#darcy writes

[dutifullylazybread]

A kiss against a wall for Rolan x Tav please?

Absolutely! :D

Here ya go!

Tav tore down the tower’s staircase, Rolan coming up close behind her. Wood splintered as the door behind them was blown off of its hinges and the narrow stairwell was awash with blinding light.

Rolan lobbed three magic missiles at their pursuer, cursing loudly. Tav couldn’t see if he had been injured or if his attack had proved ineffective—she couldn’t turn to look or she’d lose her footing. They couldn’t fight this creature in close quarters.

And they couldn’t pause to throw up a wall of stone or to encase themselves in a protective orb—not without the space between them and their attacker drastically closing.

So they ran instead.

Tav tore down the corkscrewing staircase, her lungs straining, burning. A sharp discharge of magic, emitting a sound akin to fabric tearing, ripped through the air.

The stairs plateaued into a landing—the one just outside of the study. Tav reached out for the door handle—

And Rolan cried out in anguish.

She turned in time to see him barreling towards her.

“Tav!” The fever-pitch panic in Rolan’s voice cut through her focus.

His hands clamped down on her shoulders, and just as a jagged bolt of lightning careened towards her, Rolan shoved her up against the hard stone wall, the blast of magic scorching the empty space over his horns and searing the tips of Rolan’s hair.

The study’s door—where Tav stood moments before—was blackened to a char.

Rolan slumped against her. A line of smoke, thick with the acrid stink of burnt flesh, rose off of his shoulder.

And the stairway was blanched in white light as the creature descended.

The quasi-elemental was so bright that Tav had to resist the urge to shield her eyes.

Nothing had worked against it. Not fire, not ice—and Tav didn’t have time to test a spell that may prove impotent.

She needed a surefire way to destroy this elemental…

…and she had one.

Tav wrapped her left arm around Rolan’s center and drew him into her embrace. She brandished her staff with her right, its head burning a ghastly, pale green as she snagged at threads of the Weave with its decorative barbs.

The braiding scents of burnt hair and crackling electricity were replaced with the cloying stink of roses and spun sugar… muddled with graveyard soil and rot. It was as if she'd pried open the lid of a moldering casket, freeing the stench of trapped decay.

She tasted stale rainwater as she shaped the words to the spell, the Weave straining against her staff…

…and the quasi-elemental’s shape warped and buckled around the edges.

“What… what magic is this?” Rolan asked, drawing away to look at Tav.

Tav spoke the incantation, its phrasing like wisps of funeral incense and its words as abrupt as the flash of a dagger.

She wrenched her staff towards her, stripping the threads of Weave from its grander tapestry.

The quasi-elemental’s shape, already as inconstant as a jagged bolt of lightning, went rigid.

And then its form lengthened and swelled.

The creature strained and railed for but a moment before its very essence was shredded to pieces.

The elemental expired with an anguished shriek, and the stairway dimmed as its light blinked out.

Tav’s staff fell to the ground with her clatter. Her hands, numbed from shaping the Weave into rot, were chilled to the touch.

Rolan stared at her. “That spell…”

“I… found it in the Vaults,” Tav said. She shivered. “That was unpleasant to cast.”

He looked her over, pressing the back of his hand to her brow. “You’re freezing,” he murmured.

Her body, gripped in chills, shuddered. Her ribs may as well have been carved from a block of ice.

“You need to rest,” Rolan said. He reached for her, only for Tav to embrace him and lay her palm flat against the burn on his back.

“In a moment,” she said, emptying her mind and drawing upon her remaining stores of energy.

“Tav—“

The very warmth of her blood was sapped from her veins; it trailed up her arm, before unspooling into Rolan’s wound, knitting the flesh and soothing the burn under her fingertips. She was gripped by a sudden, deep-set fatigue.

A shudder ran through her body and her legs buckled.

Rolan caught her beneath the arms, bracing her between him and the wall.

“Why the hells would you do that?” he demanded. “We could have used a potion or called on a cleric. You didn’t have to—hells, your lips are turning blue.” As she stumbled forward, Rolan held her aloft.

“You’re so warm.” Her words were beginning to slur together. “Can we stay like this?”

With a sigh of exasperation, he pulled her close. Tav’s body easily moulded against his—her face rested in the crook of his neck, their chests were flush together, and his tail looped around her left ankle. She had always savored the heat that he put off, but now that she had none of her own, she loved it all the more.

“We’ll need to run you a bath,” he said aloud. “I’ll get a fire started and I’ll find some more blankets… Gods damn it all. How can you be this cold?”

“Are you upset with me?”

“Of course I am,” he snapped. “Did you expect that I’d be pleased with you reducing yourself to a state of near exhaustion? What would have happened if you had cast another spell similar to the other two?”

Tav didn’t care to entertain the idea.

“Don’t do that again,” Rolan said, the command reduced to a plea when he added a desperate, “please.”

“I…” She didn’t want to make that promise—not when she might need to break it in the future. “I can’t let you die.”

“And you think I’d be happy if you died instead?” He exhaled loudly. “We can talk about this later. I’m more concerned with warming you up right now.”

“You would pass up the opportunity to argue?”

“Hush, you.” He kissed her brow, his lips lingering there, his breath warm. “I’m… I’m relieved that you’re alive. More than you can possibly imagine.”

“I think I have an idea.” She kissed the column of his throat, felt the rumbles of his building moan against her mouth. She darted the tip of her tongue out to taste him, humming in quiet appreciation.

Rolan nudged her head back. The tips of his ears were a wine-dark red. “You are in no condition to be coming onto me,” he said firmly. “Though… you have a little more color to you now.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? Perhaps our… ministrations have helped then?”

He rolled his eyes. “You are infuriating.”

“And?”

“That’s all,” he said. “Just… infuriating.”

His mouth found hers. What started as a soft peck turned heady when she nipped his lower lip, lightly tugging at it, inviting him to continue… should he wish.

Rolan cupped her face in his hands, stroked his thumbs down her jawline, and pressed his body against hers as he kissed her. Tav tangled her fingers into his hair and teased her tongue against the seam of his lips. He swallowed his moan, melting fully into her and tasting her breathy sighs.

She lost herself in him, in the moment. The warmth of his body, mingling with the heat that he stirred in her chest and her core, was enough to draw more life into Tav. Her pulse quickened; her veins thawed.

And then, reluctantly, Rolan pulled away. “Well,” he said with a small cough. “You don’t quite look like death warmed over now.”

Tav cracked a smile. She couldn’t help but notice that Rolan’s lips were swollen from the press of her mouth.

“Let’s run you a bath,” he said. “Can you walk?” He offered her his arm.

She nodded, accepting his invitation and looping her arm about his.

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten how reckless you were,” he added. “We will talk more about this. Later.”

She smirked. “You? Forget? I wouldn’t dare to assume that.”

Rolan snorted. "See that you don't."

And they proceeded down the stairs together.

[darcylovette]

Soooo I’m also writing another Hatchetfield fic.

I can’t get the idea of a Nobody Dies AU out of my head. Where Paul is Richie’s uncle.

In a timeline where Max survived the fall, but badly broke his leg. Can the gang learn to forgive him? Is he truly committed to change?

Also an excuse for me to imagine the Nerds’ home lives. A lot of headcanons, angst, hurt and comfort, fluff, domestic life, and eventual romances.

I’m having so much fun writing it!

[darcy-draws]

Hey guys I know I haven't been around much but I got into spy x family and the brain rot is so strong I wrote a 1500 word oneshot in three hours

[honeyandsalted]

The part where Alicent covers her mouth with a sob and Rhaenyra’s challenging expression melts away completely and it is completely clear that who she is seeing now is Alicent— the girl who’s hand she once held in the godswood, the girl she once loved— hurt and grieving and broken, and Rhaenyra swallows back her own sob. And you can tell that watching Alicent fall apart physically pains Rhaenyra, and that in the moment, all she wants is to hold Alicent and offer her comfort.

