#first fluttering (of its silken wings)

[narliearchive]

first fluttering (of its silken wings) by thetomkatwholived [G]

What if the leaves were real? Charlie lives in a world full of Flutters, where his leaves follow him almost everywhere. Enter Nick Nelson, who hasn’t seen his Flutters in years.

[justghoulythingz]

curled smoke and gossamer clouds

an au in which you and cooper howard get snug as a bug in a rug inside a photo-booth at the county fair.

pairing : cooper howard/afab reader

word count : 1.3k

warnings : sentimental horniness, finger banging in a confined space, desperate grinding, light praise kink, cooper being a genuinely kind, suave motherfucker. 18+, mdni

writing tag

gif credit

divider credit

The photo-booth is a snug fit, perfect for two adults enjoying an evening straight out of their youth. You taste like cotton candy and he smells like cigarettes. A contrast that melts into one another smoothly, painting a picture of curled smoke and gossamer clouds.

His words are spun sugar in your ear, your laughter hoarse and secretive in his.

“‘Member the first fair we went to?” Cooper reminisces, tracing circles along your abdomen.

Your initial pose is looming, so you stare at the lens, anticipation for more (always more) of him beginning behind your ribs and spanning your limbs.

You make sure to smile before you answer, the timer moving faster than the leisurely pace at which you like to experience these moments.

Outside, you hear muffled conversations and the buzzing of insects. It’s industrious farm land and the pleasures of city life combined. An eight o’clock hue beneath the curtain. Summer.

Every day is a summer’s night with Cooper Howard.

“God, I was so nervous,” you finally reply, and the deep rumble of his own laughter tickles your backside.

His thighs flex. As they distract you, pressed so tightly to yours that they’ve started to stick, one of his hands slips through the dense humidity to caress the front of your hip.

You twitch. He grins, award-winning. Your heart demands an encore.

“Scared outta your wits by a harebrained ranch hand, were ya?” he teases, peppering kisses along your throat, the shell of your ear. Right where you feel the thunder of the ocean.

The second photograph captures your full-tooth smile, glancing toward the floor, his smirk buried in your throat.

“Who is this harebrained ranch hand you’re referrin’ to? Because I distinctly remember a very determined teenage boy who excelled at everything he put his mind to. Hell, you even got me t’talk. Remember how mousy I was?”

Your speech warms him, igniting a flame, a match struck by fingertips grazing the sinew of your inner thigh. You inhale as if sparks flew directly from its tautness. He speaks against your straining tendons, watching you swallow.

“I can still make ya squeak, darlin’,” he purrs, nuzzling the bridge of his nose into you. A fever passes on to the sweet softness of your lower belly, fluttering like the wings on the other side of this maroon curtain.

In retaliation, you roll your eyes and your hips, hard. Cooper groans, his other hand sliding upward toward the curve of your swathed breast.

“‘Sides, y’weren’t mousy. Jus’ selective. I felt pretty damn lucky y’chose t’have me in your winner’s circle. You were always someone I wanted t’impress.”

You sigh contentedly: charmed, transported, as the third picture snaps.

“Coop,” you breathe, lips ghosting his. He lifts the hem of your dress, its airy texture silken against the heat dampening your skin. “You’re a naturally impressive person. Never had t’try so hard.”

He roams the length of your body, squeezing you, dipping lithe fingers between your clenched thighs. Your underwear is like a glistening veneer of dew blanketing early morning grass. His dull nails split your supple folds through the white fabric, stroking you lovingly.

The gaze you’re met with is rife with affection, adoration, ardor. Witnessing how you unfurl within its grove; how alluring you appear, how beautiful he is; causes your stomach to seize. It clamps down around everything and nothing and suddenly thaws.

The tranquility of winter, then the newness of spring.

You moan quietly, tenderly. All for him.

He stiffens underneath the pressure you provide, solidifying the more noise you make, the more you squirm.

“I wanted to.” Cooper’s voice echoes that smoker’s rasp, an amorous break. “I already told y’that. I want to. For you- ain’t that what you want? A fella who aims for your sky an’ doesn’t miss a single speck?”

Instinctively, you swallow him whole with your outstretched pupils. He lulls and stimulates you, grip on his pant leg firm, yielding, firm, yielding.

He finds specks you neglected to name. Reaches somewhere beyond the pines and hits the overwhelming enormity of space. Somehow, he makes it seem attainable.

“I want you, no matter what sky you’re aimin’ for.”

The fourth and final still is as intimate as a carnation fastened to the lapel of a school boy’s jacket, restless as he waits for his prom date at the bottom of the stairs. Dodging scrutinizing glances from her parents. Complexion reflecting streaks of sunlight as he follows her descent, standing straighter, shoulders pinned behind him.

There’s no one else in the room.

You have your arms around Cooper, drawing him closer until whatever gap remains is filled entirely with avid mouths and Elysian Fields. You live and die as many times as you devour and bring him back, returning hungrily to the parting of his lips while he delves between yours.

“Well, right now,” he grunts against you, accelerating, shifting, sneaking digits inside your panties. “I’m fixin’ for you t’cum. All over this pretty, pretty dress.”

He slots a finger beneath one of your straps, eluding the shawl decorating your shoulders, and playfully snaps it against your kindled flesh.

“All over me.”

Words are trapped in your chest as you nod. Anticipation and longing hang in the expanse of tongue and cheek, lingering like a raw scratch in the throat.

You whimper, almost wounded, as he massages your panty line, pinching and fondling the elastic like he hasn’t already made an incredible mess of you. Like you aren’t about to be ravaged inside a very small, very public photo-booth.

You are his sole focus as he ultimately succumbs to your shared desire, jaw clenching and pointing toward the ceiling while staring you down the heavy lids of his eyes.

Panting, you spread as wide as limited room allows, scuffing one of your kitten heels on the ground below. It scrapes along solid surface, sending tremors up your calf toward the tingling of your scalp, pulled by the roots.

He nods out of encouragement, mouthing whispered praises of that’s it, baby, that’s it, dulcet tones making you wetter, your release steadily building.

Like he’s aiming for.

Holding you stable, Cooper’s opposite palm fastens to your lower back, clutching you, feeling the rigidity of your spine bump into his fingertips. Added weight shoots directly to your cunt, squeezing his middle and ring finger, coaxing a breathless moan from his lungs.

“Fuck. Yes. Gettin’ close. C���mon, sugar. Gimme somethin’ sweet t’taste.”

He throbs beneath you, undulating, thrusting the littlest bit upward. You salivate at the mere imprint of his intoxicating arousal, giving him friction as you rock back and forth.

Driving him deeper inside, his thumb swirls your clit and you dip backward, exposing the slender column of your throat.

Seizing the opportunity, he sinks his head into your open, thrumming chest, cleavage cushioning and hardening him further. Fingers work faster, applying ample pressure that gathers in your belly and blossoms, stemming to each and every inaccessible part.

Your strangled gasps, both of you attempting to keep these matters private, blend and bleed together as your orgasm plunges outside of you, gushing all over the digits that gradually still.

Cooper doesn’t wait for your heart to cease its racket. He leans away and leaves you empty, a stream of restrained essence draining from you and onto his lap.

He pops fingers into his mouth, one by one, including his thumb. Humming satisfactorily, he samples them like he’s on his fourth course. Then he offers you to yourself.

You observe him past a rose-colored haze, cotton-candy film. Gripping his wrist, you bring his center digit to your lips first, wrapping your tongue around its length, moaning as the salty summer air of you brushes your senses. Tar from his cigarettes mingle with what you originally picked up on, easing in like banter on a date.

Cooper reminds you that he loves you. Loves watching you enjoy yourself. Loves being the cause of it.

You return the sentiment, reluctant to untangle your body from his. You’ve already tangled up this booth much longer than necessary.

You are, however, excited to see how the pictures turned out.

[gardenofnoah]

your god came to you bloody and you fell to your knees

a little priest au for my dearly beloved, for my signs of God and other Devils collab (which you should totally join!!!). i tried something a little different with the style of this one...let me know what you think <3

wc: 2k tags: smutty smut smut, sacrilege, reader is not human (fallen angel but not really)

The old book told him that only those who had fallen from grace would be cast down from heaven. Angels ripped of wings–mouths that would never again speak of the divine. The abandoned blessings of a God that had so painstakingly created them. Purity and holiness strong-armed into something unsightly and obscene–an abomination of truly biblical proportions.

Yet there you were at Nanami’s feet. 

You’d slipped from the old wooden rafters, hitting the cobblestone below with a wet thud, like a calf falling from its mother’s womb. Wings still fully intact, fluttering uselessly behind you. Writhing in your agony, you crawled toward him. 

“Father,” you cried, dragging yourself toward him on splintered nail beds and bloodied palms, “Father–”

He took a step away from you, and then another–unsure of the scene in front of him, and weary of the unfamiliar coil in his chest–the one he’d been warned of, the black snake of temptation. But even broken and flailing in whatever viscosity you’d been covered in in your descent, there was no denying the pull of you that called to him. The realization that he may lack the strength he’d, until now, thought he had came distant and went on just as quickly as his eyes trailed over you. 

If it was a test from God, he’d already failed. 

The notion that you could be the image of gluttony before him carried significant weight–yet it was not heavy enough to keep Nanami from washing the film from you, however undevout it might have proved him to be. If every action had a consequence–if he was truly to be a man of service, after all–then surely to run his hands along your flesh, unmarred from the film of earthly sin, would not be such a bad thing. The consequence could not be so cruel if it was true that it was his duty–mandated by the oath he took–to extend his hand to you. That in doing so, he would not turn away from the God that he’d sworn his life to. Surely no angel could have fallen so far. Surely no angel would have come here to him. 

You spoke quietly and his body followed, like that of a moth to the light of a flame. You could not have been here to corrupt him—to touch your face did not burn him. 

“Father–” you croaked, quiet and rasped from your efforts, “please, it hurts–”

“Beloved,” he murmured back, wiping the thick sludge from your cheek, “what have you done?”

_

The water that trailed down your skin was enough to subdue you into a quiet, or maybe it was out of necessity–Nanami did not know if your silence was out of peace or of pain, as the drops crackled against your the film that encased you and dissolved it in a plume of foul smelling smoke. Unblemished you were underneath, and it was another blinking light to him–you could not possibly have been sent here to ruin him.

But as he raised the cloth to rid your wings of the slime, you let out a sigh as he touched the thin membrane, and he found himself chasing the sound. He’d only blinked and there you were, arched into his touch as he mouthed up the curve of your neck, panting and whimpering at the feeling of your silken wing under his fingers. Something called to him, a far away warning–and he dug his fingers into the flesh of his own thigh to break the spell. Bewildered, bewitched, blinking at you as if he’d only seen you now for the first time. 

“You are–” he swallowed thickly, fighting to come back to himself, “what are you?”

Blinking slowly at him, unperturbed. “You have a notion, Father?”

Like you’d called him to, he found himself moving in again–found himself stuck where he’d started, his tongue catching droplets that dripped from the wrist you’d slung over the rim of the basin. Something sickly sweet bloomed behind his teeth and told him he was damned. 

“You are no angel,” he murmured against your skin with as much certainty as could be mustered, “and yet–you cannot be a demon and remain in this house of God.”

His eyes snapped to yours at your snort, knowing at once that all along he had played to your hand. No longer were you a pitiful thing, scraping your knees against the stone to earn his mercy. Now, you held the answers, and he’d remain on his knees to beg for your indulgence. That he was sure of. 

“Do you speak only in absolutes, Father?”

Unwilling to bear broken proximity and equally unable to respond, your patience could’ve been a gift to him, if it hadn’t felt so oppressive. 

“I know that the path of righteousness is a clear one.”

Your responding laugh was a brand to the softest part of his body. 

“Father,” cooed in his ear like a secret, “your God could not be so kind.”

As you stood from the water, seemingly tripling in size and looming over him with wings outstretched, Nanami was bathed in the understanding that he was never in control. His eyes trained on every curve of your body, every droplet that trailed down your breast– knowing with certainty that what would follow would require his complete submission to you.

Knowing that you’d had it from the minute you’d called to him. 

“You ask what I have done,” your wings reached up and over the two of you, closing him into the world you commanded, “as if you have not called me here.”

All of the knowing you’d dangled above his head, now dropped unceremoniously into his own mind–the truth wasn’t nearly as devastating as it should’ve been. At once he knew he’d been the one to fall from grace. You’d merely come to collect his debt. And yet, he could not bring himself to grieve, as he’d never known a divinity like this one. On his knees, it was he who crawled to you, lowly bent to kiss your feet.  

“You will ruin me,” rasped and pathetic, against the arch of your foot. If he’d only looked up at your bared teeth, he’d have known how true the sentiment was. 

“No more that you have.”

He’d never again know an ache like the one in the pit of his stomach as you’d reached for him, and to go willingly only worsened it. Nanami made peace with the idea that if this was the hell that awaited him, he’d be cast down willingly. If the price for entry was a pleasure so sublime, he’d give every earthly penny he’d ever earned.

Settled over his open mouth, he drank from your sex like it could be the only thing to save him–the ache spread to his teeth and danced, burning, behind his eyes, but there could be nothing to thwart him from this. He’d never known an indulgence so human as this, yet the silken heat of your folds against his tongue was ingrained somewhere deep inside him, and every broken cry from your lips was something owed to him. Outside of his body, he was a voyeur to his own trailing hands, buried in the soft give of your flesh that he knew could not be human but felt that it was, until his fingertips met the slip of your wings and he was reminded again. 

A pleasure so sharp it could have been pain spread through him like you’d lit him ablaze, and he found himself closer to an edge he’d no reason to approach, as untouched as he was. And yet as he closed his fist around the papery thin flesh and pulled, it was as if he’d sunk himself inside you to the hilt. You rewarded him with a cry of the name he hadn’t yet told you and another obscene flood of arousal that flowed down from the corners of his mouth and soiled the neat fold of his roman collar. 

“More,” he groaned, pitiful against your heat, writhing in his own pleasure beneath you, “please, more–”

Suddenly you were gone from him, and mindlessly he chased you, stumbling across the stone beneath, still so damp from you–

“Does it feel good, Father?” he could only know the heat of your breath in his mouth, so close he could just lean forward and be swallowed whole by you, “your lust–the greed in your veins. Is this not what it means to be devout?”

“Yes,” he could’ve sobbed, head bowed forward like it was your forgiveness he’d sought after, “yes, please, I need it–”

Your chuckle was as patronizing as it was knowing, as it lit up everyone of his nerve endings. He knew he’d give you anything. 

“Bare yourself to me, then.”

The movement was unconscious and swift, and then he was splayed out over top the remnants of your arousal, offered up to you like a lamb to slaughter. Sweating, unable to still the incessant twitch of his hips in search of a pleasure only you could give him. Hungry in a way he’d never known in all of his years. 

Your appraisal could not have come without a price, and he closed his eyes to the shame that flooded him. But, merciful as you were, it was short-lived–you stepped to him and sank down, and you could’ve just as well reached inside him and pulled out the very matter of his being. 

It was an unbearable heat you sheathed him in—one that slithered up inside his rib cage and coiled around something raw and animalistic there, only to bring it to the surface and let it devour him alive. He writhed with it, unable to stop the curl of his spine or the snap of his hips into yours as he thought only of the wet silk of your insides. He could come up with no reason why he’d hoped so fervently for a heaven after death, when he’d been spared something far more luxurious, still alive. 

It spread like a slow moving poison until it consumed him entirely. The vice of you around him, the wings that still caged him in–it coated every synapse in his brain, dulling every other sense but to feel, and every other thought but to take, though he could hardly call it a poisoning if he’d drank from you so willingly–

“Is it so awful to give in to temptation, Father?” 

The time for morality had been long gone, and Nanami could only shake his head, moaning broken praises and half prayers to a God that watched on in horror, and still he could not think of a single reason he’d ever denied himself this pleasure. He’d never–he’d never–

“Give yourself to me,” you purred in his ear, taking great care to drag the edge of a feathered wing tip over the curve of his throat.

With only one more devastating roll of your hips, you shattered him completely–body lurching up in search of the comfort of yours, only to be met with wings that pinned him in suspension, dangling him in some blessed agony he’d hoped to never leave and to never experience again, for all it did to turn him inside out. Visions of the true divine came to him in a burning revelation–answers to questions he’d never uttered out loud came and left him as he spilled himself into you until he was reduced to the most basic function of dragging shuddering breaths into lungs that could seemingly no longer expand. 

When he opened his eyes to find himself alone, he could feel no surprise. Nor was he startled to hear a now familiar, echoing laughter against the halls of the cathedral as he let out a low curse and dragged his naked, aching body off of the cold stone. 

It was another unearned indulgence to allow the smile to spread slowly across his face as he pulled his robes back into place.

Perhaps he believed in acts of God after all. 

[bunniefleur]

Between Worlds: The Princess of Twisted Realms

Prologue 7

Book 1: Chapter 1

Morning: Ignihyde Dorm—Night Raven College

Golden rays of morning sun streamed through the towering, arched windows of Vivian’s room, casting a soft, amber light over the intricately decorated space. Every corner of the room reflected an understated elegance—soft hues of blue and silver weaved into the tapestries and furniture. The room’s enchanted climate control maintained the perfect temperature, with a faint scent of lavender and mint lingering in the air, calming and sharpening her senses simultaneously.

Vivian stirred beneath the silken sheets, her mind slowly transitioning from the blissful silence of sleep to the reality that awaited her. The tranquility of the room clashed with the lingering tension in her chest.

A familiar presence hovered just above her. Teddy, his wings shimmering faintly as they caught the morning light, nudged her cheek gently, breaking through her drowsy haze.

"Good morning, Vivian," Teddy’s voice resonated in her mind, the telepathic link between them carrying warmth and affection. His expressive eyes, usually full of mischief, reflected concern this time.

Vivian blinked her sapphire eyes open, her fingers instinctively reaching to stroke Teddy’s shimmering mane. "Good morning, Teddy," she murmured, her voice soft as she began to wake fully. "How did you sleep?"

Teddy gave a small, reassuring nod, though his gaze didn’t lose its edge. "I slept fine. But you—you're tense. More than usual." His sharp eyes caught the small furrow in her brow that even sleep hadn’t entirely smoothed.

Vivian’s smile was brief and tired as she pushed herself to sit up, her long, wavy blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. "It’s just nerves. Today’s our first real day of classes," she said, the weight of her words lingering in the air.

Teddy perched beside her, his small wings still as he watched her. "You’ve faced far worse than a classroom, Viv," he said, his tone light but with a gentle undertone of concern. "It’s not like you to get worked up over something like this."

Vivian’s fingers traced the emblem on the blue knit vest hanging on her chair—the emblem of her family, one she wore with both pride and caution. "I’m not worried about the classes," she admitted quietly. "It’s the people. I just don’t want to deal with anyone right now."

The soft chime of her custom tablet cut through the room, its sleek screen glowing as it projected the day’s schedule. The interface was simple and elegant, yet its presence was a reminder of the precision and expectations tied to her every move.

"Our first stop is homeroom with Professor Trein," she noted, her fingers brushing over the tablet’s surface. "Jack and Epel are in my class." Her voice grew quieter, contemplative. Those two weren’t just classmates—they were part of the key group she had sworn to avoid.

Teddy fluttered up, his tiny form drifting lazily around her. "Well, you survived orientation without drawing too much attention. You’ll be fine." His voice was reassuring, but Vivian could feel his underlying worry for her.

"Maybe," Vivian said, though her tone was less certain. She rose from the bed, moving with deliberate calm as she dressed in her uniform. The crisp white shirt, blue knit vest, and blazer felt heavier than they should. As she adjusted her Ignihyde armband and stepped into her blue Mary Janes, she couldn’t shake the weight of her identity.

Teddy stayed close as she dressed, offering quiet reassurances, though neither of them spoke much. The silence stretched on, filled only by the gentle hum of the enchanted climate control system. When she finished, Vivian paused for a moment, looking at herself in the mirror. Her reflection stared back, every detail meticulously in place, but beneath the polished exterior, she couldn’t hide her unease.

