#I’m so tempted to post the chapters that are already done

[artyandink]

amoralism | one

Summary: You and Dean Winchester are the top agents from Major Crimes. You’re also assigned as partners on the same case- a crime syndicate is running loose and buying out most of downtown New York. He hates you cause you hate him. You hate him cause you think he got in his position with his daddy’s influence. But this case is personal to one of you more than the other- and you may be getting too personal for comfort.

A/N - I said I’d post on Friday but surprise! Also, as a note, I have no intention of completely relating to realism (even though I’m pretty sure that’s a title of a chapter). This will be almost like an action/romance movie, and the format is sort of like that too.

SERIES MASTERLIST

Song Inspo: Shameless - Camila Cabello

narcissism

Fifty-Shots Bar had never had this many patrons before.

Clinking of glasses, the bellow of random toasts, tapping of the bar for another round, the whole trifecta played on loop until all those glasses came down on the counter and all the beefy men downing those drinks like water would slap the back of the tallest in the lot, forcing that dude with the unreasonably gorgeous hair to bend to their height from the pressure.

“What’s the occasion, boys?” The lady on shift, Jenna, chuckled. She was intrigued as to why the festivities were so… robust, but then one of the guys shoved the tall one forward, clapping his shoulder in a way that knocked the latter’s breath out.

“Ah, nothing.” The taller one tried playing it off, but the shorter wouldn’t hear of it. His green eyes shone mischievously as he ruffled the tall guy’s hair. Jenna’s eyes couldn’t help but trail down the patron’s, well, everything. Short blonde hair, five o’clock shadow on the sharpest jawline she’d ever seen. Lips always in a pout, daring her to kiss it away until they bruised. Casual denim shirt nothing short of tempting, as tight as a damn straitjacket over that broad, no doubt kissable chest. Arms framed in his sleeves, probably bore enough strength to throw her around like a ragdoll and he wouldn’t break a sweat.

She bit her lip. Oh Lord, this man was either from heaven or hell and she wouldn’t complain either way.

“It’s not nothing.” He laughed, shaking his head. “My brother Sam here took down a big-time multi level marketing scheme. So damn modest.” Another clap of Sam’s shoulder. However, he seemed to have clocked Jenna and her obvious admiration of his entire being, a quirk of the corner of his mouth having her knees like jelly. “What’s your name, beautiful?”

She giggled, her finger twirling her hair around her finger as if she was a little schoolgirl with her first crush. “Jenna. What’s yours?”

“Dean Winchester.” He took her hand, kissing her knuckle and letting his lips linger, smouldering eye contact sending shivers down her spine. “Agent Dean Winchester. Say, Jenna, what time do you get off?”

“When you do.” She breathed, and the low chuckle from Dean had her snapping back into her senses but also getting a very noticeable ache between her thighs. “Um, in an hour.”

Sam had already left. He wasn’t in the mood for watching very visible eye-banging.

Champagne. Chauvinists. The classic fancy, downtown party hosted by a family that owned half of Chicago. Flashing lights, a pair of eyes on you at all times… it was rather an overwhelming feeling, one that you couldn’t shake.

You didn’t know whether to feel confident or hunted in the red dress that you wore, satin and navy and with an open back- all things nice and very attractive to men. Your makeup and blonde (for today) hair done like a movie star and getting the attention of every man in the room, regardless of age.

“And who might you be, sweets?” A very Southern accent drawled from behind you, and you turned around, making a show of playing the innocent yet extremely attractive and mysterious lady at the most extravagant birthday party you had ever seen.

You were playing a stereotype. You hated stereotypes.

“Anna Raleigh.” You responded smoothly, and he seemed to buy it, taking your hand and kissing the knuckle, the creepy eye contact urging you to snatch your hand back and scrub it with an antiseptic wipe.

“Miss Raleigh, you are a work of art. Name’s Matthias Aldrich.” He practically purred, and that sent a cold shiver up your spine.

You put on a polite, smitten smile, though you were inwardly rolling your eyes. “Thank you, sir.”

Matthias tucked a strand of your blonde hair behind your ear. “I’ve always been fond of women who are the golden type of blonde. Hope this is natural.”

You took a crouton from a passing tray, popping it in your mouth and chewing on it, answering once you’d swallowed the bite. You’d done it quick because you could see this dude’s eyes on your lips as you chewed. “I say, these croutons are quite dry, no?”

The door to Jenna’s apartment burst open, her and Dean stumbled in, lips locked, door closing with a well-timed click and moans echoing amid breathy sighs. Dean’s jacket fell just as Jenna’s fingers tugged on his hair, causing him to jolt and let out a growl, groaning as he bent to kiss her neck. “Just like that.” He murmured, nipping and assaulting the tanned skin. Only detaching to pull her skimpy tank over her head, revealing a hot pink, lace bra.

She’s freaky. He liked that.

“You like?” She breathed, ample chest heaving as her teeth worried her bottom lip, batting her eyelashes. Putting on a show for him.

“Mmh.” He hummed, nodding before he reached for the clasp, effortlessly undoing it. It fell to the floor, and he clicked his tongue with a grin. “Better.”

“Much.” She purred, kissing him hotly and leading them to the bedroom.

Pushing.

Pulling.

Grinding.

Jenna’s legs wrapping around his waist, courtesy of Dean putting them there. Moans. Groans. Whimpers. Cries and low mutters of each other’s name. The room heating up and pulsing with enough pressure to forge a diamond.

The bed creaking. Headboard banging. High pitched moans that belong in a porno. Groans of ‘just like that’ and whines of ‘right there’ and ‘don’t stop’.

Not even after a minute after your comment about the dry croutons, the building was stormed. Armed personnel burst through every exit, holding up automatics and yelling for everyone to get their hands up, while you were taken by the arm by one of the people yelling ‘FBI! Hands where we can see them!’ and dragged in a way which appeared rough.

You were led kicking and screaming into a side van, and the moment the door slid shut, you snapped out of it, pulling the wig off. “About time, eh, boys?”

“At least we got your signal.” One protested, while another snorted.

“Dry croutons? Really?” He rolled his eyes, spinning on the chair, raising a pointed eyebrow at you. “With all due respect, it could be something less outlandish.”

“Then it would be too easy to miss, Velasquez.” You retorted, grabbing a makeup wipe and beginning to practically scrub it all off. Also taking an antiseptic wipe and a bottle of hand sanitizer to rid your hand of Matthias Aldrich’s lips. “And since when do I work like I’m a basic, sweater wearing, background blending Gertrude?”

“She has a point, Velasquez.” One agent quipped as he went by. You pointed after him with a smirk.

“Willis gets it.” You grinned, shrugging. “Why can’t you? Have a heart, Velasquez.”

“Yeah, have a heart.”

“Shut up!” Velasquez yelled after him, and got the middle finger from Willis in response.

“You ready to report to the CO, Agent?” Willis asked you, passing you a mug of coffee, which you gratefully sipped.

“When am I not?” You chuckled, letting the warm liquid wash over your throat. “Now, I don’t care what you two clowns do, I need these guys behind bars for two lifers at least. I’ve been hunting down these sons of bad mothers for months. I’m not having any slip ups, no buy ins nor outs. Every. Exit. Sealed.” You looked between the two with an intense glare, no nonsense and all business. “Am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Morning afters were always hard for Dean. He had a rule that he followed to the T.

Mind blowing sex? Doesn’t matter, leave before he gets attached and she gets hurt.

“Sorry, Jen, I’d stay, but I’m late for work.” He hurriedly buttoned his denim shirt, trying not to get distracted by the sight of the girl in the sheets, naked body only a thin layer of cotton away.

All he had to do was peel it.

“Aw, handsome, I thought you’d stay for round six.” Jenna giggled, looking him up and down. Inside, Dean was rolling his eyes in frustration. They always got clingy after the best night of their life. Then again, that was purely his fault.

“I would, trust me, darlin’.” He cleared his throat, walking into the living room and finding his jacket and keys, along with his belt. That was important.

Jenna stepped in as well, clad in a silk robe that made her look no short of delectable. But he had to resist. Stick to the damn code. “Y’know, I’m a sucker for a man in uniform.”

She was trying a hit. God, she was trying hard. Dean had to physically resist going back for another hit. She was clingy, sure, but there was a huge double standard there.

“Are you, now?” He smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. “Careful, sweetheart, or I might sextuple dip.”

“Maybe I want you to.” She winked, and it had him chuckling, looking down and then back at her.

“Tempting. Very tempting.”

You stepped into the office, your heels making small taps on the floor as you went, signing in and showing your ID at the register before making your way inside. You’d been told to take a rest for a few days before you returned to your post in the HQ at DC, but who were you to listen?

And everyone knew it too, because the very moment you stepped inside, you were greeted with a show of applause and cheers from your colleagues. “Tenth drug ring of your career.” Agent Lafitte clapped your shoulder, chuckling. “You’re on a roll, sister.”

“Cool it with the flattery, Benny, I’m on a time crunch.” You snorted, shaking your head and holding a hand out for a case file, which was dropped into your hand as you continued walking.

“Hi.” There was a blonde girl beside you, hair pulled up into a ponytail, presumably the one who handed the fine to you. “Agent Jo Harvelle. I used to work narcotics, but they’re giving me a trial in Major Crimes. I was told by the CO to shadow you, so I can get a good sense of the ropes.”

While looking through the files, you glanced up at Agent Harvelle, seeing the eager look on her face. Rather like you when you started, and the eager ones made good agents. With a little tough love. “Yeah, a’ight. CO’s called me for a briefing, so it’ll be up to him whether you stay or step out.”

“About that drug ring you busted?” She grinned. “I was told. By practically everyone. How are you that skilled?”

“Ain’t my first rodeo, hon.” You smirked as you reached the boss’ office, rapping twice on the door with your knuckles and earning a polite ‘come in’.

That you did, finding your superior officer, Senior Agent Robert Singer, standing behind his desk, nose deep in a file while his ear was being talked off by… oh, boy.

Agent Winchester.

“So I quickly take my gun, aim it between his eyes,” He held up finger guns and aimed them to prove his point, completely disregarding your arrival, hideously typical, “and I said ‘hands up or I’ll reenact Rambo’. Genius, am I right?”

You cleared your throat sharply.

That got Agent Winchester’s attention, his green eyes zeroing in on you and giving you memories back that you tried to dispose of in the first place. A smirk twitched at those lips that were once too close to be professional before they stretched into a grin, pearly whites flashing. “Mornin’, Agent. Surprised to see you here.”

“I could say the same thing.” You pressed your lips together (and your thighs, but you’d never admit that), turning to Agent Singer instead. “Should I leave Harvelle outside, sir?”

“That’s ideal.” Singer nodded, so you signalled to Harvelle to stay outside as you closed and locked the soundproof door. You passed the file on the Brierson drug ring to him, which he checked over. “Impressive work, as always. This’ll land them behind bars for sure.”

“Always the perfectionist, aren’t you?” Winchester quipped, arms folded across his chest with a smug smirk. Your brow twitched; you knew exactly why he was highlighting that word in bold, italics, whatever he was intending to do. You’d just rather not think about it.

You scanned him over, adding all the facts in your head. His shirt wasn’t ironed. Belt was wonky. Hair looked like it had a comb desperately run through it but failed to tame it. Faint hint of something red you recognised as a lipstick smear on his jugular and a sliver of a purple bruise that disappeared under his collar. Which was hastily pulled up. His tie done in the simplest knot ever and still looked tragic.

He got here in quite the rush.

“Nice night?” You shot back, a full smirk tugging at your lips and making his drop. He gave you a look which blatantly said smartass, while you proudly notched that win on your belt.

Singer looked between the two of you before tapping his desk. “Entertaining, but not why you’re both here. We’ve found ourselves in a fix. Franz Brierson wasn’t at that party.”

Your blood ran cold. That guy was the big boss, the guy who started it all, got everyone on his payroll. If he was loose… but he couldn’t be loose. Unless you didn’t check?

“I’ve been looking into it for the past five hours. That’s right, I got here early.” Singer huffed out a breath. “There’s a chance that our big boss was notified beforehand. A mole that told him we were coming.”

“A mole. In the FBI.” Dean muttered, now serious as he rubbed a hand into his mouth. “We’ve been clean for years.”

“It’s the only explanation.” You piped up, shaking your head as you began to pace. Heels tapping, Dean’s eyes fixating on the sway of your hips and your ass in that getup at the wrong goddamn moment. “That operation was airtight. No room for error. Only someone on the inside could have leaked that info.”

“You two are the best Major Crimes has. Most arrests, most drug and crime busts I’ve seen on a record in all my years of being here.” Singer folded his arms, looking between the two of you. “I don’t know the whats, whens, whos, hows, whys of what happened when you two were last assigned on a case together, but I need this operation to stay in this circle right here.” He faced you. “When you’re working this case, Agent Harvelle can’t be there. It’s gonna be hard to shake, but you can handle it. As for you,” Singer shot an exasperated look at Winchester, “look presentable!”

“I look hot.” Dean pouted, now holding his jacket over his shoulder with it hooked on his index.

“Hot isn’t FBI. Go sort yourself out, or I’ll get your brother to do it. I need to oversee operations.” Singer left the room and the tense air between you and Dean, which you faced head on.

“So,” You started in a lilting voice, which he recognised instantly as your teasing tone and prompting an eye roll before the words left your lips, “was she good?”

“Shut up.” He groaned, shaking his head as he pulled his suit jacket back on. “None of your damn business. It’s an intimate exploration, not exhibitionism.” He lowered his voice so you couldn’t hear. “Though she’d probably be into that.”

“Are we calling sex an intimate exploration now?” You scoffed lightly, laughing afterwards. “You’re such a sappy romantic.”

“Asshole.” He shot back. Two can play, Winchester.

“Dumbass.”

“Smartass.”

“Jackass.”

“We gotta stop using ‘ass’ in every sentence.” He groaned, running a hand through his hair and picking up the file to busy himself. But the file was picked out of his hands, left carelessly on the desk, your lips claiming his something sinful.

Something that had him moaning, gripping your hips and his mouth soft, pliable, agreeable to your every want and need. He was all yours, and that was all it took to silence him.

Well, not really silence him, but details weren’t necessary. Not when your plush lips were pressing against his neck like that. Hot, open mouthed. Insistent. Rousing. Dizzying. Intoxicating.

He’d be damned if he ever got enough.

His shirt was soon hanging open, tie discarded as the marks of that sexy lipstick shade littered his torso, and he wasn’t complaining. He definitely wasn’t complaining when you sank to your knees, unbuckling his belt as your tongue traced his abs. Didn’t dare when his slacks pooled to the floor, boxers dropping next, his hand tangling in your hair as-

“Hey.” Your fingers snapped in front of him, taking him out of his delightful daydream, however ill-timed. He swallowed, giving himself a once over. No tie discarded, no shirt undone, no lipstick marks and definitely no you looking so sexy on your knees for him. Having him whine for you.

That was a thought worth biting his lip to.

“You with me?” You continued, and upon his shaky nod, you gave him a weird look before continuing on with your briefing. He inwardly wiped sweat off his brow, thankful to whatever god was watching for the lucky save.

You were sipping a late-night decaf coffee as you contemplated the case again, dressed in your worst-looking pyjamas with an old tea stain on the front and fuzzy socks. Had you scoped the party properly, you could’ve clocked if big man Brierson was actually there. But he’d known, he’d known, and now everyone in Major Crimes was under investigation.

By you.

Well, and Agent Winchester, but you’d rather not think of him. You’re actually not quite sure what happened between you two, all that you broke your own rules for your heart to be broken too. You focused on your job, he had fun. Your cycle went that way.

You’d find a new case, he’d find a new girl. Both to busy yourselves so you wouldn’t have to think about each other, which worked until now.

You got a phone call, and you mindlessly picked it up, irritated as you were pulled from your contemplative thoughts. “What do you want? I’m busy.”

‘Dean, so nice to hear from you.’ You heard, his voice mimicking yours before switching back to his. ‘Wow, Agent, colour me surprised; it’s nice to hear from you too. How are you, Dean? I’m perfectly fine, sweetheart, how are you? You’re so polite.’

“Do I sound like someone to engage in small talk right now?” You deadpanned among chuckles at his own joke, putting your dinner - leftovers - in the microwave. God, you weren’t in the mood for this.

Eventually his snickers subsided, and he cleared his throat as you set the mug down. ‘Duly noted. You’re boring. Anyway, about the mole case. I think we should meet up in the office tomorrow to draw up a list of potential suspects.’

You took your warmed dinner, placing the phone between your shoulder and ear as you stabbed the spaghetti with a fork, chewing as you spoke. “And I think you’re insane. That’s the place we’re casing. Why in the hell would we start drafting up names there?”

You heard Dean clear his throat at the end of the line. ‘Right. Got it. My place?’ Truth is, Dean had been hoping you’d say anything but ‘let’s not draft at the office’. He was scared he’d lift you up on the nearest surface and do what he hadn’t the previous time, mark you, claim you and then let you claim him, mark him, wreck him. He didn’t know what you two were, or what you’d become.

Maybe strangers with very intense, deep seated sexual tension.

“What time?” You asked through yet another bite of spaghetti. You weren’t about to forgo dinner for this dude, cordiality be damned.

‘Tomorrow, straight after hours, just head to my place. Does that work for you?’

“Mm, yeah.” You nodded, setting down your plate to quickly note it in your schedule. “See you then, Agent Winchester.”

‘Call me Dean.’

“Agent Winchester.” It was the least you could do after how things got last time. Again, you’d rather not talk about it.

You walked into the DC office after registering, briefing with Agent Singer before heading to the break room, where you found Trainee Agent Harvelle, Trainee Agent Kevin Tran, Agent Benjamin Lafitte, Agent Garth Fitzgerald and Agent Sam Winchester.

You knew Sam. He was a damn sight more respectful and less… Dean-esque than his older brother. Smarter, yet less effective on brute force raids. For that, you needed Dean Winchester. Anything research, or hacking into databases, Sam was your guy.

“Agents.” You smiled awkwardly, not knowing how else to greet them as you went straight for the coffee pot. Thank the Lord for the petition to make the standard of coffee in that jug better that got the vote from every damn person in the department.

HR and Maintenance can suck it.

“Agent.” The rest of them replied, identically sipping cups of Joe.

“Agents.” Singer walked in, holding a file. “Briefing room. Now.” He walked out, and you all followed suit, taking your coffees with you because you needed the caffeine to sustain your brains. Once you all stepped into the briefing room, where Agent Winchester and Agent Nick Garrison were waiting.

Singer grunted, pulling up a slideshow on the board. “Let’s get this over with.” He showed bodies, robbed banks, hostage situations. “Six occurrences of organised crime over the past four weeks. All hitting major municipalities. Now it’s our jurisdiction.”

“What have we got from the crime scenes?” Agent S. Winchester asked, brow furrowed in thought.

“Nothing but this snake logo, spray painted at every scene.” Up comes a logo of a rearing cobra.

You shrugged, quickly figuring something out. “Well, that solves half of the mystery. They want our attention.”

“It is possible.”

“I think it’s a temper tantrum.” You snorted, pointing to the board. “Look at where they’re hitting. Large cities, maximum damage, it’s a cry out for our beady eyes. Leaving a logo at the scene? Someone either wants to get caught or lead us on.”

“Sounds kinda like girls at a bar.” Agent D. Winchester snickered, but earned a weird look from everyone in the room. “What? I make my own style of analogies, don’t come at me for it.”

“Who’s on the team, sir?” Lafitte asked, the man all slow drawl, suave talk and suspenders.

You pointed to Agent D. Winchester, smirking. “Leave him out, his main interests are girls and booze.”

“Blow me.” He scoffed in retaliation, glaring at you. That was a mistake on Dean’s part, cause he started to imagine it. Oh, that memory’s vivid as hell.

“Beg for it.” You shot back, and despite the steady inflation of awkwardness, he really had half a mind to beg for it, honour be damned to hell.

Pin drop silence. Shared smirks. Uncomfortable eye contact between you and Dean, your minds going to places they really shouldn’t.

Agent Singer cleared his throat, then continued talking. “I want you,” he pointed to you, “and the two Agent Winchesters and Agent Lafitte on it, and the two trainees Agent Tran and Harvelle to shadow. You’re dismissed, except for you two.”

Didn’t take a genius to know who ‘you two’ were.

So everyone but you and Agent D. Winchester filtered out, and the moment the door closed, you were both less bickering, head chopping and heart ripping. More on business.

“This is a good chance for you two to scout for our mole.” Singer looked between the two of you pointedly. “As much unknown history as you two have, you idjits need to set that aside. For the sake of our damn Major Crimes unit. Narcotics will give me hell if I don’t sort this out. And the board of directors will be less pleased that we’ve been compromised.”

“We understand, sir.” You nodded, understanding how goddamn serious this was. Lives were on the line. Your jobs, the Federal Bureau of Investigation’s maintained integrity. “We can put aside our differences, can’t we, daddy’s boy?” You smirked at Dean, then pretended to realise that you’d made a mistake. “Oh, my bad. Agent Winchester.”

Dean resisted a clapback with all his might. He didn’t care if their CO was right there, he’d bend you over this desk and show you who’s really in control here.

That would wipe the smirk off those pretty lips. Replace it with his claim over you.

“So, Dean, I wanna know.” Sam smirked, cracking open a beer and passing it to his older brother. “What’s with you and her?”

