#theis writes!

[paperibbon]

ink stained hand (will you hold it?)

chapter i: bookstore girls pairing: poly!feysand x reader series sum. A bookseller’s simple life turns upside down when she becomes fast companions of the Night Court’s Inner Circle. When she develops feelings for the most powerful couple in Prythian, how will she get over the golden thread of fate that pulls them ever so far apart?

The sun was high in the sky, and the sweat stuck to the back of your shirt with a vengeance, plastering the material to you like a second skin. As forgiving and endearing as summer was, children laughing in the streets, people bustling about in sheer, bright colors, the heat could be killer.

Especially waiting in lines like these. 

The queue snaked around the block, everyone from fae that lived on farmland outside of Velaris, to shopkeepers, to families of all shapes and sizes. You’d thought the heat might thin it out a bit, maybe send some people to find shelter and shade, to stand in front of an icebox maybe; but alas. It was just as long as it was a few hours ago. You clutched the papers you’d written up months prior to your chest, lifting your hair from your neck in an attempt to elicit some sort of cooling effect.

You, like many, many others were grateful to your High Lord, and newly minted High Lady for these meetings. Even if not everything was fixed, most people walked out with a respect you were sure you couldn’t say other courts held for their rulers. And the papers you’d slaved over, finding just the right words to propose your idea, well, you hoped they’d hear you out, if nothing else.

Smoothing down the front of your skirts, you surveyed the people in front of you. Three bodies. Three people. Three more appointments to suffer in the heat until you were face-to-face with people who could grant your dreams, or crush them kindly in their fists. Your heart stuttered, thick, humid air winding its way through your nose, and out. Two. Then, the curly haired fae with a sour expression on her pale blue face that had stood before you for the past three hours marched into the heavy open doors, and you were twisting your fingers in flighty anticipation. You couldn’t hear her voice, even at your proximity, and it relieved something in you to know that this wouldn’t leave this room. Your sorry request, your whimsical fantasy would stay stuck in the air between your High Lady, High Lord, and you.

The guard positioned at the gate gave you a wry smile, a rosy hue to her cheeks, the sweat slicking her orange hair to her brow. You were sure you looked similar, frazzled and sweaty, sickeningly anxious and delighted all at the same time.

“You’ll be fine.” Her voice was accented lightly, like nothing you’d ever heard before. You grew up here, in the Night Court, barely a child when Amarantha terrorized the land, now, a fully grown female with stars in her eyes.

You nodded your thanks. She simply smiled wider.

When the doors opened again and the fae from before walked out, a wind flirted across your cheeks curling in your hair. A greeting.

“First door on your left. Can’t miss it.” A smooth wink, and the door thumped shut behind you. 

The marble tiling was smooth, dark, and flecked with silver. How Night Court. You couldn’t stop your head from swiveling as you traversed the hall, ornate art hung on either side, a show of wealth, of power. You recognized some of the scenes, the High Lady fearlessly facing off against Hybern’s forces at the Rainbow, the Night Court’s general sweeping low onto the battlefield, the Lady’s sister, fearsome, cloaked in silver flames like a phoenix. Your eyes shifted towards the open doorway, thick wooden carvings of an animal you couldn’t place, scales expertly carved, fangs and talons almost as sharp as you’d imagine the creature carried in real life. Absently, your hand curled around a claw jutting from the frame, the stable wood almost warm beneath your fingers.

“Admiring the woodworking?” A soft voice cut through the silence, and you turned, abruptly, eyes wide. 

“I’m so sorry.” You stuttered, the words falling out without a thought. The High Lady was standing, a stunning lilac dress tailored to her form, golden and silver stars stitched delicately in sporadic patterns. A golden circlet, plain, yet stately sat at her raised brows, warm sea blue eyes crinkled into a smile. You balked, face pinching into an expression that could only be described as shameful, hands twisting in your old linen skirt, the drab color sticking out like a sore thumb. The High Lord was absent, the chair next to hers empty, but you felt no relief from that. The High Lady was just as imposing.

“Don’t be.” A flick of her wrist towards the chair across from them sent you into action, and you lowered yourself into the plush seat. “Would you like anything to drink or eat? How long have you been out there?”

Her voice seemed too perfect, too hypnotic for your ears. You found yourself blinking, twice, three times before you registered her question.

“I’m okay, truly.” Food would make you barf, so bad move there. From the looks of this place, any glass they’d offer you was likely three times the sum of your rent, and your shaking hands would send it shattering across the floor. “And not long, my lady.”

“Hm.” The sound was low, like the rumble of the ground beneath your feet, and your head felt inclined to dip. The High Lord was just as intimidating as you’d expected; dressed in all black, a matching circlet to his mate’s glinted in the faelight, his hands folded neatly into his pockets. “We don’t take kindly to liars.”

The expression that flickered across your face must have been comically scared, from the way the Lady’s eyes hardened to sheer ice.

