#become it anyway sometimes but just for a moment just for a day

[todoriin]

x : TOUCH ME NOW *+ﾟ

in which: you help sunday through a predicament. a part 2 nsfw to this sunday fic.

warnings: 3k wc,MDNI or u fail ur next test, afab!reader but no pronouns, sex pollen trope, oral (m receiving), fingering, idk how in character sunday is but i blame it on sex pollen, sunday busts like multiple nuts, wall sex that then becomes bed sex, riding, creampie, unrealistic sex, unprotected p in v, emotionally charged sex towards the end, multiple rounds.

a/n: there are so many warnings i'm kinda ashamed. anyways, i hope u enjoy! i'm never gonna look at this again lol

A feverish heat clings to Sunday, racking shivers up his spine. Warmth suffocates him, expanding to all edges of his body- legs, chest, head, there’s a particular stubborn sensation that clings to his core. And his pants.

It must have been because of that mysterious substance that befell him during the mission. At first, it was a stinging in his nose and eyes that eventually faded, but after a while the real side effects kicked in, and he concluded that it was some sort of material that enhanced… sexual needs, if the growing stiffness in his pants was any indication. He excused himself from the group, and darted back to the hotel at record pace.

Curled up on his made bed, the linen sheets are a mild balm against his hot skin, coat and shirt discarded the second the hotel room locked behind him. Hours have passed since he separated from the group but the symptoms still stubbornly fester in his gut, falling and rising but never fading, sticking to his being like glue. 

It’s already painful enough on its own, but you just have to be on the other side of the hotel door, knocking and knocking, asking if he was alright in that sweet, concerned voice of yours. 

Things have been… awkward since that incident with you in his room. He hasn’t been able to look you in the eye since, and Sunday’s positive the entire Express can tell that something happened between you, just not entirely sure what.

Having a good memory can be a curse sometimes, and because of it, he hasn’t been able to forget the feel of your warmth atop him, and the paralysing fear when he realised just how strong his desire was. Sunday won’t deny it, even back in Penacony when he was the strict and rigid Head of the Oak Family, there were undertones of attraction that stirred in his heart when he first got to talk to you, but they were quickly buried, just as he was taught to do years ago.

Now, in closer proximity and freed from shackles of duty, he can’t help but let the desire roam wild, peaking at the incident that occurred not too long ago.

A siren’s song. He’s going to give in to your call. 

He opens the door no more than a crack, letting your voice come through loud and clear.

“Sunday?” Your tone is gentle, kind, treating him like a wounded stray that would run if you got too close. In some sense, he is, except he thinks if you got too close, he’d pounce on you and do what he’s been thinking of doing for days- weeks, even.

Except in his barely-lucid state, he thinks it might be worse.

“Can I come in? Mr Welt told me you were unwell and separated from the group when March and I went away.”

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, strained.

You raise a brow. “You’re clearly not. No offense but… you sound a bit worse for wear.”

“It’s alright, I can manage alone.”

“Yes but you don’t have to, I’m happy to help.”

“I don’t think this is something you might want to stick around for.” 

With each passing moment that you turnaround his rejection, Sunday feels his sanity slipping and pants growing tighter. And when you raise your eyebrows again in defilement, he just wants to pull you in and sink you both to the floor, reduced to a puddle of limbs where neither of you can tell where he ends and you begin.

“How bad can it be?” You whisper and all fighting spirit leaves him. He lets you inside.

As soon as the door clicks shut, you’re putting a hand up to his forehead, testing his temperature as if his entire face wasn’t flushed, pale skin heating up to an uncharacteristic pink. You seem to be avoiding the obvious issue that’s happening in his lower body.

“What happened?” 

“I- uh, was hit with something,” he groans when you steps away.

“Like hay fever?” You ask, still somehow innocent and unaware.

He never thought he’d need to spell this out to someone. “Like extreme arousal.”

Your eyes widen and your mouth forms a small ‘o’ in realisation, eyes trailing down to his bare torso for a mere second before meeting his gaze again, as if deciding how to word the next sentence you want to say. 

“Would you like some help with that?”

In any right state of mind, Sunday would be double checking that what you said was right. That he wasn’t hearing things. However, in a lust-ridden state where he can’t even tell north or south without thinking of the incredible stiffness in his pants, he says what he thinks is most logical.

“Please.” It’s no more of a whimper, but you hear him loud and clear because next thing he knows, you’re cupping his face with bringing it to yours, tongue parting the seam of his lips. 

Sunday backs you up against the hotel door. You seem eager, that delights him. 

With the invitation pressed into his mouth, he uses it to lick into your mouth, exploring and reaching wherever he can, tilting his head slightly for better access, overpowering whatever control you had previously exerted over him, just has he’s dreamed of. Biting on your bottom lip, he feels saliva dribble down his chin, wetting his skin. He separates from you to catch the trail, kissing down your chin and going even further, lips meeting the dips and curves of your neck as you gulp, overwhelmed by the onslaught of affection. 

It’s your hands that remove your shirt, pulling it over your head as he continues his flurry of kisses, eventually stopping near your sternum. It’s your hands that exposes you- all of you, to him, letting him near his mouth and hands to your breasts. He squishes and pinches your left mound as the right one is enveloped by his lips where he spits and suckles, the sound so unabashedly wet that it shoots straight down to your core- where you need him the most. So you roll your hips against his and enjoy the vibrations of his moan, mouth still connected around you. You do it again and this time, his grip tightens, parting from your breast with a satisfying pop. 

Crazed hunger gleams in his eyes and you sink to your knees before him. 

“Let me take care of you,” you mutter breathlessly, now eye level with his member. His very obviously, very painfully hard member. Your hands make quick work of his pants, unbuttoning them as Sunday does the work of discarding both his boxers and the pants, leaving him naked before you, cock hitting the base of his abdominals. 

It’s an odd sensation to present yourself so wholly to someone for the first time, especially when your most private parts are in the other person’s face, but Sunday’s mind is too far away to feel ashamed. Not when your hands crawl up and play with the angry, swollen tip of his dick.

“This looks so painful,” you mutter. “How long did you suffer for?”

“A couple hours,” he confesses through stifled teeth, feeling your hands move up and down along his shaft. You’re toying with him, seeming so sympathetic to his current condition when the only thing you’re doing is making it worse, the heat flaring hotter and hotter than he thought humanly possible in his abdomen. 

It’s like torture, but he never wants you to stop. Never wants you to leave.

“Poor thing,” you coo. When you kiss his leaking tip, he collapses against the hotel door, bent arm catching him against the hard material. From this perspective, Sunday gets to watch you take him whole, his cock disappearing into your mouth inch by agonising inch until you stop just short of the base. It is so filthily wet and warm, and his skin glistens from your saliva when you move back, only to take him again, tongue sliding over the veins of his incredibly sensitive member. 

The pleasure is overwhelming. It feels like everything and not enough, all at the same time. He wants your mouth to be hugging him like this forever, but he wants more, wants you to sink into his ligaments and press this feeling of pleasure into him permanently. Wants his muscles to remember the sensation of your tongue and lips, and how your spit mixes with his precum as small whimpers and moans leave him.

A hand comes to the back of your head, and Sunday begins to move his hips in tandem with your actions, and a surprised sound rings from the back of your throat when he forces himself deeper into your mouth. He does it again and again, wings fluttering as a coil begins to tighten in his lower half.

“I’m- I’m close,” Sunday whimpers. “Don’t stop, please, I want to- I want-”

The pleasure climaxes and hot ropes of cum shoot into your used mouth, dribbles out when it’s too stuffed to stay in, falling down the curve of your lips, down your chin, and landing on the floor or your body. He feels like ascending. This has been the high he’s been craving, the solution to the mania Sunday has been subjected to.