"Let’s get this over with," she muttered, adjusting the collar of her blazer one final time. Her heart raced, despite the calm expression she wore.

As they left the dorm and stepped into the bustling hallways of Night Raven College, Vivian felt the shift in the air almost immediately. The students, engrossed in conversation, seemed to quiet as she passed. Eyes followed her—some curious, others wary. The murmurs began almost as soon as she entered the corridor, whispers trailing in her wake like a shadow she couldn’t shake.

Here we go again, she thought, her mental voice laced with resignation. She kept her gaze straight ahead, refusing to meet the stares of those around her.

Ignore it, Teddy responded softly. It’s just curiosity. That’s all. You’re a new face, and... well, you’re you. His teasing tone tried to lift her spirits, though both knew the truth behind his words.

Being me is exactly the problem, Vivian thought back sarcastically, keeping her eyes straight ahead as she navigated the labyrinth of hallways. She could feel the weight of stares pressing down on her from all sides, each one silently questioning or judging. The burden of her royal lineage, her magical prowess, her reputation—none of it was something she could shed.

When they arrived at Classroom 1-B, the door was already open, and several students had already taken their seats. Professor Trein stood at the front of the room, his sharp eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses tracking the students as they settled in. Jack and Epel were among the first to arrive, both seated closer to the front, looking lost in thought.

Vivian hesitated, just for a moment, before choosing a seat near the back of the room. She hoped the distance would offer some semblance of anonymity, though she knew better than to expect it. As she sat, her tablet and pen materialized on the desk with a soft shimmer of magic, automatically syncing with the enchanted blackboard at the front of the room.

Despite her best efforts to stay focused, she could still feel it—that subtle but ever-present awareness of being watched. It was as if every student in the room, whether intentionally or not, was attuned to her presence, waiting to see what she would do next.

This is going to be a long day, she thought, though her expression remained impassive.

Teddy settled on her shoulder, his wings fluttering softly as he gave her a nudge. Just stay calm. Let them watch. Eventually, they’ll get used to you.

Vivian didn’t reply, but inwardly, she hoped Teddy was right. As much as she longed to blend in, her very existence seemed to defy such a simple wish. The day had barely begun, and already the weight of being "Vivian de Alcantara" felt heavier than ever.

_________________________________________________

Homeroom: Classroom 1-B—Night Raven College

The air shifted as Professor Trein strode into the room, his black robes flowing behind him like a shadow. His every step exuded authority, and the quiet rustle of his papers seemed to still the low hum of conversation among the students. "Good morning, class," he began, setting his books on the desk with a practiced, almost ceremonial precision. Beside him, Lucius, his ever-watchful feline companion, slinked across the surface of the desk, his sharp eyes mirroring the discerning gaze of his master.

The students straightened, the atmosphere thick with the weight of expectation. Vivian mirrored the others, her posture already perfect, her fingers resting lightly on her custom tablet. The sleek surface hummed faintly with magic, ready to capture every word. Trein wasted no time diving into his usual opening: a speech that was as much a tradition as the school itself.

"As first-year students," Trein began, his voice steady and unwavering, "you are expected to adhere strictly to the rules of this institution. Night Raven College is not a place for the weak-willed or the undisciplined. You are here to excel, to rise above mediocrity. Academic excellence is not merely encouraged—it is demanded. Your actions, both in and outside the classroom, reflect on the reputation of this school, and any disobedience, tardiness, or negligence will not be tolerated."

Lucius punctuated the end of Trein’s words with a sharp, commanding purr, his eyes narrowing as they scanned the room, searching for any hint of dissent. A collective murmur of agreement followed from the students.

Vivian, still as ever, kept her attention fixed on Trein. Her expression was neutral, but inwardly, she recognized the weight of his words. In this place, appearance and reputation were everything. No room for error, no room for vulnerability—qualities that felt all too familiar in her world. Her goal was simple: stay unnoticed, blend in, despite everything that marked her as extraordinary.

But even in the quiet corner of the classroom where she sat, Vivian could feel the subtle pull of attention. Jack’s cautious wariness, Epel’s almost childlike curiosity—she could sense it all, though she kept her gaze forward and her focus sharp.

"As students of this institution," Trein continued, his tone brokering no argument, "you must strive to uphold the values that have been ingrained in this academy for generations. Discipline, knowledge, and integrity. Your schedules have been designed to push you, to ensure you grow into capable magicians. Do not waste the opportunity you’ve been given. And for those attending practical classes, remember: come prepared. Any failure to follow these expectations will result in immediate disciplinary action."

Jack, sitting closer to the front, absorbed Trein's words without so much as a flicker of doubt. His disciplined nature kept him in check, his thoughts methodical and sharp. Though he had heard plenty about Vivian’s reputation—her supposed genius and nearly unparalleled magical prowess—his instincts told him to keep an open mind. She didn’t appear arrogant, nor did she carry herself with the air of superiority he had come to expect from others of high status.

She doesn’t seem like the type to flaunt her status, Jack mused, his eyes flicking briefly to where Vivian sat in the back. But someone with that much power? There’s got to be more to her. Better to stay cautious.

Epel, meanwhile, had a harder time keeping his curiosity in check. His gaze wandered back to Vivian every few minutes, the image of her sitting quietly at her desk conflicting with the stories he had heard. In his mind, she was almost larger than life—a prodigy in both magic and combat, a figure nearly as skilled as the crown prince himself. But seeing her now, sitting quietly, her expression calm and composed, threw him off balance.

She doesn’t look as intimidating as I thought she’d be, Epel thought, chewing his lip. But legends are tricky. You never really know what’s true until you see it for yourself. I wonder if she’s as skilled as they say.

There was something almost ethereal about her, a quiet confidence that seemed to draw people in despite her efforts to remain in the background. Epel felt a mix of awe and apprehension. Part of him wanted to approach her, to test the truth of the stories, but another part hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he could handle the truth if it turned out she was as extraordinary as the rumors claimed.

Trein continued his lecture, driving home the importance of discipline and academic rigor. His voice never wavered, a testament to his years of experience in handling students both eager and reluctant. "You are here to learn, not indulge in frivolous distractions. Every assignment must be completed on time and with diligence. Any failure to meet the expectations set by this academy will be met with the appropriate consequences. Is that clear?"

Vivian remained calm, her pen moving fluidly over the tablet’s screen as she took notes. She kept her expression neutral, her attention seemingly focused on the lecture. But her mind wandered to Yuu, to the strange energy she and Teddy had detected earlier. The mystery still nagged at her, a piece of the puzzle she hadn’t yet solved. She wanted answers—needed them—but for now, she had to play the role she’d chosen. The studious, quiet academic. Nothing more.

As Trein finally concluded his speech, he looked over the class once more. His sharp eyes landed briefly on Vivian, a flicker of recognition passing through them before he continued his survey of the room. "You have ten minutes before your first period begins. Use your time wisely."

The students began to stir, the tension of Trein’s lecture easing as they adjusted in their seats or pulled out their materials. Vivian remained still for a moment longer, letting out a small breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Teddy, perched on her shoulder, fluttered his wings slightly, the faint movement enough to remind her he was still there, still watching over her.

That went well, Teddy whispered through their telepathic link. What did I tell you? They’re all just curious.

Let’s hope it stays that way, Vivian replied silently, her gaze drifting to the enchanted blackboard as it synced with her tablet. The last thing we need is anyone suspecting us.

She glanced around the room, feeling the weight of eyes on her again. Jack’s steady gaze, Epel’s not-so-subtle curiosity, even Trein’s brief acknowledgment. She could feel them watching, waiting, as if they expected something—anything—from her.

But as always, she gave them nothing. Only the quiet, unassuming image of a girl who wanted nothing more than to focus on her studies.

The day was just beginning, and already, it felt heavy.

_________________________________________________

Passing Time: Classroom 1-B—Night Raven College

As the students began to gather their things, Vivian rose with her usual grace, her tablet still in hand. Every movement she made was fluid, almost ethereal, as though she were gliding rather than walking. She caught sight of Epel’s lingering gaze and, after a brief moment of thought, decided to offer him a small, polite smile—a calculated gesture to appear more approachable.

It backfired spectacularly.

Epel’s breath hitched as soon as her smile met his eyes. All the stories and rumors he’d heard about her seemed laughably inadequate. Vivian’s smile wasn’t just beautiful; it was entrancing, almost otherworldly in its warmth and charm. He felt a rush of heat in his cheeks, the unmistakable bloom of a blush spreading across his face. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat reverberating louder, urging him to take a step forward, to say something—anything. But his tongue felt heavy, and his mind blank.

She’s even more incredible than I imagined, Epel thought, struggling to maintain his composure amid the chaos of emotions swirling inside him. No wonder people talk about her like she’s a legend. That smile… how can someone look like they were from a fairytale? But… His gaze faltered, dropping for a moment as his thoughts grew more conflicted. How could someone like me ever approach someone like her? She’s in a completely different league.

His frustration only deepened his blush, and his hands clenched slightly, fighting the overwhelming urge to look away in embarrassment. The realization that Vivian could be so close yet feel so unattainable was almost painful. She embodied everything the rumors had promised and more. The desire to speak with her, to connect in some way, grew stronger—but it was weighed down by the reality of their differences.

From his seat nearby, Jack watched the brief interaction with a seemingly neutral expression, though inside, he wasn’t quite as unaffected as he appeared. He prided himself on staying grounded, never getting swept up by surface impressions or idle rumors. And yet… there was something about Vivian that disrupted his usual calm.

Jack’s thoughts echoed in silence as he replayed the moment in his head. His brow furrowed slightly, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar feeling creeping up on him. It’s no wonder she’s got everyone’s attention. But there’s more to her than just looks. She doesn’t carry herself like someone who’s trying to impress people, but it’s clear she knows the impact she has. His eyes narrowed slightly as he continued his quiet observation. She’s hiding something—or maybe she’s just more complicated than she lets on. Either way, I’m going to keep watching. Maybe I’ll figure out what she’s really here for. No one’s that perfect.

Vivian, completely unaware of the silent emotional storm she had stirred, continued toward the door, her outward demeanor as calm and composed as ever. She was all too familiar with the way eyes followed her, how people watched her every move, but she had long since learned to master her expressions. The polished exterior she showed the world was a shield, keeping others at arm’s length. Here, at Night Raven College, vulnerability wasn’t an option.

As she exited the classroom, her mind shifted to the tasks awaiting her, compartmentalizing her thoughts with practiced efficiency. Yet, despite her focus, she couldn’t entirely shake the feeling of being watched, dissecting every smile and gesture. Every move had to be carefully controlled—this was a game of chess, and she had no choice but to play.

Perched comfortably on her shoulder, Teddy took in the entire scene with barely concealed amusement, his sharp eyes noting every flustered expression and reaction with gleeful precision.

Oh man, look at those two! Teddy thought, snickering quietly. Epel’s face is practically a stop sign! If he gets any redder, we might need to call the fire department for a color code emergency! And Jack? He’s over there like he’s trying to calculate the meaning of life! I’m pretty sure he just needs a good cup of tea and a hug!

Teddy ruffled his feathers, bursting with laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all. Vivian, you’ve really outdone yourself this time. You’re like a walking, talking charm spell, and you don’t even know it! What’s your secret? Do you have a magic wand hidden somewhere?

He relished the chaos her presence caused, his mind racing with funny scenarios. I should start charging people for commentary on this stuff—Oh! I should write a book! “Teddy’s Guide to Surviving the Dazzling Princess: Tips on Recovering After Getting Flustered!” He paused, chuckling to himself. Chapter One: If you think impressing her with your favorite vegetables will work, that’ll just make her wonder what’s wrong with you! Just don’t bring up Brussels sprouts—trust me on this one!

Amused by his own musings, Teddy shifted his position slightly, nestling himself more comfortably on Vivian’s shoulder. He could already tell this wasn’t the last time he’d get to watch a scene like this unfold. While Vivian remained blissfully unaware of the effect she had on others, Teddy was more than happy to sit back and enjoy the show.

With a final chuckle, Teddy settled in, content and ready for whatever came next, while Vivian moved forward, blissfully unaware of the whirlwind she had left in her wake.

_________________________________________________

Passing Time: Hallway—Night Raven College

Vivian stepped out of the classroom, her footsteps soft against the polished stone floor, yet each step echoed through the labyrinthine corridors like whispers of history. The gothic architecture of Night Raven College loomed above her, casting intricate shadows from towering arches, their dark elegance a reminder of the ancient magic embedded in the walls. The cool, enchanted air brushed against her skin, carrying the faint scent of centuries-old wood and the remnants of powerful spells long past.

As she moved deeper into the school, the vibrant hum of student life surrounded her. Whispers filled the corridor, a ripple of curiosity that intensified with each step she took. It was a chorus she had grown used to—the blend of awe, envy, and uncertainty, like a wave crashing around her as first-year students craned their necks for a glimpse.

"Is that her? The Crown Princess?"

"She's a prodigy, right?"

"Forget that—she’s the CEO of Nightingale Innovations! How’s she even our age?”

"And the Scepter of Hercules… how much power do you think it has?"

Their voices buzzed like insects at the edge of her awareness. Her posture remained impeccable, her expression serene—a carefully practiced façade she had perfected after years in the royal court. Every movement was deliberate, each glance calculated, as if she were performing for an unseen audience that was always ready to pounce on any slip.

Is this what it’s always going to be like, Teddy? She reached out with her thoughts.

Teddy’s voice filled her mind, light with humor. What, the constant fan club?

Vivian resisted the urge to sigh aloud. Being under a microscope, she corrected.

A chuckle resonated in her thoughts. Tomato, tomahto. Think of it this way—everyone’s watching you because they expect something amazing. You’re practically a living legend to them.

Or, she countered, they’re waiting for me to fail.

Well, yeah, that too, Teddy’s tone was matter-of-fact, but playful. But failure’s more fun with an audience. Besides, what are they going to do? Boo? I bet if you handed out enchanted cupcakes, they'd worship you. Who doesn't love a good pastry?

Vivian stifled a smirk. Pastries? Really?

Trust me. A magical cupcake is diplomacy at its finest. One bite, and suddenly you're "Princess Vivian, the Savior of Breakfast."

And here I thought politics was more complicated than baking.

Depends on who’s doing the baking.

Despite herself, a sliver of warmth curled inside her, though she kept her expression calm. Around her, the attention grew thicker, palpable as a physical force pressing in on all sides. The glowing sconces cast an eerie, flickering light, their ethereal flames licking the stone walls. The students' stares ranged from open awe to sharp jealousy, yet none of them dared to speak directly to her.

As she entered the second-year section of the corridor, the atmosphere shifted. Gone were the idle whispers of first-years—these students were more experienced, their gazes less curious and more calculating. They didn’t stare as openly, but she could feel the weight of their scrutiny. It wasn’t admiration—they were assessing her. Evaluating. Judging.

And standing near a marble pillar, observing her every move, was Riddle Rosehearts.

His crimson eyes locked onto her with an intensity that cut through the murmurs of the hall. He was composed, his uniform immaculate, his posture rigid—yet something in his gaze was sharper than it should have been. Suspicious. Calculating. It was the look of someone accustomed to order and authority, now faced with a presence that disrupted the delicate balance he had so carefully crafted.

That smile... His thoughts betrayed him, surprising him more than he’d ever admit. He quickly averted his eyes, the color rising to his cheeks. Focus, Riddle. You're better than this.

He tightened his grip on the leather-bound book in his hands, the only outward sign of his inner turmoil. Why is she really here? With her intellect, she doesn’t need this school. It doesn’t add up. This has to be about power. It’s a strategic move, not education.

His eyes darkened as the pieces of his theory began to align. I’ll be watching you, Vivian de Alcantara.

Vivian felt the weight of his scrutiny without needing to meet his gaze. It was a familiar sensation—the same sharp, penetrating look she had grown accustomed to in the royal courts. He wasn’t just watching her, he was analyzing her, searching for weakness. Years of royal training kept her expression serene, her pace unhurried, but internally, her mind whirred with thoughts.

Teddy?

Yeah, I see him, Teddy’s tone lost its usual humor, adopting a more serious edge. Riddle Rosehearts. He’s got that “head-of-the-rules” vibe. You know, the type who probably keeps a spreadsheet on everyone’s mistakes.

Plotting my demise, most likely, she mused.

Either that or preparing an overly detailed lecture on the rules. Don’t let him ruffle you. You’re twice as smart and ten times more fun. Plus, I bet he’s never heard of pastry diplomacy.

Vivian’s eyes remained forward as she passed Riddle, her face betraying nothing. His gaze followed her until she disappeared down the corridor, but her mind was already shifting to the next challenge.

The third-year section was darker, quieter. Fewer students wandered these halls, but their presence was heavier, their silence more discerning. The flickering blue flames cast long, eerie shadows, lending an otherworldly quality to the space. These students didn’t gawk or gossip—they watched in silence, their attention sharper, more dangerous. Here, she wasn’t just being observed—she was being measured.

They’re watching you closely, Teddy noted. Don’t worry though, they haven’t figured out the secret weapon: strawberry tarts.

Vivian’s lips quirked ever so slightly. I’ll keep that in mind.

The whispers in this hall were different, too. Quieter, but filled with more malice.

"They say she’s on par with the Crown Prince…"

"She’s here to take the throne, isn’t she?"

"Why else would a genius like her waste time at Night Raven?"

Vivian tuned out the words, but they clung to the air like poisonous smoke. Speculative rumors were nothing new, but the third-years’ words had more bite—colder, more strategic. They weren’t merely curious about her; they were wary.

Pastry diplomacy, Teddy’s voice cut through the tension again, this time teasingly. A well-placed cupcake and they’ll be singing your praises.

Noted. The lightness in his tone eased the tension in her shoulders as they approached the towering doors to the third-year classroom. Massive and intricately carved, the wood thrummed faintly with ancient magic. Beyond those doors awaited the real test—not just of her status, but of her abilities, her intentions, her strength.

She paused, taking a steadying breath.

You’ve got this, Teddy’s voice was filled with unwavering confidence. Brains, magic, and snacks—what could go wrong?

Vivian straightened, brushing her fingers against the cold handle of the door. The whispers behind her faded, the weight of Riddle’s suspicions slipped away, and the tension from the third-years dissolved into nothing. She was prepared for whatever lay beyond that door—whether it was judgment, rivalry, or something far more dangerous.

As she stepped inside, the classroom fell silent, all eyes turning toward her. But Vivian de Alcantara was ready.

[mcgnagallsarmy]

Top 10 Nick x Charlie fics I’ve read (June 2024)

Don't Believe Him by 7ate9

When Charlie tells his study group he's dating Leed's rugby star Nick Nelson, they don't quite believe him. It's embarrassing to go with them to the rugby game, with their voices in his ears telling him he's mad, but Nick is always there to prove those voices wrong, even when he doesn't even know they exist.

first fluttering (of its silken wings) by thetomkatwholived [G]

What if the leaves were real? Charlie lives in a world full of Flutters, where his leaves follow him almost everywhere. Enter Nick Nelson, who hasn’t seen his Flutters in years.

Let it Out and Let it In by 7ate9 [M]

Nick was the last person to see Charlie Spring before he went missing. They spent the afternoon together, and Nick kissed him goodbye and watched him walk away. Charlie never made it home. In the wake of his disappearance, their friends and family have to deal with the fallout. Nick is holding out hope for Charlie to come back, because he doesn't know what he'd do if he doesn't.

look now, the sky is gold by kissmeinnewyork [T]

“Your mum’s been texting me.” Charlie can just about make out Nick’s bemused expression over his shitty student halls wifi connection. “She’s been doing what?” In the days after Nick goes to university, Sarah Nelson looks after Charlie like he's her own. (A collection of stories about found family, empty nests, house keys and Nick, Charlie and Sarah).

