#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.

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[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.

[transmascissues]

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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[wingedblooms]

A rose in the thorns

Remember when Madja told us that the Cauldron made its mark deepest in the mind? And then Sarah showed us this:

The gates to her mind … Solid iron, covered in vines of flowers—or it would have been. The blossoms were all sealed, sleeping buds tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. (acowar)

Her flowers are described as sleeping buds that are tucked into tangles of leaves and thorns. Feyre describes her mental gates this way just before Elain uses powers that might be connected to mystics. And then, as others have pointed out, Sarah shows us this in the next book:

But Mor scented nothing, saw nothing. The tendril of power she speared toward the woods revealed only the usual birds and small beasts. A hart drinking from a hole in an iced-over stream. Nothing, except - There, between a snarl of thorns. A patch of darkness. It did not move, did not seem to do anything but linger. And watch. Familiar and yet foreign. Something in her power whispered not to touch it, not to go near it. Even from this distance. Mor obeyed. But she still watched that darkness in the thorns, as if a shadow had fallen asleep among them. Not like Azriel's shadows, twining and whispering. Something different. Something that stared back, watching her in turn. (Mor's pov, acofas)

A shadowy watcher in the woods, as if it had fallen asleep in the thorns. That imagery is eerily similar to Elain's sleeping buds. As a seer, she can find and watch others from afar.

"This time, you sent the trembling fawn to find me. I did not expect to see those doe-eyes peering at me from across the world." (Suriel, acowar)

Mystics seek a higher consciousness, to become one with the divine. In tog, beings of a higher consciousness are what characters referred to as gods. And what did we learn about them from the memory in the witch mirror?

They had no forms. They were only figments of light and shadow, wind and rain, song and memory. Each individual, and yet a part of one majority, one consciousness. (eos)

If mystics become one with the divine, then this might mean they become part of that greater consciousness, travel like figments of light and shadow. This could explain why Elain is paired with the half-wraith twins and it’s possible her mystical travel might mimic how Feyre moves when she is connected to the Cauldron through a living bond.

I could not remove my hand. Could not pry my fingers away. I was being shredded apart, slowly, thoroughly. I flung my magic out, desperate for any chain to this world to save me, keep me from being devoured by the eternal, awful thing that now tried to drag me into its embrace. Fire and water and light and wind and ice and night. All rallied. All failed me. Some tether slipped, and my mind slid closer to the Cauldron’s outstretched arms. I felt it touch me. And then I was half gone. Half there, standing silently next to the Cauldron, hand glued to the black rim. Half … elsewhere. Flying through the world. Searching. The Cauldron now hunted for that power that had come so close…And now taunted it. [...] Time seemed to slow and warp. The dark power of the king speared toward us. Toward that clearing where I was neither seen nor heard, where I was nothing but a scrap of soul carried on a black wind. (acowar)

Feyre’s connection to her form is shredded and her tether to the world slips as she is embraced by the Cauldron. She travels with it across the battlefield, a scrap of soul on a black wind, and is forced to watch tragic events unfold. Trapped by the Cauldron, Feyre was not able to step out of its black wind shadow to help, but Elain was.

For a moment, I thought the Cauldron had answered my pleas. But as a black blade broke through the king’s throat, spraying blood, I realized someone else had. Elain stepped out of a shadow behind him, and rammed Truth-Teller to the hilt through the back of the king’s neck as she snarled in his ear, “Don’t you touch my sister.” (acowar)

And this is probably why Elain’s rose is half-hidden in shadows next to the Mother. Her Cauldron-blessed powers might allow her to be half-there, half-elsewhere when she becomes part of that greater, divine consciousness.

Her gaze shifted to the carved wooden rose she’d placed upon the mantel, half-hidden in the shadows beside a figurine of a supple-bodied female, her upraised arms clasping a full moon between them. Some sort of primal goddess–perhaps even the Mother herself. (acosf)

It’s possible she used this power to locate the Suriel, which was practice for the main event: answering Feyre’s pleas and taking down Hybern in place of the Cauldron. Her Sight—a truth teller itself—likely activated Truth-Teller, guiding her to exactly the right place at the right time. The question is, since she is not bound like Feyre, did she then winnow (ie, travel like Hope through the Void, light cutting through the darkness) to save her family? And has she continued to help them in this way?