“Rhys.” The lovely voice, the bells you would follow to the ends of the earth, possibly, shot out like a crop. 

The High Lord leveled you with a look that would have sent males twice your age running for the hills, and you thought about it. You considered hiking your skirts up, tucking your pitiful tail between your legs, and dashing out of here as fast as your legs could carry you. Instead, you smoothed out the papers in your hands, lowered your gaze, and began to read from the page.

“Thank you for your audience.” You began, eyes tracking your scribbling. “I wanted to first extend my gratitude for not only this moment, but the neverending support that you both have shown your people. I thank you for that.” A glance up, and your eyes connected with the starflecked violet gaze of your High Lord. Something in your gut twisted violently at his lowered brow, and your hand passed briefly over where your heart titered in your chest. “I here to ask for something that may be small to you, but is quite big to me.”

The rest of the words bleed together on the page in front of you, and with a sigh, you fold the paper along the edges, and cover the square with your palms. You know what you want, it swirls in your gut, tugs on your heart. It’s hanging from the biggest and brightest star, and this is the only chance you might have to dream for it, to hope that it might, one day, be real, might be a whisper of fruition eddying towards your open arms. 

“I’ve dreamed for my whole life that one day, I might make a difference. That someday, something might make me matter to someone.” Your voice teetered on breaking. “My mother and father are long gone. I have no brothers, no sisters. I don’t have many friends to speak of, and I’m sure I speak of them more than they speak of me. What I’m asking for is stupid, but to me, it’s a dream.” A saccharine smile aimed at your twisting hands, before your head pulls back to finally look at the two most powerful people you’ve ever known. “Have you ever had stupid dreams?”

The question hangs in the air like a feather. Your fingers flex, like you might reach out and snatch it back.

“No dream is stupid.” The High Lord’s eyes blink with stars. It’s mesmerizing. It’s terrifying. His gaze doesn’t stray from you, and it spreads a heat across the tip of your nose, peaking your ears. 

You pick at the edge of the paper neatly pressed to your thighs, peeling a corner back, folding it on the edge, and ripping along the seam as you swish your thoughts around in your head.

“This one might be.” Your smile is wistful, if not sad, like a flower blowing in the cold wind of winter, the laughter of a grown child. 

The scrape of a chair, and your High Lady has inched ever so close to you, her knees almost touching yours, the hazy purple gauze flirting against the skin of her legs as she shifts. It makes your heart beat that much quicker, her beauty, her close proximity, the power you feel rolling off her. You’ve been caught in storms before, but she’s like lightning itself. Soft, strong hands cup yours, and you almost jerk back out of sheer surprise, but the quirk of her lips makes your own soften into a smile.

“It’s okay to wish for silly things.” 

Years ago, you might have agreed with her.

Today, you aren’t so sure.

“High Lady, High Lord,” You say, eyes stuck on a freckle at the base of her thumb, tracing the lines of the jet black tattoo that curls up her wrist. “I want to find purpose.”

You could hear a pin drop.

The High Lady’s eyes glazed over, the stormy sea calming to a rolling fog. Daring a glance at the High Lord, you noticed a similar look in his eyes, the purple sky a calming shade of lilac, his eyes unfocused. You didn’t dare breathe, catching a gasp in your chest when they both finally resurfaced, a sharp snap in their gaze like you’d clicked your fingers for their attention. It was odd to have such resounding attention from two people who could crush the world around you with a blink, who could kill you without batting an eye. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, but you weren’t sure if it was terror, or great awe.

“That’s your wish?” The High Lord’s voice is startling all of a sudden, though you know it shouldn’t be. You blink, once, twice, and then nod, a simple strong shake of your head.

“That’s my wish.” You feel pitiful as you shrug your shoulders, but the High Lady squeezes your hands in hers. “I understand if you can’t grant it, I do. I greatly understand. In fact, I know you probably won’t be able to. And that’s alright with me. I’m just glad you’ve listened.”  It’s lighter than the rest of your conversation, the almost laughing tone your voice takes on. You pull back from the hands on top of yours, nodding gratefully. You hope you look sincere as you lower your head in a makeshift bow. “Thank you for that. For your hearts.”

You stood, not waiting for dismissal, which might have been a stupid decision. It might have cost you more than just pure embarrassment, the flush taking on a different, less welcome heat as it cloaked your shoulders and pressed into your chest. You did a poor curtsy, out of nothing more than a sorry excuse for respect to the two, and fled the room without a glance in either direction, even as something molten, something tight in your chest tugged away at you.

You didn’t even realize in your haste, the paper you’d meticulously, ever-so-carefully tended to for the last months had toppled to the floor, scrawled with sprawling words. 

Your wish.