Narlie Waves by waveofyou [E]

A Heartstopper California AU where Nick (31) and the HS crew we know and love live in SoCal. Charlie (29) leaves his London office to work in San Diego for a year. Nellie makes a new puppy bestie. Nick is adorable teaching little first graders. Charlie looks hot playing the drums. Nick looks hot surfing. They…ahem…enjoy Nick’s pool…and shower…and balcony. The boys weirdly get snowed in at one point. In Southern California, go figure. Nick helps Charlie see that he's deserving of big, loud love from a certain golden retriever person. Charlie helps Nick to trust that his love is not conditional, that he's safe to fully express himself. A leaves falling, flower petals swirling story of queer love with a spectacular ocean view 🍂🌊🍂 ⚠️ This is NOT a slow burn. They feel the spark, follow it and make fire Any explicit sections are denoted with “🍂🔥🍂” Any triggering flashback, panic attack or detailed eating disorder moments with “🍂⚠️🍂” …so they can be skipped and the story still enjoyed- I’ve written it so no major plot is lost by skipping these sections Alternates between Charlie and Nick POV ♥️

now i've read all of the books beside your bed by thetomkatwholived [T]

Tara smirked. “Yes, Charlie Spring. Isaac is one of his best friends. He posts booktube videos.” “Booktube?” Darcy rolled her eyes. “Get on the internet, Nicholas! Youtube videos specifically about books. Isaac has a really great channel. Awesome queer recs.” She handed an earbud to Tara, and they both huddled around her phone. Or, Nick sees Charlie for the first time in years in Isaac's video and maybe that crush he thought was dulled comes back in full force. At least he can get all the recommended books at the new bookshop in town…

The Quarantine Chronicles by CJShips [T]

Inspired by the Heartstopper Mini-Comic: The Haircut, aged-up Nick and Charlie navigate pandemic life. I hope to make this a series of vignettes, but I wrote this first chapter as a stand-alone. Come on Charlie, just get here Nick begged internally, raising a hand to scrub his face. … Irrational thoughts that he’d been walling off for hours began to break through. What if Charlie’s flight had been re-routed? Or not taken off at all? Or what if the flight had arrived at SFO but for some reason, Charlie wasn’t on it? What if the United States sealed its borders and Nick became trapped in a different country from the most important person in the world? … For the first time since he and Charlie moved to San Francisco eight months ago, Nick wondered if it was a terrible mistake.

We Just Keep Going by agreatwave [M]

“Nothing’s wrong, nothing happened,” He reassures. “I just want to come home.” “Charlie - ” “I just really want to be with you tonight,” Charlie interrupts. Nick’s heart skips a beat. “Is- is that ok?” Charlie asks when Nick doesn’t respond immediately. This, more than anything, sets off an alarm in Nick’s head. It’s rare, these days, for Charlie to question things like he used to. OR When another long term couple breaks up, Charlie needs reassurance. Nick is more than happy to give it.

the wedding dance by steelknuckles [G]

Nick has two left feet, so he's lucky to have Charlie to guide him during their wedding dance. If love was a piano, it would be every note from top to bottom.

you only stay by peaceoutofthepieces [G]

“Ben talked to you at the cinema?” Nick interrupts, his voice shaking. His eyes are wide, and he grips Charlie’s hand tighter. “When did you talk to Ben?” “Oh.” Charlie looks down. “Uhm, outside, just before I left. After you’d gone back in.” He glances up in time to see Nick’s expression go pained, and he reaches his free hand over so he can grip Nick’s and squeeze back. “What did he say?” Nick asks quietly. “It doesn’t matter,” Charlie tries, but Nick’s kicked-puppy look only strengthens. “He just—it was the same thing about denying his feelings and being a dick about it. Telling me he never liked me, but I was pathetic enough for him to feel sorry for me. Usual Ben things.”

[welcometololaland]

Round Up - Part 3

Thanks to everyone who participated this week. The theme was: rec a feel-good fanwork (a fanwork that gives you the warm fuzzies). If I've missed any, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This is a compilation of works i've been tagged in or which appear in the #fic rec friday tag relevant to the weekly theme. The recommendations below do not represent a personal curation of works. Please read at your own discretion. Heed tags and ratings on each individual work. Keep yourself safe, friends!

911 Lone Star (Part 3)

GIFS (part 2)

tarlos in the loft by @lutavero

tarlos leg touches by @lutavero

tk/tarlos set by @ronenrubinstein

TK 'feral cat turned domesticated' Strand gifset by @lutavero

TK and social media by @tailoredshirt

TK Being Grossed Out by Owen by @lutavero

tk doing background shit by @maxbegone

TK sleeping on Carlos' arm by @whattarush

TK Strand him, him, him gifset by @maxbegone

tk strand terms of endearment by @lutavero

the 126 + tarot cards by @rafael-silva

The 126 "Barbie" posters by @maygrant

the 126 celebrating each other by @guardian-angle22

the 126 in color by @ayan-sukkhapisit

the women of the 911ls by @rafael-silva

there will be another by @3416

Videos

francesca by @lonestardust

to build a home by @velvet-lnk

Avatar: The Last Airbender

Fan art

Comic by @petricorah

Fic

Ignition Point by Yuu_chi

Check Please!

Podfic

The Haus Official Ship Names (and fic) by @sweatersinthesummer and read by various.

The Mechanics of Poetry written by @omgericzimmermann and read by @cottagepodfics

Due South

Fic

With Six You Get Eggroll by @cesperanza

God of War: Ragnarok

Fan art

prodigal son - a sort of epilogue for God of War Ragnarok by @stil-lindigo

HP

Podfic

Away Childish Things written by @letteredlettered and read by @thirdeye1234

Heartstopper

Podfic

Depollute me (pretty baby) written by firstaidkit and read by rosezain

First fluttering (of its silken wings) written by @swiftlythebest and read by @sweatersinthesummer

Loki

Fan art

Cat variant Loki by @wolfpup026

Fics

this is our time now by fallingintodivinity

GIFs

showing characters are in love without actually saying it by @runnyeggsnham

My Hero Academia

Podfic

Could I but teach the hundredth part written by terra_incognita and read by Annapods

Loss and recovery written by capcapnk and read by sisi_rambles

Too much at stake but too late to change written by Chrome and read by sisi_rambles

[sweatersinthesummer]

2023 in review

2023 was a fruitful year for creating! I divide my time mostly between three fandoms - Harry Potter, Check Please, and Schitt's Creek, and the works I created (or participated in) this year reflect that.

Fics:

A little bit of a misunderstanding (Check Please, G, 10k words, zimbits)

Welcome to Schittsmeade (also a podfic) (Harry Potter, T, 3400 words, Drarry)

Podfics:

Check Please

[Podfic] All I Want is You

[Podfic] *bleep* Late Night Radio

[Podfic] Welcome Aboard the Samwell

[Podfic] Even Doubt Can Be Delicious (multivoice)

[Podfic] Pucks and Recreation

Harry Potter

[Podfic] The Last Coffee by kbrick

[Podfic] As Etiquette Demands

[Podfic] Nobody Tells You How

[Podfic] The Full Monty by magpie_fngrl

[Podfic] Kiss on cheek: one galleon by magpie_fngrl

[Podfic] Never Miss a Day Again

[Podfic] remember me

[Podfic] Nothing But You On My Mind

[Podfic] Can't Fight The Moonlight

[Podfic] Just a Touch of Your Love

The Call of Sweet Things [PODFIC] (multivoice)

Red, White, & Royal Blue

[Podfic] More Than Brick and Mortar

[Podfic] Getting Clinical

[Podfic] We were supposed to find this

[Podfic] Call me Old Fashioned

Schitt's Creek

[Podfic] Love, David

[Podfic] Celly

other fandoms

[Podfic] first fluttering (of its silken wings) - Heartstopper

[Podfic] in my soul - Stranger Things (just a little bit part)

[Podfic] respite (wanna give you forever) - Stranger Things

If I weren't lazy, I'd count up how many hours I recorded, but alas, I am lazy. Well, maybe the above list disproves that, but in any case, I don't feel like counting it. heh.

And because podficcing didn't keep me busy enough, I also started binding fics. But you can read about those on my binding sideblog.

[rumbelleshowdown]

-

Author: Rose Daughter

Prompts: Sleeping curse. Playful banter. Different fairytale AU.

Group: Final

-

Pages of Reverie

Belle knows she’s asleep.

Her head has become a fuzzy place, coherent thought eluding her at all junctures. It’s an odd, unpleasant feeling; trying to remember how to remember. She can seize tiny shreds of memory, if she concentrates.

It all began with a tome, she knows this as well. It was slotted between a bookshelf and the library wall, discarded and forgotten. Inexplicably, there wasn’t a speck of dust on its surface, pristine as though it had been bound only yesterday. There were peculiar symbols etched into the cover with swooping flourishes of gold, the corners of its pages curling up like beckoning fingers.

She’d had an hour to spare before she needed to busy herself with Rumplestiltskin’s tea. What was the harm in one quick look? The moment this thought cemented itself, both she and the book hit the floor.

And that is when the fog had swept in, cloaking first her body and then her mind. It’s as though the Dark Castle has been the dream all along, and this new room materializing beneath her feet is the reality that always has been and always will be.

There’s an orchestra playing a graceful waltz, made indiscernible by the chatter of a crowd. Above the grand staircase hangs an ornate clock, framed by brass filigree. Belle doesn’t know why, but it is imperative that she flees before the stroke of midnight.

The face of her partner shifts into focus. She hadn’t even realized she’d been dancing.

It is a handsome face. Maddeningly familiar. Warm, amber-flecked brown eyes. Silken waves of graying hair. His features are lined with decades of laughs and scowls. He disarms her so severely, she trods hard on his foot. His lips split into a grin.

“Forgotten the steps already, dearie?” The prince asks in a rich brogue. “That’s quite alright. I’ll show you again. Now, it’s two steps backwards, one to the right, and then–”

He steers her across the floor smoothly, imitating the gliding hands of the clock. Each step she takes sounds like a teacup settling into a saucer. She notices, awed, that her slippers are made of glass.

But the tinkling of her steps is soon drowned out by a chime that reverberates throughout the entire chamber. Midnight. The prince gives her a forlorn, but understanding smile. His mouth ghosts over hers in a chaste, farewell peck as that same thick mist floods the ballroom.

Before her eyes, the dancing couples congeal into the trunks of gnarled oak trees, the chirp of the violins giving way to birdsong.

By the time the mist clears, her glass slippers have turned into boots of supple leather, mottled with the mud of the mossy, overgrown trail. As she treads along, the wind toys with her red cloak, making its hem flutter like the wings of a cardinal.

“Lost, are you?”

The voice comes from the thicket of trees. A man. At least, she thinks it’s a man. His canines are too long, his eyes wild and blazing, the whiskers along his jaw looking razor-sharp. When he tilts his head a certain way, Belle swears she can see two wolfish ears pricking from the top of his head.

“I’m…I’m going…” Her words taper off. She doesn’t have the slightest idea where she’s going.

He bucks his chin into the air as if to catch a whiff of her scent on the breeze.

“Wander off the path and you may get eaten, little darling.” One corner of the man’s mouth pulls up towards the high slant of his cheekbone. “Stay on the path and…well, the most ravenous of beasts may still try to steal a bite.”

He flashes through the brush and onto the trail, upon her in a single blink. He noses at the hood of her cloak, inhaling softly. His hands caress her body as though he were sculpting it from clay; forming first the curve of her hips and then her waist, before resting at the small of her back.

“I’m sorry you’re lost, poppet,” he burrs, creasing his brow in mock sympathy. “I’ll help you find your way out of these woods, if you’d like. I only ask that you let a starving old wolf take a small bite. Let him have just a taste. So he does not grow too hungry on the journey.”

His hands voyage upward now, easing her hood down and gathering her hair in his fists. His nails feel like claws against her scalp. The wolf ducks his head and kisses her. He kisses her like he means to devour her, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips until she allows him entry with a faint whimper.

She feels molten at her very core, and she is only vaguely aware of the world forging into something new.

Her hair is no longer being tugged on, but there is still an unusual weight to it. There doesn’t seem to be an end to it, in fact. It cascades down her back and past her hips, and knees, and ankles. It’s so long, she’s standing on it.

The forest has solidified into limestone walls, a rounded tower filled with lavish furniture rather than lush greenery. Her hair, interwoven with delicate ribbons and blossoms, spills over the window ledge like autumnal leaves from an aspen tree.

There is an insistent yank on the braid, but no pain reaches the crown of her head. And the prince, the wolf – no, a knight heaves himself over the ledge, landing on bended knee on the cobbled floor. He looks up at her, his shaggy, silver-streaked hair backlit by the mid-morning sun.

His breath comes in staccato pants. “My kingdom for a seventy-foot ladder.”

It is mere moments before he is kissing her knuckles, and then her jaw, and finally her parted lips.

And so it goes; the dreams twisting into new and magnificent shapes. The limestone tower becomes one of dark sandstone, massive straw bales piled high from floor to ceiling. The spinner sits at a wheel, feeding long stalks of straw through his nimble fingers. She watches as he works the straw into a fine golden thread that writhes and dances in the dim candlelight. The rickety wooden stool wails in protest when she melts into the spinner’s lap, seeking a forefront view of this artistry. She, however, shows no resistance when his lips find her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point.

And as her restraint crumbles away, the tower walls go with it, opening up to a sprawling meadow, overwhelmed by wildflowers. There is a long table dressed in embroidered white linen and bestrewn with mismatched crockery. At the head of the table sits the imp, looking especially eccentric in his emerald brocade and jauntily-tipped hat. She scarcely has time to spoon the sugar into her tea before his mouth is ravishing hers.

The dreams loop and shuffle. The chime of midnight, the raking of claws, the weight of her elongated tresses, the kisses that grow more desperate with every revisit. Belle finds herself being pawed at by the wolf, and then tangled in the spinner’s golden thread, and then whirling across the ballroom in the arms of the prince. These realms reprise and overlap until they bleed into one all-consuming euphoric crescendo.

And then it ends.

It’s as jarring as being thrown from a horse. Belle wakes with a violent cough, retching on the remnants of some bitter fluid. There is no pair of lips pressed to hers, but instead the rim of a glass vial. She blinks. The real world looks strange now, far too permanent. Stranger still is the face hovering just above hers.

Rumplestiltskin.

He looks like he might be biting back a laugh. He tuts at her, one brow quirked.

“Now, what trouble have you gotten into this time?”

Belle cannot answer. What was a disorienting blur to her sleeping mind is now striking in its clarity. These princes, and wolves, and knights. The same face, the same honeyed brogue, the same crooked smile. Who they were all along.

“Your eyes are still glazed over, dearie.” He taps one charcoal-black nail against the bulb of the vial. “Am I going to have to pour another one of these down your throat? I hope not. They’re a terrible nuisance to brew.”

“W-what happened?” She sits up with some effort. Rumple had, at some point, moved her from the floor to the settee.

“It would seem curiosity has once again killed the cat. Immobilized the cat, at the very least.”

The accursed book lies splayed open at his feet, and he prods it with the toe of his boot.

“What even is it?” she asks.

“Not a what, but a whom. It’s a….creature of sorts.”

“Not like any creature I’ve ever seen.”

Rumple gives a derisive scoff. “I’d have thought such a well-read girl would be more receptive to the…unconventional.”

He continues, “There are as many diverse souls in this world as there are grains of sand on a beach. Some feed on magic, some on memories. The nastiest sort gorge themselves on misery and fear. In my time, I’ve even come across an infuriating little beast that seems to subsist on nothing but raspberry cakes and tea.” Rumplestiltskin's mouth curves into a teasing, lopsided smirk. “But this insidious thing…feeds on desire.”

He twitches his fingers and the book is consumed by a plume of lilac smoke.

“When it senses its reader is unfulfilled – that they desperately hunger for something – it latches on and induces a deep sleep. Therein lies your greatest desire. It weaves dreams that appeal so singularly to the yearning of your heart that you’ll never be able to wake yourself. Then it simply feeds on you until you wither away,” he explains. “You’re lucky I can brew a potion that counters all manner of sleeping curses.”

Belle has heard very little after ‘greatest desire’. The two words resonate between her ears with a sense of stunned comprehension.

Rumple giggles, mischief personified. “How frightfully quiet you are! With the cat’s curiosity unsated, did it settle for your tongue? Perhaps I should have left you to your beauty sleep after all.”

“It was hardly beauty sleep,” she mutters, trying to dispel thoughts of his elegant fingers in her hair and his teeth nipping at her throat.

“Is that so? I imagine your pretty little head was awash with grand libraries, rose gardens, and wardrobes of satin gowns.”

“You’re being awfully presumptuous.”

“As are you. The foolish desires of mortals are my bread and butter. Do you really think that your mind is any more of a labyrinth than the rest? My, my. Presumptuous and conceited.” He shakes his head with a theatrical reproof. “So tell me, poppet, am I right? Was it libraries and roses and all that frivolous nonsense?”

“….yes, that’s exactly what it was.”

“Ah!” He clasps his hands together. “You make it too easy, silly girl. I could conjure all of that with a flick of my fingers, you know.”

“Yes, I’m quite sure you could give me all of my desires.”

Something in her tone makes his facade flicker. The words are too charged to be outright dismissed as banter. His expression is boyish in its bewilderment. But he recovers quickly, as always, shooing her away with a feigned sneer.

“If you don’t trot yourself down to the kitchens and fix my tea, the only thing I’ll be giving you is an extended holiday in the dungeons. A thirsty man is not a generous one.”

Belle does not immediately turn to go. She pauses, ruminating on Rumplestiltskin – the prince, the wolf, the knight, the spinner, the imp, the man.

As she lingers, his eyes do not stray from her. His face, a terrible fright to many, is so soft in its exhausted, amused affection.

Belle smiles to herself.

The living realm is truly none too different from that of her dreams. And she’s seen how those end. 

-

[raelly-writing]

Heartsick (Thancred/WoL, 5.0)

Short thing. I've wanted to revisit this idea for a while, but struggled with the weirdness that is writing dreams.

----

Pale moonlight spilled into the room, casting her in its soft glow.

“To good friends,” Viana said as she raised a wine glass to him.

Was that what they were?

Something in his heart tugged at the notion, a foolish longing for that which lay beyond him. How easily his resolution to not admit to what lay deep in his heart became muddled with a simple touch - his hand brushing over hers, bare skin against skin, as he took the glass from her.

"To good friends," he echoed.

Twelve, she looked ethereal bathed in the moonlight. Or was it the light of the mother crystal that had wrapped itself around Her champion like the finest of silken dresses?

Unprotected. Vulnerable. Relaxed.

Marred by the closely guarded sorrow he saw in her smile and eyes.

It mirrored what he hid in his own heart. Wonder if she too felt the bitter taste of regret on her tongue?

For those they have lost…

“I miss you,” he rasped out.

Viana tilted her head to the side, a rueful smile on her lips. “Then why did you leave me?”

An invisible force pulled at him, threatening to tear him away from her once more. Quickly, he reached out for her, drawing her closer as the stars danced around them, crowning her head. “I had no choice,” he whispered. “But you found me. You always seem to.”

She laughed softly as she slipped her arms over his shoulders, stardust twinkling in her dark green eyes. The sounds of the victory celebrations below them faded away - nothing else mattered than them, here and now.

Always drawn to her light, like a hapless moth to flame. Leaning forward, he heeded that call and slanted his lips over hers. There was no taste of bitter regret lingering on her lips, only the sweet satisfaction of her soft sigh of contentment as they together fell back against the rooftop, hidden from the view of the people below. Moonlight silks slipped between his fingers as he bared her body to his questing hands, and by the gods, in his arms she was as though made of fire.

He lost himself in her and her warmth, the divine light of her blessing burning away the black ice in his heart, leaving him adrift with just her amidst a sea of stars-

________

Thancred jerked upright, one hand shooting out to his side to grasp the familiar hilt of his gunblade.

No threat met his vigilant gaze - not even the flutter of wings from a retreating pixie. In the serene stillness of the Bookman’s Shelves he could hear the distant tinkling laughter of the winged menaces, most likely up to mischief somewhere else in the manor.