It is still not enough. He watches you swallow his cum, using your finger to clean around your mouth, and gulps when his dick springs to life again, aroused by the sight alone. 

Only a fraction of his issue has been solved it seems, because neediness still burns hot in his veins, and he needs you so pathetically bad. Needs to press you against the nearest surface just to take you again and again. 

Your eyes widen at his hard cock again.

“Still not enough?” You ask, voice slightly hoarse from being used. 

“More,” he groans, and presses his mouth against yours when you rise from your knees, pressing a flurry of kisses against your lips, mixed with moans as words are spoken against your mouth. “Want more of you, let me inside.”

You nod against him, hands coming up to hold onto his shoulders, desperate for the anchor. “Please.” 

A hand traces over your hip and moves down to your core. Two fingers part your folds, letting two digits sink into your wet entrance, collecting your slick as he glides in and out, feeling the constriction of your walls around his hand. 

You cling to him tighter, resting your forehead against his shoulder as you deal with the onslaught of blinding pleasure, heightening when his thumb plays with your clit, rubbing circles and moving the nub up, down, left, and right. It’s mind-numbing, you don’t know what else to think of except the pleasure he’s bringing you. 

It’s torn away when he retracts his hands, heated golden gaze staying locked with yours as he licks himself clean. An act so obscene that it leaves you speechless, all coherent sentences slipping from your brain as Sunday holds your leg up to his hip, allowing him more access. 

He grinds his hard length against you, sliding it along your wet slit, sometimes catching your clit, causing you to jolt in his hold. Your breath is heavy with anticipation as you claw at his back, unable to take anymore of this gentle torment, walls clenching around nothing when his tip rests against your entrance. Sunday’s testing you, teasing as his perceptive, golden gaze never strays away from your expression, analysing every micro change as he slowly, slowly, slowly eases in, feeling every movement of your walls parting to make space for him.

You’re constricting him, pulsing around him so tightly that it’s getting harder to breathe, harder to think straight without fucking into you so recklessly that you leave an imprint on the door. His lust-filled brain wants to, but the composed part of his mind knows to give you time to adjust first, even if you’re wet enough for him to move freely. 

However, it seems that he’s too impatient himself. 

A sudden warmth floods your walls, gushing hot white as Sunday rests his forehead against you, shuddering, laboured breaths heaving out his chest.

“Did you just… cum?” 

“Yes,” he pants, wings fluttering lightly as he recovers from busting his load without warning.

Your hands move to play with the hair at the base of his neck, twirling the strands as you wait for him to come down. It’s alarming that you can already feel him getting hard again. Just how strong was this pollen? 

“Sorry, it’s just… I haven’t felt anything this powerful this before.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur, holding his cheek. “Sunday, use me. Don’t hold back.” 

With your blessing, he regains his footing and slowly retracts his hips, almost sliding out of you before thrusting back. You moan right by his ear, nails clawing his skin. The pace of his movements stay slow, methodical as he splits you open, but with a last few rolls of his hips, Sunday begins to pick up the pace, listening to his frayed mind as the wet sound of skin slapping skin fills the hotel room. 

Your whimpers of his name are soft as he keeps moving, holding your leg higher to his hip for more access as he relentlessly bullies himself into you, reaching even deeper parts of you. Mixed essences coat your skin, the last load he spilled into you falling out and dribbling from your entrance, and down to the apex of your thighs. It sounds obscene every time he thrusts into you, and the pleasure makes you bite into the junction of his neck- a coping mechanism against the searing build up in your abdomen.

He’s thrusting into you so deep, hitting a sensitive spot over and over again, causing you to see stars on the edge of your vision. 

“I’m almost there, please, don’t stop,” you’re puffing against him now, gasping for air when his hand suddenly crawls between your bodies, rubbing your clit in the exact way he did before, intensifying the pleasure as it shoots through your nerves.

Without warning, you gush all over him, walls spasming around his cock as he continues chasing his own high, hands squeezing you harder as he grows sloppier. Then, with a muffled moan, he lets go and spills hot semen into you, his hips stuttering flush against your pelvis as he presses himself as close as possible. 

Both of you pant erratically, still coming down from the high as you cling to each other with vice grips. He nuzzles into your shoulder, wings and silver hair tickling your skin. His is still feverish, burning and hot against your body. You can’t even remember if he grew hotter since you first began, but it’s hard to think about it when Sunday’s still nestled inside with no intention of leaving any time soon.

“Are you okay?” You ask softly, careful not to break the delicate atmosphere.

“Yes,” he murmurs. “I’m feeling… a little more clear-headed now.”

“That’s good. Should we move away from the door and sit on the bed?” 

He slips out of you and you wince at the feel of thick fluids dripping out of you and down your inner thigh. Sunday is at least conscious enough to sit you down and go grab a towel, gently grabbing your ankle to stretch your leg, patting your skin gently to rid the traces. Despite how methodical and tender he is, he can’t hide his growing erection, even if he’s diligently avoiding looking at your spent cunt. 

“This… predicament of yours must be stubborn,” you joke when he takes a seat next to you, unable to meet your eyes.

“I think this one might be mostly my doing.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Really.”

Without hesitation, you swing a leg around and straddle him, sitting daringly close to his cock. “Need a little more help?” 

He groans through gritted teeth when you roll your hips, teasing him with a half-lidded look, lips turning into a smirk. You will be the reason for his demise, an obsession growing in the depths of his mind.

“If you are fit enough, don’t exert yourself for me.”

“But I want to help,” you pout at him. 

Yes. Something like obsession. 

Sunday’s hands are vice grips on your hips as you lower yourself down on his dick, the familiar stretch causing you to wince, but his touch is grounding as he places a flutter of kisses on your face when you’ve lowered yourself completely, the back of your thighs meeting his. You watch as his face contorts with pleasure, gaze focused on where you’re joined. 

“You feel so perfect,” he murmurs. “I’ve been dreaming of this, I can’t believe it’s real.”

“Dreaming? How so?”

“Ever since that… day, where you visited me in my room,” he grunts, “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you, to stop desiring you, I felt it was better for the both of us if I just kept my distance since then.”

You cup his cheeks, placing a kiss on his nose before you move, rising before slamming down, causing the both of you to moan in sync, his being more of a whine. Repeating the movement a few times, you feel wet droplets landing on your hands, and you stop moving out of surprise, the ichor falling from his eyes catching you by surprise.

“Sunday, are you-”

Catching the liquid gold with your thumbs, you are so devastatingly careful handling him that he might just cum again, decorating your insides with white for the fourth time that night. He barely just holds on, though, for the sake of his own sanity. 

Although he almost snaps when he feels you catch a tear with your lips, and then you clench around him- oh, this is the recipe for his downfall.

“You will drive me crazy.” He whispers as he holds onto your wrists. “T-This… this is incomparable. I-I want you like a man starved.” 

Then, without warning, he rolls you around so that your back is on the bed and he’s the one on top. Climbing between your parted legs, he carves a space for himself in your arms, infatuation glazing over his expression. 

“Let me show you how badly I crave you.” 

© TODORIIN 2024, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[surielstea]

Solstice Special

(SFW version)

Pairing: ACoTaR x Fem!Reader (separately)

Summary: A compilation of drabbles with a theme of Winter Solstice, just an excuse to write fluff really.

Warnings: All fluff! One allusion to smut (rhys), but that’s it!

3.7k words.

Rhys - Mistletoe

I leaned against the archway of the foyer, sighing as I reached down to unbuckle the straps of my heels. The day's weight still clung to me, but the familiar warmth of home promised relief. One shoe off, then the other, I barely registered the soft sound of hurried footsteps until they were practically upon me.

Rhysand rounded the corner from his office, his usual grace momentarily abandoned as he skidded slightly on the polished hardwood floor. My brows furrowed at his urgency. "What's wrong?" I asked softly, my voice laced with curiosity and a hint of concern.

