#as pieces of an inextricable tangle

[thatsladyfaggottoyou]

My James/Madeleine obsession is reaching. some weird new heights.

[softly-and-suddenly]

Writing poetry about Hamlet means your mental health is really good actually. Trust me I’m a doctor

[violetasteracademic]

Velaris Memorial Hospital

A Grey's Anatomy x TTPD inspired Three Brothers and Three Sisters Three Part Fanfiction

Hey. Life is horrible and scary. I want to share a teaser for a project I have been pouring my heart and soul into that I hope some of you might find some joy and reprieve in.

These stories are tightly woven together and designed to be read in order. Fesyand, Nessian, and Elriel's journey's will be posted individually and chronologically, and occur on an overlapping but staggered timeline. However, there are incredibly heavy themes and topics that may not be suitable for all readers. I will do my best to ensure each individual story can be enjoyed on its own if there are topics you would rather avoid. Please read the content warning for all three stories and take care of yourself first. This collection is coming soon if I can pull myself out of this black hole, but here is a synopsis of each story ahead!

Part One:

Feyre Archeron is an art therapist for the children's cancer wing at Velaris Memorial Hospital. After leaving her abusive fiancé and moving back in with her sisters, her plans to heal and move on with peace and privacy go up in flames when women begin to come forward with sexual harassment allegations against her ex, Tamlin Thornwood.

If she doesn't come forward with her own story of abuse and testify against the man who harmed her and so many other women, he stands a chance at winning his countersuit for defamation and wrongful termination. Terrified of what her patient's families will think of her if they find out the truth, struggling to forgive herself, and suprised to be falling for the absolute wrong man, Feyre has to dig deeper than she ever has before to find her strength.

Rhysand Noctis is the owner and CEO of Eventide Enterprises. After losing his mother to cancer, he has felt adrift. No amount of money and acclaim has been able to give him the sense of home and belonging he has lost.

When an old family rival, Tamlin Thornwood, is tangled up in a scandal and lawsuits, Rhysand learns that Velaris Memorial Hospital is in trouble. The only non-profit hospital in Velaris and the place that cared for his mother has lost all of their donors and board members. Rhys decides to purchase the hospital and dedicate his time to restoring its reputation and making it a safe place for women and the community of Velaris to work and receive affordable care.

A chance encounter sends Feyre and Rhys colliding towards each other before they realize how inextricably their personal and professional lives are already intertwined.

CW: Domestic violence, sexual assault, sexual harassment, child death, trauma, mental health, explicit sexual content.

*Additional note: I don't typically like to use the term "anti" in this fandom, but it is best to be exceptionally clear that this is an abundantly anti-Tamlin piece. If seeing this character portrayed as a serial abuser makes you feel upset or uncomfortable in any way, please protect yourself (and me) by skipping this one.

Part Two:

Nesta Archeron doesn't need anyone to take care of her. After losing both her parents at age eighteen and becoming legal guardian to her two younger sisters, she gave up her dreams of going to law school and worked her way up from from an assistant with nothing more than a high school diploma and unmatched grit to become the head of public relations at Velaris Memorial Hospital.

When her younger sisters ex-fiancé scandalizes the hospital and leaves them without funding or a board of directors, she has to work closely with the new ownership, Eventide Enterprises, to save the hospital and prevent it from becoming for-profit like SkyView, their rival hospital in the financial district. She has full confidence in herself and her plan. However, Eris Vanserra, the head of PR and legacy staff at SkyView, is out for blood after Nesta won over the youngest Vanserra to Velaris Memorial and got an op ed published on the negative outcomes associated with for-profit care. That, and she now has to answer to Cassian- a man she has already sworn to hate before learning who he was, and is making her job- and life- an absolute pain in the ass.

Cassian is the lead financial strategist and project manager after Eventide Enterprises purchased Velaris Memorial Hospital. After having to drop out of college before sophomore year to deal with the death of his mother, he struggles to overcome the chip on his shoulder being in an industry where name, money, and education is everything. Restoring the reputation and the financial security of Velaris Memorial Hospital is not only personal, but professionally the largest responsibility he has had in his career thus far. Everything is on the line.

Complicating matters is his reliance on Nesta Archeron, the steely and fiery PR director working side by side with him to ensure the Starfall Ball is a massive success and wins back the hospitals donors. There is no denying that the difficulty maintaining their professional lines is fueled by both hate and attraction. But as they continue to work closely together, the layers peel back and they learn that they have more in common than they thought. Family secrets, generational trauma, and their deepest shames are somehow safe in each other's hands. However, lines are crossed that might be impossible to come back from.

CW: Extortion, blackmail, discussions of suicide, trauma, mental health, explicit sexual content.

Part Three:

Elain Archeron has always strived for perfection. After competing in pageants her entire childhood and teen years, she shocked everyone by using her scholarship to relentlessly pursue a career in the medical field as a labor and delivery nurse instead of fulfilling her mothers dream to go on to compete in the Miss Universe pageant.

She spent her early twenties working instead of dating, but her plan to get married and start a family is back on track now that has the "perfect" fiancé, Graysen Nolan.

However- the grueling hours, cracks in her relationship, and anxiety over what her life will look like when she becomes a Nolan begins to sink in. It's not easy for Elain to change her plans or take a leap, but when a tragic accident sends her life into a tailspin, she is forced to pick apart the shattered pieces of her soul and learn what unrealized dreams are truly hers and what belongs to the ghosts of her past.

Azriel Singer is an award winning photojournalist who has spent his life travelling the world. He has lived for the thrill of never knowing what comes next, being on the front lines of danger and history in the making. He is used to going to sleep in one city and waking up with a contract on the other side of the world, not knowing if he'll be headed into a war zone or march for justice.

When his brother Rhysand hires him for a six month corporate contract as the photographer on retainer for Velaris Memorial Hospital as they rebuild their image, his path crosses with Elain Archeron. In so many ways, she is his opposite. She has always wanted to travel, but has never left Velaris. She has always wanted to start a family, a thought that has only ever given Azriel night sweats. And she is engaged.

Azriel and Elain wind up forming a deep friendship, creating bets with each other to help push them outside of their respective comfort zones. The more they get to know each other more deeply than anyone has before, the more they question who they are. No amount of planning and on-paper perfection could have prepared them for a connection that pushes them both beyond the narratives they've written for themselves before meeting someone who can challenge them in all the most terrifying and most fulfilling ways.

CW: Fertility issues, child abuse, infant death, parent death, medical trauma associated with car accidents, birth, and premature birth, explicit sexual content.

This is my first time writing modern AU and contemporary romance. Thank you so much to @nikachansstuff and @rosanna-writer for offering to beta!

I truly hope I do it justice. I also want to reiterate that these are dark and very emotionally heavy stories. The characters will be dealing with issues that are deeply personal to me. They will sometimes be hard to understand and harder to love.

While I am not a mental health professional, I am a huge mental health advocate and that will come through in a blend of my own personal experiences and research, but mental health is extremely personal and not one size fits all. Nothing should be taken as mental health advice. Please reach out for professional help if you need, and don't give up.

This is by far the most terrifying but meaningful work I have done, and I am scared shitless and deeply excited to share it with you. This will not be for everyone, but I hope it will find where it is meant to go.

[countdykulaa]

﹟ ⠀ ⠀ 𝟎𝟎𝟐 ⠀ . ⠀ ⠀SANCTIFY ME⠀ ⠀ ﹕ ⠀ ⠀ ❪ ⠀ hyperreligious!abby x rebel! reader ⠀ ❫

﹟SUMMARY ♱ :

﹟CONTENT WARNINGS ♱ : graphic violence. mean, dark abby. top! abby. dubcon. noncon. religious imagery and themes. psychological trauma.

﹟WARNING ♱ : the piece doesn’t excuse Abby or portray her as more innocent than she is. instead, it delves into the disturbing nature of her character and the impact she has on the protagonist, emphasizing how abuse can be tangled with desire, fear, and denial. the complexity of the dynamics does not serve to justify Abby’s behaviour but rather to explore the horror of it in a more layered and psychological way.

she releases her grip from your neck, and you collapse onto the floor. trembles as it rises to trace the heat of her touch where fingers had wrapped tight around your neck, leaving a ghostly mark that will surely bloom into something darker. You can feel it, like a scar in the making, a reminder of your fall. Jericho's walls had crumbled just the same. You, too, rise and fall, carrying the weight of destruction yet to come.

an erotic fear lurches inside you that propels you to scramble. where you are fast, abby is quicker. a hand reaches out to grab your hair and yank you back to your place on the cold, marble floor. a yelp exits your throat as your hands rush to scrape off her grip. 

"Do not turn away from salvation," she whispers, her voice thick with fervour, a dark and twisted reverence. Her breath skims your ear, warm, almost seductive, and yet there’s a cruelty in it that makes your skin crawl. You shudder beneath her grip, the duality of pleasure and terror weaving together in sickening harmony.

Her lips are so close now, hovering just above your cheek, her touch no longer just holy but invasive, like something prying at the most secret parts of you. She leans closer still, and every nerve in your body tingles with dread, with anticipation. Her breath, once warm, now feels like an icy breeze across your skin, and though you tremble, your body betrays you. There is desire buried beneath the fear, lurking in the very pit of your stomach, as if her rage and purity are somehow inextricably linked to your own damnation.

The shadows seem to stretch out from her, consuming the dim light of the candles, leaving you trapped in her darkness, where sin and salvation blur into one. 

Her grip tightens, fingers coiling deeper into your hair as she pulls your face closer, until her lips are on yours. It's not gentle, not soft, there’s nothing of affection in the way she kisses you. It feels like possession, like she’s pouring something toxic into your mouth, claiming you from the inside out. The force of her kiss leaves you gasping, but there’s no room to breathe, only her. the heat of her rage, the suffocating intensity of her devotion.

