#can you tell its the most self indulgent thing I've ever written? YES

[nereidprinc3ss]

in the dead of night

in which spencer wakes up in the middle of the night with an overwhelming desire to feel you

18+ (smut) warnings/tags: fem!reader, soft dom!spence (certified nereidprinc3ss classic), sub reader, fingering, piv sex, praise, overstimulation, cr**mp*e (god pls we need a new term) a/n: this is probably THEE most self-indulgent thing i've ever written. but.... lowkey favorite smut i've posted thus far..... i'm such a sucker for disgustingly sleepy needy sex. just.... read it and u will see.... and as usual i love you!!! PLEASE tell me what you think!! MWAH

When Spencer got home around one in the morning, he’d been too dead on his feet to do anything more than get undressed, fall into bed, pull you close, and pass out. Now he’s slightly disoriented as he stirs, pinned between sleep and wakefulness as he realizes how you’ve curled into his side—your face is buried in his shoulder to the point where he’s concerned about your access to air—but each warm puff against his neck assures him you’re breathing alright. One arm is slung haphazardly over his shoulder and your top leg is wound around his. Without thinking, his hand cups the back of your thigh, stroking the bare skin where it presses against his hip. You’re never so soft as you are in sleep; plush, easy, gentle. Spencer realizes with some degree of frustration that he has to fuck you. That’s why he’s awake, and he condemned himself to the fate of it as soon as he touched you. 

Sometimes the impracticality of sex becomes so apparent he resents his own mammalian, biological drive to reproduce. It was never like this before he met you. You reduce him to nothing more than a primate doomed to follow its basest instincts. You make him feel stupid. 

God, he loves you. 

It’s with this in mind he drops his head to kiss your shoulder—a gentle sort of wake up call, as his hand snakes further around to your inner thigh and he presses his lips to your ear. 

“Baby?” he murmurs, kneading the smooth warmth of your leg. It doesn’t take much to wake you up. He thought after you’d been staying at his apartment on a semi-regular basis you’d begin to sleep through him getting up and coming home at odd hours, but if anything, you became more sensitive to the floor creaking or the mattress dipping. 

“Hm?” 

His fingers brush the fabric of your underwear. Your hips twitch. 

“Is this okay?”

You inhale deeply, readjusting your arms around him and nodding into his chest. 

“I need yes or no, angel.”

“Yes, please.”

The words aren’t desperate. They’re sleepy, mumbled, maybe even a little annoyed that he’s making you jump through hoops. The corner of his mouth twists in amusement at your perfunctory politeness and the way it poorly disguises your habitual impatience. 

“Thank you,” he says, rewarding you with his fingers pushing between your folds through the fabric. You say nothing more as he unhurriedly rubs your clothed clit, but he feels the way your breath catches for a moment—before pouring out in one deep tide. He presses slightly harder, transitioning from passes to slow, tight circles that elicit the tiniest, sleepiest moans. This goes on for a while until your hips begin grinding in isolated circles, chasing his hand. 

“Touch it,” you beg quietly. He can feel how damp you are through the fabric and realizes he was probably torturing you for several minutes, but sometimes he just gets so lost in touching you it becomes almost meditative. He pulls his hand away and snakes it between your bodies, sliding beneath your underwear and dragging his fingers over your puffy clit. You whimper but he quickly gets distracted when he realizes just how wet you actually are. Spencer sinks his fingers into you and moans lowly at the sound, rubbing at a spot deep inside you and rutting his palm against your clit rather than pumping his fingers. 

“Breathe,” he reminds you when he realizes how still and silent you’ve gone. A small amount of air escapes in a tremulous little cry as your hips roll gently against his hand—whether to escape the sensation or get closer is unclear. “You’re all wet, baby. Were you touching yourself before I got home?”

“Mhm,” you hum weakly against him. “Couldn’t come.”

Spencer feels like he could finish at the thought alone—the nightly phone calls while he’s away occasionally devolve into desperate phone sex and he’s gotten off to the image of you playing with yourself in his bed on more than one occasion. 

“We’ll make you come,” he promises, dragging his fingers from your soaked heat with bated breath. 

He pushes your underwear down first, until you can kick it off your feet (you’ll have to search for it between tangled sheets tomorrow) and then his own, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth as his cock brushes your tummy. Spencer hoists your bent leg further up his body, exposing your cunt a little more and reaching underneath your thigh until he can guide himself between them. 

The head of his cock pushes between your folds momentarily before he’s teasing your swollen clit, slipping the underside of his tip over it in lazy, noisy circles until you whine. 

“Stop it,” you beg, voice still strained with sleep, “need it inside.”

“You’re right, baby, I’m sorry,” he croons, pressing his lips to your hair as he notches his cock at your dripping entrance and slowly begins to push in. “You’re being very patient—”

He cuts himself off as the two of you moan in filthy harmony. You’re so worked up for him, so defenseless in your half-unconscious state that he slips in with far less resistance than usual. 

“Fuck, me,” he groans under his breath, hissing and bucking his hips when you tighten around him and cry out. He shuts his eyes and thinks of the Goncharov conjecture in an attempt to control himself; the i-th cohomology of the complex is isomorphic to the motivic cohomology group—and then he’s fine. He’s at least learned to stop rattling off mathematical paradoxes out loud during sex. “You okay?”

The only answer you have for him is an indecipherable whine that makes his chest ache. He rubs your thigh in sweet, soothing passes. 

“I know, I’m sorry.” A thought occurs—he chuckles breathily, seeing stars as you throb around him. “You never let me in that easily.”

“Mm,” you squeak, gripping his shoulder hard enough that it aches and he truly couldn’t care less, “you feel good.”

He exhales shakily, pulling out slightly before grinding his hips even deeper into yours. 

“Yeah? So do you, sweet girl.”

“Fuck,” you whimper, and he takes it as a sign that you’re ready to be fucked. Spencer’s not thinking about a whole lot as he withdraws all the way and you clench around him desperately—but somewhere in the back of his mind he’s realizing how much he loves your dirty mouth. When he was younger and dumber, he thought he’d prefer a girl who was soft-spoken and rarely (if ever) cursed. Now that he’s had you, he realizes how compelling and endearing the contrast of your soft voice is when you’re swearing like a marine. 

“God, I missed you,” he breathes into your hair as he leisurely finds the right pace and you melt against him. “I missed how soft and wet you get for me,” Spencer admits gently, eyes screwed shut as he rambles from a place of profound affection and not at all thinking clearly, “and I missed how you cry when you need it so bad it hurts, and I missed how sweet you are when you let me fuck you right after I get home and you’re so tired, just like this. You’re always so good, honey, I don’t know what I did to deserve you—” You whine and clench so hard around him it becomes an effort to push back in, and he groans as he realizes you’re already coming. “Good girl, baby. Holy fuck.”

That last part is more so whispered to himself, but he can’t help it as he feels you painting his cock with your release. You’ve never come this quickly before, and he slips his arm beneath the crook of your knee, pulling up and granting himself more access to fuck you harder and faster. You moan brokenly, sinking your nails into his back. 

“‘m sorry. That was—I didn’t mean to.”

“No,” he quickly assures you, breathing hard, “that was so good, baby. It was perfect. Don’t apologize.”

It seems the brief window between climax and over-stimulation has passed, and a gasp falls from your dropped jaw, arching into him as your body unconsciously tries to find relief from the sensation. 

“Oh, god, Spencer, I—”

“You can take it, we’re getting close,” he promises. Not a demand, but meant as encouragement. “Do you think you can come for me one more time?”

“I don’t know,” you slur, the words rising to squeak. 

“I think you can. Come on, show me how you were touching yourself earlier.”

You whimper, but slide your hand from his shoulder and push it between your bodies. A gasp accompanies the jolt of your muscles as you make contact with your clit, probably demanding too much of it. Soon, however, the conflicted mewls melt into a rhythmic string of delicate, short moans, so pretty it’s like a practiced song. Spencer’s brain, usually overflowing with words, is nothing but a void of swirling fog—each of your perfect sounds, a little burst of light. Soon he’s making noises of his own, which you obviously adore if the way you tense around him is any clue. Usually he sublimates them into words, but he’s too tired, and you feel too good. Your combined moans, along with the sound of him fucking you and the sheets moving over skin make for a truly dirty soundscape. 

“Will you come inside me?” you beg breathlessly, and he can feel the movement of your hand speeding up as you get desperate. He sucks in a breath through his teeth at your plaintive request—the words bring him that much closer to finishing. 

“Yeah, baby. I’m—fuck, I’m not going to last.”

“Spencer—” and somehow, when you say his name like that, he knows exactly what you want. He bows his head and finds your lips, mostly blind in the dark, kissing you messily until that split second where his grip on reality becomes tenuous before the building pressure finally bursts. Multicolored fireworks explode behind his eyes as he moans against your lips and continues fucking you through his orgasm in strong thrusts for as long as he can. Thankfully you finish again just as he’s running out of steam. He rubs the spasming muscles of your thigh deeply as you writhe against him in your typical push-pull style—you don’t know what you want and it’s his job to hold you still and make you take it. After a moment you quiet down, stilling in his arms except for the continued expansion and contraction of your lungs. “Oh my god,” you breathe. “I can’t believe I did that. That’s so embarrassing.” Spencer chuckles breathily—kisses your forehead with his eyes still shut and slips a hand under your shirt to rub your back. 

