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Source

[leiascully]

Fic: The Altar Is My Hips (M, MSR)

1500 words; M for sexual situations; the POÄNG pals wondered what would happen if Mulder proposed while eating pussy and here is the result (ao3)

Scully’s flat on her back in her bed with Mulder’s face between her legs. It’s her new favorite pastime. She’s got her hands in his silky hair and his tongue flicks at her clit in a steady rhythm. She lets her back arch, pushing her mound against his face. He hums in pleasure and licks a few lazy circles that leave her moaning.

Mulder, as she had always suspected, eats pussy like it’s his calling in life. Mulder eats pussy like other people eat oysters, and with twice as much relish. Maybe it’s that full lower lip or maybe it’s his nimble tongue or maybe it’s that distinguished profile, but Scully can’t resist. His face is a saddle and she’s ready to ride. Yee-haw.

She’s had lovers before who made it feel like a chore, but it’s obvious Mulder enjoys it. He’ll eat her out for hours, given the chance, moving from her on top to him on his knees to him pinning her to the bed to various configurations of 69. He’ll strip her down or tongue her through the nicer underwear she’s started wearing. She has to fuck him between sessions just to redistribute the sensation.

Maybe it’s the seven years of blue balls, but they’ve both been insatiable since they started fucking. She can’t get enough of him. She’s fairly sure Skinner’s noticed the way she’s been staring at Mulder during meetings, partly because she keeps putting the end of her pen in her mouth. It isn’t on purpose. She’s been hungry for so long, and now she’s got a buffet spread out in front of her. Or under her. Or on top of her. She’s flexible. So to speak.

Today she’s a pillow princess and Mulder’s doing all the work. All she has to do is lie back and not think of England. She has no thoughts when Mulder spreads her thighs. Her brain is blissfully empty, filled up with sparklers and fireflies and the heat of a perfect summer evening. Mulder’s made her come so hard she forgot how to speak. She wants him so much it makes her feel stupid. When he’s inside her, she doesn’t care about anything else in the world.

He sucks her clit gently into his mouth, teasing her. Sensation prickles through her. She’s got goosebumps. The tip of his tongue swirls over her clit, and then he rubs at her clit with the flat width of his tongue until it makes her vision go blurry. He moans into her and it’s such a fucking turn-on. If she wasn’t already drenched, she’d be wet just listening to him eat her out.

She combs her fingers through his hair, resisting the urge to grab a handful. She doesn’t always resist, but this isn’t that kind of occasion. This is sweet, deliciously leisurely. He’s been taking it very slow, pausing in his ministrations to kiss his way up the ticklish inside of her thigh. She’s sure she’s got a hickey just low enough that the hem of her underwear won’t conceal it. She’s lucky she doesn’t have one just above the back of her knee. Skinner would definitely raise an eyebrow over that one.

Mulder nudges her thighs further apart, pushing her open with the breadth of his shoulders. She splays her legs wide, putting herself on display for him. He makes a happy noise and pulls a little harder at her clit. She gasps and sighs. Her blood feels like hot honey, thick and sweet and slow. Her whole body is hot and loose. Need builds in her belly, but it’s a deliberate coiling, driven by the pace of Mulder’s tongue.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been here. She doesn’t care. She only knows that her body is a pleasure garden that Mulder cultivates. She’s magic. She’s the rocking of the ocean, punctuated by glints of sharper pleasure. Her orgasm feels inevitable, even in its early stages, but she doesn’t want to rush it. She’s enjoying herself, enjoying him enjoying her.

She can feel the moment his hunger shifts. He sucks harder at her, flicks his tongue faster. He knows how to drive her to the edge. He uses the tip of his tongue to tease the exquisitely sensitive bud of nerves under her clitoral hood and she yelps. The pleasure inside her grows. It’s hungrier than before. She needs more, or different, or something.

“Your fingers,” she manages to say, and he’s pushing inside her almost before she can say it. His elegant hands were made to fuck her. She’s convinced of it, despite any evidence to the contrary. Two fingers is usually enough, but not today. She’s starving for him. She wants him everywhere inside her. If he could eat her out and fuck her at the same time, she’d do it. She’d have an orgy of Mulders, one for every orifice and one to grow on.