You try to pull away, to turn your face, but her grip holds you in place, locking you in this twisted embrace. It’s like she’s infecting you, a sickness spreading through the contact, tainting the very air you breathe. Her lips press harder, a bruise in the making, her breath hot and fevered as though she’s desperate to consume you whole.

And despite the revulsion that claws at your chest, there’s something inside you that bends, something that craves the burn of her touch, the way her power seeps into your skin, sinking into your bones. You’re lost in it, caught between fear and something deeper, darker, and far more dangerous.

And then you give in.

Your lips part and her tongue enters your mouth before you can think. You taste the victory on her lips, bitter and sweet, as she devours you, pulling you deeper into the dark, into her world where resistance is futile, where you are hers.

The tremor in your hands ceases. The fight drains from your muscles. And there, on the cold marble floor, you surrender to your fears and desires. She pulls away, her breath ragged against your lips, and you look up into her eyes—dark, unyielding, and victorious. You feel hollow, emptied out, and yet, somewhere in the pit of your stomach, there’s a flicker of something new. Not peace, not salvation, but acceptance.The purification you’d long resisted washes over you in icing waves.

She loosens her hold on your thick curls, yet the ghost of her touch lingers, a phantom grip that clings to you still. All at once, her claws descend, ripping through the black silk of your mid-length skirt like talons tearing at the veil of sin. The garment falls, unravelling before you, and the cold, unforgiving air lashes against your exposed skin, a serpent's bite upon your thighs. 

"Abby—Abby, this is madness," you stammer, your voice trembling, a frail thread of reason lost in the storm of her wrath. Her rage surges like a tempest, drowning you in its violent tide, and you, adrift, can only gasp for breath as the waves crash over her.

You should shove her away, resist with every ounce of strength you have left, claw your way free from the iron grip that binds you. But the weight of her touch is like gravity, and your limbs betray you, moving not to escape but to sink deeper into the vice of her embrace. Every instinct screams at you to fight harder, to rip yourself from the seduction of her hold, yet your body pulses with the thrill of surrender, as though you are caught in the eye of a storm—silent, still, and powerless against the fury surrounding you

Around you, the dim light flickers, the few remaining candles burning low, casting long, quivering shadows that seem to dance with malice. The air itself feels heavy, thick with the scent of melted wax and something darker ( earthy, metallic ) like blood beneath the surface. Every breath you take tastes of damp stone and ash, as if the walls themselves are closing in, pressing you deeper into this crypt of twisted salvation. The distant echo of dripping water is the only other sound, a haunting rhythm to the silence that envelops you. 

Her hands hover around your lacy underwear with a carefulness unlike her. As though giving in to this final act would be the sin she had wrestled with for so long, the very transgression her soul had bled to keep at bay. Ultimately, her hands scrunch up your panties and rip them off you.

Your wetness drips down your inner thigh and you feel the most exposed you’ve ever felt in your entire existence. Her silence frightens you more than the fingers that circulate your clit. You can instantly sense the inexperience from the way her fingers fumble, but that knowledge does little to stop your hips from instinctively match the hasty rhythm she has sent. Words rush from your form and short gasps flow in return. Your head sways drunkenly from side to side as the pleasure rushes through your body. Your body pulsates and you hear the sound of your wetness gushing out while abby gyrates her fingers faster and faster. 

“do you feel it? the ruining. the rebirth” abby murmurs, her voice does not sound like her own. detached and drenched in a forbidden lust she’d denied herself years ago.

As though abby were a blade of midnight, she plunges two fingers into you, her presence sinking deep, piercing through flesh and bone, twisting with cruel precision until you could feel her dark essence threading through your veins like poison. You let out a silent cry, your knees buckling.

Your hand reaches to grasp her forearm, sinking into her flesh like a desperate plea for connection and separation all at once. It’s a conflict of desire and repulsion; to push her away yet yearn to hold her. You claw at her, seeking to draw forth a crimson tide as true as the ruins of forgotten cities, each drop a testament to the destruction wrought by your entwined fates.

Yet, there’s no recoil, no flinch from her, just a quiet intake of breath that grows increasingly shallow, a fragile whisper of vulnerability betraying the tension simmering just beneath her surface. It’s as if she bears the weight of your anguish and desire, an unsettling stillness that mirrors the chaos within you. The air thickens with the electric charge of anticipation and dread, as if the very walls are holding their breath, waiting for the inevitable rupture between passion and pain.

Her thumb reaches to stroke your soaking clit and you feel an all too familiar rumble wash over your body. You, lying half naked in the temple where all your nightmares materialize are about to cum from the one girl you were certain despised you as much as you did her. 

Your breath rips from your chest only to confine itself in your throat as your head tilts up at the sky. Your vision blurs as a tremor pulsates through your body. A figure bathed in holy light hovers before you, radiant and untouchable, yet it is not heaven’s name you speak. Abby’s name falls from your lips like a forbidden prayer. Above, the vaulted ceiling looms, the shadows stretching up into darkness as though reaching out to claim you.

[davnittbraes]

Affirmations - Part Three

Part of the I’m Here universe.

Pairing: Marcus Pike x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4500

Warnings etc: introspection, allusions to previous emotional hurt, allusions to previous dub con (specifically pressure to please a partner sexually regardless of personal desire,) okay serious stuff out of the way SMUTTY FEELS AGAIN 🥳, oral m!receiving, a sprinkle of oral cockwarming, dom/sub dynamics, Soft Dom Marcus Pike is his own warning

Reader-insert physical descriptors: hair long enough to tangle fingers in/comb fingers through

Notes: takes place immediately after Part Two. Ties in directly so you should probably read that first.

WELL this is super late compared to the schedule I’d set but these two just wouldn’t stop DOING things, I’ve rewritten this part ~5000000000 times and it’s not beta’d so forgive a girl for a few spelling errors because she was distracted by Marcus being the panty-dropper that he is.

You don’t sleep. Not exactly. 

It’s like your mind is turned off, silent, even while your body is conscious. You’re aware of Marcus moving around you, and moving you, gently pulling your body into his embrace. 

Aware of the warmth surrounding you, the soft blanket pulled close, your back resting against his chest and lifting in gentle waves with each breath that fills his lungs. 

Aware of the hands on your skin, gliding over your arms and thighs and stomach and shoulders, a subtle physical sensation that reminds you your body is here, whenever you’re ready to return to it. 

It happens slowly, awareness blinking into existence. 

You’re sitting up, leaning back against him, legs stretched out comfortably, bracketed by his. The blanket covers all of you and most of Marcus, soft edge brushing your throat, and his arms encircle your body beneath it, hands slowly drifting, wandering over your skin in an aimless caress. 

Every muscle in your body is loose, skin warm and tingling pleasantly where his hands pass. 

You can’t remember the last time you were this comfortable. 

The state of your body lets your thoughts drop back into place smoothly, sharp edges of anxiety dulled. They float around your mind, observations, questions, murmuring to each other as they piece together the events of the night. 

One question floats to the surface before the others. 

What happened? 

This was… that… it was different, than last weekend. 

Sure, last time the same thick pleasure haze had blanketed your thoughts, muffled the sound of the ever-churning anxiety that had them on a constant loop. It had been comforting, quieting, and at the same time it had felt really fucking good. 

But this… 

It was as if you’d slipped so far into physical pleasure that you went beyond it, to some place without distraction of the conscious. Some place so deep underneath it all that you become inextricably one with your body and mind.

Every thought, ache, tension simply ceased to exist, disappeared, into the haze. 

And everything you knew became only the pleasure Marcus pulled from your body, the guidance he provided your thoughts. Focus narrowed down to just him, only him, all him. 

A wordless question floats through your mind, wondering, and surprise skitters along the edges at the answer. 

Yes. 

You would have done anything he told you to in that moment. 

Curiosity swirls in your stomach, flutters into intrigue. 

That concept isn’t as terrifying as it should be. 

Even though earlier, you’d been sitting in your car, worrying away at the memory of giving up control to Marcus like it was a puzzle you couldn’t see the full picture of, an unknown you needed insight into before you could fully accept it. 

It should be upsetting, knowing how vulnerable you had been. Not a single rational thought of your own, only the base direction of your body’s needs - that were completely under his control anyway. 

To the point where you’d even come at his command. 

But you’re not upset. You don’t feel anxious or uncertain or anything other than…

Exhilaration. 

It’s thrilling, letting go to that extent. 

Trusting Marcus with everything you are. 

Because you know you’re safe with him. 

He had seen everything, seen you without the rigid exterior, the protective shell you wore day to day. He’d pulled you out into the light and let you fall apart - no, shown you how to fall apart. 

How to let go, and let yourself go. 

Then he’d helped you gather up the pieces of you and put them back together with simple words full of intricate meaning. 

The affirmations echo in your thoughts. 

I am brilliant. 

I am capable. 

I am exceptional. 

It’s strange, but… you might actually be able to believe them, now. 

A thumb brushes down your throat, hand cupping the side of your neck as lips press to the top of your head, words murmur softly. “You don’t have to speak, but I can feel your pulse and your breathing picking up.”

Marcus cups your face, fingers flexing as if caught on the edge of the urge to turn you toward him. “Can you show me that you’re okay?”

A pause, and something light bubbles in your chest. An almost-laugh that you let fade away. 

You turn in his embrace, affection warming your skin where his hands shift to stay on you, following the movement of your body with an obvious unconscious desire to touch. 

His warm brown gaze comes into view and your lungs let a little sigh slip, contentment filling the emptying space behind your ribcage, curving your mouth into a smile. “Am I okay? Marcus. I’m better than okay. I’m perfect.”

The emotion that brightens his eyes mirrors the glow pulsating gently in your own chest, reflected back again in his smile. “Yes, you are.”

A soft huff of laughter falls from your lips at the utter sincerity in his voice, the adoration in his gaze. “It’s hard to argue with that statement when you look at me like that.”