[venusbyline]

Sickly ࿐ྂ Kinktober. 14, oct.

— pairing: Rhaenyra Targaryen x daughter-in-law!reader

— type: smut, angst, Kinktober (House of the Dragon Edition)

— kink: thigh riding

— summary: Motherhood was sickly, sickly enough for a grieving mother to mourn her son's death while kissing her widowed daughter-in-law's lips.

— word count: 3.1k

— tags/warnings: kinktober 14th day, female!reader, Cregan Stark's twin sister!reader, Rhaenyra!mother-in-law, Jacaerys Velaryon's wife!reader, DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT, thigh riding, nipple licking, lactation kink, fingering, breast worship, overstimulation, crying, disturbing themes, mommy kink, death themes, grief/mourning, mother-son relationship, mother-daughter relationship, praise kink, oral (female receiving) mentioned, vaginal sex mentioned, creampie mentioned, Jacaerys Velaryon's daughter mentioned, labor mentioned, motherhood themes, nightmares, age gap (older woman/younger woman), sexism, implied Targcest (mother/son) BUT NOT REALLY, minor Jacaerys Velaryon x reader, implied Rhaenyra Targaryen x Jacaerys Velaryon BUT NOT REALLY, mild dark, Joffrey Velaryon lives, canon divergence (the Blacks win the Dance of the Dragons), porn with plot. no use of y/n. english is not my first language.

— tagging list: @baybaybear1 @blessedbymoon @p45510n4f4shi0n @lina-lovebug @moonnicole @badger-reads

— crossposting: AO3

Rhaenyra Targaryen had crossed a very dangerous line.

She knew better than anyone that in her mind, there was a fine line between acting recklessly or acting so promiscuously. From a young age, Rhaenyra let herself be carried away by the thoughts that arose in her brain — or by the lust that wet the middle of her legs.

She was never the best example of chastity. The furtive glances at Alicent Hightower when they were still best friends, the tameless desire for her uncle Daemon since she was a teenager, the loss of her virginity with Ser Criston Cole, the secret affair with Ser Harwin Strong, the kisses exchanged with Mysaria. And now... the unforgivable thoughts and actions with her daughter-in-law.

It was wrong. She knew it was wrong. It was sickly. Disgusting. She was mourning Jacaerys. You were in mourning. A mother losing her firstborn son and a girl losing her husband and the father of her newborn baby. Two women suffering for different reasons.

Rhaenyra mourned Jacaerys' death, the panic she felt during his birth still fresh in her mind. She was so afraid of dying the same way as her mother Aemma that she did not even allow any man to enter during the labor. She did not want any man around. No presence of Laenor Velaryon, her husband, or Ser Harwin Strong, her lover and biological father of the baby she was carrying. Not even Viserys, her own father, should enter and give his opinion there.

Rhaenyra remembered everything perfectly. When Harwin fucked her and she discovered she was pregnant almost thirty days later, when Harwin was surprised and at the same time worried about the idea of being a father in secret, when Laenor was happy with the news, when Viserys celebrated that he would have a grandchild — believing the baby was the result of Rhaenyra's marriage to her husband.

Rhaenyra remembered the nausea, the tiredness, the strange feeling of her belly growing to adapt to the baby that was developing inside her. Sometimes she wished she had drunk the Moon Tea to avoid it, and other times she was happy at the thought of giving birth to a beautiful little girl. The princess was sure she was carrying a daughter. Just as she wished Aemma had given her little sisters.

The pain during childbirth and the fear of dying made her wish that if anyone in that body had to die, it would be the unborn baby, not her. Rhaenyra Targaryen was still so young and had a long life ahead of her. If the baby died, she could try to have another in the future. Or perhaps not. Perhaps she should never have children, especially when they were outside of marriage. Either way, Rhaenyra was aware that if she had to prioritize her own life or the life of her child, she would not think twice about saving herself. She would not make the same mistake her father made with her mother.

It was a surprise when the baby was finally born. A boy. She had longed for a daughter throughout her entire pregnancy, trying to hold on to the possibility that having a daughter would be like being able to follow her mother's footsteps, but without that tragic ending.

Her mild disgust at the midwives' enthusiasm that she had a healthy boy soon changed to panic when she noticed the small thinning strands in the baby's hair. Even though he was so tiny in her arms, she could clearly see that he would have dark hair like his biological father, the Targaryen blood not being so strong anymore.

But now, so many years after that desperate night, Rhaenyra cursed herself for three reasons: for having cared so much about Jacaerys' damned hair color, for having despised him for a few days until she got used to the new routine of being a boy's mother and not a girl's mother, and especially because she said at that time that she would not save Jacaerys during labor.

She would do anything to go back in time and never have thought about that. Now, Rhaenyra would do anything to die in every cruel and painful way possible if it was enough to bring her firstborn back.

Rhaenyra and Jacaerys had built a mother-son relationship over the years. It was not automatic like it was with Lucerys, Joffrey, Aegon III and Viserys II. It was not even like the few seconds with her Visenya. She did not love Jacaerys immediately like she did her other children. She did not long for his life. She was a mother for the first time and each particularity of her connection with Jacaerys was created little by little. She learned to love him and she learned to protect him.

Rhaenyra learned almost everything about being a mother. But she never thought she would need to learn to live without her first son.

As for you, there was a painful feeling also rooted in your chest. It was not the same as what the queen felt, it bordered more on concern than guilt. You had nothing to blame yourself for.

When your twin brother, Cregan Stark, used you as a bargaining chip to ensure Rhaenyra's steadfast loyalty to the Northmen, you were not even surprised. That is what you and all the noble ladies were made for. Always used to bargain alliances and produce heirs.

Like brood mares, no woman had the right to say no.

Cregan was a good brother, despite everything. At least he had kept you in Winterfell until a truly necessary and promising betrothal came. Jacaerys Velaryon, the heir to the Iron Throne if Rhaenyra won the Dance of Dragons, would have you as his wife, and in exchange for that, the Blacks would protect the North and provide more resources for the harsh winter. It was a fair exchange and it would ensure that they would not simply ignore the treaty at any time. Lord Stark was a man of his word and demanded the same from Jacaerys' family.

You understood his reasons. It was better to marry someone kind and caring than an old and rude random lord who saw you as just a fertile young woman to produce heirs.

It did not take long for you to love Jacaerys. He was so handsome and affectionate trying to make you feel comfortable in Dragonstone, that you even kissed him a few days before the wedding ceremony, and you were not at all afraid of the consummation of the marriage. It was incredible. Especially when you noticed how shocked Jace was when you closed your legs around his hips, pushing his cock even deeper, allowing him to spill his seed inside your cunt. He did not want you to feel used just to procreate, he did not want it to be a sacrifice.

Jace did not plan on having heirs anytime soon. He wanted you to fuck with him because you liked it, because he gave you pleasure. But never out of duty.

And you enjoyed every second. You never had to fear what would happen to you if his seed did not take fast. Just as you never had to fear how he would react if you gave birth to a girl and not a man heir. Sometimes you even thought he longed more for a daughter. After all, he had lived with brothers his entire life and had never even met his little sister Visenya, who was stillborn. If the baby was a girl, he would name it after his sister. If it were a boy, he would name him after his younger brother Lucerys.

You never had to fear many things when you were married to Jace. However, you always feared for his safety. And, Gods... You were right to do that.

