#wip upper/under

[akindofmagictoo]

secret third WIP 👀

@ellatholmes @e-lisard @klywrites much love for all of you <3

you will have to bear in mind a couple things: this is a revamp of an existing concept that never made it to first draft, and a lot of what i'm revamping is still very up in the air. oh, and also, this contains lots of spoilers because i can't talk out my plot without including twists.

but essentially our story follows Nyx, an assassin/soldier on behalf of a country at war; Albin, a prince of a nearby country which has broken off contact with Nyx's people some time ago ... and also the guy Nyx was meant to be killing at the start of the plot; and arguably Minerva, who is the main reason Nyx and Albin don't kill each other by page five.

Nyx's people are known as the Underworld. Albin comes from the Upperworld. there is some kind of physical separation; probably a big cliff. the Underworld has control of the underground water supply, which was cut off some decades ago (through no fault of their own). in response, the Upperworld cut off communication and has been refusing any interaction.

here's what I do have. Nyx is on an assassination mission, i think. her people are at war, invaded by [probably] underground shapeshifting monsters. they have been trying to call for help for literal decades, and no one's listening, so it's murder time. logic of "if this doesn't get their attention nothing else will". except ... she doesn't make it there. she's ended up in prison, accused of murdering the queen. she was here to do a murder, yes ... but she's pretty sure she didn't do that one.

she's approached by Minerva, a member of the Upperworld's court, who offers an opportunity to get out. she has to go on a dangerous quest to retrieve a stone of some variety, which according to prophecy will reunite the countries and end the war. Nyx likes Not Being In Prison, and agrees. except she also has to travel with Albin, the murdered queen's son. and also the guy she was supposed to be murdering. great. cool. fine. no one is happy about this except maybe Minerva.

(Nyx is a little bit happier when she is informed that if she kills Albin in the stone's location it will be helpful for her, she just has to persevere).

now, here is where things get messy (both in and out of world). Minerva is a shapeshifter, but she has defected to come help the Upperworld and Underworld to get their act together. or has she?

the stone would be useful for the war, but it's also within the stronghold of the shapeshifters, deep underground. will Nyx and Albin get there? or will they both die? is Minerva's claim that Nyx can sacrifice Albin for the stone legit, or has she perhaps said the same thing to Albin? is the prophecy even real...?

(short answer: prophecy not real, Minerva is trying to get them both killed and deepen the civil war so there's no chance of reunion and thus victory)

(however, tough luck for Minerva, Nyx and Albin grow to actually care about each other and manage to pull through, save each other on several occasions (after the occasions where they tried to kill each other), and reunite their two countries to drive out the shapeshifters)

primarily i have lots of feelings about Nyx and Albin as characters so i'll follow this up with a reblog, hang on.

[teh-nos]

"Short fic is anything under 30k"

GET FUCKED, REDDITOR!!!

[oof-ow-my-bone]

sneezes

[semperama]

I can't stop thinking about this. Ryliver, E, 1300 words. Yes, I'm posting Ryliver on main. No, this is not the Ryliver WIP I should have been working on. No regrets.

---

Afterward, Oliver tries to bolt, but no such luck.

“So, what did it?” Ryan asks, suddenly at his elbow. Oliver’s legs are longer, and he could probably outrun him—even imagines himself doing it—but he would only incriminate himself more. He can still play dumb, maybe.

“What did what?” he asks. His trailer is like fifty yards away, tops. But he makes the mistake of looking at Ryan, meeting his eyes, and Ryan lifts his eyebrows and pointedly looks down, and Oliver—chokes on nothing, grabs Ryan by the bicep, tugs him through a door and onto an abandoned set.

It’s Buck’s old loft, still not fully dismantled. Great.

“Was it my brilliant acting?” Ryan asks, totally unfazed. He isn’t even trying to get out of Oliver’s grasp. His bicep flexes under Oliver’s palm, and Oliver lets go like he’s been given an electric shock. “Was it your brilliant acting? Because I get it, man.”

“Fuck. No. Jesus.” He should have sucked it up and waited until they made it to his trailer. In here, with Ryan next to him, the kitchen island at his back, the stairs to their left, he still feels a little like Buck. He can still hear Buck in his head. He can hear Buck hearing Eddie—"the trials and tribulations of Evan Buckley”—and he’s still—

He’s still fucking hard.

“Was it the shove?” Ryan asks. Wide grin, pointy teeth. On their second take, Ryan’s shoulder grab was a little too aggressive, knocked him back hard into the cabinets, and in the heat of the moment, Oliver had shoved him back, chest heaving. The director let it go, but at the end of the scene, he said, let’s pull it back a little this time, and Oliver had to squeeze his hands into tight fists to ground himself, calm himself down.

They did three more takes after that, and Oliver’s dick hadn’t behaved for a single fucking one of them. And he knew—he knew everyone could see it. Knew Ryan could see it. But knowing that didn’t make it any easier to get rid of. If anything, it made it worse.

“Did you not—” Oliver shuts his mouth quick, clack of teeth rattling around in his skull. The thing is, Ryan’s joking. He’s acting like it’s a joke. But Oliver’s cock is aching against the zipper of his jeans, and it doesn’t feel funny. He tries again: “Did you not feel it?”

Ryan’s canines leave white points in his bottom lip as his smile fades, goes rigid at the edges. “Feel what?”

Wrong thing to say. Suddenly, Oliver smells blood in the water. Ryan knows Eddie, and Oliver knows Buck, so the tension had to be palpable to both of them. Ryan’s not doing himself any favors playing dumb. “You know what,” Oliver says, taking a step forward. Ryan’s back is to the door. Buck’s door. “Why were we even fighting like that? Like a—a—”

“Married couple?” Ryan’s voice is light. He’s still trying to be funny, but it falls flat. His face is getting red, those perfect scarlet circles painted on his cheekbones.

“Not a married couple,” Oliver says, firm. “Not even lovers.”

Ryan’s shoulders lift with a deep, silent breath, and Oliver knows he gets it. “Like two people who don’t know they’re lovers yet.”

“Like we’re avoiding it.” Oliver sounds breathless, but he doesn’t fucking care anymore. “Like we’re scared of it.”

Ryan’s face is bright red now, and he’s not meeting Oliver’s eyes. Oliver takes another step without thinking, and he doesn’t realize how close they’ve gotten until Ryan’s back hits the door and Oliver can feel the air move when his breath rushes out of him.

Oliver gets about half a second to enjoy the upper hand before Ryan says, so quiet, “Buck.”

This isn’t their first kiss. That was right after season four, when Buck—when Oliver couldn’t stop looking at his hands and seeing red, but they knew nothing was going to come of it, and it was frustrating as fuck, and all he wanted to do was taste copper from Ryan’s mouth.

It isn’t even their second kiss, which was drunk and sloppy, after they were done filming the bachelor party.

But it’s the first time—after Ryan hooks his index fingers in Oliver’s belt loops and yanks—that Oliver feels Ryan hard against him, and he’s confronted, suddenly, with the fact that this isn’t a whim. This isn’t just BuckandEddie. This is licking a muffled groan from the seam of Ryan’s mouth and wanting to taste nothing else ever again. Wanting to leave this room and still remember it, still have it.

“Say it again,” he says against Ryan’s mouth, but he kisses him again, hard, before he can. He reaches down to peel Ryan’s hands away from his waist and threads their fingers together, presses them against the door by Ryan’s head. “Say it.”

“Buck,” Ryan says. “Buck, Buck.”

Oliver’s been hard for-fucking-ever, for hours, off and on, at this point. When he thrusts up into the cut of Ed—Ryan’s hip, it feels like relief, a little shower of sparks cascading down his spine with each roll of his hips. Ryan tugs one of his hands free and grabs a handful of his ass—huge palm making Oliver gasp—and pulls him in harder, and Oliver starts preparing himself to be embarrassed, because this isn’t going to take long at all. Hours of foreplay. Hours of Ryan’s low voice stroking against the pleasure points in his brain. Hours of trying to keep it together, and now he doesn’t have to.

“Eddie,” Oliver says, just above a whisper, but Ryan lets out a breathy sound that’s almost a laugh and nips at Oliver’s bottom lip, sharp sharp teeth, soft flick of his tongue.

“Ollie,” Ryan says, almost back to playful again, and that’s it. Oliver is gone. He pushes his hips against Ryan’s once, twice more, and then he’s coming in his pants, dropping his head to gasp against Ryan’s shoulder, his spine curling.

Ryan’s broad hand is still clutching at him, still pulling him in, and he’s vaguely aware of the little explosions of oversensitivity that are sending tremors through his legs, but it’s fine when Ryan is holding him up, huffing hard in his ear, then groaning as he follows Oliver over the edge, saying Oliver’s name again in that deep, rough voice that’s been torturing him all evening.

“Fuck,” Oliver breathes once it’s over. His face is still pressed against the meat of Ryan’s shoulder, and his hands flatten against the door to hold himself up, to keep himself from sinking to the floor like he wants to.

“Mmm,” Ryan hums, as if in agreement. It takes Oliver a minute to realize his shoulders are shaking—with laughter, he realizes. Not regret, at least.

“What is it?” Oliver asks, lifting his head enough to look Ryan in the eye.

“It’s just—” The color is still high in his cheeks. Scarlet red. His mouth is red too, and Oliver wants to kiss him again so badly. “It’s just, costuming is gonna fucking kill us.”

Oliver dissolves into giggles, and his knees dissolve too, but Ryan holds him up, pulling him in until they’re pressed together everywhere, impossible to tell where one of them ends and the other begins.

“Come to my trailer,” Oliver says. “We’ll change, and I’ll take everything to the dry cleaners in the morning.” They’ll bring all the clothes back in a couple days, pretend they just forgot to turn them in, and no one will ever have to know.

He and Ryan will know, though. Ryan tilts his head up to press their mouths together again, quick but firm, and Oliver breathes him in, the familiar scent of him, the familiar shape their bodies make. The two of them will know, will always know, now, and that’s good. That’s so fucking good.

[steviewashere]

Early Morning Lover

Rating: General CW: None!!! Tags: Post-Canon, Ambiguous Timeline, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mostly Comfort, Fluff, Established Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson, Soft Boys, Eddie Munson Being Brave, Eddie Munson Loves Steve Harrington, Steve Harrington Loves Eddie Munson, Love Confessions, Short and Sweet, Domestic Something short and sweet and honestly probably a little lame, but I needed something fresh while I worked on WIPs this weekend, so. Yeah. You get this <3 (Also, this is exactly 1.5k words and that is so incredibly sexy, you have no idea.)

❤️—————❤️ Steve lays on his belly when he’s sleeping. And he drools. And he snores through his mouth. He hugs the pillow under his head. His hair is a fluffy, teased mess around him—bangs nearly sweeping over his eyes. Most of his face is slack with sleep, but his eyebrows flex to match whatever’s going on in his head; furrowing for the nightmares, jumping up with a muffled groan at something good.

Eddie could watch him for hours.

There are moles cascading over Steve’s shoulders, biceps, spattered over his back like stars dotting the night sky. He has a slight hunch to the top of his spine, even laying down—Eddie wonders if his upper back ever aches…maybe he could do with a massage. His comforter swamps halfway over his thighs and bottom. The pajama pants he wears every night, some thinning, pilling plaid things are tight to the gentle layer of fat around Steve’s hips and lower stomach, but they’re slung just low enough that when he twitches to his side, the hair leading from his belly button downwards is exposed.

He flutters his feet in his sleep. Rubbing them against each other. Steve doesn’t wear socks to bed. Claims they suffocate him, that he gets too hot. Eddie’s the exact opposite, sometimes his feet are sprawled across Steve’s calves; he has to hope that he isn’t causing him to overheat.

Steve’s snoring is merely just small puffs of warm air. Poof…poof…poof. And then his chest stills for a moment. Then—“Humph”…poof…poof. His hands flex around his pillow when he catches his breath again.