-

The sun was still hot and high in the sky as you slunk into the shop, and the book you were using as a fan was doing nothing to combat the heat. Leaned against the entryway, holding the hair off the back of your neck and rapidly flapping the flimsy romance novel in your hand in hopes that even the smallest breeze would cool you down. The magic that typically kept the shop well ventilated was on the fritz, sending wayward gusts of air that ruffled through the pages on hand before stopping altogether, levitating teacups and coffee mugs in the air before dropping them and sending any liquid spilling onto the floor, opening and closing the curtains at will. 

“Hi, lovely!” The seamstress across the way waved at you with a lacy handkerchief, brown hair piled high on her head, a sheen of sweat dotted across her brow and smearing the silvery make-up she’d carefully used to decorate her eyes. 

“Hi, Dia.” You raised the book in greeting, letting your  hair drop from your hand. She sent you  a smile in greeting before escaping inside her shop, the wooden sign in her window swinging proudly from CLOSED to OPEN. 

With a great sigh, you tipped your head back and listened to the busy street with shut eyes. Children squealed on the street, couples tittered back and forth. Some called your name in greeting, and you waved lazily, eyes still shut, lulled into a sense of hazy drowsiness. Your flushed cheek pressed into the door sleepily, until a wet, cold object was shoved under your collar. 

Eyes flying open, the book fell to the floor, hands flinging to the back of your shirt, hopping from one foot to the next. Finally, the ice cube dropped from your dress to the floor, and you whirled on the culprit. 

“Sammy!” The accused giggled, eyes slit in amused mischief. “You pest!” 

Sammy was the delivery boy, and the bane of your existence. He was a child, only seventeen, with a boyish roundness to his cheeks and an inane personality that would make the sweetest person in Prythian think about bashing him on the head once or twice. It was his mission to make every day you lived harder than the last, but his mother, the owner of the neighboring bakery, thought it was because he fancied you a tad. You couldn’t tell if she was having a laugh, or had too much faith in her only child. You were much too old for him anyways.

“Who said I even did anything?” His blue lips pulled into a pout, his ears flicked and his red eyes widened like that of a street dog. “Mean, mean girl.”

Setting your jaw and bending down to swipe the book from the floor and make your way into the shop, you shot him a mean glare, something to make flowers wither, and little boys cry. He was standing by the back door, a sure sign that a shipment was docked, tightening the string on the front of his sleeveless tunic. Sliding behind the counter, leaving the book on the top, you moved around him to peer at what he’d delivered. 

It was a small box, unusual, but not uncommon, with a dainty golden lock holding it shut. You tilted your head around the boy, trying to get a better look at the thing. It was probably a special edition for one of our wealthier clients, but you hadn’t seen any sort of order like that go through in months, hadn’t heard a whisper of what this could even be. Without thinking, you started towards it out of sheer curiosity, but Sammy stepped in front of it with a sharp toothed grin and held his hand out.

“Payment first, please.” 

You rolled your eyes so hard, the planet did another spin.

“Greedy.”

Shouldering around him, you made your way to the lockbox and shook out a few gold pieces. His palm was cold and damp when you passed them over to him, and with a smirk like an alley cat, he disappeared down the alley and left you with the mysterious package. 

The box was ornate and wooden, the lock glinting on the outside with the winking of the sun through the windows. Approaching it with cautious curiosity, you reached out and grasped the lock, feeling its cool metal under my fingertips. Giving it a good tug, your feet slid out from under you, sending you sprawling to the floor in an instant; the box was heavy - like it was filled with a million rocks, ten ton weights, and a heavy book. Stretching your leg out towards the thing, you nudged it with the tip of your toe, hoping for some kind of movement but, alas - nothing. Abandoning caution, your leg reeled back and kicked the thing as hard as you could, only to be met with searing pain that reverberated through the bones of your shin. With a resigned huff,  you stood, brushing off dust from your skirt, and left it behind the counter with another, less fierce, more defiant kick for good measure.

Stupid thing. 

The box seemed to respond, the smallest of noises —the faint shuffle of the lock settling into place. It wasn't laughter, of course, but in that moment, it might as well have been. 

The day was sluggish and hot into the afternoon. Little to no customers stopped in, and Elias, the owner of the store, had left me alone for the morning. You did your duties; swept the aisles aimlessly, fronted all the books in the history section, wiped the counters at the tea stand. You even ventured to organize the pillows and blankets in the reading section, which was a loathsome task due to the sheer number of them littered about. Finally, when the sun was high in the sky with no promise of a cloud, Reana, the only other worker at the shop, slunk into the shop. 

Her inky hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and the clothes she wore were thin and airy, a short cream top with no straps, and a loose matching skirt that showed off a fair bit of her long legs. Her tanned skin was flushed with the heat, and her glasses sat low on her nose, the chain that held them along her neck softly clinking against itself.  

“I am sweating through every layer of clothing.” Her voice was scratchy, like smoke on a foggy day.