“Why is it embarrassing? I liked it.”

“I have never—it’s never been so fast! It’s not supposed to be!”

“Why not?”

You huff.

“You’re the man. Men come too quickly. Not me.”

“I’m sorry you had to have two orgasms instead of one. Next time we’ll make sure you don’t come so we can even it out.”

You bury your face in his shoulder once more, immediately softening. 

“No! I take it back.”

“I thought you might.” His hand slides down your back, squeezing your ass affectionately. “Let's rally. We need to clean you up, angel.”

The pillow muffles your voice as you say, “I can’t. I’m asleep.”

“Can I record you saying that for playback in the morning when you ask me why I let you go to sleep with my come inside of you?”

“Spencer, I am seriously not moving. You woke me up. This is not a me problem.”

That makes him laugh, and he presses his lips to yours softly. After a long moment of his mouth moving slowly against yours, a needy little whine rushes from your nose, and it becomes evident he’s successfully kissed the attitude from you.

“You were so good, honey,” he murmurs against your lips. Another (shorter) kiss. “Did so well. I’m proud of you, baby.”

A second soft whimper from you as you chase his lips and he gives in once, briefly—knowing he can’t make you get up after this. How could he do that to such a sweet girl when she’s obviously completely exhausted? Jesus, you have him whipped. He recognizes that. And he made peace with it a long time ago. 

“Go back to sleep. I’ll clean you up.”

“Thank you,” you mumble, already slipping back into unconsciousness like you knew you’d get your way. Knowing your boyfriend, you probably did. “I love you.”

“I love you. Even though you’re a princess.”

You laugh. 

Ten-ish minutes later, once he’s done the best he can cleaning you up and is throwing the covers back over both of you, you startle him slightly by speaking. He thought you’d been asleep. 

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you sigh dreamily, snaking your arms around him once more. Spencer’s cheeks heat up at the memory of the praise he’d shamelessly lavished upon you not long ago. He’s glad you’re barely awake, because he’s too flustered to think of a response. 

He loves it when you do that. 

[commander-rahrah]

So do I! I'm glad Astarion is patient with them although he does tease them XD I love the idea of him embroidering little designs whether it's stars, moon, or something else! It sounds adorable 😊 I would definitely adore letting him have the first pick of new clothes! He deserves it & it would help him separate from his past too 🤍 Thank you for sharing your thoughts because I love it so much :)

Here's my idea that I would love to hear your opinion! Just to let you know this is quite self-indulgent XD What if Astarion had five things about what GN!Reader does that frustrate & confuse him (but he's secretly grateful for it)

1. They always make eye contact with him unless there's something that requires their utmost attention

2. They always remember what he said to them like a book he mentioned briefly that he wants to read but can't find so they worked hard to find it for him or they asked if he doesn't mind continuing what he was talking about earlier before there was an interruption

3. They always ask for his consent even if it's something he suggested because they're familiar with forcing themselves to do something they don't like or they're used to being presented with the illusion of choice

4. They always thank him whether it's something like shooting down an enemy while they're too preoccupied or helping them carry some stuff

5. They won't touch him unless it's for his benefits like quickly removing a leaf from his hair that he keeps missing (that's how they know because they noticed his stiff expression & how tense his body is briefly when they did for the first time) or pulling him to safety

What do you think of it? I'm curious :3

Okay, tumblr definitely lost this one -- so sorry about that anon!

I think that with most of these, the biggest thing would be Astarion realizing that you actually are perceiving him. Seeing through any of his careful masks and facades he puts up. A lot of these things are ideas I've been slowly exploring in my fic series as Tav/Astarion's relationship grows, but I can definitely share some little thoughts about them before I post my bigger thoughts in my fic aha!

I would imagine that Tav/reader continuously making eye contact with him might make him nervous at first - he would try to figure out what you were trying to do, if you were trying to throw him off or something. Once he realized it was just because Tav/reader was genuinely interested in what he was saying, listening and watching… his mind might betray him a bit. Why did you focus on him so much? Did you like what you saw? What if you didn't? I think its something he would have to get use to as he let his guard down more and more, and began to trust Tav/reader

I think he would be floored the first time Tav/reader did something like this. If he made some off the cuff comment about wishing he had better reading material, and then the next night there was a little stack of books sitting in his tent. If you did it again, he would maybe ask in a teasing way, but secretly really really wants to know why you're doing this, "What's the big deal? Trying to bribe me?" and being even more confused when Tav/reader shrugs and tell him that they thought of him when they saw it or remembered him bringing it up. This would make him even more confused and probably tell them as such. "You get more puzzling every day."

The always asking for consent thing is actually a scene I already have written for my series Talking to the Moon - but a bit of a snippet of how it will go is essentially him getting exasperated as Tav once again asks "May I?" and he goes "Do you insist on asking that every time?". "Yes, Astarion. Every time." And even if it was his idea, I think Tav/reader would still ask. He might roll his eyes, "Darling, it was my idea." But you would explain that he can always change his mind, that consent given or promises made before can change, that in the moment it could change. That you never want him to feel like that with you, not ever, not again. So yes, you will ask every. single. time.

Gratitude is not something he is used too. His master made demands, not requests. There were no thank yous expressed to him, not ever. I think he would probably mask this one better then any of the others, flipping his hair and replying in his sassy voice that "you owe me" or "yes, I am quite something, aren't I?" But every thank you you gave him, probably healed something inside him

I think that post-confession, Tav/Reader would only ever touch Astarion without permission if it was a matter of safety, like pushing him out of the way of an arrow or for a spell, etc. And before he could say anything, they would start profusely apologizing, not trying to explain it away but then Astarion would shush them, reassuring them that he was alright, "It's okay, I'm fine. We're okay, I promise."

[gardensofthemoon]

20 questions for fic writers

Tagged by the lovelies @ettelene and @tilion-writes, many thanks! Sorry for the late response, been busy with real life commitments.

1. How many works do you have on Ao3? 10

2. What’s your total Ao3 word count? 38,319 words

3. What fandoms do you write for? Currently, Silmarillion and MDZS/The Untamed, though I haven't posted anything yet for the latter.

4. What are your top five fics by kudos?

Fëanor posts on r/amitheasshole

Capodopera

Family Dinner

Immortal Longings

uprooting

5. Do you respond to comments? Yes, always! And I ramble a lot.

6. What is the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending? Hm. I write quite a bit of angst, and I can think of at least three fics of mine with sad endings, but I think Cardinal takes the cake. It's a bleak end, miserable, made even more so by the relative tenderness of the main story.

7. What’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending? Probably Fëanor posts on r/amitheasshole, because it's crack. Nobody dies; is that the low bar for a happy ending in the silm fandom?

8. Do you get hate on fics? So far none, but I expect to get some in the future as I want to write about darker themes. And I'm mentally preparing for posting in a new fandom that's known for its toxicity.

9. Do you write smut? If so, what kind? Yes, and I plan on writing more! I love shipfic, I love romance, this is the main genre I read in fanfic, so. If I had to classify my style of smut, I'd say it veers into porn with feelings territory. The main sentiment behind my writing, behind all my writing, smutty or not, is yearning. What intrigues me is what the characters are feeling, their thought process, building the tension and portraying their dynamic. I don't think I can write smut just for the sake of smut - and there are so many facets of the characters' personalities that can be explored through their kinks, their bedroom attitude, their emotions and insecurities. Also, I write slash, though I'd like to try my hand at femslash as well.

10. Do you write crossovers? What’s the craziest one you’ve written? No, but I've thought about it. The logistic aspect of it ruins the fun, unfortunately.

12. Have you ever had a fic translated? No.

13. Have you ever co-written a fic before? Not yet.

14. What’s your all time favorite ship? Not sure if they can be considered "all-time" favourites since I got into fandom less than a year ago, but the ships I'm completely obsessed with are Curufin/Finrod for the silm fandom and Jiang Cheng/Wei Wuxian for mdzs/cql.

15. What’s a WIP you want to finish but doubt you ever will? My Curufinrod in Valinor fic that I talked about on here. It's a long project and I'm used to writing one-shots, so I keep telling myself I'd work on it and post it once it's finished. Not sure when or if that will happen.

16. What are your writing strengths? Story concepts, comedic timing, eliciting emotions. Prose if I'm feeling confident.

17. What are your writing weaknesses? I am always obsessing over sentence structure, conveying tone, and word choice. English not being my native language doesn't help either. Technicalities aside, probably dialogue and longer story arcs.

18. Thoughts on writing dialogue in another language in fic? Ambivalent.

19. First fandom you wrote for? The Silmarillion! Best fandom.

20. Favourite fic you’ve written? The second chapter of Capodopera (which is composed of two mirroring one-shots). I think I managed to write precisely the story that I set out to; I'm pleased with everything about it, from the prose to the characterisation, to the escalation and the power shift, to the smut scene. And it doesn't hurt that it's the most self-indulgent thing I've written for my silm otp.