He didn't answer, not with words, anyway. Instead, his hands cupped my face, firm yet tender, tilting my head up to meet his descending lips. His kiss was sudden, warm, and commanding, leaving me breathless before I had a chance to even think.

Still, I kissed him back, my confusion melting into a hum of contentment. When he pulled away, his violet eyes sparkled with mischief, and his lips curled into that devilish smile that always unraveled me.

"Welcome home," he murmured, his voice rich and teasing.

I blinked up at him, dazed. "What was that for?" I managed to whisper, still feeling the lingering heat of his mouth on mine.

His grin widened as he silently pointed above us. My gaze followed the gesture, landing on a sprig of mistletoe dangling from the archway. I couldn't help the laugh that bubbled up, shaking my head. "Did you hang that up?"

"I did," he replied, looking awfully pleased with himself. His pride was almost endearing, considering I had done all the rest of the decorating. The garlands on the banister, the wreath on the door, the lights twinkling softly in the windows—all my handiwork. And yet, he stood there, so smug about his singular contribution.

I grinned, shaking my head as I leaned up on my toes to press another quick kiss to his lips. "I think it's my favorite of all the decor," I murmured against his mouth.

He hummed his agreement, his hands sliding down to rest on my hips. "I know," he said, his tone entirely too self-satisfied. "I'll expect full credit for it."

From that day on, the mistletoe became a tradition—one he refused to let go of. Every day when I walked through the door, he'd be there waiting. His excuse was always the same, a playful glance upward and a husky, "You know the rules."

Usually, the kisses were soft, sweet. A lingering press of his lips against mine followed by a quiet, "I'm glad you're home." Sometimes he'd brush his thumb along my jaw or press his forehead to mine, his eyes saying what words never could.

But on other days—those long, grueling ones when exhaustion was carved into every line of my body—his kisses were different. They were hungrier, more insistent. He'd pin me against the wall, his hands roving over my waist, my back, his touch dissolving every ounce of tension. His mouth would trail to my neck, his voice a low murmur, "Let me take care of you." And he always did, in ways that left me breathless and melting into him.

There were moments when I wondered if the mistletoe had been an innocent gesture at all, or if he'd hung it up knowing it would become something more—a way to anchor us, to carve out a pocket of intimacy amid the chaos of the world outside. If so, I couldn't complain. It was the best idea he'd ever had.

The archway and its ever-present dangling plant became our quiet haven, an unspoken ritual that drew me closer to him every day. And it was the last night of the Solstice Season, meaning all the decorations would go down tomorrow. So when I came home I expected rose petals leading up the doorstep and candles to illuminate our last kiss beneath the dangling plant.

But when I walked inside, I found him waiting for me, not beneath the mistletoe, but by the window, a glass of wine in his hand. The soft glow of the moonlight framed him like some sort of painting, his silhouette a study in elegance and ease. He didn't notice me at first, his attention fixed on the snow drifting lazily outside.

I paused in the doorway, letting the sight of him settle in my chest. He was dressed in more casual clothes—a loose, charcoal-gray sweater and black slacks—and for a moment, I could almost forget he was the High Lord of Night, the most powerful male in Prythian. Right now, he was simply mine.

"Are you going to stand there staring all night?" Rhysand asked, his deep voice cutting through the quiet. He didn't turn, but I could hear the amusement in his tone.

I rolled my eyes, stepping into the room. "You looked peaceful. I didn't want to ruin the moment."

He glanced at me over his shoulder, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You could never ruin anything." Setting his glass down, he turned fully, holding out a hand. "Come here."

I hesitated for only a moment before crossing the room and slipping my hand into his. His fingers closed around mine, warm and sure, and he guided me toward the window. "Look," he murmured, nodding toward the snow.

I followed his gaze. The world outside was blanketed in white, the kind of snowfall that muffled all sound and made the world feel smaller, quieter. It was beautiful, but I couldn't focus on it for long. Not with the way he was looking at me.

"You're not even looking at the snow," I accused softly, glancing up at him.

His lips twitched. "Why would I, when you're here?"

I let out a breathless laugh, shaking my head. "You're shameless."

"Always," he agreed, pulling me closer. His hands settled on my hips, and I found myself instinctively wrapping mine around the back of his neck, head resting on his chest as I stared out the window. We stood there, swaying slightly to a rhythm only he seemed to hear.

After a moment, I tilted my head up to look at him. "You going to kiss me anytime soon?"

"Desperate, are you?" he countered, one brow arching.

I gave him a pointed look. "You're the one who started all this."

He sighed, a dramatic sound, but the way his hands tightened on me gave him away, he couldn't deny me.

He leaned forward, smiling as our lips nearly met but didn't quite touch. I huffed, rising onto my toes and closing that gap to kiss him. It was slow and deep, a silent confession of everything I couldn't say. He responded immediately, his arms tightening around me, grounding me.

His hands ran up my hips, large hands gripping my waist, the warmth of his touch seeping past my clothes as he pulled me closer and deepened our kiss, attempting to pour all his love into this one moment.

By the time we pulled apart, I felt lighter, the weight of my long day dissolving under his touch. "Thank you," I whispered, my fingers brushing over his jaw.

He smiled, that familiar, self-assured curve of his lips. "For the kiss? Or for being perfect?"

I laughed, shaking my head. "For this. For you."

His smile softened, his gaze turning molten. "Always, my love." He pecked my lips once more, slowly pulling away with his forehead against mine. "Always."

Az - Cookies

We had made a mess. Flour clung to the entire front of Azriel's black shirt, standing out starkly against the dark fabric, while dye from the frosting stained my hands in streaks of bright colors. The countertops were a warzone of cookie cutters, unused dough scraps, and piping bags in every color.

But neither of us seemed to care. Azriel focused on his latest creation with the precision of a Spymaster turned confectionery artist, the perfectly golden-brown sugar cookies serving as his canvas. I was still shocked he hadn't devoured the one he was decorating, considering he'd been snatching cookies fresh out of the oven all afternoon.

We weren't officially competing, but if we were, I'd be losing. Horribly. His cookies looked like something straight out of a Winter Solstice display—ornate wreaths, perfect bows, and snowflakes so detailed they might have been drawn by hand. Meanwhile, my snowman looked like he'd been through a blizzard and lost the fight. His crooked smile mocked me from the plate.

With a defeated sigh, I cleared a small space and hoisted myself onto the counter, leaning back on my hands to watch my mate work. I didn't understand how he was so good at manipulating the frosting—it seemed to defy my every attempt.

"Are you pouting?" Azriel asked without looking up, his deep voice carrying a hint of amusement.

"Something like that," I replied, unable to keep the pout from my tone.

"This was your idea, might I remind you," he said, a soft laugh rumbling in his chest.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered, waving him off. "I remember."

Azriel placed the piping bag down with deliberate care, adding yet another masterpiece to the growing plate of decorated cookies. Finally, he looked up, those hazel eyes warm and alight with quiet humor as they locked onto mine.

Without a word, he stepped forward, settling himself between my legs. His hands, still dusted with flour, rested on either side of my thighs as he leaned in. The kiss was soft, sweet—lingering just long enough to make my breath catch. When he pulled back, his lips curved into a slight smile, dimples appearing as though summoned just for me.

"You taste like frosting," he murmured, his voice low and teasing.

A soft giggle escaped me before I could stop it. "You're not entirely innocent either." I poke his chest.

He tilted his head, pretending to think, but the mischievous gleam in his eyes gave him away. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," he said at last, his lips twitching into a smirk.

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't help the warmth blooming in my chest.

Cass - Snowmen

"Using your powers is cheating," Cassian declared, gesturing toward my much more impressive snowman. His own creation, barely the size of a pre-schooler, leaned precariously to one side, a lopsided grin smeared across its face.