Now, even after Queen Rhaenyra's victory, you feared what would happen to you and your newborn daughter. You were afraid that the Blacks would break the treaty since you were just a widow of a dead heir. You feared what would happen to your people if Rhaenyra went back on her word. You feared what would happen to your daughter Visenya now that her father was dead. Rhaenyra would reign for many years to come, but what would happen to her granddaughter? You were not someone who was greedy, but you did not know if Rhaenyra would name Joffrey as the next heir to the Iron Throne, or if she would let Visenya reign in the future.

If your daughter's succession to the Throne was not considered, you feared that she would hate you or her father's family. If she were named as the legitimate heir, precisely because she was the eldest granddaughter and the result of the marriage of Rhaenyra's murdered firstborn, you feared that Joffrey would hate Visenya and you, as well as his own mother. You feared yet another war between family members. Another Kinslayer, just like Aemond Targaryen.

You feared what Jacaerys' absence would do to your and Visenya's lives in the not-so-distant future.

You and Rhaenyra felt different emotions about Jace's death, but both of you loved him and cried every night missing him.

It was not a surprise when Rhaenyra began to comfort you through your routine nightmares, all that involving the death of your dead husband. Rhaenyra also had nightmares every day. Always about her family's deaths.

She had regained what was rightfully hers, but at what cost?

It was not a surprise to her when you started hugging her while you had crying spells after dreams. It was not a surprise to you when she let you cry on her shoulder. It was not a surprise to her when you begged her to think about your daughter Visenya's future. It was not a surprise to you when she asked for forgiveness for not being enough to protect Jacaerys.

None of this was surprising or unexpected. Not even when the nighttime cuddles intensified. When caressing your hair and hugs were no longer enough. When Rhaenyra began pressing you against her full heavy breasts as you cried. When you started to put your hands under the nightgown Rhaenyra wore and caressed her soft skin.

It was wrong. Very wrong. It was sickly. It was disgusting and repulsive. It was too cruel to the memory of Jacaerys. How would the boy feel if he knew his mother was fucking his own wife?

Neither of you had any way of knowing the answer. Jacaerys was dead, after all. He never returned from the Battle of the Gullet. He and Vermax had been hooked like fishes and engulfed by the waves of the sea — Always wanting so much to have pure blood, to be legitimate... To end up just being a Velaryon rotting inside the ocean. It was ironic and you could not tell if it honored him as a Velaryon or just proved that the Strong blood running through his veins had cursed him, the last moments of his life in the middle of the place where a true Velaryon would belong, but never a bastard.

Rhaenyra hated herself for wanting you. You hated yourself for wanting her. Jacaerys would hate the two of you for this. And yet, both of you could not deal with the grief any other way. You needed each other.

You loved Jacaerys. You loved your late mother, Gilliane Glover, who died so soon after you and Cregan were born. You did not have time to live with her, just as Rhaenyra did not have time to live with her stillborn daughter.

You had lost your husband. Rhaenyra had lost her son. You needed a mother. Rhaenyra needed a daughter.

It was disgusting, very wrong. It was sickly. And you could not stop. You did not want to stop. It was the only way to deal with Jacaerys's grief and keep the boy's memory alive in your minds.

"How was the nightmare tonight?" Rhaenyra asked softly as you sat on her lap, your teary eyes closing. You let her wrap her arm around your waist, your hips bigger after you gave birth to your daughter Visenya.

"About the sea. About pain. About blood... About him." Your voice came out trembling and muffled, your face buried between her breasts, so full and heavy that you could barely breathe, even if you did not make the slightest effort to move away. You wished she still had milk to breastfeed you like your mother had done. She wished she still had milk so she could breastfeed you like she had done with Jacaerys. Like she should have done with her Visenya, if the little baby had not been born dead.

The content of the nightmares that tormented your mind was nothing new. They were always about death, just like Rhaenyra's. And she always wanted to know yours. She always wanted you to tell her what you had dreamed of. But she never shared her own nightmares. And everything was fine. You did not really want to suffer over Rhaenyra's thoughts either. Were you too selfish for not wanting that? Perhaps. And perhaps she was too masochistic, always wanting you to explain every detail that haunted you in the early hours of the morning and disturbed your sleep.

You did not mind telling her. It felt good to share all of this with someone who understood. It was good to seek comfort from a mother.

Rhaenyra moaned when she felt your tongue circle her pink nipple, your teary eyes made you look like a child being soothed by a mother's breast.

She stroked your hair, thanking the Gods that you did not have silver or blonde hair. Thanking the Gods that Alicent did not let her marry Jacaerys to Helaena Targaryen. Thanking the Gods for allowing Jacaerys to annul his betrothal to Baela Velaryon when Lord Cregan Stark demanded that his army's loyalty would only be agreed upon if the prince married his twin sister.

She could never seek that comfort from Helaena. Her sister had always been too pure for her own good. And Helaena was too much like Rhaenyra herself. She could not picture Jacaerys in Helaena's place because of her hair.

Just as she could not seek comfort from Baela. Her stepdaughter had Laena's appearance and the rebellious and tameless personality of her ex-husband Daemon.

Joffrey had the same dark hair as his older brother, but you... You were everything she needed. You had dark hair like Jacaerys and you were a girl like her stillborn daughter. You were everything she wanted currently. A daughter. But also a concubine.

"It feels good?" Rhaenyra questioned when her hands went down to your nipples, sensitive from your lack of breastfeeding. You did not breastfeed Visenya often, preferring that she be fed by a wet nurse. Looking at her reminded you of Jacaerys and that made the moment difficult. Your milk would dry up quickly if you continued looking for Rhaenyra and leaving your daughter aside. You knew you needed to act like a mother, however, you liked to enjoy your time like Rhaenyra's daugther and affair.

You did not judge Rhaenyra for imagining her son licking her breasts when you did that. You knew she had never seen him in a sexual way. It was an innocent nostalgia, even if you were also pressing her other breast while memories of Jacaerys filled her mind. She wanted her eldest son back. You wanted your husband back. She wanted to feel you the same way her son felt you. And you wanted to feel every inch of the woman who gave birth to the man you loved.

You nibbled on her nipple after gasping as Rhaenyra she placed a hand on your mound, squeezing it rough enough to make your breast milk start to flow out. "Good girl..." She growled softly, admiring your embarrassed smile.

Rhaenyra ran her fingers through the milk before bringing it down between your legs, rubbing the liquid into your already wet folds. "N-Nyra..."

"Mother." The Queen corrected while you squirmed under her touch. Your milk was supposed to be to feed Visenya. And here you were, letting your mother-in-law rub it on your clit. It was so disgusting and depraved. Motherhood was a sick thing.

"M-Mother..." You whimpered the way Rhaenyra suggested, even though the word brought a bitter taste to your mouth. Was this how she felt whenever she was eating you out? Did she pictured her son cumming inside your cunt so many times at the beginning of the marriage, filling you with his seed until it flowed, the same way his biological father had done to her in secret? Was this how Rhaenyra felt whenever you rubbed your face between her large breasts? Did she remember how difficult it was to get used to breastfeeding her firstborn? Was this how she felt now with her hand wet with your milk? Why did not she hate you, already knowing you would rather her do that than force you to breastfeed your daughter Visenya, while she did not even have the chance to feed her Visenya?

You wanted to know if she also felt disgusted by it all. You wanted to know if motherhood was really that sick for her too.

You wanted to know a lot of things, and you chose not to ask any of them. Ignorance was bliss. The answers were on both of your faces. The way she moaned as you pushed your fingers hard into her cunt, fucking the tight walls that had once dilated so baby Jacaerys could come into the world. The way your breast milk that was supposed to feed Jacaerys' little daughter had a different use now, soaking your own cunt as you took advantage of the additional liquid to ride harder against Rhaenyra's thick thigh.

You both felt sick and dirty, mentally begging for Jacaerys' forgiveness as you came, moaning each other's name. Your fingers were still inside her and your sensitive and sore clit was still pressed against her soft white skin, your cum and milk running down her thigh, while Rhaenyra kept your face against her chest.

