#HAS LOADS OF FANFICS

[the-lonelybarricade]

Queen of Thieves - Chapter 11

Summary: A fulfillment of this kinkmeme prompt. Or: A Canon AU where half fae, con-artist Feyre makes an ill placed bet.

We're back bitches!

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-

If Feyre was being forced to live with the High Lord, she could begrudge that at least her room was a dream.

After scouring it for every hidden sign of danger—learning every entrance, exit, and hiding place—she paused in the center to marvel at the room she'd be staying in for… eternity, quite possibly.

At least it was big. Her bed was enormous, laden with ivory pillows and blankets of such divine quality she thought if she buried herself in them, she might very well sleep for a century. It was framed by four posters, with a canopy draped above them she could pull for privacy. The size of the bed alone would be more living space than she'd been accustomed to while living in the tavern, but then there was the hearth with its surrounding fur rugs and settees and the connecting chamber to the bathing room, where everything was made of porcelain and marble and the bath was large enough for an entire family.

It was luxury to the highest degree. Befitting of an empress, not a prisoner—or "servant", if they wanted to dress up the reality of her bargain. But all of the silks and velvet and elegant golden trim couldn't disguise the markings on her arm, and what they signified.

You're mine now.

Feyre burned when she stared at those markings. Rhysand lied to her. Manipulated her for his own gain. She'd done the same to him, admittedly, so why did it sting so much that he returned the favor? And more importantly, what did he want from her badly enough to trap her in this bargain?

She paced the room endlessly trying to answer that question. Rhys didn't return to taunt her about it—he'd been more riled than she'd ever seen him, and she suspected he probably retreated to brood in some dark crevice. She imagined he'd spend the night ripping the wings off butterflies, or some equally vile pastime, and would return in the morning to further her torment.

But he left the room unlocked. She'd tested it the second he was gone. There was nothing preventing her from wandering the House of Wind to find where he was and demand answers. There also wasn't anything stopping her from trying another hand at the stairs—apart from the bargain that would force her to return at his beck and call.

Feyre considered trying, anyway, just to irritate him. But her aching body begged otherwise. She was too worn out to do much else than eat the meal that the twins delivered to her room at dusk, then crawl into the big, fluffy bed and sink into the pillows until she was ensconced in darkness.

-

The world was swirling again. Around and around and around, like she was back in the stairwell, climbing up or climbing down—it didn't matter because it would never end.

"Seriously?" Asked an indignant voice. "You threatened her sisters?"

"I—" A deep voice tumbled out, then paused. The swirling continued, red liquid in a glass, a cyclone of contemplation. "I fucked up."

Someone snorted out of a sight. A female. "Majorly."

"It was the only way I knew for certain she would agree."

"Well, congratulations. She agreed, and now she hates you."

"It's… It's better for her to be here and hate me then to be somewhere I can't reach her."

There was a moment of stretched silence. Then, "You sound like your Father."

The swirling stopped. The change in motion was so abrupt, the liquid collided against the edge of the glass, nearly spilling over.

"Don't say that to me, Mor."

"Then stop acting like him. And stop taking your anger out on Az, while you're at it."

She was answered by a dark, rumbling growl. Like a storm rolling over the sea. "He's the reason I'm in this mess. If he'd minded his business—"

"You'd be in exactly the same place you were two weeks ago."

The glass clattered as it was set against the table. Feyre stared and stared into its depths, as if willing some answer to float to the surface.

"How do I fix this?"

She felt a hand on her back, sucking her awareness into a body that was larger and firmer than her own. There was a heavy, unbearable tightness in her chest.

"You'll figure it out," the female said with a consoling pat. "You always do."

"Provided she doesn't kill me first."

Her laughter was light and tinkling. "I know where I'd place my money."

-

A knock at her door hurled Feyre awake the next morning.

It was her second time waking up in the House of Wind, and yet its unfamiliarity still startled her. She wondered why her bed was so soft, why fog was floating through the open doors to the balcony, and why any of her sisters would wake her up before dawn.

And then she remembered where she was, and who that voice belonged to, crooning on the other side of the door, "I hope you're indecent, Feyre darling."

"Go away," she grumbled.

Rhysand opened the door despite her protest. "Ah, there's that perky morning attitude I adore from you."

She groaned, refusing to lift her head from the pillow. "Why are you here so early, Rhysand?"

"Would you believe I missed you?"

"More like you got bored drafting all your evil plans and decided to put one of them into action."

Rhysand chuckled. "Close enough."

He came to her bedside, balancing a steaming cup that he held out to her in offer. Feyre was grateful she decided to wear one of the more modest nightgowns from the selection in her armoire.

"What's this?" she said, holding it to her nose to sniff.

Its scent was earthier than the tea he'd served her last night, though not unfamiliar.

"Contraceptive brew," he said, a little too casually. "You don't have to take it, of course. The chances are slim that anything took. And if it did… Well, you might be less trouble if you were off your feet for 10 months."

Feyre's finger tightened around the cup. The warmth scalded her fingers, but the sting distracted her from the impulse to fling the drink into his smug face. It would be a waste, considering she had no interest in bearing his children. She was already far too entangled with him for her liking.

An enthusiastic swallow would send along that message, she hoped. The heat seared her throat, too hot for drinking, but she didn't dare lower the cup. Not when she could see Rhysand in the corner of her eye, observing her closely, ensuring she drank the contraceptive despite his proclaimed indifference.

Once she finished, she dared to ask, "Is that why you spared me, then? At the risk I was carrying your next heir?"

Rhysand shook his head. Satisfied the brew was consumed, he stalked to her armoire on the far wall. "I never had any intention of killing you, Feyre." He flung the doors open, retrieving a pair of fighting leathers from the selection of well made clothes that were all suspiciously in her size. "Nor your sisters, though I trust you've already determined that much."

The leathers slapped against the foot of the bed as Rhys tossed them over his shoulder. The reminder of her sisters made her feel as though they slapped her face, instead.

"Am I supposed to forgive you because the threat was empty?" Feyre demanded. Her throat closed a bit as she croaked, "I don't know even know where they are. Or if they're safe."

He said, without turning to her, "I have my spymaster looking for them."

Feyre snapped her head up from the empty cup. "Really?" She caught herself in her excitement, reeling it in quickly as she rationalized that Rhysand would only be looking for Nesta and Elain if he decided he had use for them, after all. She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

"So that you can know if they're safe," he said with a shrug. "They can live here, if you want. Or somewhere else. The point is, I'll take care of them until your debt is paid."

"Until you decide it's paid," she corrected, not caring that she sounded bitter. "And how do I know that this isn't another lie to manipulate me?"

"Fine," he breathed, his back still turned. "I dug that grave for myself. You'll just have to wait until my spymaster finds them, and then you can see what happens."

She faked another sip of the contraceptive brew to avoid responding. He glanced at her over his shoulder, and there was something so searching about his expression that set her nerves on edge. So different from the furious, snarling High Lord from the day before.

Desperate to evade the weight of that gaze, she took to studying the leathers at the foot of the bed. They were similar in style to the clothes he was wearing, though cut for a smaller, more feminine frame. She didn't want to venture the question of how he knew her size or when he'd had all the clothes in the armoire made—she dreaded thinking about how long he'd been planning all of this.

Instead, she said, "I assume you didn't just come here to deliver my morning tea."

"Deductive as always." He grinned as he fished out a pair of lacy undergarments, then flung those onto the bed, as well. "Today we're starting your training."

"Training for what?"

"Ah," he said, "If I told you now, there'd be no fun in it, would there?"

She sent him a withering glare. "How do you train if you don't even know what you're training for?"

"By trusting me," he answered. Feyre snorted, but he continued, "There are baseline skills that every person in my Court possess—knowledge, power, strength. If you're going to be living with us, it's important you have foundations of each."

"Why?"

"Because they'll keep you alive," he said, with a note of warning that prickled the hairs on her arms. She swore the shadow he cast on the floor doubled in size, as if consuming the light around it. "There are people who would seek to harm you purely out of your association to me, unwilling as it may be."

Feyre ground her teeth together, fighting the urge to scream. "Then why choose me?" She flung at him. "Why not choose someone more qualified, someone who actually wants to be here? There must be dozens of people in the city—"

"Maybe so." Darkness swirled over his shoulders, solidifying into a pair of large, sweeping wings. He stretched them slightly, and with it, she thought she could map the change in him—how the wings functioned as an anchor, calming something restless she couldn't see, but could feel gnarled deep in her chest, dissipating as he took a deep breath. "But you're the only one I trust."

