’t kill me. I’m too irresistible. Besides,” Eris willed his flame to surround him like an aura of a glowing god. Azriel flinched ever so slightly as he pulled back. “You get too close to the fire, and you get burned, Azriel.” Eris rarely said his name, and he could see Azriel’s name on his lips had an instant effect on him. He shuddered and walked back towards Eris, as if drawn in by a magnet. “I still haven’t forgiven you for what you tried to do,” Azriel growled, following Eris into the house. “No sex for a week.” Eris only leaned against the entrance to his secret house. “Then why are you following me in, little bat?”

[talenlee]

June 2024 Wrapup!

That’s it, Pride’s over. We’re done with any need to be queer because we obviously defeated the forces of not queer.

Hey how do all those dudes who are convinced they’re straight think their sexuality handles being attracted to nonbinary people? Like, nonbinary people can look like anything, presentation is a performance and everything, but if you believe in inherent qualities of genders, seeing a nonbinary person who’s hot has to be a problem right?

(oh who are we kidding, they pretend nonbinary people don’t exist. But if you do accept nonbinary people exist, you might be less straight than you think.)

Alright, let’s look at what articles came up in the Game Pile this month!

Gay Sauna: The Board Game, where we talked about the acceptable boundaries of genre mechanisms.

Arcade Spirits, where I made a video retelling my experiences of dealing with a game that I shouldn’t call a visual novel, because someone out there will get annoyed at an imperfect cladistic categorisation of game genres

Signalis, a game that oozes style but also told me to stop playing it, so I did

3 Indie TTRPGs, with Feathers, For the Dungeon and We Saved The World Once in a video

If you think the video on Feathers, For The Dungeon and We Saved The World Once was a bit ropy, yep! It got made very quick and close to the deadline because it was very difficult to make. Cooking these games down to entirely positive feedback without talking more about things I find personally interesting was hard enough, which is why the first seven minutes of the video are about problems with how we talk about indie TTRPGs.

Also, a thing I was really delighted by was getting to play Loom with Fox for the first time (part 1, part 2)!

Then there was this month’s Story Pile, about which I was way more enthusiastic!

Nimona, which is a great movie for kids,

Mobile Suit Gundam: The Witch From Mercury, which is a great anime, for slightly older kids!

Magical Revolution of the Reincarnated Princess And The Genius Young Lady, which is a mid anime, for slightly older kids still!

Bound, which is, uh, it’s not for kids

What else happened this month that I’m proud of?

Hm.

Hmmm.

This is a surprising one to say because normally I can think of articles that I want you to read in a sort of ‘well why haven’t you looked at this.’ But I’m in a bad mood right now and it’s colouring things about how I look at my own writing. My article on LIGMA is tainted by knowing how little of the greater context of the area I can communicate. My article about What Disgusts Jod got a response from a Locked Tomb fan that seemed to imply that actually, Jod wasn’t bi or pansexual, because a guy can have a threesome with a man and a woman and people will still try and pretend bisexuality doesn’t exist. My article about Tieflings was probably the thing I’m the most proud of this month, in the idea of the kind of writing I like doing, and I think my article on Faces For Skins is important? At least I avoided another breakdown article about how badly I feel Pride culture connects to or relates to me, though maybe that just shows up in the work in general.

There’s this month’s shirt design:

How hard is the Barbie aesthetic to replicate? With lookalike fonts it’s shockingly easy. I note that this one specifically is a drop shadow and not a 3d semblance, as you can see on the bottoms of the ls. Hey, do you want this on a sticker? Go for it!

In terms of real world events, June is jam packed. It’s the end of the Autumn Semester for me, as a tutor for one. This semester, I took on a lot of marking work, which I like to do, but which also meant that I looked at 118 asignments this month, and 60 of them had a 5 minute audio visual component. That’s five hours of student material to just watch. It ain’t nothing, and it adds up over time.