Eddie loves him so bad, the feeling spilling from inside and outwardly expressed in his soft stare, the small smile he doesn’t realize constantly creeps up on his face until he sets it neutral, his head resting in his hand while they eat their meals. Steve spills things on himself a lot. He uses straws to drink everything because he nearly chokes on everything. When he thinks nobody’s watching, Steve will “scratch” the inside of his nose and then use a tissue to finish the job…as if he couldn’t use one from the beginning.

He hasn’t told Steve that he loves him.

Just one of those assumed things.

Steve hasn’t said it either. His lips curl around his teeth like he’s gearing up to say the words, but then he psyches himself out. Eddie sees him lose the words, let the thought go. He doesn’t blame him. It’s a hard thing, getting those words out.

Hence why he hasn’t said them himself.

But Steve’s been brave a lot—sometimes in stupid ways, but brave nonetheless—so maybe it’s his turn to show bravery.

Now, gently, Eddie reaches his hand to the hunch of Steve’s back. Swipes his hand with barely a breath between skin—strokes it down to the slight give to the small of his back. Those moles kissed Eddie’s palm, each one raised and just as warm as the rest of Steve. He sweeps his thumb. Loves the way Steve stutters in response to him.

And then hums.

And then smiles in his sleep.

And relaxes.

God.

“I love you,” Eddie whispers, “I love you so much, sweetheart.” He drags his fingertips over the notches of Steve’s spine. It’s bumpy. There’s some peach fuzz on Steve’s shoulder blades, just noticeable.

Steve doesn’t respond.

Eddie only scoots closer. Enough he can lay his entire arm against the curve of Steve’s spine. “I love you,” he whispers again, barely puffs it.

This time, Steve’s nose scrunches in response. Almost like he’s reacting to morning breath.

He traces his fingers over the back of Steve’s neck, up the side to under his ear, and curves it over his hairline—sweeping the hair nearly falling. Steve smiles again. Enough that it scrunches the corners of his eyes. His smile lines are deep and beautiful. Eddie’s favorite moles bunch with the smile.

“I love you,” Eddie murmurs, “I love you”—and he keeps sweeping back Steve’s hair, combing it now with his entire palm. “So much I wanna scream. So much I wanna tell the whole world. Everybody should know, baby, everybody should know who I get to keep,” he says quietly, “because I love you.”

Finally, “Yeah?” Steve croaks. His eyes squeeze together tightly, protesting against the sunlight through his window. “‘M your baby.”

Eddie kisses Steve’s left shoulder. He’s so warm. “Yeah you are,” he mutters, “and I love you. Did you hear that part?”

A hand leaves the pillow under Steve’s head. Reaching out clumsily for Eddie’s face, fingers catching in hair. He scrunches his palm. “You…you’re my baby,” Steve mumbles.

“Stevie?”

“Mm…hm?”

“Open your eyes for me, baby,” Eddie lightly requests. “I wanna see your gorgeous eyes. Gotta tell you somethin’.”

Slowly, Steve flutters his eyes. His eyelashes are long and dark against his face, perfectly framing his giant, drooping, shiny hazel eyes. He blearily finds Eddie’s. And he smiles—again. This small, perfect, careful thing. Private, too. Just for them. “Hi, Eds,” he whispers.

“Hey yourself.” Eddie can feel that smile on his own face, the one for the dining table, the one for when Steve’s not looking, for when his feelings get too big for his chest. “Can I tell you a secret?”

“You can tell me anythin’, you know that.”

“Yeah, I think you’ll like it, too.” He swipes Steve’s hair back, keeps it held to the top of his head. To capture the darkness of his eyebrows, the light wrinkles starting to etch into his forehead, the other moles and freckles he’s never been able to fully catch. Perfection. “I love you, Steve.”

The reaction he gets is not really the reaction he was expecting.

Steve’s eyes widen, now fully awake and alert. Then, his chin and lower lip wobble. And he bursts into snotty, clogging tears. “Really?” he squeaks, “you do? You love me?”

Eddie makes a soft cooing sound. Something between a click of his tongue and the lower end of a whine. He reaches both hands for Steve’s face, cupping him gently, and begins to thumb away his tears. His cheeks blotch up when he’s crying, the thin skin under his eyes getting shiny, and his nose begins to run, too. All and all, Steve is still perfect. Every last bit of him. A gentle guy who deserves the softness, the commitment of a gentle love.

“Of course I love you, sweet thing,” Eddie whispers, “how could I not love you?”

“Because I—I’m me?” Steve manages to choke out, his breath catching on a sob before he can fully grasp it.

He firmly squishes at Steve’s face. “That’s exactly why I love you, Steve. Because you’re you. I fell in love with you, not anybody else.”

Steve moves too quick for Eddie to prepare for him, swaddling them in a giant, sobbing, warm embrace. His mouth is right next to Eddie’s ear. Crying, big and bubbling, “I love you, too Ed…Eddie. God, I love you.”

Eddie has his hands again on Steve’s back, running them up and down his spine, knuckles tracing over his moles all over again. He turns his head, angled and rough, and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Steve’s mouth—wet with his tears, still stuttering. “I know, baby boy,” he murmurs, “I feel it, Stevie…shhh, sweetheart…you’re okay.”

A hard, bursting sob hits Eddie’s ear drum. “I’m so happy,” Steve says, voice thin and squeaky still, “so so happy right now, you have no idea.”

I think I do, Eddie thinks, I think I’m getting it.

He’s never seen Steve like this. Barriers completely broke down. Clinging on and crying his damn heart out. It’s a good thing, he’s aware—it still sort of hurts that a confession is what it took.

With an arm thrown over Steve’s waist, Eddie uses his left hand to pat between Steve’s shoulder blades. And then his fingers curl into the ends of his hair, tugging gently until they lock eyes. Openly, honestly, Eddie says, “You are the best thing to ever happen to me. And there is nobody—absolutely nobody else—that I’d rather give my heart to. You’re it for me, Steve. I love you with all that I’ve got.”

That brings on another wave of tears, those this time quieted. Steve leans back in, pressing a messy, wet kiss to Eddie’s lips. Sniffing into it. Shaking through it. But his eyes are still so big, so full of warmth, that he knows none of this is bad. This is Steve vulnerable. This is him accepting.

“You gotta help me with pancakes for makin’ me cry so early in the morning,” Steve mumbles.

“I’ll slice some blueberries for the batter. ‘Cause that’s your favorite, how’s that?”

Steve inhales sharp—sounds like he’s worming away snot and tears—and he breathes out a half-chuckle, a half-hiccup. “I love you, Eds. Everything’s perfect.”

❤️—————❤️

[chasmdivine]

high fantasy x romance x found family

demo (coming mid summer 2025) | itch.io page | author kofi

Your family were oracles, prophets, to the deity, Rhuyen, from the dawn of mortal life long before civilization and the founding of the nation, Dalethyr and it’s prominent capital, Valesia. For centuries after, your ancestors sat upon the royal dais, providing divine guidance to numerous Thaerdazan monarchs. You are next in line to be the Oracle.

A sprawling, ancestral estate in the High Garden, untold wealth, and a name that carried weight—it was all your grandmother’s. Until, on the heels of King Zerhan’s coronation and the historic concord between Dalethyr and Bhalerun, she foretold of the Crown’s downfall in an inferno of magic and smoke. Infuriated by her betrayal of his crown, she and her son were banished from the city, and the empire expanded on.

Fifty-two years later

In the year 731 v, all you know is the Chasm, the massive schism in the plains outside the city where people spit out by Valesia’s justice system, the destitute, and those shunned by the upper class—namely, your family.

Little has changed in the upper city, once famed for its forward-thinking ideals and strict, magical schools, but in the under city, pressure has formed community and bonds not even the Crown or its guards can break.

Tension has been steadily building between the two cities, and recent events have brought it to a violent boil. You may not have picked a side in the conflict, but your god has given one. The Oracle says it’s time, fate and their consequences are longer overdue. Will you hasten the empire’s fall, or try to change the outcome?

This is an active wip. Things such as names or ideas may change!

Customize the main character: pronouns, identity, physical appearance, and clothing

The main character has had a great many experiences living in the under city. Decide how it’s shaped their personality, and how they will react in the present and future.

Choose from four different backgrounds: merchant, smith, healer, or a runner for the Vultures.

Explore Valesia’s Upper City, but watch where you walk, snakes don’t make for good friends, and the Chasm—the home you know like the back of your hand. Well, you thought you did.

Main Character: resident of the Chasm, grandchild of the current Oracle of Rhuyen

Age: 26

Yaretzi (she/her): third year student in the mage academy, whose presence in the Chasm draws lingering eyes from both above and below

Age: 24 Physical description: hip-length black curly hair, light brown skin with warm undertones with paler spots of vitiligo, golden-brown eyes, medium build with no muscle definition, 5'4", losing most of the vision in her right eye barely put a hitch in this dedicated student's step Romance option | pansexual | can be romanced by MCs of any gender B&g portrait | Colored full body

Admase (he/him) / Asmeret (she/her): an old friend (or romance) who is captaining a Bhalish merchant ship quite well for someone who is supposed to be dead

Age: 26 Physical description: shoulder-blade length black locs often pushed back with a leather or gold band, deep brown skin with warm undertones, dark brown eyes, large, well-muscled build, 6'2", their old forearm prosthetic familiar to you has been replaced by a new one of unfamiliar design Romance option | panromantic demisexual | can be romanced by MCs of any gender B&g portrait | Colored full body

Tejas (they/them): proclaimed an outlaw by the Crown, declared ruler of both sides of the Chasm by its inhabitants

Age: 28 Physical description: short, light brown hair, brown skin with warm undertones, dark grey eyes, slender, well-muscled build, 6’0”, despite missing fingers on their right hand they are highly capable of signing rapidly with the other Romance option | demiromantic pansexual | a romance path for MCs of any gender will be unlocked after reaching a certain friendship level B&g portrait | Colored full body

Iliyas (he/they): Bhalish emissary in the Valesian court, a soul out of place in the pit of vipers

Age: 29 Physical description: shoulder-length, black (nearly violet in some lighting) hair shorn around the ears, fair skin with olive undertones, light brown eyes, slender, narrow build with very slight muscle tone, 5’10”, he uses a well-crafted cane as a mobility aid Romance option | panromantic asexual | can be romanced by MCs of any gender B&g portrait | Colored full body

Two more ROs are planned:

A femme nonbinary (asexual lesbian) who can be romanced by nonbinary or female MCs

An allosexual man who can be romanced by male MCs

Drawing someone? Here’s a palette for the RO’s.

Nysa (she/they): Oracle of Rhuyen, outcast of the Upper City and proud of it

Age: 74

King Zerhan Thaerdazan (he/him): king of Dalethyr

Age: 70

Demo | Itch.io | Kofi | Patreon | Pinterest | Bluesky

[bxlladxnnabxtch]

Eternally Elusive

Rhysand x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: A pestering passerby drags up an unexpected guest that almost blows your cover.

Read pt. 1 of Eternally Elusive - HERE

Read pt. 7 - HERE (currently wip)

Warnings: Harassment, injury.

In your pain riddled haste, you hadn’t realized how worked up you had made Azriel’s shadow. It seemed to be fretting at any slip up in fear of you damaging your already broken wing, it’s movement jagged and sharp as it circled you. But alas, you paid it no heed- couldn’t as you stumbled your way over the border and onto Dawn Court soil in the most pain you’ve been in since you’d left your homeland. The feeling buzzed in your head, and you just knew that you’d be in pain for months just waiting for this to heal up, but that’s only if you get the proper care for it, which you were certainly not.

Even being courts apart, Rhys still seemed to find a way to make your life difficult.