I'd like to tag two of my favourite writers @crackinthecup and @tobermoriansass, I'd be super curious to read your answers!

[pokemonruby]

can u tell me abt the sweet flower boy wren whom i love…..

hello it is so nice to hear from wren's biggest fan!! ;) yes of course i'd be all too happy to tell you about him! i will say that a lot has changed since i've spoken about him last since my story has undergone some massive renditions especially in regards to his overall role so, yeah. i won't be able to tell you everything for the sake of spoilers but i'll give you a little sample at the very least.

let's see...! pertaining to what i've changed... he's still pretty much the same personality-wise; a tenderhearted meek flower prince who would breakdown if he so much as stepped on a ladybug. despite this, he is venerated as the king of the asterian empire as king valentinus, but he is little less than a figurehead on behalf of the asterian orthodoxy, who more or less control every facet of the country under the iron thumb of the very idol they worship; the king star, canopus. wren follows a script perfectly crafted to suit canopus' standards, and he rarely leaves his genuine castle in the sky known as the cradle of heaven, so his interactions with the populace are kept clipped and neatly manicured to benefit the orthodoxy and solicit public approval. furthermore, a subgroup of the orthodoxy, as in its highest-ranking archpriests, form the "lotus-eaters", who are more or less also wren's personal guard, and they all go by aliases that take reference from some rather prominent figures in greek mythology.

... wren's love interest, sisyphus, is one of these! their relationship... it was fraught with poor beginnings due to narrative reasons, but they gradually warm up to each other over time and develop a stonelike bond cemented in mutual understanding of each other's circumstances since they both suffer from some identity issues as a result of the fact that they're both cursed with amnesia to some degree... also they've got that autistic on autistic action going on hehe. just a flower prince and his boyfriend with ravenous shark teeth who likes to bite him affectionately <3 it hurts please help him -

wren spends most of his time in the castle's garden, as one would expect... ever preferring the company of the blooms as opposed to actual human contact. his other hobbies include hosting tea parties, writing fanfiction based on his favorite literature (he's specifically a massive fan of a series of epic chronicles known as the "saga of the dragon king," and he is particularly fascinated with the designated villain of the story... don't look at what he's written it's embarrassing it's self-indulgent and so terribly corny)... and he would also like singing, but despite being a member of the arcadian people, who are known for their incredible, borderline angelic voicework, he. well. he isn't exactly a disney princess in that regard. so many birds have fallen victim to his shrills and he just about nearly blew out canopus' eardrums once.

hmmm... what else can i say that doesn't dive too heavily into the story beats. let's see... some additional trivia... wren's birthday is april 22nd aka earth day, he's around 5'6", and my headcanon voice for him would be something along the lines of soma saito, something sweet, soft-spoken, and somewhat awkward. his favorite color is pink, he's especially fond of feminine things and has an affinity for sundresses and floppy hats, his favorite animals are deer and bunnies and his favorite types of flowers are actually unique to the universe he hails from, those being maiden's oaths... they're sort of carnation-like and come in shades of pink and white usually, and are native to the kingdom of codoslia, even representing it as its national flower... flower language suggests that you would give a maiden's oath to someone you'd swear to spend your life with, hence the name, and are often used as centerpieces in wedding bouquets as a result!

but yeah, that's about all i have to say for now! i hope that was enough to satisfy your cravings for wren content. stay tuned for more of him when i ultimately publish my novel hehe (we're getting there though actually; just a few more chapters!)

[redead-red]

You can usually tell a lot about a person by the type of music they listen to. put your favorite playlist on shuffle and list the first ten songs then tag others. No skipping!

Thanks for the tag, @ectoblastfromthepast

So I guess I'll go with my When You Were Young playlist.

"We're Finally Landing" by Home (I love this song. I mean yes, it will ALWAYS make me think of Summoning Salt and speedrunning, but the pure emotion that this song gives me is just. Incredible. The elation, the hope? Beautiful.)

"I Wish" by Skee-Lo (I view Wes, who is 15 years old in 2005, as someone who was into like, rap and hip-hop stuff. Plus holy SHIT this song is just. I love the vibe. It flows so well. Hella)

"When You Were Young" by The Killers (its the name!! It's the song I named my fic after! It's the song that leads to one of the most cathartic things I've ever written, personally. It didn't seem to be a super popular chapter, ngl, but it meant a lot to me)

"Lose Control" by Missy Elliot ft. Ciara & Fatman Scoop (MUSIC MAKE YOU LOSE CONTROL!!! LETS GO!!!!!!!!!!)

"2004" by Anthony Amorim (This song was introduced to me by someone in the Invisobang server and holy shit. It's. This song came for my FUCKING LIFE LIKE WOW THANKS FOR DRAGGING ME)

"Kill the Rock" by Mindless Self Indulgence (I think it might be impossible for me to not find a way to sneak MSI into a playlist)

"Touch-Tone Telephone" by Lemon Demon (I mean. It IS a Wes playlist. You can't not have this. Like come on. "Better to be laughed at then wrong"??????)

"Who Are You, Really?" by Mikky Ekko

"Stan" by Eminem ft. Dido (like not only do I think that this is a song that Wes would have listened to in high school, but also like. Looks at Wes. My dude. My guy.)

"Low" by Flo Rida ft. T-Pain (AHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHAHAAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHA)

I tag uhhhh..... @ostreatus, @strawberrycamel, and anyone else working on a fic :3

[flowerflamestars]

Ivy Moon: Part 1

Nesta Archeron had grave dirt under her nails.

This was a usual occurrence. As a death blessed witch in a family of talents, being called upon to speak to the newly dead was her most regular and least favorite job. But as any good witch would tell you, no dead needed to rise to speak.

And dead werewolves certainly didn’t reappear out of the sky and happy to be found.

Or naked as a full moon night.

Nesta winced at the thought and resolutely kept her eyes up, locked on a tawny shoulder she had to tilt her head to reach. The werewolf was thanking her again, unabashed at his nudity and smiling brightly.

“-I don’t even know where I was, so”-

“You were dead,” Nesta interrupted flatly, and this time he seemed to hear her. Beautiful green eyes with wolf amber bubbling up inside them met hers in confusion, somehow even prettier than the rest of him. Gods, this whole damned night was giving her a headache. “Or at least, your brothers thought you were.”

She was going to have words with Rhys when this was done. What the hell had he dragged her into this time?

The wolf in front of her was still staring, chest heaving for all that he had run out of words. It was a physical effort not to stare back, chiseled golden muscle moving tangibly close to her face. Stupid werewolf strength.

Nesta threw out a hand, pointing behind her impossible companion.

“That,” she said sharply, frustration bleeding into her tone, “is your grave. We never found your body, but Rhys filled a casket in case it allowed me to call your spirit.” A grave of oak and amber and jade, for a full-blooded wolf with a talent for magic. If he focused hard enough, Nesta wouldn’t have been surprised if he could still smell the sorrow of his brothers here.

Wide eyed, Cassian pivoted to see the headstone.

Nesta actually bit her lip at the muscled back and long, bare, sculpted stretch that put right in her sight. Fucking werewolves.

Quickly, hoping he was too distressed to scent her, Nesta stepped forward to stand beside him. The witching hour had come and gone, the forest that hid this burial ground still and quiet. Even the wind rustled oaks were silent, leaving her with nothing but the growing moon and a man who most definitely was not dead.

She could feel the warmth of his eyes on her again. “You were trying to call my spirit?” Cassian asked at a low rumble, not giving her space to reply. “You’re Feyre’s sister, aren’t you?”

Nesta nodded, before tilting her head back to gaze dimly at the trees. Cassian swore.

“Fuck,” He repeated, dark hair falling into his face as he reached for her crossed arms. Out of the corner of her eye, it was impossible not to note the moonlight gleaming over Cassian’s bare skin. “Nesta Archeron, please tell me I did not crawl out of that grave in front of you.”

To her horror, Nesta snorted a laugh before she could stop herself.

“You were never in the grave,” She said, “You’re not even dirty. I don’t know what the hell curse you’re under, but I guarantee it isn’t effecting your memory.”

She saw the interest flicker across his face, mouth twisting into a grin much more flirtatious than rueful. “You could look closer,” Cassian offered, “Who knows where grave dirt could hide. A witches touch reveals all truth, doesn’t it?”

No- no, that was it.

Nesta turned on her heel and began walking away without a word, the crisp crunch of leaves under her boots endlessly satisfying. She was cold and tired, and had nearly been struck by lightening. Lightening out of which had appeared the most gorgeous man she’d ever seen, naked and perfect and grinning at her like sin itself.

A gorgeous man who was, of course, the supposedly dead brother of the underworld mob boss her baby sister was shacking up with.

She was done. Done with the night and this freezing forest. She wanted a cup of coffee and some gods damned answers, both of which could be found at home.

Cassian caught up to her ground eating stride easily, moving with perfect grace in the dark. He seemed as unaffected by the low light as he was by his total nudity and the biting cold, content to silently lope by her side as Nesta stomped through the trees to her car.