“Elias needs to re-up these stupid wards before I try myself.” Crossing the room from the little nook you’d been tidying up, you offered her a smile as a greeting. 

“Oh, don’t do that to us.” She snorted. With a flick of her hand, the tea stand bustled to life. “The last time you tried, it set us back decades.”

She was exaggerating, of course. The last time you’d tried to enforce the feeble wards on the store, it’d knocked every book out of the shelves and broken almost every mug and cup in sight. Your magic was not strong, it wasn’t practiced, and it sure as the Mother wasn’t controlled.

“Can you make some cold drinks? Maybe?” You plopped yourself down on a rickety red stool, chipped and discolored from use. “Milk tea would be lovely.”

Reana works the tea and coffee portion of the shop. While you could make an adequate cup, she was versed in fancy drinks and conversation; two things you did not have the skillset for. Her head dipped as she moved towards the counter, working meticulously to pull together the things she needed. Each movement was a choreographed dance, as she deftly poured and mixed, her fingers moving with the precision of a seamstress. The glasses sitting on her nose fogged up as she leaned down to sniff the spiced pot of tea on her small stove. She set the milky drink in front of you, the icey glass heavenly against my hands as you sipped at it casually, lolling my head back and forth as you drank. As the both of you sat in silence, the ambient sounds of the bustling street outside drifted in through the open window, mingling with the soft clink of ice cubes in our glasses. 

Gratefully, she doesn’t ask about the meeting you had today. Gratefully, she keeps her eyes trained on her tasks. Gratefully, you don’t have to explain anything to her.

Until…

Until the bell on the front door rings, and in steps the High Lord, the paper you’d apparently forgotten pinched between his thumb and his forefinger, the smile of a jester playing across his lips.

“Hello,” Voice like smooth, rich coffee colors the air. “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”

[scealaiscoite]

.☽༊˚ prompts for helping bathe an injured loved one

¹⁾ sitting on the edge of the bathtub and letting them lay their head against your thigh as the fatigue starts taking hold

²⁾ “i know, i know it hurts but hold on for just a little longer and we’re done, yeah? think you can do that for me, pet?”

³⁾ helping them lean up so you can wash their back, and pretending not to notice them shaking in your arms

⁴⁾ “you needn’t be so gentle, y’know. if today wasn’t enough to break me, i doubt an ill-applied handful of shampoo will.”

⁵⁾ using your soapstuffs because the familiar scent will, hopefully, help calm them

⁶⁾ “i can’t believe it took a night like that for you to let me help you with something.”

⁷⁾ having never seen them in a state of undress before and so, trying admirably hard to avoid looking directly at them in such a vulnerable state

⁸⁾ “so mr/mrs surly and serious likes having their hair washed for them, hm? don’t worry, i’ll keep your secret.”

⁹⁾ climbing into the bath/shower with them, more for the physical comfort than practicality

¹⁰⁾ “i wish the first time you saw me like this could’ve been under better circumstances.”

¹¹⁾ stripping down to the same level of undress as them in an effort to try and make them feel more comfortable

¹²⁾ “can we- can we just stay here, like this, for a minute? please?”

¹³⁾ using as gentle a touch as possible to clean them off and feeling your heart break each time they still suppress a pained whimper

¹⁴⁾ “it’s just me now. you don’t have to be brave anymore.”

¹⁵⁾ trying to towel them dry but ending up just cradling them to your chest with the towel pressed aimlessly between you

[twisted-wonderland-but-gayer]

WAIT HEAR ME OUT VIL AND ROOK WATCHING LEGALLY BLONDE-

IM REWATCHING IT AND I FORGOT HOW GOOD IT WAS💀

Gay or European for all of NRC or perhaps even yuu

[bapple117]

Y'all don't want to hear me, you just want to dance

Literally dangling Lucifer like a carrot to try and get people to focus on a post LOL

Come join the Bapple's Orchard Discord Server! - Hazbin chat & Goofin'

Do you want a safe space to be silly and chat about Hazbin with other people? Do you happen to read my fanfics and want some behind the scenes chat? Do you like memes and just general silly-little-guyness?

Then boy! Have I got the server for you!

Don't delay! Click HERE today!

I would love to see you all there! Come hang out 🍎❤️

I LOVE YOU BYE

[puppyeared]

[goddessrisen]

i’m actually gnawing at my arm at the thought of hyeon being the patron goddess of the abused and forgotten. spouses or children dealing with abuse that either kill or maim their abusers are brought into her warm embrace. whether that means they are accepted into the celestial court, no questions asked. or they have her blessing and somehow, some way, life gets easier and better, day by day. she eats the hearts and livers of these wretched things, purifying this energy before returning it to the world. entire families are blessed or annihilated depending on how deep the rot is. temples are built around the globe and a cult rises from ash as this primordial being gains more and more traction. children offer sweets, toys, and even baby teeth. adults offer either pieces of themselves - whether that be flesh or animals/food or those that mean them harm. i want true neutral hyeon, who follows her own rules and does not accept anything less than that. she is not a malevolent being, but she does not tolerate disrespect or the disrespect of her followers. i basically want a dark grey hyeon who haunts predators and abusers and the like, until they are driven mad and she consumes them whole.

