#I thought i was moving on from tog

[deiaiko]

“That must have been hard.” Khun deflated. It was , because of course it was. Every waking moment Khun existed without Baam felt meaningless and wine was the easiest thing he could find in this world to numb that pain. The bottom of the bottle had felt like his only escape. He recalled how every sober moment felt like a nightmare and being drunk felt like it was the only way to survive in this hollow life. Prior to his death, Baam had been his cooling touch. He’d been the waves in which Khun would allow himself to drown in. He was the antidote to take the pain away. But, with the other gone, Khun felt like he had to placate the fire another way. He’d let the bitter taste soothe his hell. He’d let it drag him down until his head was submerged in its stupor. In fact, he smiled as he poisoned himself over and over again; almost begging this world to play with his fate the same way the Tower did.

< Previous

> Next

[ayoyoungg]

Me: *excited Tower of God is back*

Also me: *thinks Tower of God is best when read in arcs*

[artethyst]

~ Leaves In A Sky Full Of Stars ~

Eris Vanserra x Rhysand’s Sister!Reader/OC

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊ ✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊

“Remind me again why we are here?” Eris grumbled, signature frown plastered upon his unamused face.

“Because,” you enunciated, turning you attention to the babbling bundle secured in your Mate’s arms, his innocent eyes drinking up the frosty scenery around him in awe. “Just look at how happy he is!”

As if to further your argument, little Silas appeared squeal in agreement, his tiny legs kicking in glee as the High Lord carefully adjusted his hold on his delighted son- the boy’s excitable wriggling sending his already paranoid heart racing.

He thought he looked ridiculous.

Togged up in Winter attire- even though he could regulate his own temperature, you had insisted he don the furs of the Court you had travelled to as it would be “courteous”.

You thought he looked adorable.

His pale cheeks flushed, the rosiness only serving to bring attention to the delicate spattering of freckles across his tall nose- the fluffy material over his ears.

“My son looks absurd.”

“Our son looks absolutely darling!”

The boy in question too was swaddled, though instead in a mini snowsuit- little tufts of his red curls peeking from the soft fur that lined his puffy hood.

If he was squishable before, he was absolutely coddle worthy now.

His grabby hands were warm as ever, being unable to regulate his powers so young, the familiar heart emanating from his small body was a welcome comfort in Kallias’ court.

At first you were worried he was overheating, absolutely terrifying Eris one night when you shook him awake, frantic and near tears over the sleeping babe who was content as could be- his father’s curls wild with sleep and chubby cheeks flushed in innocent delight.

“Eris he’s burning up!” You were hanging off your groggy husband’s bicep in terror, watching his tired face meld into one of exasperation as you both were comically peering over the babe. “I-I think he has a fever- we must get the Healer-”

“My Love,” he let out, a tired smile on his wearied face, “it is normal for an Autumn babe. Ask my mother, it was the same for me as was with all of my brothers.”

“But-“

“Darling, he is fine,” he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple whilst securing his hand around your waist, his other moving to hover over the baby’s rosy cheeks, absorbing some of the heat so his little face became a complexion your heart could handle. “See?”

You sighed, your thumb coming to skin over the perfect cheek of your infant, not wanting to leave him.

“Can…Can we have him in our room?”

Eris sighed, unable to prevent a tender half smile gracing his features.

“I thought we agreed with the Healers that it was best for him to remain in his own chambers, hmmm?”

You huffed, pouting up at your husband with those twinkling violet eyes he had never once had the strength to deny.

“I am High Lady am I not? I can do as a like.” You stuck your nose in the air as Eris chuckled lowly, careful to not disturb the cooing babe who gently stirred in his cot, with an attitude he could only compare to your brother’s.

“If it will settle your ridiculous fears, My Star, I will bring him to our chambers.”

“You’re only saying that because you wish to go to back sleep.”

“Who am I to argue with my High Lady, hmm?”

That seemed like so long ago, the babe in question now able to babble in almost intelligible sentences and hold up the weight of his own head.

“Viviane and Kallias are our friends-“

“Your friends. Frankly, I would much rather-“

“High Lord. High Lady.” Eris was cut off by a warm voice- starkly opposed to his icy appearance. Kallias’ strong hand was mirthfully brought to Eris’, who shook it back with a mirroring fervour despite his earlier words.

You had to fight back a laugh, struggling to ignore the vexation he was hurtling down the bond.

Behave, you spoke into his mind, you should be grateful they invited such a grumpy Firehead as you into their home.

You didn’t have to look back at your husband to know he had rolled his eyes, adjusting Silas on his hip as he begrudgingly followed Kallias, an undeniable ghost of smile on his downturned lips as his son began cooing in awe at the glimmering structure they were entering.

“Dada!” He grinned, his little dimple pulling Eris from his mood, “brrrr!” A chubby finger pointed at the glacial carvings as he mimicked the noise you had been teaching him to help learn the seasons.

“Yes Silas, very clever. It is indeed cold.” Eris pressed a light kiss to Silas’ head, causing the babe to giggle, the noise a welcome salvation to the High Lord.

“Brrr!Brrr!”

“Precisely why I wanted to stay in Autumn…” Eris mumbled, agreeing with his son continued to note how freezing the temperature was.

“Brrr!”

At the sweet sound, you smiled back at the pair, pausing your conversation with Kallias to look upon your favourite boys, so alike in appearance it was sometimes scary.

“He wants you to say it,” you watched as the older male’s face contorted, perhaps finally understanding why his son kept repeating the noise. “He likes it when you copy him.”

“Brrr!” The boy said again, his wide eyes hopeful as he stared up at his father who, if anyone, could never deny his son.

“Yes Silas…Brrrr.” Eris relented, his voice notably dropping in volume as he made the noise, refusing to look you in the eye as you gave the other High Lord a wicked grin.

“You were not wrong High Lady,” Kallias smiled, “the High Lord of Autumn truly is powerless when it comes to his family.”

~

After a lengthy stroll around the grounds, you all joined Viviane in the drawing room. She squealed and brought you into a vivacious embrace, words tumbling from her mouth before you’d even had the chance to remove yourself from her iron grip.

“Oh I have missed you so! I have so much to tell you-“ it was then she let out a soft gasp, spotting Silas squirming in Eris’ arms. “Oh my! He has gotten so big!” She cried, moving to swoop him from Eris’ arms who you noticed was especially reluctant to hand him over.

You had noted that he had become increasingly territorial and protective over his son since his birth, at first thinking it was only because there had been a chance he was going to die, but even after Madja had saved him- you both, his worries had only grown.

You knew why.

Even if he never admitted it out loud. That despite everything- all his efforts to undo the suffering his father had caused, he still had many enemies.

Enemies that would love nothing more than to hurt him by taking away the things he loved most.

Silas frowned as he was transferred into the loud woman’s arms, his father’s infamous frown plastered ridiculously on his teeny tiny face.

Viviane attempted to make him smile, bouncing him on her hip and giving his little freckled cheek a gentle, cool peck.

“Do not mind him Vi,” you teased, finding your place in Eris’ free arms as he secured you against his chest immediately out of habit. “He has inherited more than just his looks from his father.”

And your words appeared to have a double meaning when your son’s grumpiness fell apart just as quickly as Viviane could coax it out of him with extra cuddles- just like The Lady of Autumn had assured you her own son had been a complete softie for at that age.

~

Eris payed little attention to the words Kallias was spewing- a proposed trade agreement that would be advantageous for both sides involved. He was far more focused on the glass of alcohol that was rather difficult to source in Autumn, hoping to be done sooner rather than later so he could spend some time with you and Silas without politics looming over his already troubled mind.

He took a small swig from his goblet, relaxing as the liquid warmed his throat, his slender hand coming to skim against his jaw as he read over the papers he had been presented with.

“You are lucky Eris,” Kallias spoke with honesty, causing the auburn haired male to look up at him and follow the other male’s eye-line to the grand window which displayed the winter gardens below where the two females and young boy were playing. “I remember a time where many High Lords- myself included, would have done anything for the Princess’ hand.”

Though a harmless comment, it made Eris’ blood boil. His possessiveness never once dwindling since the bond had first snapped for him all those centuries ago.

“I know.” Was all he replied, a smugness to his tone which complimented his signature smirk which did not fail to falter his façade. “I am a very lucky male indeed.”

“Years ago my wife told me she wished she possessed the kind of love you both do,” his tone was wistful as he watched his own mate with a biting fondness in his eye. “A passionate, suffocating kind of bond. One I was once afraid might melt a heart such as mine.”

“Careful, High Lord,” Eris’ smirk grew, “from experience, I must advise you. It is never wise to deny a lady’s desires.”

Kallias laughed, removing his gaze from Viviane who was making delicate snowflakes and sending them gently whirring against Silas’ button nose which had turned pink from the cold.

“We are trying for one ourselves…” Eris interpreted from his tone that it was a difficult subject, Fae pregnancies were rare and testing, even without the stresses of ruling a Court. “We can only hope they will be as much as a blessing as young Silas.”

It was Eris’ turn to become wistful then, focusing on his own Mate, even from afar catching the charming blush atop her fresh complexion as she twirled about the snow with their son.

Their son.

A phrase he had never thought he’d have the pleasure of saying.

“You are a steadfast man, Kallias. Your wife brings so much joy to my own I can only begin to imagine what a delight your offspring would bring her.”

Kallias knew that was as close as any compliment he could wrangle from the man, so clasped him on the shoulder with a heartfelt nod as Eris moved beside him, freshly signed papers left on the desk as they both stared at their entire worlds.

Eris knew, in that moment, watching as his son waddled across the pale terrain to his mother, who crouched down with awaiting arms, the expression he loved most written all over her breathtaking face, that there was nothing worth living for, if not them.

[777heavengirl]

the one where it's 2 in the morning

sirius black x reader ! - 944 words masterlist bags masterlist

"What are you doing? It's two in the bloody morning-" Sirius padded towards you, the light from the crescent moon raining in through the windows. Your eyes flickered over to his figure, his fingers rubbed circles in his eyes as he walked away from his room, his inky black locks gaining a blue hue from the moon. But as he got closer the yellow light of the lamp next to you warmed his features. You'd never get tired of watching him like this. Domestic and pliable, no smirks of mischief on his face, no ulterior glint in his eye. Just Sirius, shirtless and tired, throwing himself unceremoniously on the couch beside you. 

"Did I wake you?" Your words were barely above a whisper, so as not to disturb the silence of the night. He mumbled a no, muffled by the soft cushion of the couch where he had buried his head. His hair bled over onto your lap, his arm following suit as he pulled and brought himself closer. His head was on your lap, now buried between the thick blanket and your sweater.

"What're you doing" You hesitated answering, praying he'd be clueless to the newspaper in your hand and the red pen that had circled the prospective jobs you were looking at. 

"Nothing much- why are you awake?" 

"Because you are- don't change the subject let me see-" He lifted his head slightly, glaring at the muggle newspaper before ripping it from your hands. It wasn't violent by any means but he stood swiftly from the couch, his body rocking as he fought off the remainder of sleep and the rush of getting up so quickly. His hand held the newspaper tall above him, out of your reach. "oi why are we looking at jobs?" 

"I was using that Sirius," you tried clawing up to get it, chest to chest as the tips of your toes proved to be unsteady. "I'm looking for a job because I need it-"

"I thought I told you not to- we've been at this for two years now doll" He let the newspaper fall behind him and wrapped his arms around you, the way he did when he wanted to convince you to take the tube instead of apparating. The way he held you when the metro shook and rocked you and he'd whisper in your ear. You prayed to the stars above he couldn't see the rush of heat on your face.

"I can't not do anything, Sirius, I've been thinking of taking up a ministry job-" He groaned, letting his head fall onto your shoulder, his body slumped and lethargic.

"I don't know what part of I'll take care of everything I have a trust fund isn't getting through your thick skull-" 

"What will I do when you move on with your life then mhm?" The words left your mouth before you could think twice, your hesitation and insecurities spilling from you like water from a fountain. He lifted his head now, unpeeling himself and standing in front of you with his loose stance and eyes locked into yours as if daring you to even finish your sentence. And you did. His hand clung to your wrist. "When you go off and marry no doubt some French model-" his brows furrowed, his eyes changing into something you couldn't figure out. "And move out, will you take care of me then? I can't be a burden to you when you finally… you know"

Your eyes trained on each other and silence swept over you.

"Leave-"

Sirius could feel the heap of bricks at the pit of his stomach. Heavy with something akin to sadness. He couldn't believe this was what you had been thinking. Had he done anything to make you think he'd leave? He thought of the last time James came over, the soon-to-be father making some stupid remark about how old habits die hard and you're still not unpacking everything? You have a home now you know? He’d have to fix that… What if you moved out first? What would he do then?

He tried to look away now, not being able to bear your gaze on his. Because when you acted like he could live without you, away with someone else, in some other apartment that would never be as warm and comfortable as the one you had lived in together, he could feel the words claw at his throat from the inside. A confession poisoning him from the inside out. 

But then you poked at his side. And he locked eyes with you again.

With your warm eyes that made him feel like he was home, like he belonged. You had always looked at him that way. Even when he teased and pulled at your hair at 11, even when you had to help heal his wounds when he ran away at 16. So he decided that he'd keep it inside again. He decided he'd finish unpacking his trunk tomorrow. After two years. Because you are his home.

"That won't happen anytime soon doll-"

"You don't know that-"

"Trust me, I'd never leave you" You felt your heart in your throat at his words, but nodded. You'd bicker about it more some other day, the late hour bearing down on your resolution. You made sure to remember to get the newspaper after Sirius went to bed again, fold it, and bury it between books. You knew he wouldn't truly be mad, because you knew deep down he knew the day would come as well, when one of you would have to leave first. 

But you knew it would never be you.