"Trust?" Her laugh was a weak, hysterical gasp more than anything else. "After I stole from you? After you tricked me into this bargain? Tell me how we're ever supposed to trust each other, Rhysand."

He just looked at her in the way that she hated. Like his eyes were talons clawing straight through to the core of her, mental shields be damned. She was reminded of the moment when their magics combined, when she'd been able to see and sense and feel every fiber of his being perfectly entwined in hers.

It was the most vulnerable moment of her life, and she was willing to bet there were very few people he'd allowed into his mind that way.

Trust. That was what they'd granted each other, and the hours that followed were testament to how well that turned out.

If Rhys was thinking the same, he only gestured to the clothes, as composed as ever. "Start with getting dressed, Feyre. We'll go from there."

She glanced again at the leathers at the foot of the bed. She suspected they were Illyrian make. The scale-like plates of leather were of fine, hardy material, and the fleece lining looked designed to weather harsh conditions. These were clothes designed for warriors. She didn't have the slightest idea why she was meant to be wearing them.

"And which of those foundational skills, exactly, are we refining today?"

Rhys shut the wardrobe, a pair of boots dangling in one hand, her socks clutched in the other. When he turned to face her fully, she was able to fully appreciate the way he was dressed.

Before today, she'd only seen him in fine clothes, the kind befitting the grandeur of his title. The contrast of seeing him in fighting leathers was startling. They suited him better, somehow. As if the politics, the finery, was all a veneer to distract from the warrior beneath.

There was nothing distracting her from it now. Her mouth felt a bit dry as she examined the tight, dark leather sculpted to his legs. They revealed every inch of corded muscle gracing his calves and thighs—muscles that she recalled, with alarming clarity, were pressed between her legs not two days ago.

It was so tedious to hate him at the same time her body craved him. Even now, she could feel an ache of longing to peel those leathers off and admire his raw beauty.

Feyre took a deep breath, pulling her mind from the fog by trying to focus on other details. Like how, unlike her new leathers, his were worn. Scratches littered the leather plating over his chest, and the pieces of armor clipped to his shoulder and forearms were equally scarred.

He fought in the War, she recalled, thinking of the papers that hailed him a hero. Those tales were always reduced to triumphs of good against evil. The Prince of Night, vanquishing the enemies of Prythian with ease. The scars in his armor didn't necessarily contradict those tales—the gory details of battle weren't nearly as palatable to the public as heralds of victory and righteousness—but she wondered how much of it was embellished.

Curiosity nudged at her. She was filled with questions that she wouldn't dare voice. Not at the risk of sounding interested in his life. And not when he'd likely request something in exchange for the answers.

Still, when he flashed her an impish smile, she could see the glimpse of the cocky, fledgling Prince who'd fought in those battles. And she decided she'd like him better than the present day High Lord, who tossed her the boots and said,

"I figured if one of these days I finally make you snap, I should at least make sure you're throwing your punches right."

-

If Feyre thought it would be satisfying to practice throwing her fists at Rhysand, the novelty wore out by the time the sun was up.

Even with the brisk temperature from the altitude, she was covered in sweat. Her throat was ravaged and her breathing was too quick, not filling her lungs the way she craved. Worst of all, her arms were trembling so badly that her punches fizzled into light kitten taps.

Rhysand lowered the sparring pad. "I think it's time for a break."

She felt pathetic. They'd only been going for a few hours, walking through the basic steps of hand-to-hand combat, and Feyre was quickly realizing she was no where near as fit and coordinated as he was.

Her knees wobbled as she strode towards the stool where Rhys had summoned a pitcher of water.

"It will start feeling easier once you build up strength," Rhysand said, filling up a glass and handing it to her. "We'll keep practicing each morning, until you can go for an hour without breaking a sweat."

"Like you?" She said dryly. It gave her an excuse to run her eyes over his muscled form. She swore Rhys straightened under her appraisal.

"I've barely been moving," he pointed out. "It doesn't take much effort to hold up a sparing pad."

"It's not as fun, either," she said, only half joking. "You should put them down and let me practice on the real thing."

Rhys grinned at the challenge. "How about a little incentive, then?" Dread tightened her gut as he reached into his pocket, and she blew out a breath when all he retrieved was a crumpled note. "Remember this?"

She snatched it from his hand when he held it out to her, unfolding the paper to neatly scrawled words she couldn't begin to decipher. But she recognized the Night Court emblem stamped at the bottom of the page, and frowned.

"This is the letter you sent me." She looked up to him, a question in her gaze.

"You left it in my town house," he explained. "Do you want to know what it says?"

Feyre stared at him, waiting.

"Land a hit on me," he said, eyes glinting. "Then I'll tell you."

"Another bargain?"

"You know I can't resist."

"And if I don't hit you? What do you get?"

His eyes flickered to her mouth. She thought she knew what he would ask for when he licked his lips. But he surprised her by saying, "You'll let me teach you how to read."

A familiar sensation of inadequacy crept up her throat like bile. She crossed her arms, snapping, "Why does it matter if I can or can't read?"

"It may come in handy later on," he mused.

"It sounds like you're going to make me learn anyway, then."

"Not if you win."

Feyre scoffed. "An excuse to hit you and avoid reading? Count me in."

She gulped down the water, relishing in the sweet relief of the cold against her raw throat. Then she set down her empty glass and followed Rhys back into the center of the ring.

Just one hit. It didn't need to be hard, or good. She just needed to land it. Should be easy enough.

Rhys slid his hands into his pockets—the arrogant prick—and said nothing as Feyre readier her stance in front of him.

"Ready?" she asked.

He grinned. "Give me your worst, Feyre Archeron."

Without wasting a second, she jabbed her right fist forward, aiming for his chest. Her knuckles were met with open air as he swayed out of the way. She pivoted, trying for two this time—left, right. One-two, just like he'd been teaching her.

As before, Rhys swerved and weaved out of the way, his body moving as if it was fluid, all while keeping his hands in those damn pockets.

"You're keeping too much weight on your back foot," he said in her ear, gliding out of the way of yet another futile strike. He tapped his toe against her heel, urging, "Try to stay on your toes. It will allow you to shift and react faster. You're going to be smaller than most of your opponents, so you'll need to rely on your agility."

Feyre lifted her heels, adjusting her weight to the balls of her feet. She did notice the difference as she turned to strike at him, smoother this time, like a bolt of lightening.

But still not fast enough.

"Is that all you got?" He crooned. "I thought you were supposed to be angry with me."

"I am," she gritted.

"Then hit me, Feyre."

She snarled as she lunged her fist where his face had been only seconds prior. He appeared behind her, so close she could feel his laughter tickle her neck. She whirled to face him, but he was already gone.

"Winnowing is cheating."

"Is it?" He asked in her ear. "Funny how that's never been a problem for my brothers."

Brothers? She could guess who he was referring to, but she hadn't heard him use that word. Didn't realize that's what he considered them.

"Your brothers," she huffed between uneven breaths, "are trained warriors."

"So you're saying I should go easy on you? Your opponents wouldn't." Dodging another blow, he lunged forward and slipped a hand from his pocket to tap her in the center of the chest. "And you'd be dead."

She lashed at his hand, grunting in frustration when he danced out of reach.

"Who's trying to kill me in the first place?" she demanded.

"You tell me. There was someone trying to kill you when we first met."

"That's because I stole from him."

"Yes, it seems you have a habit of doing that." She swore the was warmth in his voice as he crooned, "Little thief."

Again, again, again she struck her fists into empty air until she wanted to scream.

"What do you want from me?"

He appeared right in front of her face, lips inches from her own. She could taste every word as he growled, "I want you to hit me Feyre."

By the time she was grappling for him, he'd already rippled and vanished into smoke. She never wished she could winnow as badly as she did in that moment, desperate to follow after him and tear her claws into his flesh.

Feyre swiveled in the center of the training ring, trying to anticipate where he would appear next, trying to guess his next move because if she waited to react she knew it was going to be too slow.

She could picture his smug, stupid face, laughing at her as he ran through pockets of shadow she couldn't discern. But she could feel him. Through the tether of their bargain, which felt stronger now that they were bound indefinitely.

If she cast her net across the chord connecting them, she could reach the antechamber of his mind. Feel it smooth and solid beneath her talons. She scraped a claw down its exterior, to say hello, to gauge where he was.

She could sense his intrigue when a small crack opened for her.

What tricks are you up to? He purred.

Feyre lunged. Not physically, but mentally, lashing her power down the line between them.