“More,” she says, and a third finger joins the other two, thrusting deeper into her, seeking the spot he knows will make her come undone. She loves how well he knows her, how he still studies her. His attention is intense; she’s never felt anything like it. He shifts just a little and suddenly it feels like a kiss, somehow even more intimate than before. Fuck, she loves him. She whimpers as his fingers graze the right place and he groans against her clit.

It doesn’t take long after that. Not with his fingers fucking her and his mouth insistent on her most sensitive skin and his other hand reaching up to touch her breasts. She’s tugging at his hair now. Her thighs squeeze around his ears and she isn’t trying to suffocate him, but she can’t relax. Her body is drawn tight, vibrating like a bow string. He strums his tongue across her clit and his fingers work inside her and he’s tweaking one of her nipples and she’s caressing the other and oh God, she’s coming. Her hips buck and he pins her with one arm and licks her through the waves of pleasure. She shivers over and over, as if she’s chaining one orgasm to the next to the next, until finally it’s too much and she gently pushes him away. He raises his face and rests his chin on her thigh.

“God, Mulder, that was amazing.” She can’t catch her breath.

“Marry me,” he says. His face is wet. His lips glisten. He licks at them. She can’t tell if he’s nervous or relishing the moment.

She laughs and pushes up on her elbows to look at him. “What?”

“Marry me,” he says again. There’s something in his eyes that tells her it’s not a joke, but that’s hard to believe after all his previous proposals, variously in jest or inebriated.

“Isn’t that my line, after an orgasm like that?” she asks.

He huffs and his breath tickles her thigh. “If you’re trying to let me down easy, I get it.”

“Marry you,” she says.

He nods, his chin digging into her thigh.

She looks at him for a long moment. His eyes are dark with unsatisfied desire, but he waits as patiently as if they’re at the ticket counter at the airport. She measures his face with her eyes, as if she doesn’t know it by heart. She lets her heart open, a luxury she rarely allows herself. Love suffuses her as thoroughly as pleasure did, rippling through her until she can hardly breathe. Of course it’s Mulder. It’s always been Mulder. If it could be anyone, it’s Mulder. They’ve been pledged to each other since that night in Bellefleur when she stepped into his hotel room and showed him her skin and her naked fear and he showed her his soul in return.

“Okay,” she says.

His eyes light up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” she says. She can wear a dress, white or otherwise. She can vow in front of God and her family to have and to hold him as long as they both shall live. She can wear his ring, be his wife, honor him, obey him (under very specific circumstances). The more she thinks about the idea, the better she likes it. “Will you marry me?”

“Of course I will,” he says.

“Come here,” she whispers, suddenly shy, and he hauls himself up the length of her body until she can kiss him. Mulder kisses like a fairytale: true love wrapped up in the strangest mysteries. She can taste herself on his mouth and feel the rigid heat of his cock against her hip. She shifts until he’s sliding between her folds, sliding into her, rocking slowly as they kiss. They make love; there’s no other word for it. They haven’t done it like this yet, somehow, though she would have sworn they’d tried it all. He moves in her, watching her, and she feels so new and so precious. Her eyes are glossy with tears, but so are his. She kisses his eyelids and he laughs a little. Her heart flares with heat. The world has been so cruel to him. Now he’s under her protection forever.

“Marry me?” he asks again as she arches under him.

“Yes,” she says as she comes again, “yes, yes, yes,” and she knows she’ll never stop saying it.

[mediumgayitalian]

At around half past one, Nico gets a Feeling.

He gets feelings a lot. Nothing he can quantify, just something telling him that something is up, somethings wrong. Or something’s about to be. At this point, he’s learned to trust his intuition, based purely on the number of times it has saved his life; a number he’s long since given up counting. (He’s only ignored his gut feelings three times in his life: when Bianca went on her quest, when his father promised not to hurt Percy before the Titan War, and when he went looking for the Doors. He has learned his lesson.)

So when something at the bottom of his stomach tells him to get up, to check things out — he does.

He knows it could be nothing. (The last time he had a Feeling, it turned out that he had placed a book precariously on the edge of his desk, and it had been about to fall. Not exactly world-saving stuff.) But regardless, he steps out of bed, shoves his feet into his shoes, and creeps out of his cabin.

Camp is kind of beautiful at night.