[lycandrophile]

some thoughts about top surgery recovery, as of 3 days post-op:

when they say using your chest muscles sucks afterward, i never realized exactly how much was going to be be limited. coughing, sneezing, hiccuping, laughing — all of it is terrifying right now. even talking for too long starts to put that kind of stress on my chest, and my voice isn’t as strong as it usually is. it takes me forever to fully empty my bladder when i’m on the toilet because i’m totally relying on gravity to do all the work (and shitting was effectively impossible without a stool softener even though i haven’t taken the pain meds they said i would need them for)…and don’t even get me started on figuring out how to wipe (hint: back to front while sitting, using my dominant hand to push my non-dominant hand far back enough). using the computer is also harder — i was planning on playing lots of baldur’s gate after, but for the first couple days i could only really go for a few minutes before using my arms that way got too tiring. having a mastectomy pillow has been an absolute godsend when i’m using my phone because i can prop my arms up on it and not really have to use any muscles at all to hold them up.

the biggest piece of not being able to use my chest muscles right now, which i’m writing separately because it’s been such a huge thing for me, is that i cannot sit up or back by myself at fucking all. like, if i sit on the couch and lean back a bit to sit against the cushion, it hurts to pull myself back up to fully straight — and if i’m leaning back any more than that, i just can’t do it at all and i’m stuck there unless my boyfriend puts their hands behind me and pushes my dead weight back up. i totally get why some people sleep in a recliner now because i’m completely at the mercy of having someone there to help move me around once i’m at any sort of angle. sitting back is mostly the same as far as what i can do, and arguably hurts worse to attempt at all, but my ability to do it seems to be coming back faster than my ability to sit up. if you’ve never had your mobility limited to that extent before, prepare yourself: the first time you’re stuck somewhere and the person who normally helps you doesn’t answer immediately can be really fucking scary (i learned that the hard way).

the anesthesiologist warned me that i might have a sore throat after surgery from being intubated, but i was not prepared for what “sore throat” ended up meaning for me. you know that feeling of swallowing something that’s too big and you can still feel it in your throat even after it’s down? it’s like that times 20, and further down in my throat. the worst pain i’ve felt in the last three days wasn’t from the surgery itself, it was from trying to swallow pancakes when my throat was at it’s worst. today is the first day it’s even started to fade, and even now, it hurts just to swallow my own spit. i don’t know about you, but that’s not what comes to mind when someone tells me “you might have a sore throat”.

on that note, the incisions themselves have really been the least painful part in general, probably because the nerves there aren’t reconnected yet. the vast majority of my pain and discomfort at this point has been from the drains and bandages — the drain sites getting sore or just randomly starting to sting, waking up feeling suffocated by the ace bandages, etc. it’s not because anything is wrong with them — the drains weren’t placed wrong and the bandages aren’t too tight, they’re just a huge pain in the ass to deal with 24/7. i can’t express how much i’m looking forward to getting the drains out and being able to take binder breaks because it’ll make things so much more comfortable.

my incisions are connected in the middle because my chest tissue was all really close together, and the part where the incisions connect is really the only part where i’ve felt any pain so far. i suspect it’s because the swelling on either side is making that part of the incision push together and press against itself, and then the binder pushes on it even more. it’s not a severe pain at all, but i do sometimes lift the center of the bandage off my chest for a second to give that spot a bit of a break.

i’ve already started getting some of the weird sensations associated with nerves reconnecting, and it definitely is wild. so far, it’s been mostly tingly feelings, sometimes like chills and sometimes more like a limb falling asleep. (weird observation: taking a shit makes my ribs tingle? i’ve got no good explanation for that one.) i’ve gotten a zap on one side and some buzzing feelings too. it’s pretty mild right now, probably because it’s so early on.

i’ve also gotten what i would describe as phantom boob feelings, especially on the first night. specifically, when i close my eyes, sometimes i’ll feel like someone is touching or jiggling the boobs i don’t have anymore. definitely not a super pleasant experience, but i think being out of it from the anesthesia still really helped me not be too upset by the worst of it. i’ve gotten a couple little phantom nipple touches too, but those were just split second blips of sensation that were far less bothersome in comparison.

i never realized that the classic post-op hunch is caused more by the binder than by the body itself, but we had to take all of my bandages off the night after my surgery to send pictures of something to my surgeon, and i was shocked by how much straighter i could sit with everything off. i was definitely still hunched, but it was more like a natural slouch and less like i looked like i was using an invisible walker. with the binder on, it’s super uncomfortable for me to try to stand straight at all because it feels like the ace bandage doesn’t come with my body and just drags everything down, and i’m always holding my mastectomy pillow or my hands to my chest while i walk around to stop it from feeling like gravity is going make the bandage tear my chest open.

every so often, when things are getting especially painful or uncomfortable or just generally difficult, i do start to wonder if i made the right choice. not because i regret getting rid of those things — not by a long shot — but because it’s a fucking hard process to go through. this is probably the hardest thing for me to admit, but the rational part of my mind knows it’s natural to feel that way once in a while. all of this is temporary and the relief from dysphoria will be permanent, but right now? this is my entire world and it doesn’t feel particularly temporary and i do have moments of “why do i have to go through all this when other people get to just have the right body from the start? why couldn’t i just live with what i had? why can’t i just be living my normal life right now?” no matter how sure you are of your choice, no matter how proud you are of being trans, this shit is hard and it’s okay to feel that.

i’m going to put the pictures of my chest one day post-op under the cut, because i think it’s pretty rare to see pictures from that soon after the surgery. they’re not gorey at all — the actual incisions are totally covered by steri strips and everything around them is clean — but still, if you don’t want to see relatively fresh surgery results, don’t look under the cut.

for all the discomfort and pain and limitations and other weirdness of recovery, every time i look at these pictures it reminds me of exactly why i’m doing all of this, and i’m so glad i kept fighting for this for so long. some people might never understand why someone would choose to go through this whole process, but i know it’ll be worth it in the end.

here’s my chest one day post-op! i think it looks super good and my surgeon said it looks like it’s healing perfectly (as much as it can be healing at one day). for reference, my chest was a DDD/F before surgery. i know this isn’t how my chest will look in the end, but i’m already thrilled with how things are turning out! i’ve truly never been more confident in my choice of surgeon — like, come on! look at that! she did so good!

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Javi’s Playground✨

A/N: Ahhh I’ve been wanting to write a Javi one shot for a while, and I finally got the inspiration after listening to “Sex & Candy” by Marcy Playground. Thank you to @mountainsandmayhem for helping me come up with a name and beta read so I didn’t chicken out and not post 😘 This is my first time writing Javi, so I’d like as much feedback as I can get 🥰 I tried my best with the Spanish translations.

Summary: Javi decides to blow off some steam at the strip club, but he doesn’t intend to attempt to take one of the dancers home with him.

Pairing: Javier Pena x fem! reader

Word Count: 3.2k

Rating: Explicit (18+ MDNI)

Tags: smut, flirting, Javi goes to a strip club, alcohol, smoking, unprotected p in v, oral, Narcos era, reader is a stripper, reader has long hair, switching POVs, some Spanish (translations at bottom of doc)

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

The glow of the amber lights swirl above his head as a crystal disco ball spins slowly, throwing its sparkly essence into the crowded strip club. This isn’t his normal place, Paradise Cove. It’s only a distraction, a secret alcove to let go of any thoughts of drug lords, innocent bloodshed, Pablo Escobar, or any traces of misery he’s been holding on to over the past treacherous year. This was a place for forgetting, relaxing the mind, indulging in mere fantasies he could only wish to grasp his torn hands around. So he’d drink, smoke, and indulge in beautiful women in peace on this lonely Friday evening. 

   The red walls are smeared with flecks of sparkles, and the atmosphere is bursting with energy and dim lighting. The cool glass of amber whiskey sits in his hand as he gulps down another swig, letting the burn coat his insides as he flicks the small lighter and lights up another Marlboro cigarette. He lets the smoke surround him, fogging his vision as he inhales the nicotine and lets it sit there dwindling around him in a blur. Just for a couple of seconds, just enough to take the edge off of his growing migraine. 

   He throws his head back and exhales, blowing the smoke out as the music changes over to a tune he knows. “Sex & Candy” by Marcy Playground starts to play from the blaring speakers, the song slowly slipping through his ears as he sits up just a little straighter in the black leather chair. 

   The crowd hollers when the next girl takes the stage, low whistles reverberating off the side mahogany tables as the volume of the music picks up. He doesn’t realize what they’re all making a fuss about until he looks up and sees you. The most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. Esplendida. 

   You’re so radiant, the way you strut across the stage in your crystal clear stiletto high heels as you spin in slow motion, running your fingers through your thick, long curls as you look over your shoulder and flirt with the crowd. Your legs are so long, the curve of your thighs begging to be touched as you sway your hips side to side and get lost in the song.

   And then there she was, in platform double suede. Yeah, there she was. Like disco lemonade.

   He can’t help but grip the damp glass in his hands a little too tight as he spreads his legs wide and relaxes into the plush leather, his eyes glued to you as you slide down the pole gracefully. He wets his lips as his tongue glides across his bottom lip, his cigarette burning his flared nostrils as he oogles the way you please the crowd with every single move you make across the reflective stage. 

   He watches the way you push the swell of your breasts up with your delicate hands, eyes the tiny black lingerie set that barely covers your porcelain skin, assesses the way the lacy thong skims across the curve of your hips, and nearly drowns on his sip of bubbling whiskey as you bend down and show off the thick globes of your ass. 

   Javi sets the half empty glass of alcohol down beside him on the little sturdy table and grabs his denim clad knee as he sinks his nails into the fabric, trying to hold himself together as he listens to the track play through the massive club, watching the way you keep turning and finding his searing gaze. 

   I smell sex and candy here. Who’s that lounging in my chair? Who’s that casting devious stares in my direction? Mama, this surely is a dream. 

   His brown eyes blow wide every time you turn and wink his way, casually flirting as you flip your hair and bite your lower lip, sending him spiraling as he feels the blood rush to his cock in his tight jeans, feeling just how hard he is now as his thick cock presses into the metal of the zipper. It’s like you know what you’re doing, sparkling eyes penetrating his gaze as you flirtatiously bat your long mascara coated eyelashes and eye fuck him from the glowing stage, making sure he’s getting exactly what he came her for. To feel good, to indulge in his fantasies, to make him think you want him. But customers don’t get to take strippers home. That’s not how this business works, not how it’s supposed to run, unless… 

   You slide slowly down the metal pole, ending up on the floor of the lit up stage as you spread your legs wide and tease him just a little as you play with the straps of your panties and press your heels into the floor, giving him a view that just about takes him out. He leans his elbows against his knees, rakes a hand through his thick mustache as he groans into the palm of his hand while sweat sticks to his tanned forehead. 

   He loves the view that’s on display, loves the outline of your pussy as he swears he can see wetness pooling there in between your legs while you sit there and tease him with the biggest smirk on your face he’s ever seen in his life. Those red, plump lips, those glistening thighs that deserve to be kissed, that pulsing core that begs to be lapped up. He can see it now, you splayed out on his bed while he fucks you deep, bottoming out as you scream his name, claw at his tanned skin as you beg for more. He’d take care of you. God he would. And fuck does he want to. Desesperadamente. 

   He can feel the precum sliding against his thick length, can feel just how badly he wants to palm himself through his tight denim as he watches you fall apart on the stage before him. At this point he has no restraint, can barely sit here and watch as you start to crawl on your hands and knees toward him, hypnotizing eyes that lock on his as he leans forward and unfastens the black tie that clings to his button-up white collared shirt. 

   His eyebrows furrow, lips parting unbelievably as you curl your finger and beckon him to come to the side of the stage, your gaze flicking over his figure as he prays you don’t see the erection that’s begging for some kind of release that’d involve hands, or maybe a mouth, a warm tongue…

   He takes another drag of the sweet nicotine and pushes himself out of the leather chair, slowly trudging up to you as he lets his eyes trail generously over your perfect body. When he finally makes it over to the end of the glossy stage, he sees just how beautiful your eyes really are, eyes that were just eye fucking him seconds ago, eyes he’d love to gaze into while he cants his hips against yours roughly. Eyes he could lost in, swim in.

   You smirk his way, letting your hands run through your tousled curls as you flutter thick eyelashes up at him. He digs into the pit of his denim pocket and pulls out a crisp twenty dollar bill as he cautiously slides it inside the lace of your push-up bra, his fingertips grazing the edge of one of your perky breasts as he groans in response. Your skin is so soft, he thinks what you have underneath the lace will be even softer, divine, delicious. 

   You bite your bottom lip flirtatiously and play with the end of his loose tie, letting the silk slip through your fingertips as he watches in a blissed out daze. You could’ve chosen anyone to target, could’ve had attention from any of the sleazy men in this nightclub, but you chose him. The one with the flecks of honey eyes, the one that couldn’t keep his eyes off you for one second, the handsome stranger who must’ve been new to this place. 

   “You new here?” you ask curiously as you eye his stance, watching the way his eyes seem to light with burning fire every time he even dares to look your way. 

   “Been here once or twice before, but this is the first time I’m seeing you, hermosa.” He lets his dark eyes slide down your body, a smirk curling across his plush lips as he leans in closer, until you can smell the tinge of nicotine lacing through his taste buds. “You sure look good up on that stage, amar. Prettiest thing I’ve seen in a city like San Francisco.”

   “Oh? You like what you see?” you blush as you hang your legs off the end of the stage, just enough to brush his thighs as you feel how strong they are. 

   “Oh, I like what I see alright. Jodidamente perfecta.”

   You feel your cheeks burn bright red, feel your thighs clench up as you see how thick his fingers are, how dark and ravenous his eyes look, how hard he is underneath the fabric of his tight jeans. You don’t ever get this wound up about customers, but something about well dressed, smoldering men makes you want to lose all dignity and throw yourself at him. He must be so good in bed. With the way he’s staring at you, all hot and bothered, he may as well just carry you out of this club. Even if it’s technically against the rules. 

   “What’s your name, handsome?” you ask as you brush your heels against the side of his ankles and watch him tense up under your touch. 

   “Javier. Just call me Javi for short, though. And yours, hermosa?” You tell him your name, your real name, not your stripper name, even if that’s against the rules, too. You clearly don’t care about any fucking rules at this point. 

   “Ahh, that’s a gorgeous name. Telling me your real name, yeah? Aren’t you a little rule breaker,” he teases as he cocks up a thick eyebrow and slides his thumb over his lips as he brushes against his thick mustache. You wonder what it’d feel like with his mouth covering your core, his mustache brushing over your swollen clit as he licks and licks until you come apart on his large tongue. 

   You pull yourself out of ridiculous wet fantasies and watch the smoke fall off his tongue. “I live to break rules,” you tease as you pull him closer, catching the end of his black tie as he’s so close now that you can see the embers of brown flecks scatter across his dark eyes. He’s so handsome, you think you want to go home with him. 

   “That right, hermosa?” he asks as he takes another long drag of his cigarette and blows the smoke away from your face as that smug smirk still encases his playful teasing. 

   “That’s right,” you giggle as you gently curl your fingers over the wrist that holds the burning cigarette. 

   He watches you carefully, eyes full of trouble as he puffs out a breath and fills your nostrils with the stench of whiskey and nicotine. “What do you say, hermosa? Wanna take a tour of my bedroom tonight?”

   You carefully snag his lit cigarette from his outstretched hand and slide it in between your crimson lips, taking a slow drag of the cigarette as he watches you with dark, wide eyes and parted lips that shine with the gleam of amber colored whiskey. You gently blow out the smoke in his face and lean forward as you wrap your manicured fingers around his loosened tie. “You can give me money, yes, but what else? I have plenty of money. What is it that you want, handsome?”

   He grabs the cigarette from your open hand and takes a whiff of the nicotine, letting it blow right back into your face as you smell whiskey, smoke, and trouble fill your lungs.

   “Te deseo…” He says it slowly, meticulously like it’s the most sensual thing he’s ever said to a woman before. You don’t know what it means, but it damn sure sounds like you need to say yes. 

   Your eyebrows raise as you smile wide his way. “I don’t speak Spanish, handsome. But I think I want to say yes. Wanna indulge me in what exactly it is you want?”

   He takes another slow drag of his cigarette as he smirks your way. “I want you, hermosa. In my bed, underneath my body, so I can fuck you fast and hard. Wanna rip off that lace and devour your sweet pussy until I have you coming apart on my tongue. Wanna make love to the beauty that stole my heart away tonight.”

   Your breath hitches as you gasp out of breath, not realizing you clutched onto his leather belt and clenched your sticky thighs together as slick pools warmly in your lace. You should’ve known he was a handsome menace the first moment you saw him sitting there with his glass of cold whiskey and lit up cigarette. You should’ve fucking guessed. 

   His body is now too close to yours, chest pressed against yours as you stand shakily off the stage and feel just how bad he wants you through the fabric of his tight jeans. You can see that way his dark eyes flick over yours, feel the heavy breaths coming from his broad chest, smell the stench of trouble and nicotine lacing around your wrists as he slowly grabs a strand of hair and whispers your name into the shell of your ear. 