It was only after the third time he reached out to catch her, righting Nesta’s stumble over something she couldn’t see that he broke the silence.

“Rhys and Az really think I’m dead?” Cassian asked, voice low as he gently tugged her upright.

Nesta didn’t particularly want to think about what kind of mess they were all in until she had more information. A curse that powerful, that undetectable? Something old and bloody made that magic.

But she couldn’t deny the brother’s sorrow had been real, a devastation that reverberated through the Archeron’s deep and true.  She’d come to the funeral, stood beside a white knuckled Azriel, ready to fight to world to bring his brother home.

She’d never met Cassian, but she was intimately acquainted with the hole his absence had left in his pack and her family.

“You went missing a month ago,” Nesta murmured, matching his tone. “I tried to track your magic, Elain scryed for you, but there was nothing. And then Rhys told us you were dead.”

They’re reached the edge of the forest, moonlight bright enough for Nesta to track the shaking hand Cassian raked through his hair. Dark curls sprang back with a levity that made her hands itch. So she found herself saying, voice stupidly soft, “I’m taking you to them, everyone’s out at our house.”

Cassian stopped walking.

Nesta was tugged to a stop too, the hand he’d used to steady her still wrapped securely around her wrist. When she opened her mouth and looked up to protest however, she found Cassian looking down at her, a softer twin of his initial smile on his lips.

“Sorry about earlier,” Cassian said. “I say really stupid things when I’m nervous, Az calls it fuckboy mode.”

It took physical effort not to smile back at that devastatingly handsome face. Nesta tilted her head instead. “Fuckboy sounds about right. Aren’t you a couple centuries too old to lack brain to mouth filter?”

He huffed a laugh. “Beautiful women bringing me back to life is a singular weakness.”

Nesta’s eyebrows went higher, unable to resist a smirk. “You were never dead.”

“I don’t know,” Cassian murmured, grin grown wide and crooked, “Pretty sure my heart stopped when I saw you, sweetheart.”

His grip was still a lovely, gentle pressure on her wrist. Nesta jerked it out of his grasp, she didn’t need him knowing how fast her heart was going. And if he didn’t know, she could perfectly well pretend it wasn't happening. Nesta wouldn’t be admitting to the burst of laughter his words dragged from her either.

Gravel crunched as she rocked back, away from the tangible heat of his body and toward the hedgerows that hid her car. Warm eyes followed her, gone wolf bright amber and gold between one blink and the next.

He followed her, eyebrows crinkling as she wrestled with the tie of her coat while she walked.  Finally, centuries since she’d seen it last, Nesta came to a stop in front of her car to shrug off her long green jacket. Keys fished out, she balled the garment and tossed it at Cassian.

He caught it easily, arm staying raised in confusion.

Nesta crossed her cold arms with huff. Gods, she couldn’t wait for coffee. “You’re not getting in my car like that.”

“What?” Cassian started, and stopped, her coat held out in front of him. “Oh god, I didn’t even think- we’re in the woods, and its close enough I can feel the moon.” He fumbled the fabric around his hips in haste, pointedly looking away from her. “I am so, so sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”

He sounded so horrified Nesta snapped back, “I am not uncomfortable.”

The flare of light as Nesta unlocked the car was enough for her to actually see the moment he breathed in her scent. Cassians head tilted in question, mortification slammed its way through her chest as his nostrils flared, catching the interest and attraction, the hint of arousal in the air with those wolves senses.

Fucking werewolves.

And then Cassian blushed.

Nesta wrenched her eyes away, and threw the car into reverse the second he’d settled inside. The road was dark and empty, she’d focus on that. She would not think about the color blooming on his olive cheeks, the half seconds gaze that left her sure that when Cassian flushed the color went down and down and down.

The radio crackled to life in static, the charmed car responding to her tension. Cassian reached to silence it before she could, wincing.

“Sorry,” He apologized again, as her fingers brushed over his arm in slower reflex. “Werewolf hearing.”

Nesta put her hand back on the steering wheel and resolutely did not think about acres of bare tawny skin. She had other problems to deal with, like what could be possibly be powerful enough to fool Rhys’ senses.

She hadn’t been happy to find out her sister was engaged to the man who watched over the east coasts supernatural underworld with an iron fist. In fact, she’d set a small forest fire before her temper was in check. It wasn’t just his work - of protection and acquisition, which he was damn good at- but her baby sister just had to go and fall in love with the only dhampir alive.

Amren had spent half an hour putting out the fire, because she couldn’t stop laughing long enough to focus.

Centuries old, with blood that was poison to vampires, magic that repulsed the fae, and bone that would once have been a witch relic, Rhysand was deadly. Born of a soul bond between a werewolf and a vampire, he had the instincts of a hunter- and he’d use every single one to destroy those who stood against his family.

Nesta was lucky enough to be counted among that small number.

It also helped her estimation of him that he loved Feyre like the world was ending.

Old, powerful, and ruthless as he was, he’d been sure his brother was dead and gone. What enemy was there that could actually fool him? And whose magic had she inadvertently broken through?

Like he couldn’t stand the swell of silence, like he knew what she was thinking, Cassian began to speak. “You said curse, earlier. Why do you think that’s what happened?”

Nesta shrugged. “You disappeared,” She ticked off the points on her finger, a list fully formed in her head. “Untraceable by magic, or scent. You have no memories of what happened, which is classic cursework. And you came back completely intact when whatever it was broke.”

Cassian tapped lightly at the foggy window, eyes flitting over her face. “I don’t know anything about death magic, so humor me. How do you know that you didn’t accidentally bring me back from the dead?”

Nesta sighed.

“Okay, first of all? I’m not a necromancer.” Out of the corner of her eye, she could see him nodding. “There hasn’t been one in at least a thousand years, and by all accounts they were never human to start with. Someone coming back,” She waved a frustrated hand in his direction, “In their original body, power and mind intact? It doesn’t happen.”

It couldn’t happen, and Nesta had been trying to explain this nuance since she was a teenager first sought out for her prodigious gifts.

“But you can speak to the dead?” Cassian asked. “Feyre explained it to us like Elain was good at life magic and you with the dead, with her skills somewhere in between. But I know it has to be more than that, because I tried to get sense of your power earlier- and honestly, I couldn’t tell where it started or ended.”

“Rude,” Nesta teased, before she could stop herself. That crooked smile was on Cassian’s face again, streetlights as they cut through town on the way to her families sprawling home painting him in hazy gold. Wolf eyes still gazed back at her.

“I’m death blessed,” She said, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel before she carefully continued. “I keep the dead and the dead keep me.”

A crack of laughter escaped Cassian, making her jump. The rich sound didn’t last long, but it was enough to raise the temperature in the car by several degrees. “Do you know wolves say that too?” Amusement tangled in his words, “You keep the pack and the pack keeps you.”

Oddly enough, that made her feel braver. “I’ve got one foot in life and one in the beyond. I can talk to the dead, but that also means I can kill almost anything. Makes cursework come easy, any kind of banishment or destruction really. I’m very, very good with fire.”

In the brief, surreal moment of stopping at a red light in the predawn hours, Cassian caught her gaze. “Of course you’re good with fire.” It was a low murmur she barely heard, but felt.

The car lurched forward, racing away from civilization and down onto the long road her grandmother had commissioned. Nesta kept speaking, unwilling to break the moment, but just as eager to hide away from it. “Elain has earth and wind, and Feyre water.”

“You’re a triumvirate,” Cassian breathed.

Something coiled against Nesta’s senses, warm as magic. Not fear, but awe. “That’s what our mother called us.” Death, Life, Creation. Their grandmother had older words for it- Crone, Maiden, Mother. Born not in the straightforward order of natural law, but in reverse, witches to practice magic not under the sun, but in the hidden and bright spaces of the night sky.

Thick trees and foggy hills rapidly gave way as Nesta drove recklessly fast toward the ordered wildness of Elains flower farm, wards a comforting hum as Nesta came to a stop beside a field of roses. Cassian followed her out of the car, stopping only when she reached for his hand.

“Sweetheart,” He drawled, and the dark, honeyed sound of his voice had her reaching for the magic faster, a quick flash of power slashing at both their palms. Nesta laced their fingers together so that blood raced with blood, and pulled Cassian forward. He let her, bleeding and curious, lead him into a veil of magic.

If Nesta didn’t know any better, she’d swear that blush was back on his cheeks.

You make him nervous, her brain murmured to her. The attraction was so absolute it felt like an enchantment itself, heady and out of control in her exhausted state.

Cassian let out a low whistle, looking around as though he could see the magic hanging thick in the air. “That’s some boundary spell.”

“It’s a ward,” Nesta corrected, “The first time one of us has to let you in personally, and then walk you all the way in of our own power.”

Cassian shook his head in something like respect and turned her hand in his, not relinquishing his hold when Nesta pulled back. Under the blood starting to dry tacky and dark, his palm was already healed. Amber eyes flitting to hers, Cassian pushed out a gentle thread of power, healing her in the space between heartbeats.

It would have been smart to step back.

This night was already too fraught and complicated to muddle further, but for a moment- for long minutes under the light of the waxing moon, Nesta let herself close her eyes and chase the feel of that power.