And yelped as he closed that small opening just in time for Feyre to slam hard against his inner shield. The reverberations echoed through her as surely as if she'd rammed head-first into a physical wall.

Nice try, he said, appearing on the other side of the ring, his eyes sparkling with mirth. Sloppy, but still an admirable attempt.

He didn't move as she strode towards him, not until the last second, angling his head to the side as if it took no effort to dodge her punches.

Feyre was so tired of him always having the upper hand. Always laughing at her.

She dropped her mental shields and thought of the one thing that might actually distract him—the fantasy of dropping to her knees and taking him into her mouth.

Rhys faltered, just for a second. It was all she needed to slam her fist into the center of his chest. The blow wasn't as hard as she would have liked—not nearly as hard as he deserved—but she was still flooded with satisfaction from the sight of him stumbling back a step, before vanishing.

Unconventional, he praised. But effective.

He was on the other side of the ring, now, and in their minds, that scene was still playing out. How she'd start at the tip of his cock, licking at the arousal beading there, before mouthing her way to the bottom of his shaft. She'd start with long, broad strokes of her tongue—the same way he'd licked her. And only once he was squirming, his fingers turning to fists in her hair, would she swallow him as deep as she could—

Feyre gasped, pressing her hand to her chest as pressure mounted there, like a string going taut. Only, it wasn't her chest. And it wasn't her hand. Just like in those strange, recurring dreams, she was peering out of a stranger's eyes.

And she was staring at herself.

Flush cheeked and narrow eyed, she saw her own face glaring back, as if looking in an inverted mirror. It was startling in a way she couldn't describe. There was her father's mouth, its bow shape tighter than usual, pulled back into snarl. And there were her mother's eyes, burning as bright and cold as the stars over Ramiel.

Look at you, Rhysand said. Fierce and wicked and beautiful. Do you see now why I can't resist you?

As quickly as it had happened, Feyre was slung back into her own body, her soul left trembling from the journey.

She watched Rhys lift his head from his chest to his forehead, rubbing as if he could feel the absence of her. "How did you you get past my shields?"

"That wasn't a trick?" She demanded.

"No."

A one word answer. Evidence that he was as stunned as she was for a change.

He angled his head to the side, like she was some curiosity he wanted to study. "Has that happened before?"

"No," she said, answering too quickly.

"It has, hasn't it?"

"Only in dreams—"

He looked to be putting something together. "Ah. I had my suspicions, but—"

The wings. The hands. The voice.

"It's you," she whispered, horrified by the revelation. "All this time, it's been…" she stumbled back, recalling the last few dreams she'd had of that stranger. Of course it was him. She should have put it together sooner.

But… she'd been having those dreams long before their first bargain.

"I forfeit," she said mechanically. "You win."

"Feyre," he said, gently, moving as if he might reach towards her.

But she was already fleeing towards the door. It didn't matter where she was going as long as it was somewhere he wasn't. Somewhere she could think.

- At some point, Feyre's aimless stalking through the House of Wind was thwarted by a bone deep exhaustion.

It started in her calves, still aching from the endless climbing she'd subjected them to yesterday. The longer she paced, the more the ache spread as her adrenaline faded and the training this morning finally caught up with her.

Her knuckles throbbed from the hours she spent hammering them against the training pads. She'd kept them locked into fists at her sides, but now they were growing stiff, and she was beginning to worry they'd be stuck in that position if she didn't release some of the tension in her body.

She retreated to her room, in the end. Rhys would find her no matter where she hid in the house, she reasoned. At least she could lick her wounds somewhere comfortable until he sought her out.

It didn't take very long. By the time she'd changed out of the stifling, sweaty leathers and shrugged on a pair of billowing high-waisted pants and a matching top of a soft, peachy color, a knock sounded at the door.

Feyre stole a moment to glance at her reflection, frowning at what she saw.

Out of all of them, Elain would look the least out of place in the High Lord's palace. She had an understated elegance that would thrive beneath all these silks and frills, and they always teased that she could marry a prince, if she'd liked.

As for Feyre, she thought she just looked like a feral street cat who'd been shoved into a fancy collar.

"Feyre?" Rhys called.

Her gaze snuck around the room, searching for somewhere to hide on instinct. There was no where to go. She did briefly consider the balcony—was there another ledge close by that she could jump to?

The thought was quickly dashed when she looked down at her hands, angry and swollen. She didn't trust she would have the strength to pull herself up and even if she did, it would only delay the inevitable.

Rhysand was a persistent son of a bitch.

"I don't want to talk about it," she called.

He seemed to accept that as an invitation to enter. She whirled, anxiety spiking at the sight of him, and she knew she looked like a cornered animal when she scowled in his direction.

Those violet eyes assessed her, sweeping from head to toe. He frowned when she backed up a step.

"How are you feeling after training?"

"Sore," she groused, raising her hands to her chest defensively.

A mistake. His gaze zeroed in on her puffy knuckles, and then he was in front of her, prying them from her protective stance. Or trying to—he let go when she hissed a sharp breath between her teeth. He assumed it was from pain, and they did sting, but it was the scent of him that panicked her. She struggled to think clearly when he was that close.

"I'm fine," she snapped, scuttling backward another step. "They'll be healed in a few hours."

He stared at her, an unreadable expression on his face. "Perhaps," he said blandly. "It's up to you."

Feyre's eyes narrowed to slits. "What do you mean it's up to me?"

"I came by to give you this," he said, producing a vial from his pocket.

She regarded it with the weariness anything that came from him was owed. "What is it?"

"A tincture," he supplied. "Illyrians take it during training to slow their healing. We need calluses to grow stronger. If those abrasion are healed good as new, then you'll just get them again tomorrow. This way, you can build up a tolerance."

Feyre blinked at him. She recalled the scrape of his calluses against her thighs—she'd been distracted at the time, but now it occurred to her how odd it was for High Fae to have anything other than smooth, flawless skin. Scarring tissue was typically only left from significant wounds, but a simple abrasion? They should be able to heal those in seconds.

"Illyrians take this?" She studied the black liquid, so unassuming in the glass vial and yet… an unnatural sense of wrong clawed at her gut the longer she stared at it. "But… what happens if someone gets seriously injured during training? They wouldn't be able to heal."

It sounded completely illogical to Feyre, but Rhysand only shrugged. "Most war camps have a healer to treat the worst of the injuries. But otherwise, it's incentive not to fuck up."

She shifted, agitated at just the thought. If she took the tincture, her knuckles would still hurt tomorrow, and it would be agony to go through the same drills again.

"I'm not an Illyrian," she said. "I don't need the calluses of a warrior. The only person I've ever wanted to punch is you."

"And you landed a pretty decent hit," he said, rubbing his chest, though she doubted he felt any pain there. "Left a few dozen scratches on my back, too, if you're taking stock of your inflicted injuries." He smirked. "Not many of my sparring partners can brag the same."

Feyre had only a vague memory of scrabbling her nails along his back during that night, but she didn't think he was lying. That made the humiliation worse. With an exasperated huff, she stalked away from him, heading toward the bathing chamber.

Her hand curled over the golden handle, but Rhys stretched his hand over her shoulder, sealing the door shut with the force of his outstretched palm. He was so gods-damned closed she could feel the heat emanating off him, trapping her between the door and his much larger body.

She refused to turn around, but that seemed to work just fine for Rhysand. He ducked his head lower, his breath tickling her ear.

"I won't force you to take it, Feyre. But it will help you get stronger."

Feyre ignored him, glaring at the hand he kept braced against the door. That stupid fucking hand, which she always saw in her dreams, clutched around drinking glasses and pushing dark hair out of his face.

Why was it him?

"I owe you something else," he said. She heard a crackling noise at her back, and then his other hand ventured into view, the tincture replaced with a worn letter. "A deal is a deal. Filthy tactics aside, you landed a hit on me."

"Why are you giving it to me?" She asked, refusing to take the letter. "I still can't read it."

"Just look at it, Feyre."

With an indignant huff, she snapped the letter from his grip and unfolded its familiar creases. As she did, she felt a talon scrape across her mental barrier. Reluctance sparred with her curiosity. Feyre didn't want him anywhere near her mind again, but she was dying to know what the damn thing said.

Against her better judgment, she created a small opening for him, and regretted it as soon as his triumph oozed through the gap.

Go on, he crooned, curling around her mind like a plump, satisfied house-cat.