Islands of grass dotted the expanse, some so crowded with brambles that he could find no safe place to land. The tangles of thorns were a mockery of what might have been - as if Oorid had ever produced roses. Not a single flower bloomed. [...] Run, a small voice whispered. Run and run, and do not look back. The voice was female, gentle. Wise and serene. Run. [...] Run. Was that voice merely all that remained of her human instincts, or something more? She gazed at her reflection as if it would tell her. Something rustled in the thorns of the island, and she snapped up her head, heart thundering as she scanned for that familiar male face and wings. But there was no sign of Cassian. And whatever was in that bramble...She should find another island to head for. (acosf)

This small voice warning Nesta to run also reminds me of Elain’s warning cry to Feyre before she is Made by the Cauldron.

My sisters were shrieking over their gags. But Elain’s cry—a warning. A warning to—To my right, now exposed, Tamlin ran for me. To grab me at last. I hurled a knife at him—as hard as I could. (acomaf)

Sarah planted Nesta’s questions in the Oorid scene to make us wonder. Is this voice something more? And is Nesta’s reflection, her own flesh and blood, a fun hint? After all, who is even better than the spymaster at keeping secrets, and who would’ve known where Nesta was headed? Elain might have defied her sister’s order (like we knew she would) to stay away from the Cauldron and help yet again, a rose bloom half-hidden in the shadows among the thorns. And I bet she will learn a ritual to help focus and ground her movements.

[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.

[kueble]

Your Electric Touch Could Fill This Ghost Town Up With Life

My back hurt and I don't have a Soap to massage me, so I projected on Ghost.

Teen. Warnings: none. 2,200 words.

Ghost/Soap

---

Soap will never admit it, but he always has eyes out for Ghost. He catches sight of him as soon as he stalks into the mess hall, boots heavy as he stomps over to the food line. Soap keeps his focus on Gaz, but he’s no longer hanging on his every word, too distracted by watching Ghost make his way through the line and perks up in his seat just in time to wave him over. Only Ghost just shakes his head and leaves the room quickly. There is an odd stiffness to his movements, and Soap can tell something is wrong.

“No LT tonight I guess,” Soap mumbles, and Gaz just looks at him sympathetically.

“I know you’ve got your own thing going on with Ghost, but maybe let him have his space tonight. He’s in rare form today,” Gaz warns him, which only serves to pique his curiosity.

“How so?”

“He’s been a right bastard all day. Glared at everyone in the gym, even though he normally doesn’t workout until after dinner when he can have the space to himself. He snapped at me so much that I just fucked off and let him stew in his anger. Apparently he was so tough on the rookies that Price had to tell him to calm down, which I’ve never seen before. He’s in a mood for sure,” Gaz explains with a grimace.

“I think I might have an idea of what’s bothering him,” Soap offers, but Gaz just shakes his head at him.

“Don’t poke the bear, dude,” he warns.

“Maybe,” Soap mumbles before going back to his dinner. He can tell Gaz knows he won’t leave Ghost alone, and they finish their meals in silence. Still, he can’t leave Ghost in this state if there’s anything he can do to help. Hopefully his friend will let him.

—

Ghost opens the door as soon as he knocks, almost as if he’d been waiting for him. Or he heard him fidgeting in the hallway while trying to decide if this was actually a good idea. His arms are crossed over his ridiculously large chest, and Soap swallows thickly before holding up two bottles of lotion.

“I have unscented or a peppermint that might help your muscles more. So let me in and I’ll see if I can help?” he asks, not bothering to beat around the bush. Either Ghost will let him in or tell him to fuck off, so better just jump right into it.

“Huh?” Ghost asks, head tilted as he stares at him like he’s insane, which he might be. He waves the two bottles of lotion at him and does his best to act like he has a fucking clue what he’s doing.

“Rumor has it that you’ve been more of an asshole than normal today, and any idiot can see it’s because you’re in pain. That last mission really fucked up your back and shoulders, didn’t it?” he asks, surprised when Ghost hums in agreement and ushers him inside.

“No one else mentioned it,” he points out quietly.

“Yeah, because you’re terrifying,” Soap says with a snort. “Lucky for you, that’s just my type. So are you going to let me help you out? I’ve got a little PT training from my old footie days.”