It’s also a time with four major family birthdays in them, which means I have to find ways and times to attend to physical events. This is not a problem, because I love my family but it sure makes me mindful of just how long it takes me to recover from that to do, y’know, things with myself like write for the blog. Marking periods take time out of the blog work.

The subject matter of the month is also less of a freebie than you might think because I feel like some things are too repetitive – I don’t imagine I’m going to find a third Transformers character to write about next year, for example. There’s also the way that February and June kinda blur together – I’m very fond of talking about queer media in February since that’s one of the most fun kinds of smoochy media I like.

I aim to keep the queued posts for this blog up to 50, so every day if I add a post, it goes to 51 and dips back down to 50. I also try to make sure I’m four weeks ahead on the video channels. This month, as I write this, I am one week ahead on the video, and the queue is down to 45. I am frustrated! But I am doing things to overcome that, and in the coming weeks, I don’t have to grapple with a theme!

I haven’t been getting to bed at good times. This month has featured multiple days where I get to bed at 4 in the morning, one even at 5. This is bad and I hate it. I hate it especially because it takes a long time to recover from it, to get back to sleeping at even the modestly more sensible time of midnight to one AM. I also haven’t been cooking as much as I want to — even modest resistance means that suddenly dinner is some microwaved oats and sultanas, with a splash of milk.

I think I may even be missing one of my June goals for Magic The Gathering: Arena, which isn’t exactly important, but it is a bit of a pisser. The aim was to hit gold tier in limited, which at this point I have… a few hours to do, and I’m still in Silver Tier. That’s not a big deal but it is a bummer.

Check it out on PRESS.exe to see it with images and links!

[lilcupio]

AroAce Playlist of songs in Spanish

Clarification: I know that these songs were not created to be aroace, but this is MY OWN PERSONAL INTERPRETATION, MINE, FROM ME AND ONLY ME.

And yes, I am a hopeless romantic (and cupioromantic), so my AroAce experience is somewhat pessimistic??? ig

Let's go with the playlist:

The arromantic song par excellence. Simple and direct.

1.- Abducida por formar una pareja | TRONCO.

"When I think of the way you talk

Of Menorca, of the weather and of your cat,

I imagine I make you a proposal

And I ask you if you'd like to be my boyfriend.

But no, because I don't want boyfriends

Or girlfriends or anything else susceptible.

To be lied to, to be convinced.

To be abducted to form a couple"

2.- Enamorado tuyo | El Cuarteto de Nos.

Ah~ the endless debate about what the true meaning of this song is. Some say it's a love song, others say it's about denial. The good thing about ambiguous meaning is that you can play with the words as you wish, and for me, this song is lit me.

"If you think that I feel love

Please don't make regret

Don't comment with your people

About our affair.

Hardly anyone ever says

That I'm in love with you"

3.- Desechable | Mon Laferte.

The lyrics of this song reflect an internal struggle. When I first discovered my arromanticism, it was hard for me to accept it. I wanted so badly to experience falling in love and being loved differently, I wanted to be and have that special person in my life. If I can't be special to someone else, then I will always be one of the crowd.

"I'm just one more, just a maybe

Something disposable, expendable.

I'm just another number, just another piece.

I am irremediable, invisible.

Behind my shield there is skin.

Behind the bitter there is honey.

You will see that there is light behind the black shadow"

4.- Primavera | El Cuarteto de Nos.

An Aro Allosexual song, LET'S GOOOOO

The story is simple, a man thinks he's in love, but realizes he's just horny. I especially love the spring metaphor; I like how it tries to hide the horniness under a layer of romanticism and fake poetry.

"It's summer and I'm hot, but I thought it was

Because of my sudden outbreak of love, in the middle of spring.

Your laughter, in my distraction, made me think it was spring.

Your laughter, in my distraction, made me think it was spring.

It's autumn but deep inside, I still think it was

For the fact that I'm horny, full springtime.

Your laughter, in my distraction, make me think it's spring.

Your laughter, in my distraction, made me think it was spring"

5.- Bailando solo | Los Bunkers.