Dean scoffed, sipping the beer and shaking his head. “I’m asked this fifty times a day. There’s nothing going on here. We’re work colleagues. She’s incredibly annoying, and grating, and infuriating, and I’m extremely handsome.”

That got a wider smirk from Sam, a knowing one. “You knew who I was talking about.”

That caught Dean out, and he furrowed his brow in confusion. “Say what?”

“You have so many girls in your life that half of your contacts are women.” Sam raised an eyebrow, then chuckled. “But you knew who I was referencing first try.”

“Humour me, Sammy.” Dean grimaced, folding his arms. “How do you label intense sexual tension that was almost acted on yet it almost broke our personal set of rules? Hm? Thought so.”

“So, she’s kind of like an old flame.”

“That flame ain’t lit.”

Sam nodded slowly, giving a breathless chuckle and an inclination of his head. “Yeah. Sure.” He stepped out of the room to head upstairs, which alerted Dean of the implication. He rolled his eyes, throwing his hands up in the air.

“Hey! Sammy!”

NEXT UP:

“Oh, honey, such a flirt!” You laughed in a posh accent, mimicking your mother’s laugh to the best of your ability while you swatted Dean’s chest. He smirked at the look in your eyes, because goddamn was it obvious that you hated this.

“Darlin’, I can’t help myself around you.” He turned to the other charity goers with a proud smirk, gesturing to all of you. “Can’t keep my hands off my gorgeous wife. Might have to have something off the menu for dessert, if you catch my drift.” He winked at some elderly ladies, who giggled and waved him off.

“Such a charming boy.” One cooed, obviously eyeing Dean up with poorly restrained envy. While you looked around for your target, you missed the way Dean’s eyes travelled down your body in that form-fitting red dress, v-neck, v-back, thigh slit where he knew you had a thigh holster strapped in, all the good stuff. And his eyes were on those scarlet heels.

He was imagining ramming into you with those sexy things on. And that dress, well, it’d be off in second if he had the chance. And that lipstick? Well, it’d be smeared and leaving prints on his neck, chest, abs and- that’s going a bit too unprofessional.

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[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Who Taught You How to Love Like That? - Chapter Four

Pairing: Modern!Aemond Targaryen x female character (third person) Warnings: Sugar daddy/sugar baby dynamics. Smut. Oral (f receiving). Angst. Word count: ~3.5k

Series masterlist

Chapter summary: An understanding is reached and Aegon dishes family dirt at a BBQ.

Author's note: I don't have a tag list - please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Only scabs community label fics. If you find yourself tempted to slap a label on this, please block me instead.

Her phone vibrates on the coffee table, the buzzing causing it to move dangerously close to the edge. Quick as a flash, Mysaria lunges forward from the sofa to catch it before it topples to the floor, smirking when she sees the name that’s flashing up on the screen.

“How many times is that today now?” She asks, gently tossing the phone to her as a missed call notification replaces the incoming call alert.

She shrugs, not averting her gaze from the TV screen as a rerun of Come Dine with Me, that neither of them are particularly paying attention to, plays to itself. “Dunno. He’ll get the hint eventually.”

It’s Sunday evening and she hasn’t spoken to Aemond since she woke up alone in his flat the previous morning, despite the fact he texts and calls her more times than she can count. She deletes the messages without reading them, and lets each of his calls go to voicemail. He’d made her feel cheap, used, put a price on her body, and she had no desire to ever speak to him again.

Mysaria sighs, flopping back against the sofa cushions. “Can I be a bitch for a second?” She asks, turning her head to face her. “You aren’t going to like it, but I think you need to hear it.”

She leans her head back, eyes flitting to meet her flatmate’s, already feeling a prickle of annoyance heat her skin, but decides to let her say her piece. ��Go on then.”

“Why are you punishing him because you’ve caught feelings?”

Her annoyance bursts forth into anger as her brow furrows, her body language becoming squared and defensive. “I haven’t–”

“Yes, you have,” Mysaria interrupts. “I get that he did a shitty thing by leaving you high and dry, but he clearly feels bad or he wouldn’t keep trying to reach you. Give the guy a chance to explain himself, if you don’t like what he has to say then break things off.”

She scoffs in frustration, turning back towards the TV and rolling her eyes. “You are so bloody annoying!”

“Because I’m right,” Mysaria says smugly, leaning over to tap her on the nose. “You gonna call him back then?”

She chews her lip absentmindedly, turning her phone around in her hands. She supposes it wouldn’t hurt to reach out to him, if only to ask how to return the five grand he’d transferred to her.

The buzzer to the flat startles her out of her train of thought and Mysaria peels herself off of the sofa with a groan of “Finally! I’m bloody starving!”

Pizza first, then she’ll call him. She’s definitely not putting it off, she reasons with herself, she just doesn’t want her food to go cold.

“Erm…so it’s not pizza…” Mysaria says awkwardly as she re-enters the living room, a silver haired figure a good deal taller than her trailing behind her.

Dread gnaws at her stomach as she takes in the sight of Aemond, hair thrown back in a bun, dressed in a tight black henley and fitted black jeans, holding the largest bouquet of lilies and roses she’s ever seen before. Even when she’s angry with him he still manages to look absolutely breathtaking, and it irritates her.

“I’ll just…uh…” Mysaria makes a gesture towards her bedroom, and quickly makes herself scarce.

Lucky bitch.

“You’ve not been returning my calls,” Aemond says flatly.

“No…” She responds quietly, feeling the warmth of embarrassment spread through her, as she plucks nervously at the legs of her jogging bottoms. He’s never seen her not put together, and she loathes that she feels shame for her appearance, when she hasn’t done anything wrong. Him seeing her with messy hair, an oversized t-shirt and threadbare joggers makes her feel weak and vulnerable in his presence.

“Or replying to my texts.”

“I know.”

“Listen, if the other night wasn’t good, or I hurt you–”

“Why don’t you sit down?” She interjects, suddenly realising how absurd he looks, stood in the middle of the living room, dwarfing everything around him with his obscenely large bunch of flowers.

Aemond nods gratefully, taking the seat next to hear. “These are you for, by the way,” He tells her, handing her the flowers.

She hums a quiet thanks, immediately overwhelmed by the sweetness of their aroma, and places them on the coffee table, knowing she’ll need no distractions if she’s to say what she needs to say.

“The other night was great, really great, actually,” She begins. “But you just left the next morning without a word, and that really upset me.”

“You were upset because I left?” He asks, sounding almost surprised.

“Yes!” She replies with exasperation. “You made me feel cheap, and used.”

“Cheap? But I bank transferred you afterwards.”

“Jesus, Aemond! I’m not a prostitute!” She throws up her hands angrily, gesticulating her point.

He swallows thickly, clearly considering his next words carefully. “I know you said you’ve never done anything like this before, but neither have I, and I made a mistake. My grandfather called me into the office early on Saturday morning. You looked so peaceful sleeping that I didn’t want to wake you. I’m sorry that my carelessness has hurt you, but I am keen to continue our arrangement.”

It all seems so simple when he words it like that. She could easily have reached out to question his actions, but she’d allowed her emotions to guide her and now feels foolish because of it. When she says nothing, Aemond presses on. 

“No funny business, I promise. We don’t have to sleep together again, but I’ve enjoyed having your company at family functions, it makes them more bearable. Please say you’ll consider it?”

She’s not sure what prompts the words from her mouth, perhaps it’s the pleading look in Aemond’s eye, or the fact that she enjoys his company too, but she says them before she fully has a chance to think about them. “Okay, we’ll carry on as before.”

“Thank you,” He says earnestly.

The buzzer sounding again prevents him from saying anything else, as Mysaria hurries from her room towards the door, in pursuit of her pizza delivery.

“I suppose that’s my cue to leave,” Aemond says softly. “I’ll text you, okay?”

She nods, and they both stand, hovering near each other, both unsure of what would be an appropriate goodbye. Eventually Aemond leans in, kissing the corner of her mouth lightly before pulling back and exiting the flat. She holds her fingers against the area, still able to feel the press of his lips even after he’s departed.

It takes three days for Aemond to message her again, and in that time it feels as though she could crawl out of her own skin with the apprehension that his silence brings. Had he changed his mind, decided her withdrawing contact over an honest mistake was too much to deal with? It fills her with a nervous energy that makes the days unbearable.

The relief she feels when he finally deigns to reach out is borderline humiliating.

Not sure if you remember my half sister, Rhaenyra, but she is having a BBQ on Saturday. Are you free?

I remember. Are you sure you want to go after what happened on your mum’s birthday? Xoxo

My mother will never let me hear the end of it if I don’t go. Will you come with me?

Yeah, I’m free :) xoxo

When Saturday finally rolls around, she keeps her hair and make-up simple, wearing a floral sundress and strappy sandals, but immediately feels underdressed as she recognises the house they pull up outside of as being the one they’d been to for Jace and Baela’s engagement party.

She has little time to dwell on her appearance though, as Aemond ushers her through the expanse of the house and out into the back garden. A sprawling, lush green lawn that could be considered more of a field due to its size plays host to various members of the Targaryen and Hightower families, as the smell of barbecued meat lingers on the breeze.

Aemond leads her around, his hand glued to the small of her back, so she can say polite hellos to everyone. Alicent and Criston greet her with warm hugs and kisses to both cheeks, Helaena does the same, while standing with Baela and Rhaena, the two girls offer a quick “hello” in sing-song unity. Aegon merely holds up a hand by way of greeting, looking less than enthusiastic to be there, and Otto says a polite “good to see you both”. The rest of the family’s greetings are a little more frosty, with Rhaenyra, Jace, Luke and Joffrey giving curt nods of acknowledgement, while Daemon is too preoccupied with the barbecue to notice they’ve even arrived.

“Viserys and Aegon not joining us?” Alicent asks Rhaenyra softly.

“It would mean having to switch off their Playstation, so I very much doubt it,” Rhaenyra says with a roll of her eyes.

The tension is palpable, but her nerves subside slightly when she sees a Rhodesian ridgeback galloping around the garden, with a copper coloured dachshund hot on its heels.

“Oh cute!” She says, turning to Aemond. “Could you not have brought Vhagar?”

“No,” He sighs. “She doesn’t get along with Syrax and Caraxes, so I’ve left her with the dog sitter.”

She gratefully accepts a glass of Pimm’s that’s offered to her by Otto, before he tells Aemond he needs a word.

“You’ll be okay for a moment won’t you, darling?” Aemond asks her.

The pet name causes her breath to catch in her throat and she merely nods, not trusting herself to speak. As they walk away together, she wanders over to a corner of the large garden, pretending to examine an ornate sundial to keep herself busy, when she feels a presence beside her.

Aegon has sidled up to her, beer in hand, a slight smirk on his face. “Having fun?”

“About as much as you are, by the looks of things,” She replies with a tight smile.

“At least you’re getting paid to be here.”

Her eyes go wide, her chest tightening as she realises he knows.

Aegon chuckles. “Ah, you didn’t think I knew? It’s fine, who do you think showed him the app?”

“O-oh…” is all she’s able to stammer, feeling too shocked to say anything else.

“You play a convincing part,” He takes a swig from his bottle. “Too good to be acting, actually. You can’t fake how you look at my brother.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” She snaps, feeling the familiar heat of embarrassment tingle at her flesh.

Aegon snorts derisively. “Look, take it from me, don’t get attached. My brother is the last person you want to get involved with. This whole family is a fucking car crash.”

She sips anxiously at her drink, nodding slightly. “I’d noticed none of you seem to get along that well.”

“That is the fucking understatement of the century. Has Aemond told you much about us?”

“Nothing substantial.”

“Allow me to fill you in,” He gestures discreetly towards Alicent. “My mother used to be best friends with my half-sister, they went to school together. My grandfather and my father were business partners, tri-owners of multiple companies alongside Daemon. When my father’s wife, Rhaenyra’s mother, passed away suddenly, my mother started dating my father.”

“Jesus…” She mutters under her breath.

“Oh, it gets worse!” He says with a leer. “See, Rhaenyra wasn’t happy that her best friend had shacked up with her dad. I mean, who would be? She was even more pissed off when the three of us came along, as it meant she was no longer an only child. She started sleeping around to get back at my father, that’s how she ended up with those three.”

Aegon nods towards where Jace, Luke and Joffrey all stand.

“What about her other two children, Aegon and Viserys?”

“Those are the kids she’s had with Daemon. They got married shortly before my father passed away. Mum thinks she did it just to strengthen her claim of the assets, as Daemon’s a partner in the business and Dad didn’t bother to leave a will. Everything Mum has ever tried to claim for us she’s contested.”

“So that’s what all that talk of Dragonstone Cottage was about at your Mum’s birthday?”

“Yeah, ‘Nyra’s sneaky way of trying to hoard assets for her brood.”

“How do Baela and Rhaena fit into all of this?”

“They’re Daemon’s children from a previous marriage.”

“But Baela is engaged to Jace, isn’t that a bit…” She trails off, not knowing the exact word she wants to use.

“Incestuous?” Aegon lets out a laugh that borders on being too unhinged to come from a place of genuine mirth, before taking another swig of his beer. “Yeah, yeah, it is.”

“So what does this have to do with Aemond? Why should I not get involved?”

Aegon rounds on her. “Has he ever told you about, y’know…” He taps his eye.

She shakes her head. “No.”

“Hmmm. Probably best to leave that to him to explain then.”

Their attention is pulled away by the sound of a fork being tapped against the side of a glass. She turns to see Daemon standing at the head of the garden. “Just wanted to thank you all for joining us today”, He says as everyone gathers closer, herself and Aegon included. “I think such an occasion is cause for celebration.” He brandishes a bottle of champagne, before popping the cork, a few that are stood closest step back out of its line of fire.

Luke smirks, elbowing Aemond. “He should be careful, almost had your other eye out.”

It happens so suddenly it seems like a blur, but Aemond has Luke by the collar and Aegon is rushing forward to tackle Jace away. Punches are thrown from both sides, until the ensuing scuffle is broken apart by Daemon and Otto.

Aemond’s eye is wild as he approaches her, his breathing ragged, and his usually immaculately styled hair tousled. “Come on, we’re leaving,” He grits out.

She has to hurry to keep up with his long strides through the house and to the car, and they drive in silence, Aemond’s knuckles blanched with the force of the grip he has on the steering wheel.

She drums her fingers anxiously against her thighs, not quite knowing what to say, but it is Aemond who eventually breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” He says quietly. “It was a bad idea for us to go today.”

“What was that all about?” She asks as gently as she can. “What got you so heated?”

Aemond sighs heavily, keeping his focus on the road ahead, and for a moment she doesn’t think he will answer her.

“Luke’s the reason I lost my eye,” He admits. “His little comment today got to me, and I lashed out.”

“What happened?” She turns slightly in the passenger seat to face him.

“It’s stupid really, an irresponsible rich family allowing their kids to roam the woods with Airsoft guns. The official story is that it was an accident, but accidents don’t happen at point blank range, accidents aren’t something you never apologise for.”

“Jesus, Aemond, I’m so sorry.” Her heart aches for him, having to play happy families with someone who has maimed him

“It is what it is,” He says with a slight shrug. “Makes being around them harder than it already is though. Thank you for being there with me today.”

“That’s alright,” She fidgets nervously with the hem of her dress as they pull up outside her block of flats. “Do you want to come inside for a bit? You shouldn’t be alone when you’re feeling like this.”

No funny business.

Her heart races as Aemond’s hands disappear up her skirt, reappearing with her underwear grasped in his fingers, dragging them down her legs.

We don’t have to sleep together again.

She buries her hands into the softness of his hair as he latches his mouth against her, bringing her to quick release with harsh strokes of his tongue. Every thought of what they’d discussed on Sunday evening leaves her mind as he pushes her back against the mattress, the force of his thrusts inside of her causing her toes to curl and her eyes to roll back, until he eventually collapses against her with a grunt, the faint pulsation of him inside of her signifying he’s reached his end.

They fall asleep, curled around each other in her tiny double bed and she’s pleased to see he’s still there when she awakens the following morning.

“Your mattress is fucking terrible,” Aemond grouses sleepily, pulling her tighter against him. “It feels like I’ve slept on a pile of loose change.”

She giggles, nuzzling into his neck.

They spend most mornings like that, over the coming weeks. Aemond becomes a frequent presence in the little flat. Her feet stay planted in his lap while they watch TV after work in the evenings, before he fucks her into the mattress like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Their mornings are lazy and indulgent, spent slowly exploring every inch of each other, before they part ways to go to work, only to do it all over again in the evening.

She buys a dog bed, which takes up half the floor space in her bedroom. Aemond raises an eyebrow at this.

“Vhagar’s quite fussy about where she sleeps,” He tells her, only to watch in disbelief as the elderly doberman circles several times on it, before settling down to nap. “I stand corrected.”

Their presence in her life becomes larger as time goes on, and it’s difficult not to feel that it is more than it is, but she is constantly reminded of the transactional nature with every shopping trip on Oxford Street, every visit to Champney’s Spa, each time he hands her his credit card.

The thought occurs to her that perhaps she ought to broach the topic of what they are, how their relationship is developing, but each time she decides against it, too afraid he’ll say something she doesn’t want to hear.

Mysaria smiles as she sees them snuggled together in front of the TV, when she comes home. “You’re here so often, we’ll have to start charging you rent,” She says playfully.

Aemond pulls out his phone, bringing up his banking app. “How much?” He asks, deadly serious.

“Aemond, she was joking!” She laughs, swatting his arm playfully.

It’s been a slow Saturday morning, almost midday and she sits at the kitchen table, a satisfied ache between her legs, as she sips at a coffee while Aemond plates up eggs benedict for them both. One of the things that surprises her most about him is that he’s able to cook, and he does it well.

She eyes him carefully as she pokes at her breakfast, unable to shift the feeling of how his fingers dug into her flesh, how he gazed at her so reverently, his lips featherlight against her throat just an hour before.

His money, his lavish lifestyle, she wants none of it. She just wants him, so she decides that this time she’ll be brave and shoot her shot before she has the opportunity to second guess herself.

Carefully, she sets down her cutlery and rests her chin against her hand. “So I’ve been thinking…about us.”

Aemond pauses, fixing her with his right eye.

Nerves flutter in her belly at his silence, but she continues anyway. “What we have, let’s make a proper go of it? I don’t care about your money, Aemond, I just want to be with you.”

He clears his throat, setting down his own knife and fork, before slowly wiping his mouth on a napkin. “I can’t do that,” He says quietly.

She is immediately struck by the hollowness in her chest, sucking in a harsh breath to ground herself against the lump forming in her throat.

Aemond reaches across the table, taking her hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. “You’re perfect,” He reassures her. “But I’m not, and I don’t do relationships. My circumstances are too complicated, I’d end up hurting you, and that’s the very last thing I want to do.”

She can’t argue with him, he’s being so bloody nice about it, and Aegon had warned her of this. She wants to scream at him, to cry, to tell him it isn’t fair, but it’s her that has asked for this, and at least he’s being honest with her, even if the truth does make her feel like her chest is being crushed under a vast weight. “I understand,” She chokes out.

“I’m sorry,” He says sadly, genuinely.

“Can you…can you just go, please?” She whispers, unable to look at him.

He nods, standing and presses a gentle kiss to her temple before leaving.

Only after she hears the front door click closed, and the feel of his lips have faded from her skin, does she allow herself to fall apart. Hot tears cascade down her cheeks, as she feels the presence that has taken up so much of her life leave behind a gaping void in its wake.

[bitchlessdino]

2K celebration: the party chronicles (m)

Author note: I’ve finally reached 2k followers 🥳🎉 to celebrate I’m opening up with a new series to showcase some fun up and downs of a classic house party and ofc it’s a smut/suggestive series so MINORS DO NOT INTERACT, nothing new, nothing too different, but definitely exciting. Thank you guys for being here just have fun. To my moots, my followers, my readers, you’ve all made this journey fun and gave me a sense of fulfillment and I enjoy writing and interacting with you guys. Let’s go ahead and enjoy the series as chapters gradually come out!

Warning: smut, mature themes, various povs (gn!, fem!, and afab! depending on chapter), party au, characters all in drinking age (21+), mentions of alcohol, virginity, threesomes, car sex, + varying tags per chapter

Summary: Parties. You either hate them or you love and can’t get enough of them. What fun can you expect from a house of young and reckless party goers with nothing to lose?

Chapter 1: Seungkwan and Jeonghan

Seungkwan likes Jeonghan's friend while Jeonghan is more than willing to be the perfect distraction to entertain Seungkwan's friend. Looks like they're switching besties for the night.

Chapter 2: Joshua

Josh's job is getting beers for the party but meets a cute convenience worker and sees if he can get a good bargain with a tempting offer.

Chapter 3: Seokmin

A party host's work is never done, even with seokmin's help, and trust me, he's helping a lot.

Chapter 4: Mingyu

Mingyu and his ex had be broken up for so long already and he was finally getting over them, but god be damned if you didn’t look so hot tonight.

Chapter 5: Seungcheol

At the grown age you are, you were very much ready to lose this social construct that is your virginity, and who better to lose it to than the hottest guy at the party.

Chapter 6: Vernon and Chan

Nobody fucking like love triangles, especially you. So what was the perfect solution to that problem? You guessed it.

Chapter 7: Jihoon

Designated Driver? Jihoon is DD for the night but gets a little too distracted with a pair of DDs.

