#I’m well aware I’ve already written wild

[sleepyskeleton-0]

Prompt: Hug/“this isn’t a negotiation, friend” (day 16)

Characters: Wild + Legend

Goddess, Time’s gonna kill me, Wild thought to himself as he trekked through the forest. He was allowed to go out foraging on the condition that he’d be back at camp before sunset. He grimaced as he looked at the orange streaks in the sky fading into purple.

It had been a calm day. A few stray monsters here and there, but nothing even one of them couldn’t handle. It had put most of them on edge (“it's the calm before the inevitable storm”, Hyrule said) but they all decided to ignore it in favour of having a bit of fun. Wind and Four were by the river last he’d seen them, collecting and admiring cool rocks. The others decided to take advantage of the fact that the old man was actually willing to play cards this time and even put money on the table.

In any case, it had been a while since he left the clearing and he really needed to get back before-

He stopped.

There, on the side of the overgrown path, sat Legend.

He was sitting facing in the other direction, hunched in over himself as if he’d just been punched in the gut.

Wild approached him with caution.

“Hey Legend, what are you doing?”

He came around to face the other hero and sat down in front of him. The Vet had his face buried in his knees, arms around his head. He stayed silent.

“Legend?”

“Hm.”

“You okay?”

Neither of them moved for a long while, each deciding to let the question hang in the air between them while Legend found his bearings.

He lifted his head, his face was screwed into a difficult expression, halfway between anxiousness and despair.

Wild frowned, but didn’t stare. Instead, he decided to take an interest in the dandelions that grew around them.

It’s as if he could hear the other’s struggle as he tried to form words.

“I-”

Legend coughed, trying to untighten his throat so he wouldn’t sound as choked up.

“I’m okay. I just get like this sometimes.”

It was true. They all had days where they couldn’t explain why exactly they had low mood or high anxiety, but that didn’t mean they needed to be alone during those confusing and stressful times.

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“That’s okay, but you’re still gonna have to pay your taxes”, Wild turned his nose up in mock entitlement, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Wha- what?” The look of bewilderment almost made him crack.

“I’m here to collect your taxes, dude. Now pay up”, and he opened his arms with a blinding, over exaggerated smile.

Legend stared at him for a long, hard moment.

Tears pricked his eyes, apparently on their own accord, because he reached up and furiously wiped them away, snorting.

“You’re stupid.”

“Nah, I just know you.”

“Yeah, I hate that.”

“Can you just accept the hug??”

Legend sighed and promptly fell into the Champion, making no move to reciprocate the arms that encircled him in a tight embrace.

They stayed like that, enjoying each other’s company while any remaining anxiety and frustration ebbed away.

It took some time before either was ready to pull away. Admittedly, it was cold, and Wild was a pleasant source of heat.

Legend smiled as the last of his turmoil came to an end.

[paperandsong]

Le Moine des Étangs-Brisses

From Légendes rustiques, illustrated by Maurice Sand, written by George Sand, 1858

Original French at Project Gutenberg

English translation:

Passers-by who walk along the marshes under the sun’s last rays, beware that gigantic monk who suddenly rises up from amidst the reeds. Flee, and don't listen to his damnable talk!

- Maurice Sand

Jeanne and Pierre lingered one Sunday along the Étangs-Brisses (Broken Ponds). This is not a cheerful place, much less so at night. Once past the woods, one arrives on a large, barren plateau, where there are only rushes and sand and large puddles of water which run together in the rainy season to form a sort of lake, whose bed appears all black.

In times gone by, a wicked, wine-drunk monk drowned there along with his donkey, having tried to follow a very narrow little roadway covered over with water. The donkey had never done anything wrong, and was never even heard braying; but this libertine monk was doomed to feel the pangs of death and the agonies of his final hour for as long as there remained a single drop of water in the Étangs-Brisses. Now, although civilization encroaches on the edges of these little lakes, further with every passing year, they do not show any sign of drying up; therefore the monk’s torment continues on, and will last for God knows how much longer! 

Jeanne was well aware of the bad reputation of these ponds, but Pierre did not want to believe the stories, nor did he care about them. He prevented her from thinking about them, telling her all manner of things, lovely and agreeable to Jeanne’s ears. They were engaged to be married and were just returning from the city, where they had picked out their wedding livery, which is to say, new clothes, ribbons, and lace for their big day. They were out walking together, holding each other by the little finger as is customary for the betrothed, when their feet stepped into mud on the roadway. The day before, a large thunderstorm had swollen the pond, overflowing its banks a bit.

“You’ve gotten me lost,” Jeanne said to her lover. “I don’t think this is the right path.”

“Just wait and I’ll get my bearings,” Pierre replied. “It’s true, the sun has gone down and the reeds are all black, they all look the same. Stay here a little while, and I'll go see how to find our way out.” 

Jeanne was tired; she sat down in the reeds and looked up at the red sky, all speckled, which is to say, it was marbled with yellow and brown, and her thoughts turned sad, although she could not say why. “If it were really nighttime,” she thought, “I wouldn't want to be alone in this awful place where that monk died so long ago. Oh, I hope Pierre won’t make a wrong turn in all this wild grass!” She followed him with her eyes for as long as she could, but then she could not see him anymore, and her poor body began to tremble.

All of a sudden she saw a large flock of wild ducks fly up from one side, making such noise; and then, rising up on tiptoe, she saw Pierre returning, amusing himself by throwing pebbles into the water to rouse the other flocks of birds that filled the ponds as night came descending from the sky.

When Pierre reached her side, he said to her, “We are on the right path, and we’ll be fine except for a little mud. Let me catch my breath a minute; I walked pretty fast, and besides, this isn’t such a bad place to rest.”

“It’s funny you think it’s nice here, Pierre; I don’t like it, and it feels like I’ve been here a long time already. Rest up quickly, because I want to get out of here before nightfall.”

Once Pierre seated himself alongside Jeanne in the reeds, he said to her, 

“My God, Jeanne, time must have dragged on for me, too, while I was out there walking, because it feels like I haven’t kissed you for two years.”

“Don’t say that!” she replied. “You kissed me not even two quarters of an hour ago.”

“Well, then! My darling, where is the harm in that?”

“I’m not saying there is any, since we are getting married!”

“And so let me have one more little kiss now, or seven.”

Jeanne let herself be kissed just once, and said that that was enough. She didn’t see any mischief in it, but she knew that even if country people are permitted to kiss their betrothed while out walking, in front of passers-by, it is neither proper nor honest se dire ses amitiés in secret from the world, and to stay for too long in places where no one goes.

Pierre was a proper young man, just as he should be, which is to say that he knew how to behave in the right way, and was content to let Jeanne keep him at a safe distance, and he didn’t play that game of overstepping his rights little by little only to have the pleasure of receiving a good slap from her from time to time, which is, as everyone knows, the greatest mark of trust and friendship.

And after they bickered in this friendly fashion for a little while, they began to talk about the future, which is still a very exciting topic between two people who are about to spend the rest of their lives together. And there they were, counting and recounting their meagre assets, building themselves a new house and planting a pretty little garden, if only in their minds; for these poor children didn’t have much, and they had to work hard just to keep hold of what they did have.

But now a voice which Pierre could not hear began to speak to Jeanne as though it were Pierre’s, while a voice began to speak to Pierre as though it were Jeanne’s, and yet it was not, and Jeanne did not hear that either. And so they thought they were saying things to each other that they were not, and found themselves on bad terms without really knowing why. Jeanne reproached Pierre for being lazy and for loving the cabaret; Pierre reproached Jeanne for being a coquette and over-valuing gallantry. And so they both started to tear up and pout, not wanting to talk anymore.

The astonishing thing was that when they stopped speaking, and couldn’t even see one another’s lips moving, they both still heard a very muffled voice which sounded like that of a frog or a wild duck when it spoke, and which said the most wicked words in the world.

“What are you doing, you children, sulking instead of taking advantage of the night and your solitude? Are you foolishly waiting for the end of the week in order to love one another freely? What a load of nonsense marriage is! Don’t you know that marriage is just pain, misery, quarrels, worrying about children, and days without bread? Come on, come on, you innocents! You’ll cry the very next day after your wedding, if you don’t fight instead! Can’t you see that when you wanted to talk about your future and your household just now, you couldn’t get along?

Life is foolish and miserable, make no mistake; you’d do well to forget your duties and seek pleasure without constraint. Love each other now, for if you do not take advantage of the moment that presents itself, you will never find it again, and no one will know anything about your partnership except by its blows and its insults, those flowers of youth that sting, and those wild oats!”

Jeanne and Pierre were very afraid. They held hands and clasped each other tight without daring to breathe. Jeanne understood nothing of what the wicked voice said to them. The words passed right through her ears like those of some Devil's Mass spoken in defiance of reason; but Pierre, who knew more, listened despite his fear and understood almost everything.

“This voice is ugly, I agree,” he said. “But its words are not wrong, and if you trust me, Jeanne, you might listen to it too.”

“Whether its words are beastly or beautiful, I don't care,” she replied. “They scare me, although I don't understand them at all; someone is laughing at us because we are all alone, trapped in an unpleasant place. Let's go quickly, my Pierre. This person here, living or dead, wants to do us nothing but harm.”

“No, Jeanne, they wish us well, because they pity the fate that awaits us, and if you���d just understand what they are saying . . .”

And then Pierre, feeling himself possessed by the Devil, wanted to restrain Jeanne, as she wanted to leave, and that evil spirit believed itself for a moment to be the stronger of them.

But the spawn of evil isn’t able to do good Christians as much harm as it wishes. The libertine monk, seeing that Pierre’s conscience had stumbled, was in too much of a hurry to claim his soul. He sang out in his marshy voice, “Come, come, my dear children, there’s no need for candles nor witnesses here. If you need someone to declare you two wed, I can speak the right words. Get down on your knees before me, and you’ll have the blessing of Beelzebub!”

Saying this, the monk appeared, broaching the water with his huge head under its muddy cowl.

“Oh, help!” cried Jeanne. “There’s a big otter, and it’s coming to attack us!”

“No, it won’t,” said Pierre. “I’ll turn it back with my walking-stick.”

But as he leaned over the water to look, he saw the monk's fiery eyes, and then he saw his beard all stuffed full of leeches and frogs, and then his rotting body with its withered legs and its two long arms all dripping with moss and slime, which he was spreading out wide like two wings over the heads of the two lovers in order to consecrate them unto Satan.

But Pierre, although he wasn’t a great coward, was so shocked to see this monk arise and grow ever and ever upwards, as though he wanted to reach the very clouds, that he simply fled screeching like a rusty axle and running like a hare, pulling that poor Jeanne behind him, she who was now more dead than alive, and yet who did not need to be told to leap across those roadways with her feet wet and her hair blowing in the wind.

In fact, they ran so well that they reached their parents’ homes without once turning their heads, and without once taking the time to exchange a single word. They married in all sanctity eight days later, without having listened to the advice of that wicked monk who was, it is said, so embarrassed at having missed his catch that he stayed dormant for a long time before daring to reappear and attempt fishing for Christian souls once more.

The belief in some gruff monk who goes about both threatening and plaintive, knocking on the doors of houses at night and withdrawing at daybreak only with horrible howls, was once only proverbial.

This has long been maintained in almost every province of France. There are many legends of debauched monks, and of priests who broke their vows. There are few presbyteries never haunted by any tormented souls such as these, and, as of the last twenty years, there are few country churches where the spirit of some dead priest has never appeared at dawn to attempt to deliver a great expiatory Mass that he is never able to complete unless he can find a living person of good will who has the courage to answer him with an amen.

George SAND

[achaotichuman]

Do you think you could write about dehlia in this context: https://www.tumblr.com/praetorqueenreyna/737196004108058624?source=share, hopefully featuring deadbeat at first mom feyre, horrified stepdad rhysand, tired of it all tamlin and a supportive lucien/eris.

This has been sitting, marinating in my drafts. But it is finally complete. I am fully aware I fucked up the timeline here, but I'm not rewriting all of this, so we're gonna pretend that fancy Fae tests can reveal a pregnancy at four weeks instead of eight like the post said.

And disclaimer before anyone calls for my head, for this fic I am also rewriting Ianthe's character, because she is too interesting for me to just write off as a sex offender and never think about again. Also, it is very interesting to see her as a genuinely morally grey person with good intentions. So, in this fic, she never SAs Lucien, but she does get a cool plot twist so stay tuned for that.

Basically, I have turned this into a rewrite of Acomaf and Acowar. A lot of the events were written from pure memory, and asking Tumblr, so forgive me if some scenes from the OG series were left out or written significantly differently. We mostly got Feyre's version of events anyway, so I'm not too worried.

This will be split into several chapters. Three being for the Mist and Fury rewrite, and then two for the Wings and Ruin rewrite. And if I have time, I'll do an Acofas rewrite. I'll be uploading all three of the Mist and Fury chapters today, and linking them in this post. You can also find it on SquidgeWorld here, and Ao3 here.

Anyway, here is the long-awaited fic, anon. And @r-biter, thank you for the original post, I hope I do it justice. Also @praetorqueenreyna who reblogged the original post.

Also, did I turn this into a Tamcien fic? Yes, of course I did.

A Field of Dahlias

“Are you alright with this?��� He asked, it may have been the hundredth time he asked, Feyre gave him the same exasperated eyes she had given him all night long. 

Everything pointed to her being more than alright with this. Him pressed into the sheets below her, their clothes forgotten on the floor, her eyes glazed with lust. The rush of new hormones in her head no doubt fuelled the arousal that was now pressed against his wet slit. She leaned down, teeth a touch sharper than normal. She kissed his neck, dragging her canines along his fluttering pulse like he would for her. 

She ran her now larger hands down his slightly smaller than normal frame. Hands finding his breasts and squeezing relentlessly, pinching his nipples, her rough fingers, calloused from years of work from before she had been turned fae. Tamlin bit down on his lip, not wanting the whimper that pressed against his vocal cords to be released. A part of him still didn’t understand the switch in the power dynamic and begged to flip her over, to shift them both back to normal and continue this the way he knew well. 

But he didn’t, he remained underneath Feyre. Her chest flatter, set a touch wider, her shoulders broader. Her hips, now more narrow, rocked forward ever so slightly, as if on their own accord, as if her body was begging to bury the length now resting between her legs into the tight warmth before her. 

“I’m fine, more than fine, like I’ve said a hundred times already.” She added an eye roll to the last part, Tamlin countered it with his own. 

“Fine, but if you want to stop at anytime-”

“Are you okay with this, Tam?” She asked, hands becoming more gentle, roaming his skin like she loved it, like she cared. 

It was still new, the loving and the caring, the likes of which Tamlin hadn’t felt in years. 

“I’m okay.” Tamlin said, forcing his voice to remain steady. He loosened a breath, then spread his thighs wider. 

“Well?” He asked, adding a grin to his words, “Lets see how sloppy your form is, wicked creature.”

Feyre gave him her own wild grin, eyes filled with that lust and love. Something caring and devoted in her face, she leaned down and put her face into the crook of his neck, licking at the skin in a careful, deliberate manner. 

“Let’s see how well you hold up, Faerie Lord.” 

***

Tamlin shuffled a few papers on his desk. Briefly glancing over all of them before sorting them into piles and picking up the one closest to his left. With nimble fingers he paged them apart and began to read each complaint. A sigh escaping his throat. 

He tried to ease the worry sitting low in his belly but it wouldn’t relent, as the pile of complaints grew higher, the headache pounding behind his eyes tightened. 

After he was done reading the letters, he moved to open a drawer in his desk. Then the feeling of his stomach lurching overwhelmed his senses. Nausea made his legs shake, he retched, then quickly slapped his palm over his mouth before winnowing to the nearby bathroom. 

He had all of about three seconds before he was bent over the toilet, vomiting until he was shaking so badly he could barely stand on his knees. He dry heaved for a minute before finally his body relented and he slumped back, panting heavily, beats of sweat gathering on his forehead. 

“Gods dammit.” He cursed, forcing himself to his feet and quickly cleaning up. 

As he rinsed out his mouth, a pain shot up his spine and the sickness returned with a festering wrath. Tamlin groaned, a low sound from the back of his throat, he gripped the sides of the sink. 

***

It didn’t relent, the sickness came and went throughout the days. Tamlin thought he could handle it. Thought he could make it through the seemingly endless hours without anyone knowing something was amiss. 

“Two of you will head for the south border and I will send another group towards-” Tamlin was cut off by bile rising quickly in his throat, burning him from the inside out. He couldn’t get another word out before he sprinted back inside. Leaving five very confused sentries outside. 

He rushed past several servants, all of which stopped to stare in concern. Tamlin ignored all of them. 

It was Alis that didn’t stare. Rather broke into a sprint after him. The Summer Faery found Tamlin practically doubled over while he emptied the contents of his stomach. Alis snapped in a gasp, then quickly ran over to pull back his hair, sticking to his face from sweat. 

“Tam…” She murmured. 

Tamlin could barely see, the world tipping from one side to the other. 

“Why are you staring?” Alis shouted at somebody, or somebodies at the door. Tamlin had enough sense to look back over his shoulder. He saw several servants who were loitering at the door, wondering what exactly was happening. 

“Leave this instant, go back to your duties.” She shouted, then quickly slammed the door, everyone scattered as quickly as possible. 

Tamlin panted as he sat back on his heels, tilting his head to the ceiling, “Gods.”

“Tamlin, are you alright?” Alis asked, helping him onto his shaking feet. He wanted to shove away from her and insist he was fine, but he was still getting his bearings back and the world was too bright, and he had a headache. 

She led him to the sink and coaxed him into washing up. Tamlin splashed his face with ice water, and rinsed out his mouth. Then he looked up to see the mirror. 

Gods, he hadn’t realised how little sleep he had been getting until he saw the deep purple under his eyes. The gauntness in them, along with his too pale face, made him resemble something of a ghost. 

“I…” 

“Tam.” She murmured. Putting a hand to his forehead, the rough bark of her hands rubbing against the soft skin. She furrowed her eyebrows, “You don’t have a temperature. 

“I’m fine, Alis.” He said. 

She breathed in deeply, face carefully controlled, “You need to see a healer. I will call for one-”

She turned to leave, but Tamlin took hold of her wrist. The light shining from Faelights in the bathroom too bright, he was so tired. 

“I don’t need a healer, Alis. It’s nothing.” He told her. Ignoring the image of himself in the mirror, ignoring that fact he knew very well that he did not look fine.

Still Alis wouldn’t go against his orders. She sighed, shoulders slumping slightly, her eyes cast downwards, “Just… fine then. Just please see one if this gets worse.”

Tamlin bit down on the inside of his cheek, but nodded all the same. 

***

It got worse, and there wasn’t anything he could do to hide it from anybody too close. 

So he locked himself in his study or his room, and tried to focus on anything else. Anything other than the constant headache pounding behind his eyes. The never-ending wish to lay in his bed and sleep until his days ended, and the constant vomiting. 

It didn’t relent, instead it worsened. 

Alis found him again. In the bathroom in his room. When she spotted his hair, dirty and tangled, eye bags even darker and skin paler than ever. She narrowed her eyes, but quickly tied back his hair. Once he was done, she told him, “We’re getting a healer.”

Tamlin wanted to protest again, but he was so tired. So he said nothing, instead he slumped against the nearest wall and closed his eyes. 

Why was this happening? Now of all times, when he needed to be alert for his Court. For the people who were still recovering. 

“It’s just stress.” Tamlin told Alis as she put a dampened cloth to his forehead. 

“I would still like for you to see a healer.” 

‘I don’t believe a word you say’, is what that meant. Tamlin chuckled, but the sound was hollow. 

“Alis, I-”

“Hush now, child.” She murmured, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face as she sat down beside him, “I’ll call a healer, we will figure out what is happening.”

It felt too familiar. Like the days spent in his childhood when he and Alis would sit on the ground in the gardens, whilst she sang him songs in a language he didn’t know at the time. A language she had taught him, so he could sing with her. 

It was too nostalgic. He didn’t deserve to feel that love again. That deep rooted, innocent love, it belonged to the child that hadn’t been stained by the world. 

It belonged to the kid that hadn’t been ruined in every sense of the word. 

Alis didn’t seem to care in the slightest. She took in her hands three strands of blond hair and began to weave a braid. 

“It’ll be okay.” She assured him. 

Tamlin scoffed, he felt her fingers pause in his hair, so he mumbled, “Nothing seems okay now.”

Alis tilted her head slightly, to see his eyes better. Her brown irises rose to meet his green ones. Alis reached out, her rough fingertips caressing the side of his face ever so softly. 

“It will.” She whispered, “It will get better, Tam.”

***

The healer that he saw was named Heilda, she was a short sweet-faced lesser Fae with fluttering mosaic wings and short near white curly hair. Her eyes were all black and her teeth were sharpened. Tamlin was sitting in her office, in a small cottage in the middle of one of the busiest villages, close to the Manor. One of his hands rubbed his temple while the other tapped his leg. 

Lucien had dropped him off at Heilda’s residence before leaving to inform Alis he had indeed gone to the healer and not run off. Tamlin had then insisted he didn’t need to, but the headache came back, and Tamlin was powerless to stop the determined redhead. 