Gritting her teeth, Feyre ran her eyes across the page and was met with the usual surge of frustration at all of those meaningless loops and curves. Until he tugged, like plucking a string, and the words began taking shape in her mind, reading out clearly in his voice:

Feyre Darling,

Imagine the scandalous letters we could exchange if only you allowed me to teach you how to read.

Hopefully this letter will tempt you. I know it will infuriate you not to know what I've written. I suspect you will be too proud, and too stubborn, to ask your sisters what it says.

Maybe you're worried I've written something inappropriate. After all, you wouldn't want your sisters to know just how desperate you were to feel my tongue between your legs, would you?

I trust you'll keep this to yourself, and it will drive you to such madness you'll either teach yourself how to read, or seek me out for explanation.

I'm not certain which would delight me more.

Yours everlasting,

Rhysand

"That's it?" she demanded, crumpling the note in her tender fists. "That's all it was? A taunt to lure me back to you?"

He was still standing behind her, but she could feel the smirk tugging across his lips, if the smug presence in her mind was any indication.

"It worked, didn't it?"

Feyre's cheeks burned. Once again, she was being played the fool. This wasn't a reward, it was a chance for further mockery. And it was stupid, so stupid, to let his games wound her, but in the back of her mind she could hear all those dreadful things they used to spit at her in the tavern.

Uneducated, ignorant, half-breed, whore.

She clenched her jaw, shoving him out of her mind as she stared hard at the wall, holding back the sting behind her eyes. She dug craters into her palm, sharp enough to draw blood, as fought not to lose composure in front of him.

In the corner of her eyes, she saw his body, still hunched around her, go stiff.

"Feyre…"

"What do you want with me, High Lord?" She didn't recognize that voice, so small, so nearing defeat. "What's the point in all of this?"

He didn't say anything for several heartbeats, but she could feel him watching her, keeping her caged against that door with nowhere to escape.

"Maybe that would be a better prize, then, hm?"

Feyre refused to bite. Whatever it was, he would only use it as another way to poke and prod at her. She was beginning to think that was all Rhysand was capable of doing.

"A goal," he continued. "A way out of the bargain. That's what you want?"

And that… that was probably the only thing he could have said to convince her to look in his direction. He grinned, playing the spider who just discovered a fly in its web. His eyes were distant, though.

"I was thinking about this tedious little debt you owe me, and how best I should use your services to have it repaid." He leaned forward, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret with her. "As fate would have it, I've been invited to attend a card tournament with the other High Lords. The prize is a magical artifact I'd like to ensure the others won't get their hands on. If you help me win it, I'll release you from our bargain."

That's it? A card tournament?

She felt anticipation twitching in her fingertips. She didn't realize her freedom would be so attainable. It felt like a trick.

"The prize," she said, licking moisture back into her lips. "What is it?"

"All you need to know is that once you help me win, you and I can go our separate ways."

"What do you even need me for?" She knew she was putting her foot in her mouth, but couldn't resist asking. "You're a better daemati than me. It's not like I can do anything you can't already."

"The difference is, everyone there knows I'm a daemati. There will be precautions in place to keep my participation fair. But you're a rogue element. They'll be so focused guarding against me, they won't even think to protect themselves from you."

Feyre drummed her fingertips along the door at her back, thinking. "Okay," she said. "When's the tournament?"

Rhys drew up, and she hadn't realized how suffocated she'd felt until she swallowed that first gulp of cold air.

"In three months," he said, regarding her through his lower lashes. "Plenty of time for us to prepare. Which is fortunate, because I think your skills still require some… refinement."

Asshole.

"What, for cheating at cards?" She balked. "I can do that in my sleep."

"Oh? And do you know how to blend yourself into High Fae society? How to address the royalty of other courts? How to navigate the laws if you get caught?"

He already knew the answers, so Feyre crossed her arms and spared herself the embarrassment of responding.

Rhysand clicked his tongue. "This isn't going to be some meager gamble with a drunk, Feyre. We're going to be competing against the most powerful players in Prythian, and many of them will have trained to protect themselves against daemati. There will be severe consequences if you or I get caught. So we need to be clever and discrete. Understood?"

Oh, she understood perfectly.

"So I get to con a bunch of arrogant High Lords and I'll never have to see your face again?" His nostrils flared. If anything, that made her grin wider. "Count me in."

[jay-wasstuff]

When I see ao3 loading 2 seconds too long:

[saysflora]

If you ask Mush, winter is one of the best times of the year, but it seems he's one of the only people in the lodgings that feels that way. What starts as a way to take Blink's mind off of the now cold, dark months ends up being a bigger scheme than even he was imagining, and he's more than happy to take the opportunity to plan a celebration that'll have everyone raring with holiday spirit. With help, of course.

OR: Mush throws a Christmas Party.

[shkwing]

has it been six hours yet i am DYING of boredom over here

[wetcatspellcaster]

In which a late night discussion is conducted, and a letter is received.

[cels-not-so-secret-love-affair]

femme fatale (marylily)

a/n: it’s actually been three hundred years since i’ve last put anything up here 😭 cruel thing is i’ve literally had this finished for ages i just couldn’t be arsed to post it xoxo anyways here have sapphics!! titled with the intent of referencing the tvu song <3

The redheaded regular is back. Mary’s eyes flick to her instinctively as she walks in, drawn to her before she can even register what she’s doing. She looks gorgeous, as always. The dress she’s wearing is slim fitting and green, the contrast between the colour of the fabric and the deep scarlet of her hair sharp in a way that almost forbids you from directing your attention elsewhere. Mary follows her with her gaze as she walks to the bar and shrugs off her jacket.

Later on, during a brief and precious moment of downtime, Mary finds her again. She’s sat at a table now, alone, her book lying discarded to the side as she sips her margarita. She’s on the hunt. Mary’s got her M.O figured out completely by now. She enters, sits down, reads for twenty minutes or so, then starts searching. Her eyes scan the room analytically, all business, flicking acutely from face to face. Mary leans back against the wall where she’s stood behind the bar and follows suit. Recently she’s taken to playing a little game - figure out which one the pretty redhead’s going to go for before she makes her move. It’s something of a race between them. Maybe him, she thinks, catching sight of a man sat a few tables away. He’s her type, Mary reckons. Good dress sense. Nice smile. Dark hair. I’ve got dark hair, she muses to herself. Not that that’s relevant or anything.

The redhead proves her right about two minutes after she makes the guess. She starts her game. Mary’s noticed her play it. It begins tame enough. She’ll shoot a few glances over at his general direction, not even at him to start with, just his way. After a while he’ll notice it, feel her eyes on him, and turn his head to look for them. Then he’ll see her - see her freckled shoulders, see how the fallout from her glitzy eye makeup shimmers delicately on her cheeks, see her careful fingers lift her glass to her glossy lips. By then, most men are hooked. For the rest of the evening she’ll flirt with her eyes. Direct her gaze at him like a doe until he goes to meet it, at which point she’ll divert her attention back to the swirl of her drink with a coy smile before he can catch her looking at him. After a few rounds of that, she’ll let him have a win. Just one, to keep him playing. He’ll try to ambush her and she’ll let him have a few seconds of direct eye contact, pretend as if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing. She’ll act a little embarrassed. Giggle even. Then, if she’s feeling bold, wink at him before she looks away. After that it’s right back to the chase from before.

The game tonight is going well, Mary thinks. The bloke’s clearly interested in her and she seems to fancy the look of him well enough for now. Any moment now then. Mary’s right again, for it’s at that moment that the pretty redhead pulls out a pen and a notebook from her tote. She uncaps the former, rips a page out of the latter, then sets them both down whilst she goes about rummaging for her lipstick. Once she’s found it, she reapplies it thickly, using her phone as a mirror, then brings the loose piece of paper up to her lips to kiss. When she pulls it away the memory of her pout is captured sweetly in the middle of the page. The red of her kiss stands out salaciously from the white. Picking up her pen, she quickly scribbles her number below it in neat, deft strokes, before signing it with two self-assured x’s for good measure. Mary watches her fold the note up and pack away the rest of her stuff and feels a strange and unreasonable twinge of disappointment unspool in her chest. He’s a very lucky man, she thinks.

She really should be getting back to work by now, but she’s been spying practically since the pretty redhead walked in and she decides she’s going to see the interaction through. She follows her as she gets up from her table and slings her bag over her shoulder. Watches as she walks towards the man’s table. Sees her nod to him, reach out to pat his cheek, and… walk right past him.

‘Hello.’ Huh.

‘Hi. Did you want to… order anything?