"Thank you, Mother, thank you..." You sobbed, making no move to get off of her or release her walls. You wanted to prolong the feeling of self-loathing, enjoying the overstimulation of having your bud pulsing along with the continuous tremors of your body, just as Rhaenyra was enjoying feeling your trembling hand inside her, the four motionless fingers spreading her cunt like if you were preparing her for labor. Jace's birth or yours, you could not say. Both, perhaps.

"I love you, my dear daughter. My new daughter." Rhaenyra kissed the top of your head, caressing your dark hair. It was true. You were everything that kept Jace's memory alive in her mind. She loved her firstborn and she loved you in a sick way. After all, motherhood was sickly, sickly enough for a grieving mother to mourn her son's death while kissing her widowed daughter-in-law's lips.

HOTD Edition - Masterlist

Criminal Minds Edition - Masterlist

Venusbyline's Kinktober 2024 - Masterlist

[gotlostonmywayhome]

This would be so much fun to write. I wish my brain would word so I can write it. So many ships that I love would be perfect for this.

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (1 - Honey! I shrunk the kids! 18+)

Summary: Wanda accidentally shrinks your kids while trying out a spell that would benefit both of you in the bedroom; Jimmy and Darcy attempt to find out more about the Hex, particularly when they discover a remarkable detail about you. Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Tags: Smut, Campy Humor, Language

A/N: I've been working on this series since late August and have finally figured out what to do with it, enough to share it with you all. The story will be told in three parts: Westview (The Missing Town), Pre-Westview, and Post-Westview. This follows some events in WandaVision, but it's very canon-divergent. It's going to be different from my other works (I've never written humor before and I'm quite insecure about that), as this one is very plot-driven but at the same time, still very much Wanda x Reader (especially in parts 2 and 3). Updates will be every Wednesday. Chapters will be 2.5–3.5k words long, except for the ending chapters of each part, which are twice as long. So, without further ado… More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

-

“Honey! I shrunk the kids!” 

Wanda bursts into the basement, apron billowing out like a cape. Except, there's no draft down here; that apron shouldn't be moving like that at all. But then again, considering your wife’s claim, maybe the laws of physics are taking a day off.

You glance up from the miniature model home you’re meticulously working on, unsure if you heard her right. Did she really just say that? 

“You what?”

Wanda, flushed and a little breathless, skids to a stop in front of you. “Okay, so I was experimenting with a new spell, one that was supposed to…” She bites her lip, hesitating, her face glowing a deeper shade of red. “...it was supposed to do something else, but it backfired and... well, it’s not important right now!”

“Jesus, Wanda.”

Your poor, beautiful, occasionally clumsy wife stands there, teetering between a freak-out and a fit of giggles. 

“It was an accident! I didn't mean to!” Wanda shrieks, causing the room to tremble from her panic.

Wanda's powers have always been a wildcard. You can child-proof the entire house in a day, but that definitely doesn't cover child-proofing Wanda herself—especially not when your kids are involved. Luckily, the boys have inherited some special abilities of their own, which leaves you as the sole non-superpowered member of the household. With that in mind, you know better than to panic. Getting worked up alongside her would only escalate things, and you’re not exactly keen on being shrunk next.

“Okay…where are they now?” you ask as calmly as you can manage.

Wanda takes a deep breath and leads you to the living room. You trail her in silence, clutching at composure. It can’t be that bad, right? The distant sound of playful music trickling through the house almost makes it seem like everything’s fine. You hadn’t really noticed it before, but now that you think about it, it’s like your brain has learned to associate that kind of tune with situations that somehow always end in collective sighs of relief.

Sighs, giggles, and applause—sounds that don't belong to Wanda or the boys.

Where are they coming from?

Before your mind can completely sink into the oddities of your life here in Westview, Wanda halts in the middle of the living room. Your eyes dart around, searching for Billy and Tommy, but they’re nowhere to be seen.

“Where?”

“Right there,” Wanda points toward the coffee table, her finger trembling slightly.

You squint in the direction she’s pointing. Next to the TV remote, two tiny figures wave up at you—your sons, each about the size of your thumb.

“Oh my god, they’re tiny!” you gasp, covering your mouth with your hand. You expected them to be at least half their normal size—a size they might grow out of eventually.

“Shhhh, Y/N!” Wanda hisses, pressing her index finger to her lips. “The neighbors might hear you.”

Neighbors. Which usually means just Agnes from next door. There’s literally several meters of spaces between your houses, but somehow, she always manages to hear things she shouldn’t and pries like she’s in some perfectly timed routine.

Wanda kneels by the coffee table, her eyes soft. “I told them to stay right there until we sorted this out.”

The twins start making noises, sounding like tiny bells, though still hard to make out. You pull out a magnifying glass from your back pocket—has that been there the whole time?—making sure your sons are okay. As soon as the lenses zoom in on their faces, you're relieved to see them laughing uproariously, seemingly unbothered by their predicament.

“They seem... happy?” you say, lowering the magnifying glass.

“They think it's hilarious,” Wanda grumbles, her lips curling into a pout.

“So,” you sigh, pushing yourself to your feet. “Any ideas on how to fix this?”  You're tempted to suggest just letting it run its course, waiting for the spell to fizzle out, but you know Wanda wouldn’t go for that. She's fiercely protective of the twins, and you can't blame her—it’s all her handiwork, after all.

Then you hear it—a hiccup. Another follows, and then another, each one a little louder than the last.

Before you know it, Wanda's a sobbing mess.

You cup her face in your hands. “Hey, hey...it’s okay,” you murmur, gently brushing away a tear with your thumb.

Wanda’s breath hitches as she looks at you, her eyes brimming with worry. “What if I can’t fix it?”

“We will,” you promise, looking into her eyes.

A collective ‘awww’ rings in your ears, pulling you out of the moment. What the hell—where did that come from? You've had this creepy feeling of being watched lately, and it's only getting worse.

Wanda brings you back to focus when she nuzzles into your palm. “Oh, Y/N, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

You give her a small, lopsided grin and plant a kiss on her forehead. “Good thing you’ll never have to find out.” Something passes over her eyes as soon as you say it, but it vanishes in a split-second, replaced by a moment of inspiration.

“Wait,” she bursts out, stepping away from your embrace. “I think I have an idea.”

She heads straight for the fridge, and you trail after her, holding your breath.

“I’ve been trying to reverse it, but my magic isn’t cooperating. It’s like... it’s tangled,” Wanda mutters, yanking things out of the fridge.

You scowl, arms crossed, watching her. “Tangled? What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. The more I try to fix it, the worse it gets. Like it has a life of its own,” she says. she says. After a few more seconds of rummaging, Wanda finally grabs a tetra pack of chocolate milk—the twins' favorite.

“I’m hoping this will do the trick,” she says, giving the carton a shake.

You cock your head, clueless on what’s going on. “Honey, what’s going on?”

Wanda mumbles, barely glancing up as she vigorously shakes the carton. “Just doing what it says—’Shake well before serving.’”

You roll your eyes, muttering, “This woman...”. Then louder, you ask, “I mean, what’s the chocolate got to do with our tiny children?”

Wanda stops mid-shake, a look of realization dawning on her face. “Oh, right,” she slaps her forehead. “You can’t read minds. I keep forgetting,” she chuckles, setting down the carton with a sheepish grin.

There it is again—a chorus of laughter from somewhere far off. Your mouth twitches at the sound—it’s really starting to get on your nerves. You make a mental note to bring it up with Wanda later.

Wanda gathers herself, then pitches her plan. “Instead of directly casting a spell on the twins, I think it’s safer to enchant this chocolate milk.” She picks up the carton again, giving it a final shake. “The idea is to infuse the milk with a spell that will gradually restore them to their normal sizes.”