Chapter 8: Minghao

Winning a game of beer pong is no easy feat, so he insists he and his pong partner finds the nearest closet to celebrate. *JUST POSTED

Chapter 9: Junhui

Jun is late getting to the party for good reasons and not because he’s lost (which he totally is)

Chapter 10: Soonyoung

Soonyoung has liked you as long as he's known you. Hot bops, good vibes, and more than a couple of drinks lead to very a messy confession.

Chapter 11: Wonwoo

Wonwoo is home alone but the party next door is so loud, maybe he could have a good talk with one of the party hosts (he does have their number)

Started [Feb 3, 2023]

Ended [ongoing]

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Now I’m Covered In You [Chapter 1: Afternoon Light]

Series summary: Aemond is a prince of England. You are married to his brother. The Wars of the Roses are about to begin, and you have failed to fulfill your one crucial responsibility: to give the Greens a line of legitimate heirs. Will you survive the demands of your family back in Navarre, the schemes of the Duke of Hightower, the scandals of your dissolute husband, the growing animosity of Daemon Targaryen…and your own realization of a forbidden love?

Series title is a lyric from: Ivy by Taylor Swift.

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+), dubious consent, miscarriage, pregnancy, childbirth, violence, warfare, murder, alcoholism, sexism, infidelity, illness, death, only vaguely historically accurate, lots of horses!

Word count: 3.9k.

Link to chapter list (and all my writing): HERE.

A/N: Not me pulling a Tom Brady by announcing my retirement only to immediately un-announce it. 😂😂 I regret to inform you that I am apparently incapable of not writing fanfiction. I had no ideas for a grand total of 1 week before this story showed up and possessed me entirely against my will...and then I fell in love with it. I’m still working on my book, but I had to get this out of my system too. I hope you enjoy it. 💜 I’ll tag some of my past readers, but I WILL NOT TAG YOU AGAIN unless you ask me to! 🥰

@elsolario @ladylannisterxo @doingfondue @tclegane @quartzs-posts @liathelioness @aemcndtargaryen @thelittleswanao3 @burningcoffeetimetravel @poohxlove @borikenlove @myspotofcraziness @travelingmypassion @graykageyama @skythighs @lauraneedstochill @darlingimafangirl @charenlie @thewew @eddies-bat-tattoos @minttea07 @joliettes @trifoliumviridi @flowerpotmage​ @thewitch-lives​ @tempt-ress​ @padfooteyes​ @teenagecriminalmastermind​ @chelsey01​ @anditsmywholeheart​ @heliosscribbles​ @killerqueen-ofwillowgreen​ @narwhal-swimmingintheocean​ @tillyt04​ @cicaspair418​ @fan-goddess

He’s thrusting into you, but you’re miles away: a speck of an island in the Mediterranean Sea, the glimmer of an unnamed star.

His rhythm is clumsy but never rough. He smells like wine and sandalwood, lavender and bleak perspiration. You moan when he expects you to. Your body moves with his, compliant, complicit. You roll your hips and tug at his white-blond hair, corollaries of ecstasy you wish you felt. You’ve learned to feign pleasure convincingly. Aegon will stop if he thinks you’re not enjoying yourself, and you need this to be over. What do you want me to do to you? he’ll ask, cerulean eyes drunk and muddy, words slurred, body repositioning. Do you like it this way? How about this? You can’t bear his curious consideration, his invasive hands. You don’t really like it any way. You’ve grown to accept that. You’ve had time to get used to the idea.

The air is sharp with the mineral ether of sex. Spots on the sheet beneath you are wet, clinging, cold. When Aegon kisses you—sloppily, carelessly—your lips and tongue follow his, willing him to finish, your eyes squeezed shut as he gropes your face with ungainly fingers. And at last, it’s done: he shudders, groans, flops down beside you on the mattress.

“Well done, wife,” Aegon pants. He gives your disheveled hair one absentminded stroke and then gazes up at the canopy, cloth embroidered with green roses and spiraling gold dragons. He yawns, his eyes dipping closed. The rise and fall of his bare, glistening chest is slowing.

“Aegon?”

“Hm?” He is inconvenienced; he is already half-asleep.

You roll onto your side, turning towards him. Aegon feels the mattress shift. Reluctantly, he rouses himself, sighs, swallows the rest of the wine in the cup he left perched on the nightstand. “I’m so sorry,” you say softly.

“About what?” He peers at you, groggy and half-listening, stray beads of red wine like blood on his chin. “Oh, yes. That.”

That. What he means is three miscarriages in one year, all early, all excruciating beyond words, all destructive to both the body and the soul. “You have no idea how hard I’m trying.”

“Don’t worry yourself, wife,” he says, yawning again. He always calls you that—wife—with a vague, impersonal fondness. Aegon doesn’t know anything about you. He doesn’t seem interested in remedying that. He doesn’t see it as something to be remedied at all. He attempts to set his empty cup back on the nightstand and doesn’t notice when it tumbles off and clanks against the floor. He burrows beneath the blankets like a hedgehog. “We’ll get it right eventually.”

Eventually, you think with horror, as you are left alone in the candlelight; Aegon plummets into sleep and is silent except for his snoring. How long will I have to do this?

Twelve months of marriage and you are no closer to fulfilling your purpose here. You are told what to eat, when to sleep with your husband, how to lie still afterwards so his seed can take hold, which saints to pray to. You are offered tender-voiced morsels of advice until they feel more like palms cracking across your face than gifts. Every second of your existence is consumed by the desperate need for Aegon’s heir, for the Greens’ future. And each time you lose a pregnancy, the clock starts over again.

