#festival knickers

[ahqkas]

♯ PRACTICE MAKES IT BETTER ; theodore nott

PAIRING! theodore nott x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! struggling with the local slang, you feel out of place until you meet theodore nott, the silent slytherin (based off this req.!!)

WORD COUNT! 2.3k

WARNINGS AND TAGS! fluff, kissing + lmk !

NOTES! reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated :)

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

AMERICA WAS VIBRANT AND DIVERSE. The music scene was thriving with genres like grunge, hip-hop, and pop dominating the airwaves. To you, it was a place of contrasts and boundless possibilities. It was a land where towering skyscrapers stood next to historic buildings, and where you could find everything from bustling cities to quiet, open countryside. The diversity was striking; every state feels like its own little world, with different cultures, foods, and ways of life. It was a country where you could experience all four seasons, with hot summers, cold winters, and vibrant springs and autumns. The sheer size and variety made it feel like there was always something new to explore, whether it was a national park, a music festival, or just a quirky little town.

Then you moved to England.

Leaving behind the familiar sights and sounds of America, you stepped into a new world of magic and centuries-old traditions.

The first thing you noticed was the climate change. England's weather was full of frequent rain and cloudy skies. You had to get used to bringing an umbrella everywhere with you.

Hogwarts in Scotland was completely different from Ilvermorny, which resided on Mount Greylock. The towering buildings of the castle intimidated you a bit as you were used to the more modern school, but you were excited for the change of scenery.

The stone corridors, moving staircases, and enchanted portraits had captivated your imagination. The castle itself was full of new discoveries. Sure, you missed your old friends dearly, every one of them, but the owls worked hard and you managed to make new friends here.

As an exchange student from America, walking the hallowed halls of Hogwarts was a totally new experience. The ancient castle with its sprawling grounds, enchanted staircases, and hidden passageways was like stepping into a dream. But it wasn't just the magical environment that threw you off balance; it was the British slang that seemed to pop up in every conversation.

During your first week, you found yourself constantly bewildered by the new expressions. At breakfast, when a cheerful Hufflepuff asked if you wanted a "banger" with your eggs, you hesitated, unsure if it was an insult or a menu item. When a Ravenclaw mentioned being "knackered" after a long night of studying, you had to suppress a laugh, thinking it sounded more like a sound effect from a comic book than an expression of exhaustion.

The confusion was endless: "snogging" instead of kissing, "knickers" instead of underwear, "blimey" instead of a simple exclamation of surprise. You did your best to keep up, but the nuances of the language often left you feeling like you were missing the punchline of a joke. To put it simply, you were lost.

One afternoon, you were sitting in the library, poring over a stack of books for a Transfiguration assignment, when you heard a familiar voice behind you.

"Ciao, piccola," Theodore Nott drawled, sliding into the seat across from yours. His presence was effortlessly welcomed, with his cool demeanor and piercing blue eyes that seemed to see right through you. He was a strange boy at first, never letting anyone, but when you warmed up to him, he was a totally new person.

"Hi, Theo," you greeted him with a smile playing on your lips. Theodore had been one of the first students to approach you, his Italian heritage a surprising connection. He often teased you in his native language, enjoying the way you fumbled with the unfamiliar phrases. A nuisance, that he was.

"Come va la tua giornata?" he asked, his eyes twinkling with mischief. ("How's your day doing?")

Already hearing this phrase a few times, you learned to understand its translation. With a sigh, you ran a hand through your hair. "It's been . . . interesting. I'm still trying to understand half of what everyone says here."

Theo chuckled, the sound rich and warm to your ears. "British slang getting to you?"

"You could say that," you admitted, leaning back in your chair as you watched his amusement at your misery. "I feel like I need a translator just for conversations."

"Well, if you think British slang is confusing, wait until I teach you some Italian slang," Theo smirked at the idea that appeared on his mind. "It's a whole different level."

Now this got your attention. "Teach me, then. It can't be that difficult from the British slang."

Over the next few weeks, Theodore Nott became your informal language tutor. He started with simple phrases, weaving them into everyday conversations until you began to pick them up naturally. He taught you how to greet someone with "Ciao, amico!" instead of a formal "Buongiorno," and how to say "Andiamo!" when you were ready to go.

One rainy afternoon, as you sat together in the Great Hall, Theo decided to test your knowledge. The rain tapped persistently against the high, arched windows, casting a muted gray light across the large hall. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the sky outside, swirling with dark clouds and flashes of lightning that illuminated the space completely. Despite the dreary weather, the Great Hall buzzed with the soft hum of student conversations, punctuated by the clinking of silverware and the rustling of pages.

Theo, seated across from you at the Slytherin table, leaned back casually, a mischievous glint in his eye. His dark hair fell slightly over his forehead, framing his sharp features. You had grown accustomed to his teasing, the way he delighted in challenging you with phrases in Italian, watching with amusement as you thought through the unfamiliar language. Today was no different, his eyes scanning the hall as if seeking inspiration for his next test.

You had been in the midst of revising for an upcoming Charms exam, your notes spread out around you in a chaotic array of parchment and textbooks. The soft light from the floating candles above cast a warm glow on the pages, making the ink shimmer slightly. As Theo's gaze returned to you, you knew another one of his lessons was coming.

"What would you say if you were really tired?" he asked, his eyes sparkling with amusement.

Theo's questions were always a blend of practical and playful, designed to push you just a little further each time. He spoke with the ease of someone completely comfortable in his skin, his words flowing like the rain outside, steady and sure. His Italian phrases, though foreign at first, began to weave themselves into the mind of your understanding.

Your responses grew more confident, the hesitation in your voice diminishing with each passing day. You found yourself thinking in Italian at times, the language slipping into your thoughts as naturally as your own. Theo's delight was evident, his eyes lighting up whenever you got something right, his praise sincere and heartfelt.

The rain outside showed no signs of letting up, but within the Great Hall, a warmth lingered.

You thought for a moment, then confidently replied, "Sono stanca morta." The phrase rolled off your tongue more smoothly than before, each syllable a small victory in your journey to master his native language. The meaning — "I'm dead tired" — was all too familiar after long days filled with classes and studying.

Theo laughed, the sound rich and genuine, echoing softly in the near-empty Great Hall. His laughter was like a reward, a confirmation that you were getting it right. Silver eyes sparkled with approval, the corners of his lips curling into a smile that made your heart flutter. The warmth of his reaction was comforting against the dreary, rain-soaked afternoon outside.

"Well done!" His voice was filled with genuine pride and delight, making you feel accomplished. His praise was never out of place; it was always heartfelt.

Your heart swelled with a mix of pride and joy. Learning Italian was not just about understanding a new language, but also about bridging the gap between your worlds. Each phrase, each word, was a step closer to understanding Theo better, and a way to connect on a deeper level.

He leaned forward slightly, his eyes searching yours, waiting for your next move. "And if you wanted to compliment someone on a job well done?" His question was another gentle challenge, pushing you to dig deeper into your newfound vocabulary.

"Bravo!" you answered without hesitation. The word felt natural, a perfect fit for the context. As you spoke, you couldn't help but smile, the simple word carrying a world of meaning and mutual respect. Seeing the approval in Theo's eyes, you felt a surge of confidence.

Theo's smile broadened, and his expression softened with pride and admiration. The approval in his eyes was more than just about your grasp of the language; it was about your willingness to immerse yourself in something new, to share a part of his heritage, to make an effort to connect.

The atmosphere around you felt lighter, the earlier tension of the day's studies dissolving into a shared moment of triumph and connection. The Great Hall, with its towering windows and ancient stone walls, seemed to fade into the background, leaving just the two of you in your own little world of language and laughter.

The candles above flickered gently, casting a warm glow that danced across Theo's features, highlighting the pride in his eyes.

One day, as you walked together by the Black Lake, the cold water reflecting the moody sky, Theo turned to you, his expression thoughtful. The gentle breeze rustled the leaves of the ancient trees that lined the shore, their branches swaying rhythmically as if in silent conversation. The scene was picturesque, the expanse of the lake stretching out before you, a serene contrast to the bustling life within the castle walls. It was quiet out here, and you liked this spot.

"You know, you've picked up Italian slang faster than I expected," Theo remarked, his voice carrying a hint of admiration and surprise. His thoughtful tone blended seamlessly with the natural sounds around you, creating a moment of perfect harmony.

You laughed, the sound bright and carefree, echoing across the still waters. Nudging him playfully, you replied, "Maybe I had a good teacher." The playful banter was a reflection of the easy camaraderie that had developed between you, a testament to the countless hours spent learning and laughing together.

Theo's smile softened at your words, a tender expression that seemed to light up his face. His gaze lingered on you, the depth of his affection and pride evident in his eyes. The way he looked at you made your heart flutter, each shared glance made your knees tremble. Like you were the only girl at Hogwarts.

"Maybe," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with a warmth that enveloped you. "Or maybe you just have a knack for languages." His words were a gentle compliment, a recognition of your efforts and abilities.

The path around the Black Lake was peaceful, the occasional ripple disturbing the otherwise mirror-like surface of the water. The air was crisp and fresh, carrying with it the faint scent of pine and damp earth. As you walked side by side, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of you, the rest of the universe fading into the background.

Your footsteps synchronized, a silent dance of familiarity and comfort. The conversations flowed effortlessly, alternating between Italian lessons and shared dreams, each word weaving a tapestry of understanding and companionship. Theo's presence was a constant, steady and reassuring, his thoughtful insights and quiet encouragements a source of strength.

The sun began to dip below the horizon, casting a golden glow over the landscape. The twilight hues painted the sky in shades of pink and orange, a breathtaking sight that added to the magic of the moment. Theo's silhouette against the backdrop of the setting sun was a picture of serenity and quiet strength, a reminder of the stability he brought into your life.

Before you could fully process what was happening, the Slytherin boy took a small step closer, closing the distance between you. The warmth of his presence enveloped you, his proximity sending a gentle thrill through your body. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against yours, the touch sending a spark of electricity up your arm.

In that moment, with the golden light of dusk casting a magical glow around you, Theo leaned in. His movements were deliberate, filled with a tender hesitation. As his lips met yours, the world seemed to dissolve, leaving only the two of you in a bubble of pure, unadulterated connection.

The kiss was gentle at first, a soft press of lips that spoke everything you needed to know. The taste of his lips, the warmth of his breath, the gentle caress of his hand against your cheek — it all combined to create a sensation that was both exhilarating and deeply comforting.

Theo's hand moved to cup your face, his thumb gently stroking your cheek. The kiss deepened, becoming more confident, more insistent. Your hands found their way to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. The connection between you intensified, the kiss becoming a language of its own, expressing everything words couldn't.

When you finally pulled away, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting against each other. The world slowly came back into focus, the sounds of nature reasserting themselves around you. Theo's eyes, still holding that mix of affection and awe, met yours. A soft, contented smile played on his lips.

"Grazie, Theo," you said softly, your voice filled with gratitude.

"For what?" he asked confused, his brow furrowing slightly.

"For being patient with me. For this. For . . . everything."

Theo's eyes softened, and he reached out, intertwining your fingers in one. "No worries," he replied, his voice just as soft. "I'm glad I could help."

[sim0nril3y]

12 Days of Kinkmas | Day Four: Voyeurism

Note: It's day threeeee of our Kinkmas and I'm not super happy about this one, but I hope you guys enjoy it! Pairing: Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Civilian!Reader Warnings: No mask Simon (It's my personal headcanon in his regular life he probably wouldn't wear it), established relationship, oral (m recieving), voyerurism, canon-typical swearing.

If there was one thing that Simon hated it was parties. They were excruciating. It didn’t matter what they were for because Simon hated all of them. This one that you had was up there as one of the worst ones yet. It was in an enormous house, decorated in tacky Christmas decorations that probably cost a fortune, there was festive music flowing through the walls and a spread of food that even was on theme.

It was the party of one of your friends, you had told him that they were well off but he hadn’t imagined anything like this. Simon had grimaced as you tugged him from one friend to another, greeting them happily, introducing him briefly, you knew that Simon didn’t want to make small talk. No, all he wanted to do was drink beer and get through the night. This whole thing was hell for him, but at least he had your angelic form to gaze on.

After hours of dithering, you had decided on a sparkly festive dress that was very on theme of the party. You looked fucking delicious. Honestly, it was a miracle you’d made it out the door with the way that Simon had been pawing at your body before leaving the house, he’d wanted to get in your knickers before even getting there, but you’d reminded him that you’d be late-late, not just fashionably late and that was something that Simon’s wouldn’t abide.

So, instead he was forced to simply stand back, observing and ogling your body and nod whenever a question was directed at him. With a hearty swig he finished the dregs of his beer and held the empty bottle usefully by his side. “There are more beers in the kitchen. I need another one too.” You announced, slotting your hand into his own and pulling him along. “How’re you holding up, babe?” You quizzed, entering he kitchen and thankful it was empty and quieter than the rest of the house.

Nabbing him a beer, you handed it to him and after taking a swig Simon asked. “How much longer do we need to be here?” Slipping an arm around your waist to tug you forward into his chest. “Wanna get home so I can get this fuckin’ outfit off you…” He commented, rubbing his hands against the sparkly material.

A smirk played on your lips for a moment, as if devising a plan. “Well… we’ve only been here a few hours, so we’ll need to stay a little longer, but…” Glancing around, the room was empty and the door was closed. “Maybe this will help…” You commented, shimmying down the straps of your dress and allowing your tits to spill free, exposing them so that Simon groaned lowly. “Trust me, that really doesn’t help the problem, babe.”

“Mmm… sorry…” You muttered, although there was very little remorse to your voice as your hand slipped between your bodies and cupped him through his jeans, through the material you could feel him rock hard against your hand. “Babe, you’re so hard~” You whisper up at him before over your shoulder again to check for any prying eyes.

A moment later, you took Simon’s hand and tugged it across to the pantry, opening the door and pushing him inside into the confined dark space. “What are you doing?” Simon asked, feeling the way you knelt to the ground, plucking at his jeans as you answered. “I’m giving you an early Christmas present~” Then opening his jeans and pulling them down enough to allow his cock to spring free. “Maybe this will be enough to get you through the party…”

You wasted no time, spitting lewdly into your hand and using it to jerk his cock languidly, gazing up through the dimly lit room at him. Like normal, Simon was stoic and quiet, but you could just about hear his breathing getting hard, little groans in the back of his throat and then finally his voice bit into the darkness. “Be a good girl for me…” His hand braced on the back of your head. “Put it in your mouth. Yeah?”

Following his command, you simply sunk him into your mouth, humming sweetly as you suckled on the head of his cock, hand stroking the rest of him. “Don’t be a tease.” He commented. “You and I both know you can take more of my fat cock than that.” He grumbled and you smirked as you sank more of his cock into your throat.

You were humming and bobbing your head on his cock, eyes fluttered closed as you concentrated on your job for giving Simon pleasure. “Good girl.” He whispered, fingers knotting into your hair. “Good girl.” He panted, beginning to guide your head by winding your tresses, forcing you up and down on his cock, finding his own rhythm and causing you to gag a few times as you adjusted. “My good fuckin’ girl letting my fuck her pretty throat…”

Simon groaned and grunted as he used you for his pleasure, gazing down at your pretty face as he fucked it. He hummed lowly, fucking himself a little faster and smiling to himself at the small gagging and grunting sounds that spilled from your mouth as his actions grew more frantic, Simon was just about to open his mouth to speak when he heard. “… do you know where they are?” His eyes widened looking towards the closed pantry door, people were on the other side, Simon was reminded in that moment that a joyful Christmas party was going on behind those walls.