It came by increments, the sleek slide of sunny warmth against her senses. Cassian’s magic felt like the wildness of every full moon night, overlaid with the comforting safety of the sun on bare skin. Instinct and longing and power run free, tempered by a home that could never be lost.

She felt as he let her in further, wolves senses overtaking her own. How Cassian could smell the heady scent of Elain’s enchanted roses like a fog, how close his wolf was to surface, ready to lean against her side. Nesta felt how keenly Cassian sensed the touch her hand cupped in his, how some wild untamed part of him wanted to lick the blood from her palm to find her skin perfect and beautiful beneath it.

Nesta’s eyes snapped open with shiver.

This was not the time, and not the place- and- and this was Rhysand’s brother, for gods sake. This was a bad idea. But Nesta knew, shoving away the overwhelming feel of his magic, that she’d want to see more. Stupid, gorgeous werewolf.

Eyes with nothing human left in them were locked on her face.

Nesta straightened her spine. She was not doing this right now. “Ready for a family reunion?”

—

The second lightening struck and Cassian appeared, Nesta had decided not to warn anyone she was bringing him home.

To ensure they believed her and stop anyone from panicking, of course- not because she wanted a small, happy revenge for almost being killed by his magical reappearance, of course.

But Nesta had underestimated the sheer length of the walk across the estate to her families house. And how long she could stand the tangible temptation of a naked werewolf who kept blushing at her, somehow abashed and cocky all at once.

A werewolf who was looking at her from under a furrowed brow, eager to get back to his family and confused as to why they had stopped in a birch grove to make a phone call.

Amren answered on the second ring, voice just irritated enough to let Nesta know her friend was worried about her. “Please tell me baby werewolf had a very specific revenge plan to tell you, and that’s why you’ve been gone all night.”

“Not as such,” Nesta drawled, watching Cassian mouth baby werewolf indignantly. “Can you go steal a pair of pants from Rhys’ drawer in Feyre’s bedroom and meet me in the spell garden?’

Cassian waved hand in front of her before speaking, as though he didn’t want to be rude. “I’m taller than Rhys,” he said, “If Az is around, stealing the change of clothes he keeps in the trunk of his car would work better.”

“Is that?”- The strange wind noise that Nesta knew enough to assume was the sound of Amren moving at supernatural speed cut into her best friends words. “Nesta, what the burning hell? Am I hearing Rhysand Jr Jr?”

“My name is Cassian,” He growled back, Nesta an unnecessary intermediary between two shape shifters with super hearing. She jabbed him in the ribs before stepping away, not that it would help. He’d hear every word they both said.

“We’re by the birches,” Nesta muttered, drawing the the heel of her boot through the thick grass.

“Fuck,” Replied Amren, eloquently. “I’m on my way.”

Sliding her phone back into her pocket, Nesta turned to find Cassian leaning against a thin tree truck, hands brushing over the carved marks on a branch above his head. Luminously golden eyes flitted up to follow her movement, every line in of his body held a little too casual to be real.

“These aren’t magic,” He noted, the question plain.

Nesta crossed her arms with a huff. For so clearly wanting to get to his brothers, maybe he didn’t want to think about the circumstance either. “They’re practice, from when I was small,” She admitted. “I had to learn to burn the sigils without lighting the trees on fire.”

It was one of her clearest memories of grandmother, before Genevieve had passed, leaving the estate and it’s safe haven to her eldest granddaughter. A place where no one could touch Nesta if she didn’t want them, where plants bloomed at her passage instead of crumbling in death.

A place where the dead couldn’t speak to her and the living couldn’t harm her.

Cassian’s ever present smile was dancing over his features. “I heard you started a Siberian forest fire.”

It was like a challenge, her magic wanted to reach out at the sound of his voice. “You would too,” Nesta quipped, giving into the fire in her blood, “If your baby sister agreed to marry a dhampir she’d known for two weeks.”

If Cassian was surprised at fire bursting to life in the air, a hundred molten balls of light, he didn’t show it. He tilted his head back to see them waft through the air, grinning like the wolf he was. Sharp jawed and no less rugged for delight, he reached a hand out toward one, fingers skating close to flame before Nesta willed it away.

“You’ll get burnt,” She said, smirking.

The crushing beauty of his wolf bright gaze settled on her once again, taking in her face like she were magic too. A heat that had nothing to do with fire or power filled the air between them.

“I’d like,” Cassian said carefully, stepped away from the tree, “To see how close I can get.”

Nesta wondered if were he listening to her heartbeat. She could feel the pulse in her throat, the blush starting over her collar bones. As Cassian walked toward her, all unashamed hunters grace, Nesta wanted nothing more than to stride forward and meet him half way.

Until her best friends voice cut through the dark.

“Jesus fucking christ,” Amren swore, appearing from thin air. “How are you alive, wolf man?”

Cassian actually jumped, teeth bared, as a petite dark hair woman emerged to his left. He reined in the reaction fast enough to impress Nesta, face rueful as he caught the clothes Amren threw at him. “I know even less than you do, actually.”

“That, you’ll find, is always true.” Amren tsked, walking to Nesta’s side. “No go put on pants.”

Which a final look at Nesta, Cassian did as he was told and walked further into the grove. It took all of a breath for Amren to easily pull Nesta in the opposite direction, sniffing at the air for signs of injury.

“Are you okay?” She demanded, coming to a stop beside an ivy covered trellis. “What the hell happened out there?”

Nesta started pulling pins from her hair, exhaustion making her sag as she finally relaxed for the first time since she’d walked into that forest. “Have you ever heard of anyone appearing out of a lightening strike?”

Amren worried at a ring on her left hand, a confection of ruby and diamond someone with less keen eyes might assume was costume jewelry. Nesta had been present when Amren picked it up in payment from a Russian prince, part of the royal dowries worth of jewelry they’d been paid to break the curses on an old palace.

“Someone without a drop of fae blood?” She raised her eyebrows, disbelief such a perfect mirror of what Nesta had been feeling that she wanted to laugh. She’d been awake long enough now that she was starting to feel punchy with it.

“A curse,” Nesta said, what they were both thinking.

Amren hummed in agreement. “That explains why you both reek of hellebore.” She pointed an accusing finger, this one crowned with three overlapping golden rings, “It doesn’t explain why you smell like blood and lust and wolf. He’s a damn sight better than Rhysand, but I had no idea werewolves were your type after all.”

Nesta rolled her eyes, and waved her still bloody hand. “I had to key him into the wards,” she said, ignoring everything else.

“Mhmm,” Amren replied, her disbelief cut off by Cassian striding out of the trees to them, saving Nesta from her fate.

He walked around Amren to Nesta’s side like he belonged there, bare feet silent. Amren didn’t try to hide her snigger.

“Alright,” Nesta sighed, “Cassian the not dead brother, meet Amren, the other member of our family.”

Amren waited until Cassian had grasped her hand in greeting before flashing fully silver eyes, sharp smile going fanged. If she’d expected intimidation, what she got instead was the bright laugh Nesta was beginning to realize was very, very Cassian.

“You’re the dream dragon!” He burst out, unaffected by Amrens snarl at his words. Nesta tried and failed to hide a laugh behind her hand.

Her best friend huffed and began walking without them, grumbling. “You let one human see you in the eighties, and its all jokes.” Even in heels and with a much shorter stride, Nesta had to scramble to catch up.

“You should have eaten him,” Nesta told her, knowing Amren wasn’t truly offended as she linked an arm threw hers.

“I should have,” She agreed, and then turned her head to call back to the wolf following at Nesta’s heels. “You ever call me that again, baby wolf, and I’ll eat you too. Even canines taste good fire roasted.”

Nesta swore she heard Cassian laugh again.

Reckless, but some buried deep part of her quite liked the fearlessness. Cassian was no more afraid of Amren than he was of Nesta.

Together the three of them rejoined the long, winding gravel road that led to the heart of the estate. Neither shifter commented as they slowed their pace to match Nesta’s determined, but tired steps. Here, in her home, she could let herself be exhausted.

Past gardens that had provided generations with magical plants, beyond the glass greenhouses where Elain grew flowers from other worlds, through guardian oaks that lit with their passage from pools of alchemic moonlight Feyre had devised; Nesta led them home, her every step guarded by a wolf at her back.

—-

Azriel took one look at his younger brother- alive, breathing, wearing his stolen sweater and lupine grin- and silently collapsed like every string that held him together was cut. The breath that rattled from Cassian was audible even to Nesta before he sprang up the steps of the Archerons' porch, tackling his brother the rest of the way down to the wood floor.

The weathered boards groaned in protest, hiding from Nesta whatever Cassian was saying in a low voice.

Inaudible to her, but not to their older brother inside.

Rhysand slammed through the doorway like they were under attack, purple eyes wide. He froze at the sight before him for several heartbeats, a long, long time for someone with vampire reflexes.

And then, just like that, Rhys had thrown himself down to the floor too. All three brothers laughing and crying, a tangle of muscled limbs as they wrestled with one another. Scenting their pack- their small wolf family- alive and unharmed.