Sighing, he fell back against the bed and stared blankly up at the roof. He was in the guestroom of Urianger’s home. Il Mheg. The First.

Far away from the Source.

Thancred clenched his jaw as he screwed his eyes shut, but it did nothing to dispel the lingering fragments of the dream. A stubborn, familiar longing ached in his heart. 

Four years had passed since he last saw her, and still he could perfectly recall that brief smile they’d exchanged, right before the Exarch’s call had hit them. One moment he’d been there, and the next…

Unlike his dream self, he did taste the bitter regret on his tongue as the memory inevitably brought others to the surface - of quiet moments they’d spent together, her wry chuckles and dry quips to his habitual flirting, the intense look in her eyes when they were in the midst of sparring… Those memories were more soft around the edges, but no less dear to him. Despite it, his heart was a knot of conflicting emotions he did not want to untangle and examine further. Exhaling slowly, he rubbed his hand over his face.

It was just homesickness. And concern for a dear friend that had been left alone amidst a raging war.

Nothing more.

His heart and dreams be damned.

“That’s what is for the best, after all,” he murmured into the silence of his room.

[kumeko]

A/N: For the Goddess Messenger Zine vol 4! Look at me writing a pure romantic drama, it’s been a while. Inpsiried by AlzzziMi/status/1310535382270791680/photo/1 on twitter, one day I want to write a fic for every one of their Claudeleth pieces.

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…

It is early dawn when Byleth wakes. She has always woken up early, the habit drilled into her from her days as a mercenary. Her father would shake her shoulder, his hand gentle as he roused her from sleep. It’s time to go, he murmured as the sun peeked through the trees. There was a contradiction in Jeralt, in how his hands were gentle with her while unflinchingly cutting down his enemies. His lips tugged into a small smile as she quietly got to her feet.

Now, though, there is no father by her bed when she stirs. Instead of a blue sky, she’s greeted by a blue canopy. The sun sneaks in through stained windows, lighting up a mansion of a bedchamber filled with luxuries that are a far cry from her days in the woods.

The greatest treasure in the room, though, is the man sleeping next to her. Byleth shifts her body slowly, trying not to wake him as she turns to watch him. Claude has always slept cat-like, easy to wake, as though he is afraid someone will come for him in his sleep. When they first slept together, she was not surprised to find a dagger under his pillow. She is certain it is from his time in Almyra. She is equally certain he will dodge the question if she asks.

She did not mind it during the war. Now, though, Byleth wishes this skill would disappear. It is rare to find Claude entirely still, his mind quiet. It is rarer still that she gets to gaze down on him uninterrupted. His dark hair splays across the pillow, his hands curling into the bedsheets. There is something almost innocent about his expression like this, like the schemes leave him when he sleeps.

Even now, with the battle behind them, there are schemes. She wonders if it will be like that when they grow old, if when the grey reaches his temples, he’ll still have a trick up his sleeve. If she’ll always catch that mind whirling with the next plan, the next step, his body trying to keep up with the grand dreams he has envisioned of the future.

It’s peaceful now. Birds trill, greeting the rising sun. Outside, bakeries and smithies start their day. Claude mercifully stays asleep. Byleth resists the urge to run a hand through his silken locks, to brush his jaw and watch him shiver. His reaction would be a temporary pleasure soon followed by the hard edge of reality.

When he wakes, they will have to return to their duties and tasks. He is the King of Almyra. She is the leader of Fódlan. Between them, there is a country to rebuild, borders to open, people to heal. There is no time to rest. There is no time to think. And there is certainly no time to lay in bed, watching the sunrise.

It is more than she expected. Claude was raised a prince and lived a Riegan, but Byleth has always just been Byleth, a commoner in every way, shape, and form. Leading a mercenary troop was all she had expected in life.

Now she is a symbol, a goddess reborn. Now she is not Byleth, never just Byleth. People look at her with expectations and dreams and hopes, people look at her as though she can change the path of history and carve out the injustices in the world.

Byleth fiddles with her ring. When she’s troubled, her fingers are drawn to its warm metal. She loves the weight of it, the way it slides across the skin, the way it reminds her of the string connecting her to Claude. When it gets too much, she just has to touch it and she is home.

A breeze picks up. The curtains billow, fluttering like wings. Byleth smells freshly baked bread and smoke. The earthy scent of the forest, the grimy smell of dust from the road. If she inhales deeply enough, she imagines smelling the salty sea. Even deeper yet, a dozen spices she doesn’t know the name of, a little piece of Almyra smuggling its way into Fódlan.

The wind travels. Byleth stretches her legs, feeling a familiar trill running through them. She has never been in one place for so long before. A wanderlust fills her, urges her to get moving. Surely, they could both take a small trip. There are plenty of competent people around them—Lorenz at the very least would enjoy the opportunity, if not the chance to one-up Claude again. It’s not like they have to go far or long.

It could work.

There’s a soft groan as Claude stirs. His eyes crack open, his gaze unfocused. Automatically, he turns to her, his hand reaching forward to tangle in hers.

“’morning,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep.

“Morning.” Byleth leans forward, brushing his hair out of his face. Her own hair covers him like a curtain. She remembers the wind. “Let’s go on a trip.”

“A trip?” Claude blinks, forcing himself to wake up. His hand squeezes hers gently.

She nods. “Just the two of us.”

“That…” Claude stares at her in surprise before breaking into a smile. “That would be great.” He reaches up, his fingers tangling in her hair, his hand forcing her closer as he kisses her. The sun hits him and it’s like kissing molten gold, like the sun touching the sky.

-x-

Byleth has always surprised him. Ever since that first meeting eight years ago, Claude has been on his toes around his former professor. Her prowess in the battlefield, her strange connection to Rhea and Sothis, her abilities and hair colour—whenever he thinks he’s getting used to her, she throws him for a loop.

That hasn’t changed after they were engaged. For all of Byleth’s skill in war, she has very little in relationships, and it has been entertaining watching her bumble her way through with various degrees of success.

Or maybe it is ‘complete’ success, since he finds each fumble endearing. His life has always been teetering on the edge of perfection, on diligence. Claude has to predict as many possibilities as he can when he takes a step, when he picks a destination, when he chats with a dignitary. If Byleth fears failure, she never lets it show. If she makes a misstep, she doesn’t seem to care. Her expressions are honest, her gestures genuine, and he can only hope to one day reach her freedom.

In the meantime, he makes do with what he can. Their private movements together, their stolen kisses and lingering touches. Life is the interlude between long journeys from Almrya to Fódlan, the time spent in one royal house or the other before they must once more separate. One day, he wants to build a house right at the border, half in one country, half in the other. Byleth will probably never know how much he hungers for her, how much desire thrums under his skin like a drumbeat, but he has a lifetime to show her.

And today’s vacation is supposed to be a chance to do just that. When he had kissed Byleth, accepting her offer, he had imagined something soft, something luxurious. He had not imagined them traipsing through small villages dotting the border of their country, a work trip in the guise of a break.

Even now they’re in another nameless village. Claude is certain there isn’t a map that marks his location. A cool mountain breeze blows and he fights back a sigh as he takes in the dirt paths and wooden roofs. “This isn’t quite what I had in mind, Teach.”

Byleth frowns, looking more puzzled than upset. She fiddles with her ring, a tick he noticed she does whenever she’s trying to figure something out. “Did you want a different village?”

“It’s not the village that’s the problem.” Claude chuckles. He gestures as the official looking men and women approach them. “I thought this was a vacation.”

“Oh.” Byleth is contrite. “I thought it would be efficient. We can tour the country and check damages while also going on a trip.” She waits a beat. “It’s also a good excuse if anyone asks.”

“That’s true.” He doesn’t deny her words. It’s not a bad strategy. It just isn’t one he was prepared for. Though, in all honesty, he should have expected it. Byleth is a practical woman, after all. Even her gifts have some useful application.

Byleth picks up on his disappointment. “I thought you would like that.”

“I don’t hate it.” He carefully picks his words like a climber picks footholds. “A warning would have been nice, though.”

“Hello!” Fortunately, the town’s officials arrive, interrupting the conversation. It’s a gaggle of five elders, dressed up in their finest wools.

A woman in a grey tunic steps forward. Her eyes are sharp despite her white hair and wrinkled skin. ‘Greetings, your majesty.” She curtsies. “I’m Rosemary, the village head. It is an honour to have you here.”

“That’s fine.” Byleth shakes her head dismissively. She has never liked the trims and dressing of royalty. He wishes there were more like her. Perhaps they wouldn’t have had a war if there were.

Rosemary turns to him and curtsies once more. “Duke Riegan.”

“He is now the King of Almyra,” Byleth adds, smiling softly.

He waits, but she doesn’t add anything else. There have been barely any mentions of their engagement back in the royal palace and as far as his spies have told him, few knew of the true nature of their relationship.

The ring on his finger feels cold and heavy.

-x-

As expected, they are given the royal treatment, down to the room they stay in. The village head furnishes a guest bedroom. Every surface is covered in flowers. Candles light the room romantically, the town’s speciality in goat cheese is placed on a table in the center, and there’s a small basin filled with warm water to wash their faces.

Byleth already feels stuffy as she enters. It’s a small mercy that for once she isn’t wearing her proper robes and instead her old mercenary fatigues, she could not imagine making this trip otherwise. Her mouth is tired from pleasantries, her hand still curved in the shape of a handshake. Even during her days as a professor, she hadn’t really enjoyed social activities, but they had been bearable since her students were just as casual as she was.

Claude whistles softly as he looks around, his mood improving. “Nice digs.”

“It is.” She glances at the bed and for a moment, it’s six years ago and she’s travelling with her father. “There’s only one bed.”

A shadow flickers across his face, an expression that disappears before she can read it. His lips tug into a familiar smirk and he clasps his hands behind his back as Claude sidles close and leans toward her. “What, getting shy, Teach?”

Byleth flushes lightly. The promises in his waggling brow and sly smile drag up memories. “No, I…just old habits.”

“Oh?”

“It’s been a while since I travelled with someone.” Byleth studies his face—it’s impossible to tell he had been bothered at all. Then again, she has never been adept at that skill like he is. Brute honesty is the only way for her to get answers. “Is something wrong?”

“Nope.” He’s still smiling. It’s genuine, but not entirely. Part of her is disappointed; even now Claude likes to keep his secrets. There’s a wall between them, one that she can never quite scale or break down. She doesn’t know how.

There’s a knock on the door. He turns to open it. Rosemary steps in, her hands clasped in front of her as she bows slightly. “I’m sorry for interrupting your rest.”

“It’s fine,” Byleth replies. The only thing waiting for her are questions without answers. A distraction is more than welcome.

“What happened?” Claude asks. She can tell by his relaxed posture he already knows the problem. Of course he does.

“We’ve had trouble with a group of bandits nearby.” Rosemary’s eyes are clear as she looks at them. Byleth wonders if she’s been waiting to ask this question since they stepped foot in the town. “Unfortunately, no one here is able to handle them and they’ve been blocking off our supplies.”

Byleth doesn’t hesitate before nodding. “We’ll handle it.”

“Really? Thank you, your highnesses.” Rosemary smiles. “I’ll prepare a map in the morning with their location.”

Only when the woman leaves, the door slamming shut behind her, does Claude turn to her with a wry smile. “More work, huh?”

“I’m sorry.” Byleth sighs, her shoulders drooping. “I might not be good at planning vacations.”

“That’s an understatement.” Claude grabs her hand and pulls her close. He presses his forehead to hers and smiles. “But I don’t mind.”

She doesn’t see any shadows this time, but part of her fears he’s just gotten better at hiding it.

-x-

Claude has always been a light sleeper. In a royal household, between actual assassins and imaginary shapes in the wind, you had to be. His uncle had been killed in his sleep, throat slit. Another poisoned. Battles for the heir apparent are a constant, no matter how old or how distant the candidates are. He learned to sleep still, to keep one eye open and ear to the sky.

With Byleth, he forgets all of that. When his arms wrap around her, when his chest presses against her back, he forgets everything. Her pine scent washes over him as he falls asleep, her soft hair tickling his neck, and he’s out like a light to the sound of her heartbeat. It’s a deep sleep. His mother would be ashamed.

As soon as she leaves the safe cage of his arms, he’s back to old habits. Claude wakes up at the crack of dawn, the spot in front of him still warm. He stares at the emptiness for a second, the impression left by her body, the way his hands can still feel the smooth expanses of her skin. Ever since her disappearance during the war, he feels like he’s spent most of his life chasing Byleth’s shadow. Then he looks up to find her half-way dressed.

“Where are you going?” he asks. He doesn’t need to hear the answer, he already knows.

This isn’t the first time he’s woken to an empty bed. And despite his hopes, it won’t be the last.

“To get the bandits,” Byleth replies, her voice clipped as she snaps on her jacket. There’s military precision to her movements, an efficiency borne from years with Jeralt. Her pants slide on, then her belt. It takes only a minute and she’s already ready to leave.

Claude sits up, running a hand through his hair, chasing the sleep from his eyes. The blanket falls off his chest and pools in his lap. To her credit, she doesn’t react. “They said they’d get the map ready in the morning.”

“It is the morning.”

He laughs. “They didn’t mean this early in the morning.”

She purses her lips, annoyed. “It’s better to deal with these things quickly. They’ll catch wind and be harder to deal with later.”

He doesn’t doubt that. Her experience in this is still greater than his—a five year absence still hasn’t changed that. “You were going alone?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you.” She flashes a smile before glancing at the door. “So the map won’t be ready?”

That isn’t the point. Claude studies her profile: determined eyes, strong jaw, straight back. She’s a warrior at her core. The people call her a goddess, a reincarnation of Sothis, a second coming of Rhea. If she is a goddess, she is one of steel and blood. There’s a country near his where they worship such a warrior, a goddess who dances over skulls and wields a sword in each of her many hands.

He finds in Byleth the image of that goddess.

“Wait.”

But unlike that goddess, who can do her work alone, Byleth is still a human. For all of her powers, she can get injured. She can get killed.

Claude does not think he could survive that heartbreak.

“Give me a second, I’ll get ready.” He clambers out of bed. Her eyes draw lower and lower before she snaps her head away and Claude feels a brief surge of pride at the reaction. Maybe he’ll tease her a little later, see how far he can go before she pounces.

“Are you sure?” she asks, gaze pointedly away from him.

“You don’t know where to go right?” Claude grins, pulling on his pants. “I have an idea where their camp might be.”

Surprised, she turns to him, forgetting his state of undress. “You do?”

“Yeah. There were some odd signs of activity when we flew over.” He puts on his shirt, feels the hard round edge of each button before he snaps them in place. Looking down, he can’t see her expression as he says, “You can rely on me more, you know.”

Quietly, she replies. “I know. I do.”

-x-

As usual, Claude knows exactly where to go. They ambush the bandits and dispatch them quickly, springing out of nowhere like a pair of ghosts. If those ruffians didn’t pray before, they do now; quickly, silently, under their breath, in loud curses and sobbing pleads. Their skills are wanting and they fall before her sword like a pack of cards.

By the time they get back, Rosemary has already set up a celebration. They are dragged from house to house, street to street. Rings of flowers are dropped over their heads and petals float in the air. A little girl kisses Claude on the cheek. An old woman offers Byleth an apple.

Claude smiles and laughs the entire time, enthusiastically dragging Byleth with him as they are presented with all of nature’s treasures. His hand stays twined in hers, their fingers interlaced. He looks happy.

She might not be as adept as he is, but Byleth can tell that he’s partially faking it. He’s still upset about this morning, this small grievance she doesn’t entirely understand. Was it irritation that he woke up? Annoyance that he had to go out with her, since she didn’t have a map? Disappointment?

Most likely, it’s none of the above, but she can’t stop the small niggling in the corner of her mind. When she is around him, she is keenly aware of the places she lacks,

Still, even with that, there are things she can do. Claude wants her to rely on him. And she does—his strength in politics, his warmth when she’s stressed, his smiles when she’s tired. In ways big and small, he has become her rock, her center, and she feels his pull like the tide does the moon.

Byleth does lean on him—but then she remembers her father, his absent smiles, his tomorrows and next times. The words Jeralt never said, never got a chance to say. The gaps in her knowledge she has had to piece together on her own. Actions aren’t enough, sometimes. Sometimes things need to be said, experienced.

In the evening, there is a bonfire. Big and bright, it lights up the night sky. Sparks fly, small embers like fireflies into the night. Villagers pen in the town square, clapping in time with the music. Couples dance around the flames, twirling in a language she cannot even hope to replicate.

It is a language Claude knows, though. They stand side by side watching the dancers and her hand seeks his. The pads of his fingers nicked from countless arrows. His ring is warm and calming.

“Byleth?” he asks, looking down.

Sometimes Byleth forgets how much taller he is now. Her head reaches his chin. “Do you want to dance?” She rubs his ring. “I don’t know how—teach me.”

It’s more an order than a request, but his smile broadens all the same. “I get to be the teacher this time,” he teases her, pulling her along as he positions them closer to the flames.

“You’ve been the teacher for a while now,” she corrects.

He kisses her in response.

-x-

He had imagined it. That is all Claude can think of, as he spins Byleth around the fire, as she steps on his toes and apologizes before stepping on his toes once more. She’s biting her cheek, focused on the dance, but she’s smiling and she’s happy and maybe it was just in his imagination after all.

Hilda had told him, many times, that he was prone to overthinking. She’d roll her eyes, pat him on the back, and tell him maybe use that noggin of yours a little less? Sometimes things are exactly as they appear to be.

Claude still maintains that it isn’t the case, that it is better to overthink than underthink, but today he is willing to concede the point.

Byleth twirls, her green hair glowing in the firelight like a beacon. Her skirt swirls like a hurricane, pulling him toward her. It could be pitch dark and he knows his eyes would be drawn to her, that his eyes have always been drawn to her. Even when she first appeared all those years ago, impassive as a rock, he had been drawn to her like a moth to the flame.

 Her hand returns to his as she steps back into place. Byleth breathes deeply as she slows to a stop, the dance over. It’ll be a while still before the flush on her skin disappears. “Thank you,” she murmurs, giving him another one of her slight smiles, a waning moon that always appears on the edge of disappearing.

“Want another?” he asks as the music picks up again, loath to let her go.

“A drink first.” She wets her lips. “I’m parched.”

Sometimes, being human was a bother. Claude squeezed her hands once before reluctantly pulling away. “I’ll get it.”

Startled, she looks at him with wide eyes. “That’s fine, I’ll—”

“Think of it as my thanks for the dance.” Claude smiles lopsidedly. “It’ll be a minute.”

Byleth purses her lips, considering it before acquiescing. “I’ll rely on you,” she says, echoing his words from the morning.

He laughs. She’s so obvious sometimes. It’s utterly refreshing. Part of him wants to kiss her, but if he does, then no one’s getting a drink. Slipping away, Claude heads over to the long banquet tables laden with fruits, berries, entire roasted pigs, delicate chicken dishes, and more. It seems like too much for a simple ‘defeat the bandits’, but he can understand the need to celebrate.

It is the little things in life that make it worthwhile.

When he returns to the fire, Claude spots her standing by herself, her back to the fire. She’s fiddling with her ring, sliding it on and off. Part of him fears that she’s debating between taking it off or keeping it on. A bigger part of him knows that’s irrational.

At least, a bigger part until he steps closer and hears her mumble, “Was it a mistake?”

Her ring slips off.

-x-

“Claude?” Byleth’s gaze flicks between the stiff profile of her fiancé and his white-knuckled grip on her arm. This is perhaps the most emotional she’s ever seen him. No one will ever call Claude stoic, but his emotions have always been kept on a tight leash. They only see what he allows them to see, like a gardener pruning his flowers.

She’s only seen his emotions spill out of him thrice—once when she returned from her absence. Another when they finally ended the war. The third when they’d exchanged rings.

And now, a fourth time. His feelings overflow, a tempest she can feel, as Claude pulls her off the main street. It’s only when they’re finally alone that he finally stops in his tracks. His hand is still gripping her wrist tight.