“The beers? They are over here…” A voice responded to the first one and footsteps move around then. Simon hissed, looking down as you continued to bob your head even as he had stopped all movement, squeezing his eyes closed and leaning his head back. “More people here than I was expecting…” The voice uttered as a few beers popped open. “Yeah, it’s a good turn out.” Simon let out a soft grunt as he suddenly emptied down your throat, bracing his hand against the shelves. “Did you hear something?” “Hear what? All I hear is my favourite Christmas song, come on!” Simon’s fussy mind took note that the voices disappeared in a quick movement to return to the party happily.

Once the coast was clear you and Simon stepped back outside, leading you from the kitchen and grabbing another beer. He brushed down the wrinkles on his outfit and turned back to you then. His eyes widened at his state of you. Your dress was ruffled, your make-up smeared, mouth swollen, you were flushed and clammy looking. “Love, I think we may need to go home…” Simon stepped towards you helping straighten your closed. “What? Why?” You asked.

“Because if any of your friends see you they are gonna know you’re a filthy girl who just gave head to her boyfriend at a Christmas party.” He commented, pulling off his coat and putting it around your shoulders before carefully trying to clean your face of smudged make-up. “Plus, the sooner I get you home, the sooner I get to fuck you into our mattress.”

12 Days of Kinkmas | Regular Masterlist | Ask | 17-12-2023

[drarryspecificrecsdaily]

2023.12.03

Complete fics posted on AO3 this day

1. Bought and Paid For by @jtimu [E, 10k]

►Harry runs his fingers across the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up to his forehead. “Are you telling me that you bid a thousand galleons for the pleasure of my company-” [...]

2. Dark Artistry by @sightedkarma [E, 26k]

►Draco Mallory liked his life after the war, in his little flat in Brighton, with his group of muggle friends and a career that let him put something beautiful out in the world. He'd left the Malfoy name and baggage behind years ago and created something new for himself to be proud of. That was until Harry Potter had to show up, covered in ink, and bring it all back.

3. dueling is their foreplay by tinaakitten [T, 2k]

►“Oh, sorry,” Harry teased. “Did I not tell you? We duel to submission, and I don’t recall saying I was done.” /// Auror partners Draco and Harry have a quick surprise duel in the training room.

4. Predicting the Present by @xx-thedarklord-xx [T, 7k]

►Malfoy—of all people—was the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor, and Harry didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit. “Professor Malfoy said we’ll be learning the basics on how to cast a Patronus!” Oh really? That, Harry had to see.

5. scarves by @anticomedygarden [T, 1k]

►Harry and Draco have fun at a winter festival. That's it.

6. Tickling the Ivories by @annanother-thing [E, 5k]

►Harry has a misbehaving magical piano, a very pushy best friend, and a very unexpected afternoon. feat. Hermione doing what Hermione does best (sorting Harry's life out), Harry's vivid imagination, and Draco's green lacy knickers

---

Fest/Exchange

1. An accidental courtship by Anonymous [E, 6k]

►“The courtship starts with the offering of a single burgundy rose at exactly seven days before the winter solstice. The courtee may formally accept the continuation of the courtship – if they wish – by placing a single kiss on the flower.” ★ Harry/Draco Owlpost 2023 | @hdowlpost

2. A Christmas in Heat by Anonymous [E, 3k]

►Despite all odds, Harry and Draco become friends while working at the Ministry. Their friendship is very intense, and the need they have for each other takes them both by surprise. Then, one day, Harry begins to desire Draco in a way that frightens him. [...] ★ Harry/Draco Owlpost 2023 | @hdowlpost

3. Elf Affairs and Unwrapped Hearts by @picklesonjupiter [M, 1k]

►As Harry reluctantly takes on the role of a mall elf during the holiday season, he finds unexpected camaraderie with Malfoy, another elf, whose civil behavior surprises Harry. Working together, Harry discovers a side of Malfoy that intrigues him, leading to an unexpected invitation. ★ HP Yuletide Bliss 2023 | @hp-yuletide-bliss

4. The Pale Ferret Café by Anonymous [G, 3k]

►Harry's visits to Draco's café are a source of annoyance. Or are they? ★ Harry/Draco Owlpost 2023 | @hdowlpost

5. Thickets by Anonymous [E, 17k]

►When Draco returns to the UK after two decades of building his career as an internationally-renowned artist to look after his ailing, estranged father, he crosses paths with his former flame, Harry Potter, in the most unexpected way. ★ H/D Erised 2023 | @hd-erised

[godihatethiswebsite]

Desert Oasis

✽ Johnny "Soap" Mactavish x f!reader (The Mummy AU)

Main Masterlist ✽ Ao3

✽ Part 7 - Gearing up for the road ahead

I intended to get this out to you guys much earlier, but my health stole my brain bunnies and then the chapter grew a lot bigger than I'd originally anticipated. I'm actually forcing myself to break it up from the 10k monstrosity it currently is (and I'm not done with yet ><) into this chunk half the size so that you're not waiting another week or so.

The good news is I've got a bunch of the next part already done because of that so hopefully the wait won't be as long :)

i'm not jinxing myself by saying that. what are you talking about >>;

Kyle hadn't let you walk after everything and you were far too drained from the day's events to argue. He'd gotten to his feet and hoisted you up into his arms, cradling you to his chest as you wrapped your arms around his neck and rested your eyes for a bit. His body warmth wasn't a cure-all, but it certainly helped given the fact that you were dressed in a sopping wet short cotton batiste nightgown with only your knickers on underneath. Letting yourself be carried wasn't just because you were tired and shoeless - it was also helping to preserve your modesty. 

Something like that shouldn't really matter at a time like this considering one of your male companions was family and the other had already seen you in the state when he was saving your life (twice now). However, you weren't the only people out here despite not running into anyone else as you three made the trek southward. You didn’t want to be caught so exposed should your paths cross with any of your companions from the wreckage. 

Unlikely, but better to be safe than sorry.

They'd opted to delay settling down for the night and keep traveling for a little bit longer, arguing that they were too wound up from the ‘festivities’ to find much sleep anyways. While you were certain adrenaline must’ve had them on edge, you suspected they were moreover worried about the men in black robes coming back in the middle of the night to finish what they started. That thought weighed heavy in your gut, sending a shiver down your spine easily mistaken for the slight chill of the desert. 

By the time it was decided you were far enough away from the wreckage for their comfort, you had begun to lull off in Kyle’s hold, fighting the pull of slumber from a mixture of pure stubbornness and the lingering paranoia of being snuck up on once again. It was doubtful sleep would come easy to you tonight if it even did at all.

Being so close to the Nile had lush vegetation scattered throughout the area, your cousin finding a small patch of softer earth to place you down upon while Johnny rested his back against a nearby palm. Neither of them had a go at building a fire for warmth, not wanting to risk being spotted and leaving your only light source to be the heavenly planets above. The nearby crop provided cover from wandering eyes which helped ease your anxieties a little at least.

“Who was it that attacked us?” The question from your lips was one that no one had yet to voice aloud, but was on everyone’s minds in one form or another. 

Your cousin plopped down in the grass next to you, scratching a hand over his scalp in a show of obvious frustration parroted by the expression he wore.

“Wish I had an answer for you, dolly. Been rattlin' my brain over that all night and yet still only comin' up empty handed. Could’ve just been as simple as a rogue band of desert dwellers looking for easy pickings and we were the poor bastards who got unlucky.”

“That's a right load and ye know it, Garrick.” Johnny’s voice had a growl to it that gave away his own internal thoughts, rooting around in his rucksack in what you suspect was an effort to check over his few remaining belongings. “If that were true then they’d ‘ave taken somethin’ with ‘em. Ye dunnae sink a ship yer tryin’ ta make coin off of.”

“They were looking for something.” Even with how soft your voice was interjecting into the conversation, both pairs of eyes swiveled towards you immediately, imploring you to continue with your explanation. 

“One of the men… in my room,” your gaze briefly landed on Johnny as you thought back to how he found you being held captive with a dagger to your throat, eyes burning through you in a way you had to mentally shake yourself out of in remembrance, “h-he asked me something… about a key. He was looking for it and got incensed when I told him I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

The two of them shared a look at the details of your brief encounter, trying to piece together a puzzle that was taking more shape but still lacked too many parts.

“Seems like someone on board was hiding something,” came your cousin’s reply, an ominous implication that had you over analyzing the people you’d come in contact with over the course of the day. “Question is: which one was the thief and which one was the conservator?”

Too much blood had been spilt for you to even consider the notion that the men in black were even remotely the good guys, but you couldn’t help the nagging tug in the deep recesses of your brain that was trying to place why some part of you recognized something about the man who threatened you. You’re certain you’d never seen his face before, but there was an element of his appearance that kept itching something you couldn’t seem to scratch. 

Perhaps clarity would find you in the morning when the events that brought you here weren’t so fresh in your mind.

Turning your attention back to Johnny, you brought up the other thought that had been tumbling around upstairs although it was far less pressing of a matter. “That man across the river. Friend of yours?”

You’d been half expecting the displeased snort you received in response based on the short interaction you’d witnessed, but it was Kyle who answered first. 

“Philip Graves. Bit of a mercenary who took up occasional employment with His Majesty’s forces.” There was a sourness to his tone that spoke volumes towards his opinion of the man. “Ran a few with him back in the day. Thought he was actually a good bloke at first, but turns out he’s just another man out only for his own skin, no honor or loyalty to be found.”

“Had a bit o’ a run in with him on the ferry tonight. Certainly put the eejit back in his place, or so ah thought. Damn dog doesnae ken when tae stay down.” 

Your ears perked up in interest at the reveal, a latch clicking in your head as you put two and two together.

The glance over your shoulder. 

That must’ve been why he ushered you back below decks. Hearing the way they spoke about the man had you grateful you’d avoided that particular encounter… though you were intrigued by the conversation that surely followed.

“Oh yeah?” You could certainly tell that lifted Kyle’s spirits a bit to hear. “Have a proper go at him, did ya?”

“Well he ended up takin’ a bit o’ a premature swim if that’s wha’ yer implying.” The smirk on Johnny's face was positively impish, making even the corners of your own lips quirk up in amusement. “But ah did manage tae find out one useful piece o’ information. Turns out he’s the one leadin’ the Americans to Hamunaptra.”

“Bloody hell. You serious?” That wasn’t a reassuring response coming from your cousin.

“‘Fraid so. Bastard was more than happy ta flap his gob about his recent ventures. Americans paid him half upfront, half when he gets ‘em there. Looks like we’re stuck with our ol’ buddy Graves a bit longer than ah’d like.”

“Should I be concerned?” You glanced warily between them, feeling far too on edge tonight as it was without this added headache stacking up on top of things.

Kyle could practically feel the despair in your bones at the prospect of this journey adding even more to your plate than it already had, placing a firm hand on your knee as a small reminder that you weren’t alone in all this. “More of a nuisance than a threat, dolly. Don’t go worrying your head over something so inconsequential.

“‘Sides, there’s only so much mischief he can get up tae with the likes of us ‘round tae keep him in line.”

Coming from a pair of troublemakers, that wasn’t as much of a comfort as they probably thought it was.

By the time the next morning rolled around, you were convinced the only reason you were able to get any sleep at all was due to the sheer amount of fatigue that forced your body to eventually yield to it, having depleted all energy reserves by the time you finally closed your eyes for a proper rest.

Despite getting a full night’s reprieve, the same could not be said for your body. Muscles that hadn’t been exercised in years were howling at you as you rose to consciousness, body protesting the movement as it was even sorer now than it was only hours ago. Combined with the less than ideal sleeping arrangements (despite the decent makeshift pillow your cousin’s lap had made) you were certainly feeling it come sunrise, joints aching and cracking like kettle corn. 

The prospect of doing even more travel on foot did not appeal to you in the slightest.

You were pleasantly surprised to be offered a banana as a substitute for a hearty breakfast, Johnny pointing a little farther inland to a small cluster of trees where the offending fruit dangled from its clutches. You hadn’t noticed them in the darkness when the group first settled down, grateful to not have to continue onward without at least a little something in your belly. As far as water went, so long as you stayed near the Nile the blue waters would provide you with ample hydration. If it wasn’t for the fact you were on a bit of a timetable, you might have argued for the chance at catching a fish to fill you up even more. But they had neither the tools nor patience to effectively do it, leaving you with the fruit you quickly scarfed down.

It didn’t take long for the clothes on your backs to dry once the sun came out, glad to be rid of the uncomfortable damp that had you smelling like mildew. Were it not for the fact that you did not want to expose yourself again with a semi translucent nightgown you would’ve walked a few meters to your left and taken a much needed dip in the cool river.

Alas, you figured you’d learn to live with the stench as the desert heat would no doubt leave you with far less agreeable odors than a bit of moisture. No doubt your fellow companions were accustomed to such a life where bathing was moreso optional than it was required. 

The group followed alongside the Nile as much as possible, hoping to have a run in with others who would potentially have supplies for you to barter from. Johnny had a bit of coin stuffed in one of the pouches of his bag that could get you a decent bit of what you needed; it was just a matter of finding the right buyer to haggle with. Once it started becoming apparent that you were unlikely to encounter what you were looking for near the shore, they charted a course westward into the desert towards where Johnny hoped he remembered seeing an encampment last time he passed through this way.

They’d allowed you to walk as far as you could until the ground became too hot for their liking, having made the mistake of hissing when bare skin met a particularly scorching plot of land now that there was far less greenery to cushion your steps. Kyle hadn’t even asked this time before sweeping you up into his hold, garnering a half-hearted round of complaints from you that were quickly silenced without any real fight. You could’ve tried harder to convince them to let you keep going on your own, but without proper footwear it was genuinely becoming uncomfortable to be on the ground for more than a few moments at a time. You just hoped for your cousin’s sake that he wouldn’t have to bear the extra weight for too terribly long. Just because he was fit didn’t mean his arms didn’t eventually tire.

Conversation was minimal as you trekked through the desert, too focused on their own surroundings to do more than the occasional banter. Must’ve taken a little under an hour before Johnny held up a hand to halt your movements, recognizing a nearby rock formation and turning in that direction. If his memory served right, there was a tribe located at the base of it that was more welcoming to passersby. 

The Bedouin tribes of the Sahara were mainly known for being camel herders as opposed to sheep and cattle - for obvious reasons. They migrate as the seasons change, retreating back into the desert during the rainy winter season and towards cultivated land once the dry summer months returned. If some element of luck had not been on your side and you’d happened here during the wrong time, chances were you’d still be wandering around looking for civilization. 

Once your group got within range of the settlement, a small handful of men flagged you down at your approach, coming out to meet you while Johnny pushed you back to stand behind him. Kyle stepped forward as the men began to converse, speaking a dialect of Arabic that you were mildly familiar with but Kyle was stumbling through. He knew enough basics to get by in Cairo, but some of their words garnered looks of total confusion from him that ultimately was getting the group nowhere. 

You let him keep trying for a bit longer before taking pity on the poor sod and peeping out from behind the bulky figure protecting your modesty. Four pairs of eyes turned towards you in surprise, Johnny’s arm coming back to block you while you relayed your desire for adequate supplies and transport. When you discussed your need for appropriate clothing as well, they were kind enough to call over one of the women of the tribe who came running over holding a blanket ready to wrap around you. 

Kyle gave you a look as she rushed over, something that suggested annoyance in the thin set line of his mouth. “Wanted to watch me make a fool of myself, eh?”

You gave the woman a grateful smile as she concealed your ill-dressed form from their gaze, feeling much more at ease as she placed an arm around your shoulders and led you into camp. The grin you gave him in return spoke of thinly veiled hilarity. “Thought I'd let you try first. Give you a chance to brush up on your Arabic before emasculating you.”