How long can I do this before it breaks me, kills me, drives me mad?

~~~~~~~~~~

When a northern pike glides through cool rippling currents, yellow perch and bluegills scatter; and that’s exactly what the courtiers do to you. It’s a bit like living inside a glass bowl: people press their palms to the arched walls and stare like you’re a captive animal—a leopard or an elephant or a white bear from the Arctic—but they don’t speak to you. None of them know what to say. There are whispers flying, women in gowns and men in tunics gossiping about how last night was the first time the prince returned to your bed since your most recent miscarriage. The tentative speculation can begin again, glances at your waistline and delicate inquiries about your health. Bets are placed on whether you will at last produce an heir this time: boy, girl, white-haired or not, early, late, alive, dead. The clock has been reset.

You do not allow anyone to see your pain, your desperation. You have no true friends here. You are allied with the Greens, yes, but that does not mean they are your friends. The Duke of Hightower, chief advisor to the king, was insistent that you bring none of your ladies with you from your homeland; and so the women who attend you are English, polite but not particularly devoted, dutiful but not reliably discreet. He wanted no weak links, no chess pieces that he could not entirely control, no loyalties that ran deeper than his ambitions for Alicent and her children. Now, the Duke of Hightower is fiercely disappointed with you. He’s losing his ability to hide it.

As you traverse the Great Hall of Westminster Palace—an island, a lone cloud roaming across a clear sky—Prince Daemon, smirking and wolflike, stalks into your path.

“Hello there, Navarre,” he says, circling with one hand on the hilt of his sword, his strange deep-set eyes flicking all over you. He likes to call you this, a reminder of where you came from, of why Aegon married you: for an alliance, for advantages in the inevitable civil war when King Viserys dies, for heirs intrinsically linked with the Continent. You were one piece of a far grander design. Helaena was married off to Castile, you were brought west from Navarre, and thus the Greens gained supporters in the Iberian Peninsula. Helaena has given birth to one healthy son so far, and by all accounts has found great happiness in her new life across the Bay of Biscay. Daemon never tires of drawing attention to the fact that you have yet to fulfill your half of the bargain.

You bow your head swiftly, without conviction. “Prince Daemon.”

“My, that’s quite an extravagant gown. What have you got hidden under it? Your father’s famed archers, perhaps? Gold coins and steel daggers? I know what Prince Aegon would want under his skirts.” Daemon grins. “Lady Joanna Montford. Or is it Mountford? You must forgive me, I’m always mixing up the details.”

“I’ll defer to your better judgment, you have far more experience with whores than I do.”

He offers you a single rose, dyed black. “I regret that I did not have the opportunity to properly express my condolences after your most recent loss. It’s become difficult to keep up with them, they’ve grown so numerous. I’m sure you understand.”

You take the rose; untrimmed thorns bite into the defenseless flesh of your fingertips, but you don’t let it show on your face. “Only one from you? Your wife sent me a dozen.” They were red, the color of Navarre’s flag; though the resemblance to blood did not escape you.

“Yes, it’s true, her heart remains rather tender, much to my chagrin.”

“And yours remains nonexistent.” You pluck onyx petals from the rose one by one and toss them to the floor. Courtiers watch this, chattering spiritedly.

Daemon is still grinning. He has won. It never matters what you say, what you do; until you give Aegon a son, in every interaction Daemon walks away the victor. “I hope you enjoy the rest of this glorious July afternoon. And I hope you enjoy your evening as well. And the evening after that, and the evening after that…” He prowls closer, his voice dropping low and sinister. “And all those countless, blundering, long evenings you’ll spend under your mortifying drunk of a husband.”

You rip away from him—not his hands, no, even Daemon would not deign to touch you in front of an audience, but from his suffocating antipathy—and continue on your way to the royal stables, courtiers dispersing in your wake like startled doves. The cobblestones of the palace gardens are weather-beaten and craggy as you sail over them, warm summer wind in your hair, the hem of your gown dragging. Herbs and spices grow high and vivid green: angelica for digestion, feverfew for headaches, St. John’s wort for melancholy, betony to ward off evil spirits, chamomile to bring sleep, rosemary to quell nightmares, pennyroyal to induce a woman’s monthly blood. You have the opposite problem. All you seem to be able to do is bleed.

Inside the royal stables, the world is reduced to hushed subtleties: hooves thudding against straw, nickers and huffs, the swishing of tails, cascading sunlight dotted with whirling planets of dust. You drift by each of the stalls, inhaling the scent of horses and mid-summer. King Viserys promised you an Andalusian, brought by ship all the way from your homeland, for each child born to you and Aegon; alas, none of the animals housed here are yours yet. There’s Sunfyre, an Akhal-Teke, small-boned and shimmering gold. There’s Caraxes, a temperamental blood bay Arabian, and Syrax, a Marwari, cremello with blue eyes and delicate ears that curl in towards each other. Tessarion is a dappled blue-grey Percheron, young but gaining height and brute force each day. Jacaerys and Lucerys have Marwaris like their mother, Baela and Rhaena own volatile Arabians like their father. Joffrey is still riding a slow, potbellied pony; little Aegon III, Viserys II, and Visenya cannot ride at all yet. Every time you blink, it seems, the Blacks have added another child to their ranks, another inheritor to carry their claim forward. Your stomach sinks beneath your skin and scarlet ropes of muscle, a basket full of rocks.

You stop at the last stall, twice the size of any of the others. Vhagar towers over you. She is an English Great Horse, and the largest one that anyone can remember knowing of; her coat is a dark, lustrous brown, her massive hooves feathered, her muzzle sloped and velvety when you lay your palm against it. She lets you do this, as she always does; more than that, you think, she welcomes it.

You remove the letter from your bodice, your true purpose for coming here. You want to read it where you can be alone, where there are no prying eyes to report back to King Viserys, Queen Alicent, the Duke of Hightower, Aegon, Daemon, Rhaenyra the Crown Princess. You must keep your composure, your dignity. It’s all you have left.

You unfold the letter, your gaze skimming across your mother’s words, the slopes and summits of her letters heartbreakingly familiar, her fears loud through the ink-and-parchment silence. You expected this, and yet the weight of it stacks up in your ribcage like the splintered wreckage of a ship.

Think, my love, the Queen of Navarre writes. Think of everything you do, see, say, and feel. There is something that is poisoning the children inside of you. Do not trouble yourself with court gossip or bitter rivalries. You cannot serve your husband’s family—your family, now—if your attention is divided and your heart heavy with doubts. Shut yourself away from all things impassioned. Commit yourself to prayer and needlework. Purify yourself, dear daughter, prepare yourself in body and soul. God answers the cries of those who have won his favor.

You crumple the letter in your fists and then rip it to pieces, not out of wrath but so that nobody else might read it. The fragments flutter away like autumn leaves. You cannot resent your mother for her cushioned reprimands. She means well, but she cannot hope to understand; she bore ten children, eight of whom lived past the cradle, with no exceptional difficulty. Your father has taken mistresses on occasion, but not until years into his marriage, and regardless of his dalliances your mother remains his confidant, his greatest desire, his heart. Your life is nothing like hers. Your future has become something you didn’t know existed. You feel as if you have stumbled into a mirror, a duplicate world where everything is the same but the wrong way around. Where is your own satisfaction? Where is your soulmate?

There are footsteps, and you spin to see Prince Aemond standing in the doorway. He immediately turns to leave, and this is unsurprising; he never speaks to you, rarely looks at you, glides out of rooms as you come into them. You had once hoped to befriend him before his aversion to the notion became clear. He is palpably disinterested in you. But this afternoon as warm golden sunlight spills down on him, for reasons you cannot fathom, he hesitates; and now he’s waited too long, it would be rude for him to flee so obviously from you. Slowly, Aemond walks into the stable. He is so much like Daemon, though lighter: not in color but in gravity, his steps quieter, his hands graceful and precise. You’ve never seen him without his eyepatch. The Blacks call the cause of his maiming a sparring accident, the Greens call it an ambush, King Viserys doesn’t call it anything; perhaps he has forgotten it completely.

You expect Aemond to demand to know what you’re doing here, to scold you for jeopardizing your health with unnecessary excursions. “I’m so sorry for what you’re going through,” he says instead, his voice whisper-soft like pattering spring rain, like a leaf of lamb’s ear threaded between your fingers. “I hope my brother has been…kind about it.”

“He’s very kind. He doesn’t mention it at all.” Not once has anybody said those three words to you: I’m so sorry. They lift a million pounds from your shoulders, an eon of stones from your belly. “In fact, no one speaks of it with me. They speak in my direction, they tell me what to do differently, they assign blame…but no one has any interest in what I have to say back. No one asks me what it feels like to…to…”

It shocks you, knuckles to the gut: your breath hitches, your lips tremble, you swallow down tears like poison. It’s humiliating, this display of helplessness, this shattering of regal poise. You shield your face with both hands so Aemond cannot watch you war with yourself. And surely he is repulsed by you, this prince who has been mutilated and unavenged and overlooked since childhood. You have never known anyone as self-possessed as Aemond Targaryen. He endures all of life’s trials without emotion, without weakness. He must be appalled that you cannot do the same.

Yet when you are at last confident that you will not weep in front of him, you lower your hands to see that Aemond has silently obliterated the space between you. He is close enough to touch, his palm pressed to Vhagar’s monstrous neck. He’s looking at the horse, but he is listening to you. “She likes you,” he says gently. “She doesn’t like anyone.”

You’ve never been in such proximity to Aemond before. He’s taller than you remember; his eye is watchful and intent, a paler shade of blue than Aegon’s, more clear, a river rather than a sea riotous with storms. When you inhale, you taste pieces of him: leather, musk, the smoke of a blacksmith’s forge. There’s an abrupt weakness in your knees and ankles that you pretend not to notice. “Most of my friends have hooves these days.”

“I never see you go out riding.”

“I’m not allowed to.”

For an instant, his brow knits with confusion, and then he remembers. Horseback riding is thought to be calamitous for pregnancy, and your chances are slim enough already. “But that’s something that you once enjoyed, back in Navarre?” You flinch when you hear the name of your homeland, a reflex, Daemon’s taunts ringing in your skull like church bells. Everyone knows that’s what he calls you. “Forgive me, perhaps that word has painful connotations now.”

“It doesn’t sound so bad when you say it.” And that’s true: it’s not a dagger but a murmur, a musing, a dream. “Yes, I used to love riding horses. And dancing, attending hunting expeditions, reading poetry, plucking olives from the trees…my brothers and I would even knock swords together sometimes in the courtyard.” You smile wistfully, then lose it like a gull feather on waves. “And now I don’t do anything.”

“What brings you happiness here in England?”

“Nothing,” you reply, meeting his gaze for the first time. He studies you, his eye blue like the mid-summer afternoon sky, searching. And suddenly, you’ve never felt more interesting, you’ve never felt such raw hunger to unearth everything you’re built of. You skate your palm down Vhagar’s face and confess quietly, shakily: “I always thought I would teach my children to ride horses.”

“You will someday,” Aemond insists.

“When you’re little, five or ten years old, you dream about growing up and all the miraculous things you’ll be. And then you finally become an adult and you meet the rest of your life and…and…” You don’t like it. “It’s so different from what you imagined.”

“Yes,” Aemond agrees, soft and mournful.

“But I’ve interrupted you,” you say. “You came here to take Vhagar riding, I’m sure, and now you’re caught in my little web of nostalgia and self-pity. Please, accept my apology, and don’t let me delay you any further.”

“I was planning to go riding,” Aemond admits. He’s wearing a black leather messenger bag, you notice for the first time. He pulls at the strap that hangs from his right shoulder self-consciously. You have never seen Aemond betray any sign of self-consciousness before this moment. In many ways, you have never seen him at all. He asks you pointedly: “What if I took Vhagar out walking you accompanied me?”

“I told you. I can’t.”

“Not riding,” Aemond says. “Just walking. We’ll lead her down to the edge of the forest, let her stretch her legs a bit and eat some of the fallen apples. You’re allowed to walk, aren’t you?”

“I suppose so.” You stare at him, perplexed. You almost ask why he would offer to do such a thing, why he would feel inspired to raise your spirits. But you don’t want him to change his mind. You point to his messenger bag. “What do you have in there?”

“Parchment. Quills. A bottle of ink.”

“What do you write? Battle plans? Letters to marriageable foreign noblewomen?”

“Poems,” Aemond confesses in a whisper you can barely hear, not looking at you.

“Could I read some of your poems?”

“No,” he says immediately, startled.

“Never mind. It was wrong of me to ask.”

He doesn’t reply; he just fetches Vhagar’s halter from the hook on the stable wall, black leather studded with sapphires the size of ladybugs. She allows Aemond to place it on her without any resistance. He attaches the lead chain—heavy silver links—but he doesn’t need it. Vhagar follows him out of the stables, her colossal hooves drumming like distant thunder, her jet black mane whipping in the wind. Aemond matches his pace with yours as the three of you cross the emerald green field that separates Westminster Palace from the tree line of the forest.

After strolling for a while—Vhagar chomping on apples, you stepping gingerly over felled branches and gnarled roots—you and Aemond sit beneath a sprawling cedar that blots out the sun, its limbs like the wings of a dragon. He recounts myths and legends of England, things that Aegon has not thought to share with you once in the past twelve months, weeks of which you spent in bed bleeding out his would-be children: King Arthur and Beowulf, Robin Hood and the Rollright Stones, Saint George the guardian of the royal family. And as Aemond speaks, at some point you stop hearing him and start seeing him, everything that brought him here, everything that will happen next.

Once upon a time, King Viserys named his daughter Rhaenyra his successor. She was his only surviving offspring, the last vestige of his cherished wife Aemma, dead in fruitless childbirth and cold in her tomb in Windsor Castle. The king then promptly remarried and fathered four more Targaryens, closer to afterthoughts than assets in his eyes: Aegon, Helaena, Aemond, Daeron. Rhaenyra is still the king’s favorite, and is much loved in Northern England, where her mother hailed from. She has the support of Scotland as well. Her marriage to their Crown Prince Laenor Velaryon was meant to consolidate the two nations under one ruling family, one flag. To reinforce this alliance, her uncle Daemon wed Laenor’s sister Laena. But then Laena died, and Laenor did too, and all those tragic pieces fell together for Rhaenyra to get what she evidently wanted all along: Daemon in wedlock, in her confidence, in her bed. Her sons with Laenor will soon marry his daughters with Laena, and each new white-haired child she produces with her uncle gives the Blacks one more dynastic pawn to play in the game of thrones.

The merchants of Southern England—the Duke of Hightower foremost among them—are aghast at the thought of Rhaenyra’s ascension. No woman has ever successfully ruled England, and she is sure to be malevolently influenced by her uncle-husband. The Pope will not sanction their incestuous union, nor those of their children, though this does not daunt the Blacks. They will make a new order here in the British Isles; they will not play by the Continent’s rules. In reply, the kingdoms of Western Europe—to varying degrees of zealousness—support the Greens and the coronation of Aegon II upon his father’s death. King Viserys is in fine health now, but that could change at a moment’s notice: with a fall from a horse, with veins darkened by infection, with a vial of poison, with a resurgence of Plague. When the king is dead, Aegon must have every possible advantage to offer England, including a clear line of succession. This was supposed to be your role. This has become your greatest failure. Yet here under a hundred-year-old cedar tree outside Westminster Palace, Aemond makes you forget that for a while.

Hours later, you are back in your bedchamber when your husband arrives to fuck you. That’s a crude word for it, but that’s exactly what it is: something he does to you, not with you. You gulp down a cup of your apple cider, the drink you like best here in England, not as thick and bitter as ale, not a poor imposter of the Continent’s red wine. It is bright, sweet, sometimes vaguely minty. It makes you think of spring and summer, of rebirth. It fills you with the undying ambition to bear fruit of your own.

You turn to Aegon, who is yanking off his white shirt with his back to you, his hair in disarray, his pores sweating out wine and indifference. He crawls into the bed on all fours, slapping himself lightly across the face, forcing himself to stay awake until the act is done.

And you think, for the very first time: I wonder what it would have been like to marry Aemond.

[legendl0re]

A Court of Peace and Ire: Chapter 2 in full

Fuck it might as well post it here as well as AO3 xD

Summary:

Nesta, changed by her experiences with the Asteri, Bryce, and other worlds, has since resolved to get Prythian to where it needs to be should it have to face another threat. Stuck in a another dick-measuring contest between Eris and Cassian, the re-appearance of Tamlin offers her a chance to set things in motion.

Notes:

This one's for the Neris fans, and yes, Nesta is going to be the core of everybody getting their shit together over the course of this fic. Trigger Warnings: Mentions of ab*se, depression, and self-hatred (mainly on Nesta's part)

--

Nesta Archeron picked a small dandelion from the meadow, finding its vibrant yellow frills infinitely more interesting than the conversation going on behind her.

Once again, Rhys had urged Cassian to keep tabs on Eris, and once again, they had opted to take the risk of meeting in the Spring Court.

The two males yammered and bickered like they always did, Cassian’s incessant sneezing being the only thing to snap her out of her frequent distraction. Even with the risks that came from meeting here, Spring was a nice change of pace, a chance to get away from the Night Court’s chilling winds and the even chillier attitudes of the Inner Circle.

“Just keep us informed if Beron makes any new moves. If he tries to contact Koshei or the other mortal queens, or anything else.” Cassian was so tense veins were popping at his neck, but Eris seemed as unbothered as ever.

“Perhaps your little Shadowsinger should retire, since you’re so keen on having me do all of his work as of late.” The Illyrian practically snorted in anger, Eris chuckling to himself as he imagined himself conversing with a bat-winged bull. “As tempting as the alliance has been, I’m not privy to all of my father’s counsel. He’s become withdrawn, paranoid, and I have my own things to protect should he fall off the deep end.”

Nesta twisted the dandelion in her hand; it was just as likely that Eris was referring to his mother and brothers as he was to his hounds. She could never tell what he really valued despite these years of verbal sparring, but it was true that the High Lord of Autumn had grown volatile…unhinged even.

At the last High Lords meeting, the bruises they all knew he left on Eris’ mother had begun to peek out from under the collar of her dress. He was getting sloppy, or maybe he just didn’t care anymore. Perhaps he was going senile, or the constant stagnation of Autumn in comparison the Night Court’s burgeoning power was starting to worry him

Power that she herself had bought them.

Keeping the Trove’s presence in Velaris was a fool’s errand; their power could not be dampened, and legends don’t operate quietly. Everyone felt it when Nesta beckoned the harp, wrestled with death for her sister and nephew, and bargained with the cauldron itself. 

“The next time you come trying to spigot me for information, you better have something worthwhile. A dagger and the occasional dance is not enough.” 

Out of her peripheral vision, Nesta could see that Eris’ pointed look had been thrown her way. “Oh I’m sorry, were you addressing me?” She droned, her boredom clear and blunt. “I thought I was just supposed to stand here and look pretty while you two squabble. And we haven’t danced in months if I remember correctly.”

“Perhaps if I weren’t conversing with an oaf, we could get a lot more done.” Eris preened, turning his eyes to the treeline. Cassian growled and turned away, shadows already coiling to winnow back home.

“You do what you want, Eris! I’m tired of this holier-than-thou, my-wants-are-greater than-yours attitude.” The heir of Autumn chuffed.

“Hmph, and yet you still serve Rhysand.” The winnowing energy shot to nothing, Cassian getting inches away from Eris’ face in a flash.

“Keep it up and I’ll finish what Azriel started.” Eris didn’t balk an inch, still as ever even in the great shadow of the Illyrian Commander.

Nesta dropped the flower, and interposed herself between the two.

“Enough.” She ordered, meeting the gazes of both men before she sighed. “Cassian, I want to talk to Eris alone.” Her mate’s eyes went wide, brow furrowing so deep it threatened to crush his nose. But she laced the words with just enough venom that he halted, thinking of the myriad of ways she would dress the Autumn heir down.

“Are you sure?” He asked. 

“I’m sure.” Nesta smirked, appreciating how far he had come from feeling like he needed to always be there. The Blood Rite caused him to be around her almost every second of everyday, often bursting into arguments about how he was suffocating her. But then he remembered the Bog, and the sheer power of death that turned the hag queen Briallyn to dust.

Even with the bulk of her powers given back to the cauldron, Nesta Archeron was touched by death eternal, and he was ever her devout servant.

“Go, I’ll finish up here. Rhysand will probably want to hear about this sooner rather than later.” Cass nodded, kissing Nesta on the head and lips before vanishing into the shadows. Then Nesta let the smile fade, and armed herself for a different dance.

“Nice job, mentioning Rhys to put a pep in his step.” Eris crooned, earning himself a withering glare.

“Shut. Up. You’ve been doing nothing but antagonizing him from the moment we got here. Wasting all of our time.” Nesta watched as Eris slipped his hands in his pockets.

“I thought you weren’t paying attention.”

“That makes one of us.” Eris rolled his eyes, trying to weave past Nesta’s bladed words.

“What can I say? It’s fun to poke the bear. Especially since I can’t get any actual diplomacy done with him. What else am I supposed to do?”

“Was it fun when Azriel was pounding your face in?” Eris frowned at Nesta’s barb. “Because I promise you, Cassian hits a thousand times harder.” The heir kept his scowl for a moment, then burst into a laugh.

“Trust me Lady Acheron, I’m not worried. Rhysand has him by the back of the neck and you have him by the balls. He won’t jump unless either of you flick the leash.” Nesta crossed her arms, half wondering how bad a slap to the face laced with silver flame would hurt.

But she reeled her thought back in. “And now he isn’t here, which means that we can actually get down to business. Unless you're keen on pressing the issue.” Eris, with his back to her, let his fingers interlock behind her.

“You know what? I do have an issue I’d like to address. Your cowardice.” Nesta blinked, unimpressed but mildly curious at what he meant.

“This will be good. Go on?”

“I thought we had a good rapport at Rhysand’s little party at the Hewn City. You know, the one where he let the masses scent Feyre nice and deep?” Nesta felt her anger crackle, but kept her lips pursed. “I heard what you had said about me, about deserving me because of how horrible a person I am. A brute and a piece of shit I believe were the words used?”

“How do yo-?”

“Rhys thinks he's the only one with a spymaster worth a damn.” Eris’ withering glare would have left a lesser woman prickling, but Nesta just clicked her tongue.

“Oh. Did I hurt your feelings?” She mocked.

Eris sighed, his face donning a weary smile. “No. I just would have figured the woman who stood up for the humans so fiercely wouldn't have fallen for cheap Night Court gossip, nor would she have such a low opinion of herself.” Nesta almost winced, remembering the comparison she had made.

The harshness of those days came soaring back to her: the back and forth with Cassian, the rage and hatred she felt for herself, and of course, Rhys’ sudden willingness to put up with her if it put the Night Court in a better position.

With how good he was at staging her for his political gain, she had thought he’d broken into her memories and taken notes.

Still, Eris had an immense amount of nerve to whine, and Nesta stepped forward with her teeth bared. “Let’s not pretend you give a damn about my self-esteem Eris, and you hunting after my sister and your brother isn’t gossip, and neither is what you did to Morrigan.”

“Since when have you ever given a damn about Mor?” The fae laughed, shaking his head. “Although, it’s good to know that she still hasn’t told the truth.” Eris let that hang in the air, taking in a deep breath of the spring wind. Nesta’s arms fell at her sides, watching as the viper’s mask Eris Vanserra wore slowly chipped away, as if blown down by the softness of the air.

“That did hurt your feelings, didn’t it?”

“I suppose I was more disappointed. I thought you were different from those sycophants Rhysand surrounds himself with, your sisters included. That you knew, there is always more than meets the eye.” Eris turned to have her and swallowed, and Nesta actually narrowed her eyes. He was nervous; genuinely nervous…

“I wasn’t kidding when I said I would marry you in a heartbeat, Nesta, and it’s certainly not because you look excellent in black or because you somehow managed to learn expert-level fae dance routines in a few weeks. I wouldn’t have made it this far if I was that vapid.” Eris had closed the distance between them, his eyes intense with smoldering flame.

“Males of Autumn are taught to be frank, not to waste our time when it comes to our true desires. We say what we feel, and we take what we want, and I very much want you.” 

“Even after I insulted you so?” Nesta scoffed, feigning mild interest despite actually being shocked.

“I’m a big boy, Nesta, and unlike Rhysand, I understand that the image I’ve cultivated for myself comes with consequences.” Eris began pacing around her in slow, playful steps. “From that first meeting, I could tell you took things seriously, fought with every word you had to keep your people safe. While Rhysand and his High Lady pleaded and appealed to some misplaced sense of heroic morality, you were pragmatic, used reason, and looked to our self interest to guide our decisions.” He leaned in, letting Nesta feel the warmth of Autumn in his presence. That’s what a true ruler does.”