“Thought your type was anything that moves,” Ghost jokes, but then he adds a soft, “what’s your plan here?”

“I don’t have to get too invasive, but even a short massage should be able to help loosen up your muscles. Hate to see you in pain when I know I can help,” he says. Ghost nods sharply, so he continues, “alright then. Shirt off and face-down on the bed. Keep the mask on, but I may push the fabric up a bit to reach your neck. We’ll see how tense you are.”

“I can handle that,” Ghost agrees, and Soap grins at the unspoken trust. He’s never seen anyone outside of medical touch Ghost’s bare skin, and he understands what a big deal it is. He waits for Ghost to lay down on the bed and then kneels next to him. It’s a tight fit, but he doesn’t want to push his luck too much tonight.

“Unscented or mint?”

“Unscented,” Ghost tells him, and he tosses the other bottle aside before pumping some of the lotion into his palm. He rubs his hands together to spread it around before laying them on Ghost’s shoulders. He tenses up and takes a noticeable breath before settling back down.

“Tell me if I use too much pressure or I need to stop, yeah?” he asks, and Ghost grunts in agreement.

As soon as he lays his hands on Ghost’s skin, he jumps and Soap finds himself cooing in an effort to calm him down. He grins to himself at how ridiculous it is to treat his LT like a frightened animal, but his voice is apparently soothing enough to settle him down. Ghost sinks further into the bed and doesn’t jump again when Soap starts running his hands up and down his back, just warming up the area. Clearly he’s still anxious about this.

“Not gonna work if you can’t relax. I got you,” Soap murmurs as he rubs circles over his shoulder blades.

“Usually I at least get dinner before I’m shirtless,” Ghost mumbles, but there’s a hint of uncertainty clinging to his words. Soap can see him clearly now, not just stolen glances in the gym or while patching him up out in the field. His pale skin is littered with scars, some fresh and pink and others an ancient silver. Thankfully there aren’t a ton of newer ones, and Soap chooses to take it as proof their teamwork is better than what Ghost has had in the past. He beams with pride, even though Ghost is still face-down on the bed.

“Your next bourbon is on me for giving me the pleasure of seeing ya like this,” he says with a chuckle, and the mood in the room feels a hell of a lot lighter. They fall into an easy silence as Soap starts to massage him properly.

Ghost’s muscles are unbelievably tight beneath his hands, and Soap maps out a strategy, deciding to work on his shoulders first and then make his way down to his lower back. He steadfastly ignores the siren’s call of those perfect dimples at the base of his spine and does his best to keep things professional.

Because above all, Ghost is his friend and he’s clearly in pain. No matter what feelings he may hold for him, Soap wants to provide a little relief. He’s not some horny teenager who can’t keep himself in check at the first touch of skin on skin. He focuses on his task, digging his fingers into the tense muscles and adding enough pressure to work out the knots.

At some point he straddles Ghost without thinking about it, just moving into a better position to lean into him. It’s routine, his hands moving from one area to the next as he works. Soap stops every few moments to grab more lotion, not wanting to hurt Ghost more than necessary. He knows he’s found a knot every time Ghost grunts lowly and leans away from his touch. It must hurt, but there’s no way to relieve the pain without digging into it. He slowly makes his way down Ghost’s back, hopefully leaving comfort in his wake.

By the time he gets to Ghost’s lower back, Soap is practically in a trance. Sure, he barely manages to contain his bouncy personality and energy on a normal day, but he can fall into sharp focus when he needs to. Whether it be behind the scope of a sniper rifle or massaging the man he’s head over heels for, he flirts with insanity when he works through a problem.

Ghost is practically purring when Soap digs his thumbs into the knots at the base of his spine, pressing just hard enough to feel them loosen beneath his hands. His fingers and wrists are starting to ache, but Ghost lets out a happy sigh, and he can’t help being proud of the job he’s done. There’s no doubt Ghost will be in a much better mood tomorrow, and no one on base will know they have Soap to thank for it.

Ghost looks so relaxed, like he’s about to melt into the mattress, and the moment is so soft and warm that Soap leans down without thinking. He presses a gentle kiss right between Ghost’s shoulder blades. It’s just a soft, barely there brush of lips, but they both freeze as soon as it happens. Soap jumps up, already climbing off of Ghost’s body and flailing as he tries to get out of the bed.