You wondered idly if he knew how badly his slip up had fucked you over as you splinted your injury, enchanting the wooden block to stay in place with a wave of your hand. Your wing still throbbed, the pain thrumming through you like a steady stream. It was the slightest bit more bearable with the splint in place, the appendage no longer visibly deformed, and it put you at ease to see it no longer sticking at an odd angle.

The glamour you held over yourself swallowed you like a comforting blanket, the weight of it putting you at ease as you looked out on the bustling streets of the Dawn Court. The last thing you needed right now was someone noticing who you were, the whispers would no doubt make their way back to the inner circle and you didn’t need another guest appearance as of right now. You dragged a hand down your face, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up along your trek into town.

A brush along your wing had you jumping and scrambling to recoil away from the touch. Your head whipped around, swiveling frantically in search of the source. Your eyes landed on a short, brunette fae. His eyes were a piercing gold, shimmering in the setting sun. You’d almost say they were beautiful if they hadn’t been holding a tinge of disgust, staring at you as if he was floored by your very presence. Azriel’s shadow stilled when you locked eyes with him, the darkness settling at your side.

It's slight coolness as it brushed against you offered you some solace from your peaked anxiety as you stared at the fae. “An Illyrian?” He scoffed, looking down on your form perched on a wooden bench. His upper lip curled into a scowl as his eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.” He sneered. Your eyes darted around, a few people nearby eyed you both, a few previous strollers slowing down to watch the interaction. Your pulse spiked, and the fae seemed to pick up on it as he huffed a snort. “Are you a spy? Come to feed information back to your whore of a High Lord?”

The comment hit you like a brick to the face, the insult causing a slice of hurt to bloom in your chest despite your current status with said male. Your features downturned, a kaleidoscope of memories flooding into you from Under the Mountain- both yours and his. You didn’t have time to fully react to anything the fae had said- to what your body had forced you to remember.

A sharp, commanding voice sounded from behind the Dawn Court native, and he bristled at the sound, a visible tremor running through him. “Are we now in the business of disturbing travelers?”

You watched as the golden eyed fae slowly turned around, almost as if he were dreading what he would see. He moved to the side, and your eyes landed on a black haired woman, the girl coated in glittering armor from head to toe. The Dawn Court insignia sat proud on her chest plate, her dark hair sprawling well past the emblem and stopping just before her waist. She held the same shimmering golden eyes as the male- but these were sharper somehow, and they seemed to swirl with power. White wings stood proud behind her, so big that the ivory feathers brushed the ground where she stood.

A Peregryn, you realized.

A member of the elite aerial legion the Dawn Court proudly harbored. You were stunned, as were most passerby at her presence, only attracting more attention to your already uncomfortable situation. Her eyes landed on you, and they widened slightly in recognition.

It dawned on you in that second, and you stiffened into an immovable force.

Glamour didn’t work on Peregryns.

You stared at each other wide eyed, a silent acknowledgement of what was taking place. A runaway monarch- and a soldier of another court. She had all the power here- a cruel switch that was bound to be flipped at some point; you just didn’t expect it to be so soon. She could report this back to Thesan, have you sent back without so much as a thought. Azriels shadow circled you, and you waited with bated breath to see what she’d do.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her eyes fell back onto the brown-haired male still staring at her in thinly veiled horror. “Get moving.” She said coldly, jerking her head in the direction of another bustling street. The male sputtered for a second, eyes darting back to you before stuttering out a “yes, ma’am.” You watched him disappear into the crowd of people making their way down the busy street, the few people that had stopped to watch the interaction dispersing with him.

Your eyes fell back on the woman, the Peregryn now making her way towards you as if she were on a mission. The look in her eyes had you leaping to your feet, hopping off the bench as if the wooden structure had scorched you through your clothes. You got up in time to meet her face to face, her golden armor glinting in the setting sun.

You swallowed thickly, your pulse racing as you locked eyes. Her face seemed to hold a certain kind of awe you’d compare to a child receiving a new toy. Her eyes slipped over to your injured wing, the glance lingering for a second longer than you’d anticipated before it flickered back to your face. The fae bristled, a realization seeming to dawn on her as she floundered. “M-my Lady.” Her legs bent to steep into a kneel, and your heart rate spiked so violently the Peregryn flinched, your arm shooting out to stop her from completing her bow. Your nails dug into her armor, creating a soft creaking noise as your voice fought its way out of you. Commanding. Desperate. Almost a plea as you spoke.

“Don’t.” You said lowly, eyes darting around as she slowly eased out of her half completed kneel. She managed to take in your frantic movements in her confused state, eyes searching the streets in hopes no one had saw what she had just attempted to do. A fae with light brown hair seemed to eye you as she walked by, and that was all it took to have you hauling the Peregryn into a nearby ally.

“Are you trying to get me in shit!?” You hissed, casting a glance to the street you were just standing in, the shadows of the ally helping you to remain hidden. “No- no, my lad-“ You cut her off. “Don’t call me that, I’m not Your Lady.” You let go of her armor, confusion staining the woman’s face, only becoming more saturated with each passing second. “I may serve the Dawn Court, but I was born of the Night, you are as much My Lady as Thesan is My Lord.” Your eyes darted to her dark sprawling locks, and it clicked for you. She may have been a Peregryn, that much was obvious, but she held prominent features of the Night Court.

It was possible, much like your own lineage. A union between a Peregryn and a member of the Night Court. You saw it. A reflection of yourself stared back, the pride that swirled in her eyes when she talked about her heritage. You remember being like that, once. So proud of being from both the Winter, and the Night Court.

It was long gone though, that pride.

One of those homes was ripped away from you.

You hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate.

“I’m glamoured right now.” You said, tone much softer. A crease formed between her brows, face falling. “Oh.” She paused, looking you over before she spoke again. “I thought you were here for the Fall Solstice.”

That’s right. The Solstice.

Where the three Solar Courts came together in celebration. Where the day and night fall together in equal harmony, each as long as the other. You had completely forgotten in your haste to make it back to Winter. Your mouth fell open, eyebrows raising as an expression of surprise overtook your features. It was clear Rhys wouldn’t be attending any festivals after Under the Mountain, and now with you missing, you’d be surprised if he left the house. Especially with… her to attend to.

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” She asked. Your eyes fell back on her. She really didn’t know? Did Rhys not alert the other Courts to your disappearance? Or is it just so early he didn’t have a chance yet? You swallowed nervously, wringing your hands together anxiously. “Well, since you’re in town you’re still welcome to come.” The Peregryn said softly, sensing your unease. “Pardon my bluntness, but you don’t look to be feeling too well, you should get some rest. I should probably get back to my post regardless.”

You realized just how long you’d been standing in the ally, and you nodded your head in acknowledgement. She inclined her head slightly, almost a bow but casual enough to be brushed off. “It was an honor.” She said sincerely, turning to make her way out of the overhang. You watched her exit the ally, ivory wings brushing the ground as they followed behind her.

Hauling yourself up the stairs of the inn, you used the wall to support most of your weight. Azriels shadow was swirling around you, fretting as it always did when you were in a less than favorable state. The groan you let out when you reached the top was almost guttural, and you had to muster up the very last bit of your energy reserves to scuffle the last bit to your room.

You fiddled around with the key, leaning your forehead against the door and attempted not to wince as your arm knocked into your wing. Getting the key into the lock was an accomplishment in itself, and you pushed the door open, ready to clean yourself up and have a short nap. The door swung open, and you threw the key onto the dresser on your right side, swinging the door closed behind you.

The door swung closed, revealing the bed and a battered Azriel sitting atop it.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Winter's King 14

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, cheating, violence, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You are a maid to the Duke of Debray, a lord of the Summer Kingdom. That is, until the king of Winter appears with his particular air of coldness. (Medieval AU)

Characters: Geralt of Rivia

Note: Another work week :(

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Not long after the king’s departure, Lord Jaskier excuses himself to see to his horse. Queen Jazlene sends him off with a similar quip about serious matters. You don’t quite understand her. She should be concerned with the weeks of travel ahead of her, not only of the time, but of the climate. 

She finishes the bottle on her own. Much of it went to her cup. You think of warning her but it isn’t your place. You can only watch her head wobble as that hazy look softens her features. On her last gulp, a droplet trickles down her chin. You suspect she might be as unhappy as her husband claimed of himself the previous night. They make a rather sad pairing. 

It’s early still. Perhaps once they are settled, it won’t be so tense. They will have a chance to know each other better without the stresses of a war or the road ahead. 

Your thoughts stray and your vision fogs as you stare at a blue tapestry. Jazlene continues to babble and suddenly, the clink of her cup jolts you from your trance. You look at her as she slumps against the table. Her shoulders are slack, her arms bent around her head as it droops onto the wood. You can see her breath as she hunches weakly in her chair. 

“Your highness?” You call to her. You sway on your feet as you watch her. Come on, move. “Your highness?” You take a step toward her, “Lady Jazlene?” 

She groans and slips to the side. You rush around without a thought to catch her. She garbles drunkenly as you hold her in her arms, one leg still on the seat as her other hangs limply. She’s heavier than you would expect. 

“Your highness?” You squeak as you struggle to keep her off the ground. You can’t drop the queen. 

Her head lolls as her lashes flutter. She is certainly not conscious. The acrid scent of wine rises from her lips. You try to hike her higher, slinging her arm around your shoulder as you grunt. She’s not that big, you’re just weak. You can carry a cask or a chest, but a person is a much different matter. 

You wrap your arms around her and haul her around the table. Her slippers drag and you clatter into the chairs and nearly trip on the edge of the rug. Your leg muscles thrum with the effort and your back racks. You look around. The bedchamber is too far. 

You turn and little by little, step by step, drag her to the couch. Her feet loudly scrape across the floor. You angle her around with another laboured grunt and as you do, the hinges whine and the left door opens. You look up as the king enters and your lips part in surprise. You’ve been caught. Rather, the queen has. 

He stares at you and eases shut the door. He comes around as your arms quake. He wordlessly takes his wife from your grasp and lays her across the sofa. You put a pillow under her head and back up, rubbing your upper arms. 

“Your highness, she was not feeling well,” you say. 

“She has drunk herself into a stupor,” he snarls as he backs up, crossing his arms as he glares down at her. “Do not lie, especially on her behalf. It does not become you.” 

“Your highness, I apologise. I only worry for her--” 

“You shouldn’t,” he intones, “she doesn’t worry for you. Or me. Or anyone but herself.” He turns and goes to the table. He rights the overturned cup and you reproach yourself for not doing so first. “But I do appreciate you attending to her. I’d rather not have found her upon the floor.” 

“Your highness,” you bow your head. 

He’s quiet. You’re unsure what to do next. Should you leave him with Jazlene or stay to tend to her? He will need sleep for the ride. 

“Little maid, you will send to have a bath drawn. There will be little chance to wash upon the road,” he commands. 

“As you wish, your highness.” 

“Mm, if only,” he murmurs as she sits and grabs the empty bottle, sneering at its hollowness. 

You set off to have water brought to his chamber. You assist the other servants in carrying the vessels of steaming water. All the while, the king ruminates at the table. He picks at his index finger and his cheek ticks. When at last the tub is full, you go to trail out after the castle servants. 

“Little maid, I require assistance,” he says. 

You remain and the doors close in the tension. You watch the king, your fingers twined together as you cautiously approach. He glowers at his fingers and huffs. 

“You have small hands,” he rests his palm open on the table, “please, I would have use of them.” 

Curious, you move towards him. He turns to you and holds out his large hand. He pokes his index fingers up and hisses. 

“I got it on the door. A splinter,” he explains. 

You see the dark spot, just the minuscule tip of it poking above his rough skin. The skin around it is inflamed, both from the sliver and his fussing. You bring your hands to cradle his single one and lean to have a closer look. You keep one hand under his and slip the other down the side of his palm. 

You brush your fingertips over the lines of his knuckles. He’s quiet as he lets you gently squeeze. You glance up beneath your lashes. 