“How long has the vomiting been happening?” Heilda asked. 

The High lord bit the inside of his cheek, quickly thinking back on the past few months since they left the Mountain, “Give or take a month and a half.”

She quickly jotted that down in a leatherback notebook in her hands, then asked, “I’ve also been told you’ve been experiencing severe headaches? How long has that been happening?”

Tamlin shrugged, “I’ve had them all my life, just recently they’re occurring more and more.”

Heilda nodded as she jot notes down in her leather book, before turning to a variety of medicinal herbs and bottles of strangely coloured liquids. 

She rifled through a few before taking a mortar and pestle and began to grind a mixture of dried plants and herbs, asking questions as she did. 

“Have there been any recent changes in diet?” 

“No,” Unless Alis was slowly poisoning him, but he didn’t think her the killer type. 

“Drinking water regularly?” 

“Yes.”

“Have you been sleeping properly?”

Tamlin almost answered yes, then he remembered the nightmares that riddled his sleep, “...No.”

“Alright, that could be one cause, but from the extent of your headaches I’m inclined to believe there could be something else.” She took the herbal mixture and went to a fireplace where a small cauldron bubbled incessantly, “I’d like to run a few tests, my Lord.”

“Whatever you need to do.” He said. 

She took a blood and urinary sample. Tamlin waited for what felt like hours as she put them through several tests, mostly mixing strange things together and watching what happened. Occasionally noting reactions. Tamlin was bored out of his wits, staring at the ceiling, Heilda had given him some strange purple tea, it eased the pressure in his head and the nausea in his stomach, thankfully. 

There was a light rapping on the door, followed by a very familiar voice, “Lady Heilda, I was sent by Alis.”

“Come in, Lord Lucien.” Was all Heilda said, not looking up from her work. 

Lucien opened the door, his eyes immediately drawn to Tamlin and the drink in his hand. He nodded to it, a silent question, Tamlin just shrugged and jutted his head in the direction of Heilda. 

Lucien sat down in a chair beside Tamlin, “How are you doing?”

“Better since drinking this thing.” He said, showing Lucien the painted mug. Lucien nodded. 

“What's happening now?” He asked. 

“Heilda’s running tests, hopefully we’ll know what’s causing the nausea, we can fix it, then be on our merry way.” Tamlin said, drinking the last of the strange tea.

That was when Heilda clicked her tongue, “I don’t believe this is a problem we can simply fix, my Lord.”

She spun around in her chair, “I believe this problem will be a bit bigger than originally considered.”

Lucien and Tamlin furrowed their brows, glancing at each other before eyeing the healer worriedly. It was Lucien who asked, “And what is the problem exactly?”

Heilda took in a breath, seemingly steeling herself, as if on instinct, Lucien took Tamlin’s hand in his own. Holding him tightly. 

“My Lord,” She said, addressing Tamlin, “Have you shapeshifted into a female form, sometime within the last five or six weeks?”

Tamlin was taken aback by the question, he blinked at her, hand tightening in Lucien’s, “I mean… yes, but I’ve done it before, I don’t know how it could cause any issues. Especially not…” He counted the weeks since that night with Feyre, “Six weeks later.”

Now Heilda snapped in a deep breath, “This may be an uncomfortable question, but did you have any penetrative intercourse whilst in female form?”

“You’re right, that is an uncomfortable question.” Tamlin said, blinking at the healer like she had grown a second head, “That shouldn’t have anything to do with my symptoms.”

“Just trust her, Tam.” Lucien said, squeezing his hand in an assuring manner. 

“I just need a yes or no answer.” Heilda said gently. 

Tamlin sighed deeply, eyes squeezing shut, “Yes. Feyre is a shapeshifter as well.”

Heilda nodded, then leaned back in her chair, “Did you use any contraceptives this night in question?”

Now Tamlin gritted his teeth, “What does this-”

“Tam.” Lucien said gently. Tamlin looked over at his friend and sighed. 

“No, we did not.”

Heilda nodded, then she rubbed her hands together. Wringing out her fingers and cracking the knuckles as she crossed one leg over the other, “Okay. What I’m about to say may be shocking.”

“Just spit it out.” Tamlin said, finally and fully fed up with these riddles and strange questions. 

“Alright,” Heilda looked between Lucien and Tamlin, Lucien tightened his grip on Tamlin’s hand. 

“Congratulations, Lord Tamlin Fairburn, you are pregnant.”

One heartbeat, then a dozen. Tamlin stared at Heilda like she had two heads and a tail. Lucien had gone completely white, the fire lord looked as though he was about to pass out. 

Heilda looked between the two, she smiled, then clapped her hands as she wheeled her chair away, “This is what happens when you don’t take contraceptives.”

Tamlin laughed, he laughed hard, nearly falling off his chair. He gripped Lucien’s hand so tightly he could feel his bones grinding under his fingers, Lucien didn’t pull away regardless. The Fox remained silent whilst Tamlin fell into hysterics. 

“No!” Tamlin said, pushing himself back into his chair, “No, no, no. I am not- I am not at all. That is wrong!”

Anger now pressed through the hysteria. Heilda sighed like she expected this reaction, turning around she looked over at Tamlin, “Listen, you were in a female form and you-”

“I am not now aren’t I?!” He shouted, standing up from his chair. His sudden motion snapped Lucien from his daze. He quickly stood up and wrapped an arm around Tamlin’s chest. He made to wrap his free arm around his stomach, but suddenly didn’t. When Tamlin looked at him the Fox was breathing deliberately slowly, staring at his abdomen with an unreadable expression. 

It only served to piss Tamlin off even more. Heilda, unlike the two before her, stayed calm, her voice soft and gentle when she replied, “No, but you can still retain a womb in this form if your magic allows it.”

“I shifted back the morning after!” Tamlin shouted, “This should’ve never happened! You are wrong!”

“I’m not, and I think you know I’m not. Spring thrives off of fertility magic, your magic protected the foetus growing in your womb.” Heilda replied. So casual as if this happened every other day. 

Tamlin stammered and stuttered, trying to figure out someway around this. Some loophole or information that would directly challenge this. Like if he wished hard enough he could prove her wrong. Like if he managed to get angry enough, he could make this go away. Tamlin eventually looked to the floor. Beginning to process the information for what it was. For exactly what it meant.  

“I recommend shifting back into the form of a female, it will make this more comfortable.” Heilda said, her voice still so gentle. It stopped making him angrier, and as the initial shock and denial wore off, the world began to tip from one side to the other. Lucien held him up. The red-head’s fingers intertwined with Tamlin’s. 

“Is there anything else, Heilda?” Lucien asked, his voice a soft murmur behind Tamlin, yet a dull vibration in the face of the ringing in his ears growing with each passing second. 

“Bring him back for some more tests once he’s processed this.” Was all Heilda said. Tamlin was caught between wanting to wake up from this as if it were a dream and wanting to rip her throat out for being so casual about this. 

Only Lucien murmured his thanks. Tamlin considered cursing out the healer, but his sudden lack of energy made that impossible. 

In the future he would thank Heilda for being so calm, for now, he hated her for it. 

Lucien and Tamlin were silent as they left the healer’s office. Lucien kept his hand on Tamlin’s, gently leading the way as Tamlin was still reeling. Barely thinking, he couldn’t hear much besides some of Lucien's gentle murmurs and promises that they would figure it out. 

But as Lucien made to winnow them he suddenly stopped, eyes wide, face pale, hands shaking. Tamlin furrowed his brow whispering, “What?”

“Can-Can I winnow you? That won’t hurt…” Lucien bit his lip as he made a quick gesture to Tamlin’s belly. 

Tamlin snarled, his fangs a flash of white. He ripped his hand away from Lucien’s and marched in the general direction of Rosehall.

“Tamlin!” Lucien called out, quick to follow him, “Tamlin you can’t just storm off!”

“Watch me!” Tamlin turned around and screamed at him. Lucien stopped dead in his tracks, his nose scrunched as he furrowed his eyebrows. 

“Don’t scream at me, I’m only trying to help!” Lucien told him.

“I don’t need your help, Lucien! I don’t need you!” It was a dirty lie, because Tamlin needed Lucien more than air. Especially now. He felt his legs shaking, he wanted to fall to the ground. He wanted to sleep for a thousand years. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream and rage and throw things. He wanted to get angry. He wanted to go back to this morning when this didn’t exist to him. 

Tamlin didn’t wait to see Lucien’s reaction to his venomous words, he turned around and continued to storm away. 

He didn’t get far. Lucien appeared behind him and picked him up. Holding him in bridal carry. Tamlin yelled and thrashed, spitting curses at him, some of which he had forgotten he even knew. 

“Put me down!” His voice was drawing attention from passersby, but Lucien didn’t put him down, just waited. 

“Lucien fucking Vanserra let go of me!”

“Stop being a dickhead and I will.”

“You-”

“Tamlin.” Lucien warned. The tiniest hint of a growl in his voice, something about the way he said it made Tamlin stop squirming. The glare of death in the High lord’s eyes never left but he gritted his teeth and stopped moving. 

“Good.” Lucien said, putting him back on the ground, but keeping two hands on his shoulders. 

“Tamlin, we need to deal with this.” Lucien said, his eyes hard, his face unforgiving. 

“I know-”

“No, you will try and ignore this until you are physically unable to any longer, and then we will be unprepared. You and I are going to talk about this, and form a game plan.”

Tamlin’s eye twitched, “Then can you wait until we get back to Rosehall?”

“We will walk back.” Lucien said as he let go of Tamlin and plucked a paper and pen from the space between realms. The red-head scribbled something down before sending it off. Tamlin knew it would be something to Alis to say they would be returning later than expected. 

Tamlin’s hands once again curled into fists. He took in a deep breath, “I have shapeshifted, a little magic will not hurt.”

Lucien’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath, “We don’t know that Tam.”

Tamlin laughed quietly, at what he didn’t know. The world was going so fast, at the same time it came to a complete halt.  

“What the fuck are we going to do?” Tamlin asked quietly. 

Tamlin stared at nothing, vision slowing like a haze was settling over his bones, a dark mist that made everything seem so far away. 

“Hey.” Lucien murmured, taking the High lord’s hands in his, “We’ll figure it out.”

They walked. Over the rocky cobblestone paths and through the blooming gardens abounding through Spring, the smell of pollen wafted through the air, mixing with the scents of sweetened coffee and baked goods. The sun was speckled over the ground by the constant clouds passing overhead. Gentle breezes caressed the delicate petals of roses, lilacs and lilies. 

Tamlin resolutely stared at the ground ahead, each footstep deliberate and careful. He could feel whenever Lucien’s watchful eyes flicked to him. The High lord wrapped his arms around himself, releasing Lucien's hand, and made sure to not so much as flick his gaze to his emissary. 

Eventually it felt like Lucien got the message and looked ahead as well, the clicking of his eye never directed in Tamlin’s direction. Finally Tamlin looked at him, to see Lucien with his head held high and facing straight ahead. His red hair a banner behind him in the breeze. His stride never faltering. 

Tamlin felt like a newborn foal next to him, not so graceful and elegant, more clumsy and foolish. 

Then a sound filled his ears, one that made him stop dead in his tracks. Tamlin quickly snapped his gaze to his left, looking across a nearby field, filled with a plush blanket of white, purples, pinks and reds, there he saw a gaggle of children. Some lesser Fae, others High Fae. All blowing on dandelion fluff and laughing until they fell to the ground. Two boys with purple skin and big black eyes, chased each other with worms on sticks. A girl with delicate fluttering wings carefully placed a flower crown on a girl with pointed ears, freckles and ginger hair. 

Another two girls threw mud onto each other, ruining the delicate lace of their baby blue dresses. And one boy, much smaller than the rest, with wispy brown hair laughed until he fell onto his back. 

“Tam?” Tamlin didn’t look at Lucien as his eyes were captivated by the children of his Court playing without a care in the world. 

One hand scrunched in the fabric of his trousers, strands of blond hair were picked up by the wind, fluttering over and around his face. 

Lucien walked back to stand beside Tamlin as he saw what had halted him. The Fox of Prythian reached his hand out and wrapped Tamlin’s in it. 

“It’ll be okay Tam.” He whispered. 

“Dahlias.” Tamlin rasped, voice breathy and shaking. 

Lucien hummed in confusion and Tamlin pointed to the field, “The field its… the flowers are all dahlias.”

A heartbeat of silence passed them by, floating along like a butterfly on the wind, Lucien squeezed his hand ever so slightly, “A field of dahlias.”

***

The rest of the walk home was less exciting. Mostly Tamlin stayed caught in silence whilst Lucien broached the harder topics that would later need more discussion. The complications of having an Heir of not just Spring, but of the Cursebreaker, so quickly after Amarantha’s reign had come to a completion. Even Feyre was not completely settled into her new body as a High Fae, and certainly not settled into her new role at Court.

Tamlin wouldn’t dream of putting a singular extra duty on her shoulders that she didn’t need to have to stress about so soon after all had been said and done. But he had to admit they needed more publicity, something for the rest of Prythian to see that Feyre Archeron was the Lady of Spring, the saviour of the Mountain, and the Warrior who sent Amarantha to her grave. 

He didn’t want her to be a show pony, only to be paraded to see her achievements. She had said it herself on a number of times that she wanted a quiet life. But if a baby was now on the way-

No, not thinking about that. 

He didn’t want to think about ‘it’ , he wanted to think about how to get Feyre properly settled. Then how to stabilise the Court, and regain what had been stolen and lost to Amarantha. He needed to focus on the Court right now. 

The sight of Rosehall came into view and Tamlin felt a heavy weight settle over his shoulders, he spoke to Lucien while his eyes examined every detail of his home. “Organise dinners, celebrations, prepare for the upcoming holidays. Pay special attention to the farmers, whatever they need, send it to them. The doors of Rosehall are completely open to the public and any that come in seeking refuge from other Courts. And Lucien.”

Tamlin stopped and Lucien halted as well, his brown eyes meeting green, “Make preparations for the tithe, we need to get it back up and running. We are barely holding on as it is, with everything Amarantha has done we cannot afford the losses that have hit us.”

Lucien nodded, Tamlin went on, “Most of the money and jewels from the treasury were stolen and until we send people back under the mountain to retrieve what they can we are on a tight budget. Every coin goes straight into the refugees, the farmers and the villages that have lost their homes.”

“Of course, but Tamlin-”

“The people are in low spirits and the magic will sense that. Spring thrives off of fertility and celebration from the Fae. I haven't even seen the wisps since before we went under the mountain. Until the native creatures of the land return we are in emergency mode. I want a list of everyone we lost to Amarantha, I need a spreadsheet of the damages and the costs necessary to return everything to its former glory, until we are back to normal we will not rest-”

“Tamlin Kali Fairburn!” Lucien eventually yelled.

Tamlin blinked, then he blinked again. Lucien gritted his teeth, the light hitting the emissary in just the right way that his skin seemed to glow with his frustration, “You are stressing yourself out for no reason.”

Tamlin gawked at that, “There is a reason, our Court is still half in ruins-”

The fire lord marched forward and put his hands on his shoulders, “And I will help you to restore it. But you cannot try and handle everything yourself.”

“I am not trying to do everything myself-”

“You are thinking of everything at once, when you need to calm down.” Lucien’s head fell, he took several deep breaths, “Listen, Tam. Like it or not we… you are now responsible for another life.”

Tamlin bristled at that, fangs starting to point through his teeth. Claws pressed against his skin, threatening to burst through. 

“Tamlin.” Lucien said slowly, “I know you don’t want to think about this, but that doesn’t change the fact that Spring is…” Lucien took another steadying breath, like he was falling apart at the news himself, “Spring is having an Heir.”

There were the words that crushed Tamlin even more. This… it wouldn’t be just another baby, but an Heir of Spring, a possible successor. A potential future ruler of the Spring Court. 

They had no choice but to think about this. 

“We will take this one step at a time.” Lucien moved his hands down to clasp his friends, thumbs rubbing the backs of his palms. 

Tamlin stared down at the dark fingers massaging gentle circles into his skin. He closed his eyes, the headache pounding harder. He was so fucking tired. 

“This is awful.” Tamlin whispered into the space between them. 

“I know Tam.” Lucien murmured, his voice near drowned out by the sounds of laughter in the distance. 

He felt like he might collapse. A headache pushed into his temple. He noticed a flicker of movement, and then saw that it was in fact a butterfly, small and blue and clueless. Making laps around their heads. 

“It’ll be okay.” Lucien reassured him. It was false, they had no idea if it would be okay. 

***

It was not okay. 

It was absolutely not okay. 

He had a headache all the time and sleep became a luxury he apparently could not afford. All of a sudden complaints pushed from all sides as bandits began to infiltrate the Southern and Western borders. Seeing quick money and easy blood to draw. 

Many of the servants and sentries had left the grounds for other Courts in order to visit family after the Curse’s conclusion. With quickly hired, inexperienced staff, the grounds began to descend into chaos. 

Not to mention how everyone was coping. That being barely. 

Nowadays even into the dark hours of the morning, every hall was lit and not a single room didn’t have some form of a faelight and an open window. No one wished to be forced back into darkness, and everyone needed the reassurance of open, blowing air. 

The second Tamlin had stepped foot back into his office he was thrown back into work. Now, days didn’t end until he was near passing out from exhaustion and they started the second the ray of first light hit his face. 

He wasn’t the only one. Lucien he barely saw anymore, as much as the Fox of Prythian attempted to check on him, they both lost all sense of time. Unable to keep up with their workloads and desperately attempting to pull the Court back into order. 

With everything going on, Tamlin had yet to tell anyone about… it. 

Alis had tried to push for answers, but even with all her stubbornness, the female knew when she had to back off. The quick snappish answers and flare in temper were enough to tell her, it wasn’t time for her to ask what happened that day with the healer. But Tamlin could tell she was worried. 

With everything happening. Tamlin had forgotten the last time he even so much as laid eyes on Feyre.

He was sure he saw her during the nights at some point, but as everything merged into a dazed blur of work, work, work, he couldn’t be sure. 

That wasn’t even including the constant strain from symptoms. 

Vomiting, and headaches were just the start of it. At times he could barely keep his eyes open even after hours of sleep. If he stood too quickly, all blood rushed from his head and black spots filled his vision. Random outbursts became more prevalent, everything setting him on edge. 

"Dear Gods," He cursed, rubbing his temples. Elbows planted on his desk. Tamlin screwed his eyes shut as yet another wave of throbbing crashed over him. 

There was a light rapping at his door. Tamlin didn't need to look up as the door opened to know who it was. The scent of cinnamon spice was enough telling. 

"Tam." Lucien said tenderly. 

Without opening his eyes, Tamlin said, "Lucien Vanserra, if the next words out of your mouth aren't, here is a giant cookie and hot chocolate, I will toss you over the border and back into Autumn."

There was a heartbeat of silence. 

Tamlin wouldn't throw Lucien back into Autumn, Tamlin quite liked Lucien. 

He would very possibly steal and hide all of his left shoes. Lucien was fully aware of that. 

Lucien left the office, and when he returned, he opened the door saying, "Here is a giant cookie and hot chocolate."

Indeed, he was carrying a tray with a giant chocolate chip cookie and two mugs of steaming hot chocolate that made Tamlin's mouth water when he saw them.

Lucien is a smart man. Everyone should be like Lucien, Tamlin thought. 

Setting the tray on the dark wood coffee table by the empty fireplace. Lucien sat down on the green velvet lounge. 

Tamlin left his desk and joined him. Settling into the soft fabric and hands immediately reaching for said cookie. Lucien smiled softly as he took up his mug. 

"Heilda said it would be more comfortable to shift to female form." Lucien said as he absentmindedly toyed with the handle. His voice was soft as he broached the subject, not wishing to provoke anger. 

Tamlin bit into the cookie and nearly moaned. 

To shift into a female form. To stay like that. It would raise eyebrows and suspicions. And good Gods, when he started to show-

No, not thinking about that. 

"So?" Tamlin asked. He knew he had to listen, he had to take into account the possibility of having an Heir for the Court. 

Gods, an Heir so soon. They just came out from Under the Mountain. It was all still fresh, too fresh. He could still see her eyes above him. Pushing him down into the sheets-

No. 

Not thinking about it. 

"So..." Lucien traced the rim of his cup with his finger, "Perhaps you should think about listening to her."

Tamlin's eyes snapped to Lucien's to find the fiery male staring right back. He lifted a perfectly groomed red eyebrow and waited for a response. One leg crossed over the other and head held high. 

Lucien didn't back down for anyone, not Beron, not Amarantha, and certainly not Tamlin. 

"Or perhaps I won't." I am a grown male, and I will make my own decisions, did not need to be said for Lucien to get the gist of it. 

"She is the professional, Tam." He hummed. 

"Don't call me that." Not now. Don't be gentle with me. 

Lucien put the mug down on the table, it banged as his hands didn't bother to control his strength. 

"Alright, this has gone on long enough." Lucien said, "We need to do something about all of this."

"What do you want to do exactly?" Tamlin snapped, temper flaring. 

"Gods above." Lucien rubbed his temples and Tamlin wanted to throw something. 