“Good, there’s no point in arguing with the truth.” He pulls you in for a kiss, hands sweeping up your back to draw close around your shoulders, wrapping you in the circle of his arms. 

Your body melts into it, pulling you closer to the source, closer into his embrace. 

There’s a deeper level of comfort here, now, something more in how his arms feel around you. As if something profound had passed between you, an understanding, a knowledge. 

A secret for just the two of you. 

Marcus pulls away, kisses your forehead once before tucking you back under his chin. “When you’re ready to get up, you can use the ensuite while I get your bag from downstairs, if you’d like. Did you want anything to eat before bed?”

Shaking your head, you burrow into the curve of his neck, gentle wave of emotion flowing over you at the fact that he remembers you need to be held for a while after that level of… intense intimacy. 

You might be stumbling toward believing you’re perfect the way you are, but there’s no doubt in your mind that Marcus absolutely is. 

Settling in, you let your thoughts drift back to the moments before - the way he had held you, patiently waiting for you to come back to yourself. How he had felt above you, inside you, all around you, warm and strong and safe. When you had come so hard it -

Wait. 

He hadn’t come.

Thoughts race, try to pick apart the blur of pleasure and feeling, but you’re pretty sure he hadn’t - you’re slick between your thighs but it feels like it’s just from your own orgasm.

Marcus had been solely and entirely focused on you, to the point of ignoring his own needs. 

A flood of emotions surge through your body, too many to parse out, but one rises to the surface. 

Determination. 

His eyes widen just enough to be noticeable as you sit back and look at him. “What -“

“You didn’t finish.” 

The words are a little more blunt than you want them to be, but a resolute energy is thrumming down your back, pushing your voice out. 

Understanding shifts through his expression, and he runs a hand down your arm soothingly. “It’s fine. It’s not important.”

A small frown pulls at your brow. “It is to me. I want you to feel good, too.”

“It’s not always about an orgasm.” He cups your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger, holding your gaze to his. “Seeing you like that, how completely you trust me - that makes me feel good.”

Oh. 

That tightness is back at your throat, but for a different reason. 

There are so many layers to his words, something there that you sense is important to understanding what this new dynamic in your relationship is. 

But your mind is still pulling itself out of wherever it went, thought process disjointed, and you can’t hold onto his words long enough to study them. 

Though, the open honesty in his voice, the blaze of adoration in his gaze - those you latch onto, hold close.

They would be overwhelming if you didn’t welcome it - didn’t crave it, so intensely. 

Determination fires want, need. 

You surge forward, capture his lips with yours, swallowing his muffled sound of surprise and relishing the shift to a soft moan as your hands sweep down his chest, grasp his thighs, that determination alighting hot in your veins. 

The muscles jump beneath your palms at the sudden contact, and he breaks the kiss, obviously ready to keep pushing his stance but you speak first. 

“I do trust you. Completely. More than I’ve ever trusted anyone.”

He stills, something unreadable flickering through his expression. But he stays silent, so you slowly drag your thumb along the crease of his thigh, a teasing brush of skin, and there - his pupils widen ever-so-slightly, his resolve cracks just enough.

And you see it for what it is, that resolve. A barrier he’s put in place to protect you. 

From yourself, sure. So you don’t push your body too far. 

But from others. In the past. 

Others who might have made you feel obligated to give them pleasure in exchange for your own. 

Well. That is certainly something you’ve felt before. 

But never with Marcus. 

Tell me what you need, lovely one. 

He said that to you last weekend. Guided you to use your words and say what you wanted. 

Guided you to use your voice. 

Slowly, the words come to you, and you let them fall as they will. “Marcus. I want this. To give -“ a slight hesitation, more habit than anything, then you continue - “to give you pleasure.”

He takes a breath, the whisper of the slight quiver in it almost lost to the rush of your own. “What you just went through, it was a lot. I don’t want to hurt you.”

You can hear the double meaning. 

Hurt you, not just physically, but emotionally. By making you do something you might not really want to do. 

Still thinking of you, always you, first and foremost. 

This man is going to be the end of you. 

Or maybe, the beginning. 

That need blooms, dark and hot and craving, rolling through the pit of your stomach. Your fingers clench at the rush, nails biting into his skin just enough to send a shiver through him, a tell that you claw into the swarm inside you. 

Need need need -

Use your voice.

A deep breath, and the words burst from you with a force driven by that intense craving gnawing away inside you. 

“I want - need to - and we don’t have to - I can - fuck.” The craving trembles through your muscles, legs shifting beneath you restlessly. “I just need your cock in my mouth. Need to taste your come so bad. Please, I want it, please trust me, Marcus.”

His hand is suddenly on your neck and you freeze. 

The warm brown of his eyes darkens, gaze flicking down to your mouth, considering, as his thumb presses to the hinge of your jaw, grip firm but tense as if he can’t decide to stop you or let you continue. 

You wait, not wanting to push him any further, but desperate for him to let you do so. 

Please please please -

He shifts his grip, thumb tracing over the beat of your pulse. “I trust you, lovely one.”

Yes -

Then he’s pulling you forward, kissing you deep, and his free hand is grasping one of yours, guiding it to touch him, curl your fingers around his cock. 

Already hard again, pulsing warm against your palm -

You moan against his lips - even just the feel of his cock in your hand is so deeply satisfying to that need roiling in the pit of your stomach - and he chases the sound with his tongue, a slick glide along yours that curls your toes. 

His hand on your neck moves, fingers diving into your hair, twisting enough that a delicious pinch of pain weaves into your need, pushes it to the edge. He swallows your subsequent whimper, replying with a low groan as your grasp on his cock tightens, twists to press your thumb to the tip. 

Your mouth waters at the feel of the droplets gathered there, desperate to taste them, and the shift of his hips as you smear them over the head of his cock is too much. 

That need chokes your throat, makes you gasp for air, pushes you from his lips, onto your knees. He lets you move, his hand still tightly grasping your hair but with no resistance. 

You glance up at him as you lower yourself further, shift your knees back so you have room, and your pulse stutters at the sight of those brown eyes, pupils blown wide, watching you intently with something like curiosity and fascination. 

His cock twitches as your breath ghosts over the head, and you only have a split second to admire it - flushed and throbbing - and then that deep impulse is pushing you to swallow him whole. 

He chokes out a gasp that curls down your spine, his fingers clenching in your hair for the briefest of moments before he catches himself, relaxes his grip. “Fuck, you need it that bad, huh?”

A sound rumbles through your chest in response, something between a hum and a moan. You seal your lips around the thick of him while you pull back, dragging the flat of your tongue along his length, until just the head rests inside the hot wet of your mouth. 

His fingernails dig into your scalp enough to sting just a little and your eyes snap open - when had you closed them? “Keep those beautiful eyes open while you show me just how bad you want it.”

His words, rooted in firm command but rasping with his arousal - so hot they’re almost overwhelming. 

Bracing yourself with a hand on each of his thighs, you sink down quickly, taking him as deep as you can.

Keep your gaze fixed to his, despite the blur of tears as the head of his cock pushes against the back of your mouth. 

“Yes, just like that, there you go.” He groans deep, brow creasing in pleasure, bringing his other hand to join the first and tangling in your hair. 

Not applying pressure, but there, a reminder of what he could do, how he’s choosing not to, choosing to let you please him, pleasure him, as you wish. 

That realization is incredible. To see him physically restrain himself in order to let you control this, it’s dizzying in its implication. 

But that deep craving inside you wants more. 

Wants him to do what he does so well, use that control, that compassion and intuition to direct, to guide. 

You pull back, laving your tongue over the head of his cock as it sits in the warm suction of your mouth, swirling over the slit and soaking in the moan that vibrates through his body, against your lips and tongue. 

And stop. 

Stay right there, looking at him, lips stretched around his cock, still and waiting. 

Something shifts in him - his fingers flex, eyes both dark and flashing at the same time. “Again.”

Yes -

You quickly obey, swallow his cock until the head grazes the back of your throat, that deep-seated craving revelling in the sharp intake of breath that shifts his chest. 

His hands suddenly still your motion, a gentle but firm pressure keeping you right there, just on the edge of comfort. 

Saliva quickly pools in your mouth and runs down his length and it’s messy and slick and you can barely meet his gaze, the angle a strain and tears blurring your vision and you love it, that primal part of you exalts. 

He groans, a long, low sound that shivers down your back. “Fuck, yes, right there, just stay right there for a moment, can you do that?”

You hum in acknowledgment - yes anything you want - neck straining to hold his cock in your mouth while keeping your gaze fixed to his. The ache is distracting, the muscles tensing with the angle. 

His chest falls with a long, drawn out sigh, and his hands relax, comb through your hair, smooth it back away from your face. “Lay down for me, sweetheart. Stay like this, my cock in your mouth, just like you need it.”

It’s a shuffle to bring your knees back, leaning on his thighs to brace your weight as you stretch your legs out behind you. His cock tickles against your gag reflex and you pull up just a little out of instinct, but his hand strokes your cheek and you know it’s okay. 

Finally, you’re settled between his legs, flat on your stomach, mouth still sealed around his cock. Slowly, as your muscles relax once more, you sink back down, stopping when he hits the back of your throat again. 

Running your hands over his thighs, breathing evenly through your nose, you watch him, that craving content for now, not yet satiated but knowing it will be soon. 

His hand cups your face, thumb stroking along the curve of your cheek. “Comfortable?”

Your eyelids flutter - always thinking of you - and you cup the hand on your face, meet his gaze with all of the emotion surging in your chest. 

His cock pulses against your tongue, warm drops slide down your throat, his breath hitches as you gulp them down. “Fuck, look at you. So beautiful…”

The edge of his thumb swipes through the moisture gathered at the corner of your eye, and his expression shifts, almost pensive, voice dropping to a whisper as if he’s unaware he’s speaking. 