“It might hurt, your highness. Apologies.” 

His cheek twitches, “I’ve had worse than a maid’s touch.” 

You squeeze until his flesh his taut. You pinch the tip of the splinter with your other fingers, using your nails to get a grip of it. You pull slowly. Very slowly, terrified of losing hold and having it go deeper. The wooden sliver slides out and before you can examine it, it falls to the floor, disappearing into the fabric of the rug. 

The king sighs, “better.” He brings his other hand over yours and covers your small ones with his, “many thanks, little maid.” 

He lets you go, his calloused skin brushing your sleeves, and he hums grimly. He bends his head forward and his white waves shift on his shoulders. He pushes his hair back and raises his head again. His eyes almost glow as he looks at you. 

“I should fetch some water for the queen in case she stirs--” 

“Later,” he dismisses, “might I ask another favour of such delicate hands?” 

You dip your chin down, “I serve you and the queen, your highness.” 

“Mm, yes, you recall, the knot in my shoulder, where I carry my sword,” he points along his shoulder, “if it isn’t trouble, I might have you loosen it before I must ride anon.” 

“Your highness,” you acquiesce, curling your fingers into your palms. You remember that first night you met him, as he sat in the steaming tub and had you touch him. You sweat at the memory. 

“It would be best before I soak,” he reaches to untie the laces of his tunic. 

You watch him, helpless. As with the queen, you can only heed his whims. At least he is gentler in his mastery. He pulls his tunic above his head and strips it away completely. He lets it hang over one leg and squares his shoulders as he sits back in the chair. 

You go around him and he moves his hair to his other shoulder. Your hands tremble slightly before you touch him. His muscles are thick and his skin taught across everyone. His arms are rounded with bulk and his neck is bullish in girth. He carries so much strength and power as if it is nothing. 

You squeeze the muscles gently with one hand, pressing the other behind it. You knead carefully, gradually putting more behind it, responding to the soft breaths and low grunts rising from the king. You hit a spot with some resistance and he growls. 

“There,” he grits as he drops his head forward. “Harder.” 

You push your thumb against the little pearl of tension you feel along his shoulder. He exhales deeply and lets out a wolfish snarl. He grips his thigh as you work his flesh. Your hands move without much thought. Lady Rezlyn often requested to have her feet done, a much less ideal task. 

“Mm, treasure...” he breathes though his words aren’t entirely clear. 

Another noise rises from him, sharper than before. You stop, frightened. 

“Your highness, have I hurt you?” You utter. 

Before you can retract your hand, he has a hold of you. He lifts his head and hangs it back, his hair spilling down. He looks up at you with his bright eyes as he clings to your hand. He presses it flat and moves it over his shoulder. He drags it down against his chest where you can feel his heartbeat. 

You’re caught in his gaze and his grasp. You just stand there, entranced by his golden irises. Each time you see them, they are more brilliant than the last. Your own chest tightens and binds up your breath. 

“You can never hurt me,” he rasps. You gulp as he lightens his hold and pets your hand. He closes his eyes and winces. “Little maid...” he sits forward and gently moves your hand away from his chest, “you must go now. You must face the road with us and you will require rest.” He lets you go completely and stands. “I trust my wife will have many a demand to keep you busy.” 

“Yes, your highness,” you murmur. 

“Now,” he insists. “You must go now.” 

He crosses the chamber and stops in the door to his bedchamber. You quickly flit over to the doors that lead out to the corridor. You pause and glance over as you sense him move. He stares at you, his eyes licking with flames. His chest rises and falls, trimmed in thick hair that trails down his hard stomach. 

“Go...” 

You obey and heave open the door. The soldiers on the other side snort. It is late, they must’ve dozed. You don’t think much of that as you harry down the corridor, not looking back. The king’s timber nips at your ears. The way he spoke; ‘go’. It was more than just a word; it was a warning. 

⚔️

You rise with the castle, quickly falling into the tumult of the impending departure. When you arrive at the king’s chambers that morning, you are sent away. You find Jazlene in her own. He must have taken her back before the sun. 

She is groggy and sombre as you help her dress. The pain in her skull leaks out in pathetic moans. You offer her lemons water and a cool cloth for her head. You see the difference as she accepts but she remains weak. It will be difficult for her to ride. 

Horses fill the courtyard and the luggage carts crowd around the stables and rear of the castle. The scene reminds you of Debray. You only hope Queen Jazlene does not cause a similar scene. You don’t believe she can. 

You accompany her to the front of the train. The king is not there. The queen clutches her throat as if she might be sick as the smell of the horses is stirred by their whipping tails. She grumbles and calls for a water skin. You find one and she shooes you away. 

“Enough of you,” she snips.  

You stay close, keeping watch should she signal for anything else. She can barely lift her head to do more than drink thirstily. Lords and ladies as good as ignore the queen as she mutters to her horse. 

“Eh, mouse, there y’are,” Bryce’s voice undercuts your pity. “I’ve been looking for ya.” 

You face him and the weight slips from your shoulders, “you have?” 

“What are you insinuating?” He challenges, “Daisy’s missing ya.” 

“Oh,” your brows raise, “well, it just so happens I miss her too.” 

“We’ll be off soon. You should come claim your place with the luggage.” 

“Should,” you agree. 

You follow him through the press of bodies. You get further down, away from the pages and soldiers, see Daisy lazily hoofing at the ground. She chews on a sparse bit of grass in the dust. As you near, you notice that her holster is thicker than it was. She is attached to a small cart. 

“What is this?” You ask as you stop short. 

“It’s yours, mouse,” Bryce says staunchly, “isn’t right you riding with the chests. Not for so far as we need to go.” 

“You... you did this for me?” You ask. "But... what about--” 

“Found a spare horse. He’s a bit less friendly than our beloved but he’ll do fine enough,” he explains, “’sides, Daisy needs a respite. She don’t needa be carrying around my hefty behind much longer.” 

“Oh, my,” you put your hand to your cheek and go to the cart, “Sir Bryce, you are a true knight.” 

“Don’t you get sappy with me,” he tuts as he follows. “Look inside, will ya?” 

You look inside the cart. There’s a long cushion and a pack. It’s a lot compared to what you came with; nothing. Bryce reaches in and tugs something from beneath the cushion. You watch the fur ripple out as he reveals the cloak. It’s thick and long and hooded. He holds it up. 

“When we get to the Hinterlands, you’ll be needing this,” he says. 

You touch the fur, it’s soft. You blink and feel it between your fingers. Your eyes sting. 

“Sir,” you bat your lashes, “it is too much for me.” 

“It isn’t very much, you are just too humble, mouse,” he folds and holds it out to you. “Now, don’t you be telling anyone this was my doin’. I got a reputation to uphold.” 

“Oh,” you clamp your lips shut as you try to hold back your emotion. 

A smile breaks through and you bare your teeth. Your cheeks hurt from the joy bursting forth. You hug the cloak and rock, looking around. As you do, you falter at a familiar face.  

The king leads a dark horse along the edge of the yard. He is looking at you, or so it seems. You let your expression slip and tamp down your glee. You bow your head in King Geralt’s direction. 

When you look up again, he is gone. 

[euseokz]

@ anton — i've never felt this way before . . i hope it never ends ! . cws : virginity loss . oral (f) . wc : 0.6k+ . genre : smut + fluff

a/n : happy (belated) anton day !! decided to finish up this wip for our sweet boy’s day hehe 🫶🏻🫶🏻

FIRST LOVE! ANTON who is in complete awe of you, so enamored he can barely hold it in.

he has never felt this way for someone, how he always wants to be close to you, how he always seems to smile more around you, how your touch always is so warm and comforting, how being away from you leaves him with a weird feeling of longing. he can’t quite describe it, but he wonders if this what love feels like, if it is this giddy feeling he feels bubbling inside his chest whenever your name is mentioned or when he sees you. maybe he does love you, and thankfully, you love him too, feeling everything he feels perfectly the same, your first time experiencing all of this too.

maybe what led you two to take so long to fully find your ways to each other was the fact you were so inexperienced in this department, but regardless, eventually, you found yourselves in each other’s arms, every kiss leaving you filled with more glee than the last, perky smiles always making their way to your lips whenever you were together. all you needed was to take the next step, completely devote yourselves to one another, wanting more than just the make out sessions and daring touches. you wanted each other badly, drawn to one another like a moth to a flame — and anton hoped it would always be like this, that he’d always want you like he did the first time.

his touches were soft, tender, each layer of clothing getting peeled off of you with a sort of gentleness only anton could give you. he gazed at your naked body with wonder, already imagining all the things he wanted to do with you — and the feeling was mutual, as soon as he too was completely bare your eyes gluing themselves to his wide frame, looking curiously, expectantly waiting for what would come next.

anton left small kisses down your neck, each one fleeting but hotter than any other one he had ever given you, making you squirm under him, a sort of fire burning in your middle, begging to be put out by anton’s plump lips. he left his last pecks on your inner thigh, then moving to press them over your folds, anxiously gulping before peeking his tongue out, licking a strip up your pussy, attentive to your reaction. you whined, arching your back ever so slightly, already desperate for more, anton’s arms wrapping around your upper thighs while your hands held them, trying to find solace in touching him. experimentally, and almost curiously, anton continued, trying to flick over your clit, the swollen bud twitching at his touch, your unintentional reactions to him something that made anton smile, only adding fuel to make him want to keep going.

he sucked on your clit, continued pressing his tongue over it, kissed your pussy and even tried pushing his tongue into your hole. anton did anything he could think of that’d possibly make you feel good, all of his guesses right enough because sooner than later you were cumming against him, your walls clenching around nothing as he continued stimulating your sensitive clit, slowing down when you started whining that it was too much, until he eventually stopped, coming up from between your legs with a satisfied grin, his lips and chin glistening with a mixture of his saliva and your slick. anton’s eyes shined, glossy arousal covering them — much like your own, so without wasting more time he moved up to kiss you again, ready to keep going with you, his first love.

[spncvr]

worries | s. reid

summary: you worry for spencer, it's human

pairing: spencer reid x reader

warnings: TENDING WOUNDS TROPE HELLO, hurt/comfort, mentions of death, blood (in a metaphorical way ???) ENGLISH ISN'T MY FIRST LANGUAGE PLS BEAR WITH ME, lowkey kinda sappy, reader kinda cries, like, alot, lmk if i missed anytihg !

a/n: tryying desperately to force myself out of my writers block so here's a WIP i forcedmyself to finish (its 1 am rn bye). send me requests??for??ideas?? i beg.

THE SMALL LIGHT BULB that dangles from the ceiling casts a soft glow on everything it touches. The light, never quite bright enough for your liking (you never got around to changing it) bathes the room in a gentle hue, softening the edges of the couch, carpet and shelves. That akin to the way it bleeds against his skin, with this kind of grace that seems to make scars on his face look kind and soft. 

“Hold still,” you chide, trying to clean the wound on his eyebrow; a harsh reminder of the day’s chaos. And when he does you mumble, “You’re such an idiot.”

His response is a small smile that sits against his lips, warm and understanding. His hands gently find their place on your thighs, grounding you as you straddle him “Yeah, I know,” he says.

“You shouldn’t’ve just … lunged at him like that.” It’s a plea wrapped in a scold. 

You duck your head down to avoid his careful eyes. You think, if he can’t see you, he can’t properly read you; a futile attempt, really. But still,  you think, if he can’t see the worry within your eyes he’d just let it go; that he wouldn’t know that you couldn’t help but think, what if, the unsub had gotten the upper hand, and what if it was much worse than just a measly cut on his eyebrow. These thoughts, the feelings, seem to constantly plague your mind in your darkest moments; ones that would make you feel like your heart is pouring out your chest, like rose thorns poking at your ribcage, that’ll bleed you dry with worry.