"Come up with a goddamn game plan, Tamlin. I want to know what the next moves should be. I mean, have you even told Feyre?" Lucien bounced his knee up and down. Tamlin thought that at any moment he might get up and start pacing. 

"Well I- there isn't anything that can be done Lucien!" Tamlin shouted, finally beginning to snap. He hated this. He wanted to be done with it. 

And he hadn't told Feyre. He didn't want to. He didn't want to talk about it. 

Like if he refused to so much as think about it, it wouldn't exist. 

Lucien opened his mouth, eyes blazing and preparing to yell. Then he cut himself short and snapped his mouth shut. Face falling back into carefully crafted blankness and eyes losing any emotions at all. 

Tamlin's claws nearly shot through his hands. Fire blazing through him, not just because of the subject at hand, but because of how easily Lucien put his mask on. Hiding his true thoughts so well. 

Tamlin wished for the courtier mask, but no matter how hard he tried there was nothing he could do to hide himself. 

Fuck this all. 

"You need to tell Feyre," Lucien said, crossing his arms. Relaxing back into the lounge, as nonchalant as ever. Tamlin hated it. 

"I don't need to do anything." Tamlin hissed. 

Lucien chuckled and claws finally pierced to the surface. He dug them into pillow beneath them, slowly counting back from ten. 

"What is so funny?"

Lucien picked up his mug again as he shook his head, "Sure you don't need to do anything Tam."

"Get out!" Tamlin shouted. 

Lucien rolled his eyes, he put his mug down and slid off the lounge gracefully. A swagger in his step as he left the room, as he passed through the threshold his hand caught the door. He tossed a seething smile over his shoulder and said, "Figure it out on your own then, but figure it out, Tam."

Lucien slammed the door shut before Tamlin could yell at him. 

***

Feyre wasn't happy. She didn't know when she started feeling this way, when the total weight of how she felt finally settled into her bones. Like mist in the morning, it descended slowly until she was consumed by it. 

She couldn't look the Fae around her in the eyes anymore. Not without seeing the Faeries she had stabbed. The boy's screams filled her eyes at every ring of a bell or snap of a tree branch. 

And dear God, the girl who had prayed before she had ended her life. The words seemed carved into her skin, she heard them in the laughter and song of the Priestesses that came in groups for lunch after long days working in the Temple. Every time those swishing robes passed her by, she remembered that prayer. 

One of the Priestesses had taken a special interest in her. One of the twelve High Priestesses. Feyre knew little of how religion worked in the Fae Lands. The idea of Gods and such had never interested her. She had worked for too long back in the cabin to spend her time thinking of them. 

And if they did exist certainly the Mother was laughing at her.

As of now, Feyre stared out at the gardens. She was sitting by a small table on the porch, watching dahlias sway in the wind. The grounds were covered in them, they had been a flower Elain had grown back at the cabin and then at the new manor they resided in now. One of the only plants Feyre could pin-point. 

"I thought I might find you here." A voice said, breaking the silence. Feyre looked back over her shoulder and despite herself a small smile graced her lips. 

"Good morning Ianthe, shouldn't you be at a ceremony or such?" Feyre asked.

Ianthe chuckled, her voice and sweet face reminded Feyre a little of Elain. But her overall demeanor and strange stoniness reminded her of Nesta.  

"No, the girls are handling everything this morning. I have a break." 

Ianthe strolled over to where Feyre was sitting. She pointed to the chair opposite of her and asked, "May I?"

"Please." Feyre said. 

Ianthe gracefully slid into the seat, crossing one leg over the other. She did not wear her robes this morning. Her body still completely covered. However, the layers of her dark blue dress were lighter to account for the warmer weather this morning. A pale blue silk scarf covered her head so only a few curling blonde hairs fell around her face. 

"Did it hurt? The tattoo I mean." Feyre eventually asked. The tattoo of the phases of the moon, they interested Feyre. Whilst she now had a swirling tattoo along her arm, that one had been stained magically. 

Violet cruel eyes. Taunting hands and a laughing voice. 

No. Not thinking about him. 

Ianthe watched the swaying gardens as she answered. Her face was not cold, but it wasn't warm either. Like a stoic mother, Feyre thought. 

"Yes, but it was worth it to be given this honour." Ianthe answered. 

Feyre hummed, "Did you always want to be a High Priestess?"

Ianthe chuckled, finger tracing her knee, "My, my, many questions this morning."

The Archeron sister stiffened for a moment, "You don't need to answer if it makes uncom-"

Ianthe lifted a slender hand, she turned her full eyes back to Feyre and smiled, "I am teasing Feyre."

"Oh."

"As for your question, I always knew I wanted to be part of the Court. I worked well with the others. And I knew I could help this Court, the way the former High lord ruled he..."

Ianthe cut herself off as a darkness filled her eyes. Her mouth twisted into a straight line. Feyre furrowed her brow, concern beginning to creep in, "He...?"

Ianthe quickly shook her head and straightened, pulling herself from her thoughts, "He just... He wasn't a good male and I knew I could do something to help. As for becoming a High Priestess specifically I-"

Now a soft smile adorned her face as she lifted her eyes to the white sun's rays. 

"I have always had an affinity for the Mother and her creation." 

Feyre turned her own eyes back to the dahlia flowers. Blooming prettily as if not just months before the Spring Court had been ravaged and left in ruins. 

"The world is going back to normal." Feyre noted. 

Ianthe laughed suddenly, and Feyre snapped her eyes back to her. 

The High Priestess shook her head and murmured, "Nothing will ever be normal again."

"You weren't even here for the fifty years," Feyre pointed out, recalling what Lucien had told her before. How Ianthe's father had sent her and her sisters to the continent right as the curse was hitting. 

At her words Ianthe balled her dress up into her fists, "You don't know my story."

"Then tell me." I will listen, Feyre wanted to say. 

Out of the corner of her eyes, Ianthe watched her. Blue eyes like sapphires in the light, "You won't understand."

"Try me."

A shake of her head and an amused smile, "Count the blessings you have flower, appreciate them. For at any moment, they can all be taken."

Feyre blinked. Then her face fell into deadpan. 

What was it with Fae and their riddles?

Ianthe threw her head back as she laughed at Feyre's confusion, "Flower just know not to take the word of Faeries at face value."

Ianthe leaned back into her chair and Feyre asked, "Can you guys just... tell me what you mean?"

A sly smile and glinted eyes, "Now where's the fun in that?"

***

She hated her reflection. She stood in front of the mirror as Ianthe carefully placed a crown of daisies and dahlias in her hair. 

"Why dahlias?" Feyre had asked.

Ianthe had shrugged, "You seemed to like them."

They had gone through enough dresses to last Feyre a lifetime. She had never liked dresses and today did not change that. She longed for something she could move in. Felt like restricted in. But she sucked it up. 

Ianthe had brought in a myriad of different dresses for her to try. To find one she liked best. 

"Do they all have to be so..." Feyre had gestured to large puffy sleeve and Ianthe had snickered. 

"For the record these were the former Lady of Spring's dresses."

Feyre had gone very, very still at that. Guilt shocking through her at how she hadn't liked the look of them. 

Ianthe had then rolled her eyes, "Do not fret, child, the Lady hadn't particularly adored them either. But it is tradition to wear the dresses of the former Lady. This were the Lady of Spring's before hers, and before hers. Now they will be yours."

Ianthe had then reassured Feyre, "Just for today at least, then they'll go back into a bag and into the closet to sit for the next several centuries."

Feyre had laughed suddenly at that, and the knot of anxiety welling in her stomach had begun to ease. 

Feyre had then rifled through the atrocious amount of fabrics. And eventually her hands landed on one particular dress. It was the biggest of them all, with an atrocious amount of tulle, lace and puffs. It was beautiful, Feyre could admit as much as that. But it was... so much. 

Feyre had bit down on her lip, trying not to laugh. Then she had looked at Ianthe whose eye was twitching as she pursed her lips, desperately keeping her own laughter down. 

They met each other's sights and were helpless but to fall into hysterics. 

The dress had been laid on the bed, but Feyre had decided on a far simpler one. Long, green silk simple sleeves, and a high neckline that opened just above her cleavage. The corseted part of the dress was embroidered with gold designs and tightly hugged her waist. Her far too small waist. As Ianthe had tied the back her eyes flicked up to Feyre in the mirror, hands still on the strings. 

Feyre had looked down, Ianthe continued and neither spoke of just how frail she had become. The High Priestess occasionally opened her mouth to say something, just to snap it closed. Ianthe didn't appear to know how to comfort, how to reassure. So, she didn't try. 

Now the look was complete. Feyre watched herself in the mirror. The long green skirts of her dress swirled as she moved. 

"There." Ianthe said. Feyre met her eyes in the mirror. 

"Are you ready?" She asked. 

Feyre didn't answer. She thought back on that day in the field when Tamlin had proposed to her, how happy she had been. How in so long the memories of Under the Mountain hadn't haunted her. 

Yet after all was said and done, it all came back. All had asked to show them the ring and expected her to gush about the future wedding and her engagement. Yet all enthusiasm had drained from her. Like the second Tamlin was not directly in front of her she no longer felt that passion any longer. 

It was just nerves. Nothing else. Once this day was said and done it would no longer bother her. 

"Yes."

Ianthe nodded, her eyes firm and set on Feyre through the mirror. A heartbeat passed and Feyre said, "We best be going then."

As she moved to leave. Ianthe put her hands on Feyre's shoulders, "One moment, my Lady."

The Cursebreaker furrowed her brow but remained still. Ianthe didn't break eye contact as she swiftly pulled a necklace out from underneath her robes. It swung from her neck, a beautiful green emerald that shone in the light. It was small and hung from a golden chain. 

Feyre blinked, opening her mouth to ask what was happening. But Ianthe answered her question, as she unclasped the necklace and swiftly placed it around Feyre's throat. 

"Ianthe-" Feyre started. 

"Take it, Cursebreaker." As she let it hang from Feyre's neck she murmured, "You may need it."

"Need it?" Feyre whispered. 

Ianthe just smiled, "Trust me."

"You said yourself not to take the words of Fae at face value." Feyre countered. 

"I did." She stated. 

Before Feyre could once again point out the blatant hypocrisy, Ianthe said, "Try to see past the person, Feyre. Try and see what may lay underneath."

***

He hated his reflection. Standing in front of the mirror whilst Alis fixed his hair and jacket burned a flaming rage deep in his core, but there was little he could do. Other than stand still and allow the Summer Faery to do her work. 

"You look very handsome." Alis smiled up at him as she stepped back, admiring her handiwork. 

Tamlin tried to give her a smile back, but he could only manage a weak nod as he stared at himself. 

Shell of a person. Eyes sunken from lack of sleep, skin unnervingly pale, gaunt, hollow. 

At least the suit was well made, tailored, green with whites and golds. Alis had braided flowers through his hair and dusted his face with just the slightest of makeup, she told him it was for the look to come together perfectly. But he knew it was to coverup the deadness in his face. 

The lesser faery opened and closed her mouth. Eyebrows furrowing. Tamlin nearly groaned. 

"What is it, Alis?" 

"Are you sure you're okay?" She asked, brushing away a speck of lint from his shoulder. Tamlin resisted the urge to roll his eyes. 

"I am sure." He said, finally turning away from that godforsaken mirror. He faced the door of his bedroom. Lucien stood there. Dressed to the nines in green. Far more understated than Tamlin but just as gorgeous. 

"Ready?" Lucien asked. 

Tamlin shifted under his piercing gaze. The Fox scrutinized every inch of him, he was on display, wholly and completely. 

"I'm fine." Tamlin settled to say. He wouldn't admit how he felt sick to his stomach and the fluttering of anxiety was threatening to send running to bathroom to throw up once again. 

He held strong. He wouldn't be made weak. No matter how weak he truly felt. 

Lucien didn't believe that for a second. But he said nothing as he moved from the doorway and said, "Well then, the wedding is on in less than five minutes."

Feyre hesitated from her place at the end of the aisle. 

Her eyes agitated, hands shaking. Tamlin held his breath. She looked beautiful, but Feyre was always beautiful. A ring of flowers adorned her head, her eyes held the wedding venue before her. 

Ianthe was the one she watched; Tamlin risked a glance at the Priestess who watched Feyre closely. Slowly she raised a hand, and with a soft voice beckoned, "Come, Lady of Spring."

Feyre loosened a breath, her chest rising and falling with measured, calculated breaths. She took a step forward and Tamlin's chest constricted. He sucked in a breath, and she took another step forward. The knot pulled tighter and tighter. 

He remembered when she had been dragged in by Attor. Tossed to Amarantha's feet. 

Panic had filled him. He had nearly fainted. Surely, she wasn't there, because he had sent her back. She was back in the human lands there was no possible way for her to have come Under the Mountain. 

Yet there she had been.

The image faded in and out. Shifting from Feyre's perfect, unmarked face to the bruised snarling face she had worn that day so many months ago. 

She took a step forward. 

He was going to throw up. 

Then she took a step back. 

For a second, for a fleeting moment, the knot in his chest loosened and he felt like he could breathe again. 

Then she took another step back. The knot tightened once more. 

Eyes widened, and whispers erupted in the crowd of Fae. 

Fuck. 

No. 

Like a rope pulled him forward, Tamlin took a step towards Feyre. The world slowed to one moment in time. She stumbled further back, shaking her head. And Tamlin stepped further into the aisle. 

Something snapped in her gaze. She turned on her heel and sprinted. 

There was a gasp, and hot white rage flew through the High lord. Filling his veins, breaking something that had been pulled taut for too long now. 

He nearly launched into a run after her. 

"Tamlin." Lucien hissed, as he lept forward and pulled Tamlin back. 

Tamlin turned around to snarl at him, but in a second they were gone. Winnowed. 

Tamlin shouted into the darkness that enveloped them. And by the time they landed he was screaming curses at the red head. Lucien didn't seem to care. 

They were in his study. The window were open and sunshine was pouring in. Yet the house was empty as the grounds descended into chaos as the groom and bride had each disappeared. 

"Why did you-" Tamlin shouted, but Lucien snapped. 

"She was running away, what were you going to do?! Grab her and force her to marry you!" Lucien shouted, whilst pointing a finger into Tamlin's chest. 

"You-"

"Don't start with me Tamlin! We will find her, but for now calm the fuck down!" 

Tamlin blinked, initial rage simmering into something else entirely. 

What just happened. 

In the span of a few seconds, he had gone from jittering at the altar, watching his bride, then watching her run from him as he attempted to go after her.

He must have looked as shocked as he felt, because Lucien put a hand on each of his shoulders and guided him to the lounge. 

"Sit." Lucien ordered, Tamlin obeyed. Staring into nothing, mind horribly blank. 

Eventually one smaller thought came to mind, "I thought I wasn't allowed to winnow."

"You can in short distances, I spoke to Heilda. But she recommended it be someone else doing to actually winnowing."

"Oh."

"Yeah." Lucien sat down on the arm of the lounge. 

"What do I do now?"

Lucien stared at him and for the first time said, "I have no idea."

***

"Feyre!" 

Feyre didn't respond to the call. She crossed her arms and pressed further back into the trunk of the tree she was sitting in. Her knees bent, keeping her curled into the branch and just out of sight. 

"Feyre oh sh- Mother lead me." Ianthe hissed as she caught herself from cursing, "Where is that girl?"

Feyre craned her neck to look down. She saw Ianthe holding up her pale blue robes in one hand and her shoes in the other as she trod through grass and mud. 

"Feyre! I know you're out here somewhere!" 

Somewhere indeed, currently right above her. 

Ianthe screwed eyes shut and sighed deeply, "Couldn't have run somewhere inside, no we had to go out into the forest."

Despite the guilt and shame, the anxiety and hurt knotting and writhing in her stomach, threatening to make her lose her breakfast. Feyre chuckled. 

Bad decision, as Ianthe straightened, her fae senses alerting her to the sound. 

Ianthe whirled her head back and forth, "Feyre?"

Feyre had the muffle her laughter with the palm of her hand. But it wasn't enough to escape the hearing of the High Priestess. 

Finally, Ianthe furrowed her brow and looked right up. Her confusion fell into deadpan as she saw the Cursebreaker nestled in a branch. 

Mouth pursing, Ianthe gripped her robes a little tighter then asked, "Flower why are you in a tree?"

It hit her again. 

As she had walked down the aisle. Seen the people, the faces staring and waiting. Seen Tamlin watching her. Then had seen Ianthe. 

Permanant. Permanently stuck here. Permanently with the memories. Seeing everyone watching, like they had watched Under the Mountain. 

That prayer had rushed through her head again. And she saw their faces when she stabbed them. 

"Feyre?" 

Feyre looked back down to Ianthe, but gritted her teeth and did not answer. 

"Feyre." Ianthe said, deadpan, "Do not make me climb a tree."

Still Feyre remained silent whilst she brooded on her branch. 

Ianthe's eye twitched. And finally she sighed heavily, mumbling something about the Mother punishing her. 

"Fine! Fine." She said, dropping her shoes and letting her robes down from her hand. 

Then Feyre watched as the pristine, tidy, and uptight High Priestess of Spring, grabbed onto a branch and planted her foot into the trunk. Climbing the tree. 

She nearly slipped and fell, a curse nearly falling from her lips before she caught herself. 

Her robes got caught on a sharp piece of bark and there was a ripping sound. Ianthe made a disgusted sound, before she climbed up higher and higher. 

Finally, after clumsily forcing her way onto a branch right beside Feyre, she sat down. Panting heavily. Then she checked the small hole made in the hem of her robes. 

She gritted her teeth but ultimately let it fall away as she faced why she came out here. 

"Feyre, lovely spot you have here." Ianthe said, sarcasm lacing her voice. 

"Thanks, picked it out myself." Feyre snapped. 

The High Priestess sighed, "Feyre, you have to come down."

"Yes, I have to go down. And I have to go back to the wedding, don't I?" She snapped. 

Ianthe observed her for a moment, before shifting uncomfortably. Stoic face seemingly trying to figure out what the best course of action was. Thinking logically, no doubt just wondering what the quickest way to get Feyre back to the wedding was. 

It struck her that Ianthe didn't actually care what Feyre was feeling. She was doing as she was told, no other reason. It made Feyre feel all the more alone. 

Back in that dungeon, with nothing to keep her company but her will and a bargain. 

"Do you... Do you not wish to marry him?" She asked. 

Feyre gritted her teeth, she screwed her eyes shut. Darkness pressed in and she remembered the Attor dragging her into the throne room. 

She wanted to scream. She wanted to forget anything that ever happened. She wanted to go somewhere none of it ever touched her again. 

"Feyre-"

"Just go away Ianthe I don't want to speak to you!" She shouted. 

Ianthe bristled, "I am just trying to help-"

"Well you aren't!" 

Now, her face iced over. Stone cold and fed up, "We have to go back, now either we can go willingly together, or I will get the sentries and they will drag you back."

A tremor ran up her spine at the threat, "I don't want to go back, Ianthe."

Ianthe loosened a tight breath, "Feyre, let's go home now."

"No."

"Archeron-" Her tone was warning. 

"I don't- I don't want to go back." Feyre insisted. 

Ianthe scrunched her nose slightly, eyebrows furrowing. Then her face evened out and her voice sweetened, "Feyre, we must go back."

The sudden change in tone, in face, a lure. An attempt at false comfort. The Priestess held out her hand. 

Feyre looked at the pale hand before her. 

Then at the ground. 

Back to the pale hand. 

Feyre reached out and Ianthe smiled. 

The Cursebreaker batted her hand away with enough force that Ianthe shouted but nearly fell off balance. Giving Feyre enough to time to jump to the forest floor and bolt. 

"Feyre Archeron!" Ianthe clung to the branch as she watched Feyre's form disappear further into the dark forest. 

Slowly she took inhaled, before releasing her breath. She closed her eyes and asked the sky, "Why, why, why, why, why?"

Feyre ran and ran and ran. She lost a shoe but she didn't care. The feeling of dirt underfoot somehow comforting. Reminding her she was still there and breathing. In the wind, in the open space. Not in that cave, not Under the Mountain. 

Yet still there. Always there like it followed her. A ghost of those months looming over her head. 

She reached a clearing of grass and wildflowers. She fell to her knees. Legs unable to hold her any longer. 

She shook, trembling hands and arms. She should've been able to run faster and far further than that. 

But looking at her arms, they were spindly. Her legs which were sticks compared to what they had once been. She felt her cheeks, her face which was hollowed out. 

Her fingers to skinny, her organs pressed against the skin of her torso. 

When was the last time she had eaten? Had felt the urge to eat anything?

She licked her lips, her throat dry. The air was suffocating. Pollen that was sickeningly sweet. Air open, without any end. 

A part of her wondered whether she had ever come out from Under the Mountain, feared, dreaded that at any moment she would awaken. 

She heaved a sob, cries racking through her too fragile bones. Like she was made of glass she trembled. 

Feyre felt like she was made of glass. Like at a single touch she might crack and fall into a thousand pieces and never be able to be put back together again. 

'Make it stop.' She cried in her mind, sniffling, 'Someone make it all stop.'

'Take me away.' She pleaded with nothing. 