   It’s almost too much, almost enough to get you fired right on the spot until the music suddenly changes to a Rhianna song, signaling it was time for the next dancer to come out. You abruptly pull away from him as you feel the tension sit thick in the air, almost like a fog takes over and you can’t see anything clearly anymore. 

   It’s your time to go, to mingle with other clients, and he knows that, you can see it in the understanding of those big chocolate eyes that stare adamantly at you. You give him a flirtatious wave and brush up against his large arm as you whisper up to him, “I get off in an hour. Meet me in the back.”

   He watches you saunter off, half smiling as he realizes he got the girl. He never misses, almost never gets turned down, but this one he might want to see again. He can already tell he’ll want you to stick around, maybe even make you his. Maybe he won’t have to walk this lonely, overbearing life alone anymore. Maybe…. just maybe you’ll stay. Maybe he’ll let you stay. Maybe for a night, a month, a year, forever. 

   The smell of sweat covered bodies, vanilla scents of sensual movements and whiskey clad tongues fill the room as you move at a slow, passionate pace. His meaty hands and smooth tongue are everywhere, sliding down your neck, pulling your pebbled nipples into his warm mouth, and lapping thoroughly at the slick between your sticky thighs. 

   Your moans come in sync. Elated, deafening, ravenous every time he licks a thick stripe over your dripping core. He groans each time you rake your fingers through his mess of dark locks, your pleasurable moans filling the room every time he pulls your puffy clit into his mouth as his thick fingers curl up into the spongy walls that make you see blinding stars in your vision. He doesn’t stop even after the first time you come for him, spilling all your pent up slick as he laps up every single drop between your thighs. 

   He pulls out another mind blowing orgasm with his experienced tongue alone, and he doesn’t even give you a minute to breathe before he’s splitting you in two with the slick cock that fills you to the brim, bottoming out in you time and time again until you feel him everywhere in your system, like the nicotine and whiskey that fill his lungs night after lonely night. He licks into your mouth, his smooth tongue dancing along with yours until you can’t taste anything but the tang of neat whiskey and toxic nicotine that bleed into your bloodstream, tasting like sweet addiction and danger, a lover in disguise. 

   You’re already close again, almost spilling yourself around his thick cock as he bends your knees back and folds you like an acrobatic so you can feel him deep, rough every single time he snaps his hips against yours and buries his face into your neck with furrowed eyebrows as he sucks and bites against the base of your neck. 

   “Come for me again, hermosa. There you go, such a good fucking girl. Let me feel you again. Squeezing so tight around my fucking cock,” he growls as he guides his thumb down to your clit and starts to circle nice and slow, the pressure building in your spine as you start to let go. 

   “Javi,” you moan as you scratch your long nails down his bare back, clawing at his tanned skin every time he guides his slick cocks inside you, reaching that spongy spot that makes you plead and moan with every thrust of his hips. 

   “Attagirl, hermosa. Tan encantadora,” he pants as sweat covers his glistening forehead. Once, twice, three more tight circles on your bundle of nerves and you’re squeezing his cock, spilling yourself all over him as you moan loudly into his ear as he comes seconds after, throwing his head back as he groans with pleasure as thick ropes of white come paint your insides. 

   He topples over next to you in the damp, twisted sheets and pulls you against his broad chest while his free hand lights a cigarette up while he gets lost in the thick cloud of nicotine and musty sex. While he sucks on the addictive stick of nicotine, his dark eyes wade over you as his lips graze warmly over your sweat covered forehead. 

   “Did so good for me, hermosa. You wanna stay the night? I can get you all cleaned up in the morning, and we can go for breakfast. Maybe eat you out on the kitchen counter while I make you coffee. What do you say, hermosa?”

   You shift closer against his side, sliding your fingers over his glistening chest as his deep breaths fill the void in the spacious room. You flick your eyes up to him and study him, watching the way he inhales smoke and stares warmly down your way, like he’s in a lucid dream just watching the girl of his dreams. “You mean like… you want to keep seeing me? This wasn’t a one time thing?”

   His jaw goes slack as his lips parts open, putting the burning cigarette out on the pale blue ash tray on the edge of his mahogany nightstand. “That’s right, hermosa. A sweet, beautiful, gorgeous girl like you deserves more, and I want to give you that. If you’ll let me.”

   You take in his offer, your fingers threading through his as you crawl over him and graze your swollen red lips against his. “Okay then, Javi. Show me your world.”

   He cups the back of your neck and brings you down to his lips as he slots his tongue between your lipstick smeared lips, pulling you deep into him as you taste every shade of red he can paint you, coating you in desire you’ve only ever dreamed of. 

   He tasted like sex and candy, and you were just getting started. 

If you enjoyed this fic, please consider reblogging or commenting or leaving me asks 🩷

Spanish Translations:

Hermosa - beautiful

Esplendida - gorgeous

desesperadamente - desperately

jodidamente perfecta - fucking perfect

Tan Encantadora - so lovely

Tags: @keylimebeag @sawymredfox @littlevenicebitch69 @milla-frenchy @aurorawritestoescape

@vivian-pascal @msjarvis @amyispxnk @jasminedragoon @burntheedges

@akah565 @princesatracionera @rav3n-pascal22 @604to647 @pedrostories

@syd-djarin @tuquoquebrute @r3dheadedwitch

[shadowqueenjude]

Sluttiest quotes from Lorcan

Omg RoWaN iS tHe HoTtEsT character in TOG!

“Come a little closer, and I’ll show you just what five centuries can do.” “Watch yourself, girl. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not in a week, but someday you will trip up. And I’ll be waiting." “No words, Prince?” “I move quickly.” “Assassins, whores, traitors—what fine company you keep these days, Rowan.” “Is that what you thought of us? All those years that we worked together, killed men and bedded females together? I never heard you complain.” “Run, you stupid fool,” Lorcan hissed, hauling him from the fuse. Aedion was crouched over it, his bloody hands steady as he grasped the flint and struck. Once. Twice. Then a spark, and a flame that went roaring off into the darkness. They ran like hell. “Faster,” Lorcan said, and Aedion caught up to them, taking Rowan’s other arm and adding his strength and speed. Down the passage. Past the broken iron gates, into the sewers. There was not enough time and space between them and the tower. And Aelin— The bond stretched tighter, splintering. No. Aelin— They heard it before they felt it. The utter lack of sound, like the world had paused. Followed by a cracking boom. “Move,” Lorcan said, a barked order that had Rowan blindly obeying just as he had for centuries. "Gavriel is still my brother. I would have faced him with dishonor if I had let his son die.” “I have my skills, just as you have yours.” “Bigger tits won’t prove or hide anything.” “Come, wife.” “Would you like me to kill him for you?” “If you want to survive, you have to be willing to do what is necessary.” “As far as anyone’s concerned, you’re still my wife.” "I will always find you. I promise." “I wanted to go to Perranth with you.” “I have loved you from the moment you picked up that axe to slay the ilken. I will be with you always." “I will marry you, Elide Lochan. And proudly call myself Lord Lorcan Lochan, even when the whole kingdom laughs to hear it. And when we are wed, I will bind my life to yours. So we will never know a day apart. Never be alone, ever again.” Lorcan Salvaterre, commander of the cadre? More like commander of my heart.

[theyhavetakenovermylife]

“Eneste” (Angst)

Bayverse!Raphael x reader

A/N: I’ve been wanting to make another songfic for a while now, and I like this song, so I thought; why not? I think it is kinda fun to do it with Danish songs, ngl, hehe. Anyway, hope you’ll enjoy❤️

Song: “Eneste” by Joey Moe.

Danish song with English translation provided.

Warnings: Break up, stick and poke tattoos.

Rødt lys, alt stoppede bare, da du tog dine ting og du tog væk her fra / Åbenlyst, så sårbar, burde starte forfra men det går bare ikke.

(Red light, all just stopped, when you took your things and you went away from here / Obvious, so vulnerable, should start over but it just doesn’t work).

There was no other way about it. No roundabout explanation Raph could give anyone, in some last effort attempt to lessen what was so obvious. Raph had fucked up. He had done the exact thing he promised you he wouldn’t do and broke your heart. He should probably at least try to move on, but he just couldn’t. It just didn’t feel right. Just the thought of moving on felt useless to Raph. It just wouldn’t work. Nothing seemed to work without you in his life.

It was so dumb. Raph could easily had done better, yet he hadn’t. He had done the wrong things, said the wrong things, and now you were gone. It happened so quickly. You were fighting. You were pointing out what Raph had done - the thing he himself knew he had done but just wouldn’t admit. Instead he lied, and when you called him out, he had yelled at you, calling you all sorts of horrible things. He had been caught, and now he was somehow trying to shift the blame onto you. Raph had never done such a thing before, and so you were taken aback when he let all his anger out, aiming it straight at you with punches in the form of words like bullets.

When silence finally fell, Raph finally realized what he had done. But it was too late. It was done. You had already started packing your things, refusing to look him in the eyes or speak to him. Even as Raph clung to you, begging you not to leave, telling you how sorry he was and how wrong it was of him, with tears threatening to fall from his eyes, you ignored him. And as you left Raph’s room in a hurry, before quickly making your way out the lair, not speaking a word to anyone you passed, fearing you would break down, Raph’s world stopped. He just stood there, in his room, staring after you.

Søvnløs, natten er der foroven, ordene ligger på tungen, men jeg kan kun forstumme / Hul i byen, men jeg kan knap nok gå med et hjerte, der er så tungt.

(Sleepless, the night above, the words are laying on the tongue, but I can only remain silent / Hole in the city, but I can hardly walk with heart, that is so heavy).

That had been several days ago now. And though Raph regretted not following you, and not trying a little harder to make you stay, Raph did not try to go for you now. Instead he would stay in his bed at night, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep, thinking of all the things he wanted to tell you. How he would hold you close, and cry to you, and tell you how sorry he was. Finally take responsibility for what he did and what he said, and prove to you that he had learned. That he was willing to become better for you. Yet Raph found himself unmoving in his room at night.

On the nights where Leo managed to pull Raph out of his room and force him out on patrol, Raph did everything in his power to avoid you home. But should Raph somehow find himself forced to be somewhere close to where you lived, he would stare in the direction he knew he would be able to find you. And should Raph somehow be able to see your window, he would hope and pray in silence that you would look out and see him. Hoping that if you saw him, you would call for him, telling him that you forgave him. But you never did. And Raph remained unmoving, staring at your window, unable to walk until all three of his brothers pulled him away, forcing him to turn his back on your window.

Der ku’ være 1 mili, 2 mili, 3 mili, 4 milliarder derude / men jeg bli’r derhjemme til duften af dig på min pude.

(There could be 1 bil, 2 bil, 3 bil, 4 billion out there / but I’m staying at home to the smell of you on my pillow).

At some point Raph’s brothers started asking him if it wasn’t about time that he went out with them. The NYPD was throwing something together at the headquarters, and maybe he could meet someone new there. Maybe Vern could throw a party together for them, and invite some people that Raph would be interested in. Maybe even April and Casey knew someone. As his brothers told him; “there’s plenty of fish out there. There’s probably someone else waiting out there for you”.

But Raph told them off, grunting dismissively at them and telling them to bucker off. Once he even threw a weight after Mikey, who had kept asking for a little too long, not taking the hint. Raph did not want to meet someone else. He didn’t want to find someone other than you. He did go with them to any of the parties or get-togethers they tried to drag him to. Instead he stayed in his room, with his head against the pillow that still smelled a little bit like you.

Så ta' mig med dig, la' mig vis dig, gi' mig lidt af det der gir' mig, sommerfugl og mave kriller, lær' mig lidt om alle de midler / der får hjertet til at banke, som er dagen lang / Jeg ved godt jeg åbnede Pandoras boks og nu er det slut med os / Men du er den eneste, eneste, eneste, eneste for mig.

(So take me with you, let me show you, give me a little of what gives me, butterflies, belly krill, teach me a little about all those remedies / that makes the heart beat, which is all day long / I know I opened Pandora's box and now it’s the end of us / But you are the only, only, only, only one for me).

Raph found himself thinking about you day in and day out, remembering all the good days the two of you had together. How you would give him that beautiful smile, that would cause an explosion of butterflies to erupt within, making him dizzy with happiness. Just having you around would send Raph to cloud nine, his heart beating so hard in his chest, that he was sure everyone around him could hear it. He loved you, and loved all the things your presence did to him.

But all that was gone now. Raph still loved you deeply. He still yearned for you, missing you everyday and every night. He cursed himself every night for what he had done. He caused this. He was the reason why you decided to end things between you. Raph only had himself to blame for causing the only person he had ever loved to leave him. The only person he would ever love. And now you were gone.

Den eneste, eneste, eneste, eneste og jeg tænker på om du mon kommer hjem / og hvis nej, om du så har glemt at / At jeg' den eneste, eneste, eneste, stadigvæk, yeah! / Dit navn der står med blæk for evigt yeah! / Dit navn det står på blæk og det er for evigt, yeah!

(The only, only, only, only one and I’m wondering if you might ever come home / and if not, if you then have forgotten that / That I (am) the only, only only, only one still, yeah! Your name that stands with ink forever yeah! / Your name that stands on ink and it’s forever, yeah!)

For a long time, Raph would pass the entrance to the lair, watching it, hoping that you at any moment would walk in, acting as if nothing was wrong. As if nothing had happened and you and Raph were still happy together. But you never entered the lair like Raph had hoped for. And as time passed on, Raph grew fearful. Had you forgotten him? Had you moved on? Had you forgotten all of your good memories together? Had you found someone else already? Had you decided that Raph was no longer the one for you, while he still found himself stuck on you, firmly believing that you were the one.

Raph found himself looking from the entrance to the ink on his wrist. A small heat at the top left of Raph’s left arm. The same kind of heart one would be able to find on your right wrist. Raph could clearly remember the day you sat with him in his room, having brought a needle for a stick and poke, along with a small bottle of black tattoo ink. That night the two of you had been sitting in Raph’s bed for hours, tattooing each other with the small needle. It was dumb and very stupid. Raph knew that his brothers and Splinter would freak out if they knew. One thing was to let Donnie tattoo him, but Donnie knew what he was doing. Heck, Raph could only imagine how your family would react to you coming home with a tattoo, made by your mysterious boyfriend. But you didn’t care. You were in love, giggling and giving each other many sweet kisses as you tattooed each other.

But now, there were no more giggles and no more kisses. Only silence and longing, along with the aching feeling in Raph’s heart whenever he looked at his wrist, at a permanent memory, missing you by his side.

Stadig for let, men du skredet for længst, og mørke tider har i sinde at forlænge / Der er godt plads i vores dobbeltseng, men jeg fylder den ikk' ud alene.

(Still too easy, but you left long ago, and dark times are intending to prolong / There is plenty of room in our double bed, but I (am) not filling it out alone).

It had now been months since you and Raph broke up. Raph still hasn't mustered up the courage to talk to you, and tell you just how much he missed you. How much he still loved you. How much he wanted you back. But it was simply easier not to do it. Raph really wanted to. He really wanted to jump onto your fire escape, knocking on your window onto you would open it for him, pull you into a long lasting hug, crying all his pains and sorrows to you, and apologizing for everything he had done wrong. But Raph was terrified of what you might say. What hard words you might throw his way. The confirmation that you did in fact, not want to get back to him. It was just so much easier not to talk to you, but instead long and dream for you in the darkness of his room.