You nod, beginning to understand what she’s trying to do. “Sounds less risky than zapping them with more magic head on.”

“Exactly,” she agrees, her eyes lighting up with excitement. You’d swear she’s getting a kick out of this macabre parenting hack—kids and all. The background tune keeps playing, like a promise that the universe won’t let things turn to shit. You’re wondering if maybe Wanda hears it too.

“This way, the magic is diluted and can adjust more naturally with their systems. It’s like... sneaking the cure into their bodies,” she says, snapping her fingers, red swirls of magic emanating from them to the carton of milk.

“I'm so proud of you, baby,” you say, leaning in for a quick kiss which she happily accepts. “For finding a fix, I mean. The whole shrinking our kids thing? Still not great.”

–

“What kind of spell do you think Wanda was going for?” Darcy asks, her eyes fixed on the credits rolling across the screen before it fades to black. She’s really gotten into Wanda’s little show, a welcome distraction from the freezing depths of hell that is New Jersey in November. Though exciting things are finally happening to her, the timing couldn't be worse. 

“No clue,” Jimmy mutters, his attention glued to the laptop in front of him. It’s been two days since Quantico sent him to look into the bizarre case of a missing town—a phenomenon almost unheard of in the 21st century. Upon arriving, they discovered that the town in question, Westview, was enveloped by some sort of anomaly—or a Hex, as Darcy has started calling it, referring to the hexagonal shape of the barrier encasing the town. 

Around the same time as the discovery, S.W.O.R.D. agent Monica Rambeau was quite literally sucked into the anomaly by accident. The only breakthrough has been Darcy Lewis’ detection of the signals, providing them with a window into the mysterious shroud, even helping them identify some of the show's characters as actual residents of the town.

But overall, they're still desperately trying to piece together why this is happening and how to stop it.

Darcy peeks over at the data on Jimmy’s screen. “Find anything new?”

Jimmy sighs in frustration. “No, not really. Everything we dig up just adds more questions instead of answers.”

“Like what, for instance?”

Instead of answering directly, he slides a thick file across the table toward her. “See for yourself.”

Darcy catches the file and starts flipping through it. Murmuring, she says, “So, Google finally returned search results?” The stack of papers is downright daunting. Jimmy’s right—any mountain of information would raise more questions than answers.

“No, not Google,” Jimmy corrects her. “Stark's highly confidential database did. The woman Wanda's married to in Westview? She’s not in any public records. Turns out her records were wiped clean two years ago.”

Darcy looks up, puzzled. “Why would Stark's company have this?”

“Just read, Darcy. It’s all in there,” he says, turning his full attention back to his research.

Darcy frowns slightly and begins scanning through the pages more attentively. It takes her a few minutes to piece together the information she's reading, with her mind going in different directions and still burning with curiosity about the spell Wanda botched.

Finally, she reads aloud, somewhat incredulously, “Subject was recognized as S.H.I.E.L.D.'s youngest marksmanship prodigy prior to recruitment by Stark Industries following the dissolution of S.H.I.E.L.D.. Subsequently provided tactical support on multiple classified operations in conjunction with the Avengers initiative.”

She sets the file down thoughtfully. “Kinda reminds me a bit of Romanoff or Barton. Total badass. I hadn’t pegged Maximoff for that crowd.”

“What crowd did you have Wanda filed under?” Jimmy asks, just out of curiosity.

Darcy’s gaze drifts off, a dreamy smirk on her lips. “Honestly? I always pictured her—or anyone for that matter—swooning over someone more…mythical hammer than tactical espionage.”

Jimmy snorts to himself at Darcy's whimsical take and says, “Of course, you’d say that. Thor's everyone's type.”

“He’s yours too?”

“Yeah, why not,” Jimmy shrugs, his tone more reluctant than sarcastic, which only amuses Darcy more.

“So,” Darcy begins, “Wanda's settled down in New Jersey, married to a woman? I mean, good for her. They all deserve a break. Maybe even an early retirement.”

Jimmy lets out a long, tired sigh, like he's just about done with everything. Darcy notices and raises an eyebrow. “What now?”

He barely glances up. “Like I said, everything’s in there. Just keep reading.”

Darcy groans but goes back to the file, flipping through the pages again. She’s about to make a snarky comment when something catches her attention—something that has her eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

“It… it says here Y/N’s dead.”

“That’s right,” Jimmy responds without missing a beat.

“Not snapped five years ago. Dead-dead.”

“Yep.”

Darcy stares at the page, disbelief all over her face. “That can’t be right, can it?”

Jimmy finally swivels his chair to face her, looking as tired as he sounds. “That’s what I’ve been trying to wrap my head around for hours. If aliens and superheroes are real, maybe bringing someone back from the dead to star in a sitcom isn’t so far-fetched, right?”

–

You carefully pull the blankets up over Billy, smoothing his hair and whispering a soft good night. Tommy’s already half-asleep, but you make sure to tuck him in just as snugly, brushing a kiss on his forehead. Wanda stands in the doorway, watching you, her heart swelling in her chest. You were so clueless when she first had the twins, but now, being a mother just seems to come naturally to you. 

And you pulled it off in a week, while the twins stretched into six-year-olds just as fast.

“Honey,” you call softly, noticing the way she’s lost in thought. “Aren’t you going to say good night to our boys?”

Wanda steps into the room, giving each of the boys their good night kiss. You pucker your lips, silently asking for your turn, and she playfully swats your arm, whispering, “Not here, baby.”

You pout, giving her your best puppy-dog eyes, which only makes her smile. Without warning, you grab her hand and hurriedly pull her out of the boys' room, making a beeline for your bedroom. Wanda’s laughter fills the hallway, and just as you reach the door, you suddenly sweep her off the ground, lifting her into your arms.

Wanda lets out a shriek, her laughter infectious, and you can’t help but grin, even as you let her thump onto the mattress—a sloppy, graceless drop. You follow her onto the bed, rolling onto your stomach to peer down at her, still sporting that stupid smile.

“So, about that kiss you owe me,” you whisper, hovering closer, teasing her with your proximity.

Wanda nods distractedly. “I think I can manage that,” she murmurs, and then her lips are on yours.

It starts simple and sweet. Though soon, her tongue is gently nudging your lips apart, and it quickly becomes anything but. Her hands slip down to your back, pulling you close until her heartbeat hammering against yours. You break away, lips trailing down to her neck, exploring every dip and hollow, your tongue darting out to taste her skin. When you hit that spot just behind her ear, the one that always drives her wild, she gasps.

“Don't start something you can’t finish,” she warns, her voice already thick with want.

“Who says I won't?” you shoot back with a wolfish grin.

You both fall into a familiar routine, as easy to slip into as the back of your hand. There’s no hurry, just the two of you moving languidly—whispering against skin, giggles turning into sighs and breathy moans. Sometimes, being with Wanda feels like a desperate need, as if not having her completely would literally be the end of you. But it’s moments like these that are your favorite—the ones where you’re barely even trying, yet she still comes apart at your touch, at the mere feeling of your fingers on her. 

Eventually, you both settle down, a contented sigh escaping you as you curl up against Wanda, your skin slightly damp with the effort of your love. You like this, being the little spoon, hiding your face in her neck like you’re hiding from the world, though you vaguely recall a time when it was usually her in your arms. 

As you’re staggering on the edge of sleep, Wanda’s fingers gently massage your scalp, her lips dropping soft, pensive kisses on your forehead. You're almost out, but one last question keeps you from drifting off entirely.

“Wanda, that spell earlier that shrunk the boys—what was that about?” you mumble, your words slurring into the dream nipping at your consciousness.

Wanda’s laughter rumbles through her chest, nudging you slightly from your drowsy state.