There was the sound of stick cracking underfoot and Feyre's head snapped up. 

But instead of Ianthe or sentries, violet eyes shone down upon her. 

"Hello Feyre Darling."

"You!" Someone shouted, Rhysand and Feyre looked up to see Ianthe panting as she pointed to Rhysand. 

Feyre had never seen her quite so dishevelled. But rage lined her features. 

Rhysand however, simply smirked, before grabbing Feyre's arm as she screamed. The Night Lord lifted her tattooed hand and pointed to it. 

"Don't mind me, pretty Priestess, I am simply collecting."

And just like that. 

Rhysand winnowed them away. 

***

"What do you mean she's gone?" Tamlin asked, voice near breathless. 

Ianthe's eye was twitching relentlessly. She looked as though she had been dragged through a thorn bush. Then again if she had run after Feyre she may have been. Stick and leaves were stuck in her hair, some parts of her robes were torn. And dirt smudged her cheek. 

"I mean she was whisked away by the Night Court." Ianthe said, "Our worst fears came true, and Rhysand made good on his word."

"Bastard son of a bitch." Lucien cursed from behind Tamlin. 

Tamlin said nothing, unable to move. His eyes turned to Alis by the door who looked between the Priestess and the High lord with sympathetic eyes.

Slowly it lapped at his core. Rage that made his eyes start to black out. His hands trembling by his sides. 

Chest rising and falling quicker. 

Ianthe looked him up and down, then said to Lucien, "I'll leave you two to deal with this. I am going to have a six-hour long bath."

In a second the Priestess was gone. Alis following after her.

"Lucien, get out." Was the only warning Tamlin gave him. 

Lucien's eyes went wide, and he sprinted out the door, slamming it closed. 

And Tamlin's magic exploded in a second. 

The High lord screamed as his magic ripped through him. flooding his veins with uncontrollable, overwhelming power. He screamed and fell to his knees. A ringing filled his ears, his vision went white. 

When it resided, a sob wracked his body as shaking overtook him. His skin heated, getting hotter and hotter until his clothes were soaked with sweat. Trembling, Tamlin tried to pull himself to stand, but he suddenly doubled over and threw up. 

The door flung open and Lucien shouted something he couldn't hear. The world was a swirling, dizzy haze of nothing. 

Someone gasped and Tamlin looked up to see Alis sprinting for him. The female cupped his face, and Tamlin blacked out.

Link to chapter 2 is here! Link to chapter 3 is here!

[a-strange-inkling]

If it were up to you ( one of the best hellcheer fanfiction writer) what would you fix or change about the fight of Icarus?

Aw shux, that’s high praise! I really don’t think I’m worthy of that, but thank you 🤍

Oh God… what a laundry list 😆 read at your own risk below (I think I’ve finally run out of things to say about this book and will be moving on now 😅)

I’m going to be honest, the best way fo fix it would be to not write a book. Point blank. If I was involved with the show at all I would have NEVER written a book about Eddie in any official capacity. I don’t know if the author was aware of just how unhinged certain parts of his fanbase are (I’m sure she is now) but you’re not going to make anyone happy with this. Eddie’s ridiculously popular yes, I get it, but part of his appeal for people was how untouched his background was.

Flight of Icarus is kind of a mess plot wise with pretty weak/poor characterizations. There’s some good elements and scenes in it. It’s not bad, but it’s not great either. It’s pretty mid. I mean books based on tv shows aren’t exactly known for their… luster. It’s obviously going to lack the passion of an unpaid fanfic writer who has spent endless hours watching season 4 and doing in-depth research and analysis for their work… but that’s what we’re all used to. That’s our standard. So it’s kind of already set up for failure.

But, if I was in charge of a book like this, here’s some of the things I would do differently:

I’d have picked ONE main plot to focus on because there is way too much going on in these 280 pages for me to have the time to be invested or care about anything. There’s like three plus storylines going on with Eddie all to push ONE narrative which is basically him choosing between risking everything for a fantasy/dream of fame and money or staying true to himself and what’s real which is the steadfast loyalty of his friends and family. This takes the form of Al vs Wayne, Paige vs Ronnie, LA vs Hawkins, solo career vs band/hellfire, dropping out to try to become a rockstar vs being the first Munson to graduate, who Eddie wants to be vs who he truly is deep down.

It’s just too much.

I’d have taken a little more time making Eddie three dimensional. I know he’s a side character, but a lot of heart and thought went into creating him (at least on Joe’s end). I’d have made more conscious choices for his character, especially if he’s narrating in first person (I would have not used first person). His outer dialog is great (the dialog throughout the whole thing is actually really great, you can tell the author’s a screen writer and it’s one of the stronger elements to the book) but his inner monologue is pretty ooc and at times really off. He lacks a lot of the things that drew people to him in the first place or it’s just not as strongly presented I guess. He doesn’t feel fully formed.

If I was going to give Eddie a love interest (I don’t know why you would do that to yourself at this point, his fanbase is volatile at best and either ships him with Steve, Chrissy, or themselves, no one is going to like it) I’d have given her WAY better writing than an immersive wattpad character with little to no character traits outside of her aesthetic and interests which is an alternative style and liking music. Wow. Groundbreaking. I would have her make decisions based on a fully formed personality verses the convenience of the plot. And if not, if she’s going to be a means to an end, I’d at least go all in and make her wild or evil or a total bitch or conniving or funny or grumpy or goofy or something. She’s not given enough focus or time to be well rounded so I’d just have fun and go batshit crazy with her (don’t worry Paige, you’re mine now and I will give you an actual character and vindication).

Eddie choosing between his dad and Wayne would have probably been the plot I picked to focus on and I would have really dived into that. The good, bad and the ugly of the Munson family. Because Al (that would not be his name btw 🤢) and Wayne reflect the two sides of Eddie’s character. A charming, self serving, cowardly asshole and a good, strong and kind person who protects and looks after others. I like Ronnie a lot and she’s probably the best written character in the book, but Wayne needed to have more spotlight for this.

I’d have definitely made the plot a lot less fantastical and way more of a simple character study. Just Eddie deciding between embracing the infamy of the Munson family or choosing to rise above it. Does he decide to scheme and cheat like his dad to get more out of life or does he do the right thing and stay the course to actually graduate and make something of himself. That’s it. All that’s needed. Eddie getting a shot at being a rockstar at eighteen in Hawkins is already kind of odd, especially when his in is a twenty year old “junior scout”??? Who just happens to be at his dive bar and have the hots for him and fucks him and pretty much offers him a life in LA on a silver platter with no issues other than having to bail on his band and high school club?? It’s… a bit much for our unlucky loser boy we see in the show. Book Eddie is as lucky as they come, but he’s a total dumbass and decides to trust and scheme with his deadbeat father??? Who has always failed him? Why? I get he needs money but his kinda girlfriend’s got a job and he’s pretty much got a record deal. What even is this? That whole storyline would be scrapped to hell. But hey, at least it’s more believable than an actual drug heist and a kingpin and a shoot out. Oh and arson. It’s giving… *shivers* Riverdale and not in a good way.

Lastly, I’d have taken the opportunity to develop characters from the show a little more. Not a ton, but like the author did with Higgins. I really like how he was written in the novel. He had a lot of fire and personality out of nowhere which was kind of hilarious. I probably would have expanded Jason the most actually, I’d have added more to that tense rivalry. And I’d have left Chrissy pretty much out of it. The talent show is best left to the imagination and we already have a delicate narrative between them because of the forest scene. I wouldn’t want to add too much there. But she’d have a cameo for sure. Like brief eye contact or a shared smile or something at the very end of the book. Just a little glimmer of what’s to come. I’m also a Eddie has always had a little bit of a thing for Chrissy truther, so in my bias I might have him quietly admire her from afar or something.

And there you go.

I mean you’re going to get my version of his backstory eventually anyway and bonus he and Chrissy live, get married and have kids. Yay!

[burnyouwithacigarettelighter]

Omg I’m so happy you replied!! I definitely have more questions.

1. What Cillian character do you like writing about the most and why?

2. What story from your master list are you most proud of?

3. Do you personally have any fic recommendations/ must reads? Other sites included.

4. What gets you inspired to write? Following that question have you ever abandoned a fic?

5. What do you think made you a better writer? If you have any doubts about your work, how do you get past it enough to continue?

6. Is there a Cillian character that you just don’t like, or aren’t interested in watching/ writing about? (Sorry if that’s a loaded question)

omg thank u so much for this!!! i srsly love interacting w u guys, tysm for the thought provoking questions😄🙌

i think i like writing most about robert fischer:) ik it probably doesnt translate considering ive written most for jonathan crane but robert fischer is just such a little sweetheart to me,,, and can go both ways in being a sassy dom douchebag or being a sobbing daddy issues sub darling LOLLL i just think he has a lot of duality to delve into and develop (which ive definitely not done so far☠️) and it helps that his characterization in inception was also very surface level— i have a lot of wiggle room y’know??

i think im most proud of “dine & dash” which im aware probably no-one has read, but getting chris o’doyle’s sassy little dialogue down was like taming a wild beast,,, otherwise, considering my more well-known work, i rly liked writing “honey, i’m home”. i go crazy for the unhinged readers (if u couldnt alrdy tell lmaooo) and seeing jackson get messed with like that was a real treat.

i seriously just recommend anything by @mypoisonedvine,,, they’re literally genius & are the reason i started writing for cillian:)!! other mentions include kitten fics by @pictureinme and, a personal fave, @floralcyanidee’s jackson rippner mile-high club fic!!! these writers are all incredibly talented and im just blown away at their work every single time🫶

my thirst is such a big motivator for writing LMAO😭i wrote “guinea pig” ‘cus i wanted to absolute wreckkk jonathan crane and have him be a sub, and i got a 6.8k words long fic out of said thirst! music & book quotes motivate me a lot too— i spend sm time digging thru my pinterest for a good quote for the beginning of my fic its actually insane☠️and yes,,, im ashamed to say ive abandoned fics numerous times,,, but thats because they were series’, not oneshots. i get bored of series’ pretty quickly, ‘cause i feel kind of trapped by the initial dynamic or mood set in the first chapter. with oneshots, its like writing one long chapter of this trope and this kink or whatever and then its done, and i dont have to exhaust myself going back to tropes or kinks or storylines ive already done.

i think reading made me a better writer. expanding my vocabulary through the words of others was a biggie; seeing something be described in a certain way in someones story had me thinking of out-of-the-box ways to describe another thing (that doesn’t make much sense but lets pretend it does😭). i have many, many doubts about my work, like constantly, but i usually just suck it up. i sound like an attention whore but seeing the reposts & comments & tags on my other work reminds me people like what i’ve written before and certain people will enjoy what ive written now, so i should just finish my work for them. i also take like 100 years rereading my stuff until i think its good enough lmao,,,

ive kinda watched his whole roster of films (atleast ones i could actually find on the internet and not gone missing as a lost piece of media lmao) and i could probably write for any cillian character given i had a good idea and proper motivation. writing for certain characters is definitely harder for me to do though, so its likely i wont write for them/will take a long time to do so. an example is lenny miller— anna was such an insufferable movie to me, and lenny’s screentime wasn’t long at all, atleast not long enough for me to properly grasp his character. he just felt like a horny hardass fbi goof the whole time i could not take his 5’7 ass seriously😭cillian is smexy as hell in anna tho, so we’ll see😈another would probably be robert capa from sunshine,,, hes beautiful and deliciously musty in that but the whole spaceship setting kinda freaks me out (considering i know 0 zilch nada about space, spaceships, or anything of the sort, so it’d definitely be inaccurate). an au with him id definitely do, though! (with that hair of his my mind is already forming a 90s band au, guitarist!capa x singer!reader story…)

again thank u so much for these questions!! i feel like i rarely get to chat to u guys so this was well appreciated😄🫶thank you so much for reading, for sending these questions in, and for being an overall sweetheart, anon!

[shesnohack]

10 Things for 2023

(Thanks for tagging me, @sapphicscholar!)

A fic idea you want to write or read: I think everyone I “know” on here is aware that I have an AU Hacks fic that I desperately want to write, involving Deborah becoming a surrogate for DJ. I’d love for someone else to write it as it needs to be done well in order for it to be believable but I know if I want it to become a reality, I need to write it myself. It’s a daunting task as I really struggle with creating stories of substance but it’s only a story for me so there’s no rush and if it’s meant to be written, it’ll happen.

A place you want to go: I love visiting the States but I’ve never made it beyond the North East so I’d really like to head to Georgia and the Carolinas to see how the culture differs.

A book you want to read: I have a few on my Goodreads list but I’d finally like to tackle Titan: The life of John D Rockefeller, Sr by Ron Chernow…all 774 pages. If only fanfiction counted towards Goodreads goals, I’d be ahead of the game by February 😂

Something fun you want to do: I’d like to make this the year of going out and experiencing things. After the last few years, it’d be fun to get back to concerts, musicals, festivals so I’m hoping to find something for each month and get out there and just have fun.

Something you want to make: totally boring but I have a cross stitch that I was given for Christmas a few years ago and I’d like to see what it looks like when it’s not just a bunch of threads in a packet.

A habit you want to start: I’d like take my dog on a long walk everyday. She gets multiple short walks everyday but we both need to get out more and stretch our legs on big walks.

Something new you want to try: I want to try wild swimming. It’s a big thing in Scotland and it looks so much fun. I’ll maybe wait for summer though…I hear it’s going to happen for two days in July this year 😂

Something you want to finish from 2022: I want to finish renovating my house. There’s not much left to do, just little bits and pieces that will finally make it come together but procrastination is big in this household!

Something you want to stop doing: I want to stop apologising for myself, for existing, for taking up people’s time. Deep down I know I don’t need to but with anxiety comes self doubt and second guessing and, for me, too much self-awareness and I just want to accept myself.

Something you want to keep doing: Much like @dkc2017 I want to keep writing fanfiction. I haven’t been a part of a fandom or written anything in more than a decade but reading and writing Hacks fics, and speaking with people on here and at AO3 about a shared interest has been really uplifting and I hope it continues in 2023

I don’t really have many mutuals but feel free to do this too if you haven’t already. 😁

[digitalta]

Please do not feel as though you need to publish a response to this. I am aware I am just babbling at you.

Hello. It’s the person who lost and then refound your CBAA series.

I forgot how intense parallax is. I am actually going to need to stretch after I finish reading it again because all of my muscles are tensed 😭. The ryuchi cave scene… good gods. The whole aftermath of the partial evisceration up to the removal of the genjutsu is quite honestly one of my favourite things I have read in fanfiction and also fiction in general. I can’t really articulate why but it really resonated with me. I am probably going to sound insane here but I have younger siblings and the borderline incomprehensible devotion that ordeal took, to me is totally comprehensible. Also nothing anywhere near the scale of that injury but I’ve had a few instances of internal bleeding (and some severe wounds that were unrelated to the internal bleeding) and there were… physical sensations, we shall say, that I could viscerally remember and so that whole arc just really got me. Anyway I came here to yell you because I just reached the part where Danzo is interrogated and that was honestly GENIUS. Your mind is so powerful. Shisui is deranged your honour. Also I am utterly enamoured with your characterisation of itachi, sasuke², shisui, and kakashi. Not just through their perspective but from how they are viewed by others. I am actually quaking. The depth you have given every moment in this fic is stunning. The seamless way you’ve inserted instances of humour into tragedy and suspense is i m p e c c a b l e. I love love love the character dynamics and the grace and respect you have given each character that has been given focus (I’m not entirely sure how to phrase what I mean here but I hope you understand somewhat). The imagery is stunning as well. This whole thing is so masterfully done. I love the attention to detail of everything and the research that must doubtlessly have gone into this, whether intentionally done or from know you already have. Screaming crying and throwing up this is so good. So so good. Anyway I am now going back to continue finishing reading.

You fool, I LOVE babbling. I actually love live-tweeting (or live-responding) more than any other form of review. It makes me so excited to see how other people's brains interpret my work and how it makes them feel.

The cave scene is WILD. I remember coming up with the idea and how excited I was to execute it. I was always afraid the way I was detailing it would undersell it, so I think I ended going up far too in depth with detail. The similarities to Seppuku should not be ignored as well.

I'm so sorry for the pain you have personally felt. I personally do not have any younger siblings, but I do have fierce devotion to those I hold special and I tried to use that and show it the best I could.

Danzo- I tried to make that arc as surreal and mystical as I could. To make it as terrifying and out-of-depths as we all felt in the first story. I'm very pleased with that, but every time I read it I felt it could have been written better. I think I was equally excited to write it and publish it as you were to read it.

I want every character to be fleshed out. They aren't simply there for plot, they are unique and deserved to be examined. Everyone is different, and I wanted to portray that with no "bashing" in any way at all. I love throwing in humour, it's one of my favourite things to add in situational hilarious moments. I've won a few poetry contests, which I am sure you can tell with my writing style.

Screaming, crying, hope you get to the end

[coffee-at-annies]

(Edit:I was writing this last night and it seems like I fell asleep and idk if tumblr ate any of it outside the tags. Oops. I’ve added more thoughts which may or may not be a coherent conclusion.)

First off, thanks. Second off, yes break it. Poke holes. Tell me where I’m wrong. The goal is to be helpful and engaging, not perfect. I’m doing big concepts and tons of generalizations that are required because to get specific sometimes you have to start big otherwise the details make no sense. I was definitely asking myself where are there holes and how can I break this apart at the seams so that I know I’m not missing things. I think the place it falls apart for me is events because like, isn’t everything an event? Truly the broadest and the worst category cause everything fits in there. The beginning is an event. The end is an event. The timeline category exists cause I naturally started sorting events into time periods and went, well if I’m already talking about SidGeno I may as well drop what I remember of the broad strokes. I’ve probably missed some broad strokes cause I’m doing it off of memory rather than research.

When I break it down, the main argument is now, before, the beginning, what’s next, and the end - and in those places I’m highlighting the equivalent of major plot points that if this was dr who I’d call fixed points and if this was spiderverse I’d call it canon events. When I step back to look at it, that’s basic story structure baby. What I think is interesting and why I was trying so hard to quantify things is because there’s the transition from now into before, and also those events that are such a lightening rod that as readers and writers we keep coming back to them.

Thank you for bringing up Bec’s SidGeno before/after post cause that was rotating in my head as I was writing this. I’ve been synthesizing a bunch of rpf posts recently and just thinking about how it’s been several years since I was reading everything on ao3 and with the start of the season I’ve been more aware of when and how and why things have changed. Not in a bad way, however the two main vibes I keep coming back to are “it’s really interesting how things have changed” and “some people have no idea how things have changed and think it’s always been like this.” I’ve been doing it a bunch with our core because I see the version of Sid and Geno people post about and I recognize them as realistic authentic versions of who the players are right now, but there’s that little bit of cognitive dissonance in the back of my head because they aren’t the Sid and Geno (and Tanger) I was reading fic about in 2018.

They’re the same people, but they’re also different because that’s how time works. Geno is a dad now. He’s a very good one. There have been fics about him being a father since way before he was even married and I bet it would be interesting to compare those fics to what we know of his actual parenting. Heck Jake’s a dad now which is a thing I forget about cause he’s Sid’s baby boy, his son, his precious rookie. I have a specific perspective being a quote unquote fandom old. Some pens fans have never not known Geno as a dad, or Kris with the A, or seen Flower play in a pens jersey and that’s wild to me. It is my own bias showing and I acknowledge that. Sports fandom is weird. It’s not like you can go rewatch s1. You can rewatch old games but it’s not the same experience.

Back to the my point, it’s so easy for people to look at current characterization and then approach old events with that version of the character in their head even if the defining events that caused that growth hasn’t happened yet. It’s like looking at a cardboard cutout of your blorbo and moving it up and down the timeline as you see fit. I’m not judging that. You can do some really interesting foreshadowing with it. The when of a fic getting written matters tho. You can have old fics with new readers who wonder why the author didn’t include an essential detail about the final boss and the answer is because when the fic was written fandom didn’t even know that character existed. That detail may not have existed until a flashback in s7 that was set between episodes in s2. Sometimes we simply don’t know, but that doesn’t make the fic less good.

@paintingtheice so I totally meant to post this yesterday and then fell asleep editing/adding on to this. This is not the essay on gendering Sidney Crosby we’ve talked about in dms it’s instead a different fandom essay that I started writing in my head half as a convo and then said fuck it essay time. @podcasts-8-my-heart this is also dedicated to you saying you’re proud of me for writing 2.5k+. I’m proud of you.

So I was thinking on my bus ride into work this morning (yesterday - yes it’s been a day this got long don’t look at me like that) about hrpf and SidGeno and some of the shifts I’ve seen fandom go through in my time following hockey. There are a million and one little reasons why things have changed and many of them can simply be chalked up to the passing of time; new information gets revealed, new events happen, roster turnover, and fandom/writer turnover. One thing that I think about a lot is when fic is set in relation to “canon.” The relationship with canon in hrpf is both deeper and more divorced than other fandom, but stay with me I’m gonna pull a bunch of words out my ass and hope it makes a lick of sense.