“What’s wrong?”His voice is soft, laced with concern, and it breaks through your defenses. The fingers that were on your thigh are now under your chin, coaxing you to look up at him, a silent entreaty for your honesty. His gaze is now on yours, stagnant and unwavering—and your lips start to quiver, and tears threaten to spill. Quickly, you hide your face into his shoulder.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your words are barely a whisper.

“Of what?” 

“I’m terrified for you.” your words are muffled in his shirt “What if—” you say, helpless, “What if it was more than just a cut on your eyebrow Spence, what if I— when—” you can’t finish your sentence. Not when he’s rubbing your back and kissing your head so softly and so kindly it makes the tears from your eyes spill and paint soft patches on his shirt. 

“You won’t,” he tells you with a conviction, that he wears so effortlessly like his own skin, “I won’t. I’m not leaving you.”

“You can’t say that,” you protest weakly, “you can’t know that. Look at Stephen he— God, Spence. You of all people know that you can’t possibly know that—”

“Hey, no,” he scolds quietly. 

But you're already looking at him, your face off from his shoulder. “Don’t tell me not to worry. Don’t tell me I can’t talk like that. You’re my boyfriend. It’s apart of caring. I should worry for you, so let me worry. It wouldn’t be human not to.”

“I know,” he says, soothingly, then, “I’m sorry.”

You wipe your tears frantically with your arm before continuing to tend his cut. “I wish the FBI had force fields around their agents.” you say, through a small smile, “Wish they could wrap you up with thick blankets.” It’s a childish thought.

His laughter is kind and genuine, it fills the space between the two of you, “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” you nod with a smile that finds its way through your tears.

“You take such good care of me,” he says, eyes never leaving yours.

Maybe it was his words or the way it had slipped from his tongue; maybe it was how his fingers, rough and calloused,  had grazed against your delicate ones. But here, as he sits with a smile on his lips, (a lopsided lazy thing), all scarred and bruised, did you know that you love him. But love was a concept you had cared for and attended to. You loved your mother, your friends. You loved books and their characters. You loved the darkness, the night. You loved your job, and its challenges. You loved music and movies. You loved home, and it's all too familiar feeling against your skin. And suddenly this concept —love— seems too small, too narrow to encompass what you feel for him. There isn’t a word or phrase made —nor did you think there ever would be— to describe just how much you had felt for him.

But in short, you do love him, very much.

[blenselche]

swear i havent forgotten about this proposal comic

im just... my wip list is too long but i do it to myself.

I started a Bubbline oneshot insert for Keep Yourself off of bg lines so I'm gonna dump about that under the cut.

So there's a few lines through the fic that I wanted to expand on or use to shift the focus to the girls, like the bit in ch1 about Tom and Jo and co.:

“Some old human friends made [the map] for me if I ever decided to join them after I was done with the vamps,” Marcy supplies with a sad note to her voice and a small shrug. The princess purses her lips and gently brushes the back of her fingers against Marceline’s upper arm.

PB's confused as to why Marcy would stick around when nothing was keeping her in Ooo, esp if she was being eagerly awaited by friends on the Archipelago. Cuz she's dense, that gum doesn't have a very high EQ. They've got some shit to work out about her "overprotective southern dad" flavored distaste about Fern cuz it branches off of him being a demon, but Marcy is a demon, obviously. Gotta unpack that finely aged "monster trash" resentment sneaking out in ch3:

Finn watches PB and Fern talk with a tight frown.

“So,” Marceline hovers into his line of sight with high eyebrows, “date night?” She snaps her tongue against the ‘t’s. “He works.” Finn uncrosses his arms and walks off to put more dishes away. “You’re not denying it.” She follows after him like a balloon tied to his wrist. “He’s my boyfriend, he’s been my boyfriend,” Finn bends down to pick up the Gumbald goblet and chuck it back into the washtub, “thought she woulda spilled that to you.” “Eeeeh— she did, but I didn’t believe her. ‘Finn is kissing up on a demon with his face’? Not something I saw ticking off of life’s bingo card.” His shoulders set, jaw tensing. “Crude way to put it,” he mumbles from the corner of his mouth. “We’re not exactly the easiest people to get cuffed to.” She crosses her arms defensively. “You have issues with the demon stuff yet?” “Aside from the scars? Not really. Why,” he wipes a dish off and looks up at her hanging close to the ceiling, “what do I have to look forward to?” “Apathy, detached maliciousness, extreme mood swings, shrewd attitude,” she lists on her fingers. “No conscience. You know, antisocial jazz. We get obsessed and jealous, it can be mega annoying for the person we're stuck on. You sure you're braced for an eternity of all that?” Finn snorts and throws the towel down on the counter. “I dunno,” he shrugs and turns to lean against the oven, “the dude balances me out. He’s like a feral cat that wants attention but bites you if you try. It’s endearing.” Marceline’s arms droop. “Huh.” “What?” “Must be nice— for him, I mean.” Her eyes inch to Bonnibel, view long and wistfully somber. “T’not have to wear a mask. Feel like there’s nothing wrong with you.” Finn narrows his eyes up at her. “Does Bonnie make y—“ and then Fern potshots him. “Augh–!”

They arrive together to HW's for the boys' party, and Bonnie's been venting about her relatives to Marceline because she knows that:

Marcy leans back and cracks her fingers, rolling her shoulders as though it’s a chore to remember. “Her cousin, he’s one of Gumbald’s lackeys. ‘Not a threat, just annoying’— her words.” She taps her fingers against the table and swirls the straw around in her strawberry lemonade. “Bonnie made him so she could have a friend,” she quietly adds.

so they've probably reconciled somewhat by ch4. Frieda's hanging around and she and PB are so alike, Marceline's heightened demonic jealousy could be an interesting conflict to throw in. She's bonded to PB-- she's been bonded to PB for centuries-- but she's never had to deal with having a real "rival" (despite Frieda and Susan being the gross PDA couple) for PB's attention.

idk, it's all still disjointed word soup in my notes app at this point.

It's been a year and the final draft has been sent in to be bound, but what the hell, right? People like wlw angst.

So you see what I'm saying about having too many wips lmao. My brain jumps a lot.

[akindofmagictoo]

last line tag

i have a lot of old ones kicking around, but i also just wrote a bunch for my class (Secret Third WIP)

we shall count this as a tag from: @zmwrites @diphthongsfordays @talesofsorrowandofruin @memento-morri-writes

here is the new opening, still involving Nyx being a snarky teenager

Sundown marked approximately four hours that Nyx had been lying on the floor of a prison cell. Said floor was hardly comfortable and her head ached, and to add insult to injury, she hadn’t even had the chance to commit a crime first. The severe-looking Upperworlders who’d thrown her in here had said she’d been arrested for the attempted murder of their queen, but that was bullshit. She hadn’t been anywhere near the queen. But she was an Underworlder in the exact wrong place, and that was probably the real reason they’d arrested her. It was definitely the reason for the bruise under her eye and the scabbing cut on her lip. At least now it was nighttime, so it wasn’t blindingly bright anymore, which meant she could think.

tagging @ashen-crest @isherwoodj and anyone else who wants to play!

[fayes-fics]

Aflame

Pariing: Benedict Brigerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Sequel to Waking Up. Benedict turns the tables...

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, oral sex (m to f), vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, dirty talk, female orgasm.

Word Count: 2.1k

Author's Note: This picks up IMMEDIATELY from the last line of Waking Up. Please read that fic before you read this one! Dedicated to the wonderful @queen-of-the-misfit-toys and betaed by the fabulous @colettebronte. After sitting in my WIPs for 16 months, this fic finally worked itself out in my brain. Enjoy! <3

The warm glow of late summer out on a hillside near Aubrey Hall is no match for the words Benedict whispers hotly into your ear.

“After all, you’ll need all that food after I’m done keeping you up all night.” 

You can’t help the noise that escapes your lips from that line, so turned on from pleasuring him that you’re actually vibrating with need, your thighs rubbing together subconsciously.

“Ben, I… fuck… I want you so much I’m shaking,” you stumble out quietly.

Suddenly, you are on your back, him surging over you. He pins your wrists to the picnic blanket and holds you there.

“Tell me everything,” his voice is desperate, “I want to hear it. Tell me how much you want me.”

“I….” You’ve lost the ability to speak under the intensity of his gaze. Your body is thrumming, but your mind is blank. “I don’t have the words. I can’t think straight. I just need you so much,” you admit, almost ashamed. “I’ve never been this turned on in my life.”

“Show me,” he urges, breathing heavily, releasing your arms but still hovering over you.

You scramble to open your jeans, your knuckles brushing his thighs as you fight your clothing. You push them down your hips, shuffling around under him.

“Fucking hell,” he exhales as he sits up slightly.

His gaze is trained between your legs; you can feel your light blue underwear soaked through. He rears up and tugs your jeans off your shins in one swift, rough motion. Then he collapses onto you, his face buried right into your cotton knickers.

“You smell amazing,” he breathes and suckles the material; the heat of his mouth through the thin layer makes you gasp loudly, sending shockwaves all over your body. “You taste it, too.”

“I need to come. Please, please help me…”

He doesn’t say anything to your mindless plea; he just pulls your underwear aside, questing his tongue through your folds. You shout a curse, and your whole upper body rises at the sudden rush of sensation. A large hand lands between your clothed breasts and pushes you back down, firm but not rough, a hold that grounds you. 

Then he lashes against your clit.

“Ben, oh my fucking god!” You exclaim, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the blanket.

“I have this overwhelming need to make you scream,” he rumbles, muffled into your flesh before turning his head and lightly biting the meat of your inner thigh. 

“Please…” you stutter, staring down at him, still slightly shocked this is happening.

He wears a secret, crooked smile as he pulls your underwear down your legs, disposing of them over his shoulder without paying heed to where they land. 

For some reason, the idea that your best friend would be this person never occurred to you. But as his hands band behind the back of your knees and force your legs wide apart, you are floored by how raw this is. In idle moments when you’d thought about it in the past, you’d always figured he would be one of those sweet, perhaps timid lovers, but he’s not. It’s much better than that—an edginess that has metallic want blooming in your mouth.

“Look at me,” he demands, and you do, gazing down your body to his handsome face framed by your thighs dappled in the shade of the mighty oak. 

You watch him sink between your legs again, and you hold his gaze as he swipes his tongue all the way from your pussy to your clit, lingering there, rolling around, sealing his mouth around the whole area. You curse again, your gaze locked onto his eyes. Fiery and challenging, with endless blown pupils. You are certain yours are the same, so achingly aroused.

The initial frantic pace slows to something more languid, more a match to the lazy midsummer late afternoon as he slowly maps your landscape, his movements slow and deliberate as he hums his approval.

“Tell me exactly what you want,” he pulls away an inch just to speak, and you feel his breath on your labia. “Grab my head, direct me. I want to learn exactly what you need.” 

When you hesitate, he reaches for your hand and places it on the back of his head, luscious, thick, short chestnut waves there, his scalp warm under your fingertips.

“Just keep doing what you are doing,” you reply, perhaps a touch evasive, slightly embarrassed to talk in detail, tugging lightly on the strands of his hair.

“Don't be shy,” he entices, his voice resonant as he licks a delicate circle around your labia. “If you tell me, I will do it.”

That beguiling offer makes your stomach flutter. 

“I… I like lots of suction,” you remark quietly, almost hesitant to state what you truly want.

“Where?” he goads, and you know he knows; it seems he just wants you to talk explicitly.

“I like lots of suction on my clit,” you elaborate, screwing your eyes shut self-consciously. 

You moan loudly as he does just that—seals his hot, wet mouth over your clit hood and pulls it into his mouth, making all your nerve endings fire.

“God, yes, like that,” you rush out, as he gets more insistent, your eyes flying open and staring up into the tree branches. “Oh fuck, flick with your tongue too, please, please…” 

He does precisely what you want, flicking your swelling nub with an enthusiasm no one has taken with you before. You moan his name, undulating under him, that hand snaking back up to your sternum, holding you down in a way that just makes you want to squirm more. He is able to read you like a book—the transmutation of close friendship and the knowledge it provides a thrilling, potent weapon.