“Those eyes of yours… I can see everything in them.”

Something twists in your chest and you whimper, staring up into his gaze, so dark and beautiful and all-consuming you could lose yourself and find yourself in it at the same time. 

For you all for you -

His thumb dips down to trace the corner of your mouth, slide through the saliva that’s dripping there, gaze drifting down your body, a caress of its own. “You look incredible like this, that perfect mouth around my cock. Want to keep you just like this, for hours, all night -“

A moan rumbles low in your chest, the imagery of his words flashing across your thoughts and slicing deep into your need, sinking beneath as if to the core of you, and suddenly you’ve never wanted something so much in your life. 

His breath escapes him in a rush, cock throbbing against the roof of your mouth. “Would you like that, beautiful? Keeping my cock all warm and wet for as long as I want?”

Yes yes please -

You try to make a sound to confirm but it comes out as a whine around the thick of his cock, a garbled mm-hmm that’s almost indecipherable. 

The muscles of his thigh jump beneath your palm, as if straining against the urge to move. “Fuck, sweetheart, you are just - “

A strong pulse of his cock sends a spurt of tangy bitterness over your tongue and you revel in the taste of him, letting it seep into your tastebuds and your skin and imprint on your tongue. 

He grits his teeth, a grunt squeezing between them. “You make me wanna -“

His hips flex and roll and his cock glides along the length of your tongue -

 Yes more -

A squeeze to his thighs, urging, and he thrusts gently, a soft moan slipping past his lips, lilting with relief. 

You easily take the movement, so careful it barely pushes the head of his cock over the back of your tongue, humming in encouragement. 

“Fuck.” His hands shift, hold the sides of your head, firm pressure guiding you up and down again. “Doing so good for me, take my cock so well in this fucking perfect mouth.”

Again -

And you sink into the motion, let him guide you, trust him to push just far enough, aware of his intent gaze drinking in every single muscle twitch, every tension, every movement of your eyelids and analyzing to ensure your comfort limit was untouched. 

Safe safe always safe with him -

You lose yourself in it, the slick glide of his cock along your tongue, the silken skin and pulsing heft caressing every ridge and dip of your mouth. The taste of his pleasure, hot and bitter and uniquely Marcus. 

And the gentle thrum of need, pushing you closer to him, drawing you tight until you’re inextricably woven through with him, strands of his want tangled with your own desire so much so that the pull of pleasure, the throb of impending release, becomes more than physical, shifts into something other, something like - 

That place your mind went to, when the pleasure haze weighed so heavy it pushed you into that thick quiet, that level of existence deeper than skin and bone, deeper than blood. 

You can feel it, embedded into the two of you. It’s deep, it’s a soul permanence. 

It’s everything you’ve never known you wanted. 

Marcus grunts as his cock hits the back of your throat. “Feels so good, I’m gonna come, fuck.” His grip on your hair tightens just a bit, brows furrowed in concentration. “You gonna take it for me, beautiful? Drink it down like you begged me to do?”

You can’t move in his grasp as he rocks his hips, cock thrusting along your tongue, so you dig your fingertips into his thighs once, a quick, silent yes. 

“Good girl.” Another short thrust, warm brown eyes pinched at the corners, plush lips falling open with panting breath. “Eyes on me keep them on me -“

His voice stutters into a groan and his cock jerks hard, smooth head grazing the back of your mouth and the urge to gag is enough to pull tears but then he’s coming warm and soothing down your throat and that craving swarms over your body -

Yes yes yes -

You gulp it down greedily, eyelids tempted to flutter shut at the feeling of him coming apart in your mouth. 

But you resist, obey, and you see it, see the burst of pleasure flood his features, the slack after the drop where tension bleeds from him, the softening of that warm brown that’s now threaded through your own soul. 

The craving soothes, loosens its grip, rolls into a weighted ball of satisfaction that drags pleasantly at the corners of your eyes. 

He takes a deep breath, tremors of pleasure still running under his skin, in his hands as they move from your hair. 

His gaze is incredibly soft when he gently eases his cock from your mouth, grabbing a tissue from the nightstand to wipe away the drool collected on your chin. 

You relax, let him clean you up, content to bask in the afterglow of satiation. Lean your cheek against his thigh when he’s done, let your body sink into the bed. 

There’s a pause in his movements, a hesitation that captures your focus, and you look up at him questioningly. 

He’s worrying at his bottom lip, a small crease forming between his brows, and you know what he’s thinking. 

You slip your fingers between his, drawing him back to you, and press a kiss to his knuckles. “Thank you. For giving this to me.”

He goes still, a flurry of emotions racing across his face, and you catch a glimpse of uncertainty, smile softly because it’s absurd to think you have any regrets, but his concern is so essentially Marcus. 

Turning, you press a kiss the inside of his thigh, unfurl his fingers in yours to kiss his palm, meet his gaze over the web of his thumb. 

The breath escapes him in a rush, eyes widening and lips parting in something close to awe, words falling soft and cracked. “What did I do to deserve you?”

Something is hidden there, under those words, it’s laden with old hurt and you don’t like it, so you sit up and shift forward, cup his face in your hands, wait until that brown gaze meets yours again. “Marcus. Can you do something for me?”

“Anything.”

The immediate reply makes you smile, caress his cheekbones with your thumbs. “Repeat after me.”

He swallows, realization already dawning in his gaze, and you can see it, the doubt, ready to shut down whatever it is you say next. 

It’s easy to recognize, having seen it in your own eyes for so long. 

You keep your voice steady and sure. “I am brilliant.”

His hands suddenly grip your waist, fingers digging in slightly as if trying to find purchase, find an anchor. “I am brilliant.”

“I am capable.” You can’t help it, lean in to dust a kiss over that small crease between his brows, smiling when it disappears. 

“I am capable.”

“I am exceptional.”

He sighs, eyes closing for a moment before opening to look at you with an emotion you can’t name yet. “I am exceptional.”

Your heart swells as he says the words, and it’s probably the closest you’ve ever felt to pure joy. 

Then he’s smiling back, and kissing you as if he can sense it, that bubbling happiness, or maybe because he feels it, too. 

Another soft press of lips, then you slowly pull away, some urge calling you back to where you’d been, and you shift to lay between his legs again. 

Pure contentment pulses gently through your body as you rest your head on his thigh, revelling in the feeling of his warmth surrounding you, inside you, curling an arm around his waist to hold him close. 

His gaze follows you, lids heavy, warm brown peering down at you as he rests his head back against the wall behind the bed. 

A curl slips over his forehead, and your fingers twitch to brush it back, but you’re far too content to simply lay here, looking at him. 

At the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. 

Something flits through his expression, too fast for you to catch it, then he takes a deep, steadying breath, gently cups your cheek in his hand. 

The weight of it is soothing, and with the warmth his thigh beneath your cheek - you close your eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by sensation, by the evident care he has for you. 

When you open your eyes again, he’s calmly studying you, a soft smile playing at his mouth. “I never thought…” 

His voice wavers just a bit before he regains control, pushes out the words. “I never thought I’d have this. Have you.”

The emotion in his gaze pulls you in, entwining, rooting you impossibly more to this moment, to Marcus. 

You know exactly what he means. 

This sense of peace, comfort - home - had always been a fantasy, before. 

Now, it’s real. 

It’s right here, with you, with Marcus. 

Your fingers thread through his and you pull his hand from your cheek, kiss his knuckles before raising your joined hands to press over the centre of his chest. 

Softly, the words flow easily from you, ghosting across his skin in time with the beat of his heart under your hands. 

“You have me, Marcus. I’m here.”

*****

Next: coming soon!

Previous: Part Two

[fuckyeahaudiodrama]

REC: Clockwork Bird

“A philosophical horror podcast about a missing cyborg and the people looking for him. Robin Jaeger is the most synthetic man in the world. And he’s possibly been legally dead for over a decade. Shelly Croft is putting the pieces together, hoping the trail to Robin Jaeger will also lead to her finding her ex-girlfriend, who was obsessed with the company who made Robin’s limbs, and has also disappeared.” (x)

30 episodes / av. 15/25 mins apiece

this is genuinely one of my favorite audiodramas of all time. it truly makes the most of the medium, and the narrative is perfectly paced to allow each character to shine without distracting from the horizontal movement of the plot.

the overall balance of the story is admirable. robin is the fascinating center of the mystery, thoroughly haunting the narrative, but protagonist shelly really holds her own. she is not merely present as a means of unveiling someone else’s story; in fact, her personal drama is inextricably tangled in robin’s obscurity in a way that feels very natural — rather than forced — and provides a reasonable explanation for the risks that she continues to take. at no point should you find yourself skeptically asking “why is she bothering?” it’s clear there’s a compelling interest, and you will be dying to find out what it is.

additionally: my personal favorite part of listening to first-timer indie AD is when you get the chance to hear the technical skills of the creator improving over the course of the show. i find it so inspirational. this was a great example of that, and in fact, those improvements follow through to the creator’s next (unrelated) show, Spirit Box Radio!

the premise of this story alone raises a number of hairy ethical questions, and none of them are hand-waved away. to really appreciate this story you have to be willing to approach medical ethics including euthanasia, themes of suicide and self harm, and corporate usurpation of human bodily autonomy.

this story originated as a concept for a novel and you can tell just how gorgeously crafted it is. i for one cannot wait for creator eira to get published someday.

__

similar to: this story is unique in a very good way. other fragmented sci-fi mysteries like Janus Descending might tickle your fancy, or the ethical quandaries of Red Valley and BBC’s Body Horror. but i can’t think of another audiodrama that handles this brand of grief quite so poetically. feel free to point me to some.