Even after several months without you, Raph still hadn’t started taking up the full bed when he was sleeping. He still slept with space next to him, where you used to be. It just felt wrong to sleep there, because what if you one day came back to him…

Der ku være 1 mili, 2 mili, 3 mili, 4 milliarder derude / men jeg bli’r derhjemme til duften af dig på min pude / Så ta' mig med dig, la' mig vis dig, gi' mig lidt af det der gir' mig, sommerfugl og mave kriller, lær' mig lidt om alle de midler / der får hjertet til at banke, som dagen lang / Jeg ved godt jeg åbnede pandoras boks og nu er det slut med os.

(There could be 1 bil, 2 bil, 3 bil, 4 billion out there / but I’m staying at home to the smell of you on my pillow / So take me with you, let me show you, give me a little of what gives me, butterflies, belly krill, teach me a little about all those remedies / that makes the heart beat, which is all day long / I know I opened Pandora's box and now it’s the end of us).

At some point Raph’s brothers got tired of his moodiness and anger, and decided it was time to do something about it. At first they tried to talk to you, but that backfired badly, with you yelling and screaming about how Raph was too afraid to talk to you himself. How he still wouldn’t own up to his mistakes, and then expect that his brothers could fix it for him. But even after they explained to you that Raph did in fact not send them, and that they had come to you on their own, you still weren’t budging. Raph had hurt you, and no matter how long he stayed with his face in the pillows, thinking about you, you weren’t coming back. That led the brothers to their last efforts in an attempt to help Raph move on - bringing dates for him to the lair.

Men du er den eneste, eneste, eneste, eneste for mig / Den eneste, eneste, eneste, eneste og jeg tænker på om du mon kommer hjem / og hvis nej om du så har glemt at / At jeg' den eneste, eneste, eneste, stadigvæk, yeah! Dit navn der står med blæk for evigt yeah!

(But you are the only, only, only, only one for me / The only, only, only, only one and I’m wondering if you might ever come home / and if not, if you then have forgotten that / That I (am) the only, only only, only one still, yeah! / Your name that stands with ink forever yeah!)

They told Raph when they brought someone over. No, instead they would let Raph wander out of his room, to find a nervous stranger, sitting in the lair trying to make small talk with either Leo, Donnie or Mikey, trying not to seem freaked out by the large mutant turtles they had met just moments ago. But to everyone's surprise, expert Raph, he had no interest in any of them, straight up telling them to get out of the lair before he personally would throw them out. There was no way he would let someone else take your place, even if you seemed to have forgotten that you were the one for him. But though Raph feared that you had forgotten, he would certainly never forget that you were the only for him. But would he ever try to do anything about it, or let the heart on his wrist be a permanent reminder, of how he broke your heart and let the love of his life go?

Dit navn det står på blæk og det er for evigt, yeah! / Stadig for let / Stadig for let.

(Your name that stands on ink and it’s forever, yeah! / Still too easy / Still too easy).

Raph’s brothers started to get impatient with him. A year had passed, and Raph was still as heavy and sad as the day you left him. There had been no progress. Raph had not done anything to move on, nor had he done anything to try and talk to you. Instead he just sat there and stared at the tattoo on his wrist, remembering how concentrated you were when you made it.

“You can’t just sit there and done nothing!”, Leo finally snapped at Raph one day, after Raph once again had thrown a potential date out the door. “If you really loved them, then how can you just sit here and do nothing?! How can you just take the easy route and do absolutely nothing?!”

That conversation didn’t go too well, with Raph and Leo yelling back and forth, with Mikey and Donnie holding them back, keeping them from fighting one another. But when all was said and done, and Raph once again found himself in his room, his head against his pillow, staring at his wrist, he knew Leo was right. And you were right as well. Raph had just taken the easy way, hiding from confrontation and the thought of losing all chances with you. But that was simply the easy option… but love wasn’t love always surpassed to be easy? Up until the day you broke up, Raph had felt like it was easy to love you. It had been easy being around you. As easy as lobe should be… right?

That night Raph finally did something he should have done a year ago, and made his way towards you home, with the intention of finally talking to you. Maybe you would take him back, or maybe you wouldn’t. What mattered was that Raph finally quite taking the easy way through this, and finally told you how he still loved you, and how you would forever be the only one for him. What you did with that information was all up to you. Raph would leave that to your decision.

[rakhalofthestars]

The Last of His Tribe

Synopsis: Boothill and the importance of his hair

Tags: boothill x gn. reader, fluff, angst, ambiguous relationship (can be interpreted as both platonic and romantic), bittersweet tbh, boothill's backstory, soft boothill, boothill is native american

Warning: One self-deprecating/suicidal thought (out of survivor's guilt

wc: 1 326

Hair holds memories.

That’s what Boothill had been taught ever since he first learned to understand the words of those around him. It’s what the people of Aeragan-Espharshel believed in. That the hair was an extension of one’s spirit, one’s connection to the land. 

As a young boy, Boothill wasn’t quite sure if he believed in those teachings or not. He found it bothersome to have long, white hair that cascaded down past his shoulders, especially in the sweltering heat when he’d be out lending a hand on the ranch, taming the horses and farming sheep. Boothill could easily remember the times where he’d try to cut his hair off but Nick would always catch him before he could do so.

“I was only gonna cut a few inches off! Scout’s honor, I was!” He’d protest to his adoptive father who’d simply turn a deaf ear at his words and give him a lecture instead. If Nick was in a bad mood, he’d call over Gray and then Boothill would have to stand there and receive double the lecture. 

Looking back on those days now, Boothill can’t help but find it all silly. Of course hair holds memories. Why wouldn’t it? His hair holds the memories of how his adoptive parents would stroke their hands over his head, even when he was well past the age of receiving such manners of affection. His hair holds the memories of how his adoptive sisters would always play with his hair, styling it in everything from a simple ponytail to the most outlandish hairdos that would put even the fanciest southern belle to shame. His hair will remember how his brothers would sometimes give him noogies for pulling a prank on them, it will remember how his gunslinging friends would ruffle and muss it all up for another job well done. 

Boothill’s hair remembers how his daughter used to babble and tangle her tiny fingers in the long locks, tugging at them while he’d wince and hiss softly, trying to pry her fingers away before she ended up ripping out any strands. 

When his tribe was annihilated by the indiscriminate bombs from the IPC, Boothill came close to cutting his hair off. His grief knew no bounds during those dark and wretched days. It could’ve moved the tallest mountains. If it could’ve taken a physical form, it would’ve crushed the IPC with no difficulty. 

For better or for worse, Boothill decided to keep his hair as it was. Even after he had changed his body and turned it into a killing machine, even after he had his eyes and teeth augmented, his red blood switched out for blue fuel. Even then, he kept his hair. 

He just wasn’t ready to say goodbye to that chapter of his history that those snow white locks of hair had witnessed. 

For a long while, Boothill didn’t take care of his hair. He couldn’t bring himself to, almost as if he was afraid that washing it would also wash away the memories and the touch of his loved ones. For a long time, the ash from that fateful day continued to cling onto his hair, along with all sorts of dirt from the various missions the now Galaxy Ranger would go on. 

When Boothill finally found the strength to try and take care of himself again, to try and take care of this extension of his spirit, he found that he couldn’t. This time, there were no psychological barriers that stopped him. It all came down to this body that he’d given himself. 

It was tough to wash his hair while trying to keep the water and soap from seeping into the grooves and crevices in his cybernetic body. It was hard when the long strands would get all tangled in the cracks of his hands that were no longer warm flesh but instead cold metal. 

Thank the aeons that you were there for him. 

Galaxy Rangers don’t normally travel together, least of all working together. But you and him did. 

Boothill couldn’t figure out why he was so drawn to you, why he so easily allowed you past the metal plates that his body consisted of and into the lonely heart that was beating deep inside, hidden and well guarded from the cruel world. He just did. 

Despite your closeness, it took the ranger a while before he gave you the permission to touch his hair. In the end, he was glad that he did. 

And when you suggested helping him wash and braid his hair? He didn’t even need to think twice before answering with a silent nod. 

It took you and Boothill a few trials with no shortage of errors to figure out a safe way to wash his hair without risking electrocution on your part and malfunctioning on his part. But any obstacle can be overcome when given enough time.

As Galaxy Rangers, the two of you were almost constantly on the move and never stayed in one place for too long. So you had to make do with crashing in hotels and inns.

Boothill would always sit on the bathroom floor, his head tilted at the edge of the bathtub and allowing his hair to cascade into the tub. You’d be kneeling right beside him and would wash away the dirt and grime that built up after countless missions combined with days of neglect. Your fingers gently comb through the long locks, untangling the knots and sometimes, to both yours and his amusement, picking out little twigs and the like that had gotten tangled up. 

These little sessions would often start out with Boothill chattering away about how he quote unquote “taught them muddle-fudgers a lesson” on your latest mission or some recent bounty that he had successfully completed. But it never took long before he’d fall silent. If he was feeling up for it, he might hum a little tune that Nick had taught him. But usually, it was just silence except for the sounds of water. 

Neither you nor Boothill ever minded it. It was comforting, to indulge in this little bubble of tranquility. To try and hold on to it because Lan knows how Boothill misses the days which were filled with crude songs and gentle words. 

As the suds of shampoo run down the drain, so too does Boothill's fears, worries and thoughts of how it should've been him.

Once his hair is all clean and has regained its normal shine, all that's left is to dry it with a towel before combing through it. It used to take him a long time for his hair to regain its usual luster, but thanks to you and your insistence as well as diligence on taking care of him, it is easily achievable with just an hour or so of haircare. 

Boothill likes to braid his hair. He didn't tend to do it often, usually due to the hair getting stuck in the crevices of his iron fingers. So you'd offer to do it for him instead. 

With deft fingers, you section the beautiful locks into two before sectioning those two parts into three separate strands. 

One for the body. One for the mind. One for the spirit.

You braid his hair into twin braids and in all his days since a part of him died along with his family, he has never looked happier. 

Of course, he'll eventually take out the braids and wear his hair down to let his targets know that he's a warrior ready for battle. 

But for now, Boothill will indulge in this small moment of peace with you. His eyes will flutter and close while his head rests on your lap as he's lulled to sleep by hands that he knows will always be there to take care of him. His braids will stay, preserving the memories of the planet where he's from, his culture, his heritage and his tribe.

[moonlitstoriess]

Hi! I really enjoy reading your work so I really wanted to make this request for you if that’s okay:)) I was wondering if you could write headcanons for what it would be like to be in a relationship with Dorian? He is just my number 1 favorite character in the series and there aren’t that many posts about him:(((

No for real though, Dorian is literally one of the best parts of TOG and I love him so much☹️ Anyways, this is for you, anon <3

Warnings: NSFW themes, there is another warning before hand✌️and just our perfect amazing king Dorian in all his glory🤭

SFW

To start off, I am a firm believer that because Dorian is a book lover, he has this habit of leaving small notes for his darling in unexpected places--inside their favorite book, under the pillow, or tucked inside their clothing. The notes are always sweet, sometimes romantic, and often playful, like a small riddle for them to solve.

In my world, it is CANON that he loooooves gossiping. Like this man will sit with his lover and talk shit about EVERYONE. The second he learns some news, he is immediately whispering it into his beloved's ear, and vise versa.

The funny stuff aside, this man is a lover in the true sense of the word. He is such a romantic:(( Dorian definitely enjoys planning surprise dates for his lover. Whether it’s a picnic under the stars or a quiet evening at a quaint, hidden restaurant, he always finds creative ways to show how much he cares.

Dorians love language isn't just acts of service though, because it is mainly physical touch! Like if he could, he would always stay by your side so that he could be touching you in some way. So, Dorian has a habit of reaching out to gently touch his lover’s hand or shoulder whenever he feels a surge of affection. It’s a small but meaningful gesture that reassures his lover of his constant support and love.

Whenever he isn't busy ruling a whole kingdom, Dorian is with his darling. That means that there are a lot of moments where they engage in playful rivalries and challenges, from who can make the best dessert to who can tell the funniest story. It’s all in good fun and adds a playful dynamic to their relationship.

They 10000% share countless inside jokes that no one else understands. Like sometimes, in the middle of a serious council meeting, Dorian will catch his lover's eye and they will both struggle to stiffle a laugh, sharing a private moment even in the midst of royal duties.

Whenever he is in deep thought, his darling will often climb on to the throne with him, sitting on his lap or leaning against his side. It's an intimate gesture that reminds Dorian he doesn't have to bear the weight of the crown alone. He definitely plans on marrying his beloved after this.

Speaking of marriage, Dorian definitely has a habit of whispering sweet promises to his lovers ear when they are lying in bed together. He'll speak of their future, the life they'll build, and how he will always be by their side.

I also think that sometimes, in the middle of the night, Dorian will wake his lover up for a spontaneous adventure. They'll sneak out of the palace and explore the city, walking through quiet streets in disguise, talking about anything and everything.

This man loves their small, daily rituals that keep them connected. Like, he would neverrrr attend to his duties if he didn't receive his morning cuddles and kisses. Always holding hands under the table during meetings, or sharing a quiet drink or meal together.

This man is LOYAL. Like if he has known you long enough already and has fallen in love, he would go to war for you. No one can even dare to say something negative about you because Dorian will make them regret ever saying that. He will always protect his sweethearts honor and dignity.

I don't think that Dorian is someone who gets jealous easily because I believe he has confidence in himself and his beloved to trust them enough not to betray him like that. So, if a fool tries to make a move on his lover, he will allow them to deal with it but if he sees that the idiot isn't getting the hint, he won't mind stepping in and getting the message across. A death stare, a hand on their waist, a claiming kiss to his lovers lips.

And if the bastard still didn't get the clue, well.....Dorian isn't necessarily a killer or an assasin like his dear friend Aelin, but he wouldn't mind killing or beating someone up for his darling.

All in all, despite the pressures of court life and Dorian's responsibilities as king, he and his lover have an unspoken understanding that they are each other's safe haven. No matter what happens, they always make time for each other<33

NSFW

Dorian is a switch.

Like there are days when he is beyond exhausted after doing all this "kingly" stuff which is why he just needs his lover to take care of him in both sexual and non-sexual ways.

But in general, he just loves giving the reigns to his beloved, immediately becoming putty in their hands.

"Whatever you say, my love." "Can I please touch you? I am begging you, sweetheart, please" "Don't stop, don't stop, pleasepleaseplease"

After all, he just has this fucked out, satisfied smile on his face that only his beloved can give him

Let's also talk about the fact that Dorian has a good amount of trauma from everything that happened with his father, the war, the valgs, and Sorscha. Therefore, he gets nightmares often and when he is awoken from them by his darling, he clings to them. But beyond that, he needs to make sure that they are real and won't leave him.

Those are the nights where its more than just 'sex'. Its so much more intimate because its the souls that are binding. His lover would keep on whispering praises into his ear as he buries his head in the crook of their neck, slowly thrusting and refusing to let go.

But, there are also many moments where its Dorian who takes control.

He does both, sweet and loving, rough and hard. Why should he always do one when they could always mix it up? Of course he would take his beloved's preference's into consideration as well

This man looooves sex. He doesn't really like quickies because he enjoys taking his time but of course sometimes he just can't wait anymore.