But then there’s strong arms wrapped around his waist and he’s pulled back onto the bed. He closes his eyes, fully expecting to be punched for his mistake, but instead Ghost shifts closer to him, sliding Soap into his lap. When he opens his eyes, Ghost is staring at him so intensely that he nearly looks away. It’s like he can see into his soul, and Soap shivers under the heavy gaze.

“I didn’t mean to,” Soap mumbles. “It just happened.”

“Do you want it to happen again?” Ghost asks softly, and Soap can hear an unusual shyness in his tone. That makes him decide that fuck it, this may be his chance, and he’s talking before he realizes it.

“Maybe on your lips this time, Ghost, if you’ll let me,” he whispers, his heart hammering in his chest so hard he worries Ghost might feel it. Months of circling around each other, waiting and hoping that Ghost feels the same, and it’s all come down to this.

“Simon,” he tells Soap. “Call me Simon when we’re like this, Johnny.”

“Simon,” Johnny says, putting all the secret love he’s been harboring for months into the word.

And then Simon reaches down and yanks the balaclava off, his face exposed for the first time since Las Almas. Johnny sighs happily, taking in the beautiful sight in front of him. Simon’s blonde curls are a mess, flatten from being trapped under the mask all day. His smile is breathtaking, though, framed by scars and freckles, and Johnny could look at him forever. His fingers itch to draw him, but the urge to touch is even greater.

“You’re right bonnie,” he murmurs before reaching up and cradling Simon’s face in his hands. He brushes a thumb across a patch of freckles, grinning when Simon leans into his hand. “Gonna kiss you now,” he warns, and Simon just nods at him, his brown eyes impossibly wide as Johnny leans in and captures his mouth in a chaste kiss.

At first they’re both tentative, keeping things light and sweet, but then Simon licks at the seam of his lips and Johnny lets out a broken whine before opening up for him. It’s better than he imagined it would be, Simon's tongue sliding into his mouth and tracing his teeth. He chases it with his own, sighing as they fall into a desperate kiss.

Simon’s fingers dig into his hips, and he moans into the kiss, his hips grinding down on their own accord. Sparks fly up his spine, and he lets out a broken moan. Simon swallows it down as their mouths slide together so sweetly. He nips at Simon’s bottom lip, tugging gently before soothing it with his tongue.

Then Simon pulls back, panting slightly as he rests their foreheads together. Johnny whines at the loss, but Simon just tips his head down and presses his mouth to his temple in a lingering kiss. It’s such a stark contrast to the last few minutes that Johnny is confused at first. Simon kissed him like he wanted to devour him, and then…nothing?”

It must show on his face, because Simon frowns before leaning in and nuzzling him, rubbing their cheeks together. His nose - crooked from being broken so often - traces Johnny’s jawline and he melts into it. Simon kisses him on the corner of the mouth before leaning back a little and offering a nervous smile.

“Let’s not rush this. I just…I wanna take my time. Do things right by you,” Simon murmurs, his cheeks turning a delightful shade of pink. Johnny can’t help brushing his thumb across those sharp cheekbones, grinning wide as he blushes harder.

“Gonna romance me, love?” he asks softly.

“Maybe.”

“Sounds perfect,” Johnny murmurs, unable to help himself from darting in and kissing him quickly. “Does this plan include sleepovers? Because I promise to behave if you’ll let me stay.”

“Somehow I doubt that, but I find myself unable to let you go,” Simon says with a smirk.

They make quick work of getting ready for bed, and soon they’re tucked under the covers and grinning at each other. Johnny can hardly contain his happiness, still shocked that he’s here, laying in Simon’s bed in a borrowed pair of sweats. He has no clue how he’s going to sleep, because the adrenaline seems like it’s pulsing in his veins, but then Simon pulls him closer, guiding his head towards his chest, and Johnny falls asleep to the sound of his heartbeat beneath his cheek.

[slafkovskys]

an inconvenient attachment

pairing: jeremy swayman x cassie davis (oc)

warnings: mentions of minor character death, language

word count: < 1000

“i think that there’s a word for this, for what you do every summer,” cassandra davis muses as she stares at the man across from her. he doesn’t look much different from their college days. he had a full beard now and she could tell that he bulked up a little, absolutely the demands of a professional diet.