I scoffed, smoothing the snow on mine as I used my magic—honed in the Winter Court—to form the snowman's perfectly symmetrical, smiling expression. "Don't pout," I said, throwing him a smug grin. "It won't make your sad little snowman any better."

His gasp was loud and exaggerated, and he stomped through the knee-deep snow toward me, hands on his hips like a scolding parent. But the rant he was about to give cut off as his gaze flicked upward. He tilted his head back, dark hair dusted with white as fresh snow began to fall.

The soft flakes drifted between us, one landing perfectly on the tip of my nose. Cassian grinned, leaning in to brush it away with his lips before stealing a kiss, his mouth warm against mine. The cold melted away as I wrapped my arms beneath his jacket, hugging his solid torso against me. His hands pressed against my back, pulling me even closer.

But he leaned too far into the embrace, and the next thing I knew, we were tumbling backward into the snow.

I squealed as I landed with a soft thump, the freezing cold biting into me as I flailed. Cassian laughed, his deep chuckle loud and unapologetic as he flopped onto his back beside me.

"You're such a brute," I muttered, trying to brush the snow off my hair.

"And you're such a sore loser." He grinned, turning his head to look at me, dark eyes gleaming with amusement. "Thought you liked the cold?"

"I do." I glared, my cheeks flaming as the cold snow beneath me only seemed to grow colder.

"Then stop whining and enjoy it." Before I could argue, he swept his arms wide, his legs kicking out to carve a snow angel. The sight was so ridiculous—Cassian, a massive Illyrian warrior, lying in the snow and making an angel—I couldn't help but laugh.

"You don't need to use your arms, you already have arms," I said, flopping back beside him. "So ridiculous."

But I joined him, moving my arms and legs until a pair of angels stretched between us. He turned his head toward me, his grin softening into something warmer, gentler.

"I like this," he murmured. "Just you and me, acting like kids in the snow."

My heart clenched, the sincerity in his voice wrapping around me tighter than his arms ever could. I reached for his hand, our fingers lacing together in the snow.

"You're lucky I'm in a good mood," I teased, "or I'd bury you in it."

He laughed again, the sound full of unrestrained joy as he tugged me closer. His wings wrapped around us like a shield, keeping the cold at bay as the snow continued to fall. We lay there for a while, watching the snowflakes swirl down from the dimming sky.

Eventually, he whispered, "I'll help warm you up when we go inside—if you admit my snow angel is better than yours."

I rolled my eyes, a smile tugging at my lips. "Not a chance, general."

Lucien - Ice Skating

"Wait!" I called out to my mate, my hands trembling slightly as I tried to steady myself. My knees wobbled dangerously beneath me, the ice beneath the blades of my skates feeling far less forgiving than solid ground.

Lucien turned, easily as if he wasn't on blades. His golden eye shimmered with amusement, the hint of a small smile tugging at his lips. He looked as though he'd been born on skates, while I felt like a newborn fawn—clumsy, awkward, and certain I was seconds away from disaster.

I took a tentative step forward, my arms stretched out as if I could somehow will balance into my uncooperative limbs. The moment my foot moved, I lurched forward, letting out a squeak of panic.

Lucien was there in an instant. I grabbed his jacket instinctively, clinging to him as though he were the only thing standing between me and certain doom.

"Here," he said, his voice warm and steady, "hold my hands." He extended his palms toward me, his confidence so disarming that it made my own nerves feel a bit foolish. Slowly, ever so slowly, I released my death grip on his jacket and slid my trembling hands into his.

"There," he said softly, his thumbs brushing reassuring circles over the backs of my hands. "Be confident, or you'll fall."

"Easy for you to say," I muttered under my breath, glancing down at the ice with a mix of terror and defiance. "My legs are so stiff from the cold I feel like they'll snap in half."

Lucien chuckled, the sound low and rich, like molten honey. "Always so dramatic," he teased, threading his fingers through mine as he took a small step backward, gently pulling me forward.

"Just match my movements," he instructed. His voice was calm, soothing, and so maddeningly self-assured that I almost forgot my fear. Almost.

My brows furrowed in concentration as I tried to follow his lead. My legs refused to cooperate, my body too tense to glide smoothly the way he did. Instead, I felt like a lump of wood teetering on the edge of disaster, certain that at any moment I'd go face-first into the ice.

Sensing my hesitation, Lucien squeezed my hands, and warmth bloomed from where his skin met mine, chasing away the biting chill that had settled in my fingers. The warmth crept up my arms and into my chest, soothing me in a way that only he could.

"See? You're already doing better," he encouraged, his voice laced with pride.

I frowned up at him, catching the faint curve of his lips. "Stop laughing at me," I huffed.

"I'm not laughing," he protested, though his golden eye sparkled with amusement.

"You're smiling," I pointed out accusingly.

"Am I not allowed to smile at my mate?" he countered, his smirk widening.

"No," I shot back, though my voice lacked conviction. "Not when I'm one slip away from breaking every bone in my body."

He laughed then, the sound so genuine and warm that I felt my annoyance melt away. "You're not going to fall," he promised.

"And if I do?" I challenged, narrowing my eyes at him.

"Then I'll catch you," he said simply, his voice steady and certain.

Something in the way he said it—like it wasn't just about ice skating, but about everything—made me falter. I swallowed hard, the moment of vulnerability making me cling to him just a little tighter.

"Now," he said, his tone light and teasing again, "let's try this without you looking like you're walking on hot coals."

I glared at him, but I couldn't stop the small laugh that bubbled up. His confidence was contagious, and as I let him guide me step by step across the ice, I felt my body begin to relax.

The fear was still there, lingering at the edges, but with Lucien's steady hands in mine and his unwavering gaze fixed on me, I started to believe that maybe I wouldn't fall. And even if I did, I knew he'd be there to catch me.

Eris - Cocoa

I buzzed with excitement as I topped my steaming mug of cocoa with an indulgent swirl of whipped cream, crowning it with tiny marshmallows that spilled over the rim. The warmth of the drink seeped into my hands as I cradled the mug, savoring the simple joy of the moment.

"Love?" Eris's voice, low and laced with sleep, called from the hallway. I glanced up just as he peeked his head around the corner, his copper hair deliciously ruffled, his sharp amber eyes softened by drowsiness.

"Morning, Eris," I said softly, a smile tugging at my lips. He blinked at me, his expression still crinkled with sleep, and shook his head wordlessly before padding into the room.

Before I could ask what he was doing, he closed the distance between us. Gently, his hands slid over mine, tugging me away from the counter and into the hallway with the sleepy drag of his feet.

"Eris," I began, my voice full of curiosity, "what are you—?"

He didn't answer, his silence as warm and grounding as his touch. His hands in mine felt like slipping into a sun-drenched blanket on a crisp autumn morning. He led me to our bedroom, nudging the door open with a lazy kick. Releasing my hands, he turned to face me, his sharp features soft in the early light.

In one swift motion, his hands found my waist, and he pulled me down onto the bed with him. "Eris," I sighed as he reached for the blankets, cocooning us in their warmth.

"It's too early," he murmured, his voice raspy and thick with sleep as he nestled into the crook of my neck.

"My cocoa's going to get cold," I protested half-heartedly, but the argument died on my tongue the moment he tightened his arm around me.

"Just a few minutes," he countered, his words brushing my skin like embers. His fingers began tracing slow, soothing circles along my back, their heat melting away the last of my resistance. He pressed a featherlight kiss to my neck, and I couldn't stop the warmth that bloomed in my chest, spreading like wildfire.

"Fine," I whispered, my resolve crumbling under his touch. "Just a few more minutes."

His only response was a soft hum of approval as I ran my fingers through his unruly hair, combing it away from his face. His quiet breaths and the rhythmic heat of his touch lulled me deeper into the comfort of the moment. Before I knew it, I'd drifted off, enveloped by his warmth.