Johnny didn’t even try to hide his amusement at your cousin’s expense, rewarding Kyle with a hearty slap on the back for his efforts and leaning in close to whisper something under his breath that earned him an elbow to the sternum for his words. 

You paid them no heed as you walked with your escort towards the eastern side of the settlement, the locals already conversing about the necessary details as you realized you’d be split up from the boys to leave them to deal with whatever sort of arrangements needed to be made for your travels. Hopefully there was someone more knowledgeable in English that could assist them in your absence.

You didn’t have any other experiences with the Bedouin to form a picture in your head of the size of the encampment compared to others, but it certainly wasn’t a compact setup they had going on here. Family groups living within sizeable elaborate tents fluttered about tending to their household responsibilities while their children and grandchildren darted between the structures with all the playful innocence of untouched youth. Livestock grazed amongst the small bit of foliage, corralled in pens and cages to be fattened up whilst awaiting their inevitable ends. 

The women were covered from head to toe, the men and children less hidden and sporting brighter colors and patterns. Clothing hung out to dry on suspended lines of rope, women carrying braided wicker baskets to and fro while chatting away the hours of hard work under an unforgiving sun. It was a thriving community that even out here in these barren wastelands had carved out a peaceful existence away from the worries of the larger world. 

As exciting as it was to be surrounded by peoples of such an incredibly rich culture, it was also a little nerve wracking to say the least. This tribe seemed used to trade, but there was no denying your group stuck out like a sore thumb.

Easy to feel like a complete outsider when you were one. 

How were you supposed to act out here amongst the rolling desert dunes? You knew it was a patriarchal society and you were the most scantily clad thing here, surrounded by dark veiled modest women and stern appraising eyes of men. There had to be a dozen faux pas you were breaking right now, a realization that set your teeth on edge. 

Just another example of how woefully unprepared you were to deal with anything other than wealthy socialites or bookworms.

Your cousin must have sensed your hesitancy as the woman leading your troop tried to usher you further into the settlement, a different path than the one the men were heading off towards for supplies. Not that you suspected any foul play or deceit on the Bedouins' part, but it was easier to navigate all the unfamiliarity with your much more worldly companions by your side.

“We've got this, dolly. You'll be alright on your own for a bit,” Kyle offered with a comforting grin and a hand on your shoulder, “Go get yourself proper while we take care of negotiations.”

“Jus’ give a holler if anythin’ happens and we'll come runnin’ right tae ya,” piped up Johnny with a lazy grin but a promise in his eyes that he meant every word of it. 

That soothed your nerves more than anything, flashing him a meek grateful smile as you allowed your chaperone to lead you onward with a firm hand between the shoulder blades.

It took almost no time afterwards to arrive at your apparent destination. The woman charged with your care lifted aside a curtain as she bade you enter the abode, finding a younger pair inside that looked up at you upon your arrival. One must have been closer to your age, the other far younger as she sat in the former’s lap and let her comb out her long dark tresses. She introduced them as her two daughters who greeted you warmly with bowed heads. Once they were informed of your situation, you were beckoned closer and instructed to remove your gown, the youngest off to the back to retrieve some items for a quick wash up. 

You were used to the kind of treatment they offered back in your younger years, having had servants that would assist with your bathing and beauty routine that followed. It was a bit different being given such kindness from strangers, having been stripped out of your remaining clothes and cleansed from a bucket. The desert was thoroughly scrubbed from your flesh, scalp lathered in oils that would help protect your skin and hair from the harsh rays of the sun. Even though you knew this small luxury was fleeting, it was nice to not smell like a vagrant for a little while at least.

The older woman stepped away as soon as you dried yourself, huffing under her breath that she had nothing to fit you and disappearing for what you assumed was a mission to remedy that. You were made to kneel on a cushion, towel draped around you whilst the eldest daughter took up position in front of you, a small vial of kohl in her hands to be applied to your eyes.

You were not accustomed to cosmetics being applied to your waterline, the black liner smudged above your lower lashes causing you to blink back tears. Supposedly it was good for your overall eye health, but the jury was still out until the stinging from the foreign substance subsided for you. Meanwhile, the youngest was all smiles and giggles as she settled down behind you, comb in hand that she began to gently tug through your tangles; a comment was made comparing you to one of her beloved dolls before her sister shushed her for saying so.

Their mother returned shortly with a bundle of dark cloth in her arms, ushering you to your feet as she made quick work of slipping the garments up over your head. Your underthings were replaced with similar items, all very plain and practical in contrast to the beautiful thobe they graced you with.

The material itself was made of an airy lightweight fabric and infinitely more breathable than what you left your home in yesterday morning. The black coloring was detailed with elegant hand stitched beading, silver embellishments catching the light and twinkling like little sewn-in constellations. There was a soft melodic chiming with every movement, small polished coins accenting your waist and jingling in a way that almost begged for lively music to be played. The shoes you slipped into were soft but sturdy, fine dark linen adorning your head as the woman gave you brief instructions on how best to wrap it to protect your face from the desert sands if need be. 

Once you finally got a proper look at yourself in the mirror, you were stunned at the difference a change of style and darker makeup could do to your features, a far cry from the latest London fashions shipped down to your estate in Cairo. Despite having lived in the country for most of your life, you’d never before been dressed in the cultural attire worn by some of the natives. Giving a slow twirl at the women’s urgings, you decidedly felt at home in the designs much the same way as you did in your everyday skirts.

Satisfied with your appearance, they accompanied you back out into the encampment to hunt down and rejoin the others. You had to admit that whatever trick the kohl provided, you did find yourself having to squint less under the sun’s brightness. Seeing its effects in action, you were now grateful for the small vial they’d slipped into your hand moments ago so that you could keep reapplying it during your travels.

It didn’t take long to locate Kyle and Johnny near a resting herd of camels, standing around as a group of men readied the beasts for a long trek out into the vast Sahara dunes. Seeing how much equipment was being packed onto the backs of them, you wondered just how much coin Johnny had stashed away in his bag to be able to afford the pretty penny’s worth they had acquired.

They both looked at ease as they chatted amongst themselves, Kyle leaning back against a nearby cart with his arms crossed over his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows much the same as his friend. He’d obtained some more gear for his person going by the leather gun holster strapped over his shoulders carrying matching pistols, a dark blue neckerchief tied above his unbuttoned dress shirt left open to reveal the tight wife beater underneath.

Your cousin had always been a bit of a pretty boy, but even with his striking good looks he was the epitome of casual danger. 

Johnny, on the other hand, looked devilishly roguish. He hadn’t altered his outfit much in comparison to Kyle - only adding a tan patterned neckerchief of his own and an extra button undone from the top - but there was a difference in the way he seemed to carry himself now. Something in his air and mannerisms that felt primed to go off at any given moment. 

This was a man in his element; not in the dredges of society, but out here amongst the wild and the unexpected. You’d seen him as a low-life; you’d seen him more refined. Now you were seeing him as he truly was: a fighter — both of them.

His appearance lured you in, his eyes ensnaring you as the pair at last took notice of your approach. Where your cousin offered you one of his signature bright smiles, Johnny’s face became deceptively neutral. Gone was the grin he’d just shared with your cousin, hidden behind something you desperately wanted to claw at. It was as if all the emotion retreated from his expression only to be refocused behind the gaze he swallowed you up with, dark blue sapphires holding you defenselessly captive and burning hot coals in places you’d never reached before. 

It wasn’t until Kyle stepped forward and broke your line of sight with Johnny that you were able to blink away from whatever he’d been subconsciously trying to relay to you.

“There’s our girl.” Kyle took hold of your hand and gave you a spin, eyes raking over your new attire as you blushed from his playful attentions. “Far cry from the frills and stuffy dresses you usually force yourself into every day, huh dolly?”

Pulling your hand from his, you gave him a light shove that he had the decency to fake stumbling back from. “I happen to like those dresses, thank you very much. Nothing wrong with enjoying the finer parts of being a lady. Meanwhile, sir, you seem to have lost your waistcoat.” You couldn’t help but tease him back as you tugged at his open billowy dress shirt. 

“Not much to impress out in the middle of nowhere. Certainly not you lot,” he added, tossing a grin back at your companion.

Johnny had returned to normal by the time your vision swept that way, the previous interaction a mere mirage as he returned the snarky comment with a playful one of his own. “Yer right. Ain’t no damsels in distress ‘round fer ye to showboat fer. Aye, hen?”

The wink he sent your way paired with the subtle compliment left you glowing, something fluttering in your chest that you pushed aside so as not to let it fester.

Your cousin snorted his response, Johnny’s attention pulled to the Bedouin man next to him that had finished securing the group’s new belongings to your transportation. He gave the man a quick smile and a nod as he took hold of the reins, giving the camel a firm pat on its neck. Turning his awareness back to you, Johnny motioned with his head for you to approach. 

“Ever rode a camel, lass?”

“Oh, no. I learned side saddle on horses when we visited Kyle’s family estate during the summers, but beyond that it’s been years since I’ve even been on the back of one.” You reached out to give the animal a scritch on its head behind the ears, the short dense hairs course yet fluffy to the touch. 

“Not much different,” he shrugged, eyes keen on your form. “Jus’ a wee bit taller and bumpier a ride, s’all. Ye’ll have it down in no time.”

Johnny gave a downward tug on the reins; that paired with a clicking noise from his tongue had the camel lowering itself on folded knees to the earth, resting on its legs as he slapped his hand down on the padded blanketed seat. “Best we be gettin’ a move on then.”

You were suddenly aware of the fact that there were three of them in the vicinity, one for each of you to be riding separately. You’d anticipated having to share with one of the others, not quite sure how to logistically navigate this on your own. “How am I meant to sit on that thing? The way it moves I’ll be forced to grip the pommel the whole time so as not to take a tumble off the side.”

“Looks like yer gonna get a taste o’ wha’ it’s like tae be a man, lass.”

That wasn't exactly a welcome response.

“O-one leg on each side?” The notion caught you off guard, wide eyes glancing down at your dress which was admittedly a lot flowier and less constricting than normal. Flashing skin was far less scandalous than it had been when you were born, but it wasn’t something you were used to doing even with some type of pantyhose or stocking underneath. You hadn’t much need for flapper dresses nowadays with the company you kept.

“Go on, dolly.” Kyle was looking far too entertained at your obvious hesitance to break out of your comfort zone, hopping up on his own stead with practiced ease. “You wanted to be an adventurer, yeah? Gotta get over this hump first.”

You pulled at your bottom lip with your teeth, hands fidgeting with some of the small coins belted around your waist in nervousness. Should you scoot onto it from the side and swing your legs over? Do you gather up the material first and then sit down? Why was this so bloody hard when the men made it look easy?

“Right, up ye get.” Apparently not possessing the patience for you to figure out how best to mount the beast in a skirt, you squeaked as Johnny's firm calloused hands suddenly took hold of your waist, hefting you up the short height onto the animal and depositing you in the saddle. With how wide your legs parted to accommodate its size, your thobe rode up past your stockings to reveal your knees and lower thighs, grabbing at the thin material and trying to drag it down as far as it could go to maintain some slight modesty. 

You didn’t have time to be embarrassed as Johnny once again made a clicking sound with his tongue, patting the camel on its haunches as it began to stand from its resting position. You scrambled for the saddle pommel with a vice grip, squealing at the clunky rocking motion that jarred you as it rose to its full height. If your reflexes had been even a moment slower, you would've flown ass over tea kettle off the back and onto the hard ground below.

Settling back down after that brief scare, you were shocked at just how much you towered over everything. You were used to the elevation that came with being on a horse; this creature had well over a foot on your largest thoroughbred.

“Lookit that!” Johnny clapped his hands excitedly with a throaty chuckle. “Yer a proper natural.” With how wide of a grin he was giving you, you nearly missed the way his eyes briefly admired the exposed skin of your lower half before patting your foot from his spot below in supportive praise. 

He left you alone to mosey on over to his own ride, Kyle bringing his camel up alongside yours and flashing you a smile which you found impossibly infectious. Here you were, astride a massive beast in the middle of the Sahara about to undertake a journey that would help change humanity’s understanding of ancient Egyptian society during the New Kingdom forever.

You couldn’t wait to find the long lost City of the Dead and all the excitement it would bring.

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[sugarsnappeases]

Let loose a little bit !!!!!!!!

bartydoralily | 4.7k words | explicit | happy birthday jen @quillkiller MWAH <3333

Before he can get his hand under the lace of her knickers however, he suddenly jerks backwards. Lily opens her eyes just in time to see Marty getting slapped across the face by a woman with waist-length sun-bleached blonde hair. She has one hand holding the scruff of Marty’s top, and the other ready to slap him again. What’s perhaps most strange is the way that Marty’s eyes have lit up at the sight of this avenging angel. He grins as her hand connects with his face again and breathes, “Fuck, baby” “Barty, how could you!?” the woman responds, scowling fiercely at him, loud and a little theatrical. Apparently she’s referring to Marty because she points an accusing finger at him as she speaks. Lily thinks perhaps she misheard when he told her his name earlier, but the idea that he had probably said Barty seems somewhat more unfortunate than the name Marty had, so she resolves to wilfully ignore this discovery. ***** a bartydoralily festival adventure feat. an unspecified band, the most ridiculous argument known to man, a very lucky tree, and a stupid fic-wide bit that i can only apologise for

[fencer-x]

Title: How To Train Your Malfoy Pairing(s): Harry Potter/Draco Malfoy, background mentions of Ron Weasley/Hermione Granger, brief but explicit descriptions of past Draco Malfoy/OMC Rating: Explicit Word Count: ~94,000 Summary: Good manners dictate that, when one’s best friend Apparates onto one’s doorstep holding the unconscious, haggard body of the schoolyard bully and begging for sanctuary, one ought to invite the two of them in for a cup of tea. Harry Potter sometimes wishes he weren’t so polite. Link: Read it on AO3! Author Notes: So, I first thought about writing something like this way back in 2018, when I wrote Men Who Love Dragons Too Much. In that fic, a character mentions that it's dangerous forcing an Animagus in transformation back into their human form, as the instincts of their animal form might overwrite their human mind, leaving them an animal in a human body. That made me think, what if someone had forced dragon!Draco back into his human form when he wasn't ready? This is the answer.

Excerpt

Harry took steps to make sure Malfoy was properly prepared for the upcoming festivities this time, drilling into him as they readied the evening’s main course (Hermione and Ron were in charge of dessert). Well, “they” readied—really it was Harry readying things, and then re-readying them after Malfoy tried to help. “And you met Hermione the once and she wasn’t so bad, right?” Harry said, whisking the eggs as he searched for errant bits of shell that might have made their way in too after Malfoy had thrown half a dozen whole eggs into the bowl at once. “I mean, you’ve met her a lot more than the once, but I’m guessing that’s something else you don’t remember, which is probably for the better. Anyway, she’s not here to take you away—unfortunately—and she’s not here to take me away—unfortunately—so there’s no need to get your knickers in a twist around her, all right? Besides, she’s, er, taken already. So triple no reason for twisting of knickers.” “‘Arry.” “Yeah, I know you don’t wear anything—I sleep with you, if you’ll recall. Which it’d be really nice if that’s one concession I could get out of you.” “‘Arry.” “I’m sure it’s cooler now, but autumn’s right around the corner for one, and for another, outside of certain special situations, it’s just good manners to wear tops and bottoms to bed when you’re sharing it with someone else.” “‘Arry?” “No, I will not elaborate on what ‘certain special situations’ are.”