‘No, thank you,’ the pretty redhead says, leaning over to smile at Mary brightly. ‘I’m Lily. This is my number.’ She sets the piece of paper she’d folded up down on the bar and pushes it across to her.

‘Mary,’ says Mary, still doing the maths in her head to make the facts of her current situation compute.

‘Mary. I like it. Contact me, then.’

‘Hm?’

‘Well, I’ve made you wait long enough, haven’t I?’ Lily says. ‘Unless I misread the situation and you’re not into me, after all.’

‘I’m into you,’ Mary replies immediately. ‘Very into you. I’ll call.’

Lily smiles again, a gorgeous thing, pleased and earnest and true. The faintest hint of a blush has risen in her cheeks. For a fleeting moment Mary rather thinks she’d like to make her smile like that everyday for the rest of her life.

[youregonnabeokay-kid]

ADHD information for fanfic writers:

Diagnostic Process:

the diagnostic process is different in every country, but this is a basic overview

- an ADHD referral can come from any type of doctor, unlike referrals for other neurodivergences

- the wait list depends on where you live and how old you are. typically the younger you are, the shorter the wait

- ADHD has to be diagnosed by a psychiatrist or by a doctor who has taken a specialized course to be certified in diagnosing and handling ADHD

- most doctors will make you fill out a questionnaire about your mental health. these questionnaires involves sections about family history, personal history, and statements that you have to agree or disagree with

- a good psychiatrist won’t diagnose you with ADHD during your first visit. they will instead spend the first few visits getting to know you and the state of your mental health

- most people are assessed for depression when being assessed for ADHD. this is because depression can present itself in similar ways. if diagnosed with depression and open to medication, the psychiatrist will first prescribe antidepressants and see how those affect you before moving on with the ADHD assessment

Meds:

- most ADHD meds are taken in the morning since they normally wear off after 8-12 hours

- when meds wear off we go through what’s known as a “crash” or “medication rebound”

- ADHD crashes are pure hell which is why some people with ADHD choose to only take meds during the week or they do nothing on the weekend as a reset of sorts

- basically, when our meds wear off all of our symptoms come back at the same time and we get overstimulated to the point of exhaustion

- some people have smaller doses of their meds that they take at the beginning of the crash. this means they can prolong the crash by a couple hours

- for some people, the first time taking meds is hell. the change is very noticeable and abrupt. i wouldn’t stop talking because it was “too quiet” (it being my mind)

- your dosage is not based on body type or weight and just because you take a high dose in one drug doesn’t mean you take a high dose in all others (my ADHD meds are 10mg higher than the highest prescribed amount but my antipsychotics are .5mg lower than the lowest prescribed dose)

- vyvanse is most often prescribed to people with combo ADHD, ritalin to those with hyperactive ADHD (especially those with impulsivity issues), and adderall for inattentive (no, this is not something that is typically disclosed or well-known but if you’ve talked to enough people w/ ADHD you begin to see a pattern) other ADHD meds are available but less likely to be prescribed

- other meds are also taken into account when getting a prescription for ADHD. vyvanse is the most versatile and is usually the one prescribed if you’re on other medications

- ADHD meds are stimulants which means doctors will never give you refills (if they do, they could lose their license)

- since they’re stimulants, for the first year you have to go to the psychiatrist’s bi-weekly for the first few months, then monthly after that so they can see how you are doing

- ADHD meds are known for lowering sex drives and increasing hunger (sometimes the opposite may happen, as with most drugs, but these are most common)

- it takes about 1/2 hour to an hour for meds to kick in and many of us are able to tell the exact moment they start working

Other Substances:

- the neurons and chemicals in the body of an ADHD person are fucked. this means that many substances and medications have either no effect on us, or the opposite effect of what they are intended for

speaking from personal experience:

- caffeine makes me tired

- melatonin and other sleeping aids like dextromethorphan, which can be found in many cough syrups, make me hyper

- weed makes me feel lighter, but it never affects me more than that. i never get a “proper high” like other people (ie; i find no more joy or fascination in bright colours or moving objects than i usually do)

- while “sugar highs” in general are a myth, they’re real for people with ADHD! they stimulate our dopamine and opioid receptors which gives us a burst of energy

- additionally, people with ADHD are more likely to be addicted to illegal stimulants like cocaine because it calms them down (yup, you read that right. when someone with ADHD does cocaine their mind quiets and they mellow down instead of the usual hyper-active high that neurotypicals get)

Additional Information:

- we’re lacking some of the neurotransmitters in our brains so it takes us longer to process information, and we have “more” thoughts than neurotypicals since our additional thoughts aren’t processed out

- we get what’s called “executive dysfunction” or “ADHD paralysis” where we are physically unable to do things despite no real physical limitations (for non-ADHD folks: try putting your hand in fire. you’ll notice that you are either physically unable to or that your body somewhat restrains you from doing it. this is what executive dysfunction is like. for ADHD folks: do not try this since we’re also less likely to have self-preservation instincts)

- basically, i can sit for hours thinking about doing the dishes, screaming at myself in my head to just do them, but i’m still unable to

- we leave trails! we have so many thoughts going through our head that we forget them all the time, so when we get a thought like “i think the printer is low on paper, i should check” we abandon all tasks in favour of the new thought. however, the remains of those tasks stay where we left them, and thus, an ADHD trail is made

- we have both the worst and best memory of anyone you will ever meet. i might be able to tell you the exact outfit you wore on a specific day five years ago but i won’t remember what i ate for breakfast

- when we get bored, we get depressed. like, life is meaningless and i want to curl up in a ball and die depressed. sometimes we need someone to physically force us out of bed to get us out of our funk (and sometimes all it takes to get out of the funk is doing something fun which makes us feel ridiculous when we think about how depressed we were prior)

- since boredom is detrimental to us, we have to constantly be having fun which, in and of itself, is not fun. this is also why a lot of us end up doing shift work or working dangerous jobs

- we’re adrenaline junkies. this isn’t even a “most of us” situation, it’s all of us. the only difference is how we get that adrenaline. (some get it by jumping out of a plane, others get it by working on assignments in a time crunch)

- we’re social beings. even if we’re introverts, we thrive on social interactions. without them our dopamine plummets and we, once again, get depressed

- all silences are awkward to us. it doesn’t matter if you’re the person we’re most comfortable with in the world, silence is always awkward. or, more specifically, we feel like we need to fill it which is why we often ramble

obviously there’s far more to ADHD than just this and everything can change person by person but i hope this helps to gain a bit more of a general understanding on ADHD

[catsarehumanstoo]

what is this Mars thing

this Mars thing is also a timkon fic! it is set in the late 1920s and features kon as a former silent film child star trying to make the jump to both adult movie roles and talking pictures while also trying to work out who he is and where he comes from! also featuring tim as a surveyor for a map company (read: spy), who has a plane and a 35mm camera! i do have documents detailing exactly what camera and plane he has because i spent way too much time researching what was available then to lose that information!

it is not a no capes au but it is a low capes au - superman is very much around and kicking, but batman is not a thing bc bruce is busy doing other things (running a spy ring).

also featuring the various archaeological discoveries happening in the middle east and egypt bc tim's parents are archaeologists and i wanted to write about ur. sue me.

this one is on the backburner mainly bc as i worked out the plot i realised i needed to know more about contemporary middle eastern politics, and the more i looked into the history and politics of the region the more i realised there was more i needed to know. so it's on the backburner until i get a degree in 1920s middle eastern history and politics ig ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

snippet for you anyway!

"You'll be safe, won't you?" his mother said, stretching her hand up to clasp his, reaching out of the cockpit. "I've seen the terrible things that can happen when these airplanes crash." "Most of those crashes happened when there were other planes shooting at them, Mom," Tim said, smiling at her. "I'm just doing triangulation. No guns on this civilian craft." He patted the Redbird fondly. "How much does this job pay you, anyway?" Jack asked. "I can't say it's a career I expected you to go into." "It pays enough, Dad. And I get to keep the plane after five years' service." "Well, if you're sure. You know, it's not too late for me to write to Marin, see if he can get you a job in the company." "I don't want a job pushing paper for Drake Industries, Dad. I'm happy doing this." Jack nodded and shrugged. "Have a safe flight, kiddo."

[piningpercussionist]

*a DING is heard on Kims phone* Stephen: Kim I heard what happened are you alright?

.

.

.

.

Kim's eyes shoot open as she jolts up from her bed in a cold sweat, hand flying to her mouth just in time to muffle a scream. She pants wildly for a moment, curled in on herself as her pulse pounds in her ears and her vision swims.