What? It's not his fault that he is so attracted and addicted to his lover! Everything they do or wear turns him on.

Don't even think of walking out on him after an argument because he will lift you up, sling you over his shoulder, spank your ass, send the shocked guards standing outside their shared bedroom away, kick the door closed, and teach you a lesson. Angry makeup sex? Check.

He is a sucker for marks. Any type, really. Scratches, bites, hickeys, kisses, etc. He loves when you wear a slightly revealing attire that allows others to see your marks and know immediately who you belong to. He also loves receieving those marks so that others would know that he belongs to you as well.

He is definitely into BDSM. I mean, those phantom hands of his? You wouldn't even need ropes while those exist. Yeah....I'll leave you to imagine the rest.

His other kinks would be impact play, orgasm control and sex in public places where there is a high risk of getting caught.

In conclusion, Dorian loves nothing more than connecting with his lover in both body and soul.

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

[danikamariewrites]

hi there, can you write something fluffy for fenrys??

Book Delivery

Fenrys x reader

A/n: I haven't written for Fen in so long and he's literally one of my favs from ToG. He deserves happiness after everything he's been through

Warnings: none

Fenrys watched from the balcony as Aelin walked you through the castle gates. He lets out a dreamy sigh as you throw your head back from laughing at something the queen said. Fenrys was so lost in his little fantasy land he missed Rowan come to stand next to him.

“You feeling ok?” Fenrys jumps, backing away from the railing and clutching at his heart. “Good gods! Don’t do that Rowan!” The king couldn’t help the shit eating grin that spread across his lips. Rowan looks out at your retreating figure as you leisurely walk back to town. “Aelin thinks you two would make a great match.”

Fenrys lets out an annoyed huff, taking his piercing gaze off of Rowan and watching you again. He was always so charming and smooth when it came to talking to females. For some reason when he tried speaking to you Fenrys always made a fool of himself. He either tripped over air or fumbled with his words before excusing himself. There was no other way to say it, Fenrys is in love with you.

How could he not be? You’re so kind and intelligent and beautiful. Fenrys can’t help but feel butterflies in his stomach when you’re around.

A week later - on the day you usually visit, Fenrys noted - Aelin called him into her office. Striding through the open door Fenrys stopped before her desk, sketching a bow before standing with his hands behind his back. “What can I do for you?” Aelin gave him a smile that told Fenrys she was scheming. Fenrys mentally rolled his eyes, waiting for Aelin to tell her plan.

“I need you to do me a favor.” She said sweetly. “Nothing crazy, just an errand that I can’t get to today.” Fenrys nodded. “What kind of errand?” The queen’s smile became toothy and far too happy looking for his liking. “Can you go to y/n’s store for me and pick up the book she set aside for me?”

Fenrys felt his heart stutter in his chest. He had never been to your store. He had avoided it at all costs after the second time he made a fool of himself in front of you. “Erm…” He had to answer quickly before Aelin turned this into a command and he no choice. Not like he had one anyway. If Aelin already thought you two were a match the whole court must know by now. And Fenrys would never hear the end of it from Lysandra if he never made a move.

“Yes.” He blurts out. “Excellent.” Aelin claps her hands in approval and stands to guide Fenrys from her office. “And no rush whatsoever. Take your time, enjoy a stroll through the city. Get some tea with someone. But don’t come back here without my book.” She said sternly before shutting the door on him.

Upon entering the bustling city Fenrys found himself taking the long way to your shop. Inevitably he found himself standing outside your shop, dreading how he would mess up this conversation with you. Inhaling deeply through his nose and out through his mouth, Fenrys pushed open the door to your shop.

The bell ringing above his head caught your attention immediately. You rushed to the front of the store, your arms full of books. Your eyes widen in surprise at the tall male in the middle of your small book store. “Hi,” you say cheerily, “Fenrys, right?” It took all of his training to keep calm. To keep the butterflies from swarming his insides.

“Y-yes. Yup, that’s me.” Dear gods he hoped Lorcan would show up and stab him.

Then you did something unexpected. You giggled at him. It wasn’t a pity laugh, you genuinely giggled. Fenrys smiled at you. Realizing you looked like you were about to drop the stack of books in your arms Fenrys cleared the space between you, reaching his hands out to help. “Can I take these for you?” “Oh, yes. That would be great, thank you.”

As you handed over half the stack Fenrys noticed your hands were shaking. If it was because of him he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. The last thing he wanted to do was scare you. You cleared your throat before speaking again. “Can you put them on the front counter?” “Of course.” You give him a small nod and lead him to the counter.

After putting the books down you nervously fiddled with your hair, glancing at Fenrys every other second. You felt like you always messed up when you spoke to him. That awkward laugh would always leave your lips and you always forgot where you were going when you bumped into him in the castle.

Clearing your throat you finally look make eye contact. Maybe that’s too much eye contact, you think to yourself. Fenrys isn’t shying away though. If anything he’s looking at you with the same shy, unsure intensity.

An awkward moment of silence passes between the two of you before Fenrys finally remembers why he’s here. “Aelin sent me to pick up her book. She said you had it set aside for her.”

The realization clicked in your eyes and your cheeks redden. It was silly to think he was there for you. Pulling the book from the shelf behind you and turning back to Fenrys you give him a small smile, hoping it didn’t look as sad as you felt. “Here you go.” His fingers brushed against yours. You felt a warmth rush through your body at the soft touch.

Your cheeks heat even more as you bite back your smile. Fenrys takes the book giving you a reassuring smile. “Thanks,” he says softly. “You’re welcome.” He nods and turns to leave. Fenrys cringes at himself, squeezing his eyes shut.

He stopped with his hand on the door, thinking screw it. Marching back up to the counter Fenrys takes a deep breath. You look up at him with bright curiosity in your eyes. “Would you like to go out to dinner with me?”

You nod your head excitedly. “I would love that. Is tomorrow night ok?” “Absolutely.” You give him a bright smile. Taking out a pen and paper you write down your address for him. He takes it happily and practically skips out of your store back to the castle.

[dayas]

5 and/or 22 for fiyeraba please!

Sure thing!

Let’s have both 🥰😁

5. “Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

22. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Drabble Prompts

—

If there was one thing in this world Elphaba Thropp knew, it was green. After all, she was green. It was a color that defined her entire life, and people wrote it onto her story as the very first word in the very first line. It hurt, of course, that they closed the book before they thought to continue it, but Elphaba was used to that by now.

She was not, however, used to the sharp pain in her chest.

Galinda was running into Fiyero’s arms, shrieking joyfully. Elphaba watched as he chuckled, squeezing her gently. She stood in the shadows of the courtyard, almost completely hidden, wanting so desperately to look away but somehow unable to move. She had never thought deeply about her roommate’s romantic endeavors. But now they were friends — now all of them were friends — and she couldn’t go back to the way it was before. It was most unfortunate, Elphaba thought, that she couldn’t forget what Fiyero’s face had looked like in the woods. That she couldn’t forget her fingers brushing against his scratch, how he’d looked at her, as though he was truly seeing her for the first time. How she looked at him, realizing, perhaps, that she may have misjudged him as so many people had misjudged her. She couldn’t forget his name falling from her lips too late, an unforeseen yearning growing in her chest. And she couldn’t forget the realization that something had changed within her in regards to him.

Fiyero’s eyes caught onto hers and Elphaba froze.

Shit.

She spun around, hurrying off towards the entrance to Shiz (and the forest). She was already calculating Galinda’s movements, what she would have to do to avoid her until whatever this feeling was stamped itself out and she could behave normally. She did not account for Fiyero appearing in front of her, planting himself firmly in her path.

She gasped, careening backwards until he caught her, pulling her into his chest.

“Are you alright?” Fiyero asked, a focus she had only ever seen one other time inside of his gaze.

“I’m fine,” Elphaba snapped, “let me go.”

“You didn’t say anything,” Fiyero said next with a frown, cautiously releasing her. “I know Galinda didn’t see you, but I did. You ran off like we were coming with pitchforks and torches. What happened?”

Elphaba should have been more collected. After all, when her emotions heightened, strange things happened. And she didn’t want to hurt anyone or anything around them, so she tried her best to breathe, her fingernails scratching her palms.

“Why don’t you just go back to Galinda, Fiyero? The two of you looked very comfortable.”

Perhaps it was the tightness in her voice, or the fact that her entire body was coiled like a spring. But something in his face changed, and a curious light flooded his eyes.

He didn’t say anything at first, studying her in silence. And then —

“Wait a minute. Are you jealous?”

“What?”

Elphaba’s snap was brusque.

“You are, aren’t you?” Fiyero repeated. His voice was hushed, his tone respectful. It made her even angrier.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Fiyero shook his head.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

Once more, Elphaba froze. She couldn’t very well deny that, could she? Fiyero loved to assume the appearance of a hopelessly shallow prince, so much so that many forgot there was a wonderful brain living inside of his head. She hadn’t factored that in either, with the glances she snuck when she thought she was being subtle.

“Please don’t make this any more humiliating than it already is.”

Her voice shook, the whisper her words were given in nearly lost on the wind.

It was a cruel twist of fate that he actually looked hurt.

“Humiliating? I don’t — ”

“You’re dating my roommate. Who is also my best friend. Who is also your friend.”

Everyone knew it. They were perfect together, two people dancing through life without a care in the world for anything else. She didn’t fit. She never fit.

“We’re not together.”

Elphaba scoffed.

“Oh, you’re not? Didn’t she just trample you in a hug a few moments ago?”

Fiyero winced.

“It’s complicated.

“Exactly. Humiliating.”

Fiyero reached for her hand.

“Elphaba.”

She stepped back.

“I have to go.”

He stepped forward.

“I think we should talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about?”

She wanted to wallow in her misery, in the fact that she was not the one he wanted, that the roses and pearls of his world were not what she was made for. She didn’t wish to stand there any longer. But she looked into his eyes nonetheless, squinting slightly as his blue irises darkened, tinged with something she couldn’t identify.

“Everything,” came Fiyero’s faint answer to her question.

It clicked in her mind then, what he meant.

Impossible.

“You — ” she whispered, “you’re not in love with her, are you?”

Fiyero’s silence was the final nail in the coffin. Elphaba felt like she couldn’t breathe. It seemed like the entire world was collapsing in on itself in front of her, and she was the only person who could see it.

“Fiyero, I really have to go.”

“Elphaba.”

She’d never seen such desperation in his eyes. It pained her to worsen it.

“Please don’t tell Galinda.”

Her parting words were whispered into his ear directly, tears welling up in her eyes.

Elphaba darted off deeper into the forest, trying as hard as she could to hold her emotions down.

[hannahssimblr]

She saunters back a few minutes later with a serene smile, two plaits swinging around her shoulders. 

I squint up at her. “That was quick.”

“Yeah, well, the mobile is so close.” 

“You get your togs?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, well do you want to swim here or further down towards the rocks? That’s where I usually go.” I point towards my end of the beach, where the masses of people thin out with the coastline, where the sand is coarser and the tide trickles in over rounded pebbles. It’s my preferred swimming spot, because nobody bothers to go there but the old women who swim laps early in the morning, and then sit around chatting by the steps with their flasks of tea. They think it’s their spot, but it isn’t. It’s mine. 

We hike there together with the sun on our backs, and when I get there, too tired and sweaty to explain myself, I just take my shoes and t-shirt off and throw them onto the ground. Her eyes dart away from me, and I want to reassure her it’s fine, it’s just a torso, maybe a particularly sweaty one, but I don’t care if she looks. There’s nothing wrong with my body, in fact, and I’m pleased with the effort I’ve put into it. I’m not embarrassed as long as she’s not embarrassed. Bodies are bodies. I’ve learned that from life drawing. I imagine expressing any of this, and going into so much detail about my specific thoughts on the matter might make her think that I particularly want her to look at me, which… 

I don’t. 

“Ready to go?”

She nods. 

I run for the water and swim to the deep part as quickly as I can, letting feeling its coldness shock my hot skin. It steals my air at first, and I gasp, but in one moment it’s glorious. It glistens around me, so clear that I can watch the ribbons of seaweed slither on the sea floor beneath me.

“Coming?” I call out to Evie, still clothed on the shore. 

“Yes,” she says, and doesn’t move a muscle.

I turn and look at the horizon so that she can get undressed in privacy. There's a splash as her body hits the water. 

“Oh!” She squeals, “Cold!”

I don’t turn around. “Just get your shoulders in.”

“I know!”

“Sorry, yeah, you made sure to mention that you swim three times a day.”

She titters, “It just takes me a while to adjust. Leave me alone.”

“I am.”

“Okay,” she is closer now, her ripples meshing with mine, and is smiling. The ends of her plaits drift freely under the surface like mermaid hair.

“Water is nice, isn’t it?”

Her teeth chatter. “Mm, like a bath.”

I take in a lungful of air and dunk my head under, just to get the worse out of the way, and then, wiping salt water from my eyes, I tell her, “Way better when you get your head in.”

“I don’t always do that. With my hair and everything, it just becomes an ordeal.”

“Your hair?”

“Yeah, like, not that it’s… special hair or something. Like, you know it’s just an effort to wash and dry it and go through the whole thing.”

“Oh, what? Come on, I thought you’d be the kind of person to dunk your head under at least. So what if your hair gets wet?”

“Easy for you to say.” She rolls her eyes, and I know I am going to dunk her. It would be impossible to resist such a hilarious act. 

I feel like a shark, circling her carefully, my hands ready beneath the water to grab her if she tries to move too suddenly. 

“Come on, get your head in.”

“I don’t have to!”

“For me?”

She laughs. “For you? What’s it to you?”

“Okay, okay, for you then, come on, you won’t regret it.”

“No!” she says, and I lunge for her, missing the leg I reached for, but I had a backup plan. With my spare arm, I skim the surface and splash an armful of water at her. She shrieks, but wastes no time in splashing me right back with some kind of professional technique. The sheet of water she sends my way hits me with such force that it almost knocks me sideways, and I am shocked, never having thought I’d witness such power from someone her size. 

But two can play that game. I bite my lip with determination and slice the water with my entire arm, sending a tsunami over her head, and she gasps, half of her hair dripping wet. After hauling it out of her face, she stares at me with shock and incredulity.

I shrug. “Sorry. Got you, though.”

“Oh! Oh, you’re in for it now!” She attempts her revenge strategy, but I’m faster than she is. I dive into the water and grab hold of her ankle and yank her under with me, her head submerged at last. 

She bursts up, spluttering. “Jude!”

“Oh, sorry. Sorry, I feel bad. C’mon,” I hold up my hands in surrender and let her gather herself, and get all the water from her eyes before trying again. “Evie,” I say, “Truce.”

“There’s no truce.” She’s right, and there is no longer a reason to pretend, so I try to grab her, this time missing. We circle around each other, I, launching for her, and her, dodging me with increasing intensity. I don’t even know if this is a game anymore. It feels like a battle.  

I pounce, and manage to curl my hand around the back of her knee, where her skin is soft under my fingers. She jerks and kicks my thigh, hard. This time she is serious.

I release her. She turns over and swims away. 

What did I do? Did I hurt her? Did I take it too far? I thought we were just messing around. She floats aimlessly, her face turned away, but I can see her ears. They have gone red. 

“I think I’m going to get out,” she announces. 

“... Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just getting cold. I don’t want to catch a chill.”

“Okay… then me too.”

“You don’t have to, if you’re not ready.”