“Come on, tell me,” you coax, giving her side a playful pinch to keep her talking.

“It’s embarrassing,” she mumbles, her face turning a delightful shade of pink again that spreads down her neck and chest. Her coy reaction wakes you up some more. As a twisted kind of payback, you run your tongue rough over her nipple, snatching a sharp gasp from her. Moving up, you hold her flushed cheek, making sure she’s looking right at you. Your thigh presses between hers, and it doesn’t take long before she’s wet and ready again.

“Are you going to tell me, or do you plan on sleeping with a wet pussy tonight?” you whisper, brushing your lips against the corner of her mouth. Under different circumstances, Wanda would scold you for your crudeness, but right now, she's too worked up to care. Your dirty mouth has always been one of the most irritating yet irresistible things about you. Even having kids hasn’t changed that.

“I was trying to... enchant your...” she starts, but then your hand tightens on her butt, spurring her subtle grinding movements. By this time, she’s practically dripping onto the sheets, her thoughts scattering as the tightening sensation below her stomach builds.

“My what?” you push, smirking as you watch her fumble for words. You hoist her leg, resting it on your shoulder, laying her wide open. You slide two fingers inside her, fucking her slowly while your thumb brutally circles her clit. As she hesitates to answer, you hook in another finger, drawing a sharp cry of pleasure from Wanda. Your gaze stays locked on your wife, a part of you as surprised as she might be at your boldness tonight.

All day, she’s haunted every corner of your mind, fantasizing about stealing a quick, desperate moment while the twins are asleep or at Agnes’s. But there’s been something—an unnameable restraint—holding you back from indulging those wicked impulses. It isn’t until the boys are asleep, the house quiet, that those invisible chains start to loosen. That’s when you can finally allow yourself to desire Wanda the way you really want to. The way you’ve always been meant to.

“Your... clit,” Wanda finally spits out, seeing you've drifted off, stuck in your head. “I thought I could make it... well, longer. Like a...” She chokes on the words, too embarrassed to finish.

“Like a cock?” you throw out crudely, looking down at her impishly.

Wanda nods, mortified but also a little defiant. “Wanted you to fuck me with it,” she mumbles, finding her backbone now that the secret's in the open.

“I am fucking you,” you whisper hotly right into her ear. “But if you want it like that, all you have to do is say the word.”

Wanda clenches around you at the thought of doing it like that in the near future, her breath hitching. “Please,” she mewls, the word dripping with need. 

“Good girl,” you growl, cranking up the pace as you drive your fingers harder inside her, making her gasp and arch towards you. “You can come.”

With a choked whimper, Wanda surrenders, her body seizing as her orgasm washes over her. She soaks your wrist, the clear fluid trickling down onto the sheets, but you don't stop, pushing through every pulse of her release until she's quaking, utterly wrecked beneath you. You patiently wait until her spasms subside before slowly pulling your fingers away.

Wanda's hand shoots out, stopping your movements. “Stay,” she implores, sounding like she's on the verge of tears. You're momentarily startled by her reaction, concerned something might be wrong. Swiftly, you slide your fingers back where they belong, nestled deep inside her.

“Okay, baby, I’m not going anywhere,” you murmur, pushing back the damp strands of hair sticking to her forehead with your free hand. Exhaustion begins to cloud your senses as you sink down beside Wanda, still keeping your hand where she wants it. 

“I'm sorry for needing you so much,” Wanda murmurs, her voice shaky with tears you can't see, your cheek pressed against the pillow beside hers.

“Don't be,” you mumble, half-lost to sleep as she clings to you more tightly. “I’m here.”

“You love me,” she says, a hint of wonder, of fear.

You nod, lips brushing the nape of her neck. “And you love me,” you murmur back, your eyes slipping shut. “I'm not going anywhere, Wanda.”

“For now,” she whispers to herself, once your breathing evens out in sleep.

Tears betray her then, and she clamps a hand over her mouth to keep quiet. But just before her sobs fully break free, she flicks a finger, a thin red wisp of magic ensuring you stay deep in sleep.

With you unaware, Wanda surrenders to her grief.

[noonemonitorsmyscreentime]

Darcy: She hates me, she hates me. Nothing I can do to fix that right now. But over my dead body, she'll like Wickham.

[dutifullylazybread]

I totally agree.

So, I am actually on the second draft of an original work. I have been working on this for years now, and I am also a massive perfectionist. I gave myself permission to write a horrible first draft (which I genuinely believe is the best advice I can give anyone--your first draft is not going to be pretty. It's sole purpose is to exist and give you some groundwork for the drafts to come).

However, because my first draft wasn't perfect by my standards, it was challenging to work on my second draft because I was so angry about my first not being everything I felt it should be. And then I got to a set of chapters that were well over 20,000 words and were redundant and meandering. This is not a bad thing. It's just a first draft.

I took a step back and wrote out my Rolan x Tav fic, and it was the best feeling in the world. It helped me remember that, even though writing isn't always pretty at first, it will get there. And because the Rolan x Tav fic is smaller scale and much of it is episodic, it felt much more manageable by comparison.

Sharing my fic and seeing how many people have enjoyed it and feel so strongly for the plot has been nothing short of amazing--because outside of three people, I haven't shared my work with anyone for a long while.

So this is my way of completely agreeing with OP that fanfiction is an amazing way to practice and learn and grow. I'd also say it's a good way to refresh yourself when other creative projects are taking a lot of energy.

As an aspiring novelist, I love that fanfiction is a thing. I've been writing fanfiction for over 16 years now and have started putting together my own personal novel.

Fanfiction isn't just a way to create stories out of other works for me, it's also a great way to practice writing. I can explore my strengths, find my weaknesses, and find my style of writing.

Writing fanfiction is also a creative outlet for myself when I'm stuck on my novels and can't seem to move forward, but still want to write.

Having people comment on my stories and follow my stories gives me motivation that, yes! I can actually write and people actually like it. It gives me hope that, if and when I write my own novel, people will read it and people will like it.

[dutifullylazybread]

Can I ask for a 33,specifically a kiss on a scar? Doesn't matter whether it is Rolan's or Tav's

Absolutely! Thank you for bearing with me while I worked on this! 💖 I'm playing inbox catch-up right now, and this was so much fun to write!

CW: some light discussion of old scars

“Extend your arm more when you’re casting—don’t keep it so close to your body,” Tav said, “And push your palm out further.”

Cradling his scorched hand against his chest, Rolan turned a hard glare on her. Tav listed her head to the side, quirking an eyebrow, waiting for him to say something—anything.

Rolan’s mouth fell into a hard line and his shoulders drew up to his ears.

He was the first to look away with a snort.

“I gathered as much when my skin started to blister,” he snapped. He grazed his fingertips over the front of his robes—now blackened to an ashy gray from where his spell seared the fabric. His irritation gave way as his face creased with pain.

Tav rounded her workstation and crossed the study. “Let me take a look,” she said.

“It’s fine,” Rolan said quickly. He tried to flex his hand, to test its range of motion, only bite down on his lower lip, swallowing a curse as a spearing anguish threatened to overwhelm his senses.

“May I?” Tav asked gently.

Rolan exhaled through his nose, forcing the tension to drop from his frame as he extended his arm to her, his palm facing upwards.

The injury was already starting to blister. Rolan’s skin, usually a warm red, was burned wine dark. The tip of his tail flicked an irritable beat against his ankle. He refused to meet Tav’s gaze; his mouth was curled up in distaste—as if he’d bitten into something bitter. “Well?” he asked.

“It doesn’t look good,” Tav said, her focus more on his injury than on his question.

“An astute observation.”

“Sit down while I prepare a salve,” she said.

“And how long will that take?”