I woke to the sensation of gentle kisses—one pressed to my forehead, another to my cheek, and then the tip of my nose. I blinked my eyes open, greeted by Eris's amber gaze, glowing with unspoken affection.

"Morning," I rasped, my voice heavy with sleep. "Again."

His lips curved into a soft smile as he leaned in, brushing a kiss against mine. His fingers cradled my jaw, the gesture tender enough to steal my breath.

"Morning, love," he murmured, his voice still thick with sleep. His thumb traced the curve of my cheek. "Think your cocoa's cold now?"

My eyes widened as the memory hit me. I scrambled out of bed, rushing to the kitchen as Eris's amused laugh echoed behind me. I skidded to a stop at the counter, frowning down at the abandoned mug. Tentatively, I dipped a finger into the drink. Ice cold.

"It's ruined," I said, pouting as I turned to Eris, who had followed me with his usual unhurried grace. "It was the last of the cocoa powder."

He leaned against the counter, his hair still a mess from sleep, and shook his head with a smirk. "You forget who I am."

Taking the mug from my hands, he held it between his palms. Within seconds, steam curled into the air, and the rich scent of cocoa filled the kitchen once more.

I smiled, biting my lip as I looked up at him. "Show-off."

"There," he said with a grin, handing the mug back to me.

Rising onto my toes, I pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, savoring the warmth of his skin. "Thanks, 'Ris," I murmured, cradling the mug close as I took a tentative sip. The heat spread through me, as rich and comforting as the male watching me with sleepy affection.

"You're welcome, love," he replied, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face. His amber gaze held mine, filled with warmth, and I couldn't help but think there was no better way to start the day.

NSFW version here -> Link

General Taglist: @fxckmiup @olive-main @iluvyewman-blog @gaymistakeboi @glitterypirateduck @amara-moonlight @impossibelle @fauxdette @going-through-shit @glam-targaryen @hufflepuff-pa55 @sarawritestories @tele86 @rogerbarnesxx @azriels-shadowsinger @stinkinstuffie @sandramalikstyles-blog @sassyangel16 @lilah-asteria @starsinyourseyes @inloveallthetime @melsunshine @nighttimemoonlover @cookiemonsterwholovesbooks @cumuluscranium @adharanotfound @azrielsmate3 @aelincaddel @hiddlestonspassionsackx @dee-writes-smut @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @pit-and-the-pen @mybestfriendmademe @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @circe143 @bubybubsters @joshysloshy @username199945 @ivy-34 @notsarareallynot @vixenshiftsvrs @aurorab99 @pey2618 @loving-and-dreaming @mmg777 @andreperez11 @thatacotargirl @123345566 @one-big-fangirl @moonslitluna @imyherondale @salvawhxres @bookishbabyyyy @anuttellaa @breadsticks2004 @azriels-human @mamita-vera @demetercabingreen-thumb @lorosette @daughterofthemoons-stuff @tothestarsandwhateverend @ahaha0246 @mellowmusings @mythicalcookie

[windvexer]

I actually do think that doing magic takes a lot of work and is kinda hard and there aren't very many good shortcuts, and many modern shortcuts actually just amount to leaving out steps, which means you either have to be powerful enough to brute-force it or it fizzles.

Look, I know some people are just much better at magic and witchcraft; anything they do works with little effort, and the lengths some of us have to go to accomplish magic seems bizarre to them. Those people are cool and I wish I was like them but I'm not.

But I also think some of the truth of how to work effective sorcery gets paved over by these "witchcraft has no rules, do anything you want" support posts.

Because A) that is not true, I believe that witchcraft has lots and lots of rules (it's just that nobody else can tell you what they are), and B) I think do anything you want is taken to mean anything you do should work, which is also not true.

I feel like I always see advice given that you don't need to do things (like use physical tools, or cast circles, or whatever). But I never see anyone explaining the techniques and paths of power that are supposed to replace them.

Let's just imagine for a moment that clear quartz really is a universal substitute. Discordians would say that it totally is. So does that mean all you have to do to sub out clear quartz is to just put it on the altar and do the ritual as if it's something else?

Or do you have to do something more?

Do you have to consecrate the stone as being something other than what it is? Do you have to ritually birth it into a new life and baptize it like a baby? Do you have to spend weeks or months honing your technique of focus and beliefs so that you can mentally shift from consensus reality to a personal reality where there is literally no difference between clear quartz and sodalite?

Do you have to raise energies of sodalite and imprint them into the quartz crystal, perhaps working over it for an extended period of time? Do you have to use energy work to tie the clear quartz into Ideal Sodalite so that it becomes like an avatar?

No, you don't have to use physical tools if you don't want to. But that shouldn't be taken to imply that tools are useless or can be replaced in a way that matters by just visualizing that you have them.

A witch spends six months propitiating a tree, ingratiating themselves with the land, offerings and acts of fealty to the tree, a week-long branch harvesting ritual, blood offerings at midnight on a holy day, then another year curing the wood and crafting a wand. Big effort, right?

And you don't need to do that. But if you want that power, what are you going to do instead?

Same with circle-casting. Same with magic on the full moon. No, you don't have to wait until the full moon. You don't have to wait until the moon is in Libra. But there's a really good reason people do those things. So if you want those effects, what actions can replace those effects?

You literally could not do the spell while the full moon is in Libra. That's fine. But then what will bridge the gap? Will you have to raise more energy somewhere else? Include a new aspect? Modify the spell for the moon you can work with?

"You don't have to follow the moon phase for magic" doesn't mean the moon phase is irrelevant and some witches just like to inconvenience themselves for no reason. But it does mean that you can probably adapt your working to overcome the moon being in the inopportune phase.

Every time I talk about how much time, energy, and effort magic can be I feel like someone always replies, "well, it's just not that hard for me! I do what I want with what I have when I need it and it always just works, with very little effort."

Which I think is very great for them, but I also don't think that most people can get results with such low effort.

So anyway my entire point is that I think sometimes the reason people struggle with getting witchcraft to work is because they are operating off of out-of-context soundbites that make it sound like you can just completely cut out some of these foundational concepts of witchcraft.

Maybe you don't have to accomplish those steps in traditional ways. Maybe you don't need all of those steps for every spell you're doing.

But if you've just cut out swaths of steps only because you heard someone say you don't need them (not because of your own experiments working with magic and determining what works best for you), then is there enough left to constitute a functional system of magic?

[at-wicks-end]

in another life (you still would've turned my head) ; jw

vampire!john wick x reader fluff !! (lowkey a reincarnation au) ~2.5k words

notes: this fic is written for @treedaddymcpuffpuff for the keanuverse secret santa event hosted by @97keanu <333 i hope you like this!!! this is probably the longest thing i've written on this blog 😵‍💫 happy holidays🩷

John cares little for the snow. It’s not that he found it cumbersome or annoying; it’s just that when one has lived for as long as he has, shoveling the snow from the driveway becomes a little too tedious, even for one well-versed in tedious matters. Such was the nature of immortality—given enough time, even the most unique, spectacular experience becomes boring after a century. 

This task becomes herculean (or Sisyphean, John corrects himself) when said driveway was practically a third of the length of his entire estate, which was also in the middle of the woods. His eye twitches at the thought of the snow that would inevitably impede the driving of his beloved Mustang to the nearest town. With a heavy sigh, John casts one longing look at his car, as spotless and as pristine as the day he got it decades ago. He’ll wait for the winter to pass before he brings out his car for a drive. For now, he thinks reluctantly, he’ll walk. He has more than enough time anyway.

It doesn’t take long for him to get ready. All he does is put on his long coat and wrap a scarf around his neck before heading out. He has no need for it, but it’s easier to pretend to need it than to deal with the constant concerned looks from the townspeople as he walks around. It also helped him blend in with the rest of the people walking around, doing some last-minute gift shopping for loved ones at those ridiculously overpriced boutiques. John blows out the candles in the hallways as he walks to the foyer, running a mental checklist of the things he had to put out or turn off before leaving.