[bigcats-birds-and-books]

Books of 2024: THE WAY SPRING ARRIVES AND OTHER STORIES, edited by Yu Chen and Regina Kanyu Wang (feat. first daffodils!!)

I've been pining after this one since the hardback released, but I'm more of a paperback person so I Waited, and in my Waiting I missed the seasonal alignment to start reading it (come on: I can't be expected to read a collection with this title any time except at the very beginning of spring, right??). But! Guess what!! Spring is once again Arriving, and things are starting to bud and bloom, and I love that!

[jamiemoonymarks]

*Standing on a stool while holding a megaphone*

Me: I am WRITING again!

[theladwhoisweird]

If you kick out every mentally ill depressed woke children who think they are writers and have strong obsessions with fictional characters out of this country then who is gonna use your fruity platform, Tumblr?

[paperibbon]

smokey day

feysand x reader sum.: hazy early mornings with your two mates note: 18+ this is truly pwop.... a brief allusion to rhysand's SA but only brief and rlly an allusion but just thought i'd mention. this is a little treat bc i was gone for so effing long (2 months). this isn't the ink universe! totally diff "reader"

Traces of sunlight peak through the heavy velvet curtains, and a streak casts itself across your closed eyes. It’s morning, you’re sure of that, and you’ve slept well; fingers flitting across indents of fabric across your cheeks can attest. A small noise pulls itself from your chest as you adjust your body.

It's a slow pace you’re setting, neither of you truly chasing any fast and swift end, just simply rocking into each other in the early morning light. Rhys is deep inside you, a heavy heat that you can’t exactly ignore, and you doubt you’d want to. His lips are insistent anywhere he can reach, against your throat, in the divot between your jaw and your ear, over your heart, dotted across your cheeks as he rolls his hips deeper into you.

“Too early.” Rhys’s voice is a rumble, vibrating down your spine and curling like a languid cat in your gut. 

“You don’t know that.” You whisper into the morning air. Feyre’s still slumbering soundly, heavy puffs of air escaping her lips as she dreams, a pleasant smile playing on her face. You almost can’t take her beauty, the slope of her nose, the blush of her cheeks, the freckle by her mouth you can’t help but wish to lean forward and kiss her. Rhysand rumbles with soft laughter at the display of affection playing through your mind, kissing your shoulder once, twice. Your brain is hazy, your movements soft and smokey with the fog of sleep still clinging to the edges of you.

“I know everything.” His hands dip lower, cupping the roundness of your hip as his mouth grows more insistent, teeth scraping at the slope of your throat.

“Oh, do you?” It’s breathy, it’s all breathy. He feels insane, hands everywhere, thumb swiping over your chest, pinching at the peaked bud, his lips pressed to the notch where your neck connects to your shoulder.

Rhys’s dark answering ‘Mhm.’ sends chills down your back, and you gasp into the room as his teeth delve into your skin. With fluttering eyes, you push Rhysand back from you, blinking down at the picture he makes. His violet eyes are dark, familiar stars dotting his vision and winking up at you as he rakes them over your form. Your mate’s hair is rustled with sleep, spilling over his eyes and curling at his neck with the hazy heat of the room, dark and inky as the night sky, and in deep comparison with the peek of his teeth behind the lazy smirk that’s spread over his mouth. His tan chest is glistening with a sheen of sweat like moonlight, and when he catches your gaze, the muscles flex playfully. 

“Like what you see?” His voice is lilting, teasing. 

“Same question.” You cock your head with the false challenge, rolling your hips down forcefully. It pulls out a groan from him, his hands flexing, pressing into the skin of your hips.

Perfect. You hadn’t even felt him slip into your mind, but the shadowy presence fills the shape you’ve carved out for him almost completely, sharp claws teasingly tracing against your consciousness. It sends your eyes rolling back into your skull, his laughter dark, spilling across you like sticky molasses.

Without a word, he’s sitting up again, hand snaking around the back of your neck to press his lips to yours. You try to protest, swatting at his chest, sure he can taste the morning breath that lingers against your tongue, but Rhys just smirks, tracing the indents of your teeth with his own tongue. The kiss is languid, lazy, sleepy even, a sloppy press of mouths against each other with bleary eyes and a sticky warm room. With a deft buck of his strong hips, you let a long, high pitched whine trickle from your lips.