Tav opened a nearby cabinet and withdrew a squat, brown-glass jar. “About as long as it took for me to walk five paces to the right,” she said.

Rolan’s cheeks flushed a dusky red. He averted his gaze. His tail’s sharp cadence slowed and then totally stilled. “Ah…”

She fetched one of the freshly bottled healing potions from her workstation, plucked up a roll of fresh bandages from the wicker basket tucked under the table, and returned to his side.

“Drink this.” She passed him the rowan berry-red potion. “It’ll take care of the brunt of your injury.”

She sat down on the study’s reading couch and patted the cushion beside her.

Slowed by his chagrin, Rolan claimed the space that she beckoned him towards. He downed the healing potion in one large gulp. The blistering smoothed away and the mottled flesh was soothed—though a touch of inflammation still played at the edges of where the burn originally lay.

“This should help with any irritation,” Tav said as she applied a generous coat of balm to his hand. He sighed, relaxing into her touch. She bit down on her smile.

Tav opened the jar and dipped two fingers into the honey gold salve.

He watched her work, his eyes following her movements.

“What happened there?” he asked.

He gestured to the silvery pink scar running down the side of her thumb.

“This? I burnt myself on a furnace while glass blowing,” she said, pausing before adding, “It could have been much worse, all things considered.”

“And that one?” She followed his gaze to her forearm—where another scar, faded with age, started at the pulse point of her wrist, ran the length of her limb, before it abruptly paused above her elbow.

Her mouth quirked into a smile. “I burned myself by not extending my arm enough when I cast a spell.”

Rolan snorted.

“I’m serious,” Tav said. “Take better care when you’re practicing.”

He bristled, opening his mouth to retort.

“I won’t speak on the matter any further,” she said, cutting him off. “But, I’ll be here to patch you up—should you need me.”

She leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Permit me to worry? Just a little?” She murmured against his neck, her lips warmed by the taste of his skin. She laid her hand against his jaw, tilting his face towards hers.

He flushed a feverish red. “If you must,” he said, each word forced out into a disjointed sentence.

Clearing his throat, he cast his gaze about, unconsciously taking her hand in his and pressing a lingering kiss to the ridge of her scarred thumb. And, as he gathered himself, he held it there, unthinking but slowly calming.

“Honestly,” he said after a moment. “I should be the one worrying about you. You always manage to come home bruised and bloodied.”

He rose from the couch, rolling up his sleeves and readying himself for another bout of practice.

“Well.” Tav hummed. “I need to keep you on your toes, now don’t I?”

Rolan paused, shaking his head. “Gods, you are impossible,” he muttered.

And, before he turned back to his training, Rolan stooped down and kissed her—conveying the tenderness that his indignance would not permit him to give voice to in the moment.

[darcylovette]

Hmm? Oh, yeah, I’m in Michie hell. It’s one of those ships where I’m like “in real life this would be a terrible pairing… but this is fiction”. It’s intriguing, I can’t help but be drawn to it.

So I wrote this for y’all. Michie nation, I hope you enjoy this offering.

Make sure to check out the tags, as this is a very explicit one. OSHA unapproved BDSM, iffy consent (no SA), and some happily received degradation. Enjoy!

[buddyhollyscurls]

Trying to sleep and was looking at books and that eventually led me to think of Pride and Prejudice and yk what moment we need to appreciate more?

That scene where Caroline is doing her pick me shit and joking with Darcy about Elizabeth's pretty eyes and she's like when you guys get your marriage portrait done do you think any painter could do her eyes justice?

And our boy Fitzy doesn't even HESITATE he's like I think a painter would do a great job at getting her eyelashes and the way they look in the sunlight and it's just like

MY GUY HAD U ALREADY BEEN THINKING ABOUT THAT??? U HAD THE ANSWER LOCKED AND LOADED WERE U ON YE OLDE GOOGLE LOOKING UP WEDDING PORTRAIT ARTISTS NEAR ME??? DID U HAVE A REGENCY ERA PINTERST BOARD OF UR DREAM WEDDING TO LIZZY ALREADY MADE UP????

[bladeinthedark]

the greatest thing to happen to humanity are rain scenes in period dramas

[wandamaximoffsbadgirl]

⋆·˚˚°✦ Masterlist ✦°˚˚·⋆

ι wrιtᥱ for mᥲrvᥱᥣ womᥱᥒ, ιᥒᥴᥣυdιᥒg wᥲᥒdᥲ, ᥒᥲtᥲshᥲ, kᥲtᥱ, ყᥱᥣᥱᥒᥲ, ᥲgᥲthᥲ, ᥲᥒd rιo

ι wrιtᥱ for fᥱm!rᥱᥲdᥱr, gᥒ!rᥱᥲdᥱr, ᥲᥒd ᥲmᥲb!/ιᥒtᥱrsᥱx!rᥱᥲdᥱr

ι'm ᥲυtιstιᥴ ᥲᥒd wιᥣᥣ wrιtᥱ ᥲυtιstιᥴ!rᥱᥲdᥱr

ι wιᥣᥣ wrιtᥱ for ᥣιttᥣᥱ!rᥱᥲdᥱr

ᥒo bᥱstιᥲᥣιtყ, ρᥱdo, rᥲᥴιsm, or homoρhobιᥲ

thιs ιs ᥲᥒ 𝟷𝟾+ bᥣog. mᥱᥒ ᥲᥒd mιᥒors dᥒι. ᥲgᥱᥣᥱss ᥲᥒd/or bᥣᥲᥒk bᥣogs wιᥣᥣ bᥱ bᥣoᥴkᥱd!

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ᥲᥒoᥒ ᥱmojι ᥣιst~˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆kιᥒktobᥱr 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺 mᥲstᥱrᥣιst˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆ᥣᥱყ's moodboᥲrd dᥱᥴᥱmbᥱr mᥲstᥱrᥣιst 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟺˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆sᥱrιᥱs˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆oᥒᥱ shots˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆drᥲbbᥣᥱs˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆hᥱᥲdᥴᥲᥒᥒoᥒs˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆moodboᥲrds˚˖𓍢ִ໋🌷͙֒✧˚.🎀༘⋆

[dandelion-blues]

Imitheos Phantasm

Chapter 1: Like Clockwork

Time has always existed, and yet it has not. For how can time exist when there was nothing? Then, the first being came. Chaos. They birthed the universe and thus time began. Time didn't originally have a name, nor a personhood - they just were. Much like their parent, they simply just existed. 

But then, life formed on those planets that Chaos created. The passageway of time leading to their evolution and their sentience.

It happened slowly at first, or perhaps in an instance — it can be hard to tell for one that represents time, but Time looked to shape a form that wasn’t like the endless waves of timelines.

Time took a liking to the mortals as they now were called and shaped their form off of them. They were even given a name by the mortals when they visited.

Chronos.

Of course, only a part of Time ever slipped away to the mortal realms, influencing their lives here and there, while the other stayed in the celestial or infinite realms.

But it was this piece (or rather several as there are multiple universes and dimensions) of Chronos that truly became attached to the mortal realm — that chose to separate themselves from their main body even if they became weakened by doing so.

This Chronos came to be named Kronos and was mistaken as a Titan in his more mortal form as he traded his tail for legs. 

Kronos walked or rather stumbled through the land that was known as Earth, or Gaia. Kronos recognized one of his sister progeny of Chaos. They weren’t true siblings like mortals, though, just as they simply came into existence as Chaos willed it so.

It was perhaps in this moment, though, the Kronos knew what love was when they saw her. All tan skin, like gold, and fiery red hair like a rose, and those eyes lush and green.

Kronos fell in love. It wasn’t until later, much later though, that he finally got the courage to approach this gorgeous woman. 

He watched her play in the meadows sometimes. Watched as she took special interest in the golden flowers. And he decided to make his red eyes as golden as those flowers.