[serenanight87]

The Star of Sadistic Wishes (Interrogator x Reader, pt. 2)

A/N: Hello everyone I am back with another part of my Closetland story. He is just so demanding and wants to be the spotlight of all your Rickmas dreams. I am using the “Star of Wishes” prompt for this one. He seems to get very descriptive on what he wants to say from his point of view, so it is a long one. Now onward with the work. Hopefully this will be well received as well.

Oh, you may also want this link for the music that is played during a part of this. You know to get fully immersed in the scene.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISqjyIdmZQs

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Warnings: Smut, Con/Non-Con yet again if you squint, BDSM references, Dom/sub play, Bondage, Graphic Description of Photos.

If you are under 18, please remove your eyes from this. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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Now I get to have my fun. Let’s see if this will get little girl’s peach nice and juicy.

As I hide in the shadows, I await for her to awaken. I have taken painstaking care to set the scene just right. It is dark with red and green mood lighting to create that Christmas Joy feeling.

Little does she know, this will be more joy for me than her. Or maybe it will be equal if she is as bad of a little girl as she claims. However, if the pictures we have are anything to go on, this will be delicious for all.

I didn’t use my normal “interviewing” table this time. No, the time of year called for something special. And she seemed like a special case. I have had this in my inventory for a while and I finally have the perfect moment to use it.

I have her strapped down to an upright table in the cutout shape of a Christmas tree. Her hands were handcuffed together at the top as if she was already praying for release before we even got started. I have her legs spread and tied with string in a squatting position with a seat near the bottom of the tree for her to rest on. Of course if she does it will stretch out her shoulders and cause extra pain. She was also decorated so lovely in Christmas lights and dressed so beautifully for her role. A golden nipple cutout bra that was big golden stars, one for each breast. Along with a matching set of crotch less knickers with one gold star in the front. With her head topped with a golden star tiara.

She will be the Golden Star of my Sadistic Christmas Tree. I wonder if all my Christmas wishes will come true and I get all my presents this year? I chuckle softly at myself for this inside joke.

With the spotlight switching from red to green to white, I wait patiently for her to awake to start the show. This will be my best Christmas production yet. She just makes me feel extra festive for some reason. Maybe her feisty attitude or her trying to degrade me with the pretty boy comment. I don’t know but I feel this need to make it an experience she will never forget..along with getting the confession I need, of course.

I see a slight movement of her head that brings me back to the present. I see her eyes begin to flutter open with a groan filled with grogginess and slight pain. She has been hanging there for a time but not enough to cause extreme pain. I checked her restraints to make sure not to cause damage…yet. You have to play with your food carefully, you know. Her eyes are wide open struggling slightly in her restraints trying to get a good look around.

“Hello?”, she asked. “Is anyone there? Look you can stop with the dramatics. I know nothing and I am a part of nothing. This is also starting to get really old and annoying.”

We will see if you are still singing that tune soon, my sweet. Showtime!

I start the track off of a Christmas song, “Up On the House Top”, that was just fitting for this scene and watched as it began to unfold.

‘Santa Claus comes tonight.

No more days to count, but the even longer wait begins.

The suspense of having to wait from bedtime till morning.’

Yes, kids from all over the world will say their prayers and go to sleep knowing for when they wake up, the little fat man with the long white beard will have stopped by their houses and left the answers to a wish from the most wonderful magical sack there ever was.

‘Ho, ho, ho

Ho, ho, ho

Up on the housetop

Ho, ho, ho’

As the song played the lights flashed about in red and green along to the music. There was a projector screen in front of her where she could see all of the pictures we had been taking of her through the years to be able to pin this story on her. Her meetings with people we didn’t even know, the parties she held in her home, even the production of some of her products she sold out of her small business. All these different pictures played that she has probably already seen from the others. But I found some more interesting ones to include in the reel that she doesn’t know we have. Some of her deepest, darkest secrets that she keeps hidden.

‘First comes the stocking of the little Nell

Ol’ dear Santa fill it well

Give her a dolly that laughs and cries

One that can open and shut its eyes’

As this lyric played the pictures began to flash on the screen, her eyes widened in surprise. I then hear a moan of pleasure from what she sees.

Yes, little girl, we know all about your deviant tendencies. Every little dark thing that you thought you did in the shadows we know about it too.

We are very thorough in our research of our “interviews”. Just some don’t want to use such information. They find it too crass to use such information when they just want to get the straight facts.

No creativity or innovation. No vision. This is the art they can create with human emotion if they would just be open to it. How the others are lacking.

As the lyrics played it showed her dressed in a doll dress bent over someone’s lap with her frilly knickers down to her knees. The following pictures played out the scene as her being spanked till cherry red on that bottom along with some of them having her legs kicking.

That is a behavior I will have to correct. She will take her punishment like a good girl and not be disrespectful with her body. She will learn discipline. However, it does look like she is enjoying herself from the glistening between her legs. I may have find out how she tastes.

The pictures pan around to the front to show her crying due to the pain. Or is she laughing…sometimes they look the same to me.

‘Look in the stocking for little Bill

Oh just see what a glorious fill

Here is a hammer and lots of tacks

A whistle and a ball and a whip that cracks’

As I watch the pictures continue, there she is in another position, bent over in restraints being fisted. The pictures pan around to her front see the nipple clamps she has on with a look of complete delight on her face. Which at this moment is the complete opposite of what she has right now. The look she is giving now is of complete horror.

Then the pictures change again to her on a St. Andrews cross taking a long bullwhip for her punishment. The beautiful stripes that decorate her skin. I so want to go and lick every one of them just see what her skin tastes like. This picture though seems to get her attention the most. The present her screams and begins to struggle harder in her restraints. I smell the fear coming off of her but, it can’t hide the arousal she has already permeated the room with.

As the song ends, the lights go out with the white spotlight left on her. I sneak to the door. I make it seem like I am just coming in and have not seen a thing. The lights go completely dark as I open the door and turn on the light.

“It is always so dark when I come in here to work,” I stated as I swagger back into the room with my briefcase and back in my full suit again. “I just don’t understand why they have to scare you people so much…Well, well, well…am I interrupting something?”

She just stares at me in fear as I give her a little smirk. The look then changes to complete anger as she continues to struggle more to get free. She is very angry and I have a feeling she’s about to let me know just how much.

“You bastard!”, she cried. “You have me strung up like some decoration for your amusement and make me watch this filth you put on! How did you get those pictures? Who do you know that would know such things about me? I need answers damn it!”

“I honestly have no idea what you are talking about,” I said. “I just came in to see you in this position looking like you were getting your Christmas wishes of receiving treatment from my partner. Hence why I asked if I was interrupting something. But since he is not here, I assume that would be a no?”

“You’re damn right it is a no!”, she screamed. “I just woke up like this in the dark when this corny Christmas music started playing showing very incriminating photos of me. Mind you were also taken without my consent! I demand my legal representation and I demand it now!”

“Look, like I just said I just came in here to this. I am very sorry for anything the others may have played on you but this was not the plan of how this interview would go,” I said.

That was a partial lie. This really isn’t the original path I had for this time but it just organically became this glorious sadistic wet dream. I love when a good thing just comes together.

“Well, I should hope not!”, she said. “I mean you are very good looking but I expect a few dates before we would hit this point in a relationsh-.” She stopped herself mid word. Her eyes stared at he floor now. She didn’t mean to say that much obviously. This just got very interesting. I watched her give the most prettiest blush that could rival the cherry red of her ass from the picture earlier.

“Okay, there must have been a mix up in rooms or someone pranking me or you or both. We can get this all straightened out through some reporting once we are done with this,” I said.

“That sounds great and all but that doesn’t undo the mortification I feel right now! Now can you please get me down so we can get done whatever it is you have planned, pretty boy?”, she asked.

“Not just yet,” I said as I looked to be pondering. “You know I think this a good time to take a page out of my partners book. You did say earlier that you may enjoy his time more than mine so maybe we can try something he would do. One moment, don’t move now.”

I left to go to the bag that I had hid earlier in one of the wall drawers. This will have all the fun tricks that I need to make this a wonderful scene with my new sweet. I come back over humming, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.”

“He knows when you are sleeping, he knows when you’re wake,” I sing softly under my breath. “He knows if you’ve been bad or good. So be good…for…good…ness…sake.” I finished the lyric slowly as I turn back around to her. I slowly saunter up close to her. So close we breathe in each other’s breath.

“Please,” she begs so prettily. “Don’t do this. I was just joking, ya know. Trying to catch you by surprise, have some fun, ya know. Like, ha ha funny. You know I have been in here for a while, I have to find my amusement somewhere. Please don’t hurt me. I’m sorry if I made you angry.”

“Oh, you didn’t anger me and I don’t plan on hurting you,” I stated calmly. “Oh no, my plans are far from that. I only plan to reward you for giving me what I require from you. You get to decide if there is pain involved when you choose to disobey me.”

She starts to struggle even more with fear of the eventuality that is coming to pass. But the smell of arousal is still strong. So I know she is very much a willing participant even if she tries to hide it. This is getting more and more delicious for me. I have to keep my head level though and not let the excitement of the moment get to me. I can’t rush this. I have to build it and form it into the ultimate peak to then release the oh so sweet release for both of us. Time and patience is needed for this delicate part of the process.

Remember this is part of my investigation. This is just one of the perks, not the whole part. Stay focused on the work.

“Okay, you had your fun. You made your point. I shouldn’t have made fun that you were too nice and not scary. You are definitely showing that now. You are the big, bad wolf of scary. Now can you please let me go?”, she pleaded.

“Oh no,” I said. “We have only just begun. We will having so much more fun between the two of us. I feel that this time we have had together has made us grow so much closer. So now you will just lay back, relax, and I will explain the rules of our little game. Are you ready, little girl?”

She stops struggling, leans back, and waits for further instruction. I give one of my smirks. I step back to get ready for the rules of our game.

This is going to be so much fun for both of us, my sweet. Just wait and see.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: Okay, before the pitchforks come out and everyone gets ready to drag me into the town square, there is a part 3. I was trying to get it all but it would have been really long. I’m in the process of writing it now to have it ready before the end of the year. If you want to get someone, my hubby told me to tell you nothing about a third part. Anyway, the next one will be finale of this diva’s performance as far as I know. He very much knows what he wants. I will be blending 2 prompts together for the last one. I hope you enjoyed this addition that I never planned on but just happened.

@deepperplexity @vulnus-sanare @mamawolfsmith87 @snowblossomreads

[kingkatsuki]

Bakugou Katsuki & @katsukikitten

How you meet.

You’d been waiting years for the MCR reunion to happen, so you’d entered the main arena and found a space in the crowd for their set almost forty minutes before they were due to come on. Sipping your drink as you weaved through the crowd to get as close as possible to the stage.

When they finally came on, the crowd came alive. Pits opening up all over the festival site as people began to dance and sing to every song, you included. Downing the rest of your drink before deciding to jump into one of the larger pits to the right of you. Knocking into another girl as you both sang the lyrics to each other before skipping around in a circle, until you felt the wind almost knocked out of you as you were thrown to the ground.

The large, muscular guy that knocked you over didn’t even glance down at you, nevermind give you an apology. Your legs knocked and kicked as the pit continued on around you, and you weren’t sure you could get back up, until a blond guy practically shoved someone out of the way to wrap his palms around your arms and hoisted you up as though you weighed nothing. He was such a gentleman he even flattened your skirt— certain everyone had probably seen your knickers when you were knocked to the ground.

You clung to him as he guided you out of the pit, a palm on your face to tilt your head to meet his gaze as vermilion eyes stared back at you. The slightest nod of his head as he was silently asking over the loud music if you were okay, checking for himself as your eyes stared back at him.

Thank you for the Venom just finished playing as he left you just as quickly as he’d found you, disappearing back into the sea of people. The pit no longer moving in a circle as he sought out the guy that had knocked you to the ground. Shouldering him roughly as a crowd formed around them.

“When someone falls you pick ‘em back up, you prick.” Bakugou growled as he swung for the guy, but the asshole was fucking lucky the punch didn’t land as a redheaded guy now appeared to hold him back, “Are you fuckin’ stupid?”

“Girls shouldn’t be in the pit anyway, man.” The douchebag laughed and just as you were about to give him a piece of your mind, a pink haired girl— the same one you’d been dancing with earlier— beat you to it. Shoving him back as she dared him to say it again.

But what you hadn’t expected was for the blond guy to come and stand back beside you, occasionally disappearing back into the pit during certain songs, but he always found his way back to you. His palms rested on your hips to stop you from being knocked too hard when the crowd got rowdy, dangerously close to your ass— not that you would’ve minded.

When they played the final song and the crowd began to disperse Bakugou finally turned to you, asking if you were okay. Staying with you as the arena began to empty and everyone went back to their tents. He ended up walking you back to yours and agreed to meet you the next day when Green Day were headlining the main stage (“someone’s gotta look after your dumbass”) stealing a kiss before he left to go back to his tent.

Second night he kissed you during Good Riddance and his hand definitely disappears up your skirt to squeeze your ass, your lipstick ends up all over his face and his friends roast him for it— doesn’t stop him from spending the night in your tent though👀

[charlotteinengland]

I'm dreaming of a White Christmas…🎄⭐️🤍 How pretty is this delicate white lace set from @cocobella_lingerie? 😍 I’m wearing the Lace Perfection push up plunge bra & matching chemise & tanga brief. I’ll show you the set without the chemise in another post but scroll for close up details. Love, love, love ♥️ Perfect for the festive season! The bra is ultra soft with light push up & elegant lace scallop edging. The matching tanga is all lace with stretch. Really feminine. The chemise features the gorgeous lace & semi sheer fabric. A beautiful set for a lady who loves luxury. @cocobella_lingerie are offering exclusive discount with my code LOVECHARLOTTE ~ the set Inc. a FREE GIFT & luxury gift box. See website for more details. A luxurious & gorgeous gift for someone special this Christmas 🥰 x Products tagged in first photo. ✨ Discount LOVECHARLOTTE ✨ Chemise: Lace Perfection @cocobella_lingerie Bra: Lace Perfection @cocobella_lingerie Knickers: Lace Perfection @cocobella_lingerie Bracelet: @lamour.pearls 15% off CHARLOTTE15 (AD) Copyright © 2022, Charlotte in England, www.charlotteinengland.com, @charlotte.in.england This is my official account. Any other account is an impersonation of me. RESPECT COPYRIGHT. #CharlotteinEngland #CocoBellaLingerie #lacelingerie #lacechemise #vintagelace #lacedress #lingerie #nightwear #nightie #dolcevita #vintagestyle #vintagefashion #christmastreedecorating #christmas #christmaslingerie #glamour #glamorous #stockings #holdups #stockingsandsuspenders #legs #oldschool #vintage #vintageclothing #pearls #classicwoman #pinup #classywomen #luxury #luxurylifestyle (at England) https://www.instagram.com/p/ClwUKx0Lp9d/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[dramioneasks]

Hi hi hiii do you have any recommendation with confident kind of cocky draco? I really want to read light stories too, hope you can help. Thank you

Tick, Tick, Boom by DayDreamVenture - T, one-shot - Hermione and Draco made a deal... but he was running late. Staring up at the clock on her kitchen wall, Hermione wondered what was taking him so long.

Fractured and Heated by FirewhiskySoul  - E, one-shot - He doesn’t need words to distract her as she Heals his broken bones.

Safe Word is House Elf by orphan_account - E, one-shot - “I could show you, you know.” He settled back into the chair and grinned. “Let me into that swotty brain of yours. I’ll show you exactly how I’d fuck you raw.” Hermione would like to say she thought about it. Weighed the pros and cons. Planned for what could possibly happen. However, with what had become the normal around Malfoy, she jumped right in without once thinking about the consequences. Her voice came out shaky when she replied with a simple, “Please.” “Safe word is ‘House-Elf.”