Dog—yes, Dog. Comments about his creativity are not welcome—approaches him with a wagging tail, the soft clicks of his claws on the hardwood floors reminding John that he had to trim them again soon. 

“Hello,” John says warmly, squatting down to pet Dog. “You can’t come with me tonight. I’ll be walking, and it’s too cold.”

Dog woofs once, as if to complain.  John chuckles to himself, ruffling his soft fur before straightening himself. “You’ll be fine. I’ve already fed you dinner, haven’t I? I’ll be back later.”

After one last brief round through the manor, John mildly regrets killing the last butler, if only so he had someone else to do the tedious tasks instead. But then again, the last butler turned out to be some vampire hunter wannabe who slipped silver oxide in his tea one night. That gave him quite the sore throat, John thinks bitterly, locking the doors behind him. The poor man was stupid enough to think that a little silver oxide would be able to take him down completely, and didn’t even bother to bring a weapon. Truthfully, it was a bit insulting.

John trudges through the snow, out of his estate and into the woods. It would take him half an hour to get to town, and by then it’ll be almost ten in the evening. The town and its warm lights strung through trees and lampposts will be winding down by then, shop lights shutting off one by one. All the better for him; the fewer humans around him, the safer it was. At almost three centuries of existence, John was already well-versed in resisting temptation, but it didn’t mean he was fond of placing himself in situations where he could potentially snap. 

Behind him, his manor fades into the darkness, looking abandoned and more dilapidated than it truly is. For a moment, John squints at one of the towers. Hm. he’ll have to take a look at the top window sometime soon; it looked to be on the verge of falling apart.

He talks through the forest in silence, with no other sound to accompany him other than the sound of crunching snow beneath his boots and the occasional birdsong. John allows his thoughts to wander, his mind flitting from events that had happened over a decade ago and wondering what he would do a week from now. The year was coming to an end, and Winston no doubt is itching to drag him to the Continental for the Winter Ball.

Yeah, right. John snorts. Invite a bunch of vampires to one place. Never ends well.

The previous year, the D’Antonio siblings caused quite a scene by bringing untrained, unmarked humans into the venue. The younger vamps could barely resist tearing the poor things apart. At the very least, it had provided enough entertainment for the rest of the evening, according to Koji, an old friend of his.

He should probably give him a call this Christmas if only to check in, John muses. And send over a gift for Akira. What does one give to a young vampling these days anyway?

He’s snapped from his reverie at the sound of grumbling. He freezes, straining his ears to understand what the voice is saying.

“...this is so stupid. Why the fuck did I think this was a good idea? God. I’m gonna get eaten by wolves…”

There are no wolves in the area, John can attest to that, but this human seemed lost. And most certainly not a local, if they were out in the woods at night. He purses his lips, turning his head from the direction of the voice to the general direction of the town. He should be close by now, and the blood dealer was likely there already. John could just leave the unknown voice there to fend for themselves and potentially freeze in the dark. 

But what the hell, he thinks. It’s Christmas. This can be his good deed of the year.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he takes a sharp turn to the right and makes his way to the voice. His eyesight meant that the dark of night wasn’t truly dark to him, but he supposes that to a human, this was close to pitch black. It doesn’t take long for him to spot a figure huddled by the root of a tree in the dark, angrily poking at what looked to be their phone. Humans and their smartphones, John sighs internally.

“Hello,” he says slowly, not wanting to scare them. “Are you lost?”

The human flinches, looking up at him with wide eyes. Moonlight shines on their face just so, and John swears his undead heart would be pounding if it still could.

Oh, he thinks, breathless. It’s you.

You really shouldn’t have come here, you think mournfully. Your roommate brought you along with her for the holidays, feeling bad that you were going to be left in the apartment by yourself. It seemed like a good idea at the time, until you got to her hometown and she promptly dropped you off at the local inn and said goodbye for the week. After asking around for fun activities to do (that had nothing to do with the holidays, thank you very much), one of the younger locals suggested geocaching, now that quite a handful of people were developing an interest in it too. He told you to download an app that should explain things better, and you spent the better part of the afternoon looking things up.

This is supposed to be your third spot to check out, but the signal got worse somewhere along the way, and now your phone is dead too. Just your fucking luck. Somewhere, someone must be actively praying for your downfall because what do you mean you’re now stuck in the middle of the woods at night? You groan, angrily poking at the black screen of your phone when a voice calls out to you. 

“Hello. Are you lost?”

It’s a true testament to your strength, your bravery, your iron will, that you did not shit yourself at the sound of the voice. You look up at the tall stranger with wide eyes, noting that holy shit this man is gorgeous and you probably look like you’ve been crawling through all sorts of nooks and crannies all afternoon. Which you have been. So. 

“Hi,” you squeak. Okay. He doesn’t seem like an ax murderer, judging by his nice clothing…? Every bit of information you learned in those true crime podcasts you listen to has flown out of your brain, leaving you looking up at the stranger with your mouth parted.

The tall, dark, and handsome stranger looks at you for a moment before offering you a hand. “The town is that way,” he gestures somewhere to the left. “I’m… John.”

You mumble your name, taking his hand in a daze. Of course, you would meet an absolute Adonis on the worst day of your life (an exaggeration). You try not to swoon at his firm grip, or how he easily pulls you upright without so much as a sharp exhale. Whew. This is a man, you think dreamily, nothing like those slimy finance bros back in the city. Perhaps it’s your turn for a Hallmark movie romance. You, the city slicker with a hatred for the holidays, and this man, the local who’ll teach you the true meaning of Christmas. 

He repeats your name quietly, nodding. “I’m headed to town. We can walk together, if you want.” 

“I’d like that,” you respond, feeling breathless all of a sudden. Get ahold of yourself, you think desperately. You can’t fold for the first hot man that you see in the woods!

Your dreams of a budding romance, are crushed, however, when no further words are exchanged. Stealing glances at John’s (very handsome) side profile does nothing for your flushed cheeks, and his shy smile whenever he catches you staring makes you melt internally. The distant lights of the town coming into view make your heart sink. 

He appears to take pity for your plight and breaks the silence first. “Are you only visiting here?”

“Yeah,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. You swallow thickly, trying to play off your embarrassment. “I mean, yeah, My roommate just brought me along, so…”

“I see.” He nods. “How are you liking this place so far?”

“It’s like a Christmas village,” you say with disdain. The corners of John’s lips quirk up.

“I’m hearing some distaste in your tone.” He notes, amusement in his voice.

You scrunch your nose. “I don’t like Christmas.”

“Oh?”

“I just don’t like it,” you shrug. “You?”

John pauses, thinking for a moment. “I don’t mind it. I don’t think too much of it.”

“Pretty hard to do when it’s so… in your face,” you quip. 

“I’m good at focusing on what truly matters,” he says coolly, his gaze suddenly serious. Your cheeks feel hot again. 

“Oh. That’s nice.” You mumble, looking away, feeling strangely flustered. Are all handsome men just way too intense for their own good? “Are you a, uh, local?”

“Yeah,” he confirms, tilting his head towards you with a small smirk. “A local of the Christmas village.”

“It’s not a bad thing!” You laugh, caught off guard by his sudden teasing. “It’s just not for me, I’m sorry!”

He laughs with you, his deep voice almost melting into the cold winter breeze. Something inside you feels warm at the sight of his smile, and it’s not just because you think this man is hot. He doesn’t feel like a stranger, you think curiously. He feels strangely familiar, as if you’ve known the sound of his laughter for years. There’s a voice in the back of your mind that’s begging you to take his hand, to savor the warmth of his skin against yours and⁠—

“We’re almost there,” he states, looking straight ahead.