“How observant of you.” Nesta replied, taken aback by the words but remaining guarded all the same. Autumn was a home to many a sly fox after all.

 And of course, ever the sly fox, Eris changed his tactics to keep things interesting. “You were supposed to rule your own little court once, correct? An inheritance waiting for you in the mortal lands.” Nesta rolled her eyes.

“Please. Continue to remind me of what I lost.” Eris raised a brow, ignoring the bait. “The humans would never have a fae rule over them, and I’m pretty sure the other nobles have worked with the queens to cannibalize my father’s fortune.” 

The ships and soldiers he bought were the last Nesta would ever see of it; her father’s presence in the world reduced to a gravestone and the memories she and her sisters would carry forever.

“A shame. I would have loved to have seen what you could have done with such wealth and power on your own, unshackled by the chains of family.” 

Nesta narrowed her eyes at the word; did Eris know what happened to her? About the House of Wind and the tensions between her and her sisters. And why in the Mother’s name was he bringing it up now in the middle of what was essentially a love confession?

“How do you know all this anyway? You’re spies can’t be that good.” Nesta prodded.

“Trust me. They are, but it certainly helped that Bryallin was quite thorough in her research of you. I got a peak at her thoughts while she ‘had me under her spell’.” Eris grinned as he unbuttoned his coat, moving the lapel to reveal the dagger—her dagger—strapped at his hip. “I should thank you, but the way. Your blade kept my mind from breaking under the weight of the crown.”

Nesta tensed as the heir of Autumn reached for the knife, but relaxed as he unbuckled it and handed it to her. “You can have it back if you wish. I took it out of respect for Rhys’ attempts at winning my favor, but it very much wishes to return to its maker.”

More questions roved over Nesta’s mind. Did he know that she had lost the majority of her powers too? The weapons she had Made each still carried great amounts of that original essence, yet only Ataraxia remained hers. This offering could be both an implication that Autumn knows Nesta lacks her past strength, but maybe it was also genuine.

“Keep it. You might need it again.” It was true, but also Nesta didn’t want Rhysand to have all of the things she had made. They thought they were being subtle but the Inner Circle had always been keen to pry what was hers away for their own benefit, be it the weapons, the Trove, her identity.

She supposed that things had improved with them since she and Cassian officially ordained themselves as mates, having a small ceremony whose mix of extravagance and modesty was a careful negotiation between the two of them: small enough that Cassian wouldn’t be teased by his brothers for eternity, but big enough that Nesta felt like she would remember it forever.

And she would; it was the first step towards accepting her role in all of this, towards making peace with the fact that she was now fae, and no longer human…

Yet still, she couldn’t entirely shake the stares, the judgment. Amren had opted for an indifferent peace between them, but their old days of training and dropping bits of thousand-year-old wisdom had long since ceased. Azriel was always his kind, quiet self, always reaching out and checking in when he could. Then there was Morrigan, brown eyes alight with fury every time she glanced at her and Cassian together. 

Mother forbid both Cassian and Azriel talk to her at the same time, lest the blonde’s head go up in flames.

Nesta had long since resolved that she was good enough for Cassian, that she did deserve his love and her peace despite what she had done. But between Morrigan’s clear disdain, Rhys’ constant shifting between hot and cold, and her mate’s often blunt refusal to defend her in most situations, it seems the family that this Circle claimed to be was only for her sisters.

She supposed that was why she opted to make her own, with Gwyn and Emerie.

“My offer still stands.” Eris boasted, snapping Nesta out of her rumination.

“What? Of marriage?” She guffaws. “Please.”

“Already fully bonded to the brute then?” Nesta turned to him, letting a little silver blaze through her eyes.

“You call him anything but his goddamned name one more time, this conversation is over.” Eris paused, then backed off, taking her seriously.

Perhaps that was the strange appeal of it all, this little dance they did. He actually took her at her word.

“Is it so hard to envision?” He said. “You, in vibrant autumn red, a crown of gilded leaves on your head.”

“Your father spending every waking moment plotting my demise?”

“I never knew you to be one to back down from a challenge, and my father would be a fool to even hope to wrestle with you.” Eris gently took her hand in his, and watched as she let him bring it to his lips. “I myself would find it the utmost pleasure, and in truth, I believe you would be an exemplary queen, no matter whose court you ruled. I humbly pray to the Mother that you would grace mine.”

He pressed his lips to her knuckle, and Nesta couldn’t help but stir slightly at the heat of his lips warming the skin. Perhaps she should have let Cassian stay. “There’s not a single humble thing about you, Eris Vanserra.”

“True.” He said, letting go of her hand. “I very much will enjoy bragging about being one to kiss the hand of death.” The two stood there for a moment, eyes locked like two fires struggling to snuff the other out. Nesta’s hands had balled into fists behind her, embarrassed at how Eris of all people was getting to her.

It was just words, grand claims he would never live up to, all to worm his way deeper into the Night Court and get whatever it was he really wanted.

Nesta had Cassian—loved Cassian. He may not have been willing to stand up to Rhys, or actually said that he loved her. But it was more real than whatever dream Eris Vanserra was trying to sell her, and she would not be another Lady of Autumn.

No, silver flames would rip the Autumn Court apart before she ever let that happen.

Eris’ gaze broke first, whipping to something behind her, something that had urged him to unsheath her dagger and call an orb of flame into his other hand. Nesta turned to see, and lumbering through the trees in gilded, horned splendor, was the High Lord of Spring.

“I warned you about what would happen the next time you trespassed into my lands.” Tamlin growled, green eyes spearing the two as his claws dug into the earth beneath him. Eris just smirked.

“If you’ve finally set on cutting your life short, High Lord, I do appreciate that you’d do it in a fashion that grants my Court a lovely expansion.” Tamlin’s lips parted, revealing ivory teeth the size of daggers.

“An expansion you wouldn’t live to see.” He snarled, taking a step forward that thundered into the earth, sending birds fleeing from the trees. Heart pounding, Nesta shot a hand up, turning to face Eris with a grave scowl.

“I’m not dying in the Spring Court because of your stupid fucking remarks.” She muttered, before turning back to face Tamlin. “We were just leaving.”

“Until your next little get together, witch?” He replied, tail still swishing in anticipation of Eris’ next barb. It nearly left his lips, until Nesta blocked his way.

“Leave, Eris.” She demanded. “I’ll deal with this myself.”

“You think Cassian would let me live if I left you here alone, with him?” Nesta scoffed, the modicum of respect she had just developed for Eris vanishing.

“Did you not just profess your undying respect for me, or has that all gone out the window now that a monster has shown up? Are you going to protect little old me, Eris?” Nesta laid the mockery on thick, and the Heir of Autumn indeed found himself in an awkward position. Leaving Nesta with Tamlin was unwise, and Cassian would indeed flay him living if he found out he left her here with her sister’s tormentor. 

But if Nesta believed she could handle it…

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” He whispered, sheathing the knife and winnowing away in one fluid movement. Nesta sighed, relieved that she could now dictate the conversation without pig-headed males puffing up their chests.

What was it Bryce had called them? ‘Alpha-holes?’

“Protecting your little alliance?” Tamlin growled, emerald eyes now trained firmly on the eldest Archeron.

“You’re operating under the assumption that I want to deal with you at all, much less fight you.” The beast narrowed his gaze at her. “I don’t need Eris riling you up, and frankly, this is actually a good opportunity.”

“For what?” The High Lord prodded, head tilting to the side in confusion.

“I know what you did for Nyx.” Nesta stated, keep her tone neutral and her hands at her sides. Tamlin paused, caught off-guard with denial already poised on his lips. Quickly, she cut him off. “Feyre was searching for him for hours. She knows that house like the back of her hand and still couldn’t find him anywhere. That, and you left shavings on his pajamas.” 

Tamlin grunted at himself. How could he be so stupid as to leave his gods-damned sheddings about?

“And what do you have to say about it?” He grumbled, bracing for Nesta’s near-mythical rapier wit.

“How about thank you?” He blinked again, half inclined to check his ear to ensure nothing was in it. “Rhysand might be knocking on your door sometime soon, so I figured I’d show my gratitude before he mucks it all up.”

 “Gratitude for what? He’s not yours.” Tamlin replied, looking down as he scraped his claw against the ground.

“He’s my nephew.” And a chance to have someone in the family who doesn’t despise her on some level. At least, she hoped that would be the case; Rhysand was a master of pouring just the right amount of honey and poison to craft a specific vision, and she often found herself lamenting about how one day, the happy Nyx—who she gave up her powers to save along with Feyre—would disdain her for all the Inner Circle held her accountable for. 

But that worry was reserved for another day.

“You’re…different.” The High Lord noted, finally shifting from his prep to lunge to a seated position. “You’re not as…bad-tempered.” 

Nesta practically laughed; what a nice way to say ‘not as much a vicious bitch’.

“Things change, High Lord. I’ve recently learned the world is much bigger than we think, and that all this scheming and politicking on this pitiful little continent is nothing more than a waste of time.” Nesta thought back to just a short time ago, about Bryce and her world, the Asteri, her time with Ember and the small kindnesses Bryce’s mother had offered. The squabbling here in Prythian left it weak, vulnerable, and it was by Nesta’s blind faith alone that Bryce had the chance to take on the Asteri and save both of their realms.

She had resolved to start getting things back on track a long time ago, and if that meant dealing with her sister’s vicious ex-lover—be it solving things diplomatically or mowing him down for someone else to take his place—then so be it.

Gwyn and Emerie urged her to give the former a try before the latter; taking on the Blood Rite was one thing, but as strong as they were together, taking on a High Lord was a fool’s errand, even for people as seasoned as Cassian or Azriel.

 “Your court borders the mortal lands, meaning like it or not, you’re an arbiter of what comes in and what goes through. I may be fae now, but I still care about the humans, and while it may not look like it, I engage in these meetings out of a hope that I can get something out of it that will let me help them in some way.”

Tamlin gave a hollow laugh. “Eris Vanserra and the Autumn Court are the last people to ever give a damn about humans.”

“I know, that's why it’s important to keep an eye on them the most.” Tamlin blinked at Nesta’s claim. “When you’re gathering allies or resources that are sympathetic to your cause, that doesn’t mean you ignore your biggest opposition. I figured a High Lord would know that.” The beast bristled at her last comment, but Nesta reeled her fangs back in. 

“And despite what you may have done to my sister after she di-,” She paused to correct herself, “After she changed, I remember that you filled our father’s coffers and let us regain our nobility, when you could have left us out in the cold to starve and die. You let Feyre come back to us, even though it meant eternal imprisonment for you and your people. And you made sure Nyx got back from his little adventure safe and sound.”

Nesta brushed a hair behind her ear. “A person who does all that can’t be all bad.”

Tamlin glanced down at the grass, thinking hard on Nesta’s words. Nesta’s. Supposedly the most vicious of the Archeron sisters. This whole conversation was almost surreal, and he felt a strain in his chest that felt an awful lot like…hope?

“I’m going to go now.” Nesta stated, waiting for a reaction before calling her powers to winnow her away. If Tamlin still pounced on her after all this, she was going to be really disappointed.

But no. Tamlin simply let his stare rise to meet hers again, before turning to walk away. “Have your meetings somewhere else.” He murmured, Nesta chuffing as the shadows carried her back to the Night Court.

[pastelpousay]

HIHI AGAIN GUYS UHH IM GONNA BAIT YALL INTO READING MY BS RAMBLES WITH MORE FANART AGAIN 💗

(Ofc it’s not finished 💀)

SO SO I HONESTLY JUST DEBATING IF I SHOULD MAKE A HOUSE OF MOUSE AU (I saw someone else make one and I don’t wanna copy them more than I already have 😭😭) but like honestly….I’m tempted

ALSO IM SO SO SO READY POST THIS FANFIC I THOUGHT I WAS GONNA GET AT LEAST 3 CHAPTERS DONE BY THE END OF THIS MONTH BUT HELL NO 💀😭

So for rn it’s just gonna be the first chapter and the prologue (after I finish up the chapter that is 💀😭) uhh yea!! BTW MY AO3 IS COQUETTE ALPHA PLEASE FOLLOW ME YALL I PROMISE ITLL BE GOOD‼️ Ik I’m clogging up all the hades tags so In spite I’ll continue too 💗😽

[xxsksxxx]

Almost Heaven

Summary:

Mulder’s attempt to find more exciting cases to investigate while stuck in the bullpen turns into another weekend trip to the forest.

Meanwhile, Scully is faced with a tempting offer that could change both her future and their lives.

This story is complete, and I’m going to post one chapter a day.

AO3 | Back to the Beginning | @today-in-fic

Chapter 4: Life is Old There, Older Than the Trees

Falls State Park, West Virginia Saturday, November 28th, 1998, 12:17 pm

Scully was done. Absolutely done. They’d been traipsing through the West Virginia woods in the rain for hours. Mr. Murphy, an older gentleman, had taken them to a remote clearing in what felt like the middle of the forest, pointing at a tree stump with excitement. Scully hadn’t been sure what she was supposed to see, but Mulder took it as an invitation to inspect the piece of wood thoroughly.

After that, they’d followed a trail deeper into the woods while Mr. Murphy had pointed out that he wasn’t really all that interested in meeting the famous West Virginia Mothman and had sensibly turned back.

So now the day was creeping by slowly, and Scully pulled her jacket closer around herself. Just dead ends everywhere, as far as she could tell. It was freezing cold in the forest, even though it had stopped raining before they’d set off to meet with Mulder’s source.

She was following Mulder—as always—feeling the heels of her leather shoes sink into the wet dirt. She scowled. If she had known that this would turn into a hike, she’d have chosen more appropriate footwear. But Mulder had been his mysterious self and kept that—among other important details—to himself. Of course, he was wearing his Land Rovers, she noticed with disdain. Probably water-resistant as well. She scowled. And now he was already way ahead, following his Mothman trail with long strides she just couldn’t keep up with.

“Mulder!” she called after him, and he raised his hand in acknowledgment, waving her forward without turning around.

It was a shitty day already, and the day wasn’t even halfway over. She shoved a tree branch away from her face and ducked around a hole in the muddy path. This was not what she had imagined when he’d called her last night.

You thought this would be just an excuse for looking into an intriguing, albeit harmless mystery, and then you’d get to spend time together, walking around, relaxing, and having fun, her inner voice chimed in once again. Scully brushed a strand of wet hair inside the hood of her jacket and ignored her thoughts. She gritted her teeth and accelerated her steps, trying to catch up with Mulder instead.

“Mulder! Wait!” With a weary exhalation, she watched as Mulder disappeared behind some bushes in front of her, only to hear him shout out excitedly. “Scully! Scully, come here! I found something! You have to see this.”

She wasn’t sure she even wanted to see what Mulder had found but determinedly lengthened her steps in his direction.

“Scully? Scully, where are you?” Mulder called out impatiently, his voice slightly higher than usual because of his excitement.

“I’m on my way, Mulder!” she called back, exasperated.

Scully stepped around the bushes Mulder had disappeared behind earlier and stopped. Her partner was kneeling in the mud, excitedly inspecting a brown, mushy lump lying in front of him. Yes, I definitely don’t want to see what Mulder has found. With another sigh, she joined him in front of the Mothmen droppings—or whatever Mulder thought it was—and bent closer to get a better look.

2:47 pm

They were walking in circles; Scully was sure of it. That tree with the bent branch going down into the ground instead of up? I’ve passed that one at least three times in the last hour, Scully thought grimly.

She turned her head to see whether Mulder had also come to this conclusion, but he seemed undeterred, happily looking around, trying to find further clues that the famous Virginia Mothman had been here as well. She watched as he scratched the back of his head, and hoped, he wasn’t thinking of any more surprises they could explore.

All her earlier excitement had left at this point, and what she had found charming only a few hours ago was a Mulder trait she couldn’t care less about right now. “Mulder, don’t you think that tree looks familiar?” she asked, pointing at the gnarled branch with her right hand while stretching her back out at the same time. This little adventure is going to cause me sore muscles all over my body—and not the good kind of sore, she thought grumpily.

He turned to her in surprise and looked at where she was pointing. “You think?” He contemplated the tree for a moment before turning to the left and starting walking again. “You’re probably right, Scully. Let’s try this direction, then. I can feel we’re close.”

“The only thing I’m feeling is the blisters on my feet. Come on, Mulder. There is no Mothman. Mr. Murphy probably saw a flying squirrel or a bat or something.” She stepped around another tree stump and tried not to twist her ankle in the soft piles of leaves surrounding it.

Mulder didn’t respond, his attention already back on his surroundings, eagerly walking towards more scrub to their left.

Scully shook her head and followed, her feet aching and her clammy jacket itching uncomfortably.

4:11 pm

The light was getting dimmer by the minute, and Scully looked up in the direction where the sun should be above the cloud cover. She was trying to judge how much longer they’d have before it would start to set behind the trees. Scully could already feel the temperature dropping even further. It was close to freezing now, and she shivered in her jacket, not appropriate for hiking in a late-fall forest in West Virginia. Once again, she cursed Mulder for not giving her clearer information of where they were going. But she couldn’t help but be angry at herself as well for thinking Mulder’s invitation had been mostly about enjoying the weekend with an added intriguing mystery to solve.

He could’ve at least told me to bring warmer clothes and shoes for cross-country hikes in the forest, she grumbled to herself, trying not to stumble on the muddy underground. They had found nothing, of course. No sign of a Mothman, and no evidence of any other paranormal event. Just trees, freezing weather, and mud.

Mulder stopped suddenly in front of her, and she bumped into his backpack—something Scully would’ve liked to have taken as well had she known they were going hiking.

“What now, Mulder? Why are you stopping?” she blew into her hands, trying to warm up her fingers.

Mulder slowly turned in a circle, then let out a long breath. “I think you were right earlier, Scully,” he said, rubbing the back of his head. “Isn’t that where we met Mr. Murphy this morning?” He pointed at a large stone, overgrown with moss, on the side of the path.

Scully didn’t reply. There wasn’t really anything to say. They both knew they were back where they had started. At least we aren’t far away from the car, Scully thought. And we won’t get lost in the dark and freezing forest.

They stumbled towards where they had left the car on the side of a small road, both exhausted and cold. The rain had started again, a steady drizzle that fit perfectly with Scully’s mood.

[seraphinitegames]

The Wayhaven Chronicles—Update 23/September/2022

Chapter 18 is done!! Oh yeah! 

Though saying that, I think there is actually a bit I want to add to it in rewriting, hehe! :D But I won't be doing that until I come to edit it, and my focus was on editing earlier chapters after I finished Chapter 18 this week (even though I may also have gotten a little more done towards the opening for Chapter 19 too...)

Along with feeling a major sense of achievement at that and realising just how close I am to the end(!!), I also figured out a MASSIVE moment I wasn't sure how to write out.

I'd been thinking of how to do said certain moment for a certain character. It's a pretty major scene that I knew exactly how I wanted it to go for the others, but for this one character nothing was working! I actually just have a big blank hole in Chapter 20 of my plan where I skipped it because I haven’t been able to think of anything.

Then at 2am on Sunday night—WHAM! It comes to me! And it is SO perfect. I love it so much I'm already way too eager to get to that point so as I can write it :D

And seeing as it was apparently the week of awesome ideas, I also had a plot idea that I'm really eager to use. In fact, I'm tempted to change out Book 6's original plan with this one! But at least I have a good while to think on that before deciding, hehe! :D

And September finally rolled on enough that Mason/Morgan's PoV scene for Book Three, Chapter 6 posted on Patreon! I was so happy you guys enjoyed it! M's was one of the ones that I knew exactly how M was feeling and thinking during that intensity, and it was so great to get to share that side of the moment!

So it was a pretty exciting week, and next week should be just the same!

I'll be working on Chapter 19—19 has a split opening and then variations depending on how you came into this chapter (what options you choose, etc). So there's a lot of work to it, but it's the BIG culmination of the story, so I really want it to have that dramatic feeling to it!

Hope you all have a fabulous weekend! We'll be offline as usual, so I'll update you all again next Friday! <3

[the-cult-of-russo]

Such a Softer Sin (Part 10)

Pairing: Billy Russo x Reader

Warnings: I’m not specifically tagging this one, if you’ve seen the show, nothing will shock you. Smut will happen eventually so minors DNI, thanks.

A/N: I always get so tempted to post more than one chapter a day ‘cause I just want you guys to read the whole story lmaoooo

—--------

Billy wiped a hand over his face, his leg bouncing up and down as he sighed. He was ready to go, weapons strapped to him as he sat on the castle steps and awaited the others to be ready. He was stressed and worried and it was twisting him up in knots. He knew you were more than capable of looking after yourself and a part of him was excited to see you in action for real, to see the real you. But he was worried because despite all your grace and fury on the battlefield, you were still just a wolf. You weren’t immortal like him, not yet, that would come after mating. His hand flexed and unflexed as the urge to just mate you already tugged at him so he could go through with the ritual to make you immortal. The fear of you dying out there or in the war made his blood run cold and his wolf snarl and snap its jaws. He never really thought he’d have to worry about his mate dying like this, it hadn’t occurred to him. He just thought once he met his mate there would be the instant connection that usually happened. The connection was there for him but not yet for you and it made his chest ache. It drove him crazy to know you felt nothing for him, it ripped his heart into tiny little pieces that all you felt for him was friendship. He tried to tell himself he was lucky to even have that. You didn’t feel the mate bond, yet you still wanted to be around him, still wanted to be his friend, still comforted him when he was sad. His mind drifted back to meeting his mother for the first time. It had been overwhelming to see her in person like that and he’d felt so many things at once he hadn’t known how to deal with it. He couldn't help but be annoyed at her though for not helping you, he just didn't understand it. His mother knew how long he’d waited for his mate, had heard his desperate pleas as he begged her to just let him have her. She knew and yet you had no connection to your wolf, felt no connection with him and his mother wouldn't do a damn thing to help him. He’d wanted to ask her why she'd given him a mate that couldn't feel anything for him, why she would do that to him. He couldn't though, not with you standing right there, so he’d kept his mouth shut but he hated it. He tried to let the fact she’d said you would reconnect with your wolf at some point ease him. It meant at some point, you would feel something for him and he had to cling onto that hope. He just had to be patient and he had a shit tonne of practice with that already with how long he’d waited for you to come along.

He thought back to the kisses you’d shared during the ritual. He’d never been able to do the ritual before because he needed his mate to complete it. He hadn't been sure it would work because you didn't feel the bond, he didn't know what would happen, it wasn’t like he’d done it before. But it had worked and he’d kissed you and you’d kissed back. He’d felt wary and scared of your reaction and part of him wanted to tell you just what the ritual entailed so he didn't catch you off guard. But the idea of you saying no was unpleasant to him and while he knew it was wrong, he’d opted not to tell you. He’d been worried how you might react and he could tell you were shocked but then you were kissing him back and he felt like his soul had ascended. It was your first real kiss and it might not be happening in the way he wanted, but he cherished it more than anything. Cherished the way your lips insistently kissed him back, how your body leaned into him, the way you looked at him when he’d moved away. It made him more desperate to mate you, more desperate for you to feel the bond because he just wanted to kiss you senseless. He wasn't sure what would come first at this rate, fixing the damn moon or you reconnecting with your wolf. He was restless to go out and end the fuckers who were using the witches for their own gain. He wanted to burn the Vampire King’s Kingdom to the ground with him in the center of it for all he’d done. Karen had been heartbroken to know her own people were being used and killed like this and he didn't like it one bit. He had a lot of respect for the witches and he wouldn't let this happen to them. 

He rolled his shoulder and he saw Frank and Curtis by the gate as they got some men ready to go. He stayed on the steps though, waiting for you. It wasn't long after that he heard you and Kosmos talking and he stood at the same time you walked over. He wanted to tear out his beating heart and drop to his knees as he offered it to you and you had no fucking clue. 

“Where’s Atticus?” he asked curiously when no one else followed you. 

“Take a wild guess,” you muttered.

“He’s gone to his mate?” he asked and you smirked but it held no mirth. He could tell you were pissed off.

“Yep,” you replied dryly. He wanted to comfort you but there really wasn’t much time. He knew you felt like you were being left behind when it came to your best friend and he knew how that felt from when Frank met Karen, although he’d admit it hadn’t been this bad. But he knew it would eventually go back to normal. He knew how upside down you could feel when finding your mate, granted his didn’t fucking love him like she was supposed to. He couldn't imagine being away from you in the midst of a war so he couldn't say he blamed Atticus so much for going back to her. Karen walked over then and he presumed she’d just been saying her goodbyes to Frank. She was tearful as she approached him and gave him a hug. He held her tightly, a pain in his chest at how upset she was. 