Eventually, her pulse slows just slightly, leaving her just a little dizzy as her vision begins to clear.

(What... just happened to me?) She wondered, moving her hand from her mouth to her chest. (... When did I go to sleep?)

She frowns in confusion, looking around the room. Without a window, she'll need to check her phone to tell the time, but things look... well, the same, but different? She didn't quite remember most of these things being placed the way they were... or this room looking quite as lived in. The dissonance is begining to make her uncomfortable, heart rate picking up once again; she tries to take a deep breath as she feels around for her phone.

Thankfully, it's resting on the bed beside her, helpfully announcing itself with a buzz. (Well, that's fortunate,) she thinks idly, flipping it open with a practiced flick of her wrist.

She blinds herself with the brightness of the sceen for a moment, reeling back; blinking out the spots, she rubs at her eyes with her other hand as she settles back into the pillows.

(What's got me taking a nap or something at... oh, it's kind of late, actually. Assuming... do I have an early shift tomorrow or something...?)

She frowns, confused- until her eyes land on the date, and she shoots back up again, one hand flying up to her hair to pull at it.

(IT'S FEBRUARY?! Did someone- did someone mess with my phone?! What the hell-)

She quickly navigates to her messages, checking her new one first. She looks it over with intense scrutiny, trying as hard as she can to figure out what happened.

(What the hell is he talking about? What do I-)

Kim taps her index finger against the side of her phone for a long while, biting her lip. She feels nauseous; something seems very, very wrong here.

I don't know what you're talking about, so I don't know?

I feel like that's not a good sign.

I just woke up; did I go on a bender or something?

After she sends the messages, and stops herself from sending any more, she backs out of their texts to check her others.

They're fairly dead, for the most part, usually; large gaps of time between them, save for her texts with Scott, Ramona, and Hollie, typically. But trying to check them, she frowns, finding a rather curious irregularity. While her texts with Hollie seemed fine, for the most part, a couple were garbled- and when she looked at her conversations with Scott, they seemed to have stagnated for a time, and then also became filled with similar, uncomprehensible symbols and spam. Worst yet was her messages with Ramona- strings of broken text climbing up the screen and blotting out the whole of it, nearly. Something in her chest twinged at that, though she wasn't entirely sure why...

(How did this even... what...)

The only "recent" message Kim can find that sparks a similar feeling is one from Julie- a reminder about a party. Curiously, the message IS partly garbled- notably, where it would be telling her what the party is for- but the date remains visible.

(New Years... has passed....?)

She sets her phone down, putting her hands over her face as she lets her thoughts swirl around. She tries desperately to get herself to remember.

(What the fuck is wrong with me? What happened? Why can't I REMEMBER?!)

[gingersssnap]

Ok i saw a goodreads comment today for a book i havent read that put into context a book i DID just read, and it said "it was written like a never ending internal monologue." Yes!!

Sometimes there's books where character A asks "what were you thinking about for dinner tonight?"

And character B thinks for 4-7 paragraphs about how their mother cooked ratatouille. They miss the freedom of childhood, but they've been living in the past for 14 years, since their second cousin moved to Antarctica for an internship. Maybe it's time to try something new. Enough living in the past, it's time to live in the present. The future, even, if they manage to scale the forbidden mountain and learn kung fu from Master Panda before Earth collapses and transforms into ParaEarth. Impossible. But with their friend by their side, it's worth it to at least try. Keep calm and carry on.

"maybe chicken?" Character B answers, and you have to scroll back up to remember what the question even was

[lost-technology]

So, I was scouring my back-files and old fanfiction . net for some of my old Trigun fic. It wasn't all terrible, I swear! Okay, so I find a lot of stuff I did 20 or more years ago cringe, but there are a few pieces that are worth it. I was specifically looking for an old fic I did featuring an original character who had chosen to try to follow the "Vash" hero-lifestyle and found himself failing at it. Finally found the thing. Found a story I wrote about Vash having a pet cat, too, mostly comedy, but definitely one you don't want to read if you scour the "Does the Dog Die?" website before you watch a movie. Yes, I used that horrible old trope in the end. And then I found some fic I wrote waaaaaay back around 20 years ago (2004, actually) that was a Rem Lives AU for anime!Rem and the anime!story of Trigun and I didn't read it all the way through, but I skimmed it, having COMPLETELY forgotten about it! I seriously forgot this thing existed, forgot the entire plotline... I remember some of my old fics, obviously, but did not remember this one. And skimming... comparing to my current Stampede-and-Trimax based Rem Lives AU WIP... What is my brain's obsession with making Rem lose a leg? Seriously, it happened twice. It was a different leg (her left in the old fic as opposed to her right in the current and unlike in the current, she gets to keep both eyes) - but... I did this thing? Twice? Huh? I skimmed to the end and apparently rehabbing Knives has started to fall in a weird love with her, too. I used to write some weird shit. Actually, considering that once when I was sick with the flu a few years ago I wrote a crossover between Super Smash Bros and the Star Wars Holiday Special because my brain was on way too much cold medicine... and I spent a good portion of 2021 writing a series of fanfics about original characters that were Galactic Horde-clones from She-Ra and the Princesses of Power being undertakers for their fallen people post-canon...um, I still write weird things. *Sigh* at least that one fanfic I do remember co-writing with an ex-online-friend turned vicious online enemy (whom I could have probably forgiven if they hadn't attacked my SO) is absolutely gone now. There was a person I used to be friends with in Trigun fandom whose fandom name initials read "MF" so I will therefore refer to them as "Motherfucker" when I refer to them... well, Motherfucker and I once wrote out an idea that they had which was a Rem Lives AU but one where Vash and Rem fell in love with each other and Vash was overtaken by a fungal infection that made him violent enough to actually kill people sometimes - it was BAD. Probably the worst fanfic I ever (co) wrote. I hope that no one ever saved that to any hard drive or media. It deserves to be lost. Please.

[futurefind]

//lays on the floor thinking abt ferdiereabert. thinking about how rea represents the worst of their failures/mistakes. thinking about how they represent the cause rea -gestures vaguely- for. thinking about how their respective pursuits (hubert and ferdie aiming to murder for and nurture for the sake of protecting rea, respectively; rea aiming to... essentially be left alone to self destruct and be forgotten bc its easier) are mutually exclusive even though their wants are the same (being together)

also thinks about the raw crack / humor angles of edelgard checking in on how the rea-mance is doing to ever exasperated, deadpan, and/or teacup breaking responses

[tide-locked]

i feel like people forget that sometimes characters in fic are written like that because it's a reflection of real life.

people have sex without setting boundaries. people have unprotected sex without talking about their sexual histories or producing recent sti tests. people play with kink without discussing it ahead of time or establishing a safeword. they have anal without 'enough' prep or lube—they may even prefer it like that.

and none of this is really a fantasy. it's all pretty normal. you can feel that it's inappropriately normalised, and you'd probably be right! but it is normalised: one study found that 58% of female undergraduate students on the campus studied had been choked during sex. 20% of those students said that they'd never been asked if it was ok; another 30% said they'd only sometimes been asked if they consented. fully half! (non-paywalled journal article on choking during sex here, including these numbers.) despite a rise in stis of all sorts, condom use is declining. (pdf link to the full text of this study about declining condom use in the us; aidsmap article about an australian study with similar results.)

even when people do talk about things—sex or anything else—they communicate imperfectly. 'yeah, but don't go too far' is consenting and setting a boundary, and also relying that the person you're talking to has the same metric for 'too far' that you do. for some people, 'the trash needs to go out' is a neutral, factual observation; for others, it's a request that the person they're speaking to take out the trash.

even when people understand each other perfectly, people react unpredictably to things sometimes! we behave irrationally! people laugh uncontrollably at funerals, or get angry at the straw that broke their back rather than the enormous load they were already carrying. they get scared and lash out at people trying to help them. when hurt, most people do not instinctively reach for therapy-approved grounding exercises and 'i feel' statements.

pretty much any bad choice that characters could conceivably make is a choice that people make in real life, on purpose, all the time. people do things that can have catastrophic, life-changing effects because it felt like a good idea at the time, or they're leaning into the vibe, or they just didn't think about it all that much, or an infinite number of other reasons.

fiction isn't intended as a guide on the best, safest, and most responsible ways to live your life, and fanfic isn't any different. it's not a narrative flaw to let characters do things that are messy or harmful or downright stupid—it's a reflection of what people are actually like, and not something that authors should feel they have to apologise for.