Oh. Right.

“Thanks,” you say softly, looking at him. “For helping me back there.”

John only shrugs, his features warmed by the light from the lamppost just straight ahead. “I have a knack for helping strays.” He smiles as if joking. “And I think you’ll find that you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time.”

“Oh?” You raise an eyebrow. “‘Cause I met you, is that it?”

He gives you that smile again, as if he knows something you don’t. As if you should know what he’s talking about too. It should unnerve you, but it doesn’t. “Something like that.” 

The two of you eventually stop walking just in front of the stall selling mulled wine. “Well, this is me,” you say reluctantly. As charmed as you are by this man, you’ve retained enough of your common sense to not reveal just where exactly you’re staying for now. (If he wants to come up to your room for  a late night something, well… maybe you’re not totally against the idea.) “I’m gonna go walk around before I turn in for the night. You?”

“I’m meeting an acquaintance,” he replies, putting his hands in his pockets. Strange. He isn’t wearing gloves. 

“Good night, John.” You smile, reluctant to leave his side for some godforsaken reason. “I’ll see you around?”

“You will see me around the Christmas village, yes,” he replies, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Good night, solnishko.”

Little sun. 

How do you know that?

You wave goodbye, dazed, watching as he disappears into the crowd. Your chest aches at the sight of him leaving, but you ignore it, deciding it’s time to turn in for the night after all. It’s been a long day of gallivanting, and getting lost in the woods did no favors for your poor feet. Sighing softly, you imagine the relief of finally taking off these godforsaken boots and warming up by the fire. You’re gonna sleep so good tonight.

Giving one last longing look in the direction John went, you can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever see him again. It’s just because he’s hot, you tell yourself. Yes, that’s just it. Nothing to do with how his voice makes your stomach do somersaults. 

(You will see him again, one way or another. Like John said, you have a knack for being in the right place at the right time, even when you don’t remember him. John only allowed the night to slip from his grasp knowing that the universe will inevitably bring you back to him, as it has many times before.)

(As it will continue to do so, for as long as your soul remembers him even when your mind does not. For now, John is determined to make you fall in love with him all over again until you have to leave.) 

John watches you walk to the local inn from afar, hidden in the shadows. So you hate Christmas this time, he chuckles to himself. That’s alright. So long as you still like him, he can make it work.

He’ll make it work.

post-fic yap: there we go!! i have never actually experienced snow in my life so i'm sorry if it's not super accurate :')) i really wanted to add some more stuff but my health has been in the dumps so i just did my best🥲 again, happy holidays! i hope i did your prompt justice🥹

[tklpilled]

atlantis

merry christmas, @stopiteatpopcorn ! i was your squealing santa this year! enjoy <3

—

“fight me,” says tartaglia, slamming a hand down on wriothesley’s desk, the other resting on his hip.

wriothesley cocks an eyebrow at him. “sorry?”

“fight me,” tartaglia repeats, staring straight into wriothesley’s eyes. “you’re strong, yeah? come on.”

“no,” wriothesley says simply, leaning back in his seat.

“wha—why not?!”

“you’re a prisoner here.” there’s something like a smile on wriothesley’s face. “i don’t fight prisoners.”

so, yeah, tartaglia is a prisoner. it’s really annoying; he knows he’s innocent, and he knows that damn iudex knows it too. but here he is, stuck underwater with nothing but endless tasks and shitty meals.

at least there’s the pankration ring.

he becomes something of a god to them, the group that hangs around down there. he wins every fight he’s in, no sweat. maybe some sweat, actually, because he’ll admit a few of his opponents are tough, but they’re still not enough to match a harbinger.

his whole fascination with the duke sparked the moment they met. he had just been brought to his room when he was visited by a tall, muscular man, heavily scarred but not much older than tartaglia himself. he looked strong.

“a fatui harbinger in my fortress?” wriothesley had said, wearing an irritatingly lazy smirk. “this must be my lucky day.”

tartaglia knew, at that very moment, he would not be able to rest until he kicked this guy’s ass.

the main issue is that getting the chance to fight him is harder than he’d thought. and, hey, he loves an opponent that’s hard to get! it makes the victory all the more satisfying! but wriothesley is really starting to piss him off. tartaglia thinks he wouldn’t be so annoyed if wriothesley didn’t fight him at all.

because he does fight, sort of. they spar in the pankration ring sometimes, but every time, it’s so obvious that he’s not putting in his full effort. it’s not satisfying tartaglia’s itch to fight at all!

he complains to the fortress’s nurse one time while she’s patching him up.

“your duke. why won’t he fight me?”

sigewinne’s small hands press an ice pack to his side. “why do you want to fight him so badly?”

tartaglia opens and closes his fist, staring at it. “does he not think i’m strong enough? he’s not that full of himself, is he?”

“please stop moving,” she tells him. “i know you don’t want me to, but it’s my job to tend to all the inmates.”

tartaglia doesn’t listen. “how do i fight him?”

sigewinne hands him a cup full of some…concoction. “he doesn’t fight inmates,” she says, confirming the man’s own words.

it hits tartaglia, then, that there’s an easy solution.

escape.

his golden opportunity comes just days later, when he spots a few new heads in the fortress while on his way to work. he recognises them as the knave’s (favourite) kids; he’s never met them personally, but from what he’s heard, the twins are pretty popular in fontaine. tartaglia doesn’t know who the smaller one is, but he’s sticking to the other two, so they must be close.

arlecchino isn’t particularly fond of him, but he doubts she’d just leave him here if he asked for help. she knows this nation better than he does, anyway. she’s the best chance he has at getting out of here.

but, of course, it’s too good to be true.

the eldest of the trio, lyney, scratches the back of his head sheepishly. “we don’t have any way of contacting father,” he says, as tartaglia’s shoulders slump in defeat. “we’re prisoners here too, you see.”

tartaglia is too disappointed to question why.

when the entire thing is over, when he’s slept enough to last the rest of his life and his wounds are mostly healed, he returns to fontaine. there are a few reasons; the traveler is still there, and he’d like to talk to them before they disappear into archons know where. he supposes they’re not called the traveler for nothing, but they don’t have to be so difficult to get in contact with.

the second reason is fatui duties, or more specifically, arlecchino. he has to discuss business with her—the gnosis, the prophecy, how to continue after everything. fontaine doesn’t have an archon anymore, and that might cause some problems for the tsaritsa. he eventually finds the knave by the water, looking as though she’d just lost someone important. he asks her about it. she doesn’t give him an answer.

the final reason is for his own self-indulgence. he still hasn’t battled with those champion duelists, and he’s practically bursting with excitement at the idea. natlan is the nation of war, but it seems like he has many more sparring opportunities in fontaine.

and, of course, fucking wriothesley.

he visits the duke’s office, slamming both hands on the desk similarly to how he’d done a couple weeks before.

“fight me,” tartaglia demands. his chances are infinitely better this time; he’s officially a free man, and he’d been single-handedly fighting off the primordial narwhal for the sake of their nation. the least anyone can do is give him a good battle.

wriothesley stares at him for a moment before he laughs, standing from his chair and walking around the desk. “you’re stubborn. alright, i suppose i can grant you this one thing, as thanks.”

tartaglia’s eyes widen, lighting up with excitement for all of two seconds before wriothesley’s hand meets his stomach.

he should be feeling pain. it should hurt, should make him stumble back in shock and agony.

it should not tickle like this.

tartaglia barks out a laugh, stepping backwards but being met with nowhere to go. wriothesley’s grip on him is strong, and while normally tartaglia wouldn’t have a problem breaking out, he’s not exactly in the best state to do so.