“Claude?” Byleth repeats, stepping forward to look at him. It’s too dark to read his expression, especially here. There’s only a flickering lantern three houses down and it casts shadows that she can’t see past.

“I…” Claude turns to her, then away. He runs a hand through his hair. “We…”

It’s the first time she’s seen him speechless. Claude always has a word on his tongue, always has something witty to say. Yet now he fumbles like a child and something in her unravels at the sight. Gently, she pries his hand off her wrist and intertwines their fingers instead. “What is it?” she asks encouragingly.

“We…we need to talk.” He doesn’t pull away, but his hand is stiff and her heart sinks.

“About?”

“…us.” Claude looks at her now. “What was a mistake?”

“Huh?” Byleth flushes as she remembers—had he heard her then? Embarrassment fills her and she ducks her head. “That’s...”

“I understand.” She hears a shift in his voice and before she can ask, there’s a hand in front of her. “I’ll take it back.”

Byleth stares at his hand. “You’ll what?”

“You don’t have to worry about it. These things happen. I’ll take the ring back and—”

This time, she can hear the heartbreak in his voice. It echoes the sound in her chest. Immediately, she recoils, stepping as far away from his hand as possible. “What are you doing?”

She still can’t see him clearly. Maybe she never has.

“Taking the ring back.” For once, there isn’t a hint of jesting in his tone, no matter how badly she wants to hear it.

“I don’t want to give it back,” she snaps, a fury growing within her. His decisions are a mystery to her and she’s tired of it. “Why are you always like this?”

He freezes. “Always like what?”

“Making decisions on your own. Hiding your feelings.” Byleth balls her hands into tight fists, wanting nothing more than a bandit to hit. “You never explain anything. We’re not at war anymore. You don’t always need a plan! You can at least tell me what they are!”

Claude flinches. “I’m not that secretive.”

“You are.” She pleads, “I can’t tell what you’re thinking sometimes. And it scares me.”

“That…you scare me,” he replies softly. “You say I’m the one acting on my own? No, that’s you, it’s always you. You act like you’re still a mercenary, and you’re not. You act like you’re alone, and you’re not.”

She freezes.

“You’re not,” he repeats, softer now. He steps forward now and she can make out the furrow in his brow, the soft droop of his lips, the slump in his shoulders. “I’m with you. I’m always with you.”

And just like that, her fury calms. Byleth might not know Claude as well as she’d like to, but right there, right then, she knows him perfectly. She knows his fear. She knows how it mirrors her own. Years ago, his arm had wrapped around her shoulder after Jeralt’s death, a warm reminder that the universe was not as empty as she feared.

Death isn’t the only thing that can take away a person.

She steps forward, meeting him in the shadows. Her arms wrap around him, pulling him close. He flinches, startled, but doesn’t back away. Standing on the tips of her toes, Byleth presses her forehead to his. “Claude.”

“Yeah?” he breathes and she remembers that warm breeze that had started it all, the spices she could not name. She couldn’t, but he could. Whatever she couldn’t do, he could. And wherever he failed, she could give him a hand.

“You’re with me. I know that.” She closes her eyes. “I forget, sometimes, that I don’t have to do things on my own. It’s an old habit. It’s hard to stop. I’ll try.”

“You don’t—”

“For you, I’ll try. Just like I wanted to make this vacation for you.” She opens her eyes now. This close, she can just make out the lashes on his eyes, the dim light barely outlining them. “I thought I had made a mistake planning it. It’s full of work. You always seem troubled. Did I make a mistake?”

His lips part as he gasps softly and his arms go around her now, squeezing her tight. “It wasn’t. It isn’t.”

She smiles, her fears released. “I’m glad.”

“And I…” He chuckles weakly. “You’re right, old habits are hard to break. I can’t promise no more schemes but...none from you. You’ll always know what I’m thinking.”

“That’s all I need.” Byleth relaxes.

“And the ring?”

“You can pry it off my dead hands,” she replies smartly.

Claude laughs. It’s pure and honest and a wave of relief fills her. “As long as you don’t die before me, I’m game.”

“You’re not allowed to die before me either,” she murmurs.

“No, I suppose not.” There’s a pregnant pause before he looks up at her. Their foreheads are still touching, and she can almost feel his look like a physical thing, like it jumps through that connection and into her core. Electricity fills her. “Hey, Byleth, want to know what I’m thinking now?”

For once, she doesn’t need the words.

[winter-words]

The Yellow Spider and the Monarch Butterfly

Once upon a time, in the heart of the royal garden, there lived a humble yellow spider. Though small and unremarkable, it had spun a web of breathtaking beauty — a delicate masterpiece, shimmering under the soft glow of the moon. The strands of silk stretched between the roses and ivy, glinting like silver threads in the night. Yet, for all the web’s grandeur, the spider itself remained unnoticed, a creature of little significance in the grand tapestry of the garden.

One night, the web caught an unexpected visitor: a Monarch butterfly, its wings vibrant and shimmering like stained glass. As it fluttered through the garden, it became ensnared in the spider’s silken trap. The butterfly’s wings thrashed against the sticky threads, causing the entire web to tremble. Sensing the disturbance, the yellow spider stirred from its slumber, creeping out from its corner to investigate.

Slowly, carefully, the spider approached the trapped butterfly. The Monarch’s wings glistened in the moonlight, even as they struggled helplessly against the silk.

“Help me, please! Don’t eat me!” the butterfly pleaded, its voice fragile with desperation.

The spider paused, its many eyes reflecting the beauty of the butterfly’s wings. For a long moment, it said nothing, simply admiring the vivid patterns and rich hues. Finally, in a soft, almost regretful tone, it replied, “I wish I could help you, but the silk has tangled too deeply in your wings. I fear there is no way to free you.”

Despite the dire circumstances, a strange bond began to form between the two. Each night, they would talk — the spider drawn to the butterfly's grace and beauty, the butterfly finding comfort in the spider's quiet presence. Their conversations stretched through the darkness, each word weaving a fragile thread of friendship. But as the days passed, the butterfly grew weaker, its wings losing their strength.

One fateful morning, as the first rays of sunlight crept into the garden, a human wandered by and noticed the Monarch’s plight. With pity in their heart, the human reached out to free the butterfly. The yellow spider, desperate to protect its web — its home, its creation — scurried forward and bit the human's hand in a futile act of defiance.

With a swift, careless motion, the human tore through the spider’s intricate web, ripping apart the delicate threads that had taken so long to build. The butterfly, now freed from the tangle of silk, fluttered weakly into the air, its beautiful wings beating one last time under the human’s gaze.

But for the yellow spider, there was no triumph. Crushed in the chaos, it lay motionless among the ruins of its web, watching as the butterfly soared for just a moment before disappearing into the light of day.

And so, the spider's masterpiece, its web, was lost — torn apart in a fleeting gesture of mercy — while the memory of the butterfly’s final flight lingered like a ghost beneath the garden's roses.

[vulpes-fennec]

Eggnog: Sugar and Spice (Feysand) 🎁

**Also written for Feysand Month 2022 Day 16: Mating Bond** @unofficialfeysandmonth2022

Summary: A series of fluffy/smutty ACOTAR winter one-shots! 12 stories for the 12 days leading up to Solstice (December 21).

Feyre and Rhys get drunk off eggnog and have some…crazy dreams. Dreams that involve the Hewn City.

Warnings: Smut, vaginal sex/fingering, consensual somnophilia, voyeurism kink

Read: Masterlist | AO3

Feyre and Rhys held back-to-back meetings with the council of governors in the morning. Attentively listened to the public comment during an afternoon Court session at the Hewn City. Wrapped up their presents for the Solstice party in two weeks. Took six-year old Nyx on an evening flight over Velaris. 

After such a long day, soaking in a hot bath together and drinking copious cups of warm eggnog seemed to be in order. The spiced, sweet and creamy beverage was delicious, but Feyre feared she may have had too much to drink. Her movements were sluggish as she changed into her silken, silvery nightgown and slipped under the covers. 

Rhys didn’t seem to be faring any better. The powerful High Lord of the Night Court was a surprising lightweight. He’d only drank two cups, but was swaying slightly as he cleaned his teeth. 

“Feel like doing anything tonight?” Feyre asked Rhys suggestively as he climbed into bed with her. 

Rhys sighed. “I would love to, Feyre darling, but this eggnog has me spinning. Pray I don’t wake up with a hangover.” 

“That’s alright, Rhys. I’m pretty tired, to be honest,” Feyre soothed him with a peck on the cheek. “Though Elain made such a delicious eggnog. She says she used Helion’s recipe. I should ask her to send us some for the Solstice party.”

“I don’t recall Helion’s eggnog being so strong,” Rhys muttered. He pulled Feyre closer, draping his leathery wing over the both of them. “Elain must have been quite heavy-handed with the brandy.” He managed to kiss her forehead before drifting off to sleep. 

***

She was back in the Hewn City, with the Court of Nightmares in its regular throes of revel before her. Feyre was positive she was dreaming. One: Cassian, Azriel, Amren, and Mor were nowhere to be seen. 

Two: she was wearing the skimpy black dress from her first visit to the Hewn City. The two shafts of glittering fabric were draped over her breasts, cinched at her waist with a belt, and left flowing between her pale, bare legs. The very same black diadem with diamonds sat on the crown of her head. 

Three: there was only one throne in the room. And she was the one sitting on it. But then the massive stone doors at the end of the hall swung open. 

There he was: Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court. His beautiful face was cruel, yet elegant. He wore a simple black tunic and black pants, needing nothing more to remind the revelers that he was their High Lord. For the power that rippled throughout the room said enough. Even after seeing him millions of times, Feyre always felt her heart flutter at the sight of her mate.  

“Feyre darling,” he purred, sinking to his knees once he reached the dais. “My High Lady.” Feyre crossed her legs, noticing Rhysand’s violet eyes flick up and down her body. Taking in the sliver of bare hips and waist that signaled she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. 

“Come.” Feyre curled her index finger, tugging on the bond between them. When he stood next to her, Feyre leaned closer and asked, “Is this a dream?” 

“Yes, darling. Both of us are dreaming the same dream.” 

Feyre blinked, contemplative. The dreams they’d shared before were short: flashes of night sky, glimpses of her human hand, a snippet of nightmarish memory, the view of the desolate woods. But this was different. This felt real.

Almost real. As Feyre focused hard, flexing her mental muscles, a platter of golden apples appeared on the feast table. Golden apples, straight from the apple tree in the mansion her family had lived in before hard times. She gasped delightedly, looking up at Rhys. “I just did that!” 

Rhys smiled gently. “Though it’s rare for us daemati to dreamwalk, it is not impossible. Let’s see what else we can do.” 

After some mental strain, Feyre managed to create a miniature snowfall. She also dimmed the faelight, inviting more shadows into the darkened hall. Rhys snapped his fingers and a series of constellations dusted across the ceiling.

“We’re missing a throne. Let me make one for you.” Feyre chewed her lip, trying to remember what the Hewn City thrones looked like. 

Her concentration was broken when Rhys tilted her chin towards him with a finger. “Well, where’s the fun in that?” his violet eyes glittered. Oh. Oh. Feyre caught on to his meaning.

“I suppose there is space for two here,” she smirked, getting up from her seat and gesturing for Rhys to sit. 

Rhysand sat and did not hesitate to tug Feyre down onto his lap, his hands gripping the bare skin of her waist. Feyre straddled his legs, feeling his hard, impressive length rub against her clothed crotch. “We’ve barely done anything, and you’re already hard for me?” Feyre teased, threading her hands through Rhysand’s cobalt-black hair. 

“What can I say? I’m always ready for you, darling.” Rhys swept her lips into a decadent kiss. He fingered the edges of her delicate dress, nails scraping gently over the curve of her hip. “Not wearing anything underneath? How naughty.”

“It’s all for you.” Feyre unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt, practically salivating at his sculpted chest. “You’re mine, Rhys,” she hissed possessively as she traced the whorls of his Illyrian tattoos. Rhysand’s skin heated as he ravenously watched Feyre touch him. 

“You’re mine, Feyre,” he affirmed, gripping her hips more tightly. “My beautiful, powerful mate.” The column of Rhysand’s throat bobbed as she left a trail of kisses and love bites up the side of his neck. Feyre sent a burst of pleasure down the bond as she ground against him. 

“Tch, tch. Pay attention to our court,” Rhys chided.

“But I want to kiss you,” she whined. 

Rhys placed one final kiss on Feyre’s lips. “I’ll reward you handsomely if you turn around.” The twinkle in his eyes had her scrambling in his lap, turning to face the crowd.  

Well, it was hard paying attention with his right thumb and index finger lightly stroking her inner thigh. Feyre swallowed audibly, trying to school her expression into neutrality as arousal pooled between her legs. 

Perhaps it was because it was a dream, but Rhys could not recognize any of the faces. Organized chaos had ensued in the hall: drinking, dancing, feasting, bawdy singing, and the occasional fucking in dark corners. The Court of Nightmares had always been a place for debauchery, and he had always watched them from the dias. But tonight—in this dream—he would join them.

“Pretty, pretty Feyre,” Rhys murmured into her ear as he buried his face into her golden-brown hair, breathing deeply. Pear and lilac notes under the spicy scent of her arousal. “Whatever am I going to do with you on my lap?” 

“You could touch me more,” Feyre said breathlessly.

Rhysand didn’t answer. He only slipped his left hand under the shaft of her dress, making lazy circles just below her breast. Some male satisfaction ebbed through him when Feyre moaned his name softly, her hands gripping his thighs. He smiled like a smug cat.

It harkened back to when she sat on his lap for the first time, listening to Keir prattle on and on about courtly matters while Rhysand pretended to listen. Except this time, Keir was nowhere to be seen. Rhys did not wish for any interruptions to their pleasure, therefore the Hewn City’s Steward did not exist in the dream. 

“Do you remember the day I wore this dress?” Feyre asked, sensing the trail of his thoughts. 

“Yes.” Rhysand’s tone was dark. He cupped Feyre’s breast under the fabric, playing with her nipple and drawing out another moan. “Perhaps we can finish what we started that day.” 

Feyre shivered in anticipation. “I’ve always wanted you to fuck me on the throne.”

Rhys’s hands stilled and his violet eyes darkened in response. “Then we fuck until the sun rises.” 

The drums and song picked up, and so did the circling of his fingers that left Feyre craving for more, more, more. Was the shift in music Rhysand’s doing, or her’s? It was wild and thrumming, a heady complement to their desire intermingling through the mating bond.

Rhysand held himself with tight control, allowing only heavy breathing and the strain of his pants to reveal his arousal. Feyre, on the other hand, was barely restraining herself. Every time he nibbled her earlobe, every time his hand skated the underside of her breast, she writhed in his lap. When Rhys’s fingers curved around her thigh, she finally whimpered, “I need you, Rhys.”

Only in the dream world could Rhys push aside the panels of Feyre’s dress, displaying her breasts in the open air. Only in a dream world could Rhys slip his fingers inside her, drawing out a wave of fresh slick out of Feyre. In front of everybody.

Feyre moaned, throwing her head back onto Rhys’s shoulder as he fingered her with long, luxurious strokes. She bucked her hips, trying to drive him deeper within her.

“That’s it, darling,” her mate cooed tauntingly. “Make a mess out of my lap.” Rhysand continued to slowly stroke Feyre’s wetness, occasionally curling his fingers to bring her closer to the edge, then slowing down when she tightened up. Winding her up, but never letting her come down.

“I want to ride you, Rhys.” 

“Go ahead, sweet one. Let them see what a perfect pet you are.” His words dripped with dangerously sweet venom. 

Rhys’s pants magically disappeared as Feyre got up. Her inner thigh muscles stretched with a slight ache as Feyre readjusted herself to rest her knees on the throne’s cushion, straddling Rhys. She was so heady with desire, the lewd sound her pussy made as she sank down onto Rhysand’s hard shaft didn’t even embarrass her. 

This was what she and Rhys had subconsciously wanted along. Years of making love and fucking in all ways imaginable never quite scratched the itch of being able to lose herself into pure pleasure at the Court of Nightmares.

Feyre bounced on his cock to the rhythm of the drums echoing over vaulted ceilings while her mate continued to murmur praises and palm her breasts. “Rhys,” she moaned, allowing him to pepper kisses down her neck as she rested her head on his shoulder. “I’m so close.” 

“Yes, darling,” he mumbled, half-dazed between kisses. “Keep going. You’re perfect.” 

“Show them how their High Lord fucks their High Lady,” she gritted out. “Show them how good you make me feel.” She leaned back, the new angle allowing his cock to brush against her clit with every thrust. It was an effective move. Within moments, Feyre came with a wail. 

Feyre vaguely heard Rhys saying “it would be my pleasure” before snapping his hips up into her still throbbing core. 

She lurched forward with a garbled cry, struggling to balance on Rhysand’s thighs. “Do you see them, Feyre?” Rhys said into her ear lowly. She could only mewl in response, for her head was lolling forward as Rhys rutted into her. “Eyes up, Feyre darling.” Rhys wrapped her long, golden-brown hair in his hand and tugged back, forcing Feyre’s head up.

Only in a dream world could Rhys fuck her in front of the entire Court of Nightmares with abandon. 

Rhysand’s power rippled throughout the room, altering the fabric of the dream. Feyre clenched around Rhys when nondescript members of the audience turned their heads to watch them. 

To watch Feyre’s breasts undulate with Rhys’s thrusts. The panel of fabric between her legs thrown back, revealing the faint outline of his cock in her gut. Their High Lord’s jaw clenched with focus as he pleasured his High Lady, whose pale cheeks were flushed pink and her blue-gray eyes half-lidded. The black liner around her eyes smeared with tears of pleasure, her red-lipped mouth opening in a wanton moan. It was utterly perverse. And yet, Feyre only grew wetter by the second.

Rhysand chuckled, rubbing her clit with just a smidge more pressure. “My pretty mate loves it when others watch. Let them see how you come around your High Lord’s cock.” It was too much: the delightful pinch of pain on her scalp, his seductive voice, his cock driving into her, the hungry expressions in the audience. 

“Rhys!” The tension building up in Feyre’s core released as she sobbed, leaning back against Rhys as she trembled on her new throne. Rhysand wrapped a hand around Feyre’s waist and palmed her breast with the other, holding her still as he thrust hard once. Twice. 

He came at the third thrust, releasing the damper on his power as he did. The hall shook, wine spilled, and darkness swirled. Feyre gave into the exquisite rush of power, allowing ice to frost over the seats, flames to erupt from the braziers. The Court of Nightmares dissolved into nothingness as the world spun on its axis. Stars exploded silver light into the darkness. There was only Rhys and Feyre, Feyre and Rhys, two souls in the void. The bond between them glowing hot and bright… 

Feyre awoke with a gasp. 

Silvery moonlight streamed through the bedroom window, wrenching her away from her dream of the Hewn City. Snow glittered on their windowsill. The stars dotting the indigo night sky were halfway through their nightly journey, indicating she’d been asleep for some time.

But the air was thick with the scent of arousal. 

Feyre looked down to see she was sitting upright on her knees, on Rhys’s lap, her silk nightgown bunched around her thighs. Rhys was breathing hard behind her, and his cock…his cock was buried in her pussy. 

Her mate was leaning against the headboard, his shirt unbuttoned just as she’d done so in the dream. One of his hands was under her nightgown and squeezing her breast, the other wrapped around her waist. Just as he’d done so in the dream.

“Oh shit,” she whispered, putting her hand over her mouth in shock. “Were we doing that in real life, too?” 

“I believe so, darling. I guess we unintentionally ended up having some fun tonight.” Rhys gently eased Feyre off him, and she whimpered at the cold, gaping emptiness beneath her. He massaged her sore inner thighs, easing the tightened muscles when she lay down. 

Feyre was silent for a moment. “I never knew we were able to do that. That was…indescribable.” She turned to Rhys, her blue-gray eyes glimmering with starlight. “Sorry, I should have warned you…I have strange dreams whenever I drink.”