“I promise I’ll save ‘em, alright?” he muttered firmly, squeezing her a little. She nodded into his chest, taking a shaky breath before she moved away. She gave him a watery smile and wiped her eyes, sniffling a little. She seemed unable to speak as she just nodded again and rushed up the stairs to the castle. He wanted the Vampire King’s head on a stick for hurting her like this. It was just the cherry on top of all the bullshit that bastard had done to him and his family and he was over it. Once she was gone, he noticed you and Kosmos had gone over to Frank and the others and he made his way over. Kosmos and Frank were talking strategy as you checked your dagger was strapped to you and he walked over to you.

“You got everythin’ ready?” he asked, concern dripping off his voice so obviously that you gave him a wry smile.

“It’s not my first time, Billy. I know what I’m doing,” you snorted and he nodded, his body tense as he looked over you, mentally cataloging your dagger and your sword. You raised a brow as you caught him and he gave you a sheepish smile.

“I’m worried, you can’t blame me,” he shrugged. Friends could be worried about each other, it wasn't giving anything away by caring. 

“This is what I do, remember? Your own Council used to send us on jobs all the time,” you remarked dryly and he nodded again. They did and you got the job done every time, only adding to the list of scary tales being told about you. He hadn't seen the Council since you and your people got here. They’d made themselves scarce as they carried on with their jobs with little interaction from him. He had a feeling it was to do with the telling off he’d given them about the comments about your people.

“Alright, we ready?” Frank asked. Everyone murmured in agreement so they all set off on foot. 

The walk was long and he knew they’d have to set up camp overnight. They wouldn't get caught in an ambush in the dark, he wasn't that stupid. He made sure to keep you in his line of sight at all times as he took up the back, Frank up front. By the time the sky started to go dark, he told everybody it was time to set up camp and rest up. He’d picked a few people to take watch so the others could rest without worrying and he stayed up too. While most of them went to sleep, some of them didn’t, too keyed up with restless energy to sleep and you were one of them. He watched you for a while as you sat by the fire, staring off into the flames. He could feel your restless energy a mile away and he found himself walking over and sitting next to you. You glanced at him as he sat down and gave him a small smile. You always did that. Every time you saw him you smiled at him and he doubted you knew how much that meant to him. You always seemed so happy to see him. 

“You alright?” he asked softly as he looked at you. He wasn't sure if he’d get a straight answer out of you. Sometimes you’d act brave, like nothing bothered you, but with him, you seemed to open up to him, showing the most raw sides of yourself and it touched him you allowed him that. You blew out a sigh, shifting where you sat to get more comfortable and it meant you ended up pressed together a little more. 

“I’m just worried about all of this. I’m used to battles and all of that, but this is a full scale war. Once we do this, we can't go back, it’s going to set it off. I want my people safe, I don't want them caught in the war,” you admitted with a frown and a thoughtful look on your face. He felt the buzz of worry coming from you under his skin like an electric current. You’d already lost so much, he couldn't take you losing any more, couldn't take you getting your heart broken again. 

“I’ll keep ‘em safe, you don’t need to worry. I’ll do whatever it takes,” he vowed earnestly and you looked up at him, wide shocked eyes as you blinked for a moment. Then a beautiful smile painted your lips and he wanted to kiss you again. Wanted to kiss you until your lips turned red and swollen. He couldn't look away from you and you seemed to have the same problem and it made his wolf howl in satisfaction that he had some effect on you, even without the bond. He tore his eyes away from you reluctantly because he feared what he would do if he didn’t. 

“I hope we can fix the moon,” you murmured after a moment of silence and the pair of you staring at the fire. 

“I don’t know what I’d do if I can’t shift. It’s the only time I’m connected with my wolf, I’ve been so excited. I look forward to it every time,” you lamented softly and he frowned. He wanted you to shift too because you’d recognize him as your mate.

“We’ll fix it,” he said firmly and you turned to him with an amused smile on your lips.

“You’re making an awful lot of promises tonight,” you snorted and he gave you a wry grin.

“Promises I intend to keep,” he said, his voice firm even with his smile. You bit your lip with a smile, gratitude shining behind your eyes before you looked away. Fuck, he wanted you. He wanted you so badly that it was making his bones hurt and he felt like he was drowning. It was like torture for him. Self restraint hadn’t been something that came easy to him and he was being put to the ultimate test here. He needed you more than he needed water and food to survive, more than he needed air to breathe. He’d give anything to be with you, he'd give up his whole damn Kingdom if that was what it took, he just wanted you. He was so lost in his thoughts that he tensed up, startled as your head rested on his shoulder. It took him a moment to realize you’d fallen asleep and he stayed as still as could be as not to wake you and have you move. It was such a simple thing yet his heart suddenly filled with warmth as he leaned his head into yours, allowing your scent to soothe him in a way no other could. He stayed there, stock still and unmoving all damn night as he soaked up every second of the contact.

When you woke, you lifted your head, rubbing your eyes as you glanced around confused, gathering your bearings. When you looked at him and realized you fell asleep on him, your eyes widened a little and you looked away.

“I’m sorry, you should have woke me,” you frowned and he could see you were embarrassed a mile away. 

“Nah, it was fine. I was pretty comfortable anyway,” he grinned and you gave him a sleepy smile that he found adorable. It was a lie, a completely bare faced lie because his back ached now and his ass hurt from sitting on the hard ground all night. He didn't regret it one bit though. Once everyone was awake and had breakfast, you all set off again to complete your journey. Everyone was ready for a fight, itching for one with the people trying to wage war on you all. Eventually, you all slowed down and Billy spotted the stone building between the trees. 

“Is that it?” one of the guys asked.

“Yeah, this is it,” Frank muttered as you all approached with your swords drawn. Nothing happened though as you stood outside the building, no movement, no fight, no nothing. Billy clutched his sword in his hand as he scented the air and a frown creased his brows.

“There’s no one here,” he bit out. The scent of vampires and rogues were long gone, they weren't here. He was confused, he knew his mother hadn't given him bad information, so why were they gone?

“Can you smell that?” you asked, dread coating your tone and he sniffed the air again. It hit him then, the unmistakable wisp of rotting flesh. He growled as he stormed over to the door, ripping it open so hard that it screamed as it came off its hinges. There before him in the small building were nine witches, all dead and in various stages of decomposition. The smell felt like it hit him in the back of his throat and he covered his mouth and resisted the urge to heave. Some of the other wolves ran back outside and he could hear one of them throw up. Frank roared, picking up a wooden chair before he launched it at the wall, making it splinter to pieces before he stormed out of the building. He knew what he was thinking though, knew Karen was on his mind as she was on his and it made him feel sick that he had failed. He’d promise to save them and he was too late. The anger he felt bubbled under the surface of his skin, making it feel like it didn't fit right. 

“This isn’t right. The moon was still waning last night but these have all been dead for a while. The freshest is probably two days. These can’t be the only witches they have. They left and they have more,” you growled and he was shocked by the fury in your voice. When he looked at you, he saw a fire in your eyes he hadn’t yet been privy to but had heard many stories about. His wolf was fighting to gain control, your rage spurring it on to take what was his, to claim you. He looked away quickly, shame coursing through his veins at even the thought in these circumstances. He was disgusted with himself. You looked at him then and his eyes widened a little as if he thought you could hear his vile thoughts about you. Instead, you gave him a defeated frown, shaking your head sadly before you walked out of the building. He heaved a sigh before he followed you out. Nothing bothered him more than feeling like a failure and that was exactly how he felt right now. The vampires were somehow ten steps ahead of them and he didn’t know how but it bothered him. 

He was at the back again as you all made your way home and with the way everyone was feeling, he was pretty sure no one was stopping through the night. They all just wanted to get back. His eyes were on you the whole time, the way your shoulders were slumped and didn’t respond as Kosmos tried to presumably comfort you. He wanted to be the one comforting you but how could he when he was the one who had failed here? Frank ended up falling back at some point and standing beside him. 

“I… I don’t know how I’m supposed to tell Karen,” he blurted, a panic stricken look on his face as he shook his head and Billy’s heart went out to him along with a heaping dose of guilt.

“I’ll do it,” he said firmly and Frank looked at him.

“You sure?” he asked warily. He knew how devastated Karen would be and he knew how much Frank didn't want to give her that news, to be the one to hurt her like that. But this was Billy’s mess and he’d handle it.

“I’m sure. Don’t worry,” he affirmed and Frank looked relieved, giving him a pat on the back. The journey took a while, trekking through the night as morale was low but eventually you all got back home just as morning broke. His men went off to sleep and after assuring Frank he’d tell Karen, Frank and Curtis went off to hide away until the news was broken so she didn't ask him. Before he spoke to Karen though, he went and approached you. You’d been deadly silent on the way back, even when Kosmos was trying to speak to you and he could feel the rage coming off you in waves. He wanted to check in with you and if he was honest, maybe buy some time before he rammed a knife through one of his best friend’s hearts. He was about to ask if you were okay when he got to you but you beat him to it.

“I want them all dead,” you seethed and his brows rose at the vitriol in your tone.

“These assholes are steps ahead of us and this whole thing just needs to end before more innocent people get hurt,” you muttered, your jaw tight as your fists clenched by your sides. 

“I know, we’ll end it. They won’t get away with this,” he answered seriously, his own anger obvious in his voice. You looked at him for a long moment before you nodded resolutely, blowing out a breath as if to calm yourself before you walked back to your pack house. He watched you go, wanting to do nothing more than to gather you in his arms and apologize profusely for not being able to do better, for being an awful leader and King. He shook his head as his eyes drifted to the castle just as Karen came out. He steeled himself before making a beeline for her before she tried to find Frank. He’d already broken one promise, he wouldn't break another. 

“How did it go? Where are they?” she asked hurriedly and she walked closer to him. Worry was etched all over her face and he felt his heart drop as he looked away, unable to take the weight of her hopeful gaze.

“Karen… They… They were all dead when we got there,” he admitted, his voice a mere whisper carrying in the breeze as pain gripped his heart in a vice-like grip. She was silent and it made him more tense. He expected her to start crying, but when he finally raised his eyes to her, she looked furious. He watched as she tried and struggled to contain herself, her chest heaving as she tried to breathe. 

“The vampires weren’t there either and the witches… they looked like they’ve been dead for a while, so we think they left but they still have some with them,” he added painfully. She nodded, pursing her lips as she straightened her back.

“Okay… Okay… I’m gonna get my girls to help me with a spell, try to locate who’s doing the spell on the moon so we can find the other witches. I won’t stop until I find out where they are,” she insisted and he felt a lump form in his throat. 

“Karen… I’m sorry,” he lamented, tears pricking his eyes as his nostrils flared. Her anger melted right off her face then as she frowned at him, eyes warm and soft as she moved closer and gripped his hand.

“Don’t do this, Billy. This isn’t on you. You didn't do that to them, he did that to them. He’s the only one to blame here,” she said firmly, giving him a look that told him she wasn't about to argue with it. He nodded, knowing he wouldn't get anywhere with trying to disagree with her. With a kiss to the cheek, she left to find Frank and he stood there alone. He could feel the pressure building inside of him at a rapid rate and he didn't know what to do to stop it. He’d never wanted anyone dead more than he did the Vampire King. That piece of shit got away last time and he wouldn't now. Not after everything. Billy had scoured the lands for him last time but it had been after he shifted, after his rampage so it was too late. The fucker had gone into hiding and he wasn’t seen again until now. And now he wanted a war again and Billy was going to fucking bring it to him. 

He found himself in the garden as he sat on the bench he usually sat with you. Flashes of Maria and the kids swarmed his mind and he felt the simmering rage prickling at him for all he’d lost. For all he hadn’t yet been able to avenge. He felt the wolf slamming at the walls he’d put him behind, desperate to get out of the cage. It was so overwhelming, he started to worry he might shift and was about to mindlink Frank when a sudden calmness settled over him. It was like a warm blanket wrapped tightly around him, making him feel safe and at peace. His head snapped to the side to see you standing there, hovering in the archway to the garden. 

“I’m sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you,” you frowned, looking at him worriedly. 

“It’s okay, you didn’t disturb me,” he answered, glad you were here as he slid over to make room for you. You gave him a small smile as you walked over, plonking beside him on the bench. You were both silent for a while and he noticed your glances to the moon.

“Do you know where the Vampire King lives?” you asked and it caught him off guard, his brows raising a little.

“Yeah, I do. I don’t know if he’ll be there, wasn't last I checked but he seems to be gettin’ cocky. There's a price on his head though, I’m not sure if he’d be that bold,” he answered, looking at you curiously as you hummed and nodded. You turned to him then, determination and anger shining behind your eyes.

“I think we should storm the castle, get this over with,” you said simply and he blinked at you for a moment. He’d thought about it himself in the past.

“It’s not a good idea,” he murmured and he hated the angry frown that settled on your face.

“They have a lotta numbers right now, especially with the rogues and now they got magic on their side too. We gotta plan this shit carefully. We’ve got some good numbers too and I’ve requested more fighters from packs, I’m waitin’ for ‘em to arrive. We need more fighters before we go into this, I can’t fail, not again,” he insisted. Your jaw ticked and he was startled by the scathing look that was directed at him.

“I really didn’t think you were that much of a coward,” you snarled at him and he physically recoiled like you'd struck him. Your words cut deep, deeper than anything could ever do because they came from you. The person who was supposed to love him the most. He felt his pain turn into anger, unable to help himself as he felt like a wounded animal backed into a corner. 

“You think I don’t care? You think I don’t know what’s at stake here? That I haven't had this war before? We almost lost last time ‘cause I jumped the gun and I lost family! They died ‘cause I was too cocky, ‘cause I didn't plan better! There ain’t a chance in hell I’m goin’ through that again!” he exploded and your eyes widened, a contrite look coloring your face and you looked away quickly. He could see you felt bad, it was written all over your face and he felt a pang of guilt hit him right in the chest for shouting at you like that.

“I… I didn’t… I’m sorry,” you looked aghast at your own words, eyes wide in horror and shame and he tried to let it soothe the burn you'd given him.

“I know you care and you're a good King, a good leader who cares for his people. I’m just… I’m worried and I lashed out at you. I didn’t mean that,” you frowned, such a sad look on your face that he wanted to scoop you up in his arms and never let you go. He’d be a hypocrite if he didn't let this go, it wasn't like he'd never lashed out in anger or fear to those closest to him before. He knew you'd been feeling the pressure as he’d felt it from you, felt the worry and the stress and the fear. 

“It’s alright, we’re under a lotta pressure here,” he said softly and you relaxed a little, giving him a tentative smile. He smiled back, wanting to ease your guilt for the things you said as you both sat in silence one more. It wasn't uncomfortable but it was slightly tense. 

“I feel sorry for you, being King. I wouldn't wish the burden of royalty on anyone,” you murmured sadly after a long moment and his chest seized up. Sadness coiled around him like a snake, knowing you were to be his Queen. He had no idea how you’d take the news. You wouldn't just be finding out you had a mate but that you’d be royalty too. Panic clutched him tightly in its jaws as he wondered just how badly you’d take the news. He was broken out of his spiral by you taking his hand and he blinked at your joined hands for a moment before he glanced at your face. You were looking at him guiltily again as you clutched hold of his hand and he never wanted you to let go.

“I really didn’t mean what I said and I’m sorry. Whatever plan you make for this, I have your back no matter what. I trust you,” you said firmly, such a sincere look in your eyes that he ached all over. Those words meant the world to him.

“Thank you,” he murmured shakily and you smiled, leaning over and kissing his cheek, completely stunning him. He sat there with wide eyes and a dumbstruck look on his face as you got up and left the garden. His hand came up to his cheek, happiness bursting in his chest that fizzled out as quick as it came. He had no idea how to move forward with any of this and he felt the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. He felt like Sisyphus, doomed to an eternity of a battle that would never end. He didn't have enough men yet and the vampires seemed to be ahead of them. They couldn't storm the castle, not yet at least and it left him feeling lost and hopeless. And then there was you. Would you hate him when you found out? Would you feel betrayed that all this time, all the moments he’d spent with you, he knew you were his mate and never said a damn thing? Would you hate him for cursing you with a life of royalty? His head was spinning as he glowered at the fountain and he’d never felt more cursed to be the Lycan Demigod King than in this moment. He just wanted to be Billy, wanted to be with you. He just wanted a normal damn life where he didn't have all this pressure laying on his shoulders. 

Taglist: (if you’ve been asked to be tagged and aren’t here, it wouldn’t let me tag some people.)

@firexfate

@blanchedelioncourt

@on-ya

@sunshinedaisies-anddeath

@snowkestrel

@music-indie-tv

@idaofinfinity

@sweetserendipity65

@ramadiiiisme

@k-marzolf

@celestialams

@woowwwee

@noortsshift

@rainbowgoblinfan

@mysweetlittledesire

@promnightbinbaby

@intothesoul

[iheartgod175]

Some Thoughts!

Man, I haven’t done a post like this in a while! But I figured I might as well before I work on one of my numerous WIPs XD

—So, I’ve been back on a Zula Patrol kick like you wouldn’t believe. Though that should be obvious with all the memes I’ve been making, haha! I promise this won’t become a Zula Patrol only blog, haha!

—I’ll be working on building my graphic design/editing skills so I can properly redesign my blogs ^^ You can expect a few graphics throughout the month! :)

—Chapter 4 of The Zula Patrol: Dreamscape Crusade Remastered is also coming along pretty nicely. I’ve been enjoying adding the layers of mystery and horror to the world that Multo ends up in. Oh, and a couple of new characters are making their appearance, too. And that’s all I’m going to say about the subject!

—I’ve also been steadily working on Love Language for the last couple of months. I thought FOR SURE that I’d be posting its first chapter by the end of the month, but life happened—not to mention that I keep coming up with MORE headcanons for Multo and Zeeter that I just have to write down and put in the story. XD Also, the story’s grown to the point where I had to break it up into FIVE chapters, now, with the fifth being the actual conclusion. This story’s been so fun to work on, and I hope you’ll all enjoy it when I finally publish it.

—That being said, I did have a few insecurities regarding the writing of Love Language. I wondered if anybody would actually read this story since 1. ZP isn’t a very well-known cartoon, and 2. Even for rarepair standards, Multo/Zeeter sure seems like it came out of left field. And for about a few weeks, I did leave it alone, out of worry that nobody would read it. But then I came across posts in my feed that said that it’s important to write the stories that you’d like to read, even if they don’t get any readership, because telling your story is what matters. I’ve dealt with this a lot since writing all of my stories, namely my Zula Patrol series. And while I struggle with it occasionally, I’m not going to let that whole “nobody will probably read this” mentality stop me from writing about these goofy aliens, and my favorite opposites-attract ship, of which I’m the sole captain.

—While I’ve been working on Blazin’ Trails content off and on, I’m having a deuce of a time trying to work on the final chapter of the original BT. I’ll literally sit down and open the document, looking for something to leap out at me and inspire me to work…but nothing’s working. And I really want to get things started with Blazin’ Trails Redux as well…*sigh*

—As for Super Why stuff, I’m looking forward to seeing the new shorts that are debuting next month! I got to see the first short, and it’s adorable. And I also can’t wait to see more of Power Paige in action! I just really hope that Woofster and Alpha Pig aren’t written out of the show :(

—Speaking of PBS Kids stuff…I kinda sorta got back into both WordGirl and Arthur. GOD, I feel old! And now, I’m half-tempted to have WG guest star in SRBA like Santiago will. The SRBA ‘verse? More like Into the Reader-verse, LOL XD

—Sodor Magic Crusaders MAY be getting an update in the near future. I thought about working on it for the first time in months, and I remembered that I only have a few episodes left until I can get to write the second season.

—Slowly but surely getting back into Honkai Impact 3rd. I still haven’t gotten a chance to watch the part 2 trailer, but it looks like it’s gonna be interesting!

—One thing’s for sure. Power Paige will definitely appear in the SRBA ‘verse. I just have to figure out what her backstory would be as well as her powers and what kind of fighting style she’d have. I know for sure it won’t be a sword—we already have four sword fighters in SRBA thus far (Super Why, Presto, Muse and Jackson).

—In Super Why news, I HAVE been working on the fifth chapter bit by bit, and I’d like to say that it’s about 65% finished. I don’t think it’ll be quite as long as the last update, but I don’t want to speak too soon ^^;

—I haven’t drawn anime in ages, not since I first started uploading on DeviantArt. And I admit, the pic that I’m going to post of Usagi isn’t the best..but you know what? Screw it! The only way I can improve is to practice, even if it’s wonky or incorrect! ^^

[longbobmckenzie]

Tips for writing a villa fic

If you pay attention to Love Island the Game fanfiction at all, you've probably read a villa fic or two, or a hundred. They can be a lot of fun, and the nature of the game lends itself really well to the concept. Which is why so many people have started writing villa fics of their own... and yet, so few finish them, or even come close.

Well, I’ve written more than my fair share of villa fics, ranging from a 3k word oneshot (yes, really) to a 230k word start-to-finish Season 2 Bobby fic, and I’ve read a whole lot more, so I've learned a thing or two about the genre.

So, I figured I’d share some of my tips, and ask some of my writer friends for their input (thanks @queen-of-boops, @rebelrayne, and @thoracic-orchid), and here we are!

Buckle in, because this gets long (much like my fics!)

Tip #1: Recognize that it’s a lot of work

It takes a long, long time to write a full villa fic, especially if it’s Season 2 and you’re starting on Day 1 and going right up to the final (and beyond?). We’re talking months of work, maybe even years depending on how much time you have to dedicate to it. My first fic (230k words) took me 9-10 months to write, and that was during COVID lockdown when I didn’t really have much else to do.

This isn’t meant to discourage you at all, but I’ve seen so, so many villa fics get published and never get past the first few chapters. Sometimes they even get 20-30 chapters in before the author loses interest or just plain runs out of free time. It’s a commitment, but it can definitely be done!

This especially applies to “All Star” villa fics or season crossovers. Kudos to those who attempt it and especially those who finish (I know of only one person who’s managed this off the top of my head), but trust me, it’s hard enough writing a villa fic, writing a crossover is putting it on evil mode.

Also consider if you’re writing from a male character’s POV (the LI, perhaps, or a male MC) that you’ll probably need to write more “boys only” scenes, so a little extra creativity is required (I could never, honestly).

Tip #2: Have a plan

I cannot stress this enough. Easy for me to say since I’m an outliner at heart anyway, but I’m in the middle of writing a villa fic and even with an outline, I’m still going back and tweaking early chapters (tip within a tip: write a few chapters before publishing anything!) when my plan changes slightly.

But having a clear direction of where you want to take the fic and planning out plot points, recouplings, dumpings, etc. is extremely important. Especially when you start going off-canon (more on that in a bit) or when you get to days where literally nothing happens in the villa.

The nice thing about villa fics is that you’ve already got a structure to work with, you just have to plan how you want your characters’ relationship(s) to develop and how to drive the plot.

Tip #3: You don’t always have to stick to the plan

That said, characters sometimes do things you didn’t plan for. And that’s okay! Sometimes. There are times you need to assert your will, but other times, things will change and you just need to re-evaluate your outline. And that’s okay… within reason.

For example, in Whiskey & Scotch, my plan was always for Bobby to be the endgame LI. Somewhere along the line, I fell in love with Henrik, and people really liked him and my OC together (mild spoiler: they were coupled up for a time). I was extremely tempted to blow up my outline to make it work for them, but the groundwork was laid for Bobby to be endgame, and I had scenes planned that had been living in my head for months by that point that I was excited for. It just didn’t make sense to make Henrik the LI (which is why I’m now working on a rewrite/alternate ending, because I still love them together even years later).