The first talking point/part of this thesis is recency bias. People are way more inclined to favor recent events over the past. You see this in the actual fandom with people reacting to losses or saying “we never win against [team]” when we have in fact won against that team as recent as last year. It’s this sort of bias that causes us as readers/writers to read something current and assume it’s always been this way and then experience cognitive dissonance with other depictions of the characters that are older or simply different. “He would not fucking say that.” Well once upon a time maybe he did. Maybe it’s out of character now, but back then it was the defining character study for how fandom understood him and you need to sit down and actually look at what people were saying. Maybe it was never in character but the author committed to being ooc and you can see how our understanding has drifted closer or farther away in the years since.

The second talking point is that when fandom isn’t reacting to current canon it has a tendency to latch on to specific parts of canon and not let go. I’m quantifying that as “events”. Fandom hates filler but it loves a plot point. In hprf in general and sidgeno specifically you see this in a lot of different ways. How many stories have been written about [insert team]’s cup run? The Olympics? I’ve read so many fics about 2015 Worlds despite never reading hrpf before 2016. We love an event. Do we actually care about every game of the season or tournament tho? Not really unless something specific to progress the plot or characterization happens. Geno visiting Sid at when they’re supposed to be enemies is more important than whoever Canada beat in the round robin.

Anyway this is all introductory backtracking because the original thrust of this essay was defining to myself the “when” that people write about. My brainstorming had it separated into the nebulous now, right fucking now when I (the author) wrote this, events events events, the vague future, the past aka when they were Youths™️, the generalized timeline (y’know, canon?) - usually characterized in hrpf by events, milestones, and team personnel, and timeline what timeline.

Are you saying to yourself, gee she just listed a bunch of stuff I hope she defines it. Well good for you, that’s literally the rest of this monster. Buckle up I’m about to say way more words. I do not think I’m 100% accurate perfect no notes. I’m sure parts of it are bullshit. But hey I’m gonna close my eyes and post it anyway.

1. [Nebulous Now] - Hey remember that paragraph on recency bias? Welcome to recency bias the fic setting. In my head, the nebulous now is +/- the last two or three years. It’s set around present day* or going back only as far as the author was engaged in fandom. You’ll probably know when it’s set based on team makeup, season highlights, major events, but it’s basically meant to be set now. It may care about schedules and specific details but reserves the right to throw it out the window if it feels like it. The problem with being set now is when you run across a fic that is 5, 10, 15 years old and is supposed to still be set in whatever the current year is.

*when the fic first started being written

2. [Right Fucking Now] There is nothing nebulous about when this fic was written or what it was written about. These are usually smaller fics** where inspiring event happened anywhere from the day the writer started writing to at most a month or two ago. Usually precipitated by X did Y in Z game against team A and got celebratory gangbanged in the locker room about it. (Y being goals, hat tricks, fights, ect.). You can’t get more specific than this baby. Fics set before/during/after a specific game fit here. All Star Game fics written around the All Star Break are here. Milestone events are here, for example Tanger and Geno’s 1K games. Fics written immediately in reaction to stuff like Contract-gate go here. Most playoff fic that references specific events or was written during the playoffs falls under here. The main clarifying point is it wasn’t written very long after the fact. Anything written now about last years All Star Game, Contract-Gate, Sid slutting it up at worlds and the Olympics, all fall under a different category. Which is a great segue to my next one.

** I said usually smaller but sometimes an author decides to write a big fic about the narrative arc of the season and we love them for it.

3. [Events Events Events] - This is probably the one that is the biggest broadest category and the one I have the hardest time narrowing down despite having more examples than I can shake a stick at. Simply put, this category is for fics that are concerned with a specific event, usually big, but sometimes small. This can be any event that stands out in a reader/author’s head. Generally the fic was written after the event happened from a place of knowing how everything shakes out in canon. These fics can feel different because the we walk in already knowing the start and stop and major events of the fic. From the reader’s perspective the event is over but the characters experiencing the event don’t know it.

SidGeno/Pens Examples include: World Juniors. The Olympics/the golden goal/Sochi. The cup runs are a subcategory unto themselves but the playoffs/finals are a big event. Major injuries like Geno’s knee surgery and Sid’s concussion. Duper’s retirement tends to be a foot note in cup run stories but it’s a small event. Trades def count since there are absolutely stories about the before/after of a trade. Vegas & Seattle Expansion Drafts. The lockouts (05 & 2012). I’m ignoring that the pandemic-stoppage is also under this cause I don’t like reading about it. Contract-gate is a recent example. Basically if you’re asking “hey does this event count as an event” the answer is probably yes because you’ve remembered it. If you can point to something specific on the timeline and zoom in on it then it counts.

***this one I keep tweaking it’s definition and I’m still not 100% happy. I just keep thinking about all the fic I’ve read in other fandoms that feel beholden to canon in ways that I end up bemoaning the lack of creativity. Nobody says it has to happen this exact way every time but authors who claim to hate that installment still faithfully recreate it every time.

So we’ve had now, and we’ve had the events that everyone (or just you) remember, what’s next is literally what’s next.

4. [Vague Future] - Quite literally 1, 5, 10, 20 years in the future. Next season fics. Retirement and post-retirement fics. Their kids getting drafted fic is this. Anything that makes you think further ahead than the end of the current season is probably in this category. It’s vague because who the heck knows if it ends up true or not. There is of course overlap with the Nebulous Now because its nebulous. Since everything is set vaguely now-ish, it’s hard to tell when now starts becoming the future. The season just started and all through the preseason I saw people talking about who they think is going win the cup this year. There’s so much hockey to be played still. The future is vague but it will eventually become now.

Also remember it’s all about perspective. There’s tons of movies set in the far distant future of the late 2010s and they don’t match up to our lived reality. Going back to the comment about cognitive dissonance, sometimes you aren’t writing about an event from a place of knowing; sometimes it’s just your best guess or heartfelt wish. It’s so easy to say “oh that’s an au” when maybe it wasn’t an au when it was written, maybe it was intended to be accurate to the author’s best guess. Sometimes fics from the past were set in the future but that time has been passed by life and going back to read them is weird but cool. It’s interesting to see where people thought the boys were going vs where they are. Who could have guessed the core would have careers this long or decorated but they have.

Speaking of writing from a place of knowing; this next one is sort of a subcategory of events, but was a specific enough setting of fic I wanted to call it out.

5. [Youth™️] - This is anything where they are children. It may be well research but for the most part it’s probably non-accurate outside of the broad stokes. It’s the prologue and chapter 1. Pre-canon and the first 20 minutes. Kid!fic. It’s all about the kids in this one. This is the start of the story and the time before that.

Hrpf examples include anything about juniors, Sid’s time at shattuck, and World Juniors. For SidGeno I’d probably include the 03 to 05 drafts. Can include Sid’s first year in the NHL and Geno’s flight from Russia and his first full year in the NHL (that’s the hard cutoff for me personally). You could potentially argue up to and including the 08 & 09 cup runs as like the climax of them being young NHL stars, and yeah sure I’m not a cop write whatever you want if it makes sense to you then it makes sense. I don’t think Sid getting drafted is a bad place to start a fic, especially if you’re doing an AU. There’s always a good argument to start at the beginning of the canon story.

I’m highlighting this because holy crud the number of fics I’ve seen from other fandoms that don’t even like the early material but start at movie 1 scene 1/book 1 chapter 1 anyway. It’s fanfic we don’t have to start at the beginning. You can, but its not necessary. I personally struggle with fics that don’t change anything in early canon but require you to read their version of it anyway, but I’m just one person. You do you.

This next one doesn’t have a snazzy name because look sometimes there’s a timeline and you wanna write something that encompasses it. If it’s granular I’d say you’re talking about Eventsx3 or Right Fucking Now. Overlaps with Youth™️ because you have to start somewhere and Nebulous Now because now is on the timeline. If there are expected events on the timeline like retirement from professional sports, that’s the vague future.

6. [Timeline] Sometimes authors want to care about the timeline or the fic is set over weeks, months, years. Most canons have a specific set timeline and hrpf is no different. However ours is actual literal years rather than something someone created and is thus easy to navigate. For my examples I’m generalizing over the span of months and years and then grouping by big events rather than calling out any one specific event.

[the early years] Anything from Sid’s first year to the 09 cup. Let’s be real here, most authors either write incredibly detailed fic about the whole timeline, or they’ll only write about Sid or Geno’s first full NHL years or the 08-09 cup runs. Everything else is usually glossed over. The babies era. Youth™️

Events include: Sid and Geno’s drafts. The 05 lockout. Geno fleeing Russia. Losing streaks. Mario’s return and retirement. Flower and Tanger getting called up. Sid living at Mario’s. Geno living with Gonch and learning English. Sid being named Captain. Hard cutoff is after the 07-08 and 08-09 cup runs.****

****You can argue that the 08 & 09 cup runs are their own subcategory but this is already long enough imo.

[post cup - international success and dead years] - the middle years. You’re probably only going to read event fic set during this time unless it was written in the nebulous now of those years.

Events include: the golden goal/2010 olympics. Sid’s concussion. Geno’s knee surgery. The 2012 lockout. Geno playing at home in Russia during the lockout. I think Geno & Ovi had a memorable All Star Game in here. Socchi Olympics. Worlds 2015.***** Tanger’s stroke. Olli’s cancer. Geno getting married. Trades include I wanna say Jordy, Talbo, Lazy. Gonch is in Dallas but I don’t remember if he was traded. This is also the spacetoaster era. Sid spending several years building a house only to move back in with Mario due to post-concussion syndrome.

*****Sid winning at worlds is I think the end of this era cause Worlds kicked off Sid’s “winning everything that he could possibly win” era.

[the sully era] The 15-16 & 16-17 cup wins against San Jose and Nashville. The threepeat attempt in 2018 with its second round loss to the capitals. The vegas draft followed several years later by the seattle draft. Geno had a kid. Once you get past the cup runs this really blends into the nebulous now. Maybe it’s cause I stopped reading fic religiously sometime between 2019 and 2021 but aside from the covid pandemic which I very much do not like reading about, there’s not much here to highlight other than player milestones and trades, but don’t worry Sid and Geno have had a bunch of milestones.

[modern pensblr] - The covid stoppage, pandemic-hockey, and now. Anything from 2020 to the current 2023-24 season. Very much the nebulous now but there’s tons of milestones for our two headed monster/core trio to celebrate.

Okay I know I just spent a while being very “general with specific” but this next category is for the people who just don’t care about anything I’ve talked about.

7. [Timeline what timeline] - This is the one where authors simply don’t care about the “when” of their setting. It’s an outgrowth of the nebulous now but it’s less tied to canon. It may reference a season but it doesn’t have to and will often ignore actual team makeup because “this is my fanfic and if I want to ignore that trade I can.” Non-hockey aus (one or both s/g) will often fall under this since you need to answer who is playing center for the Penguins if Sid drives the zamboni. Straight up aus are kinda here but I don’t think fics that are fully an au setting like a college frat or space au really counts for this conversation since the au comes with its own time period that is wholly divorced from canon outside of the cast of characters. This is also where fics that go “I’m going to write my own canon” belong (ie Geno is a flyer, what if Pens drafted Ovi instead of Geno, what if X player got traded to Y team and hooked up with Z player). Timeline can matter for some of those fics, but most of them only care as much as it makes sense to make the fic make sense. The important timeline information is that hockey is happening (or it’s the off season and hockey isn’t happening). These are the fics where the Pens are always conveniently playing Washington when Geno needs advice from Ovi or Vegas when Sid needs similar from Flower. As long as the fic is internally consistent what does it matter if you’ve forgotten this or that timeline detail such as setting a timeline in the first place. Hockey itself is so intertwined with the specific routines of a season that you can divorce that routine from reality and just have hockey. Fall becomes winter becomes spring becomes the playoffs, what more can an author ask for?

Done? Idk I’m out of words. Okay I love you for reading this far. Bye bye. Feel free to chime in in the notes if you’ve got your own ideas. I certainly don’t have a monopoly on thoughts and I’m not convinced I’m right either, just doing a deep think.

[yournameoneverypage]

Aw, Nuts

NSFW 18+ / Minors, please DNI…

Word Count: ~4.8k

Notes: I had fun with this one, until I didn't, and then again when I did. 😜 Some angst, smut, and some fluff. Didn’t stick to the request exactly. Let’s be honest, no sexy time for three months? None at all? Come on, it’s Shawn. 😝 I haven’t written present tense for awhile, so please forgive any mistakes you might see... Might be a bit before I get to another request. I’ve been neglecting my OC series, so I’m going to try to finish the next part of that before I sift through my asks again. As always, likes are wonderful, but reblogs are better, and comments are cherished. 💕

* ❤️ *

You scrutinize yourself in your full length mirror.

You’re wearing a blush colored, lace bodycon dress and the most comfortable of the cutest heels you own for a night out with your boyfriend.

You screw your face and huff, “Am I not attractive? Am I not sexy?”

“Of course you are, darling,” your best friend, JJ, hums distractedly.

“You would fuck me if you were straight, wouldn’t you?”

“In a heartbeat, Sweetie,” he mumbles.

You glance over your shoulder. The other occupant of your apartment is sideways in the plush armchair in the corner of your bedroom, his eyes not on you, but his phone screen.

His inattention further frustrates you. “Bitch, enough with the damn phone. I’m in the middle of a crisis here! I need your attention more than whatever sugar daddy you’re flirting with on Grindr.” You stomp across the room and yank his phone from his hands.

“What the hell?!” He snatches his phone back but wisely shoves it in his pocket and sits up properly. “All right. You have my undivided attention. What’s the goddamn crisis?”

“Shawn.”

JJ raises an eyebrow. “Shawn?”

You pout. “We’ve been dating for three months and we still haven’t had sex.”

“Wait, what??” JJ thought you were keeping your sex life private for Shawn’s sake, being who he is; he hadn’t ever thought there might not be a sex life to talk about.

“What am I doing wrong? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing. He is wild about you. He looks at you like you hung the moon, and the stars.”

“Well then, what the hell?” you grumble.

“You’re not usually shy in taking what you want. Direct the outcome.”

“You think I haven’t tried? You do know that my boyfriend is one of the hottest men in the world, right?”

“Well aware, thank you,” JJ snickers. “Are you getting any kind of action? Come on, spill.”

“We have really hot makeout sessions.”

“Yes, I’ve seen the marks left behind,” he mutters.

“He loves my tits.”

“You do have phenomenal tits.”

‘We’ve gotten really good at second base… But when I try to stick my hand down his pants, he puts the brakes on.”

“I think the better question is, what’s wrong with him?”

You give JJ a little shove, by his face, and chuckle softly before you sigh again. “I miss sex. I really, really like sex.”

“For fuck’s sake, just tell him to dick you down already.”

That’s the moment you hear a knock on your apartment door. Shawn has already charmed the entirety of the front desk staff; they don’t even call you anymore for consent to let him upstairs.

You swing open the door and Shawn’s eyes brighten. “Baby,” he murmurs, his smile even more brilliant.

He draws you to him to give you an enthusiastic kiss hello. You can’t help but react; this boy is your kryptonite.

When you ease away from each other his eyes caress you from head to toe. Deliberately. He rumbles, “You look gorgeous.”

“So do you,” you breathe, cheeks pink, despite your frustration with him.

He’s wearing navy, low-rise, straight-leg pants that hug his ass in the most perfect way, his Bode, white lace, long-sleeve shirt you both love so much, and his go-to black Chelsea boots.

Your man is a fucking model. (No, really. Signed with Wilhemina and everything, with campaigns for Armani, Calvin Klein, and Tommy Hilfiger under his belt.) He is magnificently built, tall and broad, with skin reflecting his half-Portuguese heritage due to an abundance of vitamin D from the summer sun, and dark curls at the exact length you favor.

“I have half a mind to say fuck it and stay in tonight,” he smirks.

“Can we? I’d be all right with that.”

“But then I can’t show my girl off,” he grins. “I want people to turn their heads when we walk by and think to themselves, what a lucky bastard.”

Where normally his boasting and praise would light you up and have you floating on air, head held high, proud to be his girl, tonight it rubs you the wrong way.

Shawn offers you his arm and smiles. “Ready, baby?”

///

After your first few dates, you and Shawn had taken to sitting side by side at restaurants instead of across from each other, so his first inkling that something is off is when you choose the seat opposite the cushy side where you would usually sit together.

Despite his bemusement, he pulls your chair out for you like the gentleman he has always been.

The second indication is how you aren’t as engaging or flirtatious as usual. In truth, it’s the first time he has ever felt that he has dominated the conversation. There had always been an equal push and pull between you; it was what made all of your conversations so effervescent.

Worry begins to prickle beneath his skin.

Halfway through dinner he’s bothered enough to reach for your hand and draw you from your chair to sit beside him. You huff softly but still go willingly. You hate how you’re feeling upset with him at all.

He drapes his arm across the back of the bench behind you. It’s reassuring that you lean into him. After he leaves a trail of little kisses along your jawline he asks, “What’s going on in that beautiful mind of yours? We always sit together. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Everything is fine.” You try to smile genuinely, but all Shawn can see is disquiet in your eyes. You haven't ever been a good liar.

He catches the attention of your waitress and motions for the check.

“But we aren’t done with dinner,” you contend.

“Honey, you’ve barely touched your entree,” he gently argues, stroking the soft skin of your back with gentle fingertips.

You reach for his other hand and entwine your fingers with his. “I'm fine, babe. Let’s order dessert and have another glass of wine.”

He slides his Amex card into the check presenter and hands it back to the waitress. He kisses you once she walks away and murmurs against your lips, “Let’s go. This place is overrated anyway.”

///

The plan had been to go on to a speakeasy after dinner to meet some of your friends, have a few drinks, and listen to some live music. So, when you realize Shawn is taking you in the direction of his place instead, you feel terrible for ruining more than dinner.

“No, baby. Let’s just go on to the bar,” you insist. “Our friends are waiting.”

He places his hand on your thigh and draws shapes against your skin. He glances at you and smiles affectionately, even though now you can see the disquiet in his eyes.

“Another time. I’ve decided I want my girl all to myself tonight. They’ll forgive us.”

///

You love Shawn’s place, simply for the way it smells. It’s everything Shawn, with little nuances of you. You spend more time at his place than yours because there’s more privacy. He has no roommate to crash your movie nights or cuddle sessions like JJ too often does. It has begun to feel more like home than your own apartment.

You slip out of your heels and start toward Shawn’s room to steal one of his shirts so you can get out of your dress, but before you can go too far, Shawn reaches for your hand, causing you to pause and turn back to him.

He wastes no time in trying to fix whatever seems to be fracturing. He asks quietly, “Are you going to tell me what’s up?”

You return to him, slip your arms around him, and inhale his very essence. You fit perfectly in his arms and it’s the closest he’s felt to you all night.

You have only been together for three months; it's safe to say he may not yet know all of your moods. Maybe this is just another piece of you he has to learn.

You rise onto your tiptoes and brush your lips against his, encouraging him to kiss you. He gets caught up in you as quickly and as easily as he always does, his hands slipping into your hair, the pads of his thumbs stroking your face, as your kisses turn from soft to fervent.

Your hands reach for him, and fingers fumble to undo his pants.

You normally get much further than this before he stops you. But you still haven’t told him why you haven’t been yourself tonight and his brain takes over sooner than it usually would.

“Honey?” He pauses your hands and eases away, rezipping and refastening his pants, despite the fact that they’re too tight now and quite uncomfortable.

Your frustration finally boils over, and with an irritated sigh you push him away with hands against his chest. He stumbles one step back.

You immediately, apologetically rub your hands down the front of his shirt and then reach up to cup his face. He covers your hands with his and breathes your name, - an urge to help him understand.

“You tell me I’m beautiful all the time, and we make out until our lips are numb, and we get here, to this point, and so, so close to so much more, and just when I think, finally…”

You take two steps back, quickly wiping a tear from the corner of your eye, asking meekly, “Do you not want to have sex with me?”

“Oh my God,” Shawn gasps. It’s as if the floor opens beneath his feet and swallows him whole. “Sweetheart.” He feels like the biggest son of a bitch for making you cry, for making you doubt your appeal when, to him, you are the most beautiful woman in the world, or feel insecure in any way.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You can't imagine the things I've wanted to do to you since the first moment I laid my eyes on you.”

“I don’t understand,” you whisper.

“Come’ere.” He reaches out to take your hands again in his and draws you close. “I just… I wanted to take it slow.”

“This isn’t three dates or three weeks, Shawn, we’ve been together for three months.”

“Can- can I be honest?” he exhales shakily, cheeks pinking.

“Always. You know that.”

He gently squeezes your hands. “I wanted to take it slow… a- at first because… My God, honey, you’re perfect, and I like you, like, a lot, you know? Hell, I- I more than like you,” he confesses, blushing even darker. “And I didn’t want to fuck anything up before I had the chance to make you mine…

“I was afraid to move too fast, because I usually do, and then it always ends as quickly as it starts. And I want things to work out this time, more than I’ve ever wanted things to work out with anyone else.”

“Shawn,” you wheeze, easing your hands from his to run down his chest. You bite your lip to try to keep yourself from smiling like a fool.

“I know once we…” He rubs the back of his neck. “You know…”

Fuck, was he the most adorable thing ever sometimes. “Have sex?” you smirk.