“No, it’s fine. Let’s get out.”

I reach the shore first and wade out onto the pebbles and the shells. They slide beneath my soles and cause me to stumble as a wave hits the back of my calves. Highly uncool, but at least I didn’t fall in front of Evie. Back on solid ground, I turn to see her wading out, the water lapping around her thighs, and pause.

Her curves glisten in the sunlight, her long, slender legs and small waist. I couldn’t see any of her body while submerged in the sea. By design. She didn’t want me to. But for that half-second I let myself look at her, I am convinced that God is real. 

“Did you bring a towel?”

She shakes her head.

“Here.” I swipe her t-shirt off the ground and toss it to her. “Come back to my house with me. We’ll get one for you.”

She struggles into her top as it sticks to her damp skin, and immediately crosses her arms over her chest as the fabric soaks in all the water in her bikini, leaving two dark, obvious triangles right over her boobs. Not that I saw. It’s not like me to look. 

Beginning // Prev // Next

Corresponding LG Chapter

[elrielffs]

So I've been ruminating on mate bonds in the ACOTAR universe today--about why a section of this fandom seems to revere the mate bond in general and assume a partner in the mate bond cannot be happy without the other.

And I was thinking of the different mate bonds we've been shown and what we've been told--

The blueprint obviously being Feysand.

I think a lot of fandom hold up Feysand as the standard--but to me, Feysand is the EXCEPTION. From what we are told in the books about mate bonds--the good, the bad, and the ugly--that mate bonds can be rejected, that sometimes the bond chooses poorly, that maybe it is just a way to make powerful offspring rather than the true coming together of souls-- the bond is not something guarantees a happily ever after and even in some cases--is a detriment.

So far in story, about 50/50 of the bonds we've been told about/seen have landed on the "good" vs "bad" side. Even in Prythian culture, they seem to move without giving the bond a thought until it happens--people marry, make alliances, have lovers without the mate bond. Sure it's mostly because it's rare but I can't help but think that it's also because even if you find your mate--it's not a guarantee perfect match.

And I think we can say that the ones we have seen, even the "good", are not comparable to Feysand. Love them or hate them, there is something so prevailing about their romance that, to get meta, is the reason I think ACOTAR is SJM's most popular work even though many agree that TOG is better written, it's why you hardly ever see Rhysand or Feyre shipped with anyone else--their romance was written so beautiful, so exceptionally, that it resonated with a lot of readers as an ultimate love story, certainly THE ultimate love story that SJM has written and propelled her to the status she has now.

Even Cassian, who is centuries old and has probably seen mates before, thinks that the whole mate thing is "bullshit" till he saw Feysand's bond.

Let's compare to Nessian. Now see, I think Nessian is more the standard mate bond. They are drawn to each other, they love each other, they choose each other -- but can we really say that their bond is comparable to Feysand? You have a huge chunk of this fandom that says Nesta should leave Cassian for Eris and that Cassian deserves better and I hardly see anyone laud their romance in ACOSF as their favorite part of the book--that's normally reserved for the Valkyrie friendship.

Let's even look at the Death Pact Feysand made. It doesn't matter if you think it's stupid or not--it fully comes across in character that Feyre and Rhysand wouldn't want to live without the other. Now, Nesta and Cassian? I definitely think that they would be distraught, broken--but do they really give the vibes that they would just die without the other? I don't even think Nessian would ever make that pact, or at least that's the vibes that their romance gives off.

Even Kallias and Vivianne, a "good" mate bond--what little we see of them--don't give off the same vibes. Kallias didn't make Vivianne High Lady, even after Vivianne expressed the desire and seeing in the Night Court it can be done.

And that brings me to Elucien. Eluciens say neither Elain nor Lucien can be happy without the other but I feel like that's because they are comparing it to Feysand instead of Nessian.

But we can see even in comparison they are not similiar.

When Feyre was with Tamlin, Rhysand was willing to let her be with another male if that's what she wanted. He was not however, willing to let her waste into nothing after what happened UTM. He used that pact that he had did not call on before Feyre was begging to be saved from the wedding, to get Feyre to safe place where she could heal and deal with her issues.

Lucien on the other hand only offered suggestions when Elain was physically wasting away. "She needs sunlight," which is a generic piece of advice but did he actually make it happen? No. And yes, it can be argued it was because Elain didn't want him around but we are told that Lucien is cunning. You're telling me he couldn't come up with something--some action, some plan-- to physically help Elain? Like Rhysand did? Even if he wasn't directly involved in taking Elain to the garden, he couldn't even find some way to directly make it happen?

Rhysand would never mumble to Tamlin to take Feyre out into the garden and then just...wait and see?

All this rambling to conclude, that yes, if every mate bond could be held up to the standard of Feysand, I think I could understand why a large portion of the fandom says mates have to be together, that that's the only way they can be happy, heal, become their best selves etc but once again, I think Feysand is the exception. Mate bonds like theirs are the true rarity and I don't think we've seen it comparably to any other romance or mate bond that SJM has written.

This is all just my two cents so take it as you will but thanks for reading it all if you got this far.

[aristia-pjoheadcanons]

can i request hcs of jasón w a fem reader who gets easily jealous? maybe he left her behind at camp jupiter when hera took him. he’s not dating piper, but she doesn’t know that. ty!

He comes home

pairing: Jason Grace x female!reader

warnings: none

author's note: Let me just say that if my man was talking came back with a girl next to him and he was almost acting normal, I would rip my hair out.

The reader would be seething, clenched teeth, hot cheeks, and everything.

He disappears out of nowhere, which you probably understood wasn’t his fault. You’ve been there from the very start since he came to Camp J. He had fully booked appointments with quests, no wonder he was gone one day: but you realized that it wasn’t the same. You felt this anxiety pooling in your chest, you knew this wasn’t the normal disappearance.

When he arrives with his so called “crew” you didn’t like either Piper or Annabeth. But you knew Annabeth wasn’t someone that would do anything, since she was Percys.

But even so, the thought of Jason settling down with others for six-fucking-months, made you want to absolutely go ballistic.

But you knew deep-down that he didn’t do it on his own, it was the same situation as Percy – it was against his will, and he had lost his memories.

But does he remember you?

That thought washed away when you saw the way he was acting stand-of-ish when he saw Reyna. So, he does remember, he remembers you.

It gave you some relief. But how were you going to make up for the time he was gone?

Based on the ever-so-serious facial expression on his face, the quest was not over. Not even close. You wanted to sigh and almost act immature about it, but it would do you no good.

Maybe even the reader would do impulsive things just tog et his attention. Jason is very analytical with his feelings, to the point where he rationalizes them – so he wouldn’t react much after the first time, its almost like he shuts off his emotions just to protect himself.

But he would have to take the convo private and talk to !reader, to get a clearer understanding of the situation but also your feelings present.

He wants you to be the feeler in the relationship. While he is the cool-headed one, he can’t let himself get too caught up in his feelings – so when you express yourself hate, love, happiness he feels good. He feels safe to know that there is someone there to express and project my feelings for me. You are not just a person to him, but something essential for him to feel human, a person that isn’t just a tool or a weapon for the Gods.

He would definitely understand your point of view and make it very clear that he did not leave on purpose and that he is not in any romantic or close relationship with any girls. He got some of his memories back, but part is still left out. Even so, he would try his best to explain that his feelings are still very real but if you want to break things off, he will let you.

The last statement might cause an argument, because why would you want to leave him? No, you’re angry because he left, and you spent months without knowing if he was really safe.

One hour later, Jason is holding your hand when he introduces you to the rest of his crew. You’re happier but can’t help but feel needy in a way.

Jason would let you hold his hand and put an arm around you, but he gets distracted and ends up moving away from you just to talk a little about the next step for their quests.

In order for your relationship with him to work, you will need to agree to let him go when he wants or needs; also, be comfortable with him being around others for long periods of time.

But Jason would know of your jealousies already and would know the perfect way to make you feel better: spending time together and some wholehearted apologies.

Lets say he didnt come back, you would go on a search for him and maybe even treathen a couple of minor gods just to find him.

[separatist-apologist]

A Lost Princess of Sunlight

Summary: Lady Elain has spent her life in the idyllic countryside wanting for nothing, so when her adopted sister Vassa begs her to accompany her to court, how can Elain say no? The roguish prince is in need of a wife and Elain, certain she'd make a terrible princess, has no interest in such theatrics.

But something about the palace brings back memories lost to the sea ten years before. Memories Elain had been certain she'd never get back…memories that speak of a colder place, and sisters long forgotten. Amid the tumultuous politics and the looming war, Elain finds herself embroiled in a mystery to find out who she really is.

And where she really comes from.

Note: HAPPY HOLIDAYS @writtenonreceipts! I hope you like this- I tried so hard to give it TOG vibes AND to incorporate nessian and feysand because you said you love them (and I in turn love you).

@acotargiftexchange

Major thanks to @velidewrites and @wilde-knight for the moodboard + beta-ing this fic when I was laying face down in a puddle of my own tears.

--

Prologue: 

“Go,” Feyre whispered, hands pushing against Elain’s back. It was frigid outside, their boots cracking the ice crusted over the cobblestone streets. It should have smelled like pine and snow, should have been utterly silent as everyone waited for the coming Solstice and the gifts that so often accompanied it.

War had shattered the once idyllic peace, inching closer and closer to the capital of Ellesmere until Elain and her family were forced to flee in the night. Just ahead, her mother grasped Nesta’s hand, weaving through alleyways unfamiliar to the ransacking soldiers.

She knew where they were going. They had practiced this before. One more left, ducking beneath a half-ruined awning, and then a sprint to the docks where a ship was waiting. Her father was nowhere to be seen, though Elain supposed he had a head start on them.

“Go,” her mother urged, pushing Nesta, then Elain, and finally Feyre into the little vessel. A man was waiting, hoisting them beneath with hurried, impatient fingers. “Get down—”

A flaming arrow screamed through the night, missing Feyre by mere inches. It took Elain a minute to realize what had happened—the shield that had saved her youngest sister’s life. Their mother stared, blue eyes like glassy mirrors against her ashen face. Golden brown hair graying at the temples was set aflame. Nesta began screaming, the words ringing in Elain’s ears.

“Go,” their mother mouthed, hitting her knees before she pitched forward. Hands pulled the three of them roughly back into the boat as orders were given to pull up the anchor. Was she crying? It seemed as if she must be given how frozen her face felt. 

The world was moving too slow for Elain, making it impossible for her racing thoughts to process. Even as the ship pulled away, dragged by roaring wind, Elain was certain their mother was going to get up. 

She didn’t. 

“Princess,” the captain was yelling at Nesta, unsteady against the choppy northern sea. “Princess, we need—”

Elain never heard what they needed. The wind drowned out the command which Elain didn’t care much about, anyway. Was Nesta Queen, now? The few sailors moving about eyed her fourteen-year-old sister warily and though Elain couldn’t hear what Nesta said, she recognized the sharpness of her eyes. Nesta was used to giving out such commands. Feyre was gripping the railing of their ship, staring at the water below with a hollow gaze. Elain knew what she needed to do—put on a brave face and take Feyre into the interior of the ship where they could get some sleep, if only to forget what was happening to their home.

Everything was going to be okay. They’d get to the safehouse where relatives would be waiting to usher them to safety. Everyone was okay. A healer would attend to their mother who would be bedridden but otherwise safe. 

Deep, deep down Elain knew it was a lie. She needed those lies, at least for now. As the ship rocked, Elain made her way toward Feyre who was still looking outward. The once beautiful city she’d spent her life in was a mere haze of smoke and fire in the distance, half lost to the fog of sea. 

“Feyre,” Elain began, though that was all she was able to say before the ship violently lurched to one side. The gods were moody that night, unwilling to offer safe passage despite the circumstances. Elain lost Feyre, hitting her back against the wet wood so roughly it robbed her of breath. 

Please, she thought just as water rushed over her. It was shockingly cold, leaving her paralyzed like a rag doll, flung from one end to the other. She could hear nothing, could do nothing, utterly helpless to even draw breath though she desperately wanted to.

Get up get up get up! Her mind screamed with panic. Elain did try to grasp at something when the ship tilted sickeningly again, though her fingers were utterly stiff and unwilling to bend. The world was upside down, a swirl of dark hues of navy and gray.

And then it was silent and salt and made entirely of water. Elain’s body constricted, lungs demanding air though none arrived when she opened her mouth. More water, more fear. She could feel nothing, could see nothing. Just a blur of her own hazy fear and the terrible fear she was going to die. 

Elain did try, though it amounted to nothing. There was nothing to cling to, no light to tell her which way was up and which way was down. And as the cold seeped in, somehow driving out the horrible chill, she thought that maybe this wasn’t so bad. Maybe it was better to be without fear. 

Maybe this was a mercy.

In the end, it was nothing at all.

[ten years later]

Lucien Vanserra stretched out his legs, neck stiff. “Bastard,” he spat, tossing his sword to the muddy ground beneath him. Behind him, the boisterous laugh of his best friend and second-in-command Jurian followed him out of the training pits.

“You’re a sore loser,” Jurian crooned, likely catching the way Lucien’s fists curled and uncurled. “I have half a mind to tell your father you were bested in training again.”

“And I have half a mind to punch you in the face ahead of Lady Vassa’s visit,” Lucien retorted hotly, wiping the smile off Jurian’s face. “Oh. Did you not hear she was coming to court?”

It was Jurian’s turn to look as though he’d like to hit Lucien. Lucien had intended to tell Jurian though it had slipped his awareness given all the other things happening. Now was as good a time as any, besides. 

“Why?”

“Why do you suppose? Now that mother and father insist I marry, every lord with a daughter under the age of forty will descend upon us hoping to secure a match.”

“You wouldn’t—”

“Of course I wouldn’t,” Lucien snapped, wiping his sweaty brow against his bare forearm. “And Lady Vassa is hardly on mothers shortlist besides. This little ball of hers is not in good faith.”

“Ah, but it will be one last night of debauchery and fun,” Jurian teased, elbowing Lucien in the ribs. “This is every firstborn son’s duty, is it not? Get married, carry on the family line, etcetera and so forth?”

Lucien’s mood only darkened at the prospect. It wasn’t that he minded the thought of one day having a son, of becoming king and ruling the empire his father had so strategically built. It was the manner in which he was expected to do it. His own father had been allowed to choose his wife, however ill-advised it had been at the time. Lucien had no intention of stealing another man's wife as his father had done, sweeping her away and leaving six furious sons behind.

He merely wanted the ability to say who he wanted when he wanted.

And, perhaps, he was still a little burned by Jesminda’s rather abrupt dismissal of their courtship. She was gone, left to the countryside with her new husband she loved. Lucien told himself he ought to be happy for her. It had been nearly two years since she’d left, married and beaming—practically glowing, now that he thought about it. He’d been too bitter at the time to notice. He didn’t begrudge her that.

Lucien merely wished she had felt that way about him. He was convinced there was no one else in the world for him and perhaps he’d told his mother so drunkenly a few months earlier. If he’d only kept his big mouth shut, he’d have been allowed to carouse as he liked for at least another year.

Possibly two if he was careful about it.

Now he’d be married by solstice—just in time to parade his new wife around the summit in Velaris while making not-so-veiled threats to Archeron, the utter bastard. He was in the process of marrying off his eldest daughter so he, too, might have a successor to the throne, looking west toward Lucien’s half brother which was a threat in and of itself.