“Fuckkkk…..��� the word is a prolonged exhale.

There is a triumphant chuckle, and he surges higher, pushing your legs up so your knees bend deeply, placing your feet on his shoulders, really diving into your body. You can feel your clit engorged now, your pussy dripping onto the ticklish graze of nascent afternoon stubble on his chin. He feasts on you, tugging your labia gently with his teeth, then going back up to your clit and sucking so hard it has you keening, an urge to clamp your thighs close, but he holds you too open, a ripple of denied movement heightening your desire. But, just as you feel yourself beginning to truly spiral, he backs off, kissing around your inner thighs in a soft tease that makes you whine.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he purrs.

Shuffling lower, he begins to lap gently at your leaking pussy, the bridge of his nose pressing into your pulsing clit. The change of pace makes your skin feel like it's shimmering like the hazy horizon. Unable to keep your eyes open anymore, your head falls flat on the picnic blanket, your lids fluttering closed. You whine his name, fingers twirling into the strands under your hand, and again, he laughs richly, the feel of it vibrating up your walls where he licks shallowly into you unhurriedly.

“I need you to fuck me….” falls from your lips unbidden, your voice breathy, wanton.

“I will; I promise you,” he answers huskily, the hand wrapped around your hip stretching out to pet the patch of hair at the apex of your thighs, a motion that is soothing over your pubic bone. “But first, I need you to come for me….”

His tongue licks under the hood of your clit, and suddenly, a bolt of fire zips up your spine, making you gasp loudly. And then you cry out as he stabs it again, the tip like a muscled spear. The grip on your hip releases, but you yell a curse as he plunges two fingertips into your pussy, an almost indecent wet noise as he does so, a stream trickling down between your cheeks as he starts to push deeper, his tongue now a rolling wave on your nub, syncopated with his finger strokes.

“God, I love how soaked you are…” he groans, pulling up a fraction to glance at your face, contorted with pleasure in a way you are sure looks ridiculous. “Fuck, you are so beautiful like this….” he adds as if intuiting your momentary insecurity and disputing it.

All the while, he is rocking those fingers far into you, the swell of his knuckles pressing into your walls in a way that has your pussy contract around him reflexively. He growls at the constriction, holding still for a moment and burying his nose into your folds.

“I could do this forever….” he asserts, his voice like velvet; the words felt as much as heard.

“I need that…” you sigh shudderingly, nails flexing on his head. 

The drowsy intoxication of the summer’s day and the earlier Pimms seems to be loosening both of your tongues and lends an ethereal quality. You look down at him, scarcely believing the lushness of the experience and are taken aback by the unbridled passion in his stare, entranced by the glaze on his face from your arousal. 

Something wordless passes between you, a mutual understanding that things will never be the same in your friendship, but both excited for it. That you can invoke this in each other, that he can make you as untamed as you made him. An infinite loop of possible pleasures laid out before you, that you both cannot wait to explore.

“Ben, I….” you begin, mouth feeling cotton dry from your ragged breaths.

He hushes you, nodding, acknowledging what you need without you having to trip over more words. His fingers buried inside you, stroking slowly, almost a comforting gesture, a leisurely pace that has you simmering. A featherlight brush of his luscious lower lip over your clit, not enough sensation to do anything but keep you plateaued in a state of almost mindless need, yearning for release while revelling in the sustained tease.

A light breeze rustles through the thick tree above and raises tiny goosebumps over your thighs, making your nipples pucker inside your bra; hair-trigger reactions to any stimuli in this elevated state. A sudden realisation your top half is still fully clothed, much as he was earlier. Somehow, it feels more illicit, an aspect to explore later, seeing each other fully naked.

“Kiss me, please…” the appeal sounding needy to your own ears.

But there is a shift in the atmosphere as he rears up and captures your lips with his, your scent and taste strong on his face and in his mouth. Something about it flipping the switch again towards primal, your fingernails raking down the back of his t-shirt, the sturdy rope of muscle underneath a solid mass to dig into as his tongue lathes yours, little delicious noises in the back of his throat.

His fingers are pumping into you now as he greedily swallows your moans, his thumb flicking mercilessly on your sensitive clit. He breaks the kiss to stare into your eyes, so close up, so intense, but impossible to look away from.

“You are so close…” he gusts, wringing obscene noises from you, his breath hot and botanic from the cocktail.

You can only nod and grasp onto his torso tighter, begging him not to stop, mouth slack, panting with each other. He is not gentle with you, taking you somewhere at once both utterly carnal and wholly transcendent—circling that wondrous abyss now.

He senses you are teetering on the edge. With a guttural groan, he dives back down between your legs, you screaming to the fading blue sky as he tugs your thrumming clit between his lips and flicks his tongue over it, again strong hands holding you down, the cotton blanket abrading your shoulder blades as you writhe, your body a live wire. Your pussy convulses forcefully, clenching around his fingers, attempting to push them out, gushing onto his face as he moans approvingly. Aflame as the illusory cord holding your whole body taunt snaps, a pulse of euphoria crashing over and blotting out everything.

The first thing you hear again is beautiful birdsong, and then you feel the warmth of his lips, soft words being hummed into your lower belly as you come back around, your top rucked up over your ribs.

“Magnificient,” he attests as he crawls over you. But you are utterly unable to speak, hoping your eyes convey your gratitude and utter bliss, the late afternoon sun almost blinding as it slips towards the hillside opposite.

Wordlessly, you pull him down into a kiss, this time slow, sensual, licking yourself from his lips. Sucking on his cupid’s bow until he rolls his hips on instinct, the rough seam of his jeans catching on your swollen bare clit and making you gasp. There is a nascent, solid mass there that has your need roaring back to life, silently impressed at his refractory period, a little glow behind your ribs that you have inspired that in him.

“I want to ride you staring into the sunset…” you confess, breathless again.

His responding noise is like poetry.

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kmc1989 @desert-fern @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @sya-skies

[girlwithadragonheart]

3 ~ King of Wands, Upright

Vi Et Animo (With Heart and Soul)

Vander x Fem!Reader

Summary: Do your legs ever get tired running from your past?

Word Count: 2.7k

Warnings: Heavy allusions to SA!!!(Nightmare). Descriptions of blood, a fight, hurt/comfort-ish, Powder is my little angel baby

A/N: Haha *hits the whip*

Part 2 Masterlist Part 4(wip)

Your heart pounded as you sprinted through narrow corridors, barely understanding the layout of your surroundings as you ran. It didn’t matter. He was right behind you, and all you had to do was get away. Was there an exit? You couldn’t tell. Everything was so bloody dark, and you could barely feel your feet slapping against the pavement. 

Dark streets, quiet alleys, low lamp lights. Quick, heavy breaths as you fought for control you could never have. 

Bruises on your wrists. Your hips. Your thighs…

No, please don’t go there. Not again.

It didn’t matter how hard you fought. It never did.

Your fists landed weakly against his chest. He didn’t even flinch as your skirts were hoisted up. Your face scraped the brick of a nearby building as he pushed your front half down.

The clink of a belt buckle. A bruising grip.

You looked at the diamond set in gold on your finger, thinking how the light refracted reminded you of the stars. Your beloved constellations. You floated through the night sky, the shining light of the stars tickling your fingers as you passed them by.

A sharp pain pulled you down out of your precious sky, plunging you into dark waters. All noise was muffled, and if you didn’t move, you almost felt you were floating. Peacefully suspended beneath the tumultuous sea.

Too bad it was time to come up for air.

You gasped and sputtered. Your skin felt sticky and warm. A faint metallic taste rested on your lips as you spat, copper filling your mouth. 

When you opened your eyes, you drowned in the sea of blood.

—------------------------

Your heart raced as you sat up quickly, hand clutching your chest. Your gaze darted around the now-familiar room, tucked away in a dark corner of the bar. The couch was soft and plush beneath you. A blanket covered your form that you didn’t remember having.

You had given Vander his bed back after that first night, opting for this spot. The four of you had settled into a somewhat cozy routine, eating breakfast together at the bar before setting up for opening. You felt a bit out of it, just going through the motions without giving them much thought. Thank the gods for a routine, right?

You heard a snide comment under Vi’s breath as you pulled chairs down off of tables. “Bet she’s never lifted anything heavier than a teacup.”

The comment registered too late for you to respond.

Vi scoffed, leading Powder out of the bar with a hand on her upper back. Vander glanced at the two of them, “Don’t do anything stupid!” He called after them.

“You know we will!” Vi yelled over her shoulder.

He shook his head fondly as he wiped down the bar. “Headstrong, that one. Takes after her mother.”

You look over at him curiously, doing your best to be engaged. He had never spoken of the girls’ mother, and while Powder called him “dad”, Vi called him Vander, so you assumed he had taken them in. That didn’t make them any less his girls, though.

“Who was she?” You asked carefully.

Vander looked up at you and sighed heavily. “Felicia,” he started. “She worked in the mines with me and my brother. She was fiercely protective and loyal, and she always gave her all, no matter the circumstance,” he told you. “She died with her husband, Connel, when we led the uprising.” A forlorn expression rested on his face as he finished, and your heart clenched for him.

“What about your brother?” You asked, almost afraid of the answer. Still, it was easier to ask questions than to answer them yourself. You’d divert the attention away from yourself as long as it took for you to be safe.

“Our opinions on how to achieve peace diverged once Felicia wasn’t there to keep us on track. He wanted to fight violence with violence and get revenge on Topside for what they’ve done to us. Showing them that we’re exactly what they think we are. No offense,” he added quickly.

“None taken. I’m one of you now, remember?” You flashed a wry grin of pearly whites, and he couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head.

“Anyway. We got into it pretty bad, and I…” he looked down at his hands. “I almost killed him,” he admitted quietly, the sound almost getting choked in his throat. “That’s when I hung my gauntlets up.”

You moved over to the bar, taking one of his hands, having to cradle it between both of yours. You traced over the lines softly, humming. “Interesting…” His hand was covered in little faded scars, some rougher and some newer than others. There were calluses that looked to be fading slowly with time. This was easy for you. Familiar and comforting.

“What?” He questioned.

“Your heart line is all broken up,” you told him, rubbing your thumb over the crease in his palm. “You’ve suffered a lot, and there’s more to suffer, but you’re strong and won’t let it break you.” You spoke softly, glancing up at him. “And you see how it ends here?” Your finger traces it from his pinky to his ring finger. “You fall in love easily. And the curve shows you’ve got a good handle on expressing your emotions.”

You felt his eyes on you, studying you intently. “You can see all of that in a line?” He questioned.

You shrugged. “One of my many talents.” You ran your fingers over his palm, pointing out all the lines on his hand. “This is your heart line, obviously” you explained, your thumb running over the one you just read. “This is your head line,” your finger dragged over the line across the middle of his palm. “This is your life line.” Again over the line curved around his thumb. “And this…” You take his hand, gently molding it to show the line running down the center, “is your fate line. Not everyone has this one. They all show different things.”

Vander watched you carefully, and you almost missed the slight tremble of his hand. Someone banged on the door, and you pulled away quickly. “Another time, Peach,” he told you with a small smile. “Flip the lights?” He asked, and you nodded, moving to unlock the door and turning the signs on.

The man who had been waiting strutted in, with a smile, moving to the bar. “What does a guy gotta do to get a drink around here?”

“Benzo, my man!” Vander yelled, pulling out the tumbler and making him a drink.

“I’d heard you were taking in more strays, Vander,” he said, looking over at you with an appraising gaze.

“You’re one to talk you old bastard,” Vander playfully punched his arm, setting the drink heavily in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah. Who’s the lass?” He asked.