His eyes meet yours and he licks and bites his lips in that way he does that makes you crazy. “Once I really get between your legs, I know I’ll never be able to get enough of you.”

“’cause you like me, like, a lot?” you grin, even as your face flames. “I like you, like, a lot, too, Shawn… And I don’t know, never leaving bed sounds pretty fucking amazing to me.” You tug on his hand, - a request to follow you to his room.

He stays firmly grounded. “Wait.”

You groan with a flare of new frustration. “You’re really trying my patience, babe.”

He has to close his eyes for his next admission and his face burns hot. “I’m having some… performance anxiety.”

You rise on your tiptoes and murmur against the shell of his ear as your hand brushes across the significant bulge at the front of his pants. “Sure doesn’t feel like it to me.”

“That’s not-” he hums, wetting his lips, “the problem.” He guides your hand back to where it had just been because he really wants it there.

You gently palm him through his pants. “Then what’s the problem, baby?”

“I haven’t had sex with- with anyone for awhile. Just- just my own hand. And when- when I…”

His stuttering is positively endearing.

“When you…?” you encourage, coyly. You know what he’s alluding to, but you want to hear him say it.

“I think about you when my hand is on my cock,” he murmurs, “dreamin’ it’s yours.”

Wetness immediately pools between your thighs thinking about how hot it would be to watch him get himself off.

“And I come embarrassingly fast. Like a damn twelve-year-old boy who just discovered his dick. So… when you try to put your hand in my pants…”

“What? Think I’ll be unimpressed with your size?” you tease. “It’s all about how you use it.”

“You’re impossible,” he laughs, pulling you against him and palming your ass like you had just been palming his crotch.

“I already know that is not going to be an issue,” you murmur, increasing the pressure of your stroke.

It's almost too much. “You gotta stop now, baby,” he groans, easing away from your caress. “I want to last more than seven seconds,” he puffs and nervously runs a hand through his hair. “And that- that’s what I worry about. I don’t want you to be… disappointed. And then I get… stuck in my fucking head.”

“Could never be disappointed, babe.” You cup his face and kiss him tenderly. “I wish you would’ve told me all of this sooner.”

“I'm an idiot,” he states. “I’m so sorry, Sweetheart. I wasn’t thinking about how my anxieties were affecting you, and I should have. I never meant to make you feel undesirable, or that I didn’t want to shove my cock in you every fucking chance I had. Shit, baby.”

“Aw, you say the most romantic things,” you intone amusingly.

He hooks his fingers beneath the straps of your dress, murmuring, “I want to make love with you…” He slides the straps off your shoulders. “…every second of every day. Is that better?” he hums.

“No, no, right now shoving your cock in me, - that works,” you say breathily,  again unbuttoning and unzipping his pants. He doesn’t stop you this time. You grip the open waistband to sharply tug him closer.

He exhales with a suppressed grunt that has you begging. “I’m fucking horny, Shawn. I need it,” you whine. “I need you.”

He has quickly located and unfastened every tie or zipper keeping your dress on your body. “Been dying to get you outta this dress all fucking night,” he groans, as it flutters to the floor.

His eyes caress the swells of your breasts almost spilling out of your strapless bra. Your nipples are visible through the sheer material. He cups your breasts and drags the pads of his thumbs over your taut peaks. “Fucking flawless,” he groans.

You begin to walk both of you towards the sofa while unbuttoning the only three buttons on his shirt and sliding it off his broad shoulders. The backs of his calves find your mark.

Before he can even catch up, you’ve pushed his pants over his hips and have gently shoved him down onto the sofa. You’re in his lap the next moment, straddling him, your lace-covered core pressing against his cotton-encased hardness.

“Shit,” he curses. His hands can’t decide if they want to be on your hips or your ass.

One of your hands curls around the back of his neck, the other tangles in his curls. You trail tiny kisses from his chin up along his jawline.

You start rocking your hips and touch the tip of your tongue to the lobe of his ear. “You feel good, baby,” you purr. 

His grip tightens on your hips and you hear a tiny rumble at the back of his throat. He places open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone and over the swells of your breasts.

Your hips roll and speed up. The friction is divine and you think you might come, just like this, but your own pleasure is second to Shawn’s. You want him to get out of his head; you don’t want him thinking at all, just feeling.

You start to grind your hips against his. “Oh God-” he exhales. You’re soaking the lace of your panties and you can feel how you’re making a mess of his boxer briefs as well, where his cockhead is straining.

It’s not how he wants things to go, but it feels too good. His protestations are weak.

You take his earlobe between your lips and gently suck and lick it. With the tip of your tongue, you trace the contours of his ear.

He grabs your ass and squeezes, trying to still your hips, as your lips return to his earlobe and gently nibble on it. “Baby- baby- stop stop stop-” he gasps, lips against your skin. “You’re gonna make me-”

His orgasm washes over him and he nuts with a shuddering groan as wetness coats the inside of his underwear. Like a twelve-year-old boy.

You release his ear and slow your hips, trying to edge yourself away from your own climax, while his cock continues to throb and jerk.

His hand grips the back of your head, forcing your lips to his. His tongue delves deep into your mouth. He grunts as your lips part. He tries to scowl but he can’t stop from laughing instead. “You did that on purpose.”

“Mhm,” you smirk. “Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, you’ll last longer next time.”

He has you under him on the sofa before you can do anything but squeal and laugh.

“You’re asking for it,” he laughs, deep and throaty, hurriedly, roughly dragging the already saturated lace of your panties over your hips, down, and off. “And for the record,” he smirks, gripping his half hard cock through his boxers. “I’m above average, and I know how to use it.”

You hook your finger in the waistband and start to draw it down. “Prove it.”

Shawn pushes his boxer briefs down, freeing his cock. You lick your lips, thinking just how badly you want to get your mouth on him.

It’s as if he can read your thoughts. “Nuh-uh. My turn.” Hovering over you, he brings his lips to your ear and growls, purrs, “I know how to use my tongue, too.”

The way he kisses is enough to confirm that, but knowing he is about to bury his face between your thighs sends a fresh wave of desire throughout your body, and makes your pussy throb.

Thank fuck for the size of his sofa, as he pushes your legs open.

You gasp and groan, your back arching, when he lowers and closes his mouth around your center.

You bite on your lower lip, hand immediately tangling in his hair, as you rock against his face. You moan, hips moving instinctively against him, “Shawn… hmm… yes, baby, yes...”

His tongue is on your clit, first and middle fingers dipping inside you. He quickly finds that magic sweet spot, crooks his fingers, and laves and flicks and sucks your button, and you’re levitating off the sofa.

It’s too much and also not enough. One hand is in his hair, tugging, the other is twisted in the sofa’s slipcover beside you. You try to close your legs, but can’t with his broadness in the way. “Shawnshawnshawn,” you wheeze. “OhGod-”

His fingers are soaked with your juices. He’s fully hard again from the scent of your arousal, the moans and groans he’s drawing from you, how you’re rippling against him, and the friction of his cock rubbing against the sofa.

He knows you’re close; his fingers slip from you and you whine, tightening your grip in his curls, but he wants to prolong your ascension and he needs to taste you again.

“Please,” you beg, breathlessly.

He licks away the wetness you’ve already released and then his tongue is where his fingers just were.

Everything about him is long; his limbs, his fingers, his cock, his tongue. Your taste is addictive, and he feasts, humming and rumbling, urging you to take your pleasure by pushing against his mouth.

You’re near your zenith; he can tell by the way your hand in his hair tugs and how your moan changes. Your body begins to quiver and again he withdraws.

“Nonono,” you gasp, whimper, “pleasepleaseplease.”

But he’s only removed his mouth to sink two fingers back into you.

“That’s it. Come for me, Sweetheart,” he murmurs, watching his fingers pump in and out of you, each time brushing against that tight bundle of nerves. You clench around him, moaning, chasing the release you might die if you don’t get rightthefucknow.

With one more firm crook of his fingers, and just the right amount of pressure from his thumb on your clit, you climax, shatter, and cry out as your orgasm fully claims you.

“Gorgeous,” Shawn purrs as he softly kisses and caresses you through every twitch and tremble and wave, until you’re blissed out and hypersensitive to his touch.

You are loose and pliant and flush and utterly exquisite beneath him. Shawn has never been more tempted to slide into a pussy unprotected, but it’s too big of a risk that he’d find himself wanting to stay buried within you when he came. He wouldn’t dare ask you to compromise yourself that way. 

He is swiftly on his feet, practically dashing for his bedroom, calling out, “Condom!”

You watch his bare ass, that you will absolutely sink your teeth in at some point, disappear from the living room. You yell after him, giggling, still in that post-orgasm haze and giddy, “After tonight you’re stashing condoms within easy reach of every room of this condo!”

He’s back and on his knees between your legs moments later, with the small foil in his hand.

You rise, and reach for it, asking softly, “Can I?”

His breath hitches. “Y- yeah.”

“Will you show me how?”

“Fuck.” He grips the base of his shaft and squeezes gently, just enough to take the edge off.

He guides your hands with the exact sensation and pressure he likes as he helps you slide it down his length.

You wrap your hand around his girth, and give his cock a gentle tug. He grunts and pushes into your palm. You relax again against the sofa cushions, taking him with you, and line him up with your opening.

“Shit,” he curses in anticipation. As desperate as he is to bury himself balls deep within you, he stills you with a gentle, “Y- you’re ready?”

He’s a big boy, but he prepped you quite well with those long and marvelous fingers while eating you out, and you are still wet from your climax. You kiss him in response.

Temples pressed together, eyes down, you both watch as he slowly, gently begins to push into you.

The burn and stretch is intense in a way that makes you lightheaded with pleasure and you moan softly while you adjust to the way he fills you.

“OhmyGod,” he gasps. You feel like heaven around him.

You gently trail your fingertips from where you’re intimately connected, up, along the lines of his abdomen and chest. You place your hands around his face. Your eyes stay locked with his until he bottoms out.

You slide your arms around his neck. You gasp when the pebbled nubs of your breasts brush against his chest. 

He licks into your mouth, curls his tongue around yours. You gently bite and tug at his lower lip. You wrap one of your legs around his hip and roll your pelvis, urging him to start moving.

He needs no further encouragement, easing back, pushing in. You whimper as you find your rhythm together, fingernails denting crescent marks in the tight, broad muscles of his upper back.

He latches onto your shoulder with his teeth and moans deep in his throat. He withdraws, slides in, brings his mouth to suck bruises in the crook of your neck before soothing them with his tongue.

You murmur his name. He hums yours with every withdrawal and thrust.

Your back arches and you moan again when he lowers his mouth to your breasts. He licks and tugs and sucks each taut, dusky pink nipple until they’re too sensitive and you draw his lips to yours.

“Fuck,” he grunts into your mouth. “You feel so good.” His pupils are blown wide. “Baby,” he groans. He needs to be deeper.

He swiftly shifts onto his knees and you both cry out at the new angle. He grips the outsides of your thighs, pushes up, driving his cock deep, hitting your g-spot. Your little gasps and whimpers are the music that drives him. He moans with every rock into you.

The position you’re in allows easy access to your clit and your hand falls between you.

“That’s it, baby,” he hums, grins, rumbles, “Look at you…”

You start to tremble. Needy sounds and words without meaning tumble from your lips, and you tip your head up.

His teeth nip against the length of your neck. “Wanna see you fall apart again,” he whispers against your pulse.

You cry out his name as his cocktip finds your sweet spot again, and again. “That’s it, Sweetheart.”

Your fingers over your clit begin to move faster. Your hips rise, your back bends, and your breath catches. Your orgasm sweeps over you swiftly, unexpectedly, sharply. You don’t even have the chance to find your voice as your other hand screws tight and stars explode behind your eyes.

Your chest lifts and falls rapidly. Your hands grip his ass and you pull him against you.

He grunts. His eyes close and his mouth slackens as he chases his own pleasure. His pace begins to speed up, and then falter. The sounds dripping from his lips are sinful.

He pulls back, almost slipping out of you. He’s on the edge. His balls are heavy and tight and already drawing up close to the base of his dick. He moans as he slides back in.

You swivel your hips just right and rock down as he rocks up, meeting his thrust. He snaps his hips once, twice. “yesyesbabyyes-” You clench around him, again, and his orgasm creeps up from every part of his body until he’s both desperate for it to stop and to continue forever.

“holyfuck,” he wheezes, gasps. He stutters, stills, and unravels buried deep within you with a satisfying groan of your name.

You tighten your legs around his waist and rock your hips, again clenching your inner walls around him while you coast the aftershocks. You both finally still, breath heaving, giggling softly. His hands slide along the length of your arms and he trails little nips up along your jawline.

You melt into the sofa. “Mm… you were worried for nothing,” you purr, a small smile on your lips.

Once he was out of his head and in the moment, it had been a non-issue. All he had been fixated on was how to make you cry his name. His grin is smug upon hearing the absolute satisfaction in your voice, knowing he is responsible for making you feel so good.

You kiss him, you don't want to stop kissing him, but he detaches his lips from yours with a chuckle.

His hand moves between your bodies to hold onto the condom, and he carefully pulls out. You whimper with the loss

He reaches for a few tissues from the box on the coffee table and wraps the condom within them, placing the mess in the nearby decorative bowl. That'd do for now; he'd dispose of it properly later.

He moves back into your embrace and hovers above you for a few moments longer, returning his lips to yours.

“We might want to move this to the bedroom,” he smirks, mischief dancing in his eyes, guiding your hand to his cock, already hardening again.

“You’re insatiable,” you giggle, tightening your leg around his waist and your hand around his dick.

He hums and rocks his hips just a little. “Warned you,” he smirks.

“Just wanna stay right here,” you murmur, pulling him down atop you. “Just for a minute.”

“Imma crush you.”

“Won’t let you.” You can still breathe, and his weight on top of you is intimate and comforting. He relaxes, sinking into you, resting his head on your chest.

You run your fingers soothingly through his curls. “Shawn?” you whisper.

“Yeah baby?” he breathes, just as softly.

“I ‘more than like you’, too.”

~ * ~

@mendesblurb @benito-mi-vida @monikamendes @mendesficsxbombay @pamelagramm @chocochipcookie305 @misti-ka @fallinallinshawn

[prisonhannibal]

Why don't you like true crime vids? Completely agree but im just curious what does it for you!

I don’t really want to do like a well written in depth post rn but most of it is exploitative, insensitive, sensationalized and misinformed. they spread a lot of misinformation about mental health, your legal rights and the justice system, and a lot of them basically encourage speculation about peoples personal life who have never been charged with a crime or done anything except lose a loved one. People treat other peoples personal tragedies as a puzzle solving game or something. lots of police propaganda, lots of “they asked for a lawyer isn’t that suspicious???” and “they weren’t cooperative with law enforcement” and “if you have nothing to hide….” and “he refused a polygraph test” etc. Some crimes literally will be turned into entertainment or twisted into their future entertainment value before they’re even resolved, like when a woman went missing last year I saw people talk about how they were waiting for a netflix documentary. that’s horrifying.

i’ve also seen a lot of survivors or relatives of victims say that they don’t like their cases being covered because people usually don’t reach out to them before, and the stories often get twisted and the youtuber will be like “what do you guys think? id love to know your theories in the comments” encouraging wild speculation about peoples personal life who, again, haven’t been convicted of any crime. i’ve had a couple posts criticizing true crime blow up, and i’ve personally had family members of victims contact me and share their feelings about it, and if I hadn’t already stopped watching true crime youtube, that would’ve been enough to turn me off it for good.

I don’t think true crime books or documentaries are inherently bad, but I think the popularity of it as a genre becoming super mainstream has made it more into sensationalized entertainment than actual information or awareness. some podcasts and youtubers do good work spreading awareness and working with victims families and organizations, but I’m talking about the overall trends I’m seeing, not specific people right now. I think it does more harm than good

[lorei-writes]

Basic Guide on How Not To: Slavic Characters

Well, as most of you have probably realised by now, I’m Polish. Truthfully, I am quite upset now. I generally tend to avoid most content involving Slavic people, because well, stereotypes are plentiful and I have only one stomach - there is only so much anger I can fit inside of it. However, this time I was merrily watching an episode of a series, for goodnight sleep, and got smacked in the face with just that... So, I suppose, let’s use my anger towards something - hopefully - productive. This is a very hard post for me to write. It may be closer to my personal experience, although I did try to be more general.

Contents:

Where Do I Even Begin or Sad Slav Filter

Common Stereotypes - Professions & Jobs

Common Stereotypes - Characteristics

Few basic issues with languages & names

Where Do I Even Begin or Sad Slav Filter

Grey buildings, empty plazas, ominous blocks of flats with walls up to the very sky. Snow. Gloom faces. Dark nights. Red. Gold.

To start with, be aware that this sort of image is oftentimes not only written into stories or presented in picture-based media, but that I had the displeasure of seeing it being used for cover art for several books.

What I jokingly call sad Slav filter is presenting the reality of Eastern Europe* through, well, pessimistic glasses. The architecture speaks of terror, of being post-communist state, of never having recovered. The streets portrayed in such fashion are gloom, unwelcoming, threatening in a way. Winter is oftentimes the season of choice, to add an extra layer of depressive atmosphere and cold. Nobody smiles. One may say that usage of gold and red brightens the image - however, those connect directly to the communist flag, thus locking the entire space in a rather obvious context.

The reality?

Yes, old blocks of flats built in 60s or so still exist. Some are even grey and in dire need of being re-painted! However... Many are not in such a state. In Poland, the common colours for elevation of such buildings are white, pastel orange, pastel yellow and pastel green, oftentimes put together in combination of stripes or other geometric shapes. What also should be noted is that such estates were designed with plenty trees and other plants around them in mind, as to accommodate for a development of a community - especially for older blocks of flats, those are most likely situated nearby a primary school and a kindergarten, not to mention stores and other services. It is not uncommon for playgrounds to be present as well. You could also expect small flower gardens.

Parks exist here. Architecture does not begin and end at the blocks of flats, especially not in the major cities - most, if not all, have old towns or historical representative streets. Buildings dating back to medieval still do exist in plenty of places. Churches & Tserkovs - those are oftentimes tourists sites for a reason! 

It may happen that the side of a building will be decorated with a mural. It is not very common, but does happen. Here are some examples (from Poland). The designs sometimes relate to other works of art, or to some forms of traditional art.

mural by NeSpoon, a street artist who incorporates motives of koronka ludowa [a type of lace] into her artwork

Overall, I come from a poorer region of Poland, from a small town to add to that. The one thing I would list about it? Flower gardens. All of my neighbours had flower gardens in front of their houses. In the recent years, I’ve seen plenty of new houses being built, plenty of renovations being made. Especially in spring and summer, it is all far from grey. Some major cities started investing in fields of wild flowers, as to aid pollinators. And winters? Well, the way it should be (as climate change shows and I have not seen a proper winter in a while), they should be snowy. Yes, it may involve a rather depressing image, at least in places where snow cannot just rest over the ground and glitter... But I do think it may be the case in plenty parts of Europe, as winter days are overall shorter as well, which hardly helps :”) Eastern Europe as a region is not locked in an eternal winter.

People may not be smiling, but they are not frowning either - it is the... Neutral resting face.

*- that being said, Eastern Europe is not inhabited only by Slavic people, even if it is often presented like so

Common Stereotypes - Professions & Jobs

List of common stereotypical jobs/professions usually performed by characters of Slavic descent:

a member of a mafia (Russian mafia)

a drug dealer

a spy

a prostitute

a maid / a cleaner

As you can see, nearly all of those involve crime, the only exception being a maid / a cleaner (which, I’d argue, speaks of a lower socio-economic status). If you do not plan to have more than one Slavic character in your work, I advise you to avoid those - especially if you wanted to make your character Russian. I do not think I have to explain why representing a group of people nearly exclusively as criminals is hurtful. 

Certain stereotypes exist in media. They do influence the reality. I have seen covers of books about spy programs (non-fiction, referencing an issue from 2000s) which involved clear references to communism (+ used the most hideous Sad Slav Filter I have ever seen). The title suggested all Russians are spies. This is not okay.

If you want to have a character who is performing any of the above, and want to make them Slavic, but then never have their heritage influence anything about them - ask yourself why.

EDIT: Do allow me to also add that being a sex-worker may not be a choice for all Slavic women. Sex-trafficking of Eastern Europeans is a real issue. You should be mindful of that when writing a story - even more so as it affects some countries more than others. Research is due.

Common Stereotypes - Characteristics

Common hurtful characteristics in depicting slavic characters:

uneducated or otherwise stupid

rude, loud, uncultured, violent

an alcoholic / addicted to drugs

extremely conservative / religious

Do I have to explain it? Yes, alcoholism is a social issue, same as addiction to drugs. Yes, some people are conservative and / or religious. However! We are not a monolith! Social issues are not the general rule! 

Scale of conservativeness and religiousness also differs greatly by age group and region. In Poland we have an entire category of practising atheists - non-believers, usually from smaller communities, who appear in church once or twice a year, despite not believing. Due to social pressure. What religion? This differs greatly too! Roman catholic, Greek orthodox, Muslim? Slavic people are not a monolith.