[vagabondfirelily]

aurum

→ AO3

Faint morning light hits Essek’s eyes behind closed eyelids, making him shift and scrunch up his nose at the disturbance of his slumber. He floats in the gentle in-between of wakefulness, enveloped by the smell of fresh sheets and the blazing warmth of a body pressed against his side that permeates his very bones.

Lips brush his bare shoulder, soft and light, leaving lingering kisses along the slow way upward, accompanied by a familiar scratching of a beard. Warm puffs of air tickle his skin and Essek groggily arcs his arm back, hand impacting something solid with a slap before rolling back onto his side.

The body behind him yelps quietly in surprise, then laughs airily. Essek’s ear twitches at the sound, hears safe and home, and he begins to drift again. He hides his face in the pillow and curls up into a ball in the comfort of the sheets. An arm snakes its way around his middle and a face buries itself in the nape of his neck with another gentle kiss.

Consciousness comes to him slowly, each second languid and cloying like honey, not used to the vice of true sleep. It would have been inconceivable once to give up control like that, surrendering completely to the entrapping spell of nothingness. But here, where the bed is soft and warm and the body next to him so familiar it might as well be his own, there is only blissful peace.

Essek blinks his eyes open, shaking off the last of sleep that still clings to his eyelashes and lets himself feel the weight of his own body. The sweet, sweet ache in his hips, the dull sting on the inner side of his thighs. Phantom trails mapped out by Caleb’s eager hands and fervid lips. Essek’s body soft and pliable, warmed by another. Given freely to be claimed, then taken apart with such care and worship only to be put back together with just as much piety.

He shifts, stretching his legs with a contented sigh and turns onto his back. His eyes catch Caleb’s, already waiting for him with a smile on his face.

“Did you sleep well, Schatzi?”

How blessed he is to get to hear Caleb’s rumbling voice first thing after waking up. How lucky. He lets out a breathless laugh, then hums in affirmation.

They look at each other, time drawn out with comfortable silence. Essek traces the contours of Caleb’s face with his eyes. The slope of his nose, the shape of his lips. The love of his life.

With a quiet exhale, he turns to lay fully on his side, facing Caleb, and reaches out a hand. His fingertips ghost Caleb’s jawline before moving to cup his cheek, tangling slightly in long loose copper hair, messy with sleep. Caleb’s smile grows impossibly fonder, eyes melting with love. His lips press a reverent kiss to the inside of Essek’s palm just as his hand comes up to cradle Essek’s gently in his own.

Essek stares at him, transfixed. He stares at him like he’s the air that fills his lungs, the promise of the future. Like he can’t believe he gets to have this.

He tugs Caleb’s hand into the space between them, suspended in the air, then begins to spread out Caleb’s fingers with his own. Caleb watches his movements silently with a curious glance, offering no resistance as Essek brings their hands together. Palm to palm. Finger to finger.

He rotates them like this, gently, slowly, studying the differences with the eye of a scholar. Small scars and papercuts shine golden on Caleb’s broad hand in the morning light and Essek notes how his own is slightly smaller, slightly more slender. His nails are a bit longer, fingers a touch slimmer, less calloused, bones more delicate. The dusky purple of his skin in perfect contrast to Caleb’s warm light tones. Two opposites. Two pieces of one whole. Eternal, everlasting. Inextricable. A perfect fit.

Caleb laces their fingers together, his touch careful but firm, and lays their joined hands on the bed in the middle of their beating hearts. They hold each other’s eyes full of unbridled love like two mirrors, with soft smiles on their faces, unfettered by any worries.

Essek basks in Caleb’s warmth and touch, safe and loved, and closes his eyes. They can stay in this bedroom, their own little world, for just a few more minutes. Like this. Just a little while longer.

[e-wills-afterhours]

Yay prompts! Forehead kisses! Palm kisses! Hugs from behind! Soft affection makes me melt

A/N: You want soft Hiccstrid, I'll give you the softest Hiccstrid, my friend. You know how I do. *cracks knuckles* Obviously, I write in my own AU where RTTE never happened. This should surprise no one by now.

Rating: T+

Softly, Tenderly

------

The first few moments of wakefulness could be disorienting. If the night that preceded it was wild, and the sleep was deep enough, one could almost forget who they were and where they had collapsed before they drifted into vivid dreams, almost sure to be forgotten in the morning.

Hiccup found himself staring at the ceiling, putting colorful pieces together in his grogginess, until the wooden beams that crossed above his head and the familiar scent of old pine reminded him that he was home, in bed. Completely unremarkable a thing, by most standards.

What escaped him still was when and how he ended up there. Vague memories of food and drink, song and games, drifted to the forefront of his mind; all lingering thoughts of the Einherjar feast that went well into the night. Berk knew how to celebrate and honor its dead. Mead and beer flowed freely. It was a small triumph he could remember anything at all.

He rubbed his eyes then looked to his left. Toothless snoozed peacefully in the corner of his bedroom, with his large head resting on folded claws. Satisfied that his dragon was accounted for, Hiccup looked to his right, with growing awareness of another warm presence in his bed--which he had not anticipated.

His stomach flipped, and he sat bolt upright. Upon doing so, he realized, beneath his furs, he was completely and unabashedly naked. Also, minus one metal limb.

But the tousled blonde hair, unbound and strewn over his spare pillow, was familiar. The rise and fall of his companion's curves were as committed to memory as her delicate scent of rosemary and juniper, which greeted him like a hug. He could drown in it, let it consume him.

The momentary panic of alcohol-induced amnesia faded into relief and adoration. Astrid was beside him, just as naked and vulnerable as he was. She looked so peaceful, breathing slowly and rhythmically.

Like the glow of candlelight emerging from the darkness, flickers of their night together grew brighter and clearer in his mind: unhurried kisses and confident hands had carried them into the wee hours of the morning. Their clothes lay scattered about his room, her tunic as inextricably tangled up with his pants as their limbs had been, in throes of all their passion and sweat.

He leaned over and brushed haphazard strands of gold from her face, tucking them ever so carefully behind her ear. She was as beautiful when she slept as she was almost every waking moment.

"Astrid?" he murmured, placing a loving kiss on her neck. For good measure, he planted another one behind her ear, lingering a moment longer than he had with the first, closing his eyes and savoring the feel of her skin against his lips.

She stirred, humming to herself with a stretch. He stifled a laugh as a carless fist almost connected with his face. It would not have been the first time, but his reflexes had improved. Taking her wayward hand, he kissed the back of it before holding it safely against his chest, hoping the sudden beating of his heart would not startle her.

"Hiccup?" she whispered thickly, opening her eyes and blinking in bewilderment.

He smiled as she worked through that same initial confusion that he had, putting all the night's fragments into place.

"Good morning, you," he said, pulling her back against him, until their bodies met, oh-so-perfectly.

She did not resist, surrendering to the warmth of his skin on hers. They breathed together, and there was nothing better.

"Good m-mornin'," she yawned as he wrapped his arms around her, releasing her hand. "I almost forgot..."

Hiccup kissed her shoulder and she sighed, sweet and contented.

"Mmn. I'm glad you didn't," he said; he wanted her to recall every blissful moment, and every honeyed word he had told her.

She arched back into him, craning her neck until the tip of her nose brushed his cheek. Tender, fluttering kisses fell along his jaw. One of her hands snaked its way up to his hair, her nails lightly grazing along his scalp, making him shiver. She tugged on the little braids he left there for her, grinning. Only she could ever touch him like that; she had his heart, so she had the rest of him. She laced her fingers with his, of the hand that rested on her belly. Her thumb brushed affectionately over his minute scars and freckles, before she brought his hand to her lips.

"I don't think I could ever forget the things these hands can do," she murmured, before placing a couple of appreciative kisses on his palm. They tickled but left behind a subtle warmth all their own.

He smiled, and they shared a kiss before touching their foreheads together, blonde and auburn bangs mixed together. She turned into him, chest to chest, thighs against thighs, in a relaxed embrace.

"I don't want to go," she admitted, tracing idle patterns over the faded scars that adorned his chest--light, affectionate touches. "This is nice."

"Then don't," he replied. "I certainly won't make you." She felt too good, too right, in his hands.

Astrid shook her head. She sat up and began gathering her messy hair behind her head.

"You know I can't," she said, deftly weaving her hair into a loose plait. Her skill in braiding, particularly when her mind was elsewhere, was awe-inspiring. "People will talk."

Hiccup scoffed and rolled onto his back, arms folded behind his head. "People already talk. It doesn't bother me."

Astrid smirked. She bent over and kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose, which he wrinkled playfully. "It's different for you."

He frowned, cursing the double standard he'd rather not acknowledge. "I know, I know..."

She caressed his face, and he leaned into it. "One day, I won't have to sneak out of here. By then, I bet you'll be dying to get rid of me."

"Impossible."

Her blue eyes twinkled. "Oh, yeah? You won't simply 'get used to it?'" she teased, adopting one of his more common phrases.

"If I'm used to it, then I'm probably dead."

Astrid laughed, and it was a beautiful sound. She threw her arms around him and curled into his side, head on his chest. He did not often have cause to feel like her refuge, because she seldom ever wanted or needed one. In such moments, where she relinquished control and dropped her tough exterior, she gave into the comfortable pleasure of being held by him. He draped an arm around her, trailing his fingers up and down her hip, delighting in the goosebumps that arose with his touch.

"A couple minutes more maybe..." she said, giving him a fond squeeze.

He caught her beneath the chin and tilted her face up so their eyes met.

"As much time as you need," he replied, and kissed her forehead.

And they clung to each other no longer concerned with cheap gossip and the passing hours. All that mattered was the warmth between them, keeping the rest of the world at bay.

[your-art-is-gay]

Vampire Knight Art Book (Part 2)

The illustrations in this art book are so gorgeous, and so detailed, that I just had to highlight some of my favourite to share with y'all.

Again, apologies for the phone camera photos. It really doesn't do these drawings justice.