What Lurks Inside the Corn Maze by erininoctober - M, one-shot - Struggling to stay on top of her classwork, Harry and Ron convince Hermione to take a break and join them for some pre-Halloween festivities.

Waiting For The Bite by rapunzerelli, Sophiesstreet - E, one-shot - Members of notoriously rivaled species, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger have only two things in common: a mutual hatred and a soulmate bond they unfortunately share. But when their lives are threatened by lingering followers of Voldemort and their bond forces them to protect each other, they find themselves thanking fate instead of blaming it.

White Knickers by pigfarts2001 - M, 3 chapters - Hermione has an embarrassing encounter with Draco in their shared dorm room, and can't stop replaying it in her head. Apparently, neither can he - but for different reasons.

-Lisa

[wonderingabout]

i can’t sleep! i need to wake up in a little less than 6 hours to go catch a coach to a music festival! Thursday to Sunday!! i’m sooo anxious- i have not been to a music festival since before covid. so 5 years!

i am going to list everything i have packed under the cut

~~~~~~

two dresses

two long sleeved tops

pair of leggings

five pairs of socks

6 pairs of knickers

all in a plastic bag

camp stove

camping cookware- pan, wooden spoon, kettle, etc

a small metal bowl with a lid

metal fork, knife, and spoon, wrapped in a hanky

sanrio chopsticks

a little wooden spoon

a knife

a small chopping board (? am i being ridiculous??)

lentils and rice

a stock cube

a little jar of salt and spices ready for dhal

a block of creamed coconut

three instant udon noodle packets

small block of firm tofu

coffee

3 chai and 4 roibos teabags

sugar crystals

carton of soy milk

dates

soreen loaf

dried apricots

cashews

olive oil

a little battery powered lamp

finn family moomin troll by tove jansson (small book)

the magic toy shop by angela carter (second small book)

coach tickets, festival tickets, accessibility tickets, all printed out in a ziplock bag

pack of playing cards

sleeping bag

sleeping mat (actually my yoga mat)

picnic blanket

my brothers tent

pillow/eye mask combo

camping towell

flannel and soap

washing up liquid, cloth, sponge and scrubber

lip balm

diary

fountain pen

spare ink cartridges (one turquoise one purple)

tarot cards

film camera

my shabbat phone

charging cable

antibiotics, anti histamines, paracetamol, ibuprofen

my card, my id, and a tenner

string

probably other things too i am so anxious and over prepared !!!! wow

things i still need to pack!!

toothbrush

toothpaste

????? the kitchen sink

also things i have packed in a little coolbag in the fridge that i hope i will remember

veggie sausages

cheese triangles

plums

6 small bottles of beer

i could put some mustard in this bag?? that would be a good idea

maybe a small onion! or a carrot. or a courgette. i will put half the fridge in there if i can

i still need to bake cookies 🥲

[soopsiesdaisies]

Boy, you've been a naughty girl

...you let your knickers down.

Feyre Archeron does not offer joy freely, and someone wants it all to himself.

Feysand Month Day 3: Glances

Warnings: Smut, 9.4k

Beta'ed by @iambutmortal

Read on AO3 - Fic Masterlist

~*~

The throne room was bustling with life. 

Its ornate silver chandeliers hung low, magically dimmed light scattering across familiar, onyx stone; fae danced and mingled in groups, voices raised to be heard over the pulsing music. The revel was in full swing: a festivity thrown solely for the newly appointed High Lord of Summer, who, together with his delegation, was travelling around Prythian to garner official acquaintance with the other Courts. 

Feyre Archeron stood alone, tucked into one of the more secluded corners, nursing a goblet of wine. Anyone would think she was uninterested in the festivities, and they’d be right: dancing and participating in the tedious debauchery of Hewn City – even if it was, supposedly, a special night – was one of the last things on her mind tonight. 

No, the only interest she could dredge up was aimed at her High Lord, who was seated above them all on his stupid, fancy throne. He’d swung one leg carelessly over the armrest while the other neatly followed the sharp edges of his seat, allowing the room a wonderful view of his clothed crotch. A goblet of flashy silver dangled from his long fingers, tilted precariously to one side. 

All of her High Lord was visible from Feyre’s position, her view immaculate. His should be too, but she had chosen this spot carefully and was all but hidden from his heavy-lidded eyes. 

All part of the game they’d played for years. 

Nesta had called it a treacherous ego-boost when Feyre had confided in her, convinced it would get her killed. Their High Lord was well-known for his devilish demeanour, and should Feyre ever tire of their little play, he would chase and he would catch—and when push came to shove, he would maim. 

Feyre knew this all too well. It wasn’t as though she hadn’t noticed that all of the unfortunate males who dared to touch her would vanish into the night after revels, never to be seen again. And, if she was being truly honest, it wasn’t as if she did not like it. 

It was a losing battle to argue that toying with their High Lord’s precarious temper was part of the appeal. Feyre didn’t bother to mention Nesta’s own teasing brushes with danger, that she’d seen her sneak out to rendezvous with the Lord of Bloodshed when Nesta thought her sisters were asleep. 

And, regardless of the hypocrisy, Nesta’s worries were all but unfounded. Rhysand had never truly touched her, though it was obvious he wished to. No matter how much his fingers twitched, no matter how much she silently encouraged him, he’d only ever trapped her against walls by caging her in; at most, his lips would ghost over her pulse point, hitching breath tickling her skin. Feyre was certain that, if she only thought the word, he’d listen. 

She wished he wouldn’t. 

With an annoyed twitch of her nose, Feyre brought the goblet up to her mouth and took a careful sip. The wine was sour, leeching saliva and leaving her tongue feeling dry. A particularly intoxicated female claimed it was a Spring Court specialty—Feyre had picked it based on the drunken enthusiasm, and because its crimson tint was a match to the colour she’d painted her lips with. What a disappointment. 

She swirled the liquid around, scowling. In order to fetch a new goblet she’d have to saunter into Rhysand’s view, something she had not planned to do for at least another hour; that, and none of the attending fae were drunk enough to not pay her any mind. She did not wish to mingle.

But the wine was awful, and she was thirsty, and perhaps—

Earlier on in the night, Lord Tarquin had taken up Rhysand’s attention with a lengthy conversation that had included a lot of cocky grins. It had been a blessing of sorts: with Tarquin serving as distraction, Feyre had been able to avoid Rhysand’s heated gaze with ease if, and when, she decided to traverse through the sea of fae gathered in the hall. When Tarquin, accompanied by his delegation, eventually descended from the dais and disappeared into the mass of bodies, Feyre actually considered it a shame. 

Especially considering Keir, the old bastard, had finagled his way into the spot Tarquin abandoned, ready to spout his usual nonsense and complaints. The smirk had slid off Rhysand’s handsome face within seconds and his gaze, that had barely drifted away from Tarquin before, begun to sweep over his semi-loyal subjects as he attempted to hide his boredom. It was likely he would be looking for her. 

But the wine…

It took less than thirty seconds for Feyre to break and strut resolutely out of her secluded corner, a straight line for the refreshments. 

Then a hand seized her dangling wrist.

“Pardon me,” a low, male voice breathed. “I did not know how to catch your attention otherwise.”

Feyre turned to stare whomever had the audacity to grab her down—and found their guest of honour staring right back. 

All thoughts of chastising flew out of the window. Before he’d gone out to mingle, Feyre had been able to admire Lord Tarquin from her little corner. He’d been a sight for sore eyes then, but up close, he was extraordinarily beautiful: his face was as even as the Mother would allow, dark skin glowing in the faelight and eyes a wonderfully vibrant turquoise. His long, shiny hair was just a shade above ivory and looked strong and healthy. She wondered, briefly, if the ends would tickle if they brushed her skin. 

She swallowed dryly, ignoring the pair of violet eyes burning holes in her back. 

“I would just like to say,” the High Lord murmured, voice just loud enough to be audible over the music, “that you truly are the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen.”

Feyre’s eyebrows raised at his boldness, though she could feel a corner of her mouth turn up. “Thank you, my Lord.”

His eyes slid over her face, down to her barely concealed breasts. Feyre was not offended: she had purposefully chosen to wear one of her more revealing dresses tonight, a sheer, dark navy material with a high slit and a deep neckline, tailored to bring attention to the parts of her body she was proudest of. It was not for him, of course, but she did not fault him for looking.

Another male, though, possibly did. 

Lord Tarquin swallowed roughly, dragging his gaze back up to hers with visible effort. “May I ask your name?”

“Feyre Archeron,” she answered, holding up her hand when he parted his full lips to speak. “I know who you are, my Lord. You’re rather recognisable.”

He grinned boyishly. “Am I?”

“Of course. Don’t kid yourself into thinking you’re not well known.”

“Is it because I am young?”

“It’s because you are handsome,” she said, watching his eyes widen and grin grow wider. He really had a lovely smile. “Not a rarity, but in addition to your position, quite interesting indeed.”

His laugh was low and pleasant to the ears, and it made him all the more handsome. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

Feyre suppressed a smile. “You should.”

“The Night Court truly is peculiar,” he said, shaking his head. “You are all so blunt: no matter how much I know Rhysand doesn’t tell, he still says it like it is.” 

“We enjoy being straightforward at times, my Lord.”

“Then I hope my boldness won’t offend you,” he immediately retorted, smiling, “but you are taken?”

Feyre stiffened imperceptibly. It was a valid question: he was obviously interested in her, but did not wish to offend any fae who had already claimed her. And technically, none had; only Rhysand could count, but he had not done so officially. 

And so, all she said was: “I am unwed, my Lord.”

“Oh?” he asked, boldly stepping closer with visible curiosity. 

“My sisters and I have avoided it thus far,” she elaborated. “Our family is not of… particular political importance.”

“Lucky,” he murmured, mouth pulling into a charming grin. “A chance to wed for love.”

Feyre raised her eyebrows, amused. He was so young, still, so green—barely seventy, if she remembered correctly. Truly a child of Summer; especially considering he still entertained the idea of a marriage out of love.

“Sure,” she said. “I suppose we are very lucky indeed. At least we are not married to a male who sees us as broodmares.” 

Tarquin nodded in genuine sympathy, though Feyre’s attention had scattered: from her peripheral, she could see the throne was suddenly empty. Her heart seized her throat—and deep down on her belly, excitement coiled itself into a sturdy knot. 

“Lord Beron has lots of ideas like this as well,” Tarquin said, oblivious. “It is absurd to me. Though he does have many heirs to choose from, having children, blessed as they may be, does not take away from a female’s power or intelligence.” 

“When Lord Rhysand is not looking, this Court thinks otherwise,” Feyre replied. “I assume you know what happened to The Morrigan?” 

His mouth pulled into a thin line. “I did,” he admitted. “It is truly a shame this is how society works.” 

“It is changing,” Feyre said. “Slowly, but it is changing. I long for the day when I can fuck whoever I choose, and there are no true social consequences.” 

Tarquin’s eyebrows raised and his shoulders loosened. If he hadn’t been so dark skinned, and if the light hadn’t been so low, Feyre was certain she would have seen him blush. “That is quite the wish.” 

Before Feyre could even think of a reply, the back of her neck started to prickle, and a wave of sea-salt and petrichor washed over her. Her breathing hitched, and when she stepped back to make room, a large hand drifted over her elbow as though to stop her. 

Tarquin‘s eyes widened, the grin spreading across his face bright and excited. “Rhysand!” 

“Tarquin,” Rhysand greeted, a heavy gaze flicking between the two of them. He shoved his hands into his pockets, smirking. “Are you enjoying the revel?” 

“Most certainly,” Tarquin replied, and he shot Feyre a wink. Thankfully, the brief flare of Rhysand’s nostrils went unnoticed. “The members of your Court are incredible conversational partners; Spring and Autumn have nothing on you.” 

“You tell Beron that, won’t you? He’d love to hear it.” 

“And Tamlin won’t take offense?” 

Rhysand snorted. “Tamlin takes offense to everything, Tarquin. You’ll learn that soon enough.” 

Tarquin barked out a laugh, eyes closed and head thrown back. Feyre’s eyes focussed on the lines of his throat without her permission; a talon of violent darkness brushed against her mental shields, scratching in warning, and Feyre yanked her gaze away. 

“How is my Court?” Rhysand then asked. His smile was as charming as could be. “I am assuming it is quite a change for you.”

“It is very dark,” Tarquin replied, smiling. “But it is beautiful, especially taking the brief glimpses of the night sky into account. This has truly been a pleasurable visit so far.” 

“Darkness is our speciality.” Rhysand’s violet eyes slid to Feyre, trapping her under his heated gaze. “Isn’t that so, Feyre darling?” 

A challenge, or a boon. She never knew with him, when he was like this.

Feyre lowered her chin in a nod. “When you are born in the dark, it becomes your home. I cannot imagine living in constant sunlight.” 

Tarquin tilted his head in unveiled curiosity; his white hair shifted, exposing one muscular, dark-skinned shoulder. 

Feyre didn’t dare allow her eyes to linger. 

“You wouldn’t truly?”

“I quite enjoy the darkness.” Feyre took a sip of her wine, unable to hide her distaste at its acrid flavour. “Have you explored the city yet, my Lord?”

“Haven’t had the chance, I’m afraid,” he replied. His grin widened, then, and he leaned closer. His scent flooded her nose, encircling her. “Would it be too much to ask of you to give me a tour?”

Feyre looked to the side, where Lord Rhysand stood. Though his stance was relaxed, mouth pulled in an amused tilt, his jaw had tensed. She could feel him against her mental shields, pounding, as though he had any sort of control of her—any sort of claim. 

Feyre smiled, bright and dazzling. “If you wish, my Lord, I will. For you alone, of course.”

“Brilliant!” Tarquin called out, clapping an incredibly stiff Rhysand on the back. “And to think your Court terrifies mine—your kindness is truly a hidden gem. Should we meet tomorrow, Feyre?” 

“You’ll have to give me some time to recover from the festivities,” Feyre said, ignoring the way Rhysand threw himself at her mental shields. “How does three in the afternoon sound?” 

“Amazing, I look forward to it, genuinely.” His eyes twinkled with mirth and excitement. “Cauldron, I cannot tell you how much I appreciate it—can I fetch you anything to drink?” 

Feyre held out her goblet. “Anything but the red from Spring,” she said. 

Tarquin nodded, already reaching for the cup—but then Rhysand snatched it. 

“Let me,” he purred. “Feyre is a member of my Court, after all; why doesn’t she continue to… entertain you, Tarquin.” 

Feyre raised her eyebrows, questioning, but Rhysand refused to meet her gaze. Tarquin, to his credit, only showed a little surprise; his eyes merely flicked between the two of them, before he nodded yet again. 

“Alright,” he said. “She’s doing a good job of it already.” 

Feyre couldn’t help the genuine smile from crossing her face this time. Tarquin blinked at her, a bit dazed; Rhysand huffed out a grating laugh and then turned on his heel, stalking towards the refreshments. The crowd parted for him without batting an eye. 

Tarquin watched him go, a contemplative expression on his handsome face. “Are you sure you’re not claimed yet, Feyre?” 

Her heart stuttered. “I am sure, my Lord.” 

He hummed and smiled again, a bit crookedly. “Well,” he said, “I’ll have to believe you then, don’t I?” 

 “You will,” she agreed. “If a male has claimed me, he has done so without my explicit knowledge, and I do not count that as a claim.” 

“I’ll have to take my chances, in that case,” he said, still smiling. Then he sidled a bit closer to her, reaching out for her back. 

He pulled her closer to him. 

“What—”

A particularly desperate couple barrelled past them, almost fused together. She’d been in the way, and they weren’t taking any note on where they were going. Knowing Hewn City faeries, she would’ve accidentally ended up in a fight. 

“Thank you,” she breathed, shooting an offended glare at the two heated fae. “By the Cauldron—I can’t believe I forgot why I hate revels.” 

Tarquin hummed again. “You do? I find this quite… fun, actually.” 

“It will get significantly less fun as the Night drags on. It’s a miracle fae don’t end up dead more often.”

“Dead?” 