Rhys laughed softly as he smoothed her hair. “It’s alright, darling. It was quite an experience. And I’m pretty sure it’s the damn eggnog,” he muttered wryly. “I do think we need to ask Elain for more next week.” 

Notes: Feyre and Rhys have especially skilled mental powers…I think that means lucid dreaming is very, very possible with these two.

Tags: @unofficialfeysandmonth2022, @feysand-month, @the-lonelybarricade

[sugarakis-p2]

All knights and days must die Ch1

Sequel to Shigaraki's New Mate <link ch3

Mothman Shigaraki is the new king and he has so much on his shoulders and wings. Nothing better than to use Ur (Aka Ur Name x reader) to relieve his stress as he plots to destroy the Order of the Azure rose and Light. F/M

The story generated enough interest I'm doing the sequel to Shigaraki's New Mate. I write plot heavy stuff so for me to become focused on any new chapters I normally require one of two things: hundred hearts or one comment. One comment is all I need because, reader, your that special to me :) I count stuff from my AO3 which is why this is here today! Hey, the story you never asked for! But now you need right ;)

I know most people use y/n for your name. Its Ur Name from now on, but rest assured you are the one being thoroughly used by Shigaraki.

Warning: Hard Dom smutty moth Shiggy, knotting, cumflation

Chapter 1

Your eyes flutter, body sore and aching.

Groaning, you look around and are confused as to where you are. Naked body shivering from the cold. You look down to see your filthy form is bruised and battered as well. It's hard to see in the dim cave. The coals in the hearth of the fireplace have died down to smoldering coals. Remembering, you groan at how you shamefully enjoyed that monster defiling you. The Mothman creature had violated you, and it was not the romance you had wanted your first time to be.

From what your older sister Maude has told you, it was more realistic and pleasant than a prostitute's experience. The riches in the cave are dazzling but ultimately meaningless. They are all hoarded by a creature who only values them as decoration. There is no way to spend it or send it home. The nest is cold without the Moth creature's slumbering form. You wonder where he went? In your sleep, you vaguely remember him speaking to you in your own language. Broken or not, he clearly understands, and it's what saved you.

The silken canopy and the fur-lined nest provide little heat. With a groan, you stand to feel something trickle down your legs. Looking down, you moan in misery. Blood and jizz from the creature are running out of you. Cautiously you place your foot on the polished earthen floor and jerk it back. The red and golden smooth clay is freezing, but you must risk it to stoke the flames. On tiptoe and whimpering, you run to the health and add wood. Using a stick to stir the fire. Using one of the sticks to set alight, you see there are holders and light a few. Your toes are going numb, but the rest of you is starting to warm up. Using water from a jug, you rub down your body and wash between your legs.

You yank at one of the dusty bolts of clothe and wrap yourself in extravagant silk. It feels nice, and with enough layers, you are starting to warm up. It's frightening here alone; you almost wish the deadly Moth creature was here if for no other reason than to not be alone. In a house of starving people, you're alone and not. You get used to the grumbles of stomachs and the siblings too tired to talk, but this was truly alone. You wrap some fur and cloth around your feet and go exploring.

You go the direction you think you came in and soon realize you are in a maze of tunnels. It's getting scary as your torch is starting to dwindle. You want to make your way back, but you think you passed that same column twice now. Desperate, you ask the darkness for help. "Hey, is anyone there? I'm lost and can't find my way back." You do this for several minutes, your hope dwindling with your light. Then you hear it. A faint scratching sounds, followed by a distinct shouting voice. You follow it to a bathroom, a nice one, with genuine tiles!

But you don't have time to admire it. You hear the shouting coming over in another room. It's a privy and a relevantly nice-smelling one, considering most never get cleaned. You raise your torch to see the wall behind the covered toilet is being chipped away by something metal. It breaks away to leave a big gaping person-sized hole. A wooden shield lands on the lid, and a woman dressed like royalty walks in with a glow stone lamp.

"That's better, although the smell is overpowering. Help me find something to hang over this hole. Don't want either mate knowing." The woman says as she runs into the other room, coming back quickly with a tapestry, you see a sconce and move promptly to help the woman. "Grab that side," She grunts as you both struggle to cover the hole she had just made.

After five attempts, both managed to get it secured and you lose the cloth covering you. The other girl has a much weaker upper body than you. You can't help but notice the left side of her shoulder has burned symbols running down. You wonder if the whole left side is like that all the way down, but it's rude to stare, so you push it out of your mind. Sighing in satisfaction, she turns to you.

"Well, now that's taken care of time for introductions. My name is Lyra. I'm a mate to the one they call Dabi. Now you," She instructs like you're some kind of dullard. Maybe this is just how rich people act? "I'm Ur Name, but everyone just calls me Ur. Before I was forced here, I helped as a farmhand on our turnip farm, but I am an excellent seamstress. I have no idea what my mate is or what he's called. He's pale, red eyes, tall, scars around his face, with wings that look like an owl's face with red eyes," she gasps at your words. She looks concerned for a moment and then delighted. "White hair but bluish fur collar and groin? She asks. You nod confirmation.

"Oh yes, I made it. That is Tomura Shigaraki; he's the new king. Can't say I envy you. That one is mean, the cruelest. Anyways, have you seen scrolls?" Lyra asks. After what you have seen him do to girls that were too noisy, yes, you can believe this despite how sweet he was between your legs. "I haven't seen any scrolls. I'm lost, and my light is going out. I need to get back before that creature shows back up. I don't know what the rules are, and I'm worried it doesn't like females misbehaving," you say frantically, hoping to move along this conversation. "Oh, I have no idea the layout of this place. I came here because I need to find some scrolls. They are important to humanity's future," Lyra says urgently. "Right now, I'm concerned for myself. Can you search with me? I really need the light and to hurry?" She narrows her eyes at you as they rack over your nude form. You feel judged and embarrassed. You wrap the cloth around yourself quickly.

"Damn, I assumed that because you weren't as pretty as the others in the past, you might be a hero. This is most unfortunate because I'm no hero either. We'll have to see if you are smarter than the others in any case. Listen closely because I'm going to tell you how to survive the night if you get caught. You'll know because he'll loom over you, making nasty teeth clacking noises. Fall to your knees, look away from him, and raise your palm to him, then say Toga or Dabi's, mate. As a warning, Toga seems friendly but never forget she will try to eat you no matter how friendly she seems. Also, if you meet a man that calls himself Master, grovel before him and remember which room you saw him in. If you survive the night again, then I'll help you escape. Alright, here's my lamp. I can find my way back to my room. My den is on the other side of that commode. The lamp isn't free. I want a blanket. Good luck to you." She says, disappearing to the other side.

She at least left the lamp at your feet, yeah for a price, you think. You decide you didn't like her for basically calling you ugly and treating you like a fool. Sighing, you grab the lamp and bar of soap. You scrap on the wall, and it does leave a distinct greasy film, perfect. You won't be walking in circles anymore.

The familiar glitter of the bedroom is just ahead. You run to the rest of the way. Panting and relieved you don't see the Mothman here, that was until you heard screeching behind you. Your breath catches as you spin to see the pissed-off pale face chittering and looming over you. Large dark brown wings are vibrating. The flashes of red are an ominous warning of your fate if you cross him. You fall to your knee, raising your palms, eyes squeezed tight, and screaming "Dabi's mate" repeatedly. You can feel the tension pullback in the room as he stops chittering and stares at you.

Taking in the sight of you with a lamp and a bar of soap. Yes, he can see it. This is somehow Dabi's mates' fault. The one he doesn't like, the only one he can remember, the bitch he's sure had help poison the others. His new little mate has been too obedient for it to be anything else. Fucking human tongue is too difficult for him to speak, so he will have to either talk to Toga or call on Dabi's mate to translate the rules. He really doesn't feel like dealing with either of them. He's already annoyed. He needs to relieve some stress before he adds more. His little mate is perfect for this. It's the least she could do for also being a source for his irritation.

He snatches you up like a rag doll, making you yelp in fear, leaving your cloth wrap piled on the floor. He forces you on your hands and knees in the nest. You can feel his dry lips and feelers brush over the top of your ass. With a pleased rumble, he wraps an arm underneath your hips and lifts your pussy to him. You moan as you feel his tongue wiggle and suck at your sore entrance. You get a distinct feeling this will be a nightly thing. His invasive tongue goes deep as he slurps and licks, adding his clawed thumb, you squirm. He's careful fingering you. He doesn't want his fun to end early. Pulling his thumb in and out with his tongue, he uses his index fingers to rub over that little rosebud that brings you to heat quickly. The tingles he's sending through your loins make you drool.

His tongue twisting over your hot and soft spots. Aggressive with his mouth, already his cock is growing and hard from his plush groin. Leaking and angry, he wants to feel that pulse and drink your sweet honey. The splash down his throat is the signal he needs to bury himself entirely in your tightness. A few times, he slips and licks high. He doesn't care. He will use that hole next if your pussy is too ruined and he's still not satisfied.

It's likely to happen with the day he's had. He's going to need to take out a lot of stress. He can feel the heat and squeeze, telling him to be ready. You scream, twist, and kick your legs at the intense orgasm he's pulling from you. It doesn't matter how much you struggle. He's so strong he holds your quivering sex firmly to his mouth. Sweetly keening as he slurps and gulps down your sweet nectar.

He gives a lewd smacking of his lips as he pulls away. Putting you back on your knees, he roughly spreads your legs. Grabbing your hips with four fingers, his claws lightly prickle at your skin.

"Mate," He rasps and chirps. It is the only warning he gives you. He thrust himself violently into you too quickly. Making you growl in pain as tears threaten to spill. You are still sensitive from cumming on his mouth. You don't dare try to move away. You straighten your legs and push back. It hurts, but you know it won't hurt for long if you help yourself. You spit on your fingers and rub your clit as he bucks and flaps above you. He gives a chirp and growl of approval. His pace is cruel as he humps you like a bitch. Your nice ass is bouncing off his hips the way he likes. You're so soft and tight. He loves the sight of seeing his length coated in your juices drip in and out of you. He's going to knot without mercy. You make the sweetest little whines as he pumps you. He knows his throbbing cock is going to quickly release all his tension in you.

Looking between your tits, you can see the bulge he's creating moving back and forth between your pelvises. You look away, not wanting to think of what that monster cock is doing to your insides. Oh, god, he's feeling good until he suddenly inflates and splashes your pussy white with his hot cum. He growls as he continues to violate your insides. Humping until his knot goes soft enough to yank out. You scream and cry, it feels like he was trying to rip your tender cunt out.

"Mate other. Knot other," Shigaraki hisses. Mate other? Other what? Another person? You didn't think you were a poly person, but if they are willing to take some of the pain of the monster dick off of you, well then, you're happy to share. To your horror, the lines himself up to your puckering hole. You whimper. Your older sister did not tell you how to prepare or avoid this. Otherworldly your sister, but even you doubt she had to deal with a creature with a knot.   "Wait!" you plead, clutching at the nest. Shigaraki doesn't.

Growling as he sinks slowly into you. The sensation difference makes him pant, and he loves both, but he will need to use both to decide which he likes better. Shigaraki snarls when your body refuses to take his soft knot. He pushes more demanding. You writhe and cry. He doesn't mind. All females do that with him at some point. Building up a wad of saliva that he spits on his knot and your soft hole. Viscously, he pushes harder until he slips in with a yelp. Your ass is sucking him in as he bucks hard. His knot is preventing him from being able to slide in and out of the tight rim of your ass.

Hunching over you as he pants next to your ear. His wings are buzzing and raining dust over you. Shigaraki's soft collar absorbs your heat, the scent of lemon and dandelions helping you feel good again through the pain. He grabs your hand and shoves it back to your clit. You whine, his hand not leaving but helping you play and dip into yourself. This would be amazing if you weren't so frightened of his hands. Grunting as he thrusts deeper, you groan as you look over to see his grimace, fangs bared and drooling. The flapping increasing as he drives deeper. The searing pain in your ass doesn't feel good, but the way he's helping with circling your clit is helping you chase your orgasm.

With his pinky sticking out, he helps increase your pace to match him. Forcing you both to moan in unison. Your pussy clutches at nothing as your ass squeezes at the base of his cock. The exquisite feeling making him keen as he feels the tight knot of relief begins to come undone. You cum hard and scream. Shigraki's knot inflates again, pulsing as he releases loads of cum that usually gets wasted dripping out of your pussy. Daring to look between your breasts again, you wail as you begin to look pregnant with his cum and knot.

Finally, Shigaraki feels de-stressed. After this, he will have to deal with Dabi's mate while you are covered in his scent. Dripping from your slutty holes.

For now, he's going to make sure his sweet mate gets 'aftercare,' a new word he learned from his Master.

Chapter 2

[racfoam]

Continuation of Harry and Delphi travelling to alternate universe where Voldy won AU, a gift for @inkwardspots and for their "all she knows is how to survive (but tell me, how do you die" fic, go check it out if you haven’t, I am obsessed with it!

Ink, you wil know which scene this wil be after I say this.

It’s the bridge scene! It’s set the same day they arrived at Slytherin’s Mansion and Harry is just taking a walk around the garden. Again, Voldy's thoughts are in ( ) mostly.

I decided to name the AU killed you first

P.S. I added the paragraphs you wrote, I marked them with this symbol *, I hope that's okay, I just love those paragraphs. ❤️

———————————————————

Voldemort finds Harry on the stone bridge overlooking a pond.

Water can reflect the most diverse moods from architectural severity to natural tranquility. All the pools throughout this section have been created artificially but all, like the best gardens, reflect the personality of their owners.

Who knew what was happening in the Dark Lord’s head? Harry had only gotten a taste of it in her fifth year, and it was more than enough for her to conclude diving into his mind was a trip she would not be doing, least of all would it be a pleasing experience.

She didn’t acknowledge him vocally, didn’t offer a greeting. Voldemort deserved nothing, and he would receive nothing.

“Do you like the grounds?” he asked in that high, reverberating voice of silken tones concealing the destructive tendencies. It was as cold as she remembered. 

Harry looked down upon the small pond beneath the stone bridge. It was about a five meter drop from here to the flowing water. There were no fish there as far as she could see.

To pass the time, Harry has been swirling shapes on the water with her fingers and the thread of her magic, using the little wind-like energy as a pencil to draw upon the surface of the water before nature ran its course and deleted the indent. 

Harry had a passing idea to grab Lord Voldemort, yank him to the stone banister, haul him over the bridge and into the water. The mere image of his tall body splashing into the pond was a source of amusement for the young woman.

“You need to hire someone to clear the pond.”

She doesn’t look at Voldemort, not really. She looks at the reflection of him upon the still surface of the unmoving water. The crimson eyeballs are no pleasant addition to the blue canvas of the river. They are too intense, too boiling, to fit the serene water. They taint it instead, claim it for their own. Two emblems of scorching hellfire.

“I understand now,” she said. “Why you were so desperate to kill me. Why I was never meant to grow up. Why you wanted to kill me before I reached the age of magical maturity. Why you never wanted me to live past seventeen.”

“Because the more life I have, the more time I get, the higher the possibility I would become more powerful than you.”

Magic is as easy as breathing now. It flows through her like the blood in her veins. The focus is a mere blink away, as fast as a strike of lightning. 

“Are you scared now, Tom? Are you scared of what you helped create? Are you scared of what I grew to be?”

After all the lights go down, she was the words and he was the sound. A strange type of chemistry.

“No, Harriet.” Voldemort laughed, humane and normal, lacking any cruelty — a simple, charming sound. A smile pressed against the back of Harry’s head, broad and wide. “I’m delighted.”

It was as though he never left. Even after all these years, Voldemort’s voice is as familiar as the welcoming walls of Hogwarts, as the golden fluttering wings of the golden snitch, as  the waving crimson turrets of Gryffindor supporters, as the steaming hoot of the Hogwarts Express, as the song of Fawkes the phoenix.

It leaves Harry paralyzed like the frozen waves of basilisk venom, drowning and touching the places of her burning heart she buried right along with him. 

Harry turns away from their reflections in the water where Voldemort’s is towering over her shoulder in the water, turning to face him.

“You can laugh,” whispers Harry, gawking at him shamelessly. A beaming grin rises on her face, and she chuckles in disbelief because it’s crazy. “You can laugh! Like a normal person! You just laughed!”

“Who else has heard you laugh?” asked Harry. “Let me guess? Your Inner Circle?”

“No,” responded Voldemort softly, staring down at Harry. “You are the first.”

Voldemort stepped closer, until he was two inches away.

Harry inhaled sharply. There were many things Harry had forgotten, or had never truly realized until now. One, Harry forgot how unfairly tall wizard Voldemort was. Two, Harry never saw Voldemort this close before except in the graveyard, and found herself staring at his face, tracing every angle of it with her eyes, studying it as one studies the cover of a book they read ten years ago. 

*"You are the first." He says, watching as her face turns slack and a delicate dust of pink rises to her cheeks.

*“And," He almost hisses, leaning closer to her small form, breathing delicate breath against her ear. "You will be the last." 

*It is soft, this declaration - not a threat or a promise, but a wish. 

*A hope and a dream, Harry thinks disbelievingly as he draws away, a book she knew so long ago warped and changed, so familiar and yet knew things have revealed between the lines, the interpretation so different from when she was a child to now, when is a woman.

The bone structure, formed of melting wax rather than sculpted of marble, reshaped by age. No wrinkles to be seen, strangely smooth as wax. Whiter than snow, with completely red eyes, scleras included. Somehow, now that Harry got a good look at Voldemort’s serpentine features and face, they were strangely enthralling. The out-of-nature of Voldemort’s face made Harry stare longer. 

Up close, Voldemort’s face was unlike anything or any face of a man she saw. Not even the man he was, Tom Riddle, gathered Harry's attention. There was so far pleasant faces could hold her attention. 

Harry felt like an astronaut finding a new planet. Harry was strangely reminded of that white albino snake with red eyes she saw in the London zoo… Who knew boogeymen could look alright? 

Horror caught up to her, gripping her guts in its clutches. Repulsed by the fact she found herself lured to his serpentine face, Harry stepped back, breaking the gaze away from where her eyes had been staring, enchanted — the burning eyes. Yeah, ten years of not seeing the man whose sole goal was to murder her does include a refreshing stare down (or in Harry’s case, stare up) where Harry actually gets to realize Lord Voldemort's face structure isn’t that bad…

It isn’t Harry's fault his face is unnatural, aberrant, atypical… It deviated from normalcy. Anyone would stare at something unusual like Voldemort’s serpentine face. Plus, she hasn’t seen it in a while. She had to get her guts back in, get back into the habit of looking at him.

Her heart was beating, shitscared still. It was hard to erase the fear connected with Voldemort. A victim never forgets their executioner.

Was he always so frustratingly tall? Or has Harry never stood this close to him to notice his prominent height?

(Harriet Potter bloomed into a beautiful flower. An orange carnation, blooming and eye-catching with its orange petals arranged in multiple layers, outdoing any rose, daisy, lily or violet.)

“I was concerned you fled.”

“You wish. I wouldn’t leave Delphi with you.”

“Who would think you became an attentive mother... To a child of mine, of all things.”

Harry wanted to snap back with a sarcastic quip. The words Not you, certainly. I couldn’t learn from the example of my mother because you killed her. And certainly not the me you killed, who died at seventeen. edged on her tongue, teased at her vocal chords.

The loss of her parents... It was a wound Harry was familiar with all too well. An old wound. A wound never quite stitched properly, not even by the threads of time. It was a phantom ache. It didn’t hurt anymore, not constantly, but the memory of how she got it was there. Like the scar on her forehead. Unresponsive, but there. Sleeping, but alive.

“I was never a child. You made sure I never had a normal life. Any objections you have to my behaviour you can directly blame yourself for, really.”

“You think yourself so clever.” Voldemort said softly, but it was as sharp as a basilisk fang burying into skin and breaking bones. “You think yourself very bright indeed.”