I think it's interesting that it's specified that this is Zero's school uniform. Especially since it's kind of funny to me, picturing Zero taking enough care to meticulously hang up his uniform.

Ruka's butterfly pin, Akatsuki's necklace, and is that Kaname walking away from them in the background? Fascinating... Especially since Seiren seems to be following him, but is looking back, as if unsure of her actions...or of his.

One of my favourite pieces, hands down. The colours, the design of her dres, the cathedral windows in the background---ugh! So pretty. I have to highlight the rose detail on the hem of her skirt and the design of her gloves.

Another thing to note: the fang necklace. One thing I noticed throughout the book is that the fang symbol is associated with Zero, and yet he's never actually depicted in blue (at least in this art book). Yuki and Kaname are shown in blue or associated with blue several times, but never Zero.

The description of the image doesn't say who the mysterious blue-clad hand is, it does say that the image is "alluding to farewell." So is Yuki saying goodbye to Zero? Or does the mysterious hand belong to Kaname, and the fang necklace tangled around her hand is symbolically representing that she's thinking about Zero?

Speak of the silver-haired devil! The detail I wanted to make note of here with this illustration is the chain hooked onto his belt loop---the chain that's usually attached to his anti-vampire gun, Bloody Rose. Notably, however, Bloody Rose is missing, the chain broken. He's vulnerable. Defenseless.

I didn't take a close-up shot of it, but this is also one of the illustrations where Zero's tattoo doesn't look like a tattoo---it looks like a scar. I don't know if that's an intentional symbolic choice or not, because the way it's rendered is somewhat inconsistant between illustrations. Interestingly, unlike the anime, where it has the stark black appearance of a tattoo, most of the illustrations depict it as silvery, like his hair.

I just...love the details on this coat, holy crap.

Two things to note: the vampire skull shape of his ear cuff (fuck, I want one) and the blade motif on his shoulder.

The blade is another symbol very often associated with Zero, obviously referencing the fact that he's a slayer, and the dagger designs on his tattoo. In this particular drawing, it's also combined with bat wings, which are obviously associated with vampires (both in general, and distinctly in this book), symbolizing his duality as someone who is both slayer and vampire.

Interestingly, the vampire skull motif is seen elsewhere in the book---almost always associated with Kaname.

Lots of details with this one.

Firstly, if Zero's motifs are daggers and a single fang, Yuki is inextricably associated with roses. They're everywhere when it comes to her. I wanted to make note of this bracelet, just because I think it looks neat, and also her earring---a rose and a dagger, symbolizing the both of them. I think that's neat.

Secondly, the Cross Academy Crest. Yuki usually wears it as a necklace, but here she has a charm clipped to the sash at the waist of her dress---because we don't see her necklace? I dunno.

But what's interesting is that Zero also has one, so dark that it almost blends into his coat, and hanging from a bat wing decoration on his coat.

Thirdly, Zero's bat wing ring, which, besides being super cool, further pushes that connection to vampires---maybe because Zero has accepted himself as one? After all, he and Yuki are clearly sneaking away for a quick bite...

And, fourthly...does Zero have a belly-button piercing?!

This is one of my favourite Yuki outfits. It's amazing how it actually looks like velvet, and all of the detailing on the white embroidery and the pleats at the cuffs and neckline is just... *chefs kiss*

I could probably talk symbolism with the key on the rosary, or with her being behind a gate, but...I don't wanna.

This one is interesting, because it shows us details of the uniform that aren't present elsewhere! Like the silver tips at the collar corners, the tie pin,and the Academy crest on the shirt pocket.

[missmisdemeanor]

There Is No Point In Staying Anywhere - Dean POV Meta

i've been thinking a lot about deanjohn in the context of the fic i'm writing (as one does when they've been staring at it for months) and i'm thinking about how dean sees john.

john's right about things, john keeps them safe, john's nice- his other behaviours are justified, or outliers, or something. ultimately, there are some people who can do anything to you and you'll still believe, fundamentally, that they're good people.

there's a turning point where justifying actions turns to rationalizing them (which i’ve experienced with my own parent, albeit under less extreme circumstances). a young dean believes john is noble to leave them alone at night, he's out being a provider and protector. an older dean feels hurt and neglected, he's been touched by john in inappropriate ways, and he thinks "dad's a deeply damaged person. he's been through war, he's been through mom dying. of course the way he shows love is rough around the edges. i can't hurt him more, he's been through so much already. i'm all he has." and ultimately he loves john, and he doesn't want to upset him. when you have a volatile parent, you build your life around their feelings, the maintenance of their happiness, the possibility of their anger.

it’s not so cut and dry though. he feels guilty for the moments he resents john, for when words like “assault” and “abuse” kick around in his mind- because he’s not being beaten, after all. john would never do that to him. he’s being unfair, he thinks, expecting john to act perfectly after losing dean’s mother. he’s being dramatic. and sam of course, can never see this conflict, because he wants sam to feel safe, to have a real family.

and the complexity continues; there’s an amount of love and pleasure and validation dean gets from john. he wants these things from his father in some sense, he wants to feel loved and taken care of, so he accepts it in whatever form it comes in, and learns to rely on it. learns to at least convince himself that he wants or enjoys it.

there's some coerced consent going on within dean, the way we try and convince ourselves we want something that's wrong or uncomfortable or downright dangerous. if you’ve ever been through convincing yourself to sleep with someone because you want to feel loved, you get it. 

dean loses his sense of self being treated like a piece of john, the object of john’s “love” rather than the subject of his own life. it’s hard to conceive of a life away from or without his father, or even a version of himself that isn’t so inextricably tangled up with john’s emotions and desires. through a mix of neglect and john’s clearer vision, sam gets to develop something closer to a real identity. john sees him properly as his child. but the way john idolizes and glorifies dean (then swings into anger when real life doesn’t match), is ultimately deeply dehumanizing. there’s no room for simple feelings and everyday worries in john’s grand narrative, no room for homework help or bedtime stories or any of the normal kid stuff. there’s a fundamental disconnect between what john sees and what dean is, a normal child– not unlike the contrast between the true dolores haze and the concept of the nymphet.

ultimately, it serves to make dean feel like a passive figure watching his own life. attempts to find or exercise agency are never successful or painless, which only proves how stuck he is to himself- , and this hopelessness is impossible to contain. the distress puts a wedge between him and sam, the only good relationship in his life, which contributes to the isolation, which contributes to the hopelessness, and so on.

[henryrodhamkissinger]

You should read Clarice Lispector. Read the short stories “Imitation of a Rose,” “The Smallest Woman in the World,” “The Chicken” (sometimes translated as “The Hen”) and the rest of them but those are three standout pieces that showcase her singular voice in two of its most frequently used cadences.

Lispector is something special, of a piece with a tradition of modernist Jewish writers of short fiction like Kafka—my favorite artist of any medium in the world and the writer to whom she’s most frequently compared—and Walser (whose bizarrely enchanting immediacy and easy meandering through the world as though it were right before you, unmediated by the written word, nobody remembers but Kafka himself was once hailed as “a strange and intriguing young expressionist in the vein of Robert Walser.” Kafka was even charged with imitating Walser by some of the really Extra stupid early critics.)

What these poetic and enigmatic early 20th century Jewish writers had in common is probably something close to “immediacy.” In Kafka’s short works, his parable-like fiction, this is obviously more evident than in grand experiments like The Castle. I won’t speak to the specific ways that each of these do this except as an introductory passage to what’s so fantastic about Lispector, largely because if you get me going about Kafka I will be Tumblring all into the night. That is the verb the kids use, correct?

By immediacy I mean that in the short works of all three of these writers, one is plunged headfirst into a world. There is no procedure, there is no paperwork, you read the first lines and you simply inhabit the piece. And they are strange habitats in different ways (I am biting my lip til it bleeds trying not to Say at Length about Kafka but I’m doin this for the Ladies out there who are the victims of violent erasure by the phallogocentric textual economy of blarrdeblafgh).

Lispector’s womanness, though, IS pretty inextricably germane to reading her work. Her Jewishness less obviously so, less than in the case of Kafka: Lispector’s family fled the Holodomor in Ukraine when she was a toddler and she spent nearly all of her life in Rio, Brazil—her ethnic/religious ties are all tangled, as she makes some note of. On a very shallow reading of Lispector’s stories, one could see a comfortable bourgeois housewife, dutifully and blissfully happy to serve her Important Diplomat husband as her day job and do her little stories when she had some time away from the chores of a housewife. Take a look at this picture of her—she certainly garnered a reputation of the sort. No Gertrude Stein or even Anne Sexton modernist rebel woman here, a precocious learned talent who “looked like Marlene Dietrich and wrote like Virginia Woolf.”

I love Woolf immensely but it’s as though Gregory Rabassa picked a modernist writer out of a hat with this comparison. “She’s a pretty broad AND she can write, like ehhh some other dame who can write…I dunno, Hildegard von Bingen or some.” Lispector’s stories are like Kafka’s and Walser’s in that their brevity and immediacy gives way to a sense of parable. Very little similarity in terms of style, beyond this important formal feature, to any of the above mentioned writers or to any writer I’ve ever encountered.

Of course her inner life was hell and she smoked about an oil drum of cigarettes a day, and hid her scowl or devious smirk behind fashionable sunglasses—she put her hell on paper in the form of something sublime, and stylistically almost cherubic, stories of Goyaesque consuming darkness masterfully written with the deceptive simplicity and airiness of a song for children. Just as her stories seem to erupt out of the soil of the earth, their subjects are consumed by some element or another of oblivion, of returning to that chthonic, nourishing nothingness. I will nurture because this is how things are, but I want to be nurtured, not by you, not by God, but by death, at least by its glimmers offered in life — she seems to say.