“and what do i do every summer, cassie?” he humors her like they both didn’t know the only business that he had in maine was her, as much as she despised that simple fact.

“you keep coming back here like i’m going to change my mind. i’ve given you the same answer for the past three years and if you want to make it four, we can. i haven’t forgotten what you did, jeremy.”

“i-”

“you didn’t even tell me you were going to sign,” she cross her arms over her chest, staring at the man across from her. the wind from outside the cafe were they always had their yearly meeting sweeps through his hair, “you left town, changed your phone number, and i found out through twitter that you were going to boston. through twitter, jeremy.”

“i’m not the same person that i was then,” jeremy leans forward to rest against the metal table. the new weight causes both of their drinks to slosh around in their cups, “i thought that i was doing the right thing.”

“i would’ve preferred a breakup text then whatever the fuck you did,” cassie huffs, “i’m being serious here. this needs to stop.”

“are you ready to do this by yourself, cass?”

and in the two and a half months since jay had passed, no one had asked her that. it was always ‘are you okay?’ or ‘let me know if there’s anything that you need.’ like she and jay were something serious. like he hadn’t told her a week before the accident that he wanted no involvement with her or their child if she chose to keep it.

and now here she sits, across from the the man who tore her heart out just like she did every summer, contemplating his question. her hands smoothe over her stomach and she’s not immune to the way his eyes follow their path. she had thought that he was going to faint when she approached, wordlessly taking a seat across from him as his eyes stared at her midsection. she sighs, “i don’t really have a choice, jeremy.”

“there’s always a choice,” jeremy watches her for a second, “come to boston with me.”

she doesn’t even hesitate to burst out laughing at his statement. she uses one hand to grip onto the table while the other covers her mouth, “oh, you- you’re funny.”

“i wasn’t trying to be. i’m being serious, cassie.”

her laughter subsides and through teary eyes, she stares at the man across from her. he’s got a look on his face, serious like he was claiming to be, and she shakes her head, “absolutely not.”

“your parents are still in sinclair, aren’t they?” cassie was the youngest of three and once she moved away for college, her parents were quick to sell their house and move to the top of the state. she was the only one of her siblings who had hung around portland after graduating, coming back for a since of familiarity. she nods and he sends her a look, “so your closest support is six hours away.”

“what? you want me to rely on you when you’re gone half of the time?”

“that’s- it’s different,” jeremy rubs a hand over his face, “we were roommates before-”

“that was five years ago when we were fucking and then you ghosted me,” she deadpans and he groans.

“will you please just listen,” he begs and she blinks, “okay, i was a je- an asshole. what i did was textbook asshole and you don’t owe me a damn thing, okay? we can both agree on that, but i’m not just going to leave you here by yourself to raise a baby on your own.”

cassie stirs her cold coffee with her straw, “this isn’t your responsibility, jeremy.”

“i never said it was and like i said, you don’t owe me anything, but when have you ever turned down an adventure?” he quirks and eyebrow, “when we were together, we were good. i won’t put us in an apartment, i’ll get us a house where you can have your own space and i can have mine, but you can feel like you have someone there for you. you don’t even have to talk to me if you don’t want to-”

“you just want my ray of sunshine personality there all the time to keep house?” she chuckles and he sends her a wink. “i don’t have a job in boston-”

“there’s elementary schools and dance classes all over, babe, and with a resume like yours, they would be crazy not to want you.”

she allows his words to sink in for a moment before opening her mouth again, “why do you want this so bad?”

he visibly swallows a lump on his throat, “do you really want me to answer that?”

and no she didn’t because she was sure that she already knew the answer.

[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.

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

[theodork]

Over; Part Two

Character: Saiki K

Warning: Break up, angst, cursing, aruging

Summary: A powerful, omnipotent, psychic's girlfriend broke up with him because she did not feel loved by him. He does love her he just doesn't know how to express it. Saiki can't see why Y/N is hurt and it leads to a minor argument on the rooftop

‘Saiki communicating’ (or the reader and Saiki's telepathic coves)

“everyone else talking”

Italics- thoughts

~Over~Part~~Two~~

..............................................................................................................................