If Nesta allowed herself a sharp, happy smile before she turned to go around the house to the back door, Amren didn’t mention it.

—

Nesta Archeron was the most beautiful person Cassian had ever seen.

Feyre had crashed into his life like the little sister he’d never asked for, a vampire on her tail and a determination to do absolutely nothing about it, because the gallery show she was getting ready for was that much more important.

He’d seen her run out of gas and charm her car with an illegal, completely dark energy spell to get it going again.

He was protective of her and loved her, but looking at Nesta’s eyes, the exact same shade and shape, was something else entirely.

Cassian had been joking when he’d told Nesta his heart stopped when he saw her. But in reality, it seemed like a distinct possibility. If he were dead, or if this were a dream it would have made more sense- how absolutely fascinating the witch who’d found him in woods was.

Not just beautiful- though she was sharply gorgeous and so utterly perfect that he ached to touch her- but smart and strong, with clever eyes and magic that lit up his senses like a supernova. His wolf hadn’t ceased clawing to surface yet, so eager to cherish and protect.

This was not normal.

Cassian knew damn well what was happening, but he couldn’t let himself think the words. Not here in her kitchen, listening to her and her dragon friend debate what could have happened to him.

Not here with both his brothers, who could probably smell the emotion welling inside him. Azriel was already smirking, tracking the ever shrinking space between where Nesta sat, perched on a counter, and Cassian.

He was so, so fucked.

And lucky, he knew. Lucky beyond measure to have found a mate, the person his every cell was made for- to love, to protect, to care for. To a wolf like Cassian, it was the greatest stroke of fate imaginable.

But it was also a fucking disaster, because Nesta was a witch.

Cassian couldn’t imagine there was a good way to convey to anyone not a werewolf that he’d known all of ten hours and met standing naked on his own grave, that he’d love her until the day he died.

With a sigh that had Azriel grinning at him, light in his dark eyes that made Cassian want to get into the sort of brawl they hadn’t indulged in since they were teenagers, Cassian let himself casually drift until he was leaning no more than a foot from Nesta.

“What I don’t understand,” Nesta was saying, eyes narrow on Rhys, “Is why you were completely positive he was dead in the first place.”

That had the other Archeron sister Cassian had finally been able to meet looking up as well. “Yes,” Elain murmured airily, blonde brows high as she poured hot chocolate with the same intensity as Cassian might use in knife fight. “What exactly did you not tell us before you insisted my sister, summon a dead wolf under a nearly full moon, a week before Samhain?”

If Rhys were capable of coloring, he would have under the perfect censure of that tone.

Instead, he shot a weary glance at Azriel, who only dimpled back at him, the plea for help ignored. “The pack bond went dead. Cassian was gone.”

Purple eyes flitted over Cassian, love and concern in each warm breath he took. He couldn’t imagine what that would feel like- the bond of family and pack inside him as vital as his lungs or ribs.

Amren made a snickering, scathing noise into her glass of whiskey.

Gaping in her frustration, Nesta only shook her head, empty coffee cup clinking down next to her as she crossed her arms. “Are you kidding me?”

Slowly, hoping not to be noticed, Cassian plucked up her cup.

Nesta had been drinking cup after cup since they’d come into the house, seemingly untouched by the caffeine. It tangled in her scent- coffee and chocolate, blood on her skin- like something bittersweet he hadn’t known well enough to crave.

Silently, Cassian stepped away to refill it for her again. This kitchen, this whole place, was like a fairytale of witchcraft. Pale stone floors and aged beautiful wood, there was nowhere that didn’t reek of magic. It was all around them- blood wards on the building and land, plants blooming in the sisters wake, elemental charms and light spells and the sisters themselves; so powerful together in this place that made them that Cassian’s wolf was finally pushed down.

Halfway through stirring in the two sugars that Nesta preferred and Cassian had scented carefully to guess, Elain shoved a second cup into his free hand.

“Chocolate for life,” She said, cheerful and sharp all at once. “Welcome back to the land of the living, and to the family, Cassian.”

He stared first at the perfect swirl of whipped cream and then at her face, watching him carefully. Welcome to the family? Cassian knew one of Feyre’s sisters had a touch of foresight, but gods help him, he didn’t remember which one. “Thank you,” He settled on saying, taking a sip.

Dark, rich chocolate melted on his tongue as Elain’s face softened. She patted him on the shoulder. “We really are glad you’re not dead, you know.” Abruptly, she clapped her hands together, the sound lost in the rising tone of Rhys and Nesta’s argument. “Now, give me Nesta’s cup. If you really want to get on her good side, you need whipped cream.”

Blinking, he handed it over.

In Feyre’s stories, Elain was gentleness made manifest: baking cakes, making world renowned perfume, bringing Feyre back magic materials from her business trips to France. Cassian was learning fast that might be true for the much younger sister of the family, but to the rest of the world, Elain was just as terrifying as Nesta.

“Rhysand,” Nesta was snarling, as much a dragon as Cassian would have expected of Amren, “Just because you’re more than a wolf doesn’t change how curses fundamentally work.”

Elain handed Cassian back the mug with a sly smile before joining Azriel at the table.

“You’re giving us a list,” Nesta went on, jabbing a fire makers hand toward his brother. “Of every single person you’ve pissed off in at least the last century who might have a connection to Seelie magic.”

Cassian returned the cup to precisely where Nesta had set it down, unprepared for her to startle and meet his gaze. Wordlessly, he pressed it into her hand. Pale eyes still blazing, something softened around her mouth.

“Thank you,” Nesta said lightly. And then she smiled.

And Cassian was lost.

It was only a small smile, a quirk of full pink lips, but he’d caused it. Amren caught the look on his face, safe from Nesta’s gaze as she was busy glaring at Rhys over the rim of her coffee, and snorted so hard smoke and sparks came out into the air.

—

Some exhausting hours later, Azriel found Cassian watching the sunrise from the Archerons front porch.

“Amren owes me a hundred dollars,” His brother said in greeting, crossing his arms to lean beside Cassian. Before them, mist was rising through trees and grass, the dawn light silvered and pink.

Cassian raised his eyebrows in question. Azriels easy, knowing smile sliced across his face.

“She bet me if you two met, Nesta would sooner rip off your balls than ever bare her throat,” He said, bumping his shoulder into Cassian. “I guess neither of them know you’re not quite that sort of wolf. Yet.”

Cassian wasn’t proud of it, but he groaned.

“She made a joke, last night, about Rhys and Feyre getting engaged after two weeks. And they’re not even mates.” He shook his head, unruly curls falling in his face. Cassian raked them back with a growl.

“Oh, she’s going to eat you alive,” Azriel agreed, cheerfully.

“Fuck, I hope so,” Cassian said. “I had god damn wolf eyes the entire time I was alone with her, probably could have transformed right there without the moon at all.” He scrubbed a hand through his hair again, words a tide overflowing. “She smells like open skies and bloody, deadly magic and the best sex ever. I honestly want to listen to her talk about curses and magic and work for the next century, just so I can learn how her brain works.”

Azriel guffawed, the traitor, watching the moment Cassian’s thoughts caught up with his mouth and he gaped in horror.

“Elain got you good,” His older brother said, still laughing as he clapped Cassian on the shoulder. “Truth potion in the chocolate. Welcome to being vetted by the Archeron sisters, baby brother.”

Cassian threw off his hand with a huff.

“But really,” Az went on, visibly fighting his mirth, “Did you not notice you’d somehow managed to scent her on the way here?”

He opened his mouth to deny it, because he wasn’t that much a prick- he’d just met Nesta, it didn’t matter that she was it for him, he didn’t have any claim on her. But- in the woods, steadying her as she walked, catching her when she fell.

Her wrists, her elbow, even her neck as he’d pulled a leaf from her hair. Bright moon take him, Cassian had gone for her pulse points without even realizing it. It even made sense if he was thinking about it rationally.

From the moment he appeared, his wolf had been right on the surface. Cassian hadn’t been focused on anything but Nesta and safety, the moon intoxicating above them. Awareness of himself, of the rest of the world, hadn’t trickled back to him until they’re emerged from the trees.

Of course he’d made an utter ass of himself.

Light streaked across fields and hills, birds beginning to break up the silence. He could smell the disarming sweetness of enchanted flowers in the distance, blood and salt for the power on the land. But also something that he wanted to just call wildness- elemental magic, harnessed by witches with old blood who belonged to a wolf pack, guarded by a dragon.

This whole place was a dream made real, and Cassian wanted terribly to belong to it.

Cassian’s face must have been pitiable. “I bet Amren,” Azriel told him, smug even in his reassurance, “That the two of you would get along like a house on fire.”