There’s an eerie calmness to it without so many human disasters running about, and the quiet reflects that. All Nico can really hear is the hooting of owls in the distance, the chittering of nocturnal animals and monsters alike, the distant screeches of curfew harpies, and the pleasant crashing of the waves. The air is clean, when he inhales, and he takes the time to hold it in his lungs for a bit, imagining the sweet breath is healing his burned lungs, turning the scar tissue back to something flexible and normal. Whether or not it actually works, he doesn’t know, but it feels nice.

Under the light of the brightly shining new moon and billions of stars, he starts his patrol. Around his own cabin first — there’s nothing, as he expected, the warning doesn’t seem overwhelming like threats tend to be — and then he makes his way around the circuit, checking behind gardens and shrines and inside braziers. He hums quietly as he walks, something preppy and bright the Apollo kids have been hollering for days, and waves to Lady Hestia, sword heavy at his waist.

“Come sit,” she calls, patting the seat next to her.

Nico does.

“Haven’t seen you out at night in a while.”

He hums, toneless this time, leaning back on his hands and mirroring her gaze at the sky.

“Been sleeping, for once.”

“I’m glad.”

He smiles, knowing that she means it. He watches out of the corner of his eye as she picks up his sword, sliding it from his belt loop, and uses it to stoke the flames. She doesn’t seem afraid of it, or wary. To her it’s just a stick of metal. It’s nice.

“You have you been, my Lady?”

She pokes at the embers a few more times, scooping a few to balance at the tip of the blade for a while. It glows with the heat, and he knows he’ll have to sharpen it tomorrow, but he doesn’t mind. Maybe he can do it while Will is in the archery range. It’ll give him an excuse to be at the armoury at the same time, anyway.

“I’ve been well.” She breathes deeply, small smile pulling at her face. “It’s calmer, and more people wave to me. I like it.”

“Good.”

She dismisses him a few minutes later, sending him off with a promise to chat again soon. She doesn’t need to worry about him promising — he makes a point to sit with her at least once a week — but it’s nice to know someone wants his company, so he appreciates it. He leaves with a wave, walking towards the eastern half of the cabins.

Nothing’s amiss. He can hear campers snoring, and see the odd reading light. Malcolm catches his eye as he walks past the Athena cabin and winks, sending a cheeky salute when he sees the sword held loosely in his hands. So far, everything seems fine. He’s beginning to think the Feeling might have simply been about Lady Hestia, so he decides to do one last check around the Big House and then head back.

Of course, that’s where the issue is.

The infirmary lights are always on. They’re dimmer in the night, more of a glow than anything, but there’s an extra brightness streaming out from the windows, and when Nico peeks inside, he sees Will, standing with his back turned at the nurse’s station.

He takes a moment to check his strength, making sure he has the energy for it — dinner last night was pho and he had three bowls, he most definitely does — and sinks into the shadows by the door. He materializes back in the little alcove by the bandage & wraps cabinet, lurking silently while he blinks the dizziness away.

The first thing he registers is soft singing.

He’s facing Will, now, and can see the glow coming from his hands, enveloping a bowl of some kind. He has both hands coated in some dusky pink substance, massaging and gently pounding it against the sides of the bowl, working it through with great care. As his voice gets higher, the glow gets brighter, fading as he dips lower. He sings something about hills and meadows and the breeze, about wing-song, about the sound of flower stems bending in the wind. For a while Nico stands, listening to the melodious ancient Greek, swaying with every pitch and hold. It’s captivating.

Will is almost haunting when he heals.

There’s a divinity in him — in all of them — but he glows when he sings. Not just his hands, and sometimes his head if he puts enough power in his words, but there’s an almost shimmer to the air around him, a shining warp. His skin gets clearer, and his hair goes more metallic, almost, like spun gold rather than blonde. His freckles make his skin into an inverse replica of the night sky, dark specks surrounded by bright empty between them. His long fingers pluck through bright strands of light like a harpist strums their chords; lightly, carefully, skillfully; like a braider weaves their hair. There’s an undeniable age to his magic, a practice that’s visibly replicated millions of times over thousands of years, as if every healer who has come before him links their arms with his, breathes their strength in his lungs. Sometimes, when he does something truly unbelievable, amazingly beyond reason, he flickers — his orange camp shirt fades into a white chiton, or long robes, or a white coat, or a blue tunic. Watching him heal is like watching the sunrise — breathtaking and unique, every time, but powerful in its cyclic archaism.

It takes Nico a long time to realise Will is swaying.