Yep, a song that talks about loneliness, I have nothing more to say.

"Dancing alone in the dark

You'll get used to it

To watching all of life go by.

Like a promise at dusk,

You can dissolve

On the edge of a crystal glass.

Now that you're here

And the future hides from you

You've already scratched the floor

And the walls of your room"

6.- Paramar | Los Prisioneros.

The lyrics suggest that to love requires a series of sacrifices that distort the essence of the person. There is nothing more arromantic than feeling uncomfortable in a relationship, that you are not really being yourself, you are only forcing to act as society says you should.

"Love, love, where did I hear that word before?

I redid my schedule for you

And buy more calendars.

Passed me a 3 dimensional video,

With a happy ending.

I tried to inject myself with my old optimism,

But that one that turned out

Was still me, ready to love.

I never thought that just this winter, Would be the coldest I've ever seen.

I'm no good for love"

7.- Sexo | Los Prisioneros.

This song is a critique of the hypersexualization of society and the use of sex to get the attention of the masses. It also talks about the pressure to be sexually active and how sex is needed in order to be an “adult”. Pretty ace to me.

"There's nothing to blush about,

It's everywhere, you see.

Now virginity

Is a medieval thing.

It's your maturity card,

Your passport to adulthood.

She is not a woman to love

But an enemy to be subdued"

8.- Estar solo | Los Prisioneros.

Can you tell I love Los Prisioneros? They are one of the most important Latin rock bands for a reason.

I remember being 17 years old, going to school and seeing my friends with their boyfriends, coming home and watching my parents kissing, turning on the TV and find a romantic movie. In those days, when I was not in my best mood, all I could do was lock myself in my room and listen to this song with swollen eyes. This song represents the ultimate expression of my internalized aphobia. Although I have now accepted my identity and sexuality, this remains one of the songs I have identified with the most in my life.

"Something that is always there.

Something that is neither lie nor truth.

Bad habits, bad destiny.

A single path

That I can never deny.

There's something wrong inside of me

A kind of program with an error,

A tendency, a demand.

Many differences

That I can never deny.

To be alone.

To be alone.

The months go by, the years come together

And everything doesn't matter.

The fantasies, the movie scenes,

Have a bad ending.

I'm fine I feel fine

But this is too big a planet to be alone.

To be alone.

To be alone.

I'm fine I feel fine

But it's too big a planet to be alone.

To be alone... there's something wrong inside of me.

To be alone... something that's neither true nor false.

To be alone... bad habits, bad destiny."

PD: I'm sorry if there is a bad translation or some parts are difficult to understand :c

[kotamagic]

This week's Lore Olympus is PACKED, so strap yourself in, cuz shit's getting wild!

Starting off with Hebe, who ran to the Mortal Realm at Apollo's horrible suggestion. Immediately, she notices that something is very, VERY wrong there. It's not Spring, Summer, or Winter, but something in-between.

Today, we would call it Fall or Autumn, but given her reaction, that wasn't a thing in those days. Additionally, the scale of seasons is way off by her count. If the four seasons are split evenly across the span of the year, they'd be 90 days/3 months apiece.

Winter? Only five days? Pfft, I wish!

On another important note, the mortals are dying of plague. Starvation could absolutely be part of it. This is big trouble for the Olympians...

I had made a comparison in one of my previous LO posts to @neil-gaiman 's American Gods. In that narrative, the Gods wither away and die if there us no one to worship them. It seems not too different with what Hermes is saying here. No believers, no powers, no existence.

Apollo REALLY wants to get murdered at this meeting, doesn't he? Where's Psyche so that she can shoot his ass again?

(Fuck, she's in Leto's prison right now, damn it.)

Apollo's got a lot of nerve pointing fingers when he hasn't done jack-diddly-squat-shit to help. Hell, a big portion of this fuck-fest is his fault to begin with!