“Feels good, huh?” It’s a cocky, challenging comment, and you know he’s waiting for you to pitch something back at him like you have been, give as good as you’re getting, but at the moment you can’t find it in you, absorbed finally in the feeling. Your legs are shaky and trembling, so you’ve resorted to simply circling your hips against him, letting his length hit that wonderful spot he always seems to find. The sun is rising higher, the molten light casting the room in shiny gold. Rhys is beautiful, you decide, brows pinching together in pleasure as you look at him. The light makes him almost glow, dark skin rippling beneath the surface as he meets your meager thrusts with powerful ones of his own. He seems to be settling on a similar thought pattern, eyes soft with fondness. “Mother above, you’re so beautiful.”

“I agree.” Feyre’s voice jolts through you like fire, and you tilt your head to catch her sea blue eyes blinking blearily up at you with a petal-fine smile spread across her lips. You smile back, your spine attempting to bend in sick ways to bring yourself closer to her. With a laugh, she props herself up, allowing her lip to meet yours in a brief, but lovely kiss all the same.

“Welcome to the waking world, Feyre darling.” Rhys captures her hand in his, pressing it to his lips once, twice, three times without breaking any concentration in regards to you, little whines eking past your parted lips, sighs filling out the room with ease.

Feyre’s deft fingers drift from Rhys’s hand, pushing him back into the pillows, and you can feel the tension solidify. The look in Rhys’s eyes flickers, stars almost bursting with light as he tucks an arm under his head, bicep flexing, sharp jaw clenching as your other mate positions herself behind you, chin hooking over your shoulder and hand tracing across the soft skin of your inner thighs, letting her nails bite ever so slightly into your skin. You’re almost trembling for her touch, hips jolting in place in an attempt to coax her where you need her, and she laughs; a mean, sensual sound that pulls another eager sound from you.

“Ask nicely, sweet love.” Her words are whispered into your ear, lips brushing against your skin with every word. She’s everywhere now, both hands coasting over you with a feather-light touch, her mind pressing into yours with a familiar breezy feeling. You can feel her breathing against your back, feel her warm cheek in the very same crook of your neck Rhys had lavished with attention just a few minutes ago. She laughs lightly when your mind makes the connection, and she closes her lips around a spot and makes sure to leave a mark.

“Please.” It’s whiney, desperate, debauched. The room is muggy, humid, and you could almost slip away into it for the day, spending it with your mates just like this, Rhysand and Feyre, the High Lord and Lady of the terrible, fearsome Night Court with all their softened edges and loving caresses. 

Feyre’s fingers trail up from your thighs, hands warm and nails leaving little lines in their wake as she finally places them exactly where you need them. She presses down, circling widely against your clit, and a moan rips itself from you, and subsequently, from Rhysand as you tighten around him without much warning.

“Mother, you’re tight.” He whispers, almost absentmindedly and it’s utterly vulgar. A groan like an avalanche, like a thunderclap fills the room and Feyre laughs against your neck at him, her teeth nipping once again into your skin. You find a free hand threading into her golden hair, pressing her closer, closer, closer to you, until you aren’t really sure where she ends and you begin, her soft skin flushed with heat, red and pink and precious like the flowers sitting on your bedside table.

“Look at how fucked he is.” Pink lips whisper into your ear, your back arched perfectly beneath her hands. The lazy pattern you’d all shared has been forgotten, Rhysand’s hips pressing into you with abandon, Feyre’s deft fingers meeting his rhythm in tight little circles, pulling frequent sighs and pretty moans out of you, ones that she can’t help but play in her mind on a loop. Your head falls back onto her shoulders with a particularly swift thrust from your mate below you, and Feyre laughs again, syrupy and sweet and you can’t help but drown in it.

Rhysand truly does look fucked, a sinful smile playing at his lips, inky hair thoroughly mussed and slick against his forehead. You’re sure you look worse, heat coursing through you like a wildfire, flickering flames eating away at your insides, cheeks sure to be ruddy and sweat sticking your hair everywhere it hangs loose.

You look beautiful. Feyre’s a whisper in your consciousness, a cool breeze, a wave lapping at your shoreline. She pushes forth a mental image laden with her lust, fixated frames of your lips parted in pleasure, your chest flushed and heaving, the valley between your thighs, Rhysand tucked in between them. From the feelings she fills your mind with alone, you’re overwhelmed, not mentioning the feeling of her fingers against you, now drifting to encircle the spread of you over Rhys, a firm squeeze of her hand.

“Oh, fuck.” You gasp wetly, letting her hand slick with you return to her place as you all but topple forward with the answering thrust she’s met with. Now, she’s still, simply setting her palm against your heat, mouth brushing against the column of your neck yet again.