(about women specifically):

beautiful (must put plenty effort in her physical appearance)

looks for a rich (western) husband

submissive

obedient 

Well. This ties into the greater issue of objectification and sexualisation of Slavic and Eastern European women. Admittedly, such portrayal [including all of those] is more so present in online spaces, if you turn a few wrong corners down the roads of the internet :) It is dehumanising.

If your Slavic character happens to be a woman and must be extremely sexy femme fatal spy - this reeks of stereotypes.

Few basic issues with languages & names

As I’ve hinted already, it appears that oftentimes Slavic = Russian. This, however, is not true, both language-wise and culture-wise. Despite sharing some common elements, Slavic cultures do differ. Polish characters, unless they are 50+ years old, won’t generally speak Russian. Czech and Ukrainian are different. Ukrainian is not just another version of Russian.

I decided to single out this paragraph for one reason: authors oftentimes do not bother to check for appropriate names and just use whatever seems right. If you want to write a Slavic character, do make some research. 

The common mess-ups I’ve seen:

inappropriate form of the surname (about Russian surnames in particular; giving a woman a male version of the surname, giving a man the female version of the surname - Slavic languages are heavily gendered!)

claiming a character is of nationality B, while giving them a surname which is most definitely speaking of nationality A (e.g: Polish character with a clearly Hungarian name & surname)

wrong spelling

using very rare forms of names for all the characters written into the story (it sounds very unnatural - in one particular case it seemed to have been done on purpose, as I’ve had to google whether some names were even names. They were used as code names for few organisations during WWII. That sort of uncommon).

nicknames derived from the actual names that would not work at all (Żegota -> Zeg; It just would not work like this. It would be literally more likely for a character named Żegota to be nicknamed/renamed Staszek than for somebody to call him Zeg. It does not only not include the ż sound, but it also ends with g - which a Polish person would simplify to k when speaking. In other words Zeg -> zek. This, meanwhile, is not only not exactly pleasant to say, but it also sounds like a grammatical form of another word, albeit pronounced with a heavy lisp - “river”; It is possible to find appropriate nicknames online).

Also, unless you want for some character to be a dick, do not make them purposefully mispronounce the name of a Slavic character or have them name them after an object/thing. (Calling “Maciej” by “Magic” because they can’t be bothered to learn to pronounce the name or at least try to get it close is not nice).

[where-theres-smoak-2]

Why Aleks Took Alina’s Letters To M*l

I’ve ben thinking alot about this recently, it was brought on by a couple of things the main one being I just read ‘The Tailor’ which is another short book that LB wrote similar to Demon in the Woods, this one is deleted scenes from shadow and bone told from Genya's point of view but it does give us more information on what went on with the letters Alina had written to M*l. So disclaimer obviously there are spoilers for the tailor so if you haven’t read that book and don’t want to be spoilt stop reading now. I also want to put a trigger warning in here as I do discuss the topic of grooming. 

I’ve talked a little before about why I think Aleks took the letters but as I’ve said I’ve just read the short story and its given me some more information on it. Before reading the short story I kept seeing various theories and interpretations on why Aleks might have stopped the letters, one of my own was that he was using them to gain information on Alina and because after her comments about not wanting to be grisha and whether anyone had ever escaped the LP he considered her a security risk and so was taking the letters to make sure she wasn’t planning a break out with M*l. But one theory that I’ve seen alot of antis using is that Aleks wanted to isolate Alina because he is a groomer and he was hoping that if he isolated her then he could become her new singular confidant and have an easier time manipulating her. Literally though the amount of times I’ve seen antis use Aleks taking Alina’s letters to M*l as ‘evidence’ that he was grooming Alina. But I’m here to blow some holes in this theory because he never actually isolates her and he never becomes her sole confidant. Again something I’ve spoken about before but Alina has friends at the LP (even more so in the show) she has genya, marie, nadia, in the show you can probably add fedyor to that list too and of course Aleks himself. It always kind of amuses me when I see the claims that Aleks isolated Alina because she actually had more friends and a more well developed social support system at the LP than she ever did at Keramzin or in the First Army with M*l. And while she does confide in Aleks alot he by no means becomes her sole confidant. She also confides in Genya, Marie, Nadia and even to some extent Baghra. Again this shows that she has that better support system because she does have many people she can go to for emotional support and advice whereas before arriving at the LP the only person who provided this role for her was M*l. If Aleks took the letters because he wanted to isolate Alina so that he would become the only support she could turn to then he wouldn’t have stopped there. He would have isolated her completely made her feel completely alone, he would have isolated her from the other grisha too. There are so many ways he could have done this, he could have told the other grisha and Alina that she was too far above their station for them to be allowed to socialise, he could have insisted that she eat her meals with him privately instead of in the hall with the other grisha, he could have trained her separately with private lessons only, he could have confined her to her rooms for her ‘safety’ and only let her leave for lessons and meals. This would have limited the amount of socialisation she’d have with others and ensure that she only relied on him and that she really did feel completely isolated from everyone else. But he doesn’t do that he leaves her be to form friends and socialise as she wishes. The only way in which he interferes in her social circle (other than taking the letters) is by sending Genya to her and asking her to spy for him. To be honest though I don’t necessarily think this was a manipulative or malicious move, Aleks was aware that Alina’s life had just been uprooted and that she was likely going to struggle to adjust not to mention Alina was a bit of a wild card, so asking Genya to keep an eye on Alina was probably a smart general like thing to do. 

Going back to ‘The Tailor’ in this short story we learn some interesting things but one thing we learn is Aleks’ actual motivation for taking the letters. The letters were given to the servants and then the servants gave them to Genya who was passing them on to Aleks. Genya is clearly feeling guilty and unsure about taking the letters and there is a really interesting scene where she is talking to Aleks about this and it is here that Aleks says this:  “Old bonds,” he says as he gives the horse a final pat and pushes off from the fence. “They can do nothing for Alina but tie her to a life long gone.” 

This is something that has been spoken about before in the fandom, Aleks stopped the letters because he knew that Alina would not be able to access her grisha power and flourish at the LP whilst she was still holding on to her old life and her bond with m*l. He’s realised something that I feel like m*l and Alina never really do, which is Alina will never again be that same girl that grew up at Keramzin. She can’t go back to that life and so the only way she can really reach her potential is by letting it go. Now here’s the thing, is it morally grey of Aleks to take the letters? Yes of course it is. Being separated from M*l causes Alina great pain and distress and thinking M*l has abandoned her really hurts her. But I also can’t say that Aleks was wrong. I mean it is canon that Alina didn’t harness her powers until she let go of M*l and embraced her identity as a grisha and as the sun summoner. So while yes it was very upsetting for Alina to think that M*l had abandoned her and this is where alot of Genya’s guilt comes from, I don’t know what other way there was to get Alina to move past that block and reach her powers. Her co-dependency on M*l was damaging to Alina so it’s difficult for me personally to see this as some villain move when in the end it ultimately benefitted Alina. 

Something else that I found really interesting in this short story is that when Genya expresses guilt for taking the letters and worries that Alina won’t ever forgive her, Aleks says he will give Genya the letters, he then says the above quote explaining his reasons for keeping the letters from Alina and then tells Genya that she can do whatever she likes with the letters. She can give them back to Alina, send them to m*l or destroy them, but it is left entirely up to Genya on what she wants to do and ultimately Genya decides to burn them. What’s interesting about this to me is even though Aleks clearly thinks stopping the letters is the best thing for Alina, if Genya feels like its going to destroy their friendship and isn’t ok with taking the letters then Aleks isn’t going to force her to. I mean he could’ve pulled rank and said you’re my soldier you’ll follow orders or he could have asked someone else to take the letters instead, but he instead leaves it up to Genya. 

Anyway that’s enough babbling for today. If you do get the chance and haven’t read it already I would recommend The Tailor its a very interesting read and gives alot of backstory on Genya and some insight into her relationship with Aleks.  

[spxllcxstxr]

Teaching a Moderately Old Dog New Tricks • S.B

(Gif not mine)

Request: could you do a older sirius x younger (tonks' age) reader, maybe he's in denial about liking her because he thinks he's too old but she doesn't think that way. — @msmb

Summary: The man you fancy has been avoiding you. Tonks gives you an idea.

Warnings: alcohol consumption, mention of cigarettes, kissing, older man/younger woman (but reader is Tonks’ age), light mention of remadora (does that need a warning?), Sirius is a bit self deprecating, heated make out, Moody’s all seeing eye

Word Count: 1.6k

A.N: Inspiration hit at 1am. Uhhh Kissing can either be well written or extremely cringe. I can’t tell what category my kissing is in, so possibly sorry in advance? OotP Sirius is so hot and I will love him forever. Hope you guys enjoy. Love you all❤️

****

“So how’re you and Sirius?” Tonks asks, her hair a violent shade of violet as she swings her legs over the arm of the couch at Grimmauld Place. She takes a sip of her daisyroot draught, excited for any news.

“I don’t know.” You respond, swirling your own goblet in your hand. “How’re you and Remus?”

You smirk as she almost chokes at the mention of the man of her dreams.

“I asked you first.” She shoots back after her coughing fit goes away.

“You’re annoying.” You take another sip.

“Cry about it.” Tonks huffs. “But don’t change the subject.”

“Merlin, I wish I had an answer for you.” Groaning, you run a hand through your hair. “He seems to be pulling away from me, yet again.”

“Ugh, men.” Tonks mimes a fake gag.

“I mean, he pulls me into a broom closet for a quick snog and now he won’t even stay in the same room as me!” You cry out.

The draught is sweet in your mouth as you down the rest of your goblet. “‘Ugh, men’ is right. I will never understand them.”

“At least you get a snog.” Tonks retorts. “Remus barely grazes my fingertips passing me a piece of parchment and suddenly he’s all pink and avoiding me for weeks.”

“Are they that daft, or are we just shit at flirting?” You pour yourself some more daisyroot draught.

The murky pink of the draught bubbles and sizzles near the top of the cup.

Grimmauld Place is mostly quiet, the kids were all asleep and someone paces in the room above. There’s faint laughing coming from the kitchen, but that could be one of the Black family portraits, so it’s no concern of yours.

“It can’t possibly be the latter because if I remember correctly, flirting was our specialty back in school.” Tonks winks from her stretched out position.

“Oh yeah.” You muse sarcastically. “All those people we managed to seduce at Hogwarts...”

“Hey! I snogged Penny Haywood seventh year!” She declares.

“It was a game of truth or dare! We all snogged Penny Haywood!” You exclaim, almost spilling your drink all over your robes.

“My point still stands.”

The house groans and creaks in your comfortable silence, Kreature’s dragging gait echoes through the corridor.

“Sirius has nice lips.” You sigh dreamily, your thoughts once again preoccupied by him. “Would love to snog him again.”

“You should.” Your friend replies. “At least one of us needs a proper love life.”

“But he won’t talk to me...” You childishly whine. Pouting, you drink from your goblet.

“Well maybe you should be the one that pulls him into the cupboard next time.” Tonks shrugs, waving her wand to fill her goblet once more.

“You’re brilliant, y’know that?” You perk up at her idea.

“I’ve been trying to tell you that since we were eleven, (Y/n). Can’t believe you’re just now admitting it.”

The night gets cut short after that, mostly because the two of you have work in the morning and the Ministry of Magic was already unbearable sober. Hungover at the office meant a lot more suffering than usual.

You’ve never been more thankful for Molly’s desire to put the gaggle of kids to work around the house.

Even when you get back from the Ministry the the next night, they’re all still galavanting with doxycide upstairs, letting the exhausted adults have a moment to relax.

That’s when you decide to strike.

There’s an extremely convenient and mostly empty broom closet on the ground floor close to the kitchen that is just ripe with opportunity.

Tonks gives you a thumbs up and shoots you a wink as she passes you and strides into the kitchen. You’re leaning against the doorframe, pretending to be preoccupied with checking your nails, but in reality, you’re watching and waiting for Sirius to come a little closer.

His black curls with the occasional strand of grey rest on his shoulders. His velvet burgundy blazer stands out against the dark wood and blue theme Grimmauld Place seems to really enjoy and embrace. You watch his gold pocket watch glimmer in the flickering orange candlelight and how he twists the rings on his fingers.

Your heart flutters at the mere sight of him.

He finally breaks away from his conversation with Remus before turning around and making his way towards you.

He struts closer, heels clicking against the floorboards and your hands jitter in excitement. You’ve never been one to initiate these types of things before.

“Alright, (Y/n)—“ Sirius starts, reluctantly nodding his head in greeting.

But since he’s within arm’s reach, you grab his soft lapels and pull him into the broom closet.

With a flick of your wand the door shuts and you’re plunged into even dimmer lighting.

Your hands are still tightly grasping at his lapels and you have to admit, you’re a little breathless as you fervently press your lips to his.

Your eyes flutter shut and you press your chest to his own, effectively pushing him harder against the wall. You moan, feeling him kiss back. He tastes distinctly of firewhiskey and cigarettes and you’re loving every second of it. His lips are addicting as they move in tandem to yours. Sirius’ hands trail up to the back of your skull, pulling you closer to him, something you enjoy and gleefully let happen. The closer to him you are, the better.

The heatedly deep kiss sends a thrill throughout your body. Here you are, snogging the man you’ve fancied since the day you met him, in a broom closet of headquarters. Instinctively, your heart skips a beat.

One of Sirius’ hands detaches itself from your hair and instead, trails its way down your body to rest on your lower back. A jolt of excitement sparks and flares up inside. Goosebumps erupt underneath his warm hand. He squeezes your body tighter, quickly taking control of the situation.

Unfortunately, air becomes something that you’re losing fairly quickly and when you reluctantly spilt apart, you’re extremely aware of his swollen red lips. They stand out between the dark hair of his beard.

You’re panting as you cling on to his blazer for stability. The moment your lips touched, your knees practically gave out.

“What was that for, poppet?” Sirius pants as well, grey eyes looking into yours.

“Merlin, Sirius, do I really have to spell it out for you?” You smirk, still breathless. “I fancy you.”

“You what?” His eyebrows dart up in surprise.

“I fancy you? Like I want to go out for a drink sometime. Or I guess, stay in for a drink since—“ You ramble.

“You can’t fancy me, (Y/n).” He interjects, hands slipping away from you.

You carefully remove your hands from his figure in return. “Oh.” Awkwardly, you stuff your hands into your pockets. “And why’s that, then?”

Anxiously, he begins to twist the ruby ring around his thumb. The broom closet feels a lot smaller than before and the burn of embarrassment feels even harsher.

“I think you know why.” Sirius evades the question.

Your brows knit together in both confusion and annoyance. “No, I really don’t know why, Sirius, so please enlighten me.”

“Godric, (Y/n)!” He cries out. “I’m an old ex-convict with a fuck ton of issues! You don’t want that kind of baggage!”

Sirius scowls, not at you, but at himself.

“You’re in your thirties, Sirius. If that’s old than Mad-Eye’s ancient.” You try your best to joke and make light of the situation.

However, you see that your attempt doesn’t work.

“Hey, I don’t care that you’re older than me. I like you because you’re this handsomely charming and charismatic guy that shares my issues with authority.” Hesitantly, you bring your hand up to his neck. He leans into your warm touch. “And I really like you.”

“I’d be more of a burden than a boyfriend.” He mutters.

“You’re no burden. Not to me.” You reply, stroking his beard. “Never to me.”

“I’m a bit rusty.” Sirius confides. “Haven’t had a partner since the seventies. And I’m not the same person I used to be.”

“Neither am I.” You shrug. “Mostly because back then I was a wriggling little lump.”

Sirius snorts.

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?” You question, tucking a few strands of stray hair behind your ear.

“I felt bad.” Sirius confesses, straightening out his blazer. “Felt like I was manipulating you by leading you on so I was trying to get you to hate me. Trying to convince myself to get over you.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t succeed in that endeavor?” You tease your bottom lip with your teeth, innocently looking at the man in front of you.

His grey eyes are kind and soft gazing into yours even after years and years of torture and misery.

He’s someone to admire.

“Getting over you is probably the hardest thing I’ve attempted.” Sirius laughs. “And I escaped Azkaban.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Sirius.” You muse, rubbing the back on your neck in embarrassment.

“Flattery will get me everywhere, poppet.” He winks in return, amused by your gesture.

“So can we give it a shot?” You ask, praying to Merlin he agrees.

“Sure poppet, why not?” He grins, his white teeth poking out from the intense red.

In a swift movement he has you flipped, your back now pressed to the wall as he passionately places his lips back on yours.

You hands tangle themselves in his wild hair, his sneaking around your waist. You tug at the locks and he hums in approval.

Suddenly there’s a large bang against the door causing it to shake on its hinges.

“Oi!” Tonks’ voice rings out.

Sadly, Sirius pulls away just enough to rest his forehead on your own. His breath hot on your face.

“Mad-Eye says that if any clothes come off he’s barging in there, so wrap it up!”

Your mutter out a curse as you attempt to untangle yourself from Sirius.

“Also (Y/n),” Tonks yells again. “knew you had it in ya.”

•

Sirius Black Taglist: @fific7 @quindolyn @msmb @lunalovecroft

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco

[sumerianlanguage]

I love this blog! Thank you so much for sharing all your knowledge with us, I’m passionate about languages and I’ve been studying some of them since I am 10 years old, now I am 21 and I’ve learned 5 already, most of them romantic languages. I see cuneiform as the mother of many languages and I’d like to make some kind of wall chart in my room with some of the words (in cuneiform) that I consider that represent my journey thru this point of my life, how would you write and say: Audacity (like Brave and Boldness) and Astuteness (like Clever and Shrewd) ? Thank you very much!!

Wow, thank you for the kind words! One quick note first: Cuneiform writing is one ultimate ancestor of a number of writing systems (the Latin alphabet we use today can, in part, be traced all the way back to elements of cuneiform writing), but Sumerian is not the ancestor of any modern spoken languages. It’s still an influential and important language, though, and I’m glad you’re using it in artwork!

The word for “courage, bravery” in Sumerian is lipish, written 𒀚 in cuneiform. It’s not an exact match, so another option is igikal 𒅆𒆗, which means “brazen” as well as “scowling, wild-eyed” - but it has a more negative and combative connotation, so lipish is probably the best choice.

For “astuteness”, there again isn’t an exact match - I might suggest bui 𒁍𒄿 “knowledge, awareness”. But “cleverness” is namkuzu 𒉆𒆬𒍪, from kuzu “expert, clever, wise”, which I think is the closest match for what you’re going for.

So, to say the phrase “courage and cleverness”, it’d be lipish u namkuzu, written 𒀚 𒅇 𒉆𒆬𒍪 in cuneiform; you can also drop the u “and” to just use lipish namkuzu 𒀚 𒉆𒆬𒍪.

And feel free to send me a photo of the wall chart you make! ^_^

[crimsonrae]

Drowned Desires

Summary: Pirates plunder wasn’t always jewels and gold. Sometimes their bounty was flesh. Captain Cavill had found his treasure in the shape of a feral woman.

Pirate!HenryxOFC

Warning: Kidnapping, coercion, trapped, spanking, ultimatums, dry humping, masturbation. Dark Themes below. read at your own risk.

A/N: I have written and rewritten sections of this several times, but it took nearly deleting it all by accident to get me to post. I hope you all enjoyed. 

Drowned Desires

Wooden planks whined and groaned as waves licked and lapped at the ship's underbelly. It was a familiar tune, as much as the heavy thumps of feet upon the deck, the clash of swords, and the cries of men – so familiar that the Captain heard none of it as he perused the papers and trinkets hidden away in the desk of his now fallen counterpart.  

His men never understood his predilection for ship diaries and official correspondence, not when there were shinier prizes at hand. Yet, he understood what they did not...information would always fetch a far higher price than any piece of jewelry – not that he didn’t take his share of that too.    

A faint smirk spread lazily across his lips as he drew his finger across beautifully inked letters that denoted the mark of nobility. His mind already hungered for the letter's contents – for what could nobility want in the Caribbean wild?  

“Captain!” Sapphire-iced eyes flicked to the cabin door with disinterest before returning to his venture, “Captain!”  

With a roaring slam, the door flew open to reveal his first mate, but he was not alone. A wild maelstrom of silk impressively blocked the large man from view as guttural grunts and screams filled the cabin.  

Henry raised an innocuous brow as he watched the virulent struggle, silently amused by the brief glimpses of frustration on Brooks’s face as he maintained his hold on what Henry could only assume was a feral girl.  

“Be quiet!” Brooks barked, finally having enough as he shoved the girl to the ground. His bulky frame took up the entirety of the cabin’s exit as he glared almost mutinously at his captain.  

Henry licked his lip and smirked before peering curiously over the edge of the wide desk to the sprawled form below. A mass of hair flipped back to reveal a startlingly beautiful and mature face. Unbidden, lust stirred within his veins.  

Not a girl, then. A woman.  

A very angry woman, Henry mused as he sat back and stared at his first mate, “Is there a reason why she’s not locked in the stores with the others?”  

“She ripped Thatcher’s ear clear off, Captain. He’s demanding recompense.” Brooks intoned wearily as he kept a watchful eye on the now oddly quiet woman.