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO HELP WITH THE KRONOS PROBLEM, APOLLO? OH, THAT'S RIGHT! NO SUN GODS ALLOWED IN THE UNDERWORLD.

Even if he could go to the Underworld, he'd just be a train wreck there as well. Honestly, before Ouranos was revealed to be the one helping Apollo, I would've suspected Kronos to be the culprit. Not sure which is worse.

Let me be clear. I have had A LOT of complaints about Demeter in Lore Olympus. The toxic, controlling behavior made me hate her because I have experience with someone much like her. And to be fair, Demeter still sits on my shit list.

But...

She has finally taken some difficult steps. She went to therapy with Persephone to try fixing their unhealthy relationship. She is struggling hard to be better, and it isn't a TOTAL loss.

This moment here, where she gets in Apollo's face, gives me another crumb of hope for her. First, she attacks his blatant disrespect of Persephone. (True, she has done plenty of her own, but I feel her putting a stop to it here is an important step forward.) Second, she voices how much she is against Apollo being anywhere near Persephone. I'm still not sure if she knows Apollo SA'd Persephone; I think that if she did, she'd be doing much worse than pulling his cape over his head.

Oh, hi Eris! It's been a hot minute since the last time that we saw you! Is this a mental conversation just between you and Apollo? The arrow through the chest bit brings back memories.

Part of me is confused as to why she appears to be beside Persephone in the Underworld in the 3rd shot. Maybe it's a visual in Apollo's head as well? The line "That sounds like something you would do." comes across as her saying it to Apollo, but for Persephone to hear.

Artemis already knows about what happened to Persephone. Her finding out that Apollo poisoned Zeus would NOT come off as farfetched to her at this point.

The blatant, unfiltered disrespect to Hera here is horrific. Hera has NEVER rested on her laurels for what she did to bring down Kronos. She has been mentally and emotionally suffering in silence for millenia. Persephone and... Hestia, I think? have worked to support her and lift her out of her depression. It has helped, but Hera still has a long way to go.

This fucknugget has BEYOND the FUCKING AUDACITY to not only put down the Queen of Olympus, but stab her where it hurts the most.

I hope that when everything falls apart for Apollo, he suffers HORRIBLY and for an extremely long time. I want him to suffer so badly that he begs for mortality and is DENIED so that he KEEPS suffering, just as his victims have suffered. ARGH!

Anyway, thanks for coming to my LO post!

[gurathins]

🍊🐈⛄️hehe

YAYYYYY <3 i'm picking toby bc i am procrastinating studying chem rn haha

headcanons ask game

🧡 for a friendship-themed headcanon

Toby has, well, a really hard time getting friends?I've joked about it being a poorly socialized puppy before but the thing is that Tobias is in fact a bit badly socialized in a way that back when it was a child it basically had barely any free time and barely had anyone to hang out with (+ the whole thing of moving to another planet, stuff like that). It had people it talked to, but did it have proper friends? Not really... :(

Of course he's definitely gotten better at it after a while, but he still has some problems with it. It could have people who it knows and maybe kinda sees as friends but it's never completely sure if they see it as their friend and stuff like that. It is afraid of being the first who contacts others & sometimes (especially if it's, well, in a bad situation mental health wise) may go "ooooh i must be so annoying if i try to talk with others" and stuff like that wbdbjxkxjxj it feels very lonely sometimes.

Most of the friendships it has right now just happened accidentally and it's like, trying its best not to lose them 😭

🐈 for a pet/animal-themed headcanon

Toby's always been a cat person! It really relates to them with the whole "sleep as much as you can and do whatever you want" thing :^)

When it was working in its corpo job, it used to volunteer at a local cat shelter very often. It didn't really do it while it was in it's Florida era, but definitely got back into volunteering when it moved to Boston :)

Funny thing is, it has never had a cat until it and Klara got together bc she and Mabel had a ragdoll in their apartment and since Toby was spending time there a lot it was basically taking care of it ajdjjxjcbx 🥹 When they first moved together to a new apartment, the owners had a no pets policy so they were basically without cats for a while. Then when they moved into their second apartment, one and a half years later they found a stray kitten (Melody) and decided to keep her, and then like half a year later they got Song from their friend. :3

⛄ for a season-themed headcanon

Toby looooooves autumn, it makes it so happy. It likes the colorful trees, rain, sweater weather, things like that. It gets overly excited about it, too, and will talk abt it and wear autumn related colors a lot.