On the other side, at the post-Casa Amor dumping, Noah was single and I’d planned for him to save Hope. She was already a bit of a villain, they had history, it just made sense. But when I was writing the scene, I was completely stuck on his speech. I got a crazy/evil idea and had him save someone else instead. It changed a lot and I had to rework my outline a bit, but it worked out so well that I can’t imagine doing it the way I’d intended.

Tip #4: Watch the show

This is optional (technically, they all are), but it really is helpful on so many levels. It can give you an idea of the villa layout (Seasons 3-5 and 7 of the show all use the same villa), give you ideas for challenges, dialogue, plot ideas, etc. The show uses a host instead of the opening scene and some of the dumpings being done through text, generally it’s the boys picking the girls on day 1 instead of the girls, etc.

There are also more rules on the show that don’t make it into the game. Again, totally optional, but to make it a bit more realistic you could limit the islanders’ alcohol consumption (or let them get completely shit-faced if that works for your plot), take away all clocks, refer to their microphones occasionally, etc.

Also, like… I’ve never seen anyone on the show have sex on the terrace, but it happens in the game. You want your characters getting it on out in the open like that? By all means. But if you prefer a bit more realism, stick to the bedroom and hideaway. The bathroom is communal, but hey, the shower works too.

If you want to add challenges to your fic, I like to use this website for ideas. It lists most of the challenges from season 3 onwards, including results and video. It’s a great resource.

Tip #5: Kiss canon goodbye

There are definitely readers out there who prefer fics that follow canon, and to each their own. Personally, I’ve played the game over and over, read a whole bunch of fics, and written a bunch of fics, so I’m kinda sick of canon. Plus, sometimes canon just sucks or doesn’t make sense. So don’t be afraid to stray from canon, toss it into a ball and throw it out the window, or stomp all over it.

First, the dialogue. We’ve all read it over and over, got it practically memorized. Feel free to change it! In fact, please do! You can keep some lines and change the responses to completely alter a conversation, or make slight adjustments, or just… not include it at all, if you want. You can take out canon scenes and replace them with your own. Or keep them and just change who-did-what. Etc, etc. Make it your own!

Second, individual scenes. It’s okay to cut them. We don’t need to see Noah singing Toto on the daybed with Hope and Rocco walking by singing Wonderwall. Cutting it will not negatively impact your fic in any way.

What about challenges? Well… they can be cut too. Ask yourself, do they drive the plot? Is it necessary? For example, the day 4 slime challenge. Priya grinds on Noah despite not needing his colour, Lottie gets mad, blah blah blah. We know. The reader most likely knows. But unless you’re making MC’s drama the primary focus, you can cut it and just write a paragraph of narration telling us why the girls are fighting. The reader will understand and most likely appreciate that they didn’t have to skim through it.

Hell, you can skip recouplings, dumpings, even whole days. Trust me, I’ve done it. If you’re primarily sticking to a timeline that generally follows canon and not really messing with what’s going on with the other islanders, you can absolutely skip over that stuff and keep the focus solely on your MC and their LI. You can even still make slight changes to canon and just narrate what happened.

Basically, what you keep depends on what you’re trying to do with your fic. If you want to do the whole villa experience thing, keep as much as you want. If you just want to write a love story between two people who happen to be in the villa, you can cut out anything and everything that doesn’t in some way develop their relationship.

Also, you don’t have to start on day 1. Or if you do, you don’t have to start with the MC arriving at the villa. Be creative! And along the same veins, you don’t have to end it with the final. Heck, your characters don’t have to even make the final!

Tip #6: Read other fics

Again, you don’t have to do this. Plenty of villa fic writers don’t read other people’s villa fics. But I do think it’s a good idea, especially if you want to write a Bobby or Lucas fic (picking on the most popular characters because they have the most fics written for them).

You’ll be able to get some ideas of how other people did it – how much canon they kept in, how much they cut, how they made the story their own – but you’ll also get a good idea of what’s been done before. MC and Bobby are immediately attracted to each other right from the start? Great… but how are you going to make yours different from the other hundred fics that do that? Lucas switches to Blake? Okay yes, that’s canon – but are you going to keep it? What motivations are you going to give him? Maybe MC switches too?

And this isn’t to say that if someone else has an idea for something, you can’t do the same thing. Especially for people who watch the show, there have been a number of situations where people will have the same ideas. I’ve had it where I’ve had scenes planned or written only to read someone else’s fic and seen almost the exact same thing. It happens! Obviously don’t plagiarize, but it’s okay to have the same idea. And if anyone accuses you of stealing ideas, have them send their hate mail to me (don’t actually do that).

Tip #7: Write what you want to read

The reason I got into fanfiction and wrote my first villa fic in the first place was because I had an idea that I thought would be really interesting to read. I didn’t think anyone else was gonna come up with the same idea, though, so I wrote it myself.

I don’t know what sort of motivations other writers have when they start writing their fics, but if you have an idea, you just might be the best candidate to write it.

Tip #8: Don’t do it alone

Find a beta reader if you can (note: it’s not always easy, especially since villa fics are a huge commitment), but even if you can’t get someone to edit for you, getting someone who can give constructive criticism is extremely helpful – if you’re open to listening. They can help you figure out what works, what doesn’t, and what to work on.

Most importantly, though, find someone you can bounce ideas off of. If you’re struggling writing a scene, or need some ideas to help with a character’s motivation or dialogue, or you have a crazy idea and need some validation or advice… having someone you can go to is the best. All of my fics are better thanks to the people who helped, whether it was in big ways or little.

Tip #9: Develop your main character

Okay this is the tip that I don’t actually listen to myself 🤣 I’m a storyteller, so my fics tend to be more about the plot than the character arc, but having more well-rounded, developed characters is something I wish I were better at. If you know who your character is – their voice, their habits, their likes and dislikes, their family and relationship histories – it’ll be easier to write them. And the same goes for the canon characters as well! Give them more of a backstory! Give them siblings and heartbreaks! Especially with a villa fic where, unless they’re doing a challenge, they do nothing but sit around all day and have chats, you need stuff for them to talk about. This goes for group conversations, too – sometimes you just need to have some ideas of things they can talk about.

Now, I will say that I don’t think every MC needs to have heartbreak in their past (maybe they’re the heartbreaker?) or some sort of sob story. Those are common tropes in your regular run-of-the-mill romance story, and there’s nothing wrong with it, but it all goes hand-in-hand with your character’s motivations and how you want their relationship with the LI to develop. You can go that direction, but don’t feel you have to. If the story you have planned doesn’t need a character with a tragic past, then just have them be an average Joe.

Also, just a minor pet peeve of mine… your MC doesn’t have to be this super perceptive person who gets everyone’s answers right in Two Truths and a Lie. It’s day 2, c’mon. And they don't need to be the girl that all the guys in the villa are falling all over themselves to be with – is it more interesting for 4-5 guys to be into MC or for MC to be interested in someone only to be turned down? Just food for thought.

Tip #10: Choose the right POV

There’s no right or wrong POV, so choose whatever’s comfortable for you and your fic. But just note that readers do have their preferences (some people are strongly opposed to 1st and/or 2nd POV, for example). For a chaptered villa fic, it doesn’t really make sense to use 2nd person POV (“you” pronouns) because you’re telling the story of a main character who isn’t really generic. For oneshots/series where you’re writing snapshots of the villa, that might be what works for you, though.

As for 1st and 3rd, there are pros and cons to both. I chose to write my first villa fic in 1st because I really wanted the focus to be on my MC and seeing the villa through her eyes. Basically, if she didn’t see it or hear about it, I wasn’t going to include it. Other than that fic, though, I’ve primarily written in 3rd and it’s made me a better writer.

If you want to alternate POV between your MC and the LI (and maybe some of the side characters as well, as there are some people who do that), I recommend sticking to 3rd POV, because it can be a little confusing for the reader to remember whose POV they’re reading when it’s in 1st.

And there you have it! Ten tips to think about before (or during) embarking on your own villa fic. Good luck!

[teteminne]

So sorry to ask this, hope i'm not being annoying: I can't remember what originally happened at the end of the last chapter even though i definitely read it.

I think?? that they kissed again?

you don't even have to post the og chapter here but could you (or one of your followers who remembers what happened) give a summary?

Xx

Hello! Please, don't ever apologize for interacting! I absolutely love receiving asks, comments, kudos, anything! It truly makes me very happy, it's not annoying at all!

And yes, they did kiss again in the original version! I'll post it here already!

They throw a feast to receive him.

He’s somewhat embarrassed; it’s not nearly akin to his crowning, but it's still strange, to have so many people celebrating him. Especially now that he’s nothing. Their small Court, comprised of Lords Guagg, Flint, Hornwood and Redbeard along with Sansa’s ladies, Manderly and Poole, sit near their high table; they’d stood up in respect along with the rest of the household as he’d walked into the Great Hall, Sansa on his arm, Arya and Meera Reed close behind. They’d even clapped, some cheered. It’s astonishing. He’s nearly suspicious; briefly, he considers asking Sansa if she had them do it. It’s not like he thinks it’d be hard for her; though she’d never been fully out of control, these last few moons seem to have served to set her grasp on the castle fully. It’s entirely under her thrall now, entirely hers. It seems to move in synchrony to her heartbeats. It makes him fall in love with Winterfell in an entirely different way; it's more than just his home now, it’s also Sansa, her spirit expanded into a place. It’s beautiful.

She’d refused to so much as look at the Lord’s chair when he’d drawn it out for her. Instead, she took her mother’s seat, ignoring Jon’s sheepishness at taking father’s again. With Arya by his other side, he’d been served to a full, personally tailored meal. Every dish his favourite, done exactly as he liked. It’s bizarre; the strength of his gratitude renders him mute. It swells in his throat, and blooms every time he looks at her. The emotion is such he is forced to avoid the sight of her lovely face, flushed primly in the fire-warmed room, framed by rows of pearl-clipped braids, pinned around her head gracefully.

(He cannot think about how he’d kissed her. Cannot think of it - the thought’s ghost has haunted him all day -.)

He and Arya talk extensively throughout the meal. She has so much to tell him; Jon is happy to hear her, see her talk. She speaks and then looks for his answer; always seems so happy to receive it. For the first time in moons, Jon feels glad of his existence, much for how happy it seems to make them -his sisters; the thought threatens to make him sick for a mad second, and he pushes it down with a full swallow of his steak -.

Sansa remains mostly silent. In one of the few times he allows himself to look at her, Jon searches her eyes to see if everything is well; though there’s a timidity there he cannot quite understand, there’s also contentment. His hand itches to search for her, grab hers, grab her tight… If he thought himself tempted before - before he left, before he was tormented by those moons and moons of mad solitude that his mind eagerly seeks to discard further by the second now - it is nothing compared to how he feels right then. At this point, knowing what he knows - the true nature of his feelings, and the true nature of hers; the unbearable devastation of separation and the full spring of her touch, her mouth - he desires in a whole different way now. His mind dares to take him places he’d never ventured before, never even considered, conceived of…

She retires early, hand coming to rest upon his shoulder as she rises from her seat, lips gently arranged into a small smile.

“I’m tired; it’s best I return to my apartments.” she excuses herself genially. Jon looks into her eyes to see if she wants him to come to her rooms after dinner; she squeezes his shoulder once before she slides her hand away, and he knows she does. The entire hall salutes her, having risen from their seats in tandem with her, and she recognizes their efforts with small smiles and waves of her head, entirely at ease, graceful in step and posture, hands held before her womb. His gaze lingers as she goes, until he tracks the final swoop of the midnight blue fabric of her evening gown turning the corner out of the hall, her shadow disappearing down the hallway, Brienne on her tail.

“You really are close.” Arya states beside him, startling. He looks back at his little sister, holding his face unchanged, but the sight of her face cannot help but disarm him. His lips twitch as his gaze softens:

“What do you mean?”

“I had wondered, upon arriving, if you really were as close as she seemed to imply. But you are. You really are. You love her.”

Jon smiles faintly.

“Who wouldn’t?”

Arya doesn’t smile in response. She keeps looking at him, investigative. It’s her usual look; has been since she was a child, frowning at the world, haughtily demanding its answers to her every doubt. But now, a new kind of seriousness mars the image; she’s grown into a dark presence. Jon knows doubtlessly no toothy grin is to emerge from this stern facade. It makes him frown himself; they stare at one another, mirrored images.

“Are you jealous?” Jon breaks the stare-off, turning back to his plate to shove another huge piece of steak into his mouth. As he chews, he can hear Arya sputter.

“What?” she questions, seemingly indignant. Jon narrows his eyes at her, looking at her through the corner of his eye.

“Don’t play games with me. You’ve always been like this, especially when it came to Sansa. A possessive little gremlin from birth. But you’re grown now;” he talks through her wrothful complaints and his full mouth: “You should know there’s no need for this kind of bullshit.”

“I’m not jealous.” Arya spits the words out, deeply affronted. Jon smiles, swallowing his food.

“Alright, then.” he mocks, nearly laughing at the indignation wafting off her beside him; if she were eight, she’d have slapped his arm for the offense. “What have you been doing here, then, since you arrived?” he changes the subject, good humoured - and also slightly drunk; it's been a good while since he’s allowed himself to drink, and the ale is always best in Winterfell, always -.

Disgruntled still by his careless accusation, Arya’s mouth is still pursed sourly when she answers: “What do you think?”

“Knitting?” she gives him a look; Jon laughs, inwardly, taking a huge piece of kidney pie onto his plate. “Speak already. You won’t tell me anything about what came before; so what have you been doing here?”

“Hunting.” Arya supplies after a while, playing with her dinner knife. Jon frowns, evaluating her with a sharp look.

“Whom?” raising his fork to his mouth.

“You know whom.”

Jon stills; he takes his time chewing, then swallows. When he speaks again, his voice is lower, and he scans the room from underneath his brow while shoving his food around - his version of discretion -.

“I was wondering why he wasn’t here.” he states dryly. Arya hides her smirk beneath a sip of her drink. “Where did the vermin run off to? Back to the Vale?”

It’s Arya’s prolonged silence that makes him stop and look at her, questioning, but looking into her eyes, he knows at once. His surprise is such he cannot control his expression: his brows raise, mouth slacking open.

He gathers himself in a second’s time, but knows Arya saw it. Dragging a hand over his beard, overgrown, Jon processes the information.

“How…” his voice, though already low, dies at once the second it reaches his ears. Taking his act of dining back up, he tries to formulate his question, wary of hidden ears: “Can we speak of this here?” barely more than a mumble. Arya’s grin is small, but sharp:

“Why, of course! It was all strictly legal; you know we’d never act otherwise.”

“Of course.” obliquely; “By ‘we’ you mean…”

“Myself, Sansa and Bran.” she clarifies. “It was a joint effort.”

“I see.”

At the long silence that follows, Arya eventually frowns, leaning forward over the table to look at his face, worry lining that tense spot between her eyes: “Jon?” she questions, preoccupied.

Jon doesn’t let her know he saw her apprehensiveness; instead, he meets her eyes:

“Can I know what was his crime?”

“Yes.” relieved, she leans back against her seat, but waits until Jon has turned to her himself inquisitively before answering, without jest: “He tried to murder me.”

SANSA

Jon’s knock on her door has her flying off her chair to answer, terribly jittery, anxious. She pulls the door open in a single great pull, and there he is, greeting Podrick amicably. She hides her body behind the thick wooden door, only her face and hands peeking out. She’s smiling, and Jon smiles too when he sees her - his eyes never leave her after that, not even to bid the young boy farewell. Sansa can only manage a distant acknowledgement before she is banging the door shut -. She somewhat leans against it when it's closed, a strange feeling in her chest, lighting up her veins. It’s like anxiety, nervousness, only not really, because it feels <i>good</i>. Like the fresh burn of crystal water coming up her throat. It fills her with a boundless, fiery excitement. Her cheeks burn, but she cannot bear to lower her eyes, incapable of breaking their shared gaze even as a shyness she nearly doesn’t recognize makes the tips of her fingers tingle.

Slowly, Jon offers her a hand; demure, she takes it. He smiles as she comes into his arms, and she fits herself into his eager embrace tenderly, grateful for every press of flesh. Cheek against his chest, she looks down to watch him take her nightgown’s fabric in his hold, feeling the soft lightness of the deep purple material in between his index and thumb.

“It was a gift from Braavos.” she tells him, mellow.

Jon frowns.

“They gave you a nightgown?” he asks, the corners of his mouth tilting down into the beginnings of a scowl. “How very forward…”

“No, not the nightgown. The fabric.” Sansa corrects, bell-voiced, leaning further against him. She’s in the lightest of spirits now that he’s here. “The gown I made myself. Do you like it?”

Jon is silent as he takes it in further, taking her wrist gently in hand to pull it outward, so he can see the fit of the gown fully. Sansa’s heartbeat thrills perilously as her body falls under the shadow of his gaze. He squeezes her wrist, averting his eyes sharply to a random point over her head, lips touching her forehead in a casual kiss.

“It’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.” he tells her, thumb caressing the thin, sensitive skin of the inner side of her wrist, so gently as to feel the soft ridges of her veins. Sansa presses herself against him further, her other hand also finding the cotton of his vest at his back; he’d removed his leather doublet before coming here. The fabric smells of him thoroughly; the scent and the vividness of his warmth, the solidity of his flesh, everything that physically marks his presence, makes it real, feels like grace falling over her heart; a delight. Yet, even so, it doesn’t sate her hunger. In her innermost self, she’s still desperate. She still misses him.

“There are gifts for you as well.” she tells him, voice low. It feels wonderful to speak so and have him close enough to hear her.

“Yes?” he questions, playing with her hand. They watch him slowly take it fully in his hold, encase it in his. Sansa’s heart starts beating faster. Her breath nearly hitches; Will he…

Jon sighs, and Sansa knows before he does it that he will step away. The foreknowledge is good; she can prepare herself better. With some distance between them, Jon looks down at her mournfully, nearly apologetic. Sansa chooses to ignore it: “Come.” she calls him, and leads him towards the lit fireplace, blazing warmth and soft orange light into the room.

Before the fire, two upholstered armchairs sit lushly by each other, a small, circular little table between them, made of wood engraved carefully with the most delicate string of running wolves chasing each other’s tails around its edge. Amazed, Jon feels the embossed creatures with his thumb. Sansa smiles, pointing to the mosaic making up the table’s surface, happy with his enchantment: “I ordered it from a specialist in Wintertown. Described what I wanted, and he made it.” They look at the artful weirwood, crafted in white and scarlet red.

“Did it match your expectations?”

“Looks like it came straight out of my head, really.”

Jon smiles:

“You’re bringing Winterfell back to life.” he tells her, looking up at her with such pride she blushes fiercely, looking away.

“I’ve always liked pretty things.” she tries to skirt the praise, walking to the bureau upon which the boxes of presents lie. She takes them into her arms, bringing them to the little table. Jon is still standing between the armchairs: “That one is yours.” she tells him, pointing to the bigger chair, stately in brown leather. Jon looks at it; he seems to be taking everything in very slowly. Sansa lets him.

“Mine?”

“Yes.” Sansa confirms, busying herself with opening the first box so she doesn’t have to look at him, inexplicably embarrassed. “It's the most comfortable model I could think of to fit your way of sitting.”

“My way of sitting?!” He is stunned. Sansa blushes, fussing with the presents. She feels impossibly shy, and young. Silly. She is startled into looking at him when Jon gently takes her hand again; her heart thrills, and she swallows instinctively.

“Sansa, I cannot… everything you’ve done for me: the boat, the escort, the reception…”

“I had the guards make a wall for you to pass. I was nervous you might gather attention, and a crowd might unexpectedly form, I don’t know…”

“The feast, and now this.” Jon speaks through her nervous interruption. His eyes are full of emotion; he seems genuinely overcome. Sansa nearly expires just being near him; “What have I ever done to deserve you?” he takes her face in hand. Sansa raises hers to lie over his immediately:

“Don’t ever say such things. You deserve…” her voice trails off. They regard one another so intensely; there’s a gravitational pull that swirls around them. Without even noticing, they’ve come flush against one another; her nightgown isn’t really anything remotely close to thin, nor are his sturdy winter clothes - yet, even still, it feels like their skin is touching, like they’re coming together… - “I’ve thought of nothing but you, for moons. Your steadfastness, your trust… You believed in me, even when I was too scared to fully believe in you. You gave yourself to me, and now… now I’m yours…”

He snuffs out her words with a kiss. His lips press against hers, and Sansa feels a sigh escape her in true relief, arms flying to wrap themselves around his shoulders. For a long, hallucinating moment, they remain still in pure bliss, locked in the act, the feeling. Lingering. It is a few seconds before, slowly, Jon’s hands descend to her side, to pull her up against him; they take hold of her waist, miles of her back. Her spine arches, lungs filling with air so her ribcage expands into him: she wants to feel him to her bones. Their lips move smoothly, of their own accord, as they entwine themselves in the tenderest of embraces. Jon engulfs her with his arms and lifts her onto her tiptoes, taking her lower lip into his mouth. They stumble forward and knock against Sansa’s armchair, the flowery thing; it sustains them, pressing against Sansa’s lower back, and with the impact they’re startled into stillness. This kiss, it ends gently: slowly, painfully so, they let themselves come apart by the half of an inch. Their mouths still hover near one another, open. Their arms still hold the extent of each other. Sansa sighs again, mournfully now. Jon closes his eyes in helpless grief.

“What are we to do now?” he whispers, torn. His brow rests against the noble arch of Sansa’s eyebrow; she leans back against him feebly.

“I don’t know.” she answers truly, palms curved over the broad slope of his shoulders.

“We cannot go on with this. They will know.”

“Yes.” Sansa agrees bitterly, throat tight, voice sour. Neither of them are strangers to this world, they know the rules: this can only end in tragedy. Sansa feels it, knows it to be true; she can feel their death in her gut. This, this would be what ends them. Her eyes fill with tears, and she holds Jon tighter, lips trembling.

"I’m sorry.” she breathes out, a frail whisper. She can feel the tightness of Jon’s throat as though it were her own. He turns his head to kiss her hair, over her ear, loving.

“So am I.” he says it like he’s swallowed his grief whole, pushing it down by force. He draws back, their eyes meet: it’s like they speak silently. Mutually, they understand one another. They release each other, Jon taking another step back. The distance feels more striking; a rift, a fissure. Sansa takes his hand in both of hers over it: this touch feels different. The love is still there, but they’re both resigned. Where there once was fire, now there’s a cold agony: it pinches their heart, lascinating. This is how they yield: solemn as a grave, Jon takes his hand back, and makes way to his seat. Silent, Sansa also takes hers. They clear their throats, shuffle around, features strained into complete bleakness. Sansa takes a breath:

“Here; the first gift is this dagger…”

The fire crackling into the early morning, they pretend.

---------

So, here it is, the original ending of chapter 29. I really really don't like this at all now (to say the very very least), but what you guys want, you guys get!

Once again thank you for the ask, I truly love these interactions. It rlly makes me unspeakably happy to talk about flatlands with you and to know you guys like this story!

Much love!

[greenhikingboots]

More about the Mad Mouse

So a few weeks ago during excitement about the new outline reveal, I posted a few mini metas / speculation pieces. In one, I said — not for the first time — that I’m in favor of the Howland Reed = Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse theory. Now I’m finally back to share my favorite canon evidence. (Clarity! This isn’t a comprehensive list of evidence for the theory. It’s a post to focus on one piece I haven’t seen discussed before). I’ve already posted about it once or twice, but always buried in longer posts with tangentially related, more tinfoil-y theories, so I assume most people never read far enough to see this part. But you really, really, really need to see this part. To get to Ser Shadrich I first need to talk about Lyn Cobray. Recall that in AFFC there’s a moment where he threatens Littlefinger, but Littlefinger later tells Sansa not to worry, it was an act; Littlefinger is paying Lyn to fein hatred, join every conspiracy against him and report back.

Okay. So. In TWOW Alayne/Sansa chapter, she and Myranda talk with Lyn. Basically, the reader finds out that Lyn is pretending to be unhappy with Littlefinger because it’s his fault Lyn won’t be his brother's heir much longer. Littlefinger helped Lyn’s brother find a second, more fertile wife after his first wife died, and now a baby is on the way to push Lyn to a lower rank.