Henry’s brow arched higher, if possible, as again he leaned over the desk to take in the fallen woman. She was paying him no mind, having come to her knees. Her eyes shifted about the room as if looking for an exit or a weapon. It was then that Henry was able to note the faint glimpse of red staining her skin – not on her hands, but her neck and mouth. It wasn’t hard to deduce what Thatcher had attempted that had cost him his ear.  

“I take it young Mr. Thatcher, is currently being attended to which is why he’s not here to plead his case.” Henry murmured, as he took in the long line of her throat and the gentle swells that teased the hem of her bodice. Blood had stained her flesh here too, but he found his cock twitching despite her dishevelment. He could see why Thatcher had chosen her.  

“Aye, Captain.”  

“And what say you, woman?” Henry queried lightly, smirking as her gaze finally alighted on him. Wariness, fury, and a touch of fear – but not as much as he expected, “Should I let Thatcher have his pound of flesh?”  

She said nothing, her fine eyes narrowing into a fierce glare. It made him want to grin. How had Thatcher missed the fire she emanated? But then, the deckhand was not the brightest of his crew.  

Henry tilted his head, “Oh, don’t play mute now. Not after the ruckus of your entry.”  

He barely had the words out when something wet hit his cheek. If it were possible the entire cabin stilled, even the creaking of the ship had quieted. The captain’s amusement with the situation had disappeared as he stoically wiped the spittle from his person.  

“I suppose I should be grateful to still have my ear.” He muttered with deceptive gentleness as he leveled a cold stare onto the woman. She stiffened in preparation of an attack, but none came as his attention turned back to his first mate, “Leave us.”  

There was a moment of hesitation before the cabin door swung shut with as decorous a roar as it had been opened. To the woman still kneeled on the floor, it was almost like hearing a nail pounded into her coffin. There was little point in trying to leave. She would merely end up on the deck with the savage crew that had taken the ship hostage. If she were lucky then she might make it to the water, but that was only a slower death.  

“What’s your name?” His words were measured and deliberate, “And do not spit at me again lest you wish to feel the back of my hand.”  

“...Mary.” She muttered after a moment.  

Henry snorted, her pause had given her away, “Too pious a name for you. Try again.”  

She huffed indignantly, but acquiesced, “Elowyn. Elowyn O’Dara.”

There was a faint lilt to her voice that agreed with her name, though even this moniker seemed too tame for her spirit, “Ms. O’Dara, why aren’t you locked in the stores with the other passengers?”  

If eyes were daggers, he’d be dead as her glare became pointed, “Your man already told you.”  

“Surely, you don’t simply have a predilection for tearing off ears – or shall I say a taste.” He prodded, wanting his suspicions confirmed, “What exactly provoked you?”  

“He looked at me funny.” Elowyn hissed bitingly.  

Henry pursed his lips, a reproach on the tip of his tongue when better sense prevailed him. Despite the grand silks she wore, her gown was ill-fitted. The sleeve came within a breath of falling off her shoulder and her speech while refined was far blunter than any gentlewoman. He had a new suspicion about his little spitfire.  

“Is that all it takes?” Henry taunted as he towered over her. Well aware that her dangerous mouth was aligned to an appendage far more valuable than an ear. In fact, it was the image of her mouth and that appendage which enticed him to draw closer still, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze and avoid undue embarrassment. He swore that he could feel her breath even through the thick leather of his trousers.  

Elowyn growled, though the flush of her cheeks belied any indifference, “Why should it take more?”  

“I think it would take more.” He stated quietly. His finger curled under her chin and urged her to stand. He wanted the full measure of her. Not the defiant victim she had curled herself into.  

The fabric of her gown swished and whispered as it draped around her body like a protective cloak. Her eyes sparkled wildly at him, warily – like twin pillar flames of a candelabra. He had no doubt that she would attack him as fervently as she had his man if he were to push his luck. He was tempted to try anyway...but a greater desire lurked in his heart.  

She would bend to him first.  

He let his finger trail down the line of her throat as he kept his gaze locked with hers, taking in every twitch and tremble that she tried so valiantly to hide. His touch smoothed across her shoulder, warm and chafing against her delicate flesh until, at last, he reached that clinging hem.  

Almost thoughtfully, he traced that strained neckline, “Tell me, did your mistress press you into her dress to hide, or have you been trying to pass yourself off as a gentle lady for your voyage? Graces and airs do open many doors.”  

Elowyn stilled as his words took home, “I’ve no idea of what you speak.”  

“I’m sure you don’t.” Henry hummed knowingly, “A good liar you are not, Ms. O’Dara. Which makes me inclined to think you were pressed into this gown. However, like recognizes like and I think I’ve merely unsettled you.”  

“The devil would be unsettled by you.” She murmured; heat resonated through her bosom as his fingers hovered over her swells, but he didn’t touch... just teased.  

He grinned roguishly, amused by her scorn, “Either way... it does beg the question, how are you going to keep yourself from ruin? Even if you leave my presence – and that of my crew’s untouched – you’re still caught in something of a predicament, lass.”  

Confusion furrowed her brow at his words and only deepened as he stepped away from her to lean against the ornate desk behind him. Smug and insufferable it galled her to ask after his meaning, “The only predicament I’ll have is giving the navy a name for the swine that dared board this ship.”  

Henry barked a sharp laugh before giving a mocking bow, “Why Captain Henry Cavill at your service, milady? But do you honestly think that if I were to return you to the stores below that assumptions wouldn’t be made?”  

Elowyn’s lips pursed, a silent refusal to entertain his inquiry. It only delighted him.

“You’ve been gone too long, lass. They know why Ole Thatch took you. Probably already assume that you’re dead. And let’s say you were pressed into this gown by your mistress... Loyal though you were, what use does she have for a spoiled maid? Best to send you on your way. And if you are a gentlewoman, word of your ruin will reach all and sundry before the ship is even done being berthed. No hoity-toity wealthy gentleman will look at you twice. All your prospects gone.”

Her cheeks were scarlet with humiliation, and she gritted her teeth as she scolded him, “Does this please you? These cruel games? I demand to be taken back to the stores.”  

His eyes twinkled mirthfully, “Oh that’s it, Luv. Not bad for a gentlewoman, but you should tremble a little more to sell it.”

She barely bit back a snarl, even as her body moved without permission. To the surprise of both Henry and Elowyn, her slim hand snatched the pistol tucked into his belt and had it pressed under his chin before either could blink.  

“Get. Off. This. Ship.” She sniped, hand minutely trembling as she stared straight into his now unimpressed eyes.  

Outside the sounds of battle and the thumping of steps had dwindled to a steady few. His crew had overwhelmed the other and were taking what ever they could find back to the Kalliope. His time aboard was limited anyway... but still, it wouldn’t do to have this slip of a girl think she gained the upper hand. No longer was he willing to see her submit, but he would see her pride broken.  

It was time he acted like a pirate.  

“I intend to.” He murmured.  

It wasn’t what she had expected him to say, and her moment of bafflement worked to his advantage as he ducked down and threw her over his shoulder. She screamed in much the same way she had in entering the room.  

He heard the soft click of his gun and grinned when she comprehended that there was no bullet to be shot. He had used his powder on boarding, his pistol now a pretty decoration for his ruthless image. Her screams became even more enraged.  

He chuckled and ignored her pounding fists to his back as he stepped out to the deck, “Brooks!”  

His steadfast first mate appeared with nary a word and a raised brow. Yet, Henry knew he wouldn’t ask the question dancing on his tongue, “Ms. O’Dara will be joining us. See to it that the rudder of this ship is disengaged and gather the men back aboard Kal. I want to be sailing with the wind within the hour.”  

“Aye, Captain.”  

No further words were spoken nor needed between the two though that hardly stopped the squalling of the harridan thrashing his back. Grunting in frustration, he crossed the boarding ramp in two steps as his palm placed a resound slap onto Elowyn’s wriggling rump. A silent warning to be still which she did not heed.

“Put me down!”  

It must have been the hundredth time she had shrieked this, but as Henry crossed the threshold of his cabin he decided to finally obey, “Very well.”  

Grim amusement touched his lips as he tossed her onto his bed, her skirts flew wild, and he caught a tempting glimpse of the thin cotton of her bloomers. Those would not last long, like the whores of Nassau she would learn to stay bare beneath those skirts.  

Ever defiant, Elowyn flew up from her supine position and slid from the bed before he could blink. Her speed was impressive, but she was not fast enough to beat the closing of the door as the lock clicked into place. Smirking, Henry seized the bottle of whiskey from the corner of his desk as he fell languidly into his chair to watch the despairing storm that descended upon his captive.  

Elowyn yanked heartily on the handle, a torrent of panic and anger spurning her heart. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and she was furious to find a sob pulling at her throat as the sands counting down her freedom quickly dwindled. She could not be trapped here. It simply was not to be born.  

All the while, Elowyn could feel his gaze burn into her back. Not for the first time her stomach clenched under the weight of his attention. She detested the stirrings of lust his visage had enticed; his quiet perusal of her body had done much to set a simmering awareness along her skin that could only be calmed by the touch of another.  

She slammed her palm against the hardwood of the door as her head became bowed with defeat.  

“I am no one’s whore.” Her voice hoarse from her screams broke the expectant silence.  

For a moment, the captain wondered if she could read minds. However, the longer he was in her presence the more he thought she was an innocent maid... if only her protest had not been so despondent. Tired. Bitter. As if this was a situation not uncommon.

“Aren’t you?” The words were spoken with seemingly little thought as Henry took a light swig from his bottle. A pleasantly harsh warmth burned over his tongue and down his throat as the dark liquid sought out his blood.  

A low snarl emanated from her, and Henry watched curiously as she whirled to face him. His breath was stolen by the fury in her watery gaze. Her lips had curled back into a sneer, and she stood defiant. Wrathful, proud, and stunning. She was Circe reborn.  

The entertained glint that shined in the face of her rage, merely cemented her ire as she strode across the room with the full command of a Goddess. She let the dress fall from her shoulders to twist and drown around her torso before falling lost to the floor. She trod on it and over it with little care.  

Henry devoured the view of her corset and bloomers. Her curves were more pronounced with the clinging material of her undergarments and yet not enough. He’d rather see her bare.  

Elowyn pointedly ignored the hunger of his countenance and snatched the whiskey from his hand. Her throat bobbed deliciously as she downed one mouthful and then two before throwing the bottle at the very door she longed to escape through.  

A sharp thunk and the glittering clatter of shattered glass echoed through the cabin. Henry arched a brow in mild disappointment, “That was a very expensive bottle.”  

“That I’m sure you stole.” Elowyn countered as she moved to straddle his lap. Her gaze was taunting as her fingers laced into the collar of his shirt, “Is this what you wanted, Captain?  

He hummed, amused by her show of bravado, and respected her attempt at taking control, but he could see the quivering girl just below the surface. He delved his hands beneath the hem of her corset, gliding calloused fingers around the satin flesh of her waist. Goosebumps raised like waves in a storm at his touch.  

A sharp gasp left Elowyn’s throat as one hand slid down beneath her bloomers to grasp the firm muscle of her bottom and squeeze. It was like lightning had been released across her hide. Visceral mordant liquid pooled in her loins, and she tried not to squirm. She didn’t want him to see how affected she truly was, even as evidence blossomed across the flimsy material guarding her.  

Yet, as she held his dark stare, she swore that the staccato beating of her heart had given her away. A cool thrill shivered across her skin, only to be chased by a flaming warmth that she could not control. Beneath the rough cotton of her corset, her nipples puckered and pebbled, and she felt a shameful heat spread over her breasts to her collar and up her neck.  

He hadn’t even kissed her.  

He leant forward, teasingly drawing his lips along the shell of her ear. Henry grinned at the small shivering whimper that spilled from her lips at such an act. He had to wonder if she was worried that he would do to her what she had done to Thatch. Tauntingly, his tongue shot out and suckled her delicate lobe into his mouth as her knuckles whitened to match his collar.  

She mewled prettily and arched into his hold, unable to voice the word stop. He wouldn’t have, even if she begged.  

He lathed attention to her sensitive appendage for another few seconds before gently nipping the tender flesh, “I think this what you wanted, lass.”  

She swallowed tightly and tried to bring forth the dispassionate woman that had brought her to his lap, “No.”  

“No?” Henry almost sang, a wicked grin spreading across his lips. He nuzzled the plush swell of her cheek, breathing a kiss to the corner of her mouth as his fingers made quick work of the laces of her corset. A faint copper taste dazzled his tongue – had she enjoyed the taste of Thatcher’s blood?  

Her breath hitched as she felt the boned fabric slide from her bosom. It took every ounce of strength not to fold her arms in and hide. She had tried to out bluff the monster but had goaded him into action instead. Brute violence would not remove her from this situation. She knew this instinctively, and as his bristled cheek chafed against the silk of her neck and chest, Elowyn became uncertain if she wanted to be removed.  

Gossamer licks of pleasure pulsated from his rough skimming, and his hot breath ignited a current of desire that made her stomach clench with need. She felt suddenly empty and as his supple lips latched onto her pointed teet, she keened. Unthinkingly, she rocked into his pelvis in a feeble attempt to fill the throbbing void between her legs. Her cunt dripped and twitched needily as he suckled.  

Elowyn sputtered and gasped at his forceful pulls, pressing down harder into his lap and ultimately onto his erection. She wasn’t sure when, but her fingers had delved around the bandanna holding back his wild mane as she tried not to fall into his ardent mouth, but she was helpless against his assault. He would devour her.  

“Please.” She breathed.  

Henry smiled and lightly bit down on her tortured tit, admiring the dark hue her sensitive flesh had garnered from his attentions, before moving his attention to her other breast, “Please, what?”  

She arched as he began his attack anew. Her hips coming alive as she undulated frenetically against him. A pressure had started to build, a delicious force stood just out of reach and she just... just needed.  

Henry’s strong hands dug into her hips stilling her movements. He knew that she was on the cusp of climax. He could smell the heady scent of her arousal, but such satisfaction would not be had until she took his cock.  

Elowyn wailed in frustration, “Please!!”  

“Please, what?” He iterated again. His fingers latched onto the seam of her bloomers. One fierce tug would be all he needed to tear her undergarment in two.  

Her pride screamed at her to remain silent, but the wanton in her demanded she cave. Elowyn bit her lip as she tried to stave off another plea. Instead, she sought out the lace of his breeches and swiftly freed him of his leather confines.

Henry allowed her this and watched with a jovial grimace as she took in his hidden pistol. Her eyes widen at his size, her thighs clenching over his at the thought of taking him. He would not fit, but he would certainly fill her. She dragged a curious nail over his weeping head, jolting as his manhood twitched and bobbed under her innocent exploration.  

He hissed, “Either suck me off, lass, or finish your request. If I must choose what comes next, you will find little pleasure in my actions.”  

Her gaze flew up to his, noting the seriousness she found staring back at her. She swallowed tightly, “T-take me.”  

A cruel grin twitched at his lips, “Take you where?”  

She bristled at his mocking, “Copulate with me, like the pig you are.”  

SMACK!  

She gasped at the pain that flared through her hind-side and barely refrained from moaning as the reverberation echoed with her desire.  

Henry tutted, “Name-calling when you’re begging? Not very gracious. Especially as you were the one to come to me, Luv.”  

“Bastard!” She spat and choked on another moan as he assaulted her rear once more.  

He grinned, “Enjoy that do you?”  

She cursed him again and he laughed, “Should I take the cat and nine tails to you? What a saucy minx you’re turning out to be.”  

“I loathe you.” Elowyn murmured through gritted teeth, “What do you want from me?”  

He smiled bitingly at her, “Ask nicely and remember my title.”  

She growled and tore from his hold as her pride won out for the moment. He watched her with the gaze of a predator as she discarded the last of her garments. She flung herself onto his bed and splayed her legs wide. She would not capitulate to him.  

At least not verbally.    

Henry’s mouth watered greedily as her nimble little fingers delved and played with her soaked mound. She was playing a very dangerous game. She stroked her sweet little nub with feverish intensity, allowing her moans to fill the cabin like a sonorous symphony. She put on a lovely lurid show and he couldn’t pull his gaze away as she ran a finger along the edge of her cunt, teasing him with a view of her seeping hole. It took little time for her to find that pleasure peak again and even less for him to lose his patience.

In less than three steps he was between her legs, knocking her hands away from her lush garden.  

In two breaths, he was poised at her entrance.  

In one kiss, he speared her with the intensity of a hunter claiming his prey.  

He swallowed her raucous cry and reveled in the silent tear the swam down her cheek as he brutal entrance. Unbridled heat scored up his manhood as her wet cavern suckled him reluctantly to her womb. He had warned her what would happen if he were to choose.  

Groaning, he could not still for long and raised his knee for leverage as he began a brutal pace toward release. Despite his harsh embrace, it was not long before her hips met his, seeking salvation from his unrelenting torrent.  

Her muscles strained from being split, but the sharp ache was diminished by the relief of being so completely stuffed. Her pride wailed in horror at being proven the whore, but Elowyn cared little. Pleasure scalded and overwhelmed her like a bubbling hot spring. 

Henry was everywhere.  

Grasping, biting, prodding, and shoving. 

He pulled sounds from her throat she had never heard before... but she was no better. Willing, she spread her thighs wider for him, welcoming his passionate tempest as he soundly cast her to the waves of ecstasy.  

She cried out fervently as she drowned, and her body clung to him as if it were a buoy. Her walls became a vice, now trapping him to her as she fell victim to her carnal desires, “Captain!”  

Henry watched her erupt through half-hooded eyes, captivated by the euphoria that descended upon her. He groaned as her walls clenched even tighter around him, demanding his seed.  

He thrust once.  

Twice.  

Thrice more before he gave in to her delicious demand and came with a roar, filling her to brim as he enjoyed the way his cock spasmed in time with her tremors. Lazily, he pressed a kiss to her temple as she quivered against him.  

Elowyn peered up at him with wide eyes, shame seeping into her mien as the weight of her actions crashed down onto her. She tried to cover herself, but Henry refused to let her move. He trapped her wrists above her head as he trapped her stare with his, “You have a choice now, lass. Be a good girl and warm this bed or walk out of this cabin and warm my crew’s. Either way, you’ll be a whore, but whose... well that remains up to you.”  

Tears welled as he pulled out of her with a wet plop. Only then could she see the image she painted. Ruined and laid bare before the man who had stolen her as he fixed his trousers and shirt. She hated how little she had resisted him, how much she still wanted him. She had no recourse. He had extracted his pound of flesh as she drowned in her desires. 

She would be his whore.  

It was then she knew that Captain Henry Cavill wasn’t merely a pirate, he was the devil too.

[glwritesff]

Cancelled Shows

Probably one of the most frustrating things for me about The Wilds being cancelled on Amazon is that it’s obvious. Looking between reviews on season one and season two, there’s a difference of three thousand plus. Even if there’s the whiny baby “woke bs” one star reviews, clearly the rest are more supportive of the show overall, as regardless of the significant difference in reviews, The Wilds maintains a four star rating on both seasons. I went and made a review on season two. I don’t believe I made one for season one. But I expressed my genuine disappointment in The Wilds fandom for being aggressively hateful to the actors involved with the show, as if it is somehow their fault the show’s cancelled or for how the show decided to write things. The actors were simply doing their jobs and being decent human beings on the outside as well, they don’t deserve the hate. I wasn’t thrilled with how the story on the boys’ side was written by any means, but I was fully aware the boys would have to be more heavily involved this season but knew that the girls’ would still be a major part, even if it didn’t seem like it. That was a major part for Gretchen’s experiment, to compare the two groups, so it made complete sense to me that we saw more of the boys for now. 

I hate that people who loved First Kill on Netflix won’t ever get a satisfying ending, unless Netflix lets the rights go to someone else. I know the issue with First Kill is Netflix being more abhorrently obvious about their hatred for POC and LGBTQIA2+ people being front and center and not about views. I had First Kill on my watch list, no I still haven’t had a chance to watch yet, but I could see every time I got on Netflix over the last month or two that FK was out, that the views on it were extremely high. I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure the only way to review Netflix stuff is to simply thumbs up or thumbs down (and strongly thumbs up or down) a film or tv show. Wise, since they know if they had a review section too, they’d be accosted in there as well. Not that it’s not deserved, but just from their standpoint, they’re eliminating a way for people to express their anger and disappointment. 

I typically stay out of discourse on these things. I’m incredibly used to shows I love being cancelled. Not to mention shows that have wlw characters and couples being cancelled. I’ve learned to treasure what I can when I can and just try to review or express my disappoint on the cancellation to the company and leave it at that. But really it’s another surge of “bury your gays” in a different way, and that’s by cancelling the shows entirely and leaving the rights to gather dust, even when folks clamor for the show to return. I’ve signed the petition going around for The Wilds and I strongly suggest people do so if they want their voices heard, if they haven’t already. The turmoil here is beyond frustrating and heartbreaking and I just had to express it here. 

If anyone wants to talk, I’d be happy to be here. I’m also not a good enough writer to bring any fanfiction to life but I’m so enjoying the stuff I read on Ao3 for the Wilds stuff. #leatinlives