@bon-bon-salvatore @strangeenemy @sannelovesreading @maddieimhot @ladyvanserra @rhysand-darling @empress-ofbloodshed @highfaenesta @marianaftm @illyrianinterrasen @tntwme @the-smoldering-illyrian-beauty @jahelyden @sjmasstrash @rairrai @rhysanoodle @a-trifling-matter @eastside-divebar @happy-smiling-things @missanniewhimsy @abillionlittlepieces @poisonous00 @macomafastraash @sunsummoner @vampwitchel @symwinter @acotarfanfic @rapunzel1523 @the-regal-warrior @wolffrising @tswaney17 @they-call-me-cuatro @queenofillea1 @neverlandoftimespacefuckery

[cryptiql]

untitled god song

pairing: bakugou/m!reader (trans reader in mind you can see it if you squint but can also be read as cis)

words: 2k

warnings: themes of religious trauma, homophobia, mentions of blood, the author projecting their mommy issues

a/n: this is purely self indulgent, don't mind me 😩✋ (written in first person)

i wish i had known him before the pain started. perhaps it is a fools dream to think that his presence would have solved anything, and it is likely that he might blown me sky high at the time, if given the chance, but i often ponder his place in my narrative. he is nothing less than a king—nay, a god—and what else am i to be except his humble servant, adoring him in the only way i've been taught?

i would bruise my knees as i kneel for him, and should he turn me away, i shall be lost and without purpose. but he does not, and instead, he snorts out a laugh and pulls me to my feet, roughly squeezing my cheeks together with a shit-eating grin. he'll tell me a joke i've heard a thousand times, and yet i laugh with him anyways, the pads of my fingers idly tapping the pulse on his wrists.

"dumbass, at least take me out to dinner first."

i never thought i'd ache to hear such a demeaning nickname, but it's like birdsong to my ears, and i long for the myriad of butterflies it provokes.

i would heed his every word like a faithful disciple, and—if i knew he would not use this power for the wrong reasons—carry it out without question. he'll roll his eyes at the notion, far too prideful at the idea of being praised, and card hands through my hair, gripping softly. "right. and if i told you to go to bed before five in the morning, would you listen?"

my smiles are genuine, as they all are with him.

"no." i wish my mother had been more open-minded; more loving to those she claimed were goners. maybe then, i could still call her my mother, and not a snarled version of her first name steeped in vinegar. maybe she could have met him, and maybe she would have keeled over in the process, but that is how we put it "killing two birds with one stone".

he was a fallen angel if ever i saw one—emblazoned in smog and ravenous inferno, the pieces of child-like innocence turning to ash. something happened to him when he was a kid, just as all gifted children, and oh, what a fool i was to let my gaze dawdle on his gorgeous form. but i will never regret it—no, not ever—for there is no such feeling that can compare to his eyes on mine, burning with a mind-fogging intensity.

it was instantaneous, the moment my thoughts turned on me with malicious intent, her voice ringing out like a gunshot.

you'll never be him.

his hand slots with mine perfectly; deliciously warm and comforting in a way i haven't felt in years; and hauls me up, the flecks of dirt and rubble from the road clinging to my jeans.

"watch it, pretty boy. i won't always be here to save you, y'know."

my heart batters against my ribs like a caged bird, screeching and wailing to be set free, and i wonder in a haze if i've died. judgement day must have come early, i think, not realizing that it was spoken aloud until the blonde quirks a brow inquisitively. he does not speak on the matter, but continues on his merry way, leaving my helpless; hopelessly enamored; and praying that we will meet again.

no, i could never be him. but i am like him. he has a sureness in his walk and fervor in the way he talks that is only recognizable when i look in the mirror. and we do meet again. it is a shame, however, that i must burden him with the weight of my past. i remember too often the troubles of my youth, even when all has passed into fleeting memories that haunt me as ghosts do to an abandoned house. yet, i still live in this house, and the ghosts are here to keep me company.

i remember the church, first and foremost; nestled between the barren country road and the outback; a beacon of hope to all those who stood in its doors. the luster of freshly polished wood still sits in my mind, accompanied by the echoing remnants of dulcet tones and multicolored bands of light, glaring from the stained glass windows and dancing across the musty carpet floor. the doddering pews were just as uncomfortable as the poorly padded chairs squatting in the front row, but every sunday, they were filled to the brim with hungry worshippers. they sang praise as though they were starved, but i was too young to understand for what. i am older now, and i still don't understand. all i know is that despite its reputation, the church was a cursed place, and i should never set foot in it again lest i go mad. i remember the creaking stairs which lead downstairs, and the winding halls that reeked of torment where shadows loomed. the paint was corroding and foul, and my conscious always loitered too long on the merlot stain on the ceiling; its origin unknown, but nevertheless urging my stomach to twist with nausea.

i remember the feeling of tall grass grazing my ankles; itching horribly from the old moth-eaten socks i was forced to wear. it had become second nature—running and hiding from my problems, from the church, from her. i shall never know a greater animosity than the likes that my mother encouraged, although unintentionally, with her pressuring views and sickeningly sweet smile. it's fake, and i would know, because ours are the same.

we are too similar, and i am sickened by the fact. will i become the wretched woman she is? will i fail to be the father i've dreamt of being? it is an easy thing to fall prey to haunting questions, and it serves as brain rot for every moment of silence that leaves me clawing at my skin, trying to reap the memory of her touch. then i began to think—about nothing and everything—and it does not stop. i will be kind; unforgivingly so, and without biased judgement; like my mother never was, and i'll make her hate me for it. i will grow in leaps and bounds, not for her sake or for god's, but for mine, as it always should have been. i will drink and curse with reckless abandon and kiss who i damn well please, because in no life does she have have the power to make me something i'm not. why should i feel sorry when the tears she wept were forged by my own blood; by the childhood memories locked away to rot in my subconscious? yes, she has suffered too, but it is through clenched teeth and raw-bitten lips that i must confess this, for her suffering was born in me and grew from a seedling into a thorned flower, nourished by her hatred and mine. she'll tell me the lie of all mothers before her: that she knows best, and i'll never know joy that is not from my savior's gracious hands.

one day, when she lies not with words but in silence, under worm-filled earth and withering pastures, i'll tell her that she was right. i'll tell her, with his hand in mine, that my savior arrived with hellfire in his eyes and fury unrelenting. his tongue holds venom that would make the devil blush, but he tastes of a sinful sweetness that i've drowned in more times than i care to count.

mother you should know, my god is like no other. he has a broad chest and muscles, i attest, that are sculpted like fine marble and smooth to the test.

my god is a man who loves other men, unashamedly; in all that is true; and kisses me like real people do. and i know it sounds silly, and a bit cliché, and he'd surely make a mockery of me if ever he heard, but i love him. i love him as passionately as you she does lord above, and it is a crime in itself how much i crave him, so yes, i will burn for this—not because my mother said so or by the ancient script that foretells it, but because i promise it. i promise to let neither hell or high water deter me from that which gives me life, and i'll do so with a ring.

"you hear that mom?" i'll whisper in the dead of night, his body flushed against mine in the most delightful way; his fingers curled into my nightshirt, pulling me closer as listless mumbles fall from his parted lips. he is dead to the world amid his dream ridden stupor, but still leans into my touch when i smooth back the wild tufts of hair to kiss his forehead.

"i'm gonna marry him." part of me wishes she didn't live on the other side of the planet, just so i could rub it in her face, but i won't give her the satisfaction of seeing me again. i won't let her think she's won, because i know, and katsuki knows, that he and i are one in the same.

i do not know who i should thank for my stubbornness, be it my mother or my father, so i will thank the pain they both caused me, for it made me stronger than they ever could. no, i did not become a better person, because the scars have yet to heal from how deep they cut, and the smell of blood still lingers, and i am angrier than i once was, but i cherish my wounds. the stench of my agony has long since been subdued, and i have learned to swallow the sickness it evokes. and yes, this anger is unhealthy and i've chosen not to purge it from my mind like the weed it is, but how lucky am i to have found one whose malice rivals my own?

the tales of his glory have littered my notebooks in smudged ink. you would hate him, is scrawled messily on the last page, but i only feel giddy with excitement. you would hate him for his spite and his unapologetic behavior, and that is why he's perfect. he's everything you hate about this world, but everything i love.

so when she gets to heaven and asks the angels "why?", they'll tell her it was him who made the devil cry. him, who held me like she should have—could have, if she hadn't terrified me—and who chased the nightmarish visions of her from my weary mind with his callous palms and soft-spoken reassurances. i wish i had known him when we were young; when things were not so simple and i needed a hand to hold; but i suppose we'll have to settle for faded photographs and stories told through the bitter aroma of alcohol. that's more than enough, i muse to myself, legs hooked over his as i rest my head on his shoulder, keening softly at the gentle scrape of his nails on my scalp. his arms wind around my waist as he mutters something along the lines of "i love you", his lips curling into a smile, illuminated by the televisions glow.

so when they ask of my religion, i will think of only him. i will recall the way he looks at me, the sound of my name on his tongue, the feeling of his lips trailing between the valley of my breast; featherlight, cautious and unfitting for a man of his nature. i've written songs of praise, all dedicated to him, and if only he knew, oh how smug he would be. but i love him, i love him, i love him. and when he spins me around like a marionette, it is with overwhelming pride and joy that i tell him this, and with rose hued cheeks and bashful grumbles, he tells me the same. so mother, wherever you are, i hope you know i've found my god.