[georgies-ftts]

My absolute favourite trope in Merlin fanfic is when they all find out about Merlin’s magic and Arthur is brooding or feigning annoyance but truly doesn’t care, Elyan and Gwaine are asking so many questions because they’re so intrigued and need to know absolutely everything and somehow aren’t surprised in the slightest, Leon is weary but slowly indulges in the conversation, eyeing Arthur every so often because he’s nervous to display such behaviours about magic in front of his King but he still knows Arthur would never touch Merlin even if he was afraid and Percival is just so confused because he thought everyone already knew and just refused to speak about it

Merlin: It’s not that big of a deal. we don’t have to speak about it.

Elyan: Oh, no we absolutely do!

Gwaine: Yeah, c’mon Merlin, show us something cool, like money falling from the sky, or a pint in my hand, right now, come on.

Elyan: Can you really do that?

Merlin: *Sarcastically* If it’ll get Gwaine to shut up.

Arthur: Oh, so you can pour Gwaine a pint in the middle of the woods but you can’t clean my chambers?

It goes silent for a few moments, Merlin wonders if now is the right time for a joke but Arthur’s brow is furrowed and through the light of the fire he can see the firm press of lips on his face, he decides now is not the time. Gwaine rolls his eyes from across the flame before them.

Gwaine: He’s just saved all our arses, can you be grateful for two minutes?

Leon: Gwaine-

Merlin: He has every right to be upset-

Arthur: Do not address me as if i’m not even here, you owe me that at least.

There’s a tense silence as Merlin’s hand stills where it pokes at the fire with a stick, Leon eyes the King cautiously and Percival fiddles, wide eyed, with the frayed edges of his tunic. Merlin sighs and focuses again on the fire, it’s the only heat he can find.

Gwaine: What kind of things can you do?

Merlin is hesitant to answer but Elyan looks at him expectantly and even Leon has turned his attention to him now, seemingly awaiting either an answer from the servant or an order from his King.

Merlin: I- I can do small things like move stuff around, tell a broom to sweep or a rag to clean.

He thinks that’s enough but by the excited look in Gwaine and Elyan’s eyes it isn’t.

Merlin: I can light fires, fell trees, sense a nearby threat, anything… really.

Gwaine: That’s so cool

Arthur: So you could’ve been useful this entire time and you chose not to be.

There’s another lull as Arthur picks apart leaves and tosses them into the fire but as Leon speaks up even Arthur turns his gaze.

Leon: How long have you been able to do all this?

It’s hardly an innocent question but Leon’s tone is honest and Merlin cannot feel cornered by his words.

Merlin: Since birth.

Arthur: Lies.

Elyan: Is that possible?

Gwaine: What?

Leon: Is that all you can do? Move things? Will them to your command?

Now that question is loaded even if Leon means no ill will. Merlin swallows, he nods.

Merlin: Yes

Leon: What else can you command?

Merlin: The seas

Arthur: A mermaid are you, now?

Merlin: The trees and the ground.

Arthur: A nymph perhaps?

Merlin: The skies

Arthur: Now you’re just being absurd-

Merlin: Lighting.

Merlin cuts in quickly. He was never proud of it, bringing the bolt down so harshly and eradicating the sorceress to nothing but a pile of smouldering ash but Arthur will find out one way or another. Banishment or pyre he will make sure Arthur hears of his crimes before he goes.

Merlin: Nimue. I killed her. A bolt straight through her body. There was nothing left.

The group maintains their silence for a few moments and Arthur finally turns to look at Merlin for the first time since they’d stopped to make camp

Arthur: Prove it.

Merlin: Sire-

Arthur: Don’t call me that and prove it.

Merlin: Why? Hoping i’ll mess it all up and strike myself down? Save you the trouble of building the pyre?

Arthur: If I wanted you dead you wouldn’t be speaking so stop moping, get off your arse and prove. It.

Merlin doesn’t need to get up because the second Arthur stops talking Merlin’s eyes are sparking gold and the sky erupts in a violent flash of colour. tendrils of brilliant white crack the darkness apart, coating the forest in a momentary burst of day before the light fades and in its wake leaves behind the fading outline of the Pendragon crest in the forks of dying white.

The group remains still, staring upwards at the now pitch black sky before Elyan is laughing out loud and Gwaine is excitedly smacking Leon beside him.

Gwaine: Oh my god, we could do so much. We could strike Lord Harold down and he wouldn’t even know what hit him-

Arthur: shut up, Gwaine

Arthur is still staring at the sky and Leon speaks from beside him.

Leon: Forgive me for asking, ignore me next time

The Knight is almost blushing in his place and Merlin manages a small huff of laughter at that before he resumes poking at the fire but his moment of silence is inturpeted

Arthur: Sir Percival, you’ve been unusually quiet. Please, what are your opinions on all of this.

Arthur seems pissed off, but not in an angry way, more of an i’ve been outvoted and i’m not happy about it way. Percival shrugs, picking away at the skin of nails like he has no idea what this conversation could possibly be about.

Arthur: Percival?

Percy: Mhh hmm.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. Percival stares back at him.

Percy: Yes, Sire?

Arthur: Don’t play dumb with me.

Percy: I don’t know what you mean, sire.

There’s a moment , a beat, barely a second.

Gwaine: You knew?!?!!!?!???!?

Elyan: You sly bastard!

Leon: oh lord-

Percy: I didn’t, I swear-

Arthur: Percival-

Merlin: How-

Percy: I THOUGHT WE ALL KNEW-

Gwaine: WHY WOULD YOU THINK THAT-

Elyan: HOW WOULD WE HAVE KNOWN-

Leon: Kill me.

Percy: IT WAS SO OBVIOUS-

Merlin: HANG ON-

GWAINE: WHY WOULD’NT YOU TELL ME?

Elyan: Gwen’s going to be so pissed off she missed this

Gwaine: I THOUGHT WE WE’RE FRIENDS-

Merlin: HOW WAS IT OBVIOUS-

Percy: WE ARE, I JUST THOUGHT WE WEREN’T ALLOWED TO TALK ABOUT IT

Leon: please lord,

ELYAN: WHY WOULD’NT WE BE ALLOWED TO- Oh, no, wait, yeah got it, continue.

Percy: I THOUGHT YOU WERE ALL AWARE AND JUST NEVER MENTIONED IT CAUSE IT WAS SUCH A CASUAL THING THATS WHY I WOULD ALWAYS GIVE YOU A CLAP ON THE BACK AFTER AN AMBUSH OR-

Merlin: I THOUGH IT WAS CAUSE I DIDN’T DIE

Leon: Finish me off

Percy: YEAH, CAUSE YOU SAVED US. WITH MAGIC

Leon: I beg of you

ELyan: Holy shit-

Gwaine: Have we really been that blind?

Percival shrugs and Merlin still looks at him like he’s just betrayed his entire blood line.

Leon: Please, it would be the kind thing to do

Elyan: What?

Leon: What?

Gwaine: Did you tell him?

Merlin: Why would i tell him?

Percy: ouch.

Arthur: Percival.

Everyone pauses, Leon stops praying to a deity he does not believe in and Merlin stops looking so offended but Gwaine and Elyan still hold that child like wonder in their eyes.

Arthur: I’m not entirely sure what to threaten you with right now but I will think of something and trust me you’re going to wish you were never born.

Gwaine: Fair do’s, that

Percy: So Merlin gets away scot free but not me?

Merlin: OI-

Arthur: Oh, i’m not even started with you.

Gwaine: Oh, c’mon princess, don’t act like you didn’t have even the slightest hunch.

Arthur’s head spins at a pace that’s frankly alarming to look over at Gwaine. He narrow his eyes like he was lining up his next arrow for loosening. There’s another beat before Gwaine’s eyes widen

Gwaine: OH MY GOD YOU DID-

Then Arthur is launching forward, over the fire and it takes the four others an hour to get Arthur to release the impossible grip he has on Gwaine’s hair and another two to get Gwaine to apologise for the black eye now blooming on the King’s face.

[nereidprinc3ss]

i keep you clean; you surrounded me

in which husband!spencer reid spirals after realizing he can't be your daughter's hero forever.

angst, fluff warnings/tags: this fic is about spencer's past addiction, and how he's afraid it will impact his relationship with his daughter, conversation about alcohol, this is a fix-it fic for my life, ends on a hopeful/positive note, lots of self-loathing from Spencer, uses the phrase "shooting up", PLEASE do not read if this is going to upset you!! PLEASE!! fem!reader a/n: this felt healing in a way for me but that might not be your experience reading if you also have issues with a parent with addiction so please tread lightly and make the right choices for you. CHOOSE YOUR MENTAL HEALTH OVER MY DUMB FANFIC I CAN'T STRESS THAT ENOUGH!! and ily

“Daddy?”