The Totally Other is another expression of this void, and in stories like “The Smallest Woman in the World,” she examines, with granular psychological sensitivity, what happens when people see something totally alien to themselves, the obverse of what they believe themselves to be. All throughout this conceptual preoccupation (really, a straightforward obsession), her stories present themselves in the most lively form, her bestiary of incidental characters given such life it seems as though you could stop reading the words on the page and they would still speak to you nonetheless, in a voice, seriously, that you can hear. It’s thrilling in an easy and light way, and it is simultaneously something fearsome, powerful, numinous. She is quickly becoming perhaps my second favorite writer of any style or genre. Read her stories.

[girl-meets-wolf]

Spiraling Out, A Symphony in Motions

I've been realizing, as many have, that I've been placing so much emphasis on what comes next. "What's one to do? What can we even do? It all seems so hopeless."

And, indeed, there's so much to be so concerned about. World politics. Changing of status and values, endless precarity and violence the worlds over. It's so easy, natural even, to be scared. To feel vulnerable. To feel afraid.

And it's not something that can be easily solved, remedied, smoothed over, lied about, patched up, sequenced into a small little story where all the small little characters lived happily ever after the end. I've been falling into traps, thinking that my life is a movie and that there will be some small "Rising Action" moment when everyone recognizes the violence being inflicted and chooses to follow the paths that only emphasize their autonomy and community.

For me what I'm coming to realize is that in no small way, there's something to be said for living for the moment and seeing what occurs. There's no one sentence, no one semblance of truth that will *INSTANTLY* spark that change in yourself or others. There's some moments where things slide into place, when our discs meet our disc drives and everything make sense.

It's a cascade.

Don't you notice how the hands of the trees reach out to meet you? How the swimming tadpoles take their time to develop? How roots and branches will spiral around obstructions to continue on growing? We are *longing,* BEGGING to be interacted with. "Someone, please love me. Please see me for who I am. Make me exposed and share of my fount of life with me. I've been needing this."

During these times, it's no one small action that will make the difference and completely topple every facet of the institutions that continue to choke and stifle not only our creative potentials but those of the planets and its individually gorgeous collective components.

It's a feeling process.

It's a matter of learning.

It's a teachable moment.

And it's not up to you alone.

You have the power to change yourself, and in no small way that's the stuff that carries out and transforms, completely envelops all those who you come across with no noticeable effort on your part.

This isn't to say that any one spiritual path or "enlightenment" will be able to just change the world instantaneously. If we all believed that internal change creates external results then we'd maybe be skipping through the forest together and deciding which dandelions to pick and which ones to leave alone.

That being said, it's worth everything, all the finest jewels in the drawer, all the smallest pieces of silver, all the smiles of those who have been touched by a small moment of joy, to exist. As you are.

It's not something that someone can so easily take away from you: it's not some interesting facet of yourself that's inextricably linked to yourself or to those you surround yourself with.

It's this experience that's important.

This one, right now.

It's not off in the future.

It's not achieved after x amount of meditation or spiritual energies.

It's not something to tangle yourself in webs over.

Just let go.

And succumb to the love that exists right now.

[lutoogyan]

Ecovacs Deebot T9+ Review: Smells Sweet

In practice, TrueDetect 3D 2.0 worked really well. I’ve been cleaning with it daily, or even twice daily, for a month now, and I’ve had no missed cleaning jobs or stoppages where it trapped itself in the bathroom or got inextricably tangled in embroidery floss or several large Lego pieces. There is only one pain point that’s annoying, and even that is not so bad. The dock is in our carpeted…

[violetasteracademic]

Master List

Violetasteracademic found here on AO3!

Elriel:

Rated: Explicit

Status: In Progress Multi-Chapter

Summary:

After nearly losing both her sisters once again, Elain Archeron decides to take the growth of her powers into her own hands. Things may not be going as she would have hoped, but when the Crown is stolen, it is finally time for Elain to serve her court and show her family what she can do. The search for the Crown winds up being a job for the seer and the shadowsinger, the male she has fallen for but barely spoken to after an unrequited wish for a kiss. Azriel has been careful to stay away from Elain, trying his best to follow his High Lord's orders. But as they are forced to work together to protect their court, his resolve begins fading more quickly than he can manage. As they search for the Crown, they become trapped in a castle of treachery, vengeance, and twisted fates. If they cannot find their way out of it, they risk becoming lost there forever, or killed. And if they can't keep their hands off each other, they might finally have to face the mountain of obstacles standing in their way at the home that awaits them.

Click here to read on AO3

Click here for the chapter list

Rated: Explicit. Please read the warning tags on Ao3 before diving in!

Status: Completed Multi-Chapter

Summary:

Elain Archeron has been split into pieces. After falling for Azriel, the broody and mysterious Illyrian male, they steal a quiet moment late in the night on Solstice. She was certain their feelings were mutual, but his rejection sends her into a tailspin. Lost, heartbroken, and confused, Elain wonders if she has truly gone mad once again. With the pressure of her mating bond, threats looming over the Inner Circle's shoulder, and the weight of her visions on her shoulders, Elain struggles to keep her spirits up. Little does she know that Azriel, after being ordered by his High Lord to stay away from her, has been concocting a secret plan to change the tides and give them a chance at happiness. If he can find what he is looking for, it will change everything.

Click here to read on AO3

Click here for the chapter list

Feysand:

Rated: Explicit. Please read the warning tags on AO3!

Status: In Progress Multi-Chapter

Summary:

Feyre Archeron is an art therapist for the children's cancer wing at Velaris Memorial Hospital. After leaving her abusive fiancé and moving back in with her sisters, her plans to heal and move on with peace and privacy go up in flames when women begin to come forward with sexual harassment allegations against her ex, Tamlin Thornwood. Rhysand Noctis is the owner and CEO of Eventide Enterprises. After losing his mother to cancer, he has felt adrift. No amount of money and acclaim has been able to give him the sense of home and belonging he has lost. When an old family rival, Tamlin Thornwood, is tangled up in a scandal and lawsuits, Rhysand learns that Velaris Memorial Hospital is in trouble. The only non-profit hospital in Velaris, which cared for his mother, has lost all its donors and board members. Rhys decides to purchase the hospital and dedicate his time to restoring its reputation and making it a safe place for women and the community of Velaris to work and receive affordable care. A chance encounter sends Feyre and Rhys colliding with each other before they realize how inextricably their personal and professional lives are already intertwined.

*This is part one of a three part, three brothers and three sisters series

Click here to read on AO3

Nessian:

Rated: Explicit. Please read the warning tags on AO3!

Status: In Progress Multi-Chapter

Summary:

Nesta Archeron doesn't need anyone to take care of her. After losing both her parents at age eighteen, she gave up her dreams of going to law school and worked her way up with nothing more than a high school diploma and unmatched grit to become the head of public relations at Velaris Memorial Hospital. When Tamlin Thornwood scandalizes VMH, she has to work closely with new ownership to save it. She has full confidence in herself and her plan. However, Eris Vanserra, her rival at SkyView, is out for blood after Nesta won over the youngest Vanserra to VMH. And she now has to answer to Cassian- a man she has already sworn to hate before learning his name. Cassian has a chip on his shoulder in an industry where name, money, and education is everything. And restoring the reputation and the financial security of VMH is personal to him. Complicating matters is Nesta Archeron, the fiery PR director working side by side with him to ensure the Starfall Ball is a massive success. Difficulty maintaining their professional lines is fueled by both hate and attraction. But as layers peel back, they learn that they have more in common than they thought. But lines are crossed that might be impossible to come back from.

Click here to read on AO3

*This is part two of a three part, three brothers and three sisters series

Short Form (poetry, drabble, one-shots):

In Time: @elainarcheronweek 2024

Read poem here

A Rainy Day in Velaris: Elain Aecheron inbox request

Read drabble here

Art/Collaborations:

Elain Archeron Portrait: @elainarcheronweek 2024

View here

[gotatext]

JUDE & JENNY — DAY THIRTY-ONE.

location :   lounge area.

time :  breakfast !  

description :  jude and jenny fucked three times so the least he can do is cook her some heinz beans and sausages. 

featuring :   jenny  /   @blondcs​

𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗱𝗲���𝗽𝘀𝗲𝘆.

with all the fucking fry ups, it’s a wonder jude hasn’t put on a dad bod by now. he’s starting to get a bit of a pouch, or at least a stomach that’s slightly less of a 90° than it was before, but that’s probably down to the beer. maybe he’s trying to bulk out, pack on the gains before he packs on the muscle. he probably won’t have to even pay for a gym membership when he gets out — they do all that sponsorship crap now if you’re vaguely known on the internet. at any rate, jenny’s still dead to the world when he returns from the kitchen with two plates loaded with food. he rests them on the arm of the sofa as he nuzzles back beneath the duvet beside her, trying not to spill any beans. the vague stirring is enough to give him the go ahead to nudge her awake, “wake up jenny…” whispered against her ear. it takes a few goes of this before he gets another stir out of her. jeez. she really does like to nap. “oi. wake up, sleepyhead. i made brekkie.” plucking a crispy sausage from the plate, he holds it towards her mouth. “you eat meat, right?”

𝐣𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐡𝐞𝐧

she comes to slowly, not like being blinded by the lights in the bedroom. a quick feel around explains it—she’s got her sunglasses on already, either woke up just enough to fix them into place or jude did her a major solid. she hums her appreciation either way, slightly chapped lips tugging into a lazy smile that’s promptly interrupted by a massive yawn. “ugh, i’m up, i’m up,” her gravelly voice insists, pulling jude back into her warmth, legs twisted through his and clinging to him where she can. she thinks she could fall right back asleep, but the promise of breakfast has her taking the plunge and tipping her shades back onto her head, squinting at him through the sudden flood of light. or at least at the sausage he’s holding to her mouth. “reminds me of college,” she teases, leaning up to snap her teeth down around the tip, having to do it again to work through the skin and actually manage chewing off a piece.  “damn, excuse my shitty incisors.” it’s surprisingly delicious, nice and well done like she prefers, though the rest of the plate looks questionable. beans for breakfast? as if she needed the reminder he’s totally british. she pushes herself up to sitting, still wrapped up the duvet, one side serving as an oversized hood—it’s probable he was only rationed a small corner of the blanket during the night, the rest inextricably tangled around her. “mmm, i can’t believe you made me food.”