“h-hehey, wahahait!” he protests, voice almost a whine. “thihis—yohohou—!”

wriothesley grins, squeezing at his sides and stomach with experienced fingers, like he was born with the knowledge of how to tickle tartaglia to pieces. “you didn’t specify what kind of fight, comrade,” he teases. the bastard. “are you already giving up? disappointing. i expected more from you.”

tartaglia lets out embarrassing peals of laughter as wriothesley tickles up to his ribs. curse him for finding this loophole. curse him for everything, actually. and while he’s at it, curse that little melusine sigewinne, because she’s definitely the one who told wriothesley that he’s ticklish in the first place. she kept poking around his sides, okay, he couldn’t help it!

“y-yohou bastard!” tartaglia squeaks out (squeaks! he doesn’t squeak!). he tries to reach for wriothesley, but the man dodges him expertly while still not letting up on his assault.

wriothesley’s smug smile is evident in his tone. “hey, come on. it’s not every day i get this chance.”

as tartaglia’s laughter echoes in the chamber, he decides that if this doesn’t end soon, he’s going to be charged for homicide again.

[ghostnotoast]

I'm having withdrawal symptoms from waiting for the new episode to come out, and this has been buzzing around my head since this part came out (also I wanna talk about my wife Lily)

Relistening to this part twice made me cry I'm not even gonna lie but weirdly enough it made me think of the end of season 1 where John gets a taste of being the king for a split second but then chooses to go back to Arthur. After he returns, he says:

"But it was in that time in the hospital, that month alone. Trapped in this body without you, when something changed"

"I found meaning. I found that the challenges of life within the boundaries of death were not only acceptable, but could be meaningful. That without a purpose I could forge my own. Is that humanity?"

Don't get me wrong, I don't think it was Lily who was fully responsible for giving John humanity - if anything, that's the mistake Arthur makes in season 3 when comparing John to Yellow (which John calls him out for). It was Arthur who laid out the pieces, and Lily was basically the one to make it click.

Buttt I think reducing John's reason for humanity to only one thing is almost a disservice- because developing a sense of self is so much more complex than that.

It was Arthur's love, it was the stories and thoughts he would share with John, it was being in awe of seeing trees and nature again after so long of living in the dark, it was hearing music, it was listening to the radio, it was the joy he felt after they complished something and he was finally able to feel something other than fear, it was seeing the wraith help them, it was holding a cute baby and picturing her future as a pianist, it was seeing her mother and recognising that she had just lost something priceless, it was having to hold onto hope that anyone is capable of redemption, it was defending and having empathy for the widow despite what Arthur had said.

The last moment is paralleled in season 3 with their conversation about Yellow. Listening to all these makes me realise just how much Yellow missed out on.

Arthur no doubt played a massive role in helping John find humanity and meaning, but honesty? I don't know if purely being with Arthur is what made John who he is. John himself has a conscious and had to make decisions on his own and, on multiple occasions, fights Arthur about ideology with basically little to no outside influence (e.g, their infamous first divorce).

Despite all that though, I still do think Arthur was one of the biggest reasons, I mean just look at Yellow 😭 I'll write an entire essay about him one day

But this entire yap session was basically me trying to imagine what exactly was so special about that month at the hospital because let's be real if I were John I would go crazy BUT sometimes i just imagine John being there, in a hospital without Arthur, being able to do nothing but think

He thinks about the bright clear blue sky he saw, a bird that landed on the windowsill when they were at the library, he thinks about how alive this world is compared to where he came from, he thinks about the radio that's playing, he thinks about the piano, and then he thinks about Arthur

And I imagine he looks at Lily, at her tending to them, at her chatting to them, at her turning on the radio for them so they're not bored and even though people would call all these extra bits of care pointless - she does it anyway, and she does it for them, and John is there to witness this, and that's the moment where it clicks.

I imagine it sort of being like being moved back to see a finished puzzle and finally understanding what you've been making this entire time after spending so long up close looking at individual pieces

And I think that's what the witch didn't understand about John's story. Lily's care was the climax of John becoming John, and even though John acknowledges that for her it was probably another Tuesday - it still doesn't dampen the fondness and love he has for her, he just loves for the sake of it

[23fallencomets]

📓 !!

this one…this one was a lottt lmao

okay so lowkey inspired by that one norgeant frat post you made so long ago and it’s not even frat related, i got stuck on the norgeant aspect of it (again like a dog with a bone because it has not left me alone since)

moving on, basically landoscar are roommates—and in a casual sugar daddy/baby arrangement because lando has a shit ton of money at his disposal and he likes helping his friends, it’s quite literally irrelevant to the main plot but i just need people to know because it’s funny to me—logan needs a place to crash because the apartment he’s moving into isn’t ready yet.

oscar lets lando know and in true british fashion, lando spends like the week before logan gets there talking absolute shit about him and oscar is constantly like 😐🤨🙄

imagine his surprise when he answers the door while oscar is out and mr. all american shows up with his pretty blonde hair and green-blue eyes and light scruff (that one red flag logan video? yeah him) and lando blanks.

anywho, turns out oscar has to go on a work trip for two weeks which works out for logan and lando tries not to murder oscar when he tells them.

it also turns out that logan only moved with a few suitcases and left everything else behind and now had to buy things. logan has a big wtf did i just do moment and has a bit of a crisis.

lando, with his exorbitant amount of money, and logan realizing he needs to settle down spend a week running around london buying home appliances.

they have this strangers-to-friends-to lovers progress because they’re dumb and oscar wants to push them off a cliff whenever he gets caught in between them.

things culminate when logan finally gets to move in and the two spend like three days building everything even though they both suck at building things and give up a million times.

lando has a severe oh fuck moment in the bathroom while logan is making dinner and now he has to figure out wether to say anything or go with the flow which he most certainly does not.

they figure their shit out and live happily ever after or something like that

it’s just a cute fic with little to no angst or miscommunication because both of those concepts make me want to throw myself into the nearest ice hole.

things are also so stupidly domestic from the start with logan making their meals, asking lando to tag along and joining lando on stream sometimes; their existence becomes so intertwined with each other they become the embodiment of the sold together do not separate meme

anyway, norgeant have strangely had me in a chokehold

[thesoftestmess]

i just need to stay in my own energy i just need to stay in my own energy i just need to-

[egophiliac]

everyone out of the way, this is the only thing I'm going to be thinking about from now on.

(okay, there is one more thing)

[b4kuch1n]

gonna start subjecting u lot to my rambling abt classic viet authors

[izzyspussy]

why are they laughing at him as he gets straight up killed??? he doesn't deserve this! he's a sweet kid at heart! he literally just needs one (1) real friend!!

[loverboybrightsideghost]

i really do love practicing 🎻

[astrxealis]

i am so obnoxious over bg3 but like. privately. bcs i'm still urgehafsjsh over how astarion is literally everything to me now and i really adore him but hi: i haven't played bg3. anyway. half-elf + bard maybe!

[litt1e-prince]

living in my own home away from my dad but he still waits up for me to get home

[bloodyarson]

not to derail but i think the reason why american english is so easy to learn and to speak for a lot of people is exactly because correct enunciation doesn't matter one bit really. as long as you make a noise that has the right vowels and kinda similar consonants people will understand what you're saying 90% of the time. and so i think, other than imperialism of course, this is one of the reasons why english is everyone in the world's "common tongue" now. even with a really thick accent english is still understandable, way more than most other majorly spoken languages. i mean, just fucking take a listen to french! or don't actually unless you want your ears to start bleeding.

so yeah in conclusion i think the reason why english is the language everyone learns and communicates in is because of this specific lack of a need to properly pronounce things, making it so much easier than most other languages for non native speakers. :)

americans be like i’m looking at myself in the meer

[adaywithanotherferalrat]

Forever flabbergasted by the time I offhandedly teased a dude about bdsm and the only person who understood it was the other autistic, chronically online dude in the group

On the dark bright side, two more people in this world know what bdsm is😃