Toby doesn't really have any experiences with proper, snowy winter, not counting its early years on Mars. It likes the idea of snow but would probably get cold very quickly abdbbfbfnc

It thinks spring is an okay season but doesn't really like it due to its hay fever 😭

Tobias & summer don't really go together bc it can't wear its favorite outfits due to the heat and it's basically feeling so miserable due to the weather sjdjjxnxjfjx

[recurring-polynya]

Writing/Art Update 10/17/2023

In a shocking turn of events, I am still working on Ductwork. I actually made some significant progress this week, or at least they feel significant to me. The main thing is that I have finished Chapter One. Now, usually, I am very good at starting a fanfic, and I'll churn out the first chapter as the first thing I do. In this case, though, I wanted to stick a flashback in somewhere early on, maybe Chapter One, maybe somewhere else. I couldn't decide, and also, I didn't really want to deal with it, so I skipped that and left a bunch of To-Dos there instead. Eventually, I decided to do this in the hardest way possible, which is to chop the flashbacks up into a thousand little flashbacks and alternate between real-time scenes and flashback scenes. I am also alternating narrators, so basically it goes Rukia-real time, Rukia-flashback, Renji - real time, Renji - flashback, etc. Byakuya starts getting narration at some point, I'll deal with that when I get to it. The important thing is that I now have a thing that could pass as a first chapter. I have about half of Chapter 2 done, as well. I have two flashbacks to write, and two scenes that I've already written that I need to copy over and make sure they still fit (at least one of them is going to need some fixes.)

The only one of the documents I worked on this week was the Clean, Contiguous Version, which now stands at 12,443 words. That's an increase of 5,523, but some of that was a scene I had already written (although, to be fair, it required some significant edits, which worked out, because there was a lot about it that I didn't like). My actual words for this week was about 4,348, which is very good!! It's more than 4000, the completely arbitrary number I have decided is a good amount of words to write in a week.

Also, yesterday, I pulled out that smut I was writing a few weeks ago and wrote 1,637 words on that, as well. It's basically done, but it needs to be edited pretty badly, and I should really try to make the ending better. I sort of shoved it aside into "don't look at it" space for a few days to marinate. It's kinda weird and I'm not sure if anyone will like it. At some point in writing it, I realized I could write it one way and it would be Nicer and More Normal and probably get more likes, but then I decided to let Rukia be rowdy, instead. I always question why I bother posting these things, but then I go ahead and do it anyway. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

I think I'm actually going to experiment with making a pseud and moving all my smut to the pseud. It just feels better organized to me, and I just really don't like having all my gnarly pornos mixed in with my regular ones on my works page. I don't think this should be disruptive to anything, but if it is, I apologize in advance.

Speaking of objectifying Renji, I did my yearly pin-up last week (it's autumnal instead of summery!) I don't love how it came out, but it wasn't getting any better the more I worked on it, and it was already kind of a lot of work. I still think it shows progress compared to previous years' efforts, which is kind of impressive considering how little drawing I've done this year. I feel like I need to go back and do a study in how to draw faces again, but I appear to be Back on my Writing Bullshit for once, and I'm just trying to keep up my momentum on that for as long as I can.

[welcometololaland]

Getting to Know Me

aka. fine, @rmd-writes, you win. also, i think i saw @cha-melodius tagged me back, but i'm not sure about anyone else, sorry!

Relationship Status: as previously noted, i have a cat that hates my guts 70% of the time and a partner who thankfully does not appear to hate me, but is probably the most patient and tolerant person in the entire world (you have to be, to deal with me).