"We broke up, I broke up with Saiki" Y/N said, Teruhashi and Yumehara were both huddles around Y/N's desk. Teruhashi did everything she could to contain her excitement while Yumehara threw dirty and contemptuous looks in my direction.

"I thought you two were in love," Teruhashi asked. "Yeah well, it is what it is." Y/N stated as if what she was talking about was the most mundane thing in the world.

"He did seem kinda sad when I walked in, well it was unusual from his normal stoic manner," Teruhashi's honeyed voice masked how she truly felt.

I don't care, he should have cared when we were dating, now there's nothing that will fix that because it would not be a real and geuine gesture. She thought. She stayed silent and did not answer the bluenette.

Why was Y/N being so unreasonable? Why was she being so childish and dramatic? I was frustrated and couldn't understand why she acted like that yesterday.

Of course, I cared about her. Of course, I loved her. I loved her so much, and I did not even think it was possible. I was the most powerful psychic in the world doomed never to love, but she changed everything. For the first time ever I had felt a sensation I had never felt before. I felt like I was drowning in my own despair. My chest was heavy, and my heart ached. Every breath felt like a struggle, and every thought was consumed by her. It was a pain that I had never known before. Pain that I did not even think I was capable of feeling.

What hurt, even more, was not knowing how to fix it. For the first time, I felt helpless. I was gripped by a sense of helplessness that I had never experienced before. If the situation had been different, I might have found some solace in the fact that my powers were rendered useless. However, at this moment, I was unable to do anything to change the circumstances and it left me feeling utterly powerless. Being the most powerful boy in the world was absolutely pointless, even now it did not benefit me in the slightest. I could not just read her mind and get her anything she desired, I could not just apologize for anything I did--not that anything was my fault she was just being dramatic--because she knew my secret. She'd know it wouldn't be 'a real and genuine gesture' as she put it.

How stupid was I? You don't ever call me Saiki. I thought back to yesterday. Why didn't I say more and why didn't I try to solve it right then and there? There is nothing I can do right now. I needed to let her have some space, as much as it was killing me to do so.

It especially hurt when everyone at school knew we had broken up. It felt weird to feel like this and it was not just because she was my shield from other social obligations. It was a nice perk, however. It was like she was moving on. It felt final when she announced to Teruhashi that she was no longer dating me. More than all of this it hurt to see that she was hurting. To hear what was going on in her mind and not being able to ease this.

..............................................................................................................................

Despite not being one of my most noble uses of power, I convinced her to go to the rooftop out of desperation. "What did I forget?" she was cut off from her thought when she opened the door to find me. "Nope." Y/N turned to leave as I grabbed her arm.

'Please wait,' I asked. She turned and looked at me. Her eyebrows knit together, she was pissed.

"Fine," she hissed. She was hurt, she was masking her hurt with anger even though she knew I could hear her thoughts. "But stay out of my head, ass." She yanked her hand back.

"I'm sorry for whatever I did or didn't do," I said. She quickly interrupted me, "Are you sorry? Do you know what your sorry for? What do you think because you are actually talking this time? I am supposed to believe you?"

'Could you just be rational for a minute?'

She glared at me, "What are you sorry for?"

'Whatever you are upset about, it doesn't seem like you even know. I don't know what you want me to do'

As Y/N placed her hands over her face, she stared into the distance. "If you don't know, you aren't sorry, we just aren't right for each other."

'All you had to do was talk to me,'

"Why can you read minds? Couldn't you not tell I was upset?" She started to tear up. I felt awful. " You can't see it when it's right in front of you! You can't see me, how do I feel? I'm right in front of you. Couldn't you have spared me some of your time without making me feel like a burden? Could you have gone out of your way for me? Instead of pushing me way untill the last minute and then trying to lure me back?"

Had I really been treating her that way? It didn't matter because that's how she felt. I mentally facepalmed. How could I have been so blind? It was real to her.

She waited for me to respond.

"Dating is still a novel concept to me," I said. "And it scares me to think about losing you. It feels like I already have." She nodded. "I never ment to make you feel like a burden, I just don't know what I am doing. It's not an excuse, but just know that I love you." I said. She smiled. It was bittersweet.

I waited for her to respond