Rhysand catches you as you careen towards him, sitting up from his position and fixing your legs tightly around his midsection, forcing the hand between your thighs out of its temporary position. You’re much closer, much more in each other's orbit now, rather than lazily joining in a sleepy performance of your desires. His hand, strong and sure, cups the back of your neck, eyes scanning your face for any sort of discomfort. It’s twisted up, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, tears dotting the corners of your eyes. The question doesn’t even need to be whispered into the air, doesn’t need to be pushed into your mind; you can tell from the downturn of his lips, the way your other mate twines her fingers into yours, lays her head on your shoulder. The bond between you all is alight with more than just shared lust, more than passion; you feel the love like a warmth blossoming inside you. You feel the love like it’s always been there.

“I just really want to come.” Your voice breaks pitifully, sniffling softly. 

The serious moment shatters like ice as Rhysand snorts at the picture you’re sure you make; teary eyed, sweaty, and all his. Well, all his and all Feyre’s. 

“We can arrange that.” He answers with a chuckle, voice like the roots of a tree, like the rolling of clouds across the sun. In a second, you’re on your back against the pillows, propped up like a royal, with a god and goddess to do bidding with the flick of your hand. 

Rhysand enters you again with a slowness, teasing that whooshes a breath you didn’t know you were holding out all at once. Feyre is providing quite the show, chin hooked over his shoulder to peer at your joining. She’s a beauty in the light of the morning, hair shining like spun gold. Her sapphire gaze twinkles, a soft glow across her skin puts her in contrast with the tan male she’s slung over. 

Rhys curses as he sets a rhythm again, hooking your leg up and over his arm as he drives into you. It’s ecstasy, bliss, all wrapped up into this moment. Your eyebrows furrow again, letting out a whine that you’re sure could wake the whole of Velaris.

“Yeah?” He’s as cock-sure as the day is long, the teasing lilt of his voice could almost make you groan, but he’s cock-sure for a good reason. “Is that all you needed, pretty heart? A good fuck?”

When you nod, they both share a laugh, mocking and sweet at the same time, and a lesser version of you would be embarrassed at the depravity you gain from it. This version of you, this loved and fucked version of you is clawing for more, whining and moaning and weakly raising yourself to meet Rhysand as his thrusts become that much more sure, more pointed.

“So pretty, love. So, so beautiful for us.” Feyre is all honeyed, sultry words, but you can feel the bite of want from her, the sting of lust that comes through her bond. Rhys can surely feel it too, because he’s reeling back, hungry mouth meeting hers in a battle of lips and tongue. She almost melts into his mouth, hand coming to cradle his cheek and you sigh, a smile finding its way to your face. They’re beautiful together, one of Feyre’s paintings come to life in swirls of color and feeling. The two give and take like the Mother made them for it, made them to be each others.

She made you, too. Rhys is again smokey in your head. All for us.

As your lovers turn their attention to you, Rhys’s thumb pressing into your clit, Feyre’s warm gaze, and eventual hands coming to caress you into finishing, you can’t help but feel lucky for this life, this love. You and Rhysand finish within moments of each other, dirty words and promises chasing the high, and Feyre has you both between her thighs until she’s come twice, and you’ve come once more from Rhysand’s wandering hands. In the sun baked afterglow, your head heavy on Feyre’s stomach, her nails working delicately through your hair, you reach for the mating bond, the golden tether holding the three of you so tightly together. It flows through you like a river of heat, from the top of your head to your toes. There’s no feeling being projected down the channels other than sweet, true, and utter love.

[blorbologist]

Power Word Pain Brjeaus?

33.Power Word Pain

"You speak a word of power that causes waves of intense pain to assail one creature you can see within range. If the target has 100 hit points or fewer, it is subject to crippling pain. Otherwise, the spell has no effect on it. A target is also unaffected if it is immune to being charmed."

[I don’t think a CR character has ever cast this, so I’m just going with ~vibes~ instead of the spell]

“Mother - fucking - coward!” snaps Beauregard. Or, Fjord suspects she would, with her usual sharp tongue, if not for how absolutely hammered she is.

How the fuck are they going to get home? Let alone with enough time to sleep this off before the wedding? Which is tomorrow. Gods. He hopes Jester has a spell for this.

Whoever said it’s a Captain’s duty to be the best man is a pigfaced liar. 

“To be fair - completely fair,” Fjord points out mildly, adjusting his hold on the drunk monk, “you didn’t invite him!”

“Well, yeah.” He thinks Beau might grumble as he tries to crabwalk them out the door. The tavernkeep is watching them with barely restrained amusement. “Yeah. But! Doesn’t mean I didn’t want him to - fuck, I don’t know.”

“Know? Ow,” she echoes a little dumbly when she knocks her shoulder into the doorframe. 

Fjord is very glad for the lapse she finds herself in as he faces down stairs. He really wishes they were both more sober - especially Beau. Bets she could dope monk shit her way down no problem.

“How about -” he tries the first step, nudges Beau after him. She takes two at a time, leaving him stumbling to keep them upright. “How about we leave this until after we’ve reached the bottom in one piece?”