“You hear about the Piltie stuck on our streets?” Vander wondered, eyes darting over to you and you averted your gaze, moving to don your apron for the day.

“No shit,” Benzo said, glancing over at you again as you picked up your tray. “Suppose it explains why the Lanes have been up in arms about this place lately,” he observed. “You’re a little attention magnet, girl.”

“Must be my dashing good looks,” you grinned with a wink, and you swore the man almost cracked an unwilling smile.

“Only when that ego ain’t blocking ‘em.”

Vander watched the exchange with amusement. “See, she’s fitting in right well already.” He rubbed a hand over the scruff of his beard thoughtfully. Benzo grumbled into his mug, and Vander just grinned. 

“Besides, I’m stuck here like the rest of you, might as well get used to seeing me, sweetheart,” you pulled a wry grin, leaning on the bar. 

-----------------------------

The day was slow. Agonizingly so. You needed the rush of the job, the distraction. If you weren’t serving someone, you were cleaning tables or sweeping the floor. If Vander noticed your distraction, he didn’t comment on it. 

You were grateful when he asked you to go and check the stock downstairs. It offered something for you to really think about. Unfortunately, you were remarkably quick and finished before you really started. 

You reported back to Vander, moving to clear off a couple tables that patrons had left before moving to wash mugs.

“You alright, lass? You seem… distracted,” Vander asked you quietly over his shoulder.

You blinked, looking over at him before answering after a beat of silence that stretched just a bit too long. “Yeah. Just a lot on my mind is all. Don’t worry about it,” you gave him your best reassuring smile before turning back to your dishes and finishing up the washing.

The crowd picked up as the night went on, and you found yourself with more orders than you could count on your hand that wasn’t carrying drinks. You had started to learn some of the regulars’ names over the past week that you’d been working. You offered them welcoming smiles as you brought their usual drinks.

You didn’t even notice the girls had come back until one of the patrons started yelling—drunk and belligerent. He had Powder’s wrist in an iron-clad grip, and she was visibly shaking, wide blue eyes filled with unshed tears. The front of the man’s shirt and his pants were soaked. A spilled drink.

“Look what you did, you fucking brat!” He swore, getting down into her face.

“I didn’t mean to, I- I’m sorry!” Powder struggled.

You were moving before you even knew it. Your hand clamped down around the man’s wrist, anger hot in your chest. “Let her go,” You demanded, voice calm despite the raging storm within.

You stared at him, unblinking. He looked up at you, ready to throw another curse or insult or perhaps strike you, but whatever he saw in his eyes made him think twice. 

He scoffed. “Tch. Not worth the effort.” He released Powder from his grasp, and she went running downstairs. “Clean up this fucking mess.” He ordered you.

“I’m sure you’re capable enough to clean up your drink from your clothes,” you spat, already walking away from him. When you looked at Vander, he was fuming, rolling his sleeves up past his elbows. 

You discarded your apron, tossing it on the bar before quickly descending the basement stairs. When you got down there, you saw Powder curled up in a corner, rocking back and forth as she cried, her knees pulled to her chest. 

Your heart clenched, your anger practically dissipating as you took in her state. You made sure your steps were audible as you walked over and sat on one of the couches across from her. 

She held herself tighter as you approached, and you sighed, noticing her sniffles quiet, forever trying to be strong like her sister. However, holding in your feelings didn’t make you stronger, it only made you volatile.

“C’mere, love,” you said softly, your voice gentle and beckoning.

She practically darted into your embrace, curled up on your lap as she clutched at your clothes desperately. Your arms encircled her easily, gently rubbing her back as she cried. Your other hand carded through her hair, gently working out any knots. 

“That was scary, yeah?” You asked gently. “Breathe for me, okay? In… Out… In… Out…” You breathed deeply, letting her rise with your chest. You felt her trying to match your breathing. “There you go. It’s alright. No bastard will ever get away with putting their hands on you while your dad and I are around. I know the Lanes aren’t safe, but just remember if they knock you down, you get back up again, okay?”

“Okay,” she said quietly, yet determined.

You heard a crash from upstairs, and you gently cover Powder’s ear that isn’t pressed against your chest. You would shield her from the violence; While you could. You hummed softly; the tune your mother used to sing for you. It helped you sometimes to feel small and warm in her embrace. Before the world got dark and scary. 

“Don’t touch my daughter!” Vander bellowed upstairs. More than a small part of you was glad he was giving that man what he deserved. And another, bigger part of you felt warm at his protectiveness. You ignored both of them, focusing solely on Powder.

You sat with her, playing with her hair and humming until she was fast asleep against your chest. Something in you warmed that she felt safe enough with you to let her guard down, despite the hardships she had faced. Losing both parents… You didn’t even want to think about how awful that must’ve been for her.

Protective, innovative, inspiring, magnetic.

The King of Wands card symbolizes a natural born leader. Someone who knows what they want and knows what to do to get it. The King is often seen as a light in the darkness to those who need it, and provides protection for those who cannot protect themselves.

Eventually, the chatter from upstairs died down, and you heard the telltale cut of electricity from up top. You never realized how much noise it made until it was gone. Vander’s heavy steps sounded on the stairs. He saw you gently laying Powder down on the couch and pulling a blanket over her.

Your hand passed gently over her hair with a small smile on your face. You turned to look at Vander, eyes going wide as you saw the blood dripping from his nose. You sighed, shaking your head as you headed past him and back upstairs to give him a minute with his little girl.

When he came back up, you had already gotten the First Aid kit out on the bar and raised a brow, looking at the bar stool closest to you. Vander moved to the bar stool with a sigh, but you swore there was the hint of a smile on his face.

“I hope you at least gave that bastard what he deserved,” you said as you poured disinfectant on a soft towel, stepping between his legs to carefully pat the split skin on his brow.

“My customers know my rules. Sometimes they just need reminding,” he huffed, wincing a bit as the alcohol set into his wounds.

“Just… be careful,” you said softly. 

He pinched your hip lightly, “You’re not worried about me now, are you Princess?”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “Because that would be entirely out of character, would it?”

He shrugged, “Can’t say I know your character well beneath all the grime I found you in.”

You swatted his chest, and he chuckled. “Cheeky,” you said. “I just would hate to have your job if something happened to you.”

“You would manage,” he told you.

You huffed a humorless laugh. “I hardly know half the drinks you mix.” You felt his hand rest on your hip, almost covering the entire surface with his warmth. An almost comfortable silence fell between you as you cleaned his bloodied nose, cradling his jaw with your other hand. “Let me see your hands,” you told him.

He sighed, bringing them between you for your inspection. A couple of split knuckles, but you knew the majority of the blood on his fists wasn’t his. You cleaned them up silently, gently passing your thumb over each after you absolved it of his violence.

“You took care of Powder,” he said quietly, as though afraid to break the fragile silence between you.

“She needed it,” you replied just as softly.

He studied you carefully. “It was the most alert I’ve seen you today.” He didn’t say what he was thinking. What you both knew. Not everyone would’ve done the same.

You sucked in a breath, avoiding his gaze as you started packing up the first aid kit. “I’m sorry, I’ve been distracted.”

He was silent for a moment. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Princess?” He asked gently. It was an opportunity to be listened to. To be heard. 

You worried your bottom lip between your teeth. “Just a bad dream. It’ll pass,” you told him, putting the kit away. “I need some sleep. Good night, Vander.”

“Good night, Peach,” he said as you retreated back into your corner of the bar. You were restless as you tried to sleep, wrapping up tight in your borrowed blanket.

A/N: Dude I locked tf in and wrote almost this whole thing in one night after writing a couple paragraphs the whole week.

Let me know if you want to be on the tag list! Love you guys<3

Tag List: @growls-like-thunder @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @hwalovs @loserreinawriter

[bxllydxnnabxtch]

Eternally Elusive

Rhysand x Reader

❀​🇲​​🇦​​🇸​​🇹​​🇪​​🇷​​🇱​​🇮​​🇸​​🇹​❀

Summary: A pestering passerby drags up an unexpected guest that almost blows your cover.

Read pt. 7 - HERE (wip)

Wanna go back?

Warnings: Harassment, injury.

In your pain riddled haste, you hadn’t realized how worked up you had made Azriel’s shadow. It seemed to be fretting at any slip up in fear of you damaging your already broken wing, it’s movement jagged and sharp as it circled you. But alas, you paid it no heed- couldn’t as you stumbled your way over the border and onto Dawn Court soil in the most pain you’ve been in since you’d left your homeland. The feeling buzzed in your head, and you just knew that you’d be in pain for months just waiting for this to heal up, but that’s only if you get the proper care for it, which you were certainly not.

Even being courts apart, Rhys still seemed to find a way to make your life difficult.

You wondered idly if he knew how badly his slip up had fucked you over as you splinted your injury, enchanting the wooden block to stay in place with a wave of your hand. Your wing still throbbed, the pain thrumming through you like a steady stream. It was the slightest bit more bearable with the splint in place, the appendage no longer visibly deformed, and it put you at ease to see it no longer sticking at an odd angle.

The glamour you held over yourself swallowed you like a comforting blanket, the weight of it putting you at ease as you looked out on the bustling streets of the Dawn Court. The last thing you needed right now was someone noticing who you were, the whispers would no doubt make their way back to the inner circle and you didn’t need another guest appearance as of right now. You dragged a hand down your face, rolling your shoulders in an attempt to ease the tension that had built up along your trek into town.

A brush along your wing had you jumping and scrambling to recoil away from the touch. Your head whipped around, swiveling frantically in search of the source. Your eyes landed on a short, brunette fae. His eyes were a piercing gold, shimmering in the setting sun. You’d almost say they were beautiful if they hadn’t been holding a tinge of disgust, staring at you as if he was floored by your very presence. Azriel’s shadow stilled when you locked eyes with him, the darkness settling at your side.

It's slight coolness as it brushed against you offered you some solace from your peaked anxiety as you stared at the fae. “An Illyrian?” He scoffed, looking down on your form perched on a wooden bench. His upper lip curled into a scowl as his eyes narrowed. “You shouldn’t be here.” He sneered. Your eyes darted around, a few people nearby eyed you both, a few previous strollers slowing down to watch the interaction. Your pulse spiked, and the fae seemed to pick up on it as he huffed a snort. “Are you a spy? Come to feed information back to your whore of a High Lord?”

The comment hit you like a brick to the face, the insult causing a slice of hurt to bloom in your chest despite your current status with said male. Your features downturned, a kaleidoscope of memories flooding into you from Under the Mountain- both yours and his. You didn’t have time to fully react to anything the fae had said- to what your body had forced you to remember.

A sharp, commanding voice sounded from behind the Dawn Court native, and he bristled at the sound, a visible tremor running through him. “Are we now in the business of disturbing travelers?”

You watched as the golden eyed fae slowly turned around, almost as if he were dreading what he would see. He moved to the side, and your eyes landed on a black haired woman, the girl coated in glittering armor from head to toe. The Dawn Court insignia sat proud on her chest plate, her dark hair sprawling well past the emblem and stopping just before her waist. She held the same shimmering golden eyes as the male- but these were sharper somehow, and they seemed to swirl with power. White wings stood proud behind her, so big that the ivory feathers brushed the ground where she stood.

A Peregryn, you realized.

A member of the elite aerial legion the Dawn Court proudly harbored. You were stunned, as were most passerby at her presence, only attracting more attention to your already uncomfortable situation. Her eyes landed on you, and they widened slightly in recognition.

It dawned on you in that second, and you stiffened into an immovable force.

Glamour didn’t work on Peregryns.

You stared at each other wide eyed, a silent acknowledgement of what was taking place. A runaway monarch- and a soldier of another court. She had all the power here- a cruel switch that was bound to be flipped at some point; you just didn’t expect it to be so soon. She could report this back to Thesan, have you sent back without so much as a thought. Azriels shadow circled you, and you waited with bated breath to see what she’d do.