“Of course I do. I outsmarted you, I defeated you.” declared Harry. It wasn’t posed as a question; she wouldn’t give Voldemort a single loophole to use to slither himself to satisfaction. “Tell me, your Lordship. Who was it but me that conquered you?”

(Harriet has conquered much more of him than Voldemort would prefer to confess. Something past battle. Something past magical abilities. Something past power. Something past cleverness. However, he is unwilling to yield to it. To admit it. Refusing to give her that advantage. Refusing to confess it, even though he knows it’s true, deep in his bones.)

“You didn’t conquer me," he hisses softly, lying with his adder's tongue. “You didn’t outsmart me. You merely gambled the loyalty of the Elder Wand. A gamble which paid off, I agree. Naturally, had its allegiance been to someone else, even Draco, you would have died.” 

A slow, delighted smile rises on his face, broad and wide; it is worse than any expression of fierce anger he carried. It gutted Harry’s stomach. His red eyes gleamed like a predator’s. “I would have struck you dead a second time, Harriet.”

“Why don’t you now?”

“Because I find your company pleasant and stirring.” Voldemort said softly. “Also, it’s no good practice to separate a daughter from her mother. Knowing how I reacted finding out my father abandoned me, I think she wouldn’t take keenly to her mother being murdered. It’s a rather strange thing, mothers protecting their daughters…”

“How merciful you are, your Lordship. Sparing me out of consideration for your daughter’s feelings. And because I somehow stir that sick mind of yours and make a pleasant company. If you spared a breath between trying to murder me, perhaps you would have realized that sooner.”

“Perhaps.”

The quiet murmur of that word is somehow the singular thing Harry can hear, paired with the water.

Voldemort was close now, close enough for her to touch his face, witness the shade of crimson that are his eyes. Voldemort breathed a wintery breath, an exhale which tickled across the skin of her lips. Harry realized his arms had moved to encage her without truly touching, that his hands were resting on the stone fence of the bridge, that she herself stood very much pinned. Either Voldemort or haul herself over the bridge into the water. He stared down at her with an expression Harry had never seen on him before, his eyes half-lidded.

“There you are!” came Delphi’s voice.

Voldemort swept away from Harry with unnerving speed. In front of her and crowding her in with his presence one moment, six feet away from her the next. It reminded Harry of a snake recoiling from a fire.

Harry wondered whether she imagined a flicker of disappointment within Voldemort’s eyes. He looked strange, standing in the summer sunshine. Like a pearl from a seashell. Or the moon, appearing in the clear blue sky.

Harry realized she had only now started breathing again. Harry turned her attention toward the path she had come from, and found Delphi running to them. What stopped Harry’s heart and almost put it into cardiac arrest was the giant twelve-foot snake hung around her daughter’s small shoulders.

“I’ve been looking for you for ages,” Delphi dramatized, much like someone Harry knew, who, if he had eyebrows, would definitely be raising them to his hairline, which he also didn’t have.

“I wanted to pick flowers, but the garden leaves much to be desired. Nevermind, we’ll plant a plethora of flowers.” decided Delphini, rather bossily, as though she owned the entire grounds.

(Voldemort didn’t know how to react to the child thinking she had any jurisdiction to renovate the garden.)

“Nagini was out hunting, she ate a rat!” Delphi continued talking, oblivious to the awkward silence, choosing to ignore it. “It was cool. I never saw snakes eat up close before. Anyway, I bumped into her and asked her if she could find you.”

Delphi raised her hand as Nagini bumped her snout into her left cheek (let Harry tell you, it took every single shred of willpower not to grab the snake and toss it over the bridge into the water) and caressed down Nagini’s head similarly as Voldemort did so many times. “She’s really cuddly. She isn’t dangerous at all, mum. And she didn’t try to ‘squeeze the life’ out of me.”

Harry would firmly disagree. She heard something that sounded like a stifled sound of amusement where Voldemort was, and told herself not to fling him over the bridge.

The red eyes were full of amusement.

“If my memory serves me properly... I did not command Nagini to ‘squeeze the life’ out of you, Miss Potter —”

“It sure felt like that to me...” grumbled Harry.

“I explicitly remember saying...” Here, Voldemort looked at Harry again, his red eyes glowing, before he hissed softly, tasting the words fondly. “Hold her.”

“And this, Delphi, is what a boy should not do. A boy should not —” Here, Harry gave a pointed look to Voldemort, who grinned thst broad, manic, satisfied smile,“— send his snake after you and whisper things like ‘hold her’ as though you are a bloody trophy.”

“But you are a trophy, Harry." Voldemort purred. Harry refrained from pouting. He turned to Delphi. “You can set Nagini on any boy who you don't like or who is making you uncomfortable, little one.”

“Yes!” squealed Delphi.

“No!” shrieked Harry, but was ignored.

“My name isn’t ‘little one’, you know. It's Delphi. Speaking of names and titles, how do I call you?”

“You can call me father.”

“What are you, a youth pastor?” asked Harry and Delphi at the same exact time, voices intermingling.

Voldemort fought back a grin. The woman and the girl were both amusing.

“I’ll call you dad,” decided Delphi, nodding to herself, as though she has solved a crossword Hermione gave her. “It’s the simplest solution.”

No respect toward authority whatsoever…

“Mum? Does he always seethe like that?”

“Don’t worry, Delphi. Your father is a marshmallow.”

Delphi tilted her head, staring at Voldemort, surveying his face.

“He does look like a marshmallow...” Delphi whispered back to Harry, grinning innocently and child-like.

(Calling  Lord Voldemort a marshmallow. Dear Merlin, Potter had truly gone far and beyond after being allowed to live.

Why is he allowing this disrespect? Well, he has to admit, he has never been compared to a marshmallow. He appreciated good humor. And courage, foolish as it was. It was a rather flattering comparison.)

“Shall we head for dinner?”

“Er... Yeah, let's...”

“Nagini, come.”

Nagini hissed something into Delphi’s ear, and Delphi nodded, crouching down and extending her right hand lower to the floor. Nagini slid off the girl’s shoulders and back at Voldemort's feet.

“Some things haven’t changed.” Harry said, smirking.

Harry grinned at Voldemort teasingly, courageous as always. “You still don’t wear shoes.”

Instead of seething as she expected him to, Voldemort smiled. His eyes glew with a strange sort of look. It almost looked warm.

“It's a part of my charm," he added with a crooked grin.

And then, something wondrous happened. Harriet Potter laughed, flashing her teeth. The smile completely lit her face up. It was a soft, gentle sound.

It was the first time he heard her laugh.

(To Lord Voldemort, it was the most pleasant, melodious sound he had ever heard.)

[istumpysk]

Operation Stumpy Re-Read

ACOK: Jon IV (Chapter 34)

Good luck everyone.

The wildlings called it the Fist of the First Men, rangers said. It did look like a fist, Jon Snow thought, punching up through earth and wood, its bare brown slopes knuckled with stone.    

Sounds exactly like Storm’s End.

Of towers, there was but one, a colossal drum tower, windowless where it faced the sea, so large that it was granary and barracks and feast hall and lord's dwelling all in one, crowned by massive battlements that made it look from afar like a spiked fist atop an upthrust arm. - Catelyn III, ACOK

+.+

So the command was given, and the brothers of the Night's Watch raised their camp behind the stone ring the First Men had made. Black tents sprouted like mushrooms after a rain, and blankets and bedrolls covered the bare ground.

Alright George, what are you up to?

The steel points of pikes flamed red with sunlight, as if already blooded, while the pavilions of the knights and high lords sprouted from the grass like silken mushrooms. - Catelyn II, ACOK

+.+

One moment Jon was striding beneath the trees, whistling and shouting, alone in the green, pinecones and fallen leaves under his feet; the next, the great white direwolf was walking beside him, pale as morning mist.    

Something is dead? Something is dead.

The nightfires had burned low, and as the east began to lighten the immense mass of Storm's End emerged like a dream of stone while wisps of pale mist raced across the field, flying from the sun on wings of wind. Morning ghosts, she had heard Old Nan call them once, spirits returning to their graves. - Catelyn III, ACOK

+.+

But when they reached the ringfort, Ghost balked again. He padded forward warily to sniff at the gap in the stones, and then retreated, as if he did not like what he'd smelled. Jon tried to grab him by the scruff of his neck and haul him bodily inside the ring, no easy task; the wolf weighed as much as he did, and was stronger by far. "Ghost, what's wrong with you?" It was not like him to be so unsettled.

Jon, pay attention! Something dead is there! Right now!

+.+

When the wind blew, he could hear the creak and groan of branches older than he was. A thousand leaves fluttered, and for a moment the forest seemed a deep green sea, storm-tossed and heaving, eternal and unknowable.

Apparently not just the dead, something else is lurking as well.

Children of the forest? Bloodraven? ...Bran?

+.+

The Old Bear was particular about his hot spiced wine. So much cinnamon and so much nutmeg and so much honey, not a drop more. Raisins and nuts and dried berries, but no lemon, that was the rankest sort of southron heresy

Lulz.

Is lemon forbidden, Jon? Is it blasphemous to have the lemon? Is a little taste of lemon a vile sin to the old gods and new? Jon it will be okay, have some lemon.

+.+

"I do not mean to risk the Frostfangs unless I must," said Mormont. "Wildlings can no more live on snow and stone than we can.

What a ridiculous thing to say.

+.+

"If the rangers must stay in sight of the Fist, I don't see how they can hope to find my uncle," Jon admitted.

(...)

The answer was there. "Is it . . . it seems to me that it might be easier for one man to find two hundred than for two hundred to find one."    

It’s Benjen, isn’t it? Benjen is there?

+.+

If Ben Stark is alive and free, he will come to us, I have no doubt."  

"Yes," said Jon, "but . . . what if . . ."

". . . he's dead?" Mormont asked, not unkindly.                 

Jon nodded, reluctantly.

"Dead," the raven said. "Dead. Dead."

"He may come to us anyway," the Old Bear said. "As Othor did, and Jafer Flowers. I dread that as much as you, Jon, but we must admit the possibility."

"Dead," his raven cawed, ruffling its wings. Its voice grew louder and more shrill. "Dead."

HE CAME. BENJEN IS THERE. AND HE’S DEAD. THE RAVEN SAID SO.

+.+

Dywen was holding forth, spoon in hand. "I know this wood as well as any man alive, and I tell you, I wouldn't care to ride through it alone tonight. Can't you smell it?"

(...)

The forester sucked on his spoon a moment. He had taken out his teeth. His face was leathery and wrinkled, his hands gnarled as old roots. "Seems to me like it smells . . . well . . . cold."

"Your head's as wooden as your teeth," Hake told him. "There's no smell to cold."

There is, thought Jon, remembering the night in the Lord Commander's chambers. It smells like death.

LOOK. Something dead is there! Right at that moment! IT’S BENJEN.

Also,

The light of the half-moon turned Val's honey-blond hair a pale silver and left her cheeks as white as snow. She took a deep breath. "The air tastes sweet."          

"My tongue is too numb to tell. All I can taste is cold." - Jon VIII, ADWD

Lmaooo

+.+

A sound rose out of the darkness, faint and distant, but unmistakable: the howling of wolves. Their voices rose and fell, a chilly song, and lonely. It made the hairs rise along the back of his neck.

Uh oh, the wolves are howling. Why? Why are the wolves howling? That’s never good. Don’t we want to find the weapons?

+.+

The direwolf circled the fire, sniffing Jon, sniffing the wind, never still. It did not seem as if he were after meat right now. When the dead came walking, Ghost knew. He woke me, warned me. Alarmed, he got to his feet. "Is something out there? Ghost, do you have a scent?"

Obsidian doesn’t have a scent, but Benjen sure does!

+.+

The trees stood beneath him, warriors armored in bark and leaf, deployed in their silent ranks awaiting the command to storm the hill. Black, they seemed . . . it was only when his torchlight brushed against them that Jon glimpsed a flash of green.

WHAT? This is making my brain disintegrate.

Normally I’d love a description of an army of trees ready for battle, but this feels threatening. Black, then Jon glimpsed a flash of green?

+.+

He could hear the wind whistling through cracks in the rocks as they neared the ringwall.

(...)

Faintly, he heard the sound of water flowing over rocks. Ghost vanished in the underbrush. Jon struggled after him, listening to the call of the brook, to the leaves sighing in the wind. Branches clutched at his cloak, while overhead thick limbs twined together and shut out the stars.     

(...)

He followed, angry, holding the torch out low so he could see the rocks that threatened to trip him with every step, the thick roots that seemed to grab at his feet, the holes where a man could twist an ankle. Every few feet he called again for Ghost, but the night wind was swirling amongst the trees and it drank the words.

BRAN? Or Bloodraven? Why are the trees trying to stop him? Doesn’t it seem that way? The trees are clutching and grabbing!

The trees are obstructing...

But Ghost is leading forward...

But the wolves are howling...

WHAT’S GOING ON.

+.+

"What have you found?" Jon lowered the torch, revealing a rounded mound of soft earth. A grave, he thought. But whose?

He knelt, jammed the torch into the ground beside him. The soil was loose, sandy. Jon pulled it out by the fistful. There were no stones, no roots. Whatever was here had been put here recently.

Soft earth, loose soil! When you say recently I hope you realize it was a minute ago.

+.+

He saw a dozen knives, leaf-shaped spearheads, numerous arrowheads. Jon picked up a dagger blade, featherlight and shiny black, hiltless. Torchlight ran along its edge, a thin orange line that spoke of razor sharpness. Dragonglass. What the maesters call obsidian. Had Ghost uncovered some ancient cache of the children of the forest, buried here for thousands of years? The Fist of the First Men was an old place, only . . .

Beneath the dragonglass was an old warhorn, made from an auroch's horn and banded in bronze. Jon shook the dirt from inside it, and a stream of arrowheads fell out. He let them fall, and pulled up a corner of the cloth the weapons had been wrapped in, rubbing it between his fingers. Good wool, thick, a double weave, damp but not rotted. It could not have been long in the ground. And it was dark. He seized a handful and pulled it close to the torch. Not dark. Black.

Even before Jon stood and shook it out, he knew what he had: the black cloak of a Sworn Brother of the Night’s Watch.

BENJEN.

Or Coldhands. Most will say Coldhands. I get it, you all think it’s Coldhands. I accept that.

BUT WHAT IF IT’S BENJEN? Why all that talk of Benjen? Lots and lots of Benjen! Please indulge me a little, and tell me this could be Benjen.

For the record, I think the idea of a magic horn is equally as misleading as a magic sword.

Final thoughts:

Trees and the colour green dominate the last two chapters. There’s 12 mentions of green altogether, and all of it seemingly loaded with symbolism.

What it’s symbolizing, I couldn’t tell you.

-> return to menu <-

[michimichim]

in-dee-ca | rosé

disclaimer: dom!fem!poc reader x sub!roseanne, substance use, semi exhibitionism, etc.

improved version

the church bells chime a brassy and insistent sound; an ear-splitting, melody you still struggle to get accustomed to as you leave the bustling building. your friends fall into step with you and together you trudge down the steps of assembly hall, hands in the pockets of your school blazer while they chortle with laughter.  

a shiver wracks over your body as the breeze drifts into your hair and frost your cheeks.

“honestly,” it’s one of your closest friends who speaks up, “what does ‘stricter regulations’ even mean? as if the school doesn’t already have a stick up its ass.”  

“it means open up your books for once, dipshit.” jennie, a senior and representative on the school board, snides as she brushes past you along some of her friends busy trailing after, hot on her heels.  

you bite back a laugh whilst a ruckus of guffaws resonate around your small crowd.  

“fuck off, kim.” your friend shouts after her, eyes rolling in nothing but annoyance, however their expression remain soft. they watch jennie’s retreating form before resting their eyes on something behind you. “here comes miss sunshine.” or rather, someone.

you spare a glance over your shoulder, an agitating feeling erupting in the pit of your stomach when your eyes fall on a familiar sight. she's surrounded by a total of three girls, all tittering as they saunter up the steps of the assembly hall. the dark red and blue of the school uniform brings out the peachy color of her skin, singling her out from the small crowd that’s assembled around. picture perfect she is with her plaid skirt hiked up. all pretty, pale thighs and slender legs. eyes naturally veer her way; she always seems to capture everyone’s attention, and it wasn’t solely due to her father being the headmaster, but rather the vivacious and nonpartisan aura she constantly carries around.  

roseanne is the epitome of natural beauty. some still whisper about her loose hair and ruddy cheeks, and stout red lips, and lithe slender body that never seems to walk but rather float through the walls. she's perfect in every sense, the type of perfect that draws in boys and girls alike, girls like yourself.  

as if sensing the heat of your gaze, her eyes flicker to yours and you stare back, eyes unwavering, challenging her to glance away first with a slight cock to your eyebrow. doe orbs scale down your body – syrupy and casual posture leaning against chilly stairs; it gives you an air of nonchalance – in such swift manner it might have never occurred, but attention from roseanne park could never be forgotten. dulce creamed, dreamy eyed with stars in her nebulas roseanne could never be forgotten. she averts her attention back to her friends.

“what’s it with you and the park girl?” it's someone else that speaks up near you, voice tinged with nothing but curiosity.  

you turn to face them; their eyes seem to trickle with a mix of wonder and apprehensiveness.

you shrug in a dismissal manner, “nothing.” you hate denying it, but you learned to be discreet even when the questioning comes from your friends. even when you despised their questioning. even when you despised them for attributing you a role – one that doesn’t include roseanne in it, the golden girl who knows everything, does everything right. you disdain it and so does she.

the conversation lapses into one of silence and your friends say nothing else, some assess you before emitting out a low hum and dropping the topic.  

you tune them out, distracted, as your attention returns to her, the latter’s laughing along to something – could be anything, really. it's not hard to get her laughing. you return your gaze to your friends and stand up. “i’ll text you.” you throw over your shoulder, willing an apologetic smile on your lips as you trade down the stoned stairs.

-

the sun’s seeping through the arched windows, a kaleidoscope of warm and golden light gushing out over your bodies, tangling with roseanne’s blonde locks. the room she pulled you in belongs to an abandoned and obsolete west wing of the school. no one actually comes here; it has been forgotten, gradually, by its founders until room 144 became nothing but a discarded memory. something close yet hidden.  

the furniture around you is covered with white silky material, gently flapping from the frigid breeze sipping through the cracked open window.  

your hand absently brushes up and down her smooth thigh, drawing arbitrary patterns; she's delicate under the pad of your fingers, a skin so silk angels would exchange for their wings. the hem of her blue plaid skirt is sitting higher than it ought to, her blouse unbuttoned lower than the hall surveillants would ever permit, and between her lithe fingers, something her father would pop a vein over – she’s at her best here with you. your rosie who plays the sweetest of melodies with your heartstrings.  

the sound of fluttering pages fills the cracks of the comfortable silence and she shifts, her legs twirling down over your lap, shoes swiftly thrown off and her gaze, unknown to you, flicks towards your face. she calls you by your nickname, head tilted, exposing the slim curve of her neck as she releases a blanket of smoke through the cherry glossed curve of her lips.  

“hm?” you hum in response and with one hand, the other effectively occupied with multitasking where they usually reside, turn the page of your book.  

a laugh escapes the sheen of her lips. “i'm sensing some sexual tension between you and that book, am i interrupting?”  

the side of your face ticks up into a half-grin, warmth infiltrating your ribcage and through your chest. you glance up from your novel, “kinda,” you tease, eyes softening into a warmer hue once they connect with pools of deep, hypnotizing browns. “mind giving us a moment?”    

“ha. ha." the corner of her lips curve upwards, sarcastic, as she removes the blunt from her parted lips. she sits up and slide over the wooden floor, much closer to you and the substantial, sweet floral aroma of her jasmine and basil fragrance mingles with the herbal scent of weed as she hands the joint over.  

“your mother was the one to assign this to me, you know.” you slump your weight against the soft beige wall, holding the blunt between your lips, before taking a drag out of it, inhaling, holding and releasing it through parted lips.  