Beau nods. Bobs, more like it. “Sure. Yeah. Can do, Capt’n.”

She actually listens, which saves them at least three falls. Between the both of them - Expositor of the Cobalt Soul, Captain of the Hein Heroez - they actually manage to defeat some rickety steps with only a yelp between them. 

He thinks Beau has forgotten what they were discussing, while he sorts out the right way to her house. It’s not as packed as you’d expect, given Caleb simply summoned the Tower inside. Fjord actually forgets all about it, wondering just how many rooms the man could fit in there, if they had a larger wedding party, when-

“Man, I just fucking wanted ‘im to try, you know?”

“Beau,” Fjord says, “are you alright?”

“Yeah. Duh.” She sniffles. 

“You are crying.”

This one comes out shrill. “Am not. You’re not my fuckin’ mom.”

“I am your best man,” he replies. “And I don’t think you should be crying about anything the eve of your wedding.”

Beau’s steps have slowed to a stop. She sways - into his side, far too heavy for how small she is, only to careen away as he struggles to not drop her. “Could cry ‘bout how beautiful Yasha is. Myyyyy wife tomorrow!”

The gravel purrs underfoot.  “Yes,” he agrees, “but you’re not really crying about that, right now.”

“What if I am?” There’s a pause as he tries his best to convey how little he fucking buys that. “What if you’re right. Maybe. And I just… wish he’d tried tuh - to reach out. Ask why he didn’t get one. Beg, maybe. Say he’d change.”

Fjord starts coaxing them towards a tree. They’ll be in late anyways - he figures they should sit down for this. He’s not the most steady on his feet either.

“I hope you’d say no. If he did ask.”

“Of course,” she agrees. “And I’d cuss him out and tell him he’s - fuck. It’s stupid.”

“No it’s not.” He gently eases her around a truly impressive pothole and into the roadside grasses. “You, stupid? Often, yes, but not now.”

“Well - fuck you too.”

A glance out the corner of his eyes tells him Beau is making a great effort to watch where her feet go. He’s sure if he gives it enough time, she will keep - “Wanted the chance to say no. Tell him to fuck off and for it to actually hurt. For it to actually be something he wanted. But he - he never wanted me enough to think this is important. Worth it.”

He sighs through his nose. “Beau -”

That sigh morphs into something like a scream as his foot catches a root and they come crashing to the ground. Which is nothing, to a man who has been through as much as Fjord, but the Wildemother has a sort of humor tonight. His boot holds fast, or the root holds faster, and his ankle twists into sharp pain on the way down.

“Fuck!” At least Beau rolls out of the way on instinct, because he hits the ground hard. “Balls - mother of shit! That hurts!”

“Ah fuck - sorry Fjord.” He hears Beau shifting. Does not see, really, because he’s clutching his foot. The pain almost pulses through his shoes, his nice shoes, and up his calf.

She slumps gratefully into the tree, almost dragging her down with him. Maybe it would be easier if she had - in the moment Fjord can’t quite figure out how to sit in the tangle of roots. “I’m - ow, my - owwwwww.” He gets distinct rubbing her sore ass feelings from that familiar groan.

“We’re going to die out here,” Fjord wheezes between sways of his rocking. Fuck, ow. “And our fiances are going to have to haul us home.”

“It would be a hot as fuck though.”

He feels himself flush something almost blue. “Yeah - yes.” In all likelihood, once he’s over his pity party, once Beau has sobered up a bit, they’ll endure the great migration home. Maybe the pain will help, once he can walk.

“Can you walk?” Beau echoes. 

“Too soon to tell.” He exhales sharply as he tries resting the ankle against a root. That’s not great. Settles for leaning back on his palms. “Well. We have time. The wedding can’t happen without you, anyways.”

Beau nods. “Veth could Disguise Self to look like you,” she says. Can’t seem to suggest who would pretend to be her, though, and so mulls it over.

Fjord… cannot think much, as the pain heaves through him, tugged through by corded ropes in his muscles. But Beau’s earlier hurt - pain, just as real as this - nags at him.

“Aha - I’ve got it.” Beau squints at him. She doesn’t have her goggles on, so he doubts it helps much. Fjord grins broadly, in the hopes the moonlight catches and conveys cheek more than distress. 

“Of course your father couldn’t come - he’s scared to death your wife will kill him!”

Perfectly rational explanation.

[gayemoji]

for how bad killing eve got the books are infinitely worse.

[avareiahgt]

SUDDENLY THE TITLE OF THE MAIN STORY HAS COME TO ME. OMFG I KEPT YEARS THINKING ABOUT AND IT JUST TOOK A HIT ON MY FOOT LITTLE FINGER WHILE WALKING WITH LIGHTS OFF FOR IT TO COME TO ME??????

[persephoneflouwers]

-

[un-onnie-mousse]

It brings me great pleasure to tell that I infact won a poetry competition with this poem :D