[chuckmethroughtheflames]

Keep One Light Burning

Dhawan!Master x reader

Warnings- angst. at least to me. please forgive me. or don't. flirty master, just a smidge. reader insert self indulgence fic. written on mobile, if you wanna call that a warning.

"I miss you," I say.

"As you should," he replies, a hint of laughter in his voice.

I laugh, but sadness looms through the surrounding air.

"The thing is, though, that you aren't coming back."

He doesn't look at me. Just keeps staring off into the cosmos.

"Have I said that I wasn't coming back?"

"Yes."

"When?"

-

Last week. Or was it? No matter. We had an argument again. Though they were few and far between, the between had become smaller and smaller a space over the last month. He was worried again. Worried about several things, but mostly me. This wasn't uncommon. When you're travelling all over the universe, you run into trouble now and again, and I'd had my fair share of near death experiences. But he was always there. Always.

So he worried ever so often. That was alright, I could handle it. But this time seemed much worse. He was over protective, coddling even. I hadn't left the TARDIS in days, and even with her endless number of rooms, I was getting bored. So that night, I decided to broach the subject over dinner, when he was most relaxed.

"Master?"

"Yes, love?"

"I wanted to ask, I mean, you seem... a little on edge, lately I mean."

"I'm always on edge, pet. Ready to pounce-" he gestured with his fork, beautiful eyes flashing as he grinned, "-particularly when it comes to you."

"Oh stop it." But it would be a lie to say I wasn't blushing like a fool. "I meant, you seem much more agitated than usual. Almost-"

Should I say it? I look up at him. His face is expectant. He's waiting patiently for me to finish, and I think to myself, it really is inconvenient how much I love you.

"-maybe, afraid?"

There's a change. A shift, so small in his features you might not notice it. But I've been with him a long time. I notice. He's not mad, exactly. More... dreading whatever comes next.

He appears to be having an internal debate. It ends abruptly and he stands, crossing to me and offering his hand. I accept silently, growing more and more fearful by the moment. We walk to a small room, set up like a cozy planetarium. He sits and pats the ground next to him.

"Come here, love."

I sit, and he puts an arm around me, but it's a distant touch. Empty, in a way.

"I've been meaning to tell you, darling. Promise I have. I- this is hard. Oh, damn."

I place a hand on his knee, a go-on sort if gesture, though I am now throughly terrified.

He clears his throat. "Right. What I need to say is, love, I'm- I'm going to bring you home."

I don't say anything- I'm shocked, even though I was, deep down at the pit of my soul, expecting this. He takes my silence as the go ahead to continue speaking.

"It gets more dangerous for you the longer you stay with me, love, and I can't help but worry about you constantly, and frankly, its distracting. I know it will be difficult for you, but-"

"Difficult!" I jump up and throw his arm off my shoulder. His phrasing has me fuming."Difficult! How dare you! This won't be difficult, this is so much more than fucking difficult! I have a life here with you, a good one. This is my home now! Do you know how awful it would be to leave? To leave you?"

I'm yelling. I don't care.

"And you- what, you're bored of me? Making some excuse about being worried so you can prance off and find a new toy? Just dump me on-"

"I would never dump you!" The Master jumps up, eyes wide and wild with fury, dark brown swirling with orange and red. "I would never abandon you! Ever! And using fear of losing you as an excuse? Do you really think so low of me, as to take the coward's way out?"

I don't realize I'm crying until I feel his hands on the sides of my face, thumbs wiping away tears.

"y/n, look at me," both hands, now cradling my face, tilt my head up slightly, and I raise my eyes to meet his. "I could never, ever replace you. You aren't just a toy to me, love. I love you, very, very much."

I'm breathless. We've exchanged I love yous before, see, but never with this tone. Never with the level of sincerity his eyes hold in this moment.

"I only want you safe from all harm, darling. And the safest place for you, is, unfortunately, not by my side."

I've slumped forward, sagged into his shoulder as I sob, tears staining his lovely purple shirt.

"Will you ever come back?" I choke out.

I feel him breathe deeply, considering his response carefully.

"Best not," he says quietly, "every time I return to you, someone sees. Someone knows you're attached to me. Someone could hurt you, dove."

I nod into his shoulder, too sad to argue any more. "All right." I pull myself up and wipe my face. His arms stay around me, his face still concerned. "How long until I leave?"

He nods, hand rubbing small circle on my back. I put an arm around him and do the same.

"A few days, I'd say. We are fairly far away from your system."

I sniffle one more time. "Alright. Want to- want to watch something?"

The Master smiles sadly. "Of course we can."

-

I'm sniffling before I know it, coming out of the memory.

"Ah, I forgot about that."

I startle slightly, I'd forgotten the Master was ever here still. And that he was telepathetic telepathic. I wipe my nose on my sleeve and snort tiredly.

"Guess you had."

"I could come back, you know. I've never been good at predicting things. And nobody can predict me."

"Bet you won't." I snuggle closer to him, though. I hate him for leaving. I hate him for making decisions the two of us should make, on his own. But how can I argue? That wouldn't end well for anybody.

He shifts us so I'm on his lap and slides a hand up my back to rest on the back of my neck.

"y/n, love, when are we going to talk about it?"

I look up at him. His eyes. His damn beautiful eyes. I want to stay here forever.

"Talk about what?" I'm procrastinating. I know what comes next. I don't want to get to that part.

"The bit where I'm not even here," he tilts up my chin, "the part where I've left. And this is all in your head."

-

I'm falling.

The world around me is dark, and cold. The black and purple and brown and gold of him fade and swirl together and make me feel sick, but nothing comes up and I just keep falling, falling, falling.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I miss you.

I'm surrounded by a chant, the invisible mantra of a sad, lonely cage. I've locked myself in despair, and lord knows if I'll ever come out.

I land. The ground is worse than the air, because now I'm well and truly stuck. My shoulders shake and my knees are stained with tears. I gasp and heave, desperately trying to regain my breath. Footsteps sound in the distance, the insistent clomp of decisive boots.

Arms surround me. I'm warm again.

"Shhh, shhhhh, y/n, darling, I'm here, I'm here,"

"Ma-master, master," I'm croaking, my throat sore. I clutch his coat, begging him to be more, be real, anything but a sad attempt at spawning a new reality inside my head.

"Come on, love, you can't keep doing this to yourself. You need to pull out of your head. This isn't what I would've wanted,"

My eyes flash open and I snap my head up and throw myself back.

"I don't care what you want! You. Left. Me!"

I shove him, and he flumps ungracefully on his ass. My knees ache and protest from months of falling and landing and kneeling on hard stone, but I stand anyway. I'm willing to indulge any emotion besides weepy at this point.

"We were in this together! We were supposed to make decisions, together! But you threw that all out the window the moment you got scared! I don't give a flying fuck what you would've wanted, because you certainly don't care about what I would've wanted! So fuck off!"

Out of the corner of my eye, his image flickers and then he's next to me, smirking. Bastard.

"That's it, kitten. Hate me. Pour out all that rage directly into my image, throw me to the edges of the cosmos! Tear me up, anything to make you feel better."

He reaches to touch my face and I bite his hand. He flinches back, damned smirk wiped right off his stupid face.

"Do. Not," I growl.

"Love?"

"What? You did this. You destroy everything else, why not me too? I'm just going slightly mad, is all."

Ouch. Hit a little too hard with that one. But who cares, this asshat illusion has no feelings.

"Darling, what do you want me to-"

"I want you to go away. That's what I want. You aren't real, and in a way, you're right."

I turn to face the Master's illusion, and unless my eyes are deceiving me, he appears to be fading right in front of me.

"Keeping you around certainly isn't a good coping mechanism. So move out so I can move on."

He steps forward and for a second I think he's going to try to touch me again. But instead he taps the side of his head with his finger.

"Knew I could get to you. Good luck, love."

The Master's illusion turns around and steps to a door that wasn't there a moment ago. He pauses, turning his head a fraction to the side.

"One more thing," he pulls something out of his pocket, "I could still come back. How you greet me is up to you, of course."

He tosses the object to the ground and vanishes.

-

Every moment that the illusion has been gone, the world around me gradually gets clearer. I'm in my room, wrapped up in tear stained sheets, blankets and a hoodie. It takes a moment to free myself from the nest, but I manage. My legs are wobbly, and I wonder how long its been since I've had a proper meal.

My floor creaks as I cross it, putting effort into every step to get to my window. Something cold and hard lands under my foot when I step and I fall backwards. After rubbing my ass for a moment, (fucking hard floors) I reach around to find whatever it was. There it is, just as cold and hard as my poor bruised foot detected.

An LED candle. Where the fuck did this come from?

I rise to my feet and finish the journey to the window, lifting up the candle to shine in the moonlight. Silver, gold painted flames. Under the bottom, by the on switch, a single engraved letter.

M.

I grin. He always was a sneaky bastard.

I light the candle and set it on the window sill. I still hate him for what he did, of course, but how I might react should he come back...

Now, that's up for debate.

The candle flickers and I push open the window. Its started raining, and between the moonlight and the headlights of occasionally passing cars, every drop looks illuminated.

I think I might be alright, you know?

-

Thanks for reading this dumpster fire. Have a good day.