Everyone knew the Vanserras would love to see the southern empire laid to ruin. It was important Lucien married more than ever—ideally into a family with deep pockets to fight the war they all knew was coming. Peace was tentative, brokered when the northern royals lost their queen and a princess all in the same day. Ellesmere ceded territory laden with gold, enriching Lucien’s family and in exchange his father returned their remaining two daughters, rescued at sea. 

He still remembered Nesta Archeron. They’d been allowed to live in the palace rather than as prisoners and while Feyre had been mostly mute, glassy eyed and silent, Nesta had raged like a wild animal.

If she still harbored even a lick of resentment, Lucien knew she’d be the driving force behind Eris Vanserra’s throne and her father's bid for revenge. Eris was coming on a diplomatic mission, too, which was the polite way of saying Lucien’s mother was going to throw herself at his feet and hope she forgave her for leaving, while offering up all the same women she was pushing at Lucien, too.

As if Eris were the type for a love match. 

Shaking his head, Lucien pushed through the wooden gate to make his way back toward the city. It was unseasonably hot even for summer, the humidity drawing sweat even when he was sitting in the shade. It was miserable just then, boots hitting the sunstone streets with a loud thwack. Behind them, the sounds of clanging metal and groaning soldiers were half drowned by the cheerful white sands and foaming ocean, while ahead of them the bustling city created a chorus of voices. It was Lucien’s favorite sound. 

And his favorite sight. The looming palace on the hill made of ivory and gold and the multicolored buildings that circled around, built on a sloping mountainside. Purple flowers dotted along spiky grass while towering palm trees occasionally dropped coconuts to the streets. As a child, Lucien had collected them, begging his father to puncture them so he could drink the milk inside as he strutted about, a pretend sword strapped to his hip. 

Now when he stepped onto the main road people lowered their eyes and bowed their heads. He wasn’t a boy anymore, but a man they might one day call king. Lucien missed being the former, though—missed the way they’d reach for a strand of his auburn hair or how they’d sneak him little treats when they thought his parents weren’t looking. 

Jurian straightened, his expression shifting from Lucien’s friend to Captain of the Guard. One day Jurian would be his General, but for now, this was enough. Jurian was one of them—just another man from Rhodes who had risen through the ranks while making Lucien feel less isolated when he, too, had been shoved into the army. Everyone else treated Lucien with respect.

Jurian had shoved his face into the dirt.

“There’s a way out of immediate marriage,” Jurian began, reminding Lucien once again why he was both Lucien’s best friend and closest advisor. 

“Go on,” Lucien murmured, inhaling the smell of grilled meat. 

“Velaris is filled with beautiful women. Tell your mother you’re interested in a more political marriage.”

“And when she realizes I’m not interested in a more political marriage?” Lucien asked dryly, trying to think of the last time he’d been inside Velaris. Had he ever? Maybe once when he’d been a boy, the memory eluding him.

“It’ll be winter and half the ladies who visited will be married to other lords. It’s not forever, but maybe another year or two. Nothing will save you from the marriage bed forever.”

“It’s better than anything I considered,” Lucien agreed, dodging a donkey hauling a cart filled with sunmelons. 

“And who knows. Maybe the love of your life is up in the mountains,” Jurian added, elbowing Lucien once again.

“I doubt that,” Lucien grumbled, his thoughts once again turning toward Jesminda. How long before she was pregnant, he wondered? How long before she brought her firstborn to court for his father’s blessing, forcing Lucien to see the man and family she’d wanted over him? 

Why not me?

Knowing full well Jesminda had never wanted to be a princess and had never wanted to be queen. 

He couldn’t shake the thought from his mind even as he entered the opulent palace to a loud argument between two of the philosophers his father insisted be allowed to live at court. Sidestepping them and mumbling a goodbye to Jurian, Lucien took the steps two at a time toward his bedroom. He needed just a little silence and a chance to clear his head. 

Flopping onto his bed, still sticky from heat and sweat, Lucien closed his eyes, intending to find a way through the tangled mess that was his mind.

All he found was sleep.

“Come with me,” Vassa urged, reaching for Elain’s hands. “Please. Please. Pleasepleaseplease—”

“I don’t belong at court,” Elain interrupted, looking up from her book. Vassa plopped beside her, spreading her hands over the cerulean blue of her skirts. “And you’ll have more fun without me.”

“I won’t. I never do,” Vassa protested, pretty face twisted into a scowl. “The prince is a bore and his court is far too self-satisfied to be of any amusement.”

“Stop, you’re making it sound too fun—”

“Come with me anyway. Rhodes is a wonderful city filled with libraries and museums and amusements beyond your wildest imagination. Plus there will be parties and dancing and you love parties and dancing.”

“Yes, and there will be all these well-bred ladies–”

“You’re a well-bred lady, and my sister to boot.”

Elain offered Vassa a look of exasperation. They were sisters in name only, but not by blood. Elain’s family was yet another casualty in the brutality the north inflicted upon them, razing her village to the ground and tossing her body into the western sea. Had she not been found by Lord Koshington, Elain might have succumbed to exposure. Her life before Vassa was lost to her and in some ways, she knew she was quite fortunate. She’d been given the education of a lady and one day a marriage would be arranged on her behalf.

It was far better than whatever she’d been expecting before the raid, she supposed. But just because Lord Koshington had taken her in didn’t make her an actual lady. Elain had never been brave enough to go to court either, choosing to remain behind rather than be reminded of her inadequacies.

She wanted to see it all, if only once. 

“I should stay–”

“I won’t take no for an answer. Please. I’ll do your latin homework for a week if you agree. Or…I’ll give you my gold dress—”

“You wouldn’t,” Elain replied, facing the book in her lap to fully look at Vassa. “You love that gown.”

“I love you more. Is that an agreement, then? You’ll spend a month in Rhodes with me in exchange for my gold dress?”

“And my latin homework. And you’ll work harder on the piano when we return as well. I’m tired of being the only one asked to play when guests come over.”

“Done,” Vassa agreed, blue eyes as bright as the sun itself. “Lucky you agreed because I may have told father this morning you’d agreed to accompany me. We’ll serve as each other's chaperones so he can waste his time droning on and on with the king about politics.”

“Chaperones? Who are you hoping to see?”

Vassa’s bronzed cheeks darkened, her freckles lost beneath the wash of color. Elain forgot her book entirely, surging forward until their faces were mere inches apart. “Tell me his name at once!”

“Swear to keep it between us. I would die if he ever learned the depth of my affection. He thinks I loathe him and I would prefer to keep it that way.”

“You’re cruel, Vassa.”

“Men prefer to work for our affection and this man is no different. Worse, I suspect, which is why I like him. The prince’s mother is hoping to match someone with her son but I am far more interested in the Captain of the Guard.”

“Is he handsome?” Elain asked, resting the back of her head against the rough bark of the tree behind her. 

“Terribly handsome. And horribly stupid, but in an endearing sort of way. I’m certain he’s good at many things…just not winning an argument.”

“Well, no one can win an argument against the likes of you,” Elain said with a laugh. “What will the lord say about it?”

Vassa’s smile dipped a bit. “No, I’m sure. He has no title, no money and will always serve the prince. Still. It’s fun to imagine a world in which we could select our own husbands, don’t you think?”

“I’ve never really thought about it,” Elain admitted. “It seems risky.”

“That’s just what men want you to think. But we’re perfectly capable of knowing our own minds and deciding for ourselves. We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.”

“What are you planning?”

“Me? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of planning or plotting.”

Elain rolled her eyes, wondering for the first time just how much Vassa actually liked this man and how far she might be willing to go. Elain pondered it all evening, wondering if she shouldn’t tell someone that sending the two of them mostly alone to Rhodes was a bad idea.

But Vassa’s words lingered in her mind. 

We’re not as helpless and brainless as they imagine.

Because Vassa was right. She’d been educated within an inch of her life just for men to waltz around her acting as if she were as new as a freshly born baby. Treated as though it were cute she had opinions when she was supposed to be nothing more than ornamentation while Elain brushed it off because what else could she do?

But Vassa was right, just like she always was. They weren’t stupid—men wanted it both ways. They wanted a wife smart enough to one day oversee the education of their sons, but stupid enough they were always the unchallenged authority. It didn’t mean Elain wouldn’t acquiesce when her time came—she had no other option and no other skills but to be married—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t help Vassa escape the expectations.

That was what Elain told herself, anyway. And it helped her sleep at night for the following week as preparations were made to leave the idyllic countryside estate they resided on and make their way further south toward the coast. Lord Koschington was still accompanying them and would be the one to introduce Elain to court—as his niece rather than his daughter. That was the more believable lie without besmirching Elain’s reputation right from the start. 

With the gold gown packed in a trunk and the promise of being allowed to coast in her lessons when she returned—assuming Vassa returned with her at all. Elain was dreading the carriage ride not because the journey was long and it was already oppressively hot, even at dawn, but because Lord Koshington loved to hear himself talk.

And in the carriage he had a captive audience. 

For five miserable hours, Vassa and Elain sat straight backed and silent while Lord Koschington droned on and on about King Helion’s feud with the King of the North, Archeron. Elain loathed the name like any good southerner, having learned to fear those silver armored warriors that often ducked across the border to raze whole villages to the ground. 

He had two daughters and Koschington was fascinated with the oldest, said to be unparalleled in her beauty and destined for the prince to the west, Eris Vanserra. For five hours, all he talked about was the disaster it would be if those two territories united and how Lucien would be the last Spell-Cleaver to ever sit on the sunlit throne. It was the sort of conundrum that kept men like Lord Koshington awake at night but to Elain, who couldn’t remember the war and had been living in nothing but peace for the last decade, it felt more like unwarranted anxiety. 

Who cared about a princess’ marriage? Why wouldn’t she marry a prince, besides? Elain had heard rumors that Eris Vanserra was the most handsome prince in the realm, still unmarried as his ancient father crept toward the grave. She imagined there was a line from his bedroom door to the edge of his coast hoping to secure him as a husband.

As for herself, well. She was glad to not be in such a position. Elain didn’t think she cared for that kind of responsibility. 

Eventually, even Lord Koschington was silenced by the heat, sweat sliding down the temples of his face. His once onyx hair was threaded with silver and his face lined with age though he was easily a good-looking man. Elain sometimes wondered why he’d never remarried after the passing of his wife though she’d never had the guts to ask him. That was private—personal. 

He wasn’t her father, either. He’d cared for her, taken her in when that had never been his obligation and treated her as well as his own daughter.

Elain knew better than to upset him. Though he’d never given her a reason to believe otherwise, some part of her suspected that if she acted outside of his will, he might withdraw his support. Better to be above reproach in all things so he felt his investment was worth it. 

Elain had never been more grateful in her life to stumble out of a carriage. At first glance, she saw the women in the capitol wore far fewer layers than they had been out in the country. No laces, no petticoats, no sleeves. Gods above, but Elain was desperate to update her wardrobe with the breezy fabrics and shorter sleeves, even if some part of her felt slightly scandalized by the scooping backs and the clingy bodices. 

She noticed the palace itself next. Set atop a rather steep hill and half-carved into a mountain overlooking the southern sea, the sprawling structure was made of ivory and gold, lined with swaying green palms, while purple flowers dotted against the lawn.

Rows of carriages circled to the front of the drive spilling ladies in all manner of garb toward the towering pillars where they were greeted by an elderly man draped in white. Elain and Vassa both dipped into curtseys when it was their turn as Lord Koshington announced, “My daughters, Vassa and Elain.” Elain’s pulse hammered.

My daughter.

He’d told her she would be introduced as a cousin. Daughter? Blinking rapidly lest she burst into tears, Elain grasped Vassa’s hand so hard she was certain there was no blood flow. Putting aside his kind words and his willingness to pretend she was wholly his, Elain and Vassa stepped into the palace. She’d expected more of the miserable, oppressive heat but somehow it was cool. Not cold, but chilly enough a shiver raced up her spine the moment the air hit her skin. 

They were hardly the most anticipated guests—no royals to greet them, no decadent rooms. Lord Koshington had his own while the girls were given a suite of interconnected bedrooms that were larger than anything Elain had ever seen. Draped in cream and gold, her bedroom had the good fortune of overlooking the sea and the gardens just below. 

Elain was living in a dream.

She didn’t want to wake up.

Nesta Archeron took the spiraling, stone steps two at a time, navy skirts gathered in one hand to keep her from plummeting right back down. Chilly hair nipped at her cheeks, drawing color that wouldn’t otherwise exist. The air itself stung her eyes, making them seem glassy like she’d been crying.

Nesta Archeron never cried. 

Hiding at the top of the tower stood her younger sister Feyre, fingers bright red from the cold. “Have they arrived?” Nesta asked, shouldering beside Feyre to peer out of the little arched window overlooking the whole of the city. 

“There,” Feyre said, nodding toward the black and silver banners marching toward the palace gates. Nesta’s eyes were drawn to the man sitting atop a black steed, his matching cape fluttering in the wind. She couldn’t see him well, but every ounce him screamed warrior king. 

King Rhysand of the East.They called him the King of Nightmares for his reputation for being ruthless—he didn’t kill those who slipped over his border looking to destabilize his regime. Rhysand had them tortured, broke their minds, and sent them back home. 

He was flanked on either side by two men who might have been brothers. The distance obscured their features, though Nesta could make out the broad shoulders and lethal sword hilt of the one on the left and the slimmer build of the one on the right. She supposed the one on the left was the terrifying Lord of Bloodshed, Rhysand’s general, and the other was the torture master himself, Azriel. 

For the first time in living memory, the North was welcoming the East into their borders. Nesta wasn’t foolish enough to think it was mere diplomacy, though she’d already promised the prince of the west her home, her throne, and her body, too, if he returned with a way into the south.

But should he fail, she’d do what her father was hoping and she’d marry Rhysand if he could offer her the revenge she was so desperate for.

Nesta’s nightmares were still plagued of Elain, wide-eyed and shivering as she made her way toward Feyre in the dark. She still dreamt of the ricocheting canon that slammed into their ship and how she and Feyre were whisked into a lifeboat. How they’d been kept political prisoners by Helion himself, their lives used to forge the treaty that now bound both nations.

While Elain had never been found, her body still haunting the sea bed. 

And Nesta might have been able to forgive the death of her mother. But she’d sworn her life to protecting Elain the very night she’d failed. It was the only way to convince Elain to leave.

I’ll protect you. Please. Come with me.

How she’d failed. 

Nesta was old enough to inherit her father’s throne though law dictated she needed a husband and so Nesta had begun a campaign of finding the right man. She didn’t need love—didn’t want love. She wanted vengeance and none of the men at court were equipped to give her that.

Eris Vanserra wanted it nearly as badly as she did, and was just as practical. He’d told her he wasn’t looking for a love match and would look the other way if she chose to take a lover so long as she was discreet about it—and he had no question regarding any future offspring.

Fine.

He would be there now, poking through Helion’s secrets. Looking for weaknesses, mapping out their borders, the walls of Rhodes, and anything else he could glean. Nesta would give him everything, ruining her father’s careful legacy in favor of turning her family into Vanserras, giving her husband total control her territory, her wealth, her armies.

And she’d be the one to drive the blade straight through Helion’s blackened heart.

Rhysand was her backup plan and her father’s first choice. Eris Vanserra was a snake in the grass, untrustworthy and perhaps more damning, a Vanserra. Their family had ruled longer than any other on the continent, with a legacy that predated the oldest written record. 