Got it? Okay, good. Because right after that part in TWOW chapter, there’s this absolutely insane line that needs to be dissected. *

“The venom in his voice was so thick that for a moment [Sansa] almost forgot that Lyn Corbray was actually her father’s catspaw, bought and paid for. Or was he? Perhaps, instead of being Petyr’s man pretending to be Petyr’s foe, he was actually his foe pretending to be his man pretending to be his foe.” *

Whaaaaat? What's Martin doing here? Why have Sansa think this line? What purpose does it serve? Sure, you can argue it’s just to make readers watch out for Lyn, to be suspicious of him and on the lookout for what he’ll do in upcoming chapters. I think that could be a large part of it. But I don’t think that’s *all* of it. Because guess what happens next?

“Just thinking about it was enough to make her head spin. [Sansa] turned abruptly from the yard… and bumped into a short, sharp-faced man with a brush of orange hair who had come up behind her. His hand shot out and caught her arm before she could fall.”

That’s right, team. Right after Sansa thinks the insane thing about Lyn being a friend or a foe, who should appear but Ser Shadrich the Mad Mouse!? 

Who is definitely Howland Reed. Because check this out: * “Perhaps, instead of being Petyr’s man (a hedge knight Petyr is paying for) pretending to be is foe (telling Brienne he’s working for Varys when they met in AFFC), he was actually his foe (a Stark loyalist trying to save Sansa) pretending to be his man (again, a hedge knight) pretending to be his foe (again, lying to Brienne).” *

I mean, honestly that’s enough to convince me. But also the alternative just doesn’t carry a lot of weight in my opinion.

If Ser Shadrich really is working for Varys but Sansa is going to make it to the North despite his attempt to intervene, then how much is he serving the story? Just one more enemy for her to overcome among so many? Plausible enough, I guess, but boring.

Whereas the Howland Reed theory? If it’s true, it could support elements of the Grand Northern Conspiracy — and if we’ve got Stark supporters tracking down Rickon, so why not Stark supporters tracking down Sansa — as well as support elements of R+L=J and Jonsa (or complicate the reveal as speculated in my earlier link).

I get that there are so many secret identity theories that they get tiring and tempting to dismiss. But GRRM certainly isn’t shying away from using them to explore themes and advance plots. So before you shoot down the idea, I hope you’ll at least consider an avenue where this theory could be true and done well.

And if it turns out to be true, I hope you’ll all say, “Hey, Green called one right!” ;)

Thank you and goodnight.  (other posts inspired by the latest outline reveal: 1 and 2)

[eggman91]

voodoo Mordecai au chapter 1

it was a silent night in st,Louis well it was, until after a short gunfight or massacre really i stood standing in the middle of the warehouse looking over himself i was lucky my coat didn’t get any blood or bullet holes I didn’t really want to spend the entire night doing laundry

I looked over and of course the savoys was looting what these double dealers had i scoff annoyed, but I wasn’t in the mood to argue ..wait..there was 7 of them and there only 6 in I look over to the spot the leader was and there was blood trail where Serafine had shot the leader his name couldn’t come to him but that doesn’t matter i follow the trail and out the back into the alley and there he was on the alley clutching something

I approached, ready to put a bullet to him, but . He was definitely dead blood loss already? But what was he clutching I wouldn’t care but maybe it could end a clue to whom they was double dealing mister sweet would like that I slowly grab his I didn’t like touching dead bodies, but it was my job. And …no it was just some swamp tailsman with a symbol

I was going to toss it back to the ground but suddenly a voice it was Nico “ Whacha got there peekon?” “ these rumrunner they was form New Orleans ?” I was walking over back inside the warehouse “oui dat fat man said dis boys was “ Mordecai look at the talisman “ well they appear fellow believers of yours “ Nico laughs slightly as Serafine join the conversation “ Oh, you just thinking anyone from Louisiana is a voodoo dat little silly ain’t it “ as they share a little laugh they both stop immediately as I hold the talisman

“ is this familiar?” They look at as Serafine just smile “ oh yes de grand zombi grandfather rattlesnake” I was getting annoyed again more of this swamp spirit, “ I thought you two followed your maitre Carrefour “ Serafine laughs slightly “ he our patron but there many loa “ Nico “he one of dat chief “ I only scowl “ ok then you two take it Serafine shake her head “ you’re de one who picked it up it chose you and if you take it we leave you be for the rest of the week”

I simply deadpanned “ tempting offer but I have no use for it besides already have that.. the one you carve into me” I was about hand to them but they just shake there head and continue to the car as I join and there a was a bin near by the door and I was about to throw it in there but… they would leave me alone if I take it no harm in but as we walk out I hear some drums soft I look back but nothing so I continue

later I was at my apartment I was doing some of my taxes the season was coming up, an atlas always told me to do them taxe fraud could take anyone down but as I do, so I was looking at the talisman but it was late I could finish them at the morning as got up and got into bed placing the talisman near my glasses and so I slept

well chapter 1 done listen, I was going to post this on ao3 but for some reason I can’t get account and i writing on paper to plan it out then type it but yeah as always show your opinion and criticism by the way, I’m a terrible writer

[nicsnort]

Gravita Anima (part 45)

Nightcrawler/Fem!OC/Quicksilver Long-form romance and drama fic. All chapters have been posted on Ao3.

Intro (with link to Ao3 story) First Previous

Elle was in the Brotherhood hideout. She paced around the room nervously. Pietro had picked her up in the afternoon and brought her here. They needed someone to hold down the fort while the rest went to the Sentinel factory. It had already been three hours since they left. Elle had wandered originally, trying to find more information but all important-looking doors had been locked tight. So she stayed in the camera room where they had told her to watch for intruders. As tempting as it was to call the X-men, she knew it would be suspicious - and she couldn’t risk there being any record of her contacting them. She could only hope that the X-men had found the factory as well.

Four hours had passed since the Brotherhood left and Elle finally saw the front doors open. Magneto stormed inside followed by Frost, Riptide, Wanda, and a limping Pietro who was escorting an injured Pyro. Azazel appeared behind her suddenly, his eyes burning red in the dark. There was anger there and for a brief moment, Elle thought she was caught. “Go and tend to your lover, Anima,” he told her. “The X-men arrived and injured him. He has been bitching about his ankle for half an hour...you did not see anything, yes?”

“Nothing, all quiet here,” Elle told him even as she rushed out of the door. Now to act as a concerned lover. Running to their medical room Elle saw Pietro sitting in a chair being given pain medications while Pyro was laying on the table clutching his ribs.

“Pietro,” she gasped, running to him. A hand went out to his cheek but stopped as she noticed a few scrapes and bruises, instead of taking the gauze and medical supplies from Wanda. “What happened?”

“Oh,” Pietro groaned as he leaned back against the chair, “it was horrible.” When Pyro grunted and groaned, he called out, “Keep it down there!” Pyro said something that sounded like a curse, but it was hard to tell given his accent. Quicksilver sighed, irritated. “Everything was going just fine until that stupid Nightcrawler teleported and tripped me with his tail.” He scowled darkly.

Wanda rolled her eyes and commented as she worked on getting supplies for Pyro, “It was actually quite interesting -- he made a ‘splat’ when he hit the ground. A literal ‘splat’ sound. Like a cartoon!”

“Shut up!” Pietro snapped, annoyed. “I’m glad you weren’t there, Elle, it was dangerous.”

“I am surprised he caught you,” Elle commented with an appropriate frown. Still, she could not help but giggle at Wanda’s words. She gave a soft smile at his concern. “Thank you, though I am sorry I wasn't able to help you...I’ll do what I can now.”

Holding up the antibiotic on the gauze she reached out and dabbed some on his cheek with a “this will sting”. Once she was done bandaging his face she pressed a soft kiss to his lips. 

Pietro made a face when the antibiotic cream touched his cheeks. It stung, of course, but he was more annoyed that he had even received them to start with. Actually, the more he thought about it, he found it odd that Nightcrawler seemed to have been focusing on him a lot today. He wondered why.

“Let’s check out your ankle. It looked like you were limping in the video feed.”

The kiss from Elle softened his annoyance. “Great, there’s video proof of it.”

“I want a copy of that,” Wanda called out as she gave Pyro a shot of morphine. 

Kneeling down before him she peeled off his boot and examined his ankle. “It looks a bit swollen, probably just a sprain though. Ice and wrapping it and it should heal up in a few days...oh and of course, you need to stay off it as much as possible.”

Pietro sighed, back to being annoyed. “Stay off of it? That’s asking too much. I have places to be, things to do...dates to be had with the woman I enjoy.” He reached up and caught Elle’s hand, squeezing it lightly to express his gratitude. “You’ll have to play my nurse.” 

“Ew, Pietro!” Wanda made a face.

“I wasn’t talking to you!” He threw a roll of gauze at her, which missed pitifully.

“I’ll be happy to help,” she told him with a smile as she bandaged his ankle tightly. Elle had worked at plenty of aid stations at protests before and being a tour guide she knew basic first aid. “Put some weight on it.”

Pietro winced slightly and mumbled, but not loud enough to be heard. He looked at her skeptically, but he did it. He stood and gingerly put his foot down. After the first few ounces of pressure, he jumped back onto the chair and made a noise suspiciously like a yelp. “Nope, too sensitive still, it still hurts.”

“That’s not the only thing sensitive,” Wanda remarked coolly as she walked by. 

Pietro made a face at her before turning to his girlfriend. “Elle, help me to my room?” He held his arm out.

“Of course,” she told him, helping him take his weight off the leg. “Maybe a kiss upstairs will help.”

“Eh Shelia,” Pyro said to Wanda, his voice slurred a bit from the morphine, “kiss me all better?”

The look that Pietro gave Pyro could have chilled the most heated of hearts, but the man was already pretty out of it. “Get your own, John.” He growled. He gladly took Elle’s help, mindful not to lean too much weight on her, though he found himself hating stairs with a new passion. 

With a small laugh, Elle assisted Pietro up the stairs to his room. Sitting him on the bed she gave him a concerned smile. “Tell me about the fight,” she questioned as she slowly began aiding him out of his costume.

Once he was seated on his bed -- which, he had to admit, was a fine start to what he hoped would be the most healing of sessions -- he sighed. “We got to the factory and started taking the sentinels out. We got about three in and some of the workers -- compliments of Azazel,” he thought it best not to mention how these workers had their own ‘splat’ moments if he was hoping to have the tender loving care from Elle, “when the stupid X-men showed up.” He paused, making a slight face though his gaze was distant. “I’m not sure how they knew. We just found out about the factory not too long ago...so to keep them was...suspicious.”

He shook his head and leaned back on the bed once he was just in his boxers. “Anyway. Wolverine and Beast started to save the workers. Of course, by then they had activated a couple of the sentinels. Magneto took them out with ease. Nightcrawler and Azazel were fighting over the humans -- it was actually pretty funny. Wanda and Jean got into a fight...Pyro tried to help, but Cyclops ended up knocking him off the second floor. If Azazel hadn’t been busy, he could have grabbed him. It was all just a mess.” He scowled, annoyed. 

She was behind him when he mentioned the workers and her brow furrowed. Elle had always suspected how Brotherhood raids went for the humans they came across and his caginess about the subject only confirmed the direness of it to her. Hearing that Nightcrawler, Kurt, had saved many from Azazel made her smile. “It sounds like they really disrupted the mission,” she said, forcing a small frown. “I am glad you weren’t badly injured...Lucy must have told them everything and they were waiting for you to make a move.”

A scowl crossed his face. “I know she was your friend,” he said rather assumptively, having heard what Riptide had detailed from their last meeting, which was impressive since Riptide barely spoke more than two words, “but I can’t believe Magneto fucked up on that mess.” He had taken a bit of pleasure in knowing he had beaten his father in something, especially since it involved a woman. “Well, she won’t know the next move.”

“Obviously, Magneto isn’t as infallible as he would like everyone to believe…” It was an offhand comment but one of a few she had made trying to undermine Magneto in Pietro and Wanda’s mind. “But whatever he has planned next you have to be in tip-top shape.”

There was a conflicting emotion the statement brought out in him. There were a few times when Elle would remark on that, on Magneto’s abilities, and as a soldier of Magneto, he disagreed. As a son, who rarely saw his father growing up and was raised with the ‘tough love’ approach? He was basking in the increased trust and duties his father had given him since bringing Elle to his side. Elle just needed time to adjust to Magneto and Brotherhood life. That was all.

By this time she had relieved his torso of his uniform. There were a few more bruises there, littered among the scars from previous battles and harsh training. “You’re going to have to stand...or at least lift that fine ass,” she told him, moving in front and kneeling down, ready to pull the suit off his hips so she could continue removing the skin-tight suit.

At Elle’s reference to his ass, his scowl turned into a smirk. He decided to stand, mindful of the pressure he put on his leg. “That’s an inviting position.” He purred as the lower half of his uniform came off. He reached out and ran his fingertips over her hair.

“Mmmm is it,” Elle asked coyly, glancing up at him. She removed his other boot and the rest of his suit, leaving him in his bare glory - of course, he went commando under his suit. It was too skin-tight for underwear.

Elle stood back just a bit and sensually removed her top revealing the silver lingerie that she had gotten for him. “So let me take care of you…”

“They say touch helps the healing process,” he agreed, his voice deep and thick with want. He reached over and brushed his fingertips across her chin, down her neck sensually, and over the smooth feeling fabric of her bra. 

“And removal of stress,” she continued, dragging her hands up his chest. Pushing him down on the bed and climbing on top of him Elle proceeded to do just that…

Later that night, as they cuddled on the bed together, Elle thought about what had happened. The X-men had managed to stop the Brotherhood from destroying the factory. They had saved multiple lives and how many of them would have been taken by the man laying next to her. How many had Pietro killed? She knew that he regularly stole money and items. Several of the gifts in her apartment from him she knew were not paid for. Yet, he had so much potential for good...or at least not evil…

Elle had affection for him. If it wasn’t for Kurt she felt like she really would try to change him, show him the light...she would never join him...she would never choose him over Kurt...right?

_____

Next

Fanfic Masterlist

[luckyfinch]

Chapter 5: Swap’s Rescue Party

look at this post for chapter one, warnings, and info

It had been more than a week since he’d disappeared.

At first, they had no reason to be worried. He’d always had a flair for the dramatics, so it hadn’t been the first time Swap made a scene and loudly announced his departure. But he’d never be gone for this long unless something had happened. 

“Dream, i’m telling you, Error has to be hiding him!” Ink groans frustratedly, trailing behind the guardian. “why are we poking around AUs when we can just go to the anti-void and find him??” 

Dream stopped, sighing. “We’ve already looked there enough. Besides, Error has no reason to kidnap Swap this time. It’s got to be something else.” 

“what about Nightmare, then?” 

“He.. Nightmare has never taken anyone prisoner before, and there’s still no reason to take Swap. If anyone, he’d have taken you.”

Ink crosses his arms, eye lights flickering rapidly while he thinks. “doesn’t he, though? Swap could have some information he wants, and it’d be much easier for him to kidnap Swap than me. if Swap was out in any AU on his own, Nightmare could’ve done that feely-locate thing you do, and just.. grabbed him.”

“But we have no way of locating them! My brother’s lair is somewhere my power cannot reach.”

“...Error probably knows where it is.”

---

Error was getting pretty sick of people showing up uninvited in his anti-void.

You help one skeleton with directions, and suddenly the whole multiverse starts bothering you!

Sure, maybe he knew exactly where the little Underswap Sans was, but was he going to tell Dream or the Squid that? No! Still, with all the annoying pestering from them, he was tempted--just to get them to leave him alone.

“Error!”

Sigh. He already felt a headache forming. Strings shoot down and apprehend the nuisance before he even turns to look at him. He forces himself up from his beanbag and walks over to where Ink is now upside-down and a foot off the ground, arms pinned to his sides and head level with Error’s. 

“WhAt Do YoU wA-aNt NoW, s-SqUiD?” 

Unbothered as always, a stupid smile appears on Ink’s face. “you know where Nightmare’s lair is, right?”

“s-S-sO wHaT?”

“we need help finding it!!”

“‘wE?’”

Suddenly, Error is made aware of another presence in his anti-void. He jumps back, a hand raising to command his strings. A second skeleton joins Ink, held aloft and upside-down. His headache increases.

“Sorry.” Dream smiles apologetically. 

“w-W-wO-wOw. I-i DiDn’T eXpEcT y-YoU tO b-BeC-cOmE a NuIsIaNcE tOo.” His eyes narrow at his own stuttering, glitching voice as he fights to get the words out. Through the errors that started filling his vision as Dream startled him, he can barely make out the golden blob held up by his strings. “..I-i-I’m NoT tElLiNg YoU aB-b-BoUt ThE c-Cas-StLe.”

Ink groans dramatically. “Error! we need to know!! c’mon, i’ll even promise not to bother you for.. a whole week!”

Pausing, Error considers this. He didn’t really want to deal with an angry Nightmare, but... “A yEaR.”

“what?!” Ink shouts indignantly, “no way! three weeks.”

“tHrEe MoNtHs.”

“four weeks!”

“OnE mOnTh!”

“fine!”

“FiNe!”

Ink grumbles under his breath, but holds out a hand that he somehow weaseled free from his confinements.

The glitching skeleton hesitates, though grabs Ink’s hand to seal the deal. He shudders, pulling his hand back immediately as error signs fill his vision once more and the uncomfortable feeling of glitching out travels from his hand up his arm. 

As Error freezes, a crash overtaking him and a “rebooting” bar glitching into place just above his head, Ink turns to Dream with a growing smirk.

“your welcome.”

Dream sighs exasperatedly. 

A loading sign appears at Error’s head for a moment, flickering out as his eyes clear and he jolts back to awareness. He mutters under his breath, swiping at the air and letting Dream and Ink fall to the floor.

“DoN’t B-bR-bReAk ThE d-D-dEaL.”

With another swipe of his hand, a glitchy portal opens under their feet. The Star’s fall through, landing on their backs in a dark, gloomy feeling hallway. Ink glances up, seeing Error laughing as the portal closes, leaving behind no trace.

“Error..” Ink growls, annoyed. 

Dream shushes him, pushing himself up and looking around warily. He offers a hand to his companion, pulling him to his feet as well. “Keep your voice quiet. My brother cannot feel for your soul, but he might be able to feel my aura already. I can feel his magic radiating from the walls. We must be careful.”

“see if you can sense Swap in here. We’ll grab him, and get out.” 

Eye sockets sliding closed, the guardian reaches out his magic, searching for Swap’s familiar aura. He inwardly gasps as he feels it, forcing himself to keep focused to pinpoint the location. 

“He’s here. There’s.. two others with him, one feels--muted?” He frowns, taking a deep breath as he tries to concentrate on the other two souls. “I think one is Killer, and-” Cross.

His eyes snap open, and he flinches back at the closeness of Ink, who had leaned into his personal space with two bright question-mark shaped eye lights. 

“Ink!” Dream whisper-shouts, gaze hardening. “Personal space, remember?” 

“sorry!” Ink smiles, leaning back. He didn’t look very sorry to Dream.

“We need to move quickly.” Dream puts effort into keeping his steps quiet as he heads down the hall. Ink hurried after, steps effortlessly silent.

The two move quietly through the castle, alert. They determine Nightmare absent as Dream pauses to feel for the others, and can only sense the two with Swap. Nightmare must have taken Horror and Dust out on a mission, causing damage that Dream and Ink were not present to combat. Dream felt a little guilty at the thought.

As Dream held a hand up, Ink came to a halt behind him. Ahead of them were a series of doors on either side of the hall. They continued forward slowly, Dream careful to pinpoint the exact room Swap was in.

“Here.” Dream whispered, pointing at a door with an odd paper taped to it; a crude drawing of a.. blueberry? Ink had to choke down the snort threatening to come out as he saw it.

They took a moment to prepare for the coming fight and rescue, Ink securing broomie in his hands and Dream forming two machetes with his magic, rather than the usual bow he’d use against Nightmare.

Dream held up three fingers, counting down. When he’d lowered all of them, the two rammed into the door, bringing it down with a loud thud. They both bounced back up in seconds, weapons at the ready. The yelled demand for his friend’s releasement died in his throat, though, as he took in the scene in front of him.

Killer had jumped up immediately, knife in hand. Cross slid off the bed, summoning his weapon only as he realized who’d broken in—he was without his usual get-up, his jacket missing. Swap was sitting in the center of the bed, cape on but missing his battle-body and boots. His eyes were wide and upset, but his gaze was locked onto the splintered door that Ink and Dream stood on, not them or his captors.

“MY DOOR!” He exclaimed loudly, distraught. His gaze raised, only then realizing who had broken it down. If even possible, his voice raised an octave as he exclaimed again, somehow louder, “INK AND DREAM?!” 

Dream frowned, weapons lowering slightly in his confusion for his friend’s reaction. Ink, on the other hand, did not stay quiet.

“Swap! we have come to rescue you, don’t worry!!” The artist ran at Killer as he spoke (yelled), his brush swiping at Killer and covering him in paint in seconds. The captor fell to the ground, paint hardening into restraints.

Killer clenched his teeth in his annoyance. “stupid bastard. every time!”

Swap rolled off the bed, falling into a battle stance and summoning two bones in his hands, his sockets narrowing.

The movement spurred Dream into action, rushing at Cross, who met him halfway. Cross slashed at his middle with his large, red blade, and Dream just barely dodged it as he flinched back. He blocked another attempted blow, both his blades up and facing forward as Cross pressed his weapon into Dreams’, forcing him back. He struggled under the pressure, not really wanting to harm Cross, until his back hit solid wall and his arms were pressing uncomfortably to his chest, straining to keep hold of his machete. He heard clashing from behind Cross, but his vision was obscured too much to see what was happening. 

“What are you doing here?!” Cross growled, eyes hard. “How dare you come here!”

Dream’s weapons shook with his efforts of holding back Cross’. “We’re just here for our friend.”

“Swap isn’t going anywhere with you!” 

With his shout, Cross tilted his blade and Dream’s machetes to the side, throwing his weapon away and forcing Dreams’ to go with it. Before the guardian had time to react, Cross grabbed his wrists and slammed him into the wall. 

“I won’t leave him behind.” Dream choked out, gritting his teeth.

Cross glared at him with a fierceness that Dream hadn’t seen before. He adjusted his grip on Dream’s wrists to restrain him with one hand, using the other to grab at his chin harshly. He stepped to the side, forcing Dream’s head in the direction of the others’ fight. “Does he look like he wants to be ‘rescued’?”

Dream prepares to retort, but falls silent as his mind comprehends the scene. 

He’d assumed the sounds of fighting were because Killer had freed himself from his painted restraints, but he remained on the ground, shouting profanities at Ink. Ink was fighting Swap. Their friend, their teammate—with an unfamiliar glare and tense posture, Swap fought valiantly against Ink, a sharpened bone in each hand that he methodically aimed at the artist, side-stepping and dodging the attempted blows from Ink’s brush. 

As Ink swung the end of broomie towards Swap’s legs, the taller faltered, unable to get out of the way in time. Swept off his feet, he fell back. Ink quickly pounced, brush dropping to the side as he fell forward onto Swap, straddling his waist and holding his forearms to the ground. 

Cross drops his hand from Dream’s face, taking half a step towards the others before Swap shouts wordlessly, bringing his head up and slamming his skull into Ink’s jaw. The effect is immediate, Ink wincing and releasing Swap’s arms on reflex. He shoots his hands forward as soon as they’re released, grabbing onto Ink’s wrists and shoving him backward, flipping the scenario around.

Ink stares up at Swap, expression conveying more confusion than hurt. “Swap..? i don’t understand- we’re here to rescue you.”

“I Don’t NEED To Be Rescued.” Swap bites out, voice tight.

“...you’re betraying us.” The moment of realization is obvious, as Ink’s eye lights hesitate on exclamation-points, then begin to change rapidly again. 

Swap’s expression softens slightly. “I Suppose I Am.” He keeps his grip in Ink’s wrists firm, but stands, pulling the shorter up too. He glances up at Cross.

The monochrome skeleton gives Dream a final look, and Dream is shocked at the burst of indecipherable emotion suddenly coming off of him. Cross pulls Dream forward, letting go and shoving him towards Ink. Swap releases the artist, stepping back. 

“I’m Sorry.” 

Feeling Swap’s emotions, he knows that his.. old friend, means it. Dream frowns, a hurt expression overtaking his features. He thinks back on old interactions with Swap, wondering what would lead him to wanting to work for Nightmare, or to even leave. Deep down, though, he understands why. He can feel the emotion radiating off of Swap. He just doesn’t want to accept the reasons. 

He refuses to meet Swap’s eyes, placing a hand on Ink’s shoulder and focusing on the positivity from their base’s universe to teleport to.

As they disappear, Killer’s restraints fall and disintegrate. He’s up and across the room in a second, halting his cursing at Ink. Cross hurries over to Swap as well, grabbing onto his shoulders as Swap falls to his knees, head hanging limply. Cross pulls him into his side, glancing up at Killer.

“He’s passed out. Did you see him get hurt at all?”

Killer frowns, “he took a hit to the head, i think. didn’t look too bad.”

Cross nods, sighing. He crouches, pulling Swap up to get his legs out from under him, then lowers him again to reach an arm under his knees and an arm around his back. Standing, he carefully adjusts his grip, then he and Killer wordlessly leave the room and head for the infirmary. 

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