Ada’s not asking for you, but you look to her anyway. She’s squeezed between you and Spencer on Rossi’s swing, and her cheeks are still feverish—remnants of a recent and rather hysterical fit of giggles. She has a glass of lemonade between her little hands (you’re trusting her with a big girl cup, if only because it’s not your glass or your house) and she peers into it intently. Her little grass-stained feet kick. Spencer pushes the swing back ever so slightly, for her entertainment. 

“Huh?”

She holds her glass up for him. 

“Our drinks are the same color.”

“They are,” he nods. “Do you like yellow?”

Ada shrugs. It’s exaggerated—one of her favorite moves as of late. “It’s okay.”

Spencer glances at you like he always does when he sees glimpses of you in your child, eyes sparkling as if her opinionated and bluntly honest nature is in any way reminiscent of you. 

“Yeah, I agree. Yellow is just okay.”

She leans against him and he’s quick to accommodate her, affectionately brushing his knuckles over your bare shoulder as he slings his arm across the back of the swing. 

“Daddy?”

“What, lovebug?”

You smile, letting your head fall back and your eyes close. The sun is warm on your face. 

“Mommy’s drink is red.”

Nothing gets past her. Rossi had pushed the drink into your hand almost the second you stepped through the door, insisting it would go well with lunch. It sits otherwise untouched on the glass table. 

Spencer hums. The swing rocks gently. 

“That’s because she’s not having lemonade like us. She’s having a grownup drink.”

“Oh.”

You think that’s the end of it, that she’s satisfied with the answer, until another moment passes, and her voice, sweet as the tinkle of little fairy bells, is posing a very loaded question. 

“Why don’t you ever have grownup drinks? Me and you always have the same.”

Spencer’s already looking at you, brows drawn as you sit up. Your eyes, open now, go wide, and you shake your head slightly to signal you have no idea how he’s supposed to respond either. 

His hand goes to Ada’s hair, gently scratching her scalp as his eyes dart over your face. You can see the gears turning in his head. This is one of very few things he clearly didn’t read about in any of the literature on raising kids when you were pregnant. 

“I… some people don’t like grownup drinks.”

It’s an inadequate answer, especially coming from Spencer—just this morning he explained to Ada why the sky is blue. Rayleigh scattering. Blue light scatters more than any other kind of light. Which then led to an impromptu lesson on oxygen molecules and other basic chemistry in the car on the way here. 

So there are standards. 

“Why not?”

You interrupt, unable to watch Spencer flounder any longer. “Ada, why don’t you go see what Henry and JJ and Uncle Dave are doing? That looks fun, right?”

You gesture down the yard to where JJ and Rossi are teaching Henry to play cornhole. 

She looks at you with big brown eyes—the set of them, the color—those are all Spencer.

“Can you and daddy come?”

You straighten out her dress and take the half-full glass from her little hands, setting it next to your own on the table. 

“In a minute. Go ahead.”

Spencer’s hand slips from her hair as she pushes off the swing and bounds down the yard. You make sure she arrives to her destination without incident, before scooting closer to your husband and taking his vacant hand. 

“Spence?” You ask quietly, leaning in to try and insert yourself into his eye line. He doesn’t look away from Ada. 

“That was bad.”

“It wasn’t. She doesn’t understand. It’s fine.”

“I didn’t—”

He looks down, lips pressed together, and your heart twists and drops like overripe fruit from the vine as you realize his eyes have glossed over. 

“Baby,” you whisper, relinquishing his hand only so you can rub his back. Your other finds his knee, drawing as close as you possibly can. “It’s okay.”

“How am I supposed to explain it to her?”

A tear falls, making a dark splotch on the fabric of his pants. 

“You don’t have to. She’s only five. I guarantee she’s already forgotten all about it.”

“I will. I’ll have to tell her one day. She thinks I’m perfect, how am I supposed to—”

He stops himself, voice tightening to a halt. You watch him hold back a cry like you haven’t seen in years. It’s an old, familiar ache for you. You can’t imagine how it feels for him. 

“Spencer,” you coo. “She adores you. She loves you so much. That’s never going to change.”

His nose twitches. 

“I’m going to disappoint her.”

“How? How are you going to disappoint her?”

“I think it’s pretty disappointing to find out your dad is a junkie.”

His tone isn’t particularly harsh but the words are like a slap anyway. 

“Spencer…” For a moment you don’t know what else to say. It’s not a secret that he’s ashamed of that chapter in his life, but you had no idea he was contending with this much self-loathing over it, even after all this time. It seems like such a distant point in the rearview mirror that the two of you almost never need to talk about it anymore. “You are not a junkie. It’s been, what—a decade?”

“I don’t want to have to tell her what drugs are, let alone that I... she thinks I’m the smartest guy in the world, and one day I’ll have to tell her that drugs are extremely dangerous, and I was shooting up for four months anyway. No matter how I try to explain it to her the ultimate takeaway is going to be that I’m weak and I wasn’t smart enough and she’s never, ever going to forget that. How am I supposed to—I can’t be a role model for her. I fucked up so badly.”

Your chest aches, somewhere deep and hollow, as he leans forward, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, only for a moment—before Ada shrieks and his head snaps back up. Henry is chasing her with a worm. Spencer watches on, tears still leaking from his eyes and expression otherwise neutral. It’s bittersweet to hear him express such deep insecurity about the thing he’s best at in the world, even as those parental instincts kick in and he’s setting aside his own feelings to keep an eye on her. He’s never trusted himself. He’s never seen himself the way you do. 

“Baby, you are her dad and she loves you. Her love for you is not contingent on your past. You are so, so good to her. That’s all she knows, okay? She doesn’t care what you were doing when you were 25. She cares about whether you’ll be home for dinner, and if you’ll play dolls with her, and if you’ll tuck her in. That’s all she needs to love you.”

JJ wrangles the kids and after a moment Spencer looks down again, brow furrowed deeply as drops like rain dot his lap, but he hardly makes a sound. You lay your cheek on his shoulder. “And until she’s old enough for the whole story, which involves a lot more violence than I am comfortable with her being subjected to right now, you don’t need to explain it to her. You have time.”

“She wants to know now.”

“She also wants icecream for every meal. But I can’t make her understand why that’s a bad idea. What she wants and what she needs and what she is capable of understanding are all different categories. I know you love answering all her questions, and you’re a really good teacher, but you can’t make her understand something as complex as addiction.”

Spencer sniffs. 

“Developmentally she’s only really capable of understanding the world as it exists in relation to herself.”

“Exactly. So give her some time, and give yourself some time.”

“What if she asks again?”

“Then… you say you don’t like how it makes you feel. And tell her to clean up her toys. Condition her to stop asking.”

Spencer stumbles over a teary laugh he hadn’t been expecting. You sit up straight, holding his face between your hands and encouraging him to look at you. His cheeks shine with tears, but you wipe them away tenderly. 

“You’re perfect to her,” you whisper, pressing a kiss to one cheek, “and you’re perfect to me.” He cups your elbow as you kiss the other and looks at you with so much sheer adoration you could get all choked up, too.

“Wow,” he sniffles, and takes a deep breath, pulling you into him, “I don’t deserve you.”

“Of course you do,” you mumble into his shirt, eyes fluttering shut as he presses three kisses to the curve of your neck where he’s buried his face. 

“I could be canonized as a saint and not deserve you.”

Sainthood. You ponder that. 

Saints have to live virtuously. They also have to be dead. 

You hold him a little tighter. You like him exactly how he is: technically imperfect. Probably not getting into heaven. Still venerable. Very much heroic. Alive, and with you.

“I’m really glad you’re not a saint.”

He chuckles. His hand slides up your back, and then side to side—a path it’s made time and time again which has only ever led you to wonderful, perfect places.

“Me too.”

[franzthemeerkat]

I said in the tags how online community can't replace an in person community and it can't but also I remembered the last time I was on tumblr I had a community of people who were all fans of a fanfic and we spent so much time together and they were so supportive and I've had friends for over a decade because of it so I would like to revise that and apologize to online communities, you rock.

Last night I read the next Camboy Molloy chapter then went to tumblr and saw like 3 or 4 posts excited that the fic had updated. It was like microdosing the experience of live TV where you all watch the new episode at the same time and you go in to school the next morning and everyone's talking about and it genuinely truly unironically filled me with so much joy.