She blinked. Once. Twice.

Her eyes fell back onto the brown-haired male still staring at her in thinly veiled horror. “Get moving.” She said coldly, jerking her head in the direction of another bustling street. The male sputtered for a second, eyes darting back to you before stuttering out a “yes, ma’am.” You watched him disappear into the crowd of people making their way down the busy street, the few people that had stopped to watch the interaction dispersing with him.

Your eyes fell back on the woman, the Peregryn now making her way towards you as if she were on a mission. The look in her eyes had you leaping to your feet, hopping off the bench as if the wooden structure had scorched you through your clothes. You got up in time to meet her face to face, her golden armor glinting in the setting sun.

You swallowed thickly, your pulse racing as you locked eyes. Her face seemed to hold a certain kind of awe you’d compare to a child receiving a new toy. Her eyes slipped over to your injured wing, the glance lingering for a second longer than you’d anticipated before it flickered back to your face. The fae bristled, a realization seeming to dawn on her as she floundered. “M-my Lady.” Her legs bent to steep into a kneel, and your heart rate spiked so violently the Peregryn flinched, your arm shooting out to stop her from completing her bow. Your nails dug into her armor, creating a soft creaking noise as your voice fought its way out of you. Commanding. Desperate. Almost a plea as you spoke.

“Don’t.” You said lowly, eyes darting around as she slowly eased out of her half completed kneel. She managed to take in your frantic movements in her confused state, eyes searching the streets in hopes no one had saw what she had just attempted to do. A fae with light brown hair seemed to eye you as she walked by, and that was all it took to have you hauling the Peregryn into a nearby ally.

“Are you trying to get me in shit!?” You hissed, casting a glance to the street you were just standing in, the shadows of the ally helping you to remain hidden. “No- no, my lad-“ You cut her off. “Don’t call me that, I’m not Your Lady.” You let go of her armor, confusion staining the woman’s face, only becoming more saturated with each passing second. “I may serve the Dawn Court, but I was born of the Night, you are as much My Lady as Thesan is My Lord.” Your eyes darted to her dark sprawling locks, and it clicked for you. She may have been a Peregryn, that much was obvious, but she held prominent features of the Night Court.

It was possible, much like your own lineage. A union between a Peregryn and a member of the Night Court. You saw it. A reflection of yourself stared back, the pride that swirled in her eyes when she talked about her heritage. You remember being like that, once. So proud of being from both the Winter, and the Night Court.

It was long gone though, that pride.

One of those homes was ripped away from you.

You hope she doesn’t suffer the same fate.

“I’m glamoured right now.” You said, tone much softer. A crease formed between her brows, face falling. “Oh.” She paused, looking you over before she spoke again. “I thought you were here for the Fall Solstice.”

That’s right. The Solstice.

Where the three Solar Courts came together in celebration. Where the day and night fall together in equal harmony, each as long as the other. You had completely forgotten in your haste to make it back to Winter. Your mouth fell open, eyebrows raising as an expression of surprise overtook your features. It was clear Rhys wouldn’t be attending any festivals after Under the Mountain, and now with you missing, you’d be surprised if he left the house. Especially with… her to attend to.

“I’m guessing that’s a no?” She asked. Your eyes fell back on her. She really didn’t know? Did Rhys not alert the other Courts to your disappearance? Or is it just so early he didn’t have a chance yet? You swallowed nervously, wringing your hands together anxiously. “Well, since you’re in town you’re still welcome to come.” The Peregryn said softly, sensing your unease. “Pardon my bluntness, but you don’t look to be feeling too well, you should get some rest. I should probably get back to my post regardless.”

You realized just how long you’d been standing in the ally, and you nodded your head in acknowledgement. She inclined her head slightly, almost a bow but casual enough to be brushed off. “It was an honor.” She said sincerely, turning to make her way out of the overhang. You watched her exit the ally, ivory wings brushing the ground as they followed behind her.

Hauling yourself up the stairs of the inn, you used the wall to support most of your weight. Azriels shadow was swirling around you, fretting as it always did when you were in a less than favorable state. The groan you let out when you reached the top was almost guttural, and you had to muster up the very last bit of your energy reserves to scuffle the last bit to your room.

You fiddled around with the key, leaning your forehead against the door and attempted not to wince as your arm knocked into your wing. Getting the key into the lock was an accomplishment in itself, and you pushed the door open, ready to clean yourself up and have a short nap. The door swung open, and you threw the key onto the dresser on your right side, swinging the door closed behind you.

The door swung closed, revealing the bed and a battered Azriel sitting atop it.

[papathe5th]

Vampetua x f!Reader x Dracopia

The following WIP has gotten out of my control, stretching for more paragraphs than I had initially planned.

Still, seeing as it’s the only original work I have to offer on Skeletá Eve, I decided to post what I have written so far.

The twins are at each other's throats when they are not on either side of yours.

From the outside, it appeared as if they needed someone to stand between them lest they kill each other, leaving The United Clergy of Ghost without a Frater Imperator and a Papa.

From where you were standing, on the vintage couch in Frater's new office, they looked like two boys vying for the attention of the entire world, stubbornly refusing to share it with one another.

“You set me up for failure,” Papa V Perpetua snarled, showing his teeth.

He never snarled at you. And, when he would flash you his fangs, he sharpened them with his tongue, licking them clean of your blood.

“Your face on the promotional material wouldn’t have sold a single ticket,” Frater Imperator said under his breath, not even sparing his brother a glance. “Thought you knew this and that’s why you…” He interrupts himself, covering the upper half of his face with both hands. “You know.”

“Bastardo,” Papa blurted out, barely holding himself back. His hands were twitching in his black leather gloves and his eye were burning in the socket of his half-mask skull.

From where you were standing, Frater seemed like he was in the mood for a fight. “I know you are, but what am I?”

“Papa,” you called to him, trying to be calm, but your voice was already cracking. “The reviews for the first leg of the Skeletour are overwhelmingly positive. Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Sister.” What you could see of his face was now relaxed, his lips resting atop each other again in a straight black line. “At least one of us is paying attention to what our congregation wants.”

“They want to have their taints tickled and watch your ass wobble.” Frater Imperator huffed.

“Of course,” you bowed your head slightly, a small smile spreading across your face. “Papa took your advice and it paid off.”

“Of course,” he nodded, standing up a little straighter.

“Then we are in agreement,” you spoke up before either of them could think of an another insult to hurl at the other.

Papa crossed his arms over his chest, defensive of his own pride. “Are we?”

“Ghost is more popular than ever. You two make the best team,” you beamed, smiling brightly, pushing down the nervousness deep into your belly.

It was your third time mediating them. And, from where you were sitting on the couch, still fully clothed, it looked like it was the first time you didn’t have to use your body and blood to do it.

They looked at each other, though they were facing you, and finally - finally! - silently declared peace. For the rest of the night, at least.

“You’re…not wrong, Sister,” Frater conceded, stepping closer to where you were seated. With his eyes still on his twin, who was mirroring him in motion, he speaks to you. “We do make a good team.”

“The best team,” Papa corrects him. “She said the best, fratello.”

“I know, fratello,” he sighs, surrendering every fighting urge and focusing solely on you.

They were once again in agreement, as Papa V Perpetua uncrossed his arms and also looked over to you.

You were wearing your habit, the same one you did when you got pulled into the office the first time and ordered to be their third neutral party, the wall that would keep the two sides going to war.

Tonight, you had on the same outerwear, but what you were hiding underneath was what they would rather you wore when summoned.

Frater Imperator had sent you a lace negligee wrapped in a satin bow while Papa V Perpetua gifted you a black box of lingerie fitted with leather fastenings. And you decided that, as their mediator, you would be wearing both tonight.

Tonight, they were looking down on you with big, blown-out, famished eyes, like two wolves when stumbling upon a wounded lamb. And you were as nervous as you were excited.

“Sister.”

They synchronised, stretching a hand out for each one of yours, and it made you stand up as if springs sent you off the couch.

Either you would be excused for the night, or they needed to cover up the furniture with the already bloodied sheets lest they ruin the plush pillows.

It turned out there was a third option.

“Would you join us in my room?” They asked in unison, even squeezing your hand at the same time, stopping your heart from pumping blood to your legs for a beat.

The twins turned towards each other one more time, as perplexed about the proposition as you were.

“Your room?” They questioned each other.

Frater knitted his eyebrows together and curled his upper lip. “Your room? I have a king.”

Papa pursed his lips into a pout. “I thought you couldn’t fit a king.”

“Yes, well, your room can’t,” he confessed.

His twin mouthed “bastard,’ but settled his lips again as well as his exasperated expression. “Your room it is.”

“Excuse me?” You bring their attention back to your baffled state and big bulbous eyes. “What are you asking of me again?”

“Sister,” Papa pressed his lips against the back of your hand, sniffing your skin for a second. It was long enough for you to feel the night air as he sucked it into his nose and it blew past the saliva and face paint his mouth left behind. “Would you care to join us tonight?”

Frater brough your fingers to his mouth and kissed each of your knuckles, watching your own mouth as it whimpered. “For a drink?”

Your own legs couldn’t carry you to Frater Imperator's room. He and Papa V Perpetua had to offer you an arm of theirs for you to hold onto for dear life. And, from where you were standing in the doorway, they bowed on either side of it, welcoming you inside.

The bed was massive, a king size just as he promised. The sheets were a scarlet so deep it might as well have been a blood well. And you feel your legs hive under you again at the thought of your own pouring out onto the pillows tonight.

You were grateful to be invited to sit at the end of it. And they were more than happy to join you, Frater on your right and Papa on your left.

“There is pomegranate juice. And peppermint tea. Water, if you’d like.”

You turned to Frater, throat drenched: “No, thank you.” Thirsty as you were, his hunger was what you craved.

“Would you like a kiss?”

Your head snapped towards Papa, his black lips pulled away from his teeth in a grin. He was as hungry as his twin, and wasn’t hiding his primal needs behind politeness.

“Yes, please.”

They each placed a hand on your knee, over your habit, each one creeping up your thigh, and joining halfway. That was where that their fingers unfurled and grasped the flesh of your thigh through the fabric.

Papa’s other hand was at the back of your head, holding you still as he dived into your mouth. He leaves you no room to breathe, his tongue snaking into your mouth and his lips locking with yours. All of your air was wasted on whines he ate as they came up your throat. You were already full of him, and his fingers haven’t even reached your sex, slowly stroking your skin through your skirt.

And he only had time to tease your bottom lip with his teeth before his brother tore you away from his jaws.

A string of saliva still tattered you to his twin’s mouth when Frater Imperator snached you by the chin and dove in. While your moans had plenty of room to slip out of your mouth, he didn’t let you get used to the pressure of his fangs before sinking them into your plush bottom lip.

Papa was huffing and puffing against your hot cheek, scenting the copper spilling down your chin and onto Frater’s leather glove. “We promised to share.” He nuzzled you, a gentle gesture that made you stop struggling while his brother was suckling. “Fratello.”

It didn’t stop the sounds coming out of you and you suspected it wasn’t meant to.

“Here,” Frater spoke to him by blowing the words into your mouth. “You big baby.” Then, he offered him his blood-soaked glove-covered finger to suck on.

The sound of Papa moaning around the taste of you on his brother’s thumb beat against your eardrums, beat against your heart and squeezed your thighs together.

And that involuntary action cost you.

Frater Imperator hooked his arms under your knees and lifted you legs, while Papa V Perpetua pulled you up the bed and pressed you into the pillows. It all happened in the blink of your eyes, their own blowing up into dark pits in the meantime.

You’ve seen the night enter their eyes before. As you saw the stars sparkling in their white one, you were blinded. And you didn’t even catch them tearing at your threads, habit, robe, collar and headpiece tossed in the air and floating down to the floor.

READ THE COMPLETED FIC HERE: LINK