“of course she did,” roseanne replies, vexation beneath the delicate pastel shade of her words. you abstain from calling attention to it because here, golden girls like roseanne shouldn't feel anything synonym to anguish. golden girls like roseanne have everything, so why would there ever be a fold between her brows? here, golden, beautiful girl roseanne never has anything but euphonious laughter.  

but the glint of sport in her eyes never wavers, so casting the book aside, you resort to laying a comforting hand on her thigh because you know the golden girl with saccharine smiles, the one who evoke tropical storms in your chest is solid bones and perfect imperfections in a sea of deceptive beings.    

“what’s it about?” she adds, her fingers stringing with yours as the syllables overflow on her smiling lips. her smile, all-too-familiar, whirs something up your spine and her touch seems to burn into your palm, through the cracks of your fingers.    

you take a drag, holding it until it burns, and pass it back to her, “charles duhigg,” your hands never part as you reply, a blanket of smoke slipping out. “the science behind habit, creation and reformation.”    

“so, tell me,” she quips, rustling, inching closer, all hot breath and intoxicating perfume, the tip of her ears crimsoning when you maintain eye contact, “would you rather kiss charles duhigg or, me?”    

"roseanne," you taunt good-naturedly, a laugh looming around to waver your lips. "are you jealous of a forty-something-year-old?"  

you follow her eyes fluttering down to your lips, sharp and wanton. she breathes in another hit then says, "can you blame me for wanting all the attention?"

she wraps her lips around the opaque blunt once more, the scene arbitrarily sinful but then, rather than inhaling it, she cradles your jaw and hovers your lips. exhaling her breath into your willing mouth; it's undoubtedly one of the hottest things you’ve ever witnessed, and if possible, it heightens the smoke wafting in your gut with a coiling warmth.  

“there’s no way i can blame you when you’re pulling shit like this.” you breathe out, slightly dazed from the smoke or her. you don’t really know. 

“i know,” she whispers, several beats too late, breath ghosting atop your lips until they’re meeting in a smooth plash of lips, fluttering lashes and warm breaths.  

the second roseanne’s tongue presses into your mouth, light and pliant and sweet-tasting of hot chocolate, imbued with the smoky aftertaste, you float through a state of euphoria. your hands linger down to the soft curve of her ass, squeezing. you can’t resist the urge, sticking a resounding slap on the round of her ass, loving the surprised moan that’s torn out of her.

she captures your bottom lip into her mouth, teeth toying with the flesh and something about that is thoroughly gratifying to you, as is her quiet pant against your mouth when you draw away – dizzy from lungs running out of air, she pecks your lips a final time before shifting back.  

she sinks herself comfortably between your legs again, perched on your lap while you continue passing the second joint back and forth. as it shortens in size, you grow more physical. your hand never leaves her ass, ghosting over the silken lace of her underwear. roseanne is not far off; she sighs under every single one of your touches, hands threading down through the collar of your shirt, nails roaming up and down your back, scratching lightly at the plains of your shoulder blades.  

you take two to four more hits, you think, you’re not too sure. you've lost count because now the haziness in your head is growing stronger, the sounds are softly intertwining with themselves that you have to haul her closer by the waist as to anchor yourself and think.  

“you think,” you clear your throat, trying to swallow down the dryness. “you think we could order something to eat?”  

roseanne turns her head languidly from the tiny spirals of smoke wafting in the air, her eyes fleeting to yours following a couple of seconds. she peeps at you, “mmhm," she utters. "i guess. well, yeah, it would make sense ... right?" and she titters.  

after holding a straight face and retaining the roach (that you still haven’t noticed has been extinguished) for a few moments, contemplating, “rosie,” you let out a stifled laugh suddenly, like a blend between a snort and a chortle. “you really think the delivery guy, like, the car … can get up here?”  

your bones feel weightless. like you’re soaring, there's nowhere else you'd rather be, and every bone in your body is at ease for the first time today. roseanne shakes with gentle laughter, cradling the scrap of the joint in her hands like religion and setting it aside, next to your knees. 

she clumsily knocks the ashtray over, cursing. it's too endearing, you can’t help but mirror her accent, giggling when she pouts and steady herself from falling as you dissolve into a weed-induced puddle of laughter, stomach shaking, fighting a new hurricane of giggles herself. you just have a way of imitating her accent that is almost uncanny.  

“asshole,” she leans her body into yours, pressing your chests together, feeling yours lift against hers. she then stretches her hand to descend the tip of her nail down your collar.    

“your one and only.” you drawl, drawing in a long, faint breath.  

the warmth hasn’t left your body still, it seems to be making its way from your chest to the rest of your being. you tip your head back so it’s resting on the back of the furniture, eyes lazily drifting over to the window. outside, the sky is clear, a stunning tone of cantaloupe, the sun about sitting so low in the sky it dazzles you through the clefts of the buildings and canopy of trees. this place has become your favorite; it’s all just so peaceful and beautiful here, away from the day-to-day activities.  

you're feeling the floor below you stir like you’re in one of those massage chairs at the mall, combating the inexpressible comfort of roseanne’s weight on you and the sudden mass of your eyes – it wouldn’t be the first time you fall asleep right after smoking. usually, you'd instantly pass out to the steadfast rise and fall of her heartbeat, and she’d follow suit, curling in on herself against your chest.  

“this weed is,” the sway of her voice brings you back from your daydream, “wow.”    

picking your head up and letting the blood rush back down your neck, your brow ridges and you shift, sitting upright and inching closer to gaze into her eyes – they’ve turned a reddish hue, heavy-lidded, but as breath-taking as ever with pools of deep, mesmerizing, mocha brown, and you say, “well, it’s definitely hitting.”

you're becoming increasingly conscious of her nail gliding lower between the top buttons of your white buttoned-up shirt – you don’t recollect exactly when they’ve been popped open, but you don’t have it in you to think long and hard about it. the finger’s tracing the dark bites that have been pressed against the soft mahogany flesh of your skin, progressive shivers creeping up your spine.  

“babe,” she whispers, and it’s the lilt of her voice that makes you glance up at her. when exactly did she pick the blunt back up? the shape her lips make to get those flawless smog rings remind you of the other instances when her mouth’s carved similarly – it’s when she first wraps her lips on your thumb and she teases, tongue swirling around the digit, just playing, taunting. she'd push it in and out of her mouth with suction and with her tongue, she’d bob her head, maintaining your eyes locked through the ordeal. knowing all too well that she's gorgeous with your fingers in her mouth.

“you’re okay to keep going?” she questions, moaning when you bunch her skirt up to press your hands back on the soft, small plump of her ass; they fill both of your hands, moulding back against your palms. you land a kiss on the sweet, red blossomed apple of her cheeks.  

“how can i refuse when i’ve been eyeing this ass all day long,” you murmur, running a hand up, snapping the waistband against her skin. 

that’s all she needs to press her lips against yours.  

you lose yourself completely in how thoroughly your lips effortlessly glide against each other, it turns sweeter, cotton candidly sweeter. then lustful and something entirely more celestial. it could just be the weed accentuating the brush of roseanne’s tongue against yours but you know it would feel almost as good when sober, or even better – you’re not quite sure, each time always feels different than the last.  

“rosie,” you ripple against her lips and she hums, moans mingling for a few moments, your hands gripping up the juts of her waist as she detaches from your lips to start mouthing at the junction of your neck and jaw, teeth scouring down your throat.  

she grips, getting a fistful of your shirt in one hand with the other curving within the heated skin at the base of your neck. your bodies are so close, warm, and she wants to look at you but she’s in some kind of stage where all she aches to do is let her lashes wave shut, so that’s what she does along driving her hips instinctively down against your thigh.  

even through all the layers of clothing between you, you can feel the wetness sliding through the flimsy fabric of her underwear on your bare thigh; the delicious friction of against each other. 

your hands part from her hips to shed your school blazer instead, and roseanne opens her eyes to unbutton her shirt as you grab at yours, unceremoniously yanking it out of your skirt and sliding your palm up the delicate valley of her stomach. hand sliding up further still, you’re cupping, kneading her breasts, bringing an exceptional churning in her gut when one of your thumbs stroke her nipple through the lace. it's off with a quick push of your fingers.  

she stretches out her stomach, feline-like, curves her back and chest out, granting you the sight of her petite breasts as she swivels back and forth back along the length of your thigh. “touch me,” she coos, “please, baby.”

“touch you,” you reiterate, finger tracing the outline of the damp spot lining up her labia. she pushes up her knees to raise herself only the slightest bit higher, “here?” she whines as your touch makes her nerves jump, stroking her lips slowly through the cloth, hoping to further drive her out of her mind.  

slipping your fingers into the hem of her panties, the cloth clings against her sex until you push back against it. you shuffle a little so that you could capture her nipples between your teeth, sucking on the bud. her entire body tenses above yours, arms wrapping around your neck, cradling your head closer to her chest.  

slick is smearing all over your panties, merely from relishing her like she’s a fucking gift from the gods, preening when her hands quaintly smooth over the back of your neck and your fingers play, lazily and easily through her lips.  

she gasps against your ear as your fingers run over her entrance, pressing and teasing,��slow and calculated, sliding in the slightest so rose could feel the webbing of your fingers just barely inside of her.

a final tug on her reddened nipple, you withdraw your fingers.

without notice, roseanne’s vision tilts, and she finds herself yelping with her back on the polished, wooden floor with your body hovering hers and a dopey smile adorning your lips. her focus narrows into the manner your eyes dilate – lust and the effects of weed in them. “was that … indica?” you ask, a childlike nature to your voice while sliding her panties down her legs, then yours. you drop them near and kneel before her.  

“i don’t –” she cuts herself, contemplating the fleeting body-warming euphoria that expands through melting and blissful relaxation. “mhm.” she titters, letting the word draw itself out slowly.  

she gives you that look – peering up at you, heavy eyes open and telling as she spreads her legs, revealing parted, wet lips, swollen and pink from what feels like hours of teasing. you stare longingly, pupils blown, squirming and urging to get your mouth to taste her.  

you dip down. roseanne feels the warmth of your breath, and then the first hot touch of your tongue on sensitive skin. she breathes out, tilts her hips up against your mouth, so you move the muscle brusquely, forward at an angle that catches at every lap.  

you’re ridiculously skilled at this; seriously, no one, not even her fingers, knows her body as you do. no one else makes the pleasure overtake her mind as you do, as you flick your tongue and suck on her clit, thoroughly enjoying the way her sweet, even as a salty mix dribbles down your tongue. you're murmuring what sounds like appreciative, sugary words that roseanne can’t entirely make out, she succumbs in the soothing oscillations of it, punctuated by the intervals when you prob and poke with the tip of your tongue. she pushes back into it, chasing the feeling of that tongue gently opening her up, exploring for more.  

then, still feeling quite indolent and mellow, you're nonetheless agile to move, sliding roseanne’s long legs over your shoulders. and with a quick mewl and purr tumbling out of you, you grasp her skirt in the balls of your fist and shove it up her stomach, then gather yours to situate yourself over her glistening lips. the first thrust is everything. she had sealed her eyelids shut again, laid back down and gone docile, allowing you to rut freely against her like – contented with being handled however you like. but when her hips roll up to press back against yours, it startles a moan from you, the sensation of it making both of your bodies sigh.

there's a certain rush; like the one you get when you’re veering the wheels of your bike for the first time, or the one where you’re getting away with something you should not have. this rush is the one currently coursing through your veins, a rush of want that floods through you, feeling almost surreal, rendering you lightheaded. you're almost, almost worried something else was laced in the blunt, but roseanne’s pussy proves powerful for it gently coaxes you out of your anxiety-inducing thoughts.  

they're gone with each thrust sending her body forward. you can’t help speeding and hardening the rolls of your hips in quiet appreciation. each jolt makes her whine and thrill— you have to grit your teeth to not reach your high before hers, intent on coming at the same time. you grind harder onto her, make her feel each thrust— no area of her core left untouched.  

“you look so beautiful, rosie,” you lick your lips, the feeling jubilant. past rapturous you can hardly finish your sentence. "and warm, you’re so fucking warm.”  

chest heaving, her throat’s enticingly on display and you think of wrapping your hands around it to feel the pounding of her pulse – it beats against your fingers, singing in no particular rhythm. but it remains a sound you wouldn’t mind feeling and listening to, over and over again.  

you rub harder into the body lying beneath you, brutal and animalistic, carnal taking up your nature to feel more. the space between your bodies is so wet and she might be unbelievably tight, you regret not doing this at your place so you could fuck the living out of her with one of your straps.  

“—fuck,” you hear her gasping, her nails drilling into the hand wrapped around her neck, “keep going, don’t stop—”  

the wet sounds of your flesh meeting, the grip on her hipbone and your hand roaming all over her body every time you buck against her clit, hard and faster —the more you can’t take your eyes away from the jiggle of her breasts. you stroke your thumb up and down, feeling out the little lump of her thin nipple and her mouth opens in mid-gasp, grasping your ass when her hips give out, lazing prone on the cold wooden floor of the room as your body blankets over hers. your hips don't stop thrusting.  

you're rendered voiceless and utterly reckless, letting natural reactions taking over. the sparkle in your eyes burn for a split-second, then a gut-wrenching moan, cut from deep inside you. roseanne throws her head back, returns travelling on her series of heresies, combined with a bit of praise in the mix. “god, babe, right there … mmm—my fucking god,” she cuts herself off as you almost effortlessly pin her hips down, not enough to hurt, but more in a show of dominance.  

and the release that hits you just never fucking ends; it comes in waves. sober, you’d be surprised at how quick you’ve come, losing your thread altogether, but it only takes four long, premeditated but frantic rolls for you to send yourself in a complete state of a body awakening – it's almost too much to move any more than just the bare minimum – two more to enhance the sensations for both you and roseanne, the latter’s body reacting before her mind could race to a conclusion. her eyes flow open, hands scrambling to clutch your asscheeks tighter when she feels herself pulsing, thrumming and seeing white behind her lids.  

“holy -”  

“fuck.” you finish for her, elbows coming down on either side of her head, so close to collapsing if it wasn’t for the way roseanne’s staring up at you. it's the look of admiration she always gives you when you’ve fucked her just right.  

you kiss down her body – but not without a little slap on her ass. as you lay pecks on her thighs, kiss bruises and marks onto them, you bite and nibble on them, clit twitching at the familiar scent of her dripping heat. it just has that thing that makes you delirious, like alcohol. you give a tentative lick.  

she jerks from over-sensitivity, while her cunt throbs for what is to ensue. walls stretching to accommodate the length and thickness of your fingers slowly entering her, lewd sounds and heat licking deep through her chest. you dip the second digit in earnest, your burning touch only seems to make her core burn with greater need.  

then, in the spirit of simply breaking her, you find her g-spot easily, ramming your fingers into it repeatedly with faultless confidence before pulling away.  

roseanne clenches, whining at the emptiness. being filled just a few seconds ago to feeling friction, to her walls abruptly empty. the pressure inside of her gone, she squirms around trying to find your finger to sink back into her body. she moans, then tries again when all she receives is a giggle, hearing the teasing in your voice, but not possessing the patience to deal with it right now 

... “daddy, please.”  

it comes out breathy —imploring and wanton and you almost shake in rapture.  

“you know i love it when you call me that, rosie,” you come up to murmur against the shell of her ear, words dripping an avid rush of honey. it repels any form of weed-produced laziness that’s taken ahold of your limbs. 

roseanne guides your hand back towards her entrance, gripping down so you can’t move away from her – except, she knows it wouldn’t take much to overpower her, but she does it anyway. she feels the plush push against her walls, then you’re slowly filling her again, setting her nerves ablaze and she let herself cry your name, light curses, whatever comes through her mind out as you rub the spot that makes her toes curl.  

you're gradually lured into snapping your hand, just to wallow in the release of breathy sighs and cries of ‘daddy’ in the crook of your neck that leaves the blonde’s lips every time you force the sound out of her.  

you press your body flush against her form and writhe your fingers in a single-minded purpose inside her dripping entrance. you lick at her pounding pulse and plunge deeper in to make it soar higher and faster than weed ever could. she presses her hands into your shoulders, digging half-crescents into the fragile texture of your skin; clutching for more of your warmth against her.  

with the windows open, people could definitely hear the mundane debauchery taking place right up inside the building. but she simply can’t hold in her moans, despite her best attempts at deadening them. 

body unfurling, as your prodding fingers slides out at her entrance, pressing harder and harder until they slip back inside to hook deeper into her warmth — she sighs and throws her head back, body moving, torso arched, light nipples on opaque skin scrounging for your tongue. however, you’re pre-occupied with sliding in and out of her, kissing the pretty gasps out of her lips.  

your palm hits against her clit each time, her inner muscles beginning to contract and squeeze around your fingers. she's so fucking close, you know it, so before she can start thrashing, you get better leverage. you push one of her legs wider with your knee to get deeper and pump freely inside of her, and the increased volume of her moans send a wave of arousal through you.

the more stimulation to her body causes the buzz to alter in one way or another. her vision is fuzzy as lazy eyes squint up at yours, body like jello that could collapse into a puddle any second. for the briefest instant, it’s almost too much to wrap her head around. it's some sort of fucking extraterrestrial experience, her almost entirely useless brain offers, as it proceeds to liquefy completely, overwhelming orgasm burning down her abdomen like scalding lava, leaving her breathless.  

a while later, when the sun’s stopped blossoming in the sky and a blanket of stars have taken the grace of a breeze over your heads, you’re back in your original position – roseanne straddling your waist, buttermilk hair brushing over her breasts, lissome and comely body draped back in her bra and skimpy panties.  

she leans down and inches her chin forward so she can seal her lips and mouth over yours. she drags her tongue, asking for permission. the taste of your skin, your perfume and scent of your body is intoxicating. the high’s worn off, now she could get drunk from just having her thighs wrapped and caging around you, kissing you for hours on end.  

“hol’ up” then she’s pulling away, before leaning over the side to reach for your bag, procuring a small plastic bag.

you eye her with amusement, “while i don’t mind lighting up another one,” you start, the sweet, nonetheless imposing, concern in your voice is palpable, “grab my sweater first in there.” you nod towards the bag. you've closed the window but the weather is known to seep through bones once blankets of dark clouds had already rolled in.

roseanne smiles and rolls her eyes, dropping to kiss your cheek, then neck, then cheek once more. she has to tear herself away with a fit of laughter when you reach up and get a hand in her milky curls, directing her mouth to yours in a show of biting and toying with the sheen of her lips.

the wool blend of your sweater looks the best on her, it draws down to expose one finely boned shoulder and you wish to paint constellations on the exposed neckline, to dart hot kisses against the silky skin.

you watch, admirably as roseanne uses your abdomen as a workplace to pack the bits of weed into the blunt wrap she had also pulled from your bag. her nimble fingers work everything expertly into a rather attractive roll before bringing the blunt to her lips to lick down the length.  

“the joy of roleplay,” she mentions, quite pleased from the attention. “we should do it more often.” 

cocoa eyes peek at you from under long lashes before swiftly looking bavk down at her work. “daddy~” she adds.

“christ, rosie, don’t make me take you here again.” you deadpan, embarrassed, looking at her as though she’s meant to understand the gravity of your statement.

roseanne just laughs, conspicuously displaying how perfectly aware she was on the effect of her recurrent use of your ‘nickname’ in the most inappropriate choice of settings and moments.

you slide one hand up, rubbing and massaging the curve of her waist while she soothes down the edges with her fingertips, and grabs the discarded lighter from the floor to light the end up.  

“professional,” you chuckle, and wrap your arms around her. she blows smoke halos in your face, bubbled laugh when you playfully gust them away before bringing you into a kiss. she hums as she closes her eyes, and glides her tongue across your bottom lip. “we’re never getting out of here if you keep this up.” your words a breathy pant between grazes of tongues.

“good,” she whispers, connecting your foreheads, unfocused gaze of seductive, glassy-eyed squint burning as she flicks them down to look hungrily at you. “because i'm taking what’s mine until i'm satisfied.”  

and you wisely do not voice an objection. one of your last sober thoughts before your skirt’s tugged down your legs.