“Only once every three years or so,” Feyre said offhandedly, watching as the taller male wrapped his legs around the shorter and started, in full view of every guest and the Mother, grinding on his partner like it was the last thing he’d ever do. “Many get rather… aroused, which causes quite possessive behaviour. The sustained injuries rarely warrant a passing of a soul, though,” during the revel, “so do not worry.” 

“Perhaps I should be,” Tarquin murmured, audibly amused. 

Feyre was about to reply that he was a High Lord and he therefore had nothing to worry about, but then Rhysand appeared in front of them in a wave of shadow—empty handed. 

“Your sister is looking for you, Feyre darling,” he drawled, eyes lingering on Tarquin’s hand resting on her lower back, politely touching only fabric. 

His mouth tightened. 

Feyre sighed. She wasn’t sure whether he was being truthful; then again, both Elain and Nesta could be quite insistent. 

“It wasn’t my business, of course, so I do not know why. But I did promise to fetch you,” he continued. He inclined his head. “Are you coming?”

“Ehm—” she glanced at Tarquin, shooting him a grimace. “Sorry, it’s just…”

Tarquin’s eyebrows shot up, but he released her with an easy smile. “It’s fine. I’ll have you to myself tomorrow, anyway. Isn’t that right, Rhysand?” 

Rhysand smiled tightly. “Whatever you believe, Tarquin.” 

They stared at each other, Tarquin still with that easy smile and Rhysand all tight lines; though the posturing would have been enjoyable, Feyre felt impatient. She pinched the black fabric of Rhysand’s sleeve between her thumb and pointer finger and tugged. 

Rhysand jerked, breaking his staring contest with Tarquin to briefly glance at her, before his bored gaze flicked back to his fellow High Lord. 

“Have a nice revel,” he said. “Don’t drink too much.”

Tarquin inclined his head with a curious little smile, and waved them off. 

Rhysand walked fast. Feyre, in heels, was struggling to keep up without breaking her ankles. 

She was so focused on matching his strides that she noticed far too late they hadn’t stepped outside the palace: instead, they’d walked up to the family wing, abandoned with the High Lord’s lack of siblings and cousins. 

“I thought,” Feyre huffed, “my sister was asking for me?” 

He didn’t answer, not even sparing her a glance as their hurried steps echoed through the wide, darkened halls he was leading her through, seemingly focussed on one thing and one thing only: getting her alone.

In the absence of his gaze, Feyre smiled to herself.

It took a set of stairs and another long hallway before Rhysand took a sharp left turn, grounding to a halt in front of a door. He pressed his hand flat against the lock, skin barely lighter than the door’s material, and it clicked, swinging open.

Feyre got a quick glance of the room – dark, empty, possibly having laid unused for centuries – before he roughly shoved her inside and entered as well. The large, iron-wrought door shut behind him with a barely decipherable flick of his wrist; with another, the abandoned, empty fireplace sparked to life. He made a bee-line for it, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders heaving up and down.

She left him to his inner turmoil, instead taking the time to look around. As all rooms within the palace, both the floor and walls were hewn from onyx, polished until shiny. Two windows were carved into the rock on either side of the fireplace: on one side, two plush, dark green arm chairs and a small table; on the other a chest, with across from that, a large canopy bed with dark sheets.

Her gaze flicked back to where her High Lord stood, silent and tensed. Feyre took a step forward, thought better of it, and crossed her arms impatiently.

“So?” she then asked, voice loud over the muted crackle of burning logs. “Is my sister hiding in the armoire?”

The lines of Rhysand’s body tightened. She almost smirked.

“My Lord?”

“Do not act dumb,” he hissed, voice low and venomous.

Feyre froze, heat sparking to life in her chest. “Excuse me?”

“Your ears work, don’t they?” Rhysand turned, face dark and promising. “I told you to not act as though you are dumb.”

White-hot pleasure pooled in her belly when her meeting his gaze made his face darken even further. Feyre feigned a sigh, allowing her arms to dangle along her body, and tilted her head to one side.

“You told me my sister was asking for me,” Feyre said. “Neither of them is here—I was making a joke.”

Rhysand didn’t reply.

“Did you wish to speak to me in private, my Lord?”

He simply stared at her, heavy and intense. Goosebumps pebbled along her skin and in a fit of daring, she raised one brow.

“If you do not wish to speak I’ll return to the revel, my Lord,” she said, taking a leisurely step back. “I was having a lovely conversation with the High Lord of Summer—”

“Do not—” he barked, seemingly frozen between wishing to approach her and waiting for her to approach him. “You—”

“You do not wish for me to speak with the visiting High Lord?”

“The visiting High Lord,” Rhysand breathed, “does not need to be entertained.”

Feyre’s eyebrows shot up. “He does not? I thought it good form to amuse him, seeing he is your honoured guest, but…”

“He does not need to be entertained by you,” he said. “Anybody else can entertain him—but not you.”

“And whyever not?”

His jaw tensed. “I do not need to explain myself.”

“I wish you would, my Lord.”

“Why is it of interest to you?” with an odd shudder, as though he was stepping through a shield, Rhysand finally approached her. His steps were slow, calculated, as though he was playing predator.

The skin fit him well.

“What is of interest to me?” she asked. “That you are not allowing me to entertain Lord Tarquin?”

His mouth contorted into a violent grimace momentarily, before it morphed into a tiny, daring smile. He’d donned his favourite mask. 

“Saying his name comes so easily to you,” Rhysand purred, his voice teasing the very edge of anger. “Do you wish to entertain him? Do you truly wish to guide him through our city, show him the sights, as he hangs from every pretty word falling from your lips?”

“I do not see an issue,” she murmured, watching his eyes narrow. “And as I don’t—how will I ever be able to listen? What, exactly, is your problem?”

“My problem? My problem?” he barked out a laugh. “You wish to know what my problem is?” 

“Yes, my Lord,” Feyre said quietly. “I would love to know what your problem is.”

“My problem,” he hissed, teeth bared, “is that you smiled at him.”

And there it was.

She could have scoffed. It was such a simple reason for their little tit: so boring, so benign. Under any other circumstance, Rhysand would have allowed his imagination to flow freely, or he would have stuck to baser instincts.

Tarquin was kind, easy to smile at without it being used for other purposes. It hadn’t meant anything; Feyre smiled at her sisters more often than not. But Rhysand was snarling in her face, eyes glowing with a thirst for blood, and whatever retort had been building up stayed put beneath her tongue.

This wasn’t play. Not anymore. Not now, when his jealousy was a palpable tension in the air, growing thicker with every heaving exhale.

“Oh,” she said, blinking. “My Lord—”

“Do not call me that,” he interrupted. He stepped closer, all ruse of his self-control gone and flung into the all-devouring flames. “Your loyalties do not lie with me, surely, if your joy is so easily bought by a charming façade and a promise of sunshine. Tell me,” he continued, his breathing irregular, “did you wonder what he would be like in bed?”

When had it gotten this far? When had their little game left the bounds of the board and embedded itself in reality? Sure, a decade of teasing and quiet, polite, stolen moments in darkened corners had at times felt too long, even for her… but it worked for them, did it not?

Perhaps it did not any longer. 

He leaned in, close enough for her to count his individual lashes in the dim faelight, close enough to spot the raised remnants of a gnarly scar under his eye, cutting through the apple of his cheek. She wished to touch him, if only to feel the authenticity of the rage boiling under his skin no matter the needlessness.

His anger, his jealousy, was real. Yet, despite the thought that she should be afraid, Feyre felt excitement take hold of her.

And so, she breathed out, “Yes.”

Rhysand had her trapped against the wall in an instant. He smelled so mind-numbingly lovely, of rain and sea and the sharp tartness of citrus; it took all of her willpower to not breathe him in, right at the little depression in his skin above his collarbone, or the curve of his throat.

Instead she watched, heart stuttering in her chest as his power spilled out of him like ink dripping over stone, as his pupils slitted and irises glowed; if he’d looked menacing before, then he looked downright feral now.

He still found it in him to smile at her, fanged and sharp, to brush a lock of hair behind her ear with talons she hadn’t seen appear.

“Then why are you here, darling?” he asked, tilting his head to one side in some distorted display of genuine curiosity. A wisp of shadow curled around the strong line of his jaw. “He’s interested in you—everybody could smell it on him. If it was any more obvious, he would have been on his hands and knees, begging you to ride him.”

Feyre said nothing.

“And considering you’d like to know how talented the little runt would be at satisfying you,” he continued, “it is quite baffling you have not taken him up on his soundless offer. Unless…” he breathed, eyes sparking with a monstrous, corrupted kind of glee, “you find him far too young.”

And yet again, Feyre did not comment. His smile fell away for a snarl; the sound he produced came from his diaphragm and he brought his face closer to hers, hissing out through gritted teeth, “Answer me.”

There was nothing to say. One glance at her mind and he’d find all the answers, plain and clear as day, which would leave him soothed for another year or so—or, perhaps, until another attractive male took an interest in her, and she in him, and Rhysand would feel threatened again. 

But it was obvious he was not interested in putting in the effort to find out for himself, so all Feyre did was raise her hand and slowly, but surely, rest her palm against his chest.

Rhysand’s breathing hitched. She suppressed a smile, allowing her hand to slide upwards, fingertips catching against the buttons of his tunic.

“Is it truly only me having smiled at Lord Tarquin that upsets you so,” she murmured, brushing the flat over her thumb over the soft brown skin of his collarbone, “or are you so ridiculously angry because I also hadn’t rejected him outright, for something he did not even ask?”

“I—” Rhysand started, but then her hand closed around his throat and he trembled all over, swaying even closer to her.

“Tell me,” Feyre whispered, pulling until she could brush her lips over his without leaning in. “One or two, both or neither. It is quite simple, my Lord. You only have to give me an answer.”

She placed her other hand on him as well, flat against his chest, inches below his peck; his heart beat at an almost alarming pace, flinging itself against his ribcage. 

“I’m waiting.” 

Rhysand stared at her, throat bobbing under her palm as he swallowed. 

“Both,” he whispered. “It’s both.”

Keeping a firm, gentle hold of his throat, she brought her other hand up to cup his cheek. His brilliant eyes fluttered shut; his sigh expelled from his lungs in spurts. 

“Good boy,” Feyre murmured. She stroked the apple of his cheek with her thumb and silently marvelled over how soft his skin was. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

Carefully, making sure she wouldn’t let him go, he shook his head and then rested it against her palm. 

“Use your words, my Lord.”

His eyes opened; the violet was nothing more than a thin ring around his pupils. “It wasn’t hard.” 

Feyre smiled. Rhysand blinked at the sight, dazed, and then leaned closer to her. 

“Oh, no,” she tutted, pushing lightly with the hand around his throat. “Not yet.” 

“But—”

“Not yet,” she repeated, satisfaction mixing with the hot pool of arousal deep down in her belly as he nodded dutifully.

“What do you—”

Feyre released his throat from her grip and stepped backwards, delighted at the unabashed confusion and pure longing in his heated gaze. She flicked her eyes down and then back up to his beautiful face, quirking an eyebrow.

“Kneel.” 

Rhysand sank to his knees almost immediately, without any discernible hesitation. He looked up at her with undisguised reverence, mouth parted, as though he was waiting for her next order. 

Resisting the urge to caress his face, Feyre swept the front plane of her dress aside and relaxed against the wall. “You know what to do, don’t you, my Lord?”

He descended upon her like a man starved.

Slowly, at first: he was still discovering, mouthing leisurely at her outer labia as if he had permission to take his time. His lips were soft, if a little chapped, and the sensation was genuinely pleasant; Feyre had to suppress a sigh, slid her hand down to rake her fingers through his hair. 

Yes, their game had ceased; it was finally time. 

He shivered as she touched him, kissing her sex with more enthusiasm, more fervour. The tip of his tongue teased the very entrance of her cunt, once, twice, before he lapped at her, groaning.

“Do I taste good, my Lord?” Feyre asked, cursing how breathless she sounded. 

Rhysand moaned in lieu of a reply, pressing the flat of his tongue against her as he continued to slowly, almost teasingly, eat her out. Feyre allowed her eyes to flutter shut, fingers still tangled in his thick hair, and then threw one of her long legs up, around, the back of her thigh resting solidly on his shoulder. 

The slight alteration of position was well-received. Rhysand pressed his face against her, close enough that she was certain he could scarcely breathe, and then he dragged his mouth up, up, lips closing around the little bundle of nerves.

He sucked. Hard.

Feyre’s back arched, mouth falling open on its own volition, and barely managed to reel in the high-pitched moan threatening to leave her throat. Her fingers tightened in his hair, caught between yanking him away and pushing him even closer, and Feyre didn’t know what to do.

Then his right hand curled around her thigh, grip firm and almost bruising, and he simply mouthed at her clit, kissing and sucking, circling it with the tip of his tongue before relaxing his jaw and licking her entirely—she ceased to care about what was supposed to happen next. 

Soon, too soon, her body started to tremble and heat up. She had half a mind to tell him to stop, to wait, to drag this out until the first streaks of sunlight crawled above the horizon – they had all night and a good part of day, after all – but she wanted him to help her finish. Pleasure spread throughout her alarmingly fast, the back of her head pressed against the wall so firmly it was almost painful, and he just kept licking her—

Feyre came with a strangled shout, vision whiting out for a brief second as her entire body tensed and trembled. He did not stop, simply continued to eat her out as though he could not stop, would not unless she told him to; she ground her sex against his face, using him to ride out her orgasm and he let her, moaning.

Breathing shakily, Feyre tried to relax against the wall, allowing him just a moment more as she came to. Every time his nose brushed her clit her muscles seized and pleasure slowly started to rebuild. If she was being honest with herself, she could spend the rest of the night like this, with him below her in a position of worship: but this was not in her plans.

She tightened her grip on his hair and pulled until he rose to his full height and collapsed against her, heavy and panting, both of his hands settling tentatively on her waist. Feyre allowed it, smoothing her free hand down the powerful, clothed planes of his back; his breathing hitched again. 

Rhysand was unbelievably hard. She could feel the length of him, only barely contained by his trousers, poking her pelvic bone. Curious, she slid her hand from the bottom of his spine to his crotch, cupped his clothed cock, and squeezed. 

He jerked his hips, muffling a moan in her shoulder. 

“I’d say you enjoyed that, my Lord,” Feyre whispered, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Didn’t you?” 

He nodded, grinding against the flesh of her palm.

That wouldn’t do. 

She pulled her hand away and rested it on his hip, gently keeping distance between their hips and shushing him when he made the decision to whine. “Use your words, my Lord.” 

“Yes,” he breathed needily, pushing himself against her. “Yes, I did, I—Oh—”

 “That’s what you get when you’re being good,” she informed him, rubbing leisurely at the throbbing bulge in his trousers. “You see? Listen, and I’ll touch you. Okay?”

Rhysand whimpered as he rutted into her hand, his grip on her waist tightening and loosening in intervals; he was completely at her mercy and, as wretched as it sounded, it brought a thrill like no other.

His grinding started to stutter, signalling he was close already. Though Feyre was very entertained by the idea of her High Lord coming in his trousers on the mere feeling of her hand, she wished to play with him for a bit longer.

With a gentle, featherlight kiss to his neck, Feyre retreated her hand and pushed him away from her.

He stumbled back, eyes wide and confused, breathing heavy—and then a disgruntled expression settled on his handsome face. He immediately stepped closer again with a hissed, ‘Feyre’, as though he wished to chastise her.

One look had him frozen in place.

“You’re wearing so many clothes, my Lord,” she murmured. “Why don’t you undress for me?” 