He didn't really know until much later that this behavior would be perceived as creepy. Afterall, he’s always watching. He’s watched time form the very start of his existence, and why should another one of his interests be any different.

And so, he continued to watch with golden eyes. His once pale blue skin became pale like the clouds that she so loved to gaze out. And his pure white hair became black as the night she dreamt under.

Then, one day, Kronos could no longer just watch, and he approached her.

Kronos learned that her name was Rhea, and she was the daughter of Gaia and Ouranos.

Rhea seemed almost as fascinated by him as he was with her. His tales of time that just seemed insignificant made her bright green eyes shine with wonder.

And Kronos began to see life and time through her eyes, and he spun tale after tale of all they saw and learned.

Kronos learned what it was to live, and the two soon fell in love.

Their marriage wasn’t one of opulence and riches, but of flower crowns and promises and tender embraces.

Of course, that’s not how the mortals tell their tale, but that’s for another time.

But the mortals did get a few things right. Kronos descend into madness and the swallowing of their children.

Kronos didn’t think that there would be negative effects from separating so permanently from his main body, but not much after Rhea was pregnant for the first time, did he start to hear voices whispering in his ears.

He was too weak. He couldn’t protect them. His children were in danger!

He had to keep them close.

Kronos dismissed it at first, but they grew louder and louder every day. Speaking of the tragedies that would befall the child. And when his first daughter Hestia was born.

The voices were thundering. His daughter. His precious daughter. She was so fragile, so breakable. 

And he ate her. She would never be hurt in his stomach after all. She would be able to grow and survive in peace, and he would always be able to protect her like this. He could feel her breathing, her heart, her screams. She was safe.

Rhea was never the wiser, but Kronos knew she wouldn’t understand.

Thus, began the tale of Kronos and how he swallowed up all of his kids, except one, to protect them. Of how, his youngest, hidden away by his sweet Rhea, eventually tricked him into throwing all of his babies up.

No, he couldn’t protect them! They needed to be safe and whole! They couldn’t leave or they would get hurt!

But then Kronos was cut into pieces by his children.

Even then, he only held love for them, not hate like the mortals would say.

Perhaps, this should have been when he merged with his other self, and became whole again, but something stopped him. The voices, the timelines spoke to him. Of him returning, or him seeing his children again if he stayed and healed over time, of wars and blood and massacres.

And so, Kronos stayed and healed and waited.

Kronos didn’t know how much time passed by again until he was conscious enough to think, but one day he could.

At first, he didn’t know what he was seeing, but eventually he learned that he was seeing other's dreams, slipping into their unconsciousness like a phantom.

It was through these dreams that Kronos learned much of the present world.

That his children once ruled over the world all bright and glorious, until mortals made them fade into obscurity. How dare they?!

The mortals even took their names and changed them! Made them Roman! Even named him Saturn!

Then, the mortals dared to forget his children and even made some of the gods fade over time, when too much of their domain was wrecked by the mortals and they were forgotten.

Kronos was once again stuck by that blinding fear, like lightning from his youngest.

His children could fade!

And his children had children. Some of his grandchildren already did!

Kronos was in anguish. How dare those mortals?! How dare they?!

He swore that day that the mortals would be eradicated if it was the last thing he did.

It was then that he was able to slip into mortal’s dreams, into demigod dreams. 

Kronos loved them, he hated them.

They were his grandbabies, they were destruction.

They were his. And that was what mattered.

He could teach them to forgo their mortal ways, after all they have ichor in their blood just as they have red in their veins. For now, though, until gold overtook their veins, they were pesky mortals, they were pawns.

One such pawn great-grandson went by the name of Luke Castellan, and he was going to make sure that he would see his children and grandchildren again… the godly ones of course.

And so, Kronos lied to Luke, for Luke wanted to tear down the gods, his children, and Kronos said he wanted the same. Still, even as Luke’s plans made Kronos’ blood boil, he was such a good pawn for what was to come.

However, everything started to go down when that mortal with more gold than red in his veins stood against him. 

Perseus Jackson, that brilliant amazing grandson of his useless mortal trash foiled his plans at every turn. And there in his dying hour, did Kronos finally see his grandson for the first time. His green eyes are so much like Rhea’s, the fear and anger and hurt in those eyes.

Ancients what has Kronos done?!

Thus, Kronos let himself seep back to his main body, perhaps to be destroyed for good, for all the sins he committed. But, instead, his other self, Chronos, held him, gold peering to gold, and hugged him.

Kronos cried and cried, and they fell into one another. The two became one once more.

Of course, while this moment felt like an instant, it was also so much more. Fusion of two powerful beings into one, atoms spitting and time ending and begging. The universe tilted on its axis, and time once again started anew.

But then, those golden eyes peered at the universe, to see if their family was safe and saw that their grandson with Rhea’s eyes had died.

Chronos raged that day, oh they raged. So many universes fall into dark timelines, but they did not care, for the one who brought them back to the light was gone.

But then, they saw with their eyes turning a brilliant golden, a baby being born, crying out and their soul. Oh, and their soul was Percy’s.

Chronos wept with joy and from then on, they took to watching each and every moment in Percy’s, or rather Danny’s, life.

…Not noticing until it was too late that a scythe sliced their left eye, and the chains shackled them to a clock tower.

Their eyes no longer were the brilliant golden of sand. No, they were the color of blood, red and weak with mortality.

Chronos was no longer time. No, they were merely a slave to those eyeballs that called themselves the Observants. Whatever they wanted he did. Their powers were greatly dimensioned, and he could barely see into the vast timelines. He needed mirrors to see now. No, in this clock tower, they were simply just another clock worker.

So that’s who he became — Clockwork.

Notes:

Both the Gods in the PJO Universe and the DP Universe and the DC Universe (as well as others) can exist simultaneously because they can split themselves (whether permanently or not).

Also, this fanfic idea comes from my #2 "What if...?" where Percy Jackson was reborn as Danny Fenton. Of course, fate has never been nice to the hero's soul, and struggles will continue on in all of his lives. From one universe to the next. At least the dc universe has other heroes to help him (even if they were too late to save him from death). Still, we can only hope that life will give him a break (but Death never will).

[tossawary]

I was thinking about Fandom's Darlings recently because I encountered another case of "Yes, Your Ship Has Become Canon But At What Cost???" in the wild. Which is a mouthful, but I don't have a snappier name for these events in fandom yet.

It's when two characters get together in a story, but... their characterizations get destroyed in the process because the writers apparently 1) can't write solid romance (it's a specific skill!) and 2) also can't fit that romance into the broader story. Often, all of the supporting characters surrounding this shiny couple will ALSO suffer severe characterization damage to make this romance happen. And sometimes the larger plot and even the worldbuilding will also take hard structural hits so the story can focus on this GREAT PASSION that frankly just isn't... executed well.

Like, if a ship I dislike becomes canon, that's one thing, but if the writing for it isn't even semi-competent, that's worse!!! And the really insufferable part is actually the shippers who are not only popping bottles because their ship went canon, but will mock everyone who complains about the bad writing (or tries to earnestly analyze why exactly this conclusion sucks) as "bitter sore losers". I mean, the characters you profess to love have been turned into empty shells of themselves, the canonical partnership here is about as shallow as a puddle, and the integrity of this entire fictional world is on fire, but sure, you "won" this ship war. Congrats.

There is nothing else to do but move on, it's definitely not worth getting into it with anyone. But it REALLY sucks if you actually liked either of the characters involved or maybe even liked the ship itself, because then it's like... "I have been given an enormous cake, but it has been Poisoned. I cannot eat this, for I would choke on it. I have been Betrayed In A Fashion Most Vile." But everyone still sitting at the table tells you that you ought to be happy! At least you got some cake!