Song stuck in my head: wheels on the bus - WHY? WHY??? i don't even have a child! someone get it out.

Last song I listened to: i remember - deadmau5.

Three favourite foods: bread, green tea tofu bao buns from my favourite restaurant (so good i wrote them into a fic), bread.

Last thing I Googled: montalto.

Dream trip: too many places. i would love to go to canada, i've never been there. i'd love to see new england in the autumn/fall. i want to go back to brazil really badly and go further north than rio. i also really want to see parts of the pantanal. i really want to travel southern argentina and chile and see the tierra del fuego. i want to do more of central america and mexico. i want to go back to turkey. romania has been on my list for years and i've never been. too many places, too little time!

Anything I want right now: someone to tell me what to do with my life, because i'm at a crossroads and i have the worst decision paralysis.

If you could be any animal, what would you be and why? an orca - the solitary lifestyle is not for me, and these animals are so freaking smart and beautiful! also, imagine being able to travel throughout the ocean your whole life. the ocean is so big and we know so little about it.

Would you rather have the power to read minds or fly? i want to say read minds to soothe my anxiety but actually i think it would make my anxiety worse, so i'm gonna say fly.

not gonna tag anyone because i swear everyone has done this by now, but if you have any tips on how to work out what the fuck to do with your life, or amazing travel experiences that you want to share, please let me know. I love hearing about those!!! Also my ask box is always open for life advice or like...anything lol.

<3

[officialgleamstar]

Please tell me more about Mercedes’ experience learning about Henry’s past 🙏 also Henry’s response to learning the truth of himself secondhand from his loved ones - when does he find out? Does Mercedes phone him right away, or does she wait to tell him when they’re reunited?

you really weren't kidding when you told me you were saving things i brought up on discord so you could ask me about them on tumblr, huh HGKFHGJKFD

THIS IS A PART OF THE AU THAT I . STRUGGLE WITH lol as ive told you. i know that mercedes reacts very poorly to henry's family, she struggles with it a lot (as i said, a sentiment that stays with me - she always thought the twins took after her until she saw everyone in oakvale). however, i have some trouble pinning down like... mercedes' exact reaction? the thing with mercedes is like. she is a very open-minded character, she takes things in stride, and she doesn't like the idea of making people feel judged. at the same time, she's very emotional and while i wouldn't call her hot-headed by any means, i do think that oakvale would severely piss her off and she would not be shy about it LOL. she would want very badly to be cool and normal about oakvale - this is her husbands family, after all! - but it also flies in the face of everything that she and henry stand for.

and of course, i think ive mentioned this part on tumblr but if not - mercedes does fear, in a way, that the twins fit in more in oakvale than they do with her. sparrow especially. its selfish and she hates that part of her, but she resents the idea that her babies might be happier in this fantastical land that suits their childhood adventures and their burgeoning magic and their whimsical spirit, and that shes going to be left out of it. and alongside that, i know ive said this before, mercedes's generational trauma struggles in this au are a lot less hers and a lot more trying to figure out how to support her family through theirs. oakvale as a whole is a big symbol for the difficulty that comes from trying to support your partner against a world you cant even begin to imagine

for henry's response... oof. i think mercedes wouldn't tell him right away, and she would write it off to herself as wanting to tell him in person, but it would stem a lot more from fear and anxiety. shes already afraid of losing her twins to oakvale. she doesnt want to awaken all these memories in her husband and risk him going back too. so she would wait until after the odyssey was over to tell him. honestly, i think she would tell him right after the battle since like, autumn IS THERE. HIS MOM IS RIGHT THERE GFDBGJBDF as for his response... hard to say. i think he would freak the fuck out, just like in canon, but it would be more muted because hes more overwhelmed at having his family back in his arms and also fighting monsters and a dragon and some random dads-?! he would have just. a lot to work through, unpacking everything that mercedes and autumn tells him after the adventure is over. and after he gets stabbed and an eldritch god is summoned through his blood lol