It took him less than a second to jump into action, sitting down on the bed to remove his boots and socks. Then he stood again, hurried, shimmying his trousers and undergarments down his hips simultaneously; his cock sprung up, hard and engorged, precum smearing against the dark fabric of his tunic. 

It was so incredibly lovely to watch him fumble with the buttons of his top, hands shaky and hasty. If she’d tell him to bow for her, would he? If she’d tell him after this night that she wished to do this again, would he want to? He was being so enthusiastic, so excited, so willing to please—

By the time he’d managed to shrug off his tunic, leaving him entirely bare to her, his breathing had turned irregular with anticipation and arousal. The beauty of his form was breath-taking: Feyre dragged her gaze across the tattoos curling over his broad shoulders, noting the ink followed and emphasised the natural shape of his body. A light smattering of chest hair matched the dark happy trail that started at his navel and trailed down from there, blending into a neat bush of hair surrounding the base of his large cock. He was all hard lines and lean muscle, built to be used, to fight.

Feyre wanted to climb him like a tree. 

Instead, she pursed her mouth, walking closer to him. Every single step caused his muscles to tighten just a bit more: so much so that when she finally reached out to touch him, flicking a perked nipple with the flat of her thumb, he was trembling top to bottom.

“I could do anything to you, can’t I, my Lord?” she stated, smiling as his mouth parted. “I bet that I could only touch you like this, and you’d be happy. Frustrated, yes, but happy. Isn’t that right?” 

He started to nod, paused, and then said, with difficulty: “Just me.” 

“Just you?” 

“Only me,” he corrected himself, eyelids fluttering when Feyre dragged her hand back up to his throat. “You’ll only touch me.” 

“Oh, my Lord,” Feyre tutted, “we’ll see about that.”

Even though his brows pulled together, he still leaned against her with an appreciative groan, his right hand sliding back to her waist. She reached for his face again, touching his plump lips with just the tips of her fingers, and with a slow and heady blink he sucked the digits into his mouth.

“You’ll need to open me up a little bit,” she said, heart stuttering as he swirled his tongue around her pointer. Her smile had him groan, and she released his throat to cup the back of his neck. “Can you do that for me?”

Hastily, almost too hastily, Rhysand grabbed her pussy with his free hand, his long middle finger entering her in one swift moment. A breath punched out of her as he impatiently pumped in and out, barely waiting before he added a second; at this rate, he’d be sheathed in her within the next minute or so.

Feyre extracted her fingers from his mouth and tangled her fingers with the hair on the back of his head to drag his face to the curve of her shoulder, successfully muffling his wordless whine. It brought them just that much closer together: the velvety head of his cock rubbed against her belly and Rhysand cursed low in his throat, fingers curling inside her. 

“There’s no need to rush, my Lord,” she breathed, pressing her mouth against his temple. “We have all night.”

Rhysand exhaled shakily, scissoring his fingers and then, without being asked, he rubbed his thumb against her still-sensitive clit. Her toes curled; she yanked him even closer, rocking back and forth on his fingers.

“There’s a good boy,” she gasped out, when he rubbed hard enough for her to see stars. “You pleasure me so well–”

“I want to take you against the wall.” The words were a low growl, tapering off into a whine when she tightened her grip on his hair. “Please, Feyre, I need to be inside you, please–”

She stepped away from him, cunt clenching around nothing as his fingers slid out of her, and saw him sway in place. His eyes were clouded with lust and desperation and he reached for her, obviously confused. 

“Get on the bed,” she whispered. 

She hadn’t even finished speaking before he moved and sat down on the edge of the mattress, hands twitching atop his strong thighs. Feyre watched him, dragging her gaze over his heaving chest and up to his face, lingering on the red flush high up on his cheekbones. 

Slowly, trying her hardest to take her time, Feyre pulled at the silky fabric slung over her shoulders; it slid down to her upper arms without too much resistance. 

Then she reached behind her. 

Rhysand groaned low in his throat when the belt popped loose and the garment, barely held up by the curve of her breasts, slid down her body with one yank at the neckline. His mouth had parted, eyes dark and hooded: he stared at her like she was the moon, or a goddess, a deity—like he’d been kneeling at her altar with an offering for hours and she’d materialised in front of him just to grant him a wish. 

“Scoot up,” she said. 

Rhysand scrambled until his back reached the wall, obedient, waiting. He was trembling still, likely almost jumping out of his skin with anticipation. 

“Excited, my Lord?” Feyre asked, brushing her pointer finger down her hip. At his lack of an answer, she tilted her head to the side, wisps of hair brushing her cheeks. “Well?” 

“Yes,” he breathed. “Feyre, please…” 

“So demanding,” she tutted, though she stepped onto the bed anyway, crawling closer until they were a hairbreadth away from touching. “It’s alright, though. You said the magic word.” 

And then she reached out and closed her hand around his cock. 

He threw his head back, entire body tensing; his hands had grabbed hold of the silky black duvet, and Feyre thought, with a weird mixture of amusement and arousal rushing through her veins, that the maids would undoubtedly be puzzled to find the fabric punctured in the morning. 

One sure, firm stroke of her fist caused his hips to buck up. She tutted again, bracing her free hand against his hipbone to press him back onto the bed.

“Stay,” she said, punctuated by a twist of her wrist.

Rhysand cursed quietly under his breath, eyes squeezed shut. His breathing grew shallower with every single pass of her hand, muscles flexing whenever her thumb brushed the beading pearls of precum off the slit of his cock. He was so pretty like this, flushed with arousal and her touch; the fact that it was her doing, that he was minutes from falling apart because of her, only added to his beauty.

It made her feel almost feral.

Before she was aware of what she was doing, Feyre crawled even closer, swinging one long leg over his lap and casually manoeuvring his dick inside of her.

Gravity had never been more useful. Rhysand was big enough for her to feel the burning stretch down to her toes, but allowing her own weight to help her sink down made the whole ordeal significantly more pleasant. Especially the look on Rhysand’s face, screwed tight with pleasure, caused her lust to grow tenfold.

She scraped her nails down his chest, middle finger catching on a perked nipple. Rhysand rocked his hips in response and Feyre’s vision briefly blurred at the pressure: she breathed through it, repetitively clenching and relaxing around him, before she’d gathered herself enough to cup his cheek and offer him a small smile.

“Alright, baby,” she murmured. “Now you can move.”

And he did.

With a strangled moan he thrusted upwards, and Feyre moved with, holding herself up inches before his body rested on the mattress again. And then she started meeting him, thrust by thrust, feeling so unbelievably full that she did not doubt the feeling of him inside of her would linger for days to come.

He pushed himself forward, large hands landing on her hips just to hold, not to guide; his forehead dropped against her neck and she hugged him close in silent reply.

“You feel so good,” he slurred, mouthing and nipping at her bare skin. “So good, Feyre, I—”

She shushed him, raking her fingers through his thick hair. He did not need to speak or voice his feelings, not now. This was about them joined together, an echo of the intense, almost primal attraction they’d felt for one another when their gazes first crossed all those years ago, something that morphed into a game exciting and tentative and teasing.

Nesta had been right in a way: their play had been a ticking bomb ready to explode, a bucket threatening to overflow. This wouldn’t end in tragedy, though. Feyre would not allow it to.

The sound of their flesh connecting with every thrust was downright filthy, but Feyre found that she quite liked it. That it was something she quite wanted to hear again, something that made her burn with need. And it wasn’t just the sound: it was him clutching at her like a lifeline, it was him looking at her like that, it was him always giving her the urge to smile.

It was the finally, really.

“You’re so good at this,” Feyre said finally, gasping through a moan that was a tad too breathy for her liking. Then his tongue laved at the sensitive spot behind her ear, and her answering moan was far breathier than the last. “Makes me suspect you’ve done this before.”

“Never again,” he groaned. “Only you—only—”

She squeezed around him, and whatever he’d wanted to say tapered off into a guttural moan.

 “My lord—"

“Rhys,” he gasped into her neck, whining hoarsely when she ground down. “I—I want you to call me Rhys.”

“You’ve told me that before,” she murmured, raking her fingers through his hair until she found hold, pulling his mouth away from her skin. “I’ve never accepted your offer, have I, my Lord?”

He looked at her, thrusting up into her with a shaky kind of hesitance, as if unsure what she wanted him to do. “You—you haven’t.”

Feyre smiled. His perfect mouth went slack and she released his hair, hand sliding until she was cupping his cheek. The other, ever-greedy, travelled to his beautiful throat. “Would you like me to?”

“Yes,” he gasped, “yes, yes, yes—”

“Well, alright,” she conceded, still smiling, and she brought his face closer to hers. “Just because you’ve asked so nicely, Rhys.”

He accepted her kiss with fervour, lips already parted and waiting before she even managed to slant her mouth over his. The taste of him – herself, and sour wine, and the cold, dark magic that permeated his bones – was resplendent, pinpricks of burning starlight spreading throughout her at his tongue touching hers. 

The kiss caused him to groan deep in his throat, hips stuttering briefly before he found his rhythm again. She did not blame him: it was a feeling unlike any other so far to kiss him now, his mouth soft and his tongue hot, almost too overwhelming to cope with. By the Mother, did she want to swallow him whole; nobody would ever match up to this, and nobody should for him.

A strange feeling had started to pulse in her chest sometime between the last breath she’d taken before kissing him and the moment their mouths had touched. It was smug, some kind of annoying satisfaction, accompanied with the white-hot feeling of jealousy.

Feyre was pulled back into reality by the insistent quality of his cock grinding inside of her, as though he was testing his limits. His hands had tightened around her hips, almost as if he wished to guide her instead of her guiding him.

It only took a little pressure on his throat to make him go pliant again. A little more fight would have been lovely—perhaps, next time…

Now, though, she’d grant him one thing. 

Keeping her hand wrapped around his neck, she pulled away, successfully keeping him where she wanted him despite his desperate attempts to follow. He whined as soon as her mouth left his, tapering off into silent, hitched breaths when her lips brushed the shell of his ear. 

“Pleasure me, baby,” she whispered, smiling when his hand released her hip before she’d even finished speaking, thumb already rubbing against her clit. Her eyelids fluttered and she hugged his face against her neck, pleasure zapping up her spine. “There you go. Good boy.” 

He kept up with the movement of his hips, Feyre meeting him with every shallow trust. Yes, this—this was lovely. This was how it was supposed to go. Her in control, him listening to her, and nothing else mattered.

Then Rhys spoke.

“‘M—I’m—” he cut himself off, words morphing into a deep moan. His hips stuttered again, breathing heavy yet slow; he was, undoubtedly, close to completion.

Feyre bit down on his earlobe, relishing in the little gasp that followed. “Not yet.” 

“But—”

“Not yet,” she repeated, pulling his mouth away from her. He looked wrecked, hair mussed and cheeks red with exertion and pleasure, mouth slick and swollen. She tightened her grip on his throat briefly. “You’re going to be good, right? You can control yourself, can’t you?” 

Rhys set his jaw and nodded. 

“Words, Rhys,” she murmured. 

His eyes squeezed shut. And then, with another hitching breath, he slurred: “I can be good.” 

Feyre wished to press her thumb to his bruised lips, to push the digit behind his teeth and force him to suck. She wished he’d never let her go. She wished, fervently, to be back in the throne room, where the fae would watch her ride him just like this and watch him submit to her just like now.

But then he ground up into her, deep and slow, and his thumb made slow circles around her clit, and his brilliant eyes fluttered open, and he stared up at her with an expression akin to awe—and the desire to be in public scuttled off, to be filed away for later.

He was so beautiful it made her ache.

“I know,” she said, cunt clenching around his cock. At his moan, she brushed her free hand down the side of his face, pressing the flat of her thumb just-so against the corner of his mouth. “You’re being so good, Rhys.”

He whined quietly, trying, in an almost desperate manner, to bring his face closer to hers again. 

Feyre smiled.

“Is this what you wished for?” she asked quietly, tilting her head and tightening her grip. Rhys’s breath was stuttering in his throat, eyes heavy-lidded and cloudy; still, he managed to produce a confused groan that told her he had no idea what she was talking about.

“You, under me,” she whispered. “Is this what you’ve dreamt of, Rhys? Is this what you wanted? Or was your little tantrum simply an attempt to get me to fuck the High Lord of Summer whilst you watch?” 

It took a moment before the words settled and Feyre watched, delighted, as understanding and rage sparked in his irises. His teeth bared, sharp and straight and a perfect, shiny ivory; the growl started deep in his chest, hissing out from behind his canines like the steaming, violent froth of boiling oil. 

“Did you?” she cooed, barely able to keep the smile on her face as his next thrust punched the breath out of her. “Was—was that what you wanted instead, Rhys? Watching me get fucked by another—” 

“Feyre—”

“He’s so handsome,” she said breathily. He thrusted again, deep and hard, and she tightened her grip on his throat to prevent herself from falling. “Don’t you think so, my Lord?” 

With a guttural snarl, Rhys flipped them over, setting a punishing, mind-numbing pace. The sheets were positively freezing against her sweat-damp back; Feyre barely took note of it, too wrapped up in his cock sliding in and out of her, his thumb rubbing teasingly at her clit. Pleasure, white-hot, rendered her entirely unable to speak—unable to so much chastise him for taking control when he shouldn’t have. Her legs wrapped around his waist on their own accord, ankles locking together.

“Don’t speak of him,” he growled. “Not while I’m in you, not while you’re touching me.” 

“Rhys,” she gasped, releasing his throat so she could scrabble at his back with both hands, desperate to find purchase. “Oh, fuck—”

Rhysand pressed his forehead against her neck, sweaty hair tickling her jaw. His mouth was open above her collarbone, breath hot and teeth sharp against her skin.

“You cannot ever torture me like that again.” His voice was gravelly with lust and jealousy, lips just barely skimming her as he spoke. “The way you looked at him earlier, how you smiled—it drove me mad. It drives me mad. And to hear your little fantasies—”

He ground himself into her, deep and slow and torturous, and Feyre’s own moan took her so off guard that it morphed into an embarrassing squeak. 

“Only me,” he breathed. “Only I can touch you like this, and it’s only you—only—”

She grabbed his face and wretched it away from her neck, only to push their mouths together. Rhysand moaned into their kiss and she swallowed the sound greedily, drinking him in.

It truly had been far too long; after ten years of only the barest of touches, of dark looks and briefly shared breaths, this was pure bliss. She had him everywhere and he had her, and his hair was spider-silk between her fingers and his mouth was golden dripping honey and he was hard and soft and warm against her, and she never wanted it to end. Just this, just them, forever—that would be enough.

His hips started stuttering again; Feyre did not even attempt to comment. He deserved it at this point, and the way he was kissing her was so sweet and so hungry that she could not find it in herself to take completion away from him for another moment.

Then he rubbed at her clit harder than before, as if trying to urge her along. Their mouths disconnected and Feyre gasped for air, inhaling greedily, the breaths exiting her lungs in breathy moans as quickly as they could enter. Her entire body was tingling, her legs were trembling around his waist. And still, she was trying to hold it off, despite being desperate for release—

He bit down on her pulse point, hard enough to bruise but not hard enough to break skin, and Feyre’s vision completely whited out, his name a mere gasp on her lips. Through the all-encompassing haze of pleasure she could feel him chasing the final leg of his own pleasure, could feel him pushing his cock deep inside of her, thrusting harshly once, twice, three times before they turned shallow and gentle.