But for all Eris’ faults, Nesta knew vengeance was personal for him. Helion had stolen his mother away in the night, forced her into marriage, and made her his wife. Those kinds of scars lingered, lasted. Rhysand wasn’t that sort of man from what she’d gathered.

He was a shadowed mystery, his motivations unclear. She didn’t know if he even wanted conquest, or if he was merely interested in seeing her home. She’d sent several letters which he’d returned with short, polite answers. Nothing helpful, no hidden message she could read between the lines. Only a gentleman’s words that were utterly banal and uninteresting to her.

Gentleman be damned.

She needed someone bloodthirsty and cruel.

Beside her, Feyre turned her head, chestnut hair whipping against her face. She knew, even if Nesta had never once explicitly said what she planned. Feyre knew, watchful as she was. Whether she approved or not didn’t matter, though Nesta had never known Feyre to be terribly soft-hearted. And she suspected she carried the same weighty guilt over Elain’s death, held the same deep-seated need to see someone pay for it. 

“We should be ready to greet them,” Nesta said, well aware Feyre would slip up into the rafters to listen without anyone watching.

��You go, then. I have no interest in any more princes or kings,” she replied, blue eyes flashing with defiance. “Nor do I wish to assist father in selling us off like livestock.”

“Not us. Me. You are safe—and once I’m married, you can pick whatever lovely northern gentleman is hounding your steps. I’ll make sure of it.”

“I don’t want a husband. We don’t need any of these horrible men to get what we want, Nesta. Take the throne, rewrite the laws—”

“The nobility would revolt. They’d throw me in prison or worse, force a marriage on me, wait until I gave them a son, and then stage some timely yet tragic accident. It’s better to have a say in it. To decide for myself and direct it as best I can.”

“None of them are trustworthy and I fear this king—Rhysand— is the worst of them.”

“Worse than Vanserra?” Nesta replied, genuinely curious which Feyre would prefer ruling their home. 

Feyre glanced back out the window, eyes narrowing. “He looks like a liar.”

“That’s because he’s a man.”

Feyre blew out a breath, crossing her arms over the rosy pink dress she wore. Neither of them would acknowledge what they were both thinking—Lord Tamlin Rosewood, who’d asked for Feyre’s hand in marriage and then struck her in a fit of frustration over some problem with the dowry. It had been, he claimed, an accident. 

He had been expelled from court, banished to the countryside and Feyre locked in her room until the bruising on her face faded. Everyone wanted to pretend it had never happened but to Nesta, it merely highlighted that she needed to be the one to secure their family so Feyre could have a small sliver of peace. 

Love was for the lower classes, besides. Perhaps Ferye understood that, now. 

“Come on,” Nesta said, hoping she wouldn’t have to go alone. She would, but she would feel less anxiety if she weren’t by herself. 

For once, Feyre didn’t put up a fight. Perhaps she recognized Nesta’s own vulnerability. Or maybe she wanted to stare the foreign king down with that lethal gaze of hers that made men wither to dust. Nesta thought it would be something to see them cower before her petite sister rethinking whatever strategy she was certain they must have.

The halls were utterly emptied, leaving only the watchful sentries posted by windows and doors, none of whom were allowed to meet their gaze. She still remembered Elain trying so hard to get the ones at the throne room door to smile and how she’d nearly always succeeded.

Feyre and Nesta didn’t bother. 

Their father was waiting, sitting on his icy, iron throne crowned in the blue diamonds that could be found only in the ancient mountains of the Spine, the natural border between their home and Rhysand’s. Nesta wondered if Rhysand would come wearing them, too. Nesta was wearing them around her neck, so heavy it made her spine ache. She’d carefully braided her hair off her face and put on a rather sumptuous, though conservative, gown. 

She was beautiful and she knew it. Nesta also knew that men liked a woman who presented herself well—Eris Vanserra had certainly been taken with her presentation, and she assumed Rhysand would be, too. There was no harm in letting him see what he wanted. A wellbred, obedient wife was the expectation. It wasn’t the reality, but that was a problem for another day. 

Nesta and Feyre took their place on either side of their father, staring across the room lined with nobility as the sounds of heavy footsteps began echoing louder and louder. For one moment, something in Nesta quaked with fear, blood icy as though death itself was making its way for her.

It was only a man—a man she didn’t want, didn’t like, and would never love. Rhysand and his right hands were the only ones who came in, strangely unadorned.

He was, objectively, attractive enough. High cheekbones set in a symmetrical face, with eyes so blue they were nearly violet and dark hair styled to look as though the wind had merely tousled it. A silver circlet of stars adorned his brow and one heavy ring was perched on his middle finger while the rest of him was rather bare in comparison to her father.

He looked like a warrior king in his dark black leathers and the heavy cape hanging from his shoulders. He lacked all the pomp and circumstance Eris had brought with him along with the warmth, too. His whole presence exuded ice and instinctively, Nesta took a step back.

His eyes were on her, and then her father as he swept into a bow. Nesta watched, as he came back up, how his gaze slid to Feyre.

And remained there.

“Rhysand,” her father began, his voice sharp and clear. “I hope the journey didn’t give you too much trouble.”

A cat’s smile slid across his features, eyes flicking back to their father. “None at all.”

Nesta didn’t hear her father’s response, buzzing filling her ears as she took a moment to survey the other men who’d come to join their king. The tallest one had removed the heavy helmet he wore, tucking it beneath one muscular arm and oh, Nesta wished he hadn’t. His face, scarred just at the eyebrow and again across full lips, was perhaps the most beautiful face she’d ever laid eyes on. Not classically, of course—for one, he was far too large. The sconce on the wall across the room was, perhaps, as tall as this man was and the muscle packed on his body spoke to an active life, never mind the twin, curved swords looming over his shoulders.

A light layer of dark stubble graced a perfect jaw while strange, whirling black inked tattoos peeked from beneath the neckline of his armor. She wondered what they meant, what their purpose was. Nesta drank in his slightly crooked nose, likely broken in some battle he’d won and the curved scar across his throat that must have been brutal when he’d first received it. He had his large hands clasped in front of him and when she looked up to take in the color of his eyes—hazel, more green than brown—she found he was grinning at her.

He’d caught her looking at him and wanted her to know it. Nesta immediately looked away, unable to hide the damning flush creeping up her own neck. 

Nesta swore he’d never catch her looking at him again.

Hands in his pockets, Rhys allowed Archeron to show him around the palace. These visits never failed to bore him. Look at this painting, survey my wealth. Did you see my daughters? Aren’t they lovely? 

Usually the answer was covert eyerolls and shared smirks with Cassian and Azriel. Today, though, Rhys felt moody. Unsettled. Disturbed, even, by the younger daughter he hadn’t known existed and hadn’t expected to see. 

Rumors swirled about Nesta Archeron and the possible marriage her father was considering with heir apparent Eris Vanserra. His father was on death’s door and a marriage between North and West almost certainly promised a brutal and bloody war. 

When Helion had learned, he’d sent word to Rhysand. What is going on in the Spine?

Nothing smart. Rhysand intended to do what he did best—lie. Pretend he had interest in Nesta, jerk her around for a year while he drew up marriage contracts that had to be written and rewritten and written again, wasting her time while Eris inevitably moved on to some nice noble in his own court.

And then Rhys could withdraw, free to continue philandering until his advisors put their foot down. His presence was purely nefarious—two months freezing his balls off in the frigid north while Cassian inspected the army and Azriel devoured secrets. 

And yet…and yet. 

Rhysand’s mind slipped toward the younger daughter and those eyes. They looked like the same stars that hung over the Illyrian Mountains, silvery and bright and so very alive. Rhys had spent his entire life gazing up at them—he would have recognized them anywhere. Even in the face of that woman, who spared only a passing glance before she fixed her stare on the wall behind him, clearly underwhelmed by their presence. 

He wanted to talk to her. He’d seen beautiful women before, though perhaps this was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and that beauty was often exhausted the moment they opened their mouth to speak to him. 

Easier said than done. Rhys tried, but Nesta Archeron became the ambassador for the Archerons, silently watching him without ever speaking a word. He found that unnerving all through dinner and wasn’t the only one. The moment he, Azriel, and Cassian were locked away in the suite of rooms, Azriel was the first to speak.

“This place feels like a tomb,” he said, looking around the dark interior.

“Why don’t the princesses speak?” Cassian added, pulling open the heavy velvet curtains blocking out the dim light. “Are they allowed?”

“We should have brought Morrigan,” Azriel grumbled, flopping gracelessly onto a floral sofa. 

“She doesn’t deserve the archaic practices of Archeron,” Rhys replied, running a finger over the marble mantle of the fireplace. A thin layer of dust came with it, proving the North rarely hosted guests.

They were far too untrusting.

He supposed he didn’t blame Archeron given the horror of that final invasion. Rhysand couldn’t imagine losing both a wife and a daughter, no matter how, frankly, deserved Rhysand still found the entire thing. After all—Archeron had marched into a neutral city, the third largest in the West, blocked all routes in and out, and burned it entirely to the ground in the matter of a week. 

War was hell and there were no heroes. Helion’s father had retaliated, breaking into the capital city and sacking it over the course of a night. In the aftermath, he’d taken the two surviving daughters hostage and only agreed to return them when a peace treaty had been brokered, redefining old borders and returning both stolen land and land long contested. 

Oh, but it was all such a mess even a decade later. Those wounds had been left to fester and no matter how Rhysand looked at it, he could see no path forward that didn’t explode into utter disaster. Maybe if Lucien Spell-Cleaver married an Archeron they could avoid war, but he’d heard the prince was far too spoiled and sheltered to be offered up like a political pawn.

And having seen Nesta, he doubted she was willing to subject herself to another hurt at the hands of the West. 

“What did you think of Nesta?” Cassian asked, his words carrying a strange ribbon of curiosity. Rhys opened his mouth before closing it again, trying to find words that were both honest without being cruel.

“I doubt a marriage is in our collective futures. Still—maybe she’ll surprise me.”

“With a dagger to your throat,” Azriel commented lightly, causing Cassian to grin at the thought. 

“We don’t need to worry about them other than distracting them. Any one of us can accomplish that,” Rhys declared, wondering why the image of Azriel and Feyre annoyed him so much.

“Let's get what we came for and let’s get out of this miserable city.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Azriel murmured, stretching out his legs. 

“I can already tell you their military is weak in compared to our own,” Cassian half whispered, his gaze sharp. “I’m going to ask to train with them tomorrow—”

“Trotting out the dumb brute act?” Azriel questioned, a gleam in his eyes.

“My favorite,” Cassian agreed. “I just love swinging a sword and no one ever taught me to read.”

“There must be more of them. Up in the mountains?” Azriel suggested, glancing toward the windows. “Archeron wouldn’t be so stupid to leave his entire kingdom undefended just to protect one city.”

“Helion decimated them a decade ago. Men don’t grow up so quickly,” Rhys reminded them both. “The north has gold, and diamonds from the Spine. Vanserra has manpower and a navy none of us could fend off should he bring it to our shores. It makes sense that Nesta would go to Eris first if she lacked manpower.”

“Then why are we here?” Cassian asked, drumming his fingers against his knee. 

“Perhaps Vanserra isn’t sold on the idea?” Rhys suggested, uncertain himself. “Or her father wants to explore all his options? We’re here to prevent another war that would almost certainly drag us into it,” he added, looking at his general and spymaster.

“We’re just waiting out the summer, then?” Azriel questioned.

Rhys nodded. “We can give them all a little taste of what war might mean for them this time.”

Knowing his objective didn’t do much for Rhys’s restless mind, though. While his brothers got ready for the evening, making jokes and generally amused by the entire situation, Rhys slipped from the suite of rooms they shared to walk the halls. It unnerved him how many people were watching under the guise of not watching at all. The sentries and guards never looked at him and he knew his steps would be reported to the king before breakfast.

Getting around undetected was Azriel’s domain. Rhys had never tried, commanded too much attention. He was always the distraction, besides. No one gave Azriel and Cassian much thought, certain he must be the knife in the dark. Slick smiles and double entendre made everyone assume he was far more clever than he was.

Cassian was the dumb brute, Azriel obsessed with cruelty which left Rhys as the one worth watching. He just seemed like a two-faced bastard. And to be fair…he was. But he had help, had chosen his inner circle carefully. 

His feet took him to a set of stone steps that spiraled upward into a tower. It was a decent vantage point over the dreary city. Fog hung like a curtain, floating from the mountains that kept the warmer air Velaris received from reaching them. Rhys heard there were years where Ellesmere experienced nothing but rain every single day.

No wonder they liked war so much. What else was there for them?

At the top of this tower, rather than more oppressive fog, sat the younger princess. Rhys hesitated, drinking in the sight of her propped up in that window, one leg dangling precariously over the edge. Her hair was braided over one shoulder and propped on the wall beside her, a bow with a quiver of arrows. 

Another sentry, far prettier than any of the others he’d seen. Rhys couldn’t help himself, leaning against the door frame, arms crossed over his chest.

“Keeping watch?”

She turned her head to look, those starry blue eyes narrowing. “You shouldn’t be up here.”

“Says who?”

“Says me,” she replied, causing Rhys to take a step into the candle lit, chilly room.

“Oh, but you seem like such fine company,” he crooned, holding her gaze. “Maybe you could give me a tour—”

“I’ll leave that to Nesta,” Feyre snapped. It was a dismissal given she turned back to looking out at the city and any rational man would have turned around and left.

But Rhys was famously stupid, if his cousin Mor was to be believed so he came closer, desperate for anything to say to her. He was a fool to have any interest in this woman at all, to want a moment of her time when he’d come here to betray her. 

“Why are you here?” she asked when Rhys couldn’t think of anything eloquent to say.

“I’m looking for a wife, darling,” he heard himself say. Heart thudding, Rhys recalled telling his advisors not a week earlier he had no interest in a wife and to stop pushing him on it. What absurdity to say it while looking at her, knowing damn well she wasn’t for the likes of him.

He barely knew her at all.

“It's strange how many men suddenly find themselves desperate to be married,” Feyre commented, swinging her legs over the edge of the window before righting herself. “We came of age years ago. Surely you’re not interested in women as old as we are.”

“You think me so shallow? I like a conversation partner—”

“You don’t worry we’ve been ruined?”

Oh, what man touched her he wondered? What man would Rhys have to murder? The urge washed over him stronger than any other emotion he’d felt in recent months. It wasn’t that she had potentially been with another man but the defiant way she asked him if that somehow diminished her worth. 

“A lot of things keep me awake at night, Feyre darling,” Rhys purred, taking a measured step toward the princess. “Your activities in the bedroom are not one of them.”

“That’s good, given you’re here to court my sister.”

“I’m here for the princess of the North. You are a princess, are you not?” 

“I am a princess, I live in the North,” she agreed, those eyes of hers flashing. And Rhys knew whatever words came out of her mouth next were about to wreck him. His whole body went tight at the prospect.

“And I will never be your wife,” she added with that same, light tone. “I am not interested in a husband, especially one who looks like he lies as easily as he breathes.”

Rhys flashed a smile. He wanted her. What a revelation. “We’ll see,” he replied as she sauntered past him, shouldering her bow with ease. 

Feyre only shook her head, eyes rolling upward in her skull. “That wasn’t a challenge. You repulse me.”

Rhys only laughed.

They’d see about that, too.