𝗷𝘂𝗱𝗲 𝗱𝗲𝗺𝗽𝘀𝗲𝘆.

his own sunglasses are kind of campy, novelty ones shaped thin like an aliens eyes with a green frame, the kind you’d see at an acid techno rave, but they do the job all the same. he’d found hers in a pile of crap besides dante’s bed, slid them over the bridge of her nose like a real-life game of don’t wake dad before he went to crack eggs against the pan. even now, in the early morning afterglow of it, her body’s still anchoring itself towards his, legs twisting around his knee, she coils himself around him like climbing ivy. it’s fucking cute. “you went to college? what did you study? were you like… one of those sorority girls that all live together like in the house bunny?” honestly, watching jenny bite off the end of the sausage like that is kind of inducing some castration anxiety, but he keeps his wincing to himself, shoving the rest of the sausage into her mouth with a snort the moment she finishes speaking.

“obviously i’m gonna make you food. like… it’s fucking bad manners to fuck someone and not even make them breakfast.” there was a time in jude’s life where he’d leave a girl’s house the moment the shagging part was over, but in recent years he’s realised it’s the bit after the shagging, where you’re just lying there feeling kinda weird and hollowed out, and there’s someone’s arms around you or their cold feed against your shin — that’s the bit he likes the most, and the domestic stuff like showering together and asking how they take their tea and all the crap that comes with waking up in an unfamiliar house.  he needs to have a conversation with jenny about whether this thing between them was just a one-night rebound, or actually something, but he’ll let her finish eating before he starts trying to hammer out the minutiae of what are we. once they’re settled, he moves both plates from the arm of the sofa to rest in their laps against the duvet. already, he can see them spilling condiments and shit all over it, but for once that’s not his problem. “don’t let your hashbrowns go cold, they’re the best bit.” 

𝐣𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐡𝐞𝐧

"mhmm, and we only ever wore pink teddies and had pillow fights and we were all cheerleaders with tight little playboy bodies," she rolls her eyes, elbowing him through the blankets. "because i get along so well with other girls?" it's meant to be a joke, but it hits a little too close. "yeah, no. no sorority. no degree either. i lasted like, two years and then..." she fishes a hand out of her cocoon to gesture a total nosedive. "wanted to go for art but obviously that's stupid and just, a shit ton of money to be shelling out for like, glorified networking opportunities or whatever, and my dad wouldn't pay unless i did something 'practical,' so... got a half-finished communications degree." the irony, of course, being that it was practical—she learned just enough about marketing to turn her shoddy youtube account into a whole little brand that earned enough revenue for her to quit waitressing. not bad for a drop out. "how about you? you secretly a frat star?" she may not have been in a sorority, but she may as well have been in a fraternity. her lip curls, eyes livening up with the banter. "suck some guy's dick in a maid uniform just to get really good at shotgunning beer in a house with no toilet pap—" she's cut off by the rest of the sausage being pushed down her mouth, snorting a laugh and baring herself in the process of freeing her arms for a good-natured shove. "jude! i could've choked!"

it's super tasty, though—kind of reminds her of home, going to the diner with her mom and ordering breakfast no matter what time of day, 8am, 8pm, even the middle of the night when heather would pick her up from a night out and they'd try to save her the hangover. she shifts the blanket, tucking it up under her arms like a tubetop, eyes finding his with an appreciative scrunch of her nose. "i fuck lots of people without making them breakfast," she teases, rubbing her hands together as he moves her plate onto her lap, trying not to move too much for fear of spilling the beans. "but it's really not obvious." she tries not to think about the last nice thing a guy here did for her and how that turned out, or romi's taunt, the fact that they had jude and dante all but fighting over who got to make her breakfast. comparisons are her worst enemy, though she can't seem to resist the urge to fall down that rabbit hole every once in a while. she's watching him again, trying to figure out where his head's at, if he's minutes away from turning cold and awkward now that they had sex or if that stage won't rear its ugly head until romi and dante come strolling back through the doors, hand in hand. hashbrowns, right. her eyes drop to her plate, carefully scooping up a bite before leaning over him to ditch the knife—she'd rather just struggled with the side of the fork if she needs to, one less piece of silverware to juggle, then her gaze is back on him. she nudges his shades down so she can steal a peak at his eyes. "so... last night was fun, huh?"

[kittttycakes]

I'm gonna go with 30. "Make me yours." because!!!! 👀👀 Reasons!

pairing: Morpheus x reader/OFC x Hob Gadling

rating: E

contents: third person POV, she/her reader/OFC, no use of Y/N, established relationship, smut (dirty talk, worshipful sex, some very light power dynamics), it’s just all irredeemable throne room smut, 1k

notes: every time I say “this is the most explicit thing I’ve written” but this time I think I really mean it

There was a note in their rooms in the palace, as if Morpheus needed a note to know where they were. There was no part of the Dreaming more inextricably linked to him than the castle itself, and the throne room was its heart. No one who he did not wish to enter could do so, now that he had returned to his full power. This hardly applied to the two of them, however, as he nearly always wished for their presence, and they came and went as they pleased throughout the palace, when they were in the Dreaming.

The writing was slapdash - Hob’s - on a piece of paper torn from what he hoped was not one of the books Lucienne watched over. In the throne room, it said, come join us when you can. He had, blessedly, no other business for the day, and was at leisure to make his way to them both.

The great arched doors were shut, the corridor surrounding it deserted, as two suits of armor stood guard outside. They parted as easily and smoothly for him as the sea might, allowing him to slip inside. The doors shuttered back into place behind him, locking out the rest of the realm, something he was immediately deeply grateful for. He would have no one else see this.

She was seated on the throne—his throne—in a robe that resembled his own, although while his was the deepest black of the night sky, hers was the softest shades of the coming dawn, and perilously open. Were he able to see more clearly, he was certain she was in a state of what could generously be described as undress, although his view was currently impeded by Hob’s kneeling form, one of her legs draped over his shoulder, his head bowed between her thighs.

Her head was tipped back against the throne, one hand tangled in Hob’s hair as she pulled him closer to her, the only sound that of her breathing—soft, hitching, occasionally shot through with a low moan—and the nearly inaudible sound of his mouth against her. Morpheus stood for a moment, taking in the sight before him and determining how to fit himself into this game, one clearly designed with him in mind.

As he stepped forward, footfalls echoing, her eyes snapped open, mouth forming a soft ‘oh’ of surprise. “Hob—oh, god—Hob,” she tried again, more insistently, the hand in his hair pulling with sharper intent than before. Hob, for his part, merely groaned against her and stayed as he was, and she arched up with a cry, his name on her lips as she came.

Hob only pulled back when Morpheus’s hand settled in his hair, tugging him back gently but insistently. He smiled up at him, charming as ever, even with his cheeks flushed and mouth slick with the evidence of her arousal.

“Is this what I was meant to join you in?” he asked mildly, moving his hand to cup Hob’s cheek, thumb brushing over his lower lip. “You appear to have already finished what you started.”

“Hardly,” she laughed, breathless, reaching out to catch his hand in hers. She brought it to her lips as she sat up, robe spilling open around her. “We’re just getting started.” She drew his hand down, down, until she could guide it between her thighs with a soft gasp, sensitive to even the lightest touch.

He brushed his fingertips over her, watching her face, as she closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. Hob leaned back on his hands, content to watch the two of them.

“You would dare, in this throne room, on my throne, in the very heart of my realm?” he asked, no real anger behind his words, as he slid first one and then two fingers into her, her hand now grasping the arm of the throne, head tipped back. “Is this how you would claim it as your own, when everything in this room is mine by right?”

“Then make me yours, too,” she said with a soft moan, arching up against his hand.

“You were so commanding a moment ago, every inch the queen. Where is that now, your grace?” It was the tone of his voice that did it, surprisingly gentle, teasing, but so resonant she imagined she could feel it down to her bones.

“Please—I’ll beg if you want me to.”

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

It wasn’t fair, the way Morpheus could shape every piece of the Dreaming to his will. She hardly had a chance to blink or to register movement at all before she found herself in his lap, thighs spread wide, her back to his chest as he sat back against the throne. His hands framed her waist, holding her still.

She could not see what gesture he may have made behind her, but then Hob was in front of her, kneeling up to kiss her slowly. He still tasted like her, and she moaned softly against his lips. She nearly cried out when she felt the first press of Morpheus against her, his hands guiding her down on him until she was flush against him, her breathing uneven, still slightly over sensitive.

“Was this what you had planned?” he asked, and she shuddered, his breath warm against her skin. “Taking me, in front of an audience of one? Letting Hob see just how well you welcome me inside of you? Showing him exactly how much and in how many ways you are my own, as I am yours?”

She found it in herself to nod, even as Hob continued to kiss her. He made his way down her neck, stubble catching against her skin, causing her to shift slightly, the sensation a perfect counterpoint to every point of contact she shared with Morpheus.

“Then by all means, beloved. Go on.”

She wanted rather badly to break that cool exterior, to hear his breath hitch, to feel him slowly loosen some of the control he held on to so tightly. Hob shifted back once more, eyes dark as he settled to watch them, content in the knowledge that he would not be left wanting.

She braced her hands against the arms of the throne, and began to move slowly, head falling back as a low moan escaped her lips. They had all the time in the world. She could pry apart that iron control of his, make him hers as much as she was his, and still have time to draw Hob back in, to fit him to her like a matched set, safe and wanted between the two of them.