Rhys collapsed on top of her, breathing heavily, and as the world slowly came back into focus she stroked his hair and his back. He was sticky with sweat, still trembling with exertion, and – to her complete and utter surprise – his wings were out.

“Aren’t you a good boy,” she mumbled after her breath was caught, when she was certain her voice would not fail her.

 He chuckled throatily. “I do hope it was better than just good, darling.”

“Fantastic,” she replied, blinking slowly. “It was—yeah.”

She moved just the littlest bit. His hips jerked when she did so, and she could feel his cock twitch inside of her. Then he pulled out, dropping himself onto his side next to her, and completely wrapped her up into his embrace.

She pressed her lips against the space between his eyebrows. The corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly and his eyes blinked open, irises still so impossibly large.

“I am sorry,” she whispered into the warm, damp air between them.

He frowned. “What for?”

“I was prodding you, wasn’t I?” Feyre laughed lightly, trailing her finger over the pointed curve of his air. “With the High Lord of Summer. He is attractive, but I—”

“Only wished to make me jealous?” he asked, and when she nodded, his face relaxed. “That—I suppose that makes sense.”

“It was exciting,” she said, “to watch you like that. It’s always been exciting—I just didn’t expect you to lose your composure as much as you did.”

A wry smile pulled at his mouth. “He’s a bit more threatening than any old third son of some Lord,” he said. “I couldn’t just break his brain and mist his body. And when you smiled at him… you’ve rarely smiled at me. I couldn’t handle it.”

Feyre pressed a kiss against his mouth, chaste and small. “I’ll save my happiness for you, Rhys.”

He sighed, tightening his arm around her and pulling her against his chest. “Don’t give Tarquin a tour,” he then murmured.

“And whyever not?”

“Because,” he said, almost whining. He buried his face in her neck. “I don’t like it.”

“I made a promise.”

“You did not,” Rhys retorted. “You merely agreed to his ridiculous request—and considering he is the visiting High Lord, my word overrules his. And I say you don’t need to guide him throughout Hewn City.”

Feyre could not help but smile. “And what do you reckon I am supposed to do instead?”

“Be in my bed,” he replied, pulling back from her neck when she slapped his shoulder in admonishment. “I am being serious.”

“You cannot be.”

“I have finally touched you,” he said. “Years of just barely being able to feel the heat of your skin—and now you have put your hands on my body and pressed your mouth against mine. Forgive me, Feyre, if I am no longer able to resist the pull between us; it is far easier to separate two magnets that have not yet connected, than those that are already attached.”

She looked at him, at his earnest expression and the promise in his beautiful eyes, and reached out to cup his cheek.

“Game over,” she whispered, and he smiled. 

--

@feysandmonth

[invisibleicewands]

A mum shouldn’t have to go to her child’s funeral’: Sharon Horgan and Michael Sheen on making moving TV

f Best Interests – a drama about a mother who takes the NHS to court after doctors decide to allow her teenage daughter to die – feels too harrowing to countenance, you’re not alone: even the cast can’t bring themselves to watch it. “It was hard enough doing it on the day,” says Sharon Horgan of playing Nicci, the mother in question. Michael Sheen, who co-stars as her husband Andrew – a man devastated by his daughter’s illness but unwilling to back his wife’s appeal – is also avoiding it. “I’m more nervous than usual,” he admits. “I know it’s going to be a difficult watch.”

That’s an understatement. Best Interests begins with Nicci and Andrew on a train, giddily happy, slightly frisky and, as we soon realise, uncharacteristically carefree. Over the next four hours, we see their relationship falter under the pressure of caring for their younger daughter Marnie (Niamh Moriarty) who has muscular dystrophy, as consultants tell them her condition has progressed beyond all medical intervention – something that leads Nicci to mount a headline-grabbing, life-upending legal challenge. It’s little wonder Horgan had doubts about taking the role in the first place. “I was really nervous about how much this was going to fuck me up,” she says. It ended up being as crushing as she feared. “We spent a lot of time in terrible pain. You have to go to some really awful places to get yourself into that mindset and stay there. Sometimes you come home and go: ‘What kind of a weird job is this?’”

And yet – and this is the caveat that makes the show not simply a gruelling experience, but a life-affirming and thoroughly absorbing one – Best Interests is also very funny. There is droll banter about crisps in waiting rooms, there are silly jokes about knickers and, after the unthinkable finally happens, there is daft familial teasing. “People will be put through the wringer,” says Horgan. “But we want this to feel like a real family, and in real families – even when they are in the worst possible situation – people laugh.” That said, desolation is never far away: at one point, Andrew is reading The Secret Diary of Adrian Mole at Marnie’s bedside when an inadvertently pertinent passage prompts a flood of tears: at moments such as these, the show dances between comedy and tragedy in a remarkable way. Thankfully, it is not quite the slapstick affair it could have been. “I remember doing a very stupid dance at one point, I don’t know if that’s still in?” Sheen asks tentatively. I tell him it’s not ringing any bells. “That probably means it’s not there, so that’s good!”

Instead we have Sheen’s Andrew as a slouchy, goofy beta male, who enjoys 90s indie and the odd spliff, and is an expert teller of comfortingly lame dad jokes (such is the casual majesty of Sheen’s performance, he has already won the best actor award at French TV festival Series Mania). Horgan is equally brilliant as Nicci, a weary but awe-inspiringly on-it woman suffused with the actor’s trademark wincingly honest wit. While Sheen is a garlanded dramatic actor who was well established in theatre before becoming film-star famous in the 00s for his exceptional impersonations (Tony Blair, David Frost, Brian Clough, Kenneth Williams), Horgan is still best known for her pioneering TV comedy. From gritty sitcom Pulling to dramedy Catastrophe and recent hit Bad Sisters, she is now a giant of the genre; as a serious actor, however, her career is only just taking off. “If you’re known for comedy, people don’t generally throw a lot of dramas at you,” she says.

In 2021, she was a revelation in pandemic drama Together, written by her Pulling co-creator Dennis Kelly, yet Horgan feels Nicci is her “most dramatically led role” – another reason she’s not keen to watch it back. “I just don’t want to get all hypercritical on myself. I did it – there’s nothing I can do about it now!” Horgan says she has always wanted to do comedy and drama simultaneously, and is happy the genre binaries are melting away. “Back in the day I used to do a lot more sitcom-style shows, and now it blends a lot: a lot of dramas are really funny and a lot of comedies … aren’t,” she says, dissolving into laughter at her damning critique of the current comedy landscape. “What I mean is some of my favourite things, like The Bear, there’s not many laughs in it.”

I speak to Horgan and Sheen separately over Zoom – the former perched on her bed, the latter bearded and avuncular in a tartan shirt, sitting in his office in Margam Park near Port Talbot, where he’s about to direct BBC drama The Way. (So idyllic are his surroundings that he pauses to show me two gambolling baby deer from his window.) They may be miles apart, but the pair are very much on the same page when it comes to Best Interests. Instead of meticulously researching the kind of media circus court cases that inspired the drama (the 2017 case of Charlie Gard being perhaps the most famous example), they opted to come to the action unschooled, as they imagine Nicci and Andrew would have been. And while both were left awed by the parents with disabled children they met – “I just don’t know how I would have the strength in that situation,” says Horgan – they ended up drawing primarily on their own personal experiences.

Sheen found himself recalling his own family history while thinking about the cosmic horror of losing a child. “My grandmother’s son – my uncle – died of cancer while she was still alive. I always remember her saying a mother should not have to go to her child’s funeral. That just shouldn’t happen.” He was also reckoning with anxieties of his own. During the filming of the show, Sheen’s partner Anna Lundberg was pregnant with their second child and the due date was fast approaching. Then the pregnancy turned out to be “not completely straightforward”, Sheen says. “There were some fears about our unborn baby, and if there are any kinds of complications or worries that really weighs on you.” The stress filtered into his performance, especially when it came to the heartbreaking flashback scenes in which a six-month-old Marnie’s bewildered parents receive her diagnosis.

For Horgan, Nicci’s story was incredibly close to home. “My kid had meningitis when she was young,” she says (Horgan has two teenage daughters with her ex-husband, businessman Jeremy Rainbird). “While we thought we might lose her – as I was watching them trying to find a vein and get some antibiotics into her – I remember thinking: ‘I don’t care what happens – like, take off her limbs, whatever you need to do – just keep her alive.’”

In Best Interests, the story of Nicci, Andrew and Marnie (plus elder daughter Katie, played with mild insolence by Conversations With Friends’ Alison Oliver) doesn’t exist in a vacuum. In recent years, writer Jack Thorne – one of the most respected figures in British TV – has dedicated himself to making programmes about people with disabilities, partly because of his own struggles: he suffered from a debilitating long-term illness in his 20s, and was recently diagnosed with autism. In 2021 he made Help, which starred Jodie Comer as a carer looking after a man with early-onset Alzheimer’s (Stephen Graham) in the pandemic, and last year he created Then Barbara Met Alan, a one-off drama about the founders of the Disabled People’s Direct Action Network, a protest group fighting for disabled people’s rights.

According to Sheen and Horgan, Thorne’s advocacy for disabled people permeated the entire shoot. The cast was populated by actors with disabilities: Moriarty, who has a form of cerebral palsy called spastic diplegia, is joined by Lenny Rush, the Bafta-winning breakout star of Am I Being Unreasonable? who has dwarfism, and Mat Fraser, an actor and activist with thalidomide-induced phocomelia. Behind the scenes, things were just as inclusive. “Our set photographer was hearing-impaired, the person shadowing our director was a wheelchair user – there was an enormous amount of diversity,” says Horgan. “It just felt like this is the world we live in and unfortunately TV and film doesn’t usually represent that.” There was an attitude of presumed equality. Sheen remembers coming to do a scene and “in the script there was no mention of a physical disability and then the actor who did it had a physical disability and it was not a thing. That was so refreshing.”

The show wears its politics lightly, though. Even the Christian pressure group Nicci turns to in desperation is portrayed with relative ambivalence – after all, says Sheen, “you don’t want to wink at the audience about how you feel about the characters”. Thorne is too clever a writer for obvious didacticism, and while you might come away feeling conflicted – or even disgusted – by the legal process that has lawyers brutally picking holes in the parents and consultants in court, it’s hard to envisage what could replace it.

What you will be invariably left with, however, is a sense of the existential struggle those with disabled children face in a society unwilling to accommodate them. Sheen remembers Thorne talking about the attitude towards disabled people in the pandemic: “that somehow people with disabilities were slightly more dispensable and anyone dying through Covid who had disabilities, it wasn’t as big a deal as people who didn’t have them.” For Horgan, playing Nicci alerted her to a system that “sees disabled life as less important. Everything she gets for Marnie is a struggle, whether it’s equipment or a wheelchair or education. Her life is battling.”

It’s a sad, outrageous truth, which this excellent drama unflinchingly captures. Yet the show is also keen to emphasise that this is just one element of life with a disabled child. Despite its tragic ending, the real beauty – and, for me, lasting impression – of Best Interests is the way it evokes the overwhelming joy that comes with parenting any child, whatever the difficulties. The worst of times, yes – but also the best.

[renee-writer]

Gold Dust Woman Chapter 17

AO3

They find Boone bigger then expected but smaller than New York. They will be there a week, mainly on vacation. Mary and Claire share a rented cabin near the festival. All share spaces.

 

One morning, Claire gets up needing fresh air. She asks Jamie to take a horse ride. “I haven’t been on a horse for years and would love to ride with you.” Said with a straight face.

 

“A ride lass?” he is smirking, “would you wish to ride with me or on your own.” His smile would melt chocolate.

 

“Well,” she draws it out, “I would like to ride with you. You have more experience with horse flesh, you see. I can ride on your back.”

 

She walks towards the stables with a swish of her hips that has him thinking indecent thoughts. Lord, she will be the death of him.

 

“So, you want to ride my back, lass? Won’t that be taken our friendship to something else? For, I don’t let just anyone ride me.” He replies after picking his face up.

 

“I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Fraser.” She looks over her shoulder, given him a shy smile with sultry eyes and swaying hips. Jamie has known for a while that he was in love with her but now, what game is she about?

 

They enter the stables and walk over to a beast of a horse, a black named Thunder. Alex, in charge of the stables, frowns. “You don’t want to be playing with that one. He has his own head and it is a stubborn one.”

 

Jamie laughs. “I have one like him in Scotland. A clodheid named Donas.”

 

Claire walks right up to Thunder and whispers Gaelic words to him. The beast is soon nuzzling her hand while the man stand and stare, wide eyed, neither believing it.

 

“That one is a keeper.” Alex says to Jamie.

 

“Aye.”

 

Thunder it is. They mount him, with Claire holding tight to his back. As they head out  she whispers, “Mo  dhuine milis their air turas mi.” to him. He starts the horse, at a gallop, towards the lake. Thunder wants to run and doesn’t stop until he reaches water.

 

“Come, take a swim with me.” Claire says.

 

“We have no clothes to get in the water with.”

 

She grins, “So.” As she starts to pull her clothes off. Finally, down to her knickers, which she flips on to the shore beside him before slipping in.

 

After he catches his breath, he does the same. When he gets down to his boxers, he paused, facing her and making sure he has her attention before slipping them down.

 

“I am disappointed you didn’t go commando.” She states.

 

He shrugs. “I usually do.” Before joining her. He takes her waist, pulling her close, before kissing her hard. They both know this will change everything.

[pocketvenuslux]

Holiday lingerie

Holiday lingerie often brings to mind tacky “ugly Christmas sweater” designs. I’ve compiled some cuter pieces for you to consider this year ♡

Lorette Lingerie’s ruffly silk panties with a Kelly green ribbon pattern gives a subtle nod to the gifting of the holidays. CA$125 (more under the cut)

Agent Provocateur’s side tie Sleigh knickers are adorned with adorably festive pom poms and a cheeky message. CA$135

These glitzy snowflake tights from d.bleu.dazzled are perfect for any holiday party. There’s a version with only one snowflake at the ankle for a more subdued, but still cheerful look. US$100

Olivia von Halle’s silk pyjama set in Lila Lyra Landscape eschews candy cane reds and emerald greens for a gentler, muted palette of an evergreen forest and mountains. A soothing print for silent winter nights. CA$855

If you’re going to commit to full-on Christmas camp, may I suggest Artifice’s latex outfits? Modeled here is a striped candy cane lingerie and corset set paired with a Santa cape and matching gloves. CA$40-$140

[silentaura]

−−−  ꧁ the gloves had proven to be a wonderful investment , sparing her soft hands the brunt of the harvest's ware and tare . as it turned out , rare were the princesses accustomed to spending afternoons bent over , toiling in the dirt . tilled earth smeared across her knickers . in another life , she would have been looked at sideways for getting herself so . . . involved .

but for now , with no one left to judge , zelda had found herself inspired by the women living in the rural corners of the kingdom , strong and capable . rough hands and fierce hearts .

but admire as she may , zelda was not a rural woman . . . and her muscles ached as she rubbed out the stiffness of her shoulder : " my limit might be met . "

a commendable defeat , too .

" i do wonder what it is they plan to make with the gourds . i do so hear they make a fine soup in the autumn time ; although , a fire roast would be equally as divine . "

@magnusmodig¦ yestereve starter + fall festival