Snapped out of his trance, he begins to notice Will’s long, slow blinks, the unsteady way he stands, the weight he has leaned on the counter. Even his face looks plainly exhausted under the glow, face pillow-creased and eyes bruised, hair mussed, limbs leaden. Footsteps as silent as he can manage, Nico creeps over to the schedule posted by the door, scanning through the scrawled pen ink.

He curses quietly. Will is not supposed to be awake.

There are really only three people who can work the infirmary to its fully capacity, barring Chiron. Kayla, Austin, and Will are the only ones who can magically heal, as much as the volunteers are imperative, so when the camp is in full swing one of them must be stationed at all times. That’s how Will sets it up. A bit of a waste of time, he acknowledges, but Nico knows he has memorized every time a camper who should have been saved. He carries far too much guilt to ever let it happen again, as inconvenient as his rules may be.

Night shift, though, is a need-be basis. If the infirmary is as empty as it is right now, then there truly is no need to keep one of the three of them awake outside their circadian rhythm, staring at nothing. Instead, they take shifts in the on-call room — asleep, but prepared should anything go wrong, should a monster chase a new camper at an odd hour. It’s Will’s turn for on-call. It’s two in the morning. He should be asleep.

And, yet.

Nico recognizes the look in his eyes. There’s a — frailty, to them, a deep-seated, animalistic fear, one he recognises from the hours after his own night terrors. A single-minded panic that cannot be unseated in any logical way, cannot be comforted with any gentle hands.

Nico handles his fear with slashing swords and bruised knuckles. Will, he knows, handles his fear with obsessive, endless preparation.

Knowing full well nothing is going to drag him away from his focus bar actual cardiac arrest, Nico walks right by him. Will doesn’t move. He settles behind him in the old, creaky leather office chair, curling his legs under him and resting his head on the soft arm. He watches Will, watches the almost machine-like movement to his kneading arms, and falls back asleep to his humming.

———

“…Nico?”

He wakes up warm and a little cramped, in the same position he fell asleep. Sun is streaming on from the many issues, blocked from burning his eyes by Will’s hunched frame, facing towards him now, hands and shoulders shaking with equal violence.

“What time is it?”

His voice is croaky and wrecked from hours of singing. Nico is willing to bet his throat is burned as badly as his hands, cooked from non-stop, sun-borne glowing. The divinity that had emanated from him before has abandoned him and he looks young, lost.

“Early,” Nico says softly. He unfolds himself from the chair, stretching slightly — gods, he is going to ache today — and wraps a slow, careful hand around Will’s wrists. “Probably around six, if I have to guess.”

“I don’t remember waking up.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’m tired.”

“That’s okay.”

His breathing is heavy, laboured.

“I don’t —”

Nico squeezes gently. “It’s okay, Will.”

Will swallows and says nothing.

“Come on.”

Carefully, letting Will’s stiff joints set the pace, Nico guides him out of the infirmary. The sun shines brighter as soon as he steps outside, but he doesn’t seem to notice bar a tiny, almost imperceptible flinch at the change in lighting. Nico switches from holding his wrists to laying a hand on the small of his back, half-worried he’s going to fall over.

Luckily, he makes it to the Apollo Cabin upright, although the stairs take them a while. The hinges of the old screen door creak as Nico pushes it open, and he sees both Kayla and Austin, up and dressed, jump.

“…Will?” Kayla asks softly, eyebrows creased in concern. She walks over to him when he doesn’t answer, frozen still, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

Will leans — almost hesitantly — into the touch. The same blankness from before clouds his eyes, although this time there’s less of the fear.

“Hey.” Nico walks over to stand in front of him, waiting patiently for him to meet his eyes. In the minutes it takes, he hears Austin pad over, standing opposite to Kayla, hands clenching and unclenching like he can’t decide what to do with them. “You think you can sleep?”

Will doesn’t answer verbally, but drifts after a moment to his bed. Nico follows, helping him out of his shoes and shirt. After a beat of hesitation, Austin hurries over, turning down Will’s sheets and helping him crawl in. Soft guitar music begins to play, and when Nico looks over Kayla is fiddling with the CD player, turning the dials carefully. Without much fanfare, Will’s eyes flutter closed, and his breathing slows to something deep and even. His twitching fingers still.

“I don’t think today’s an activity day,” Nico murmurs. “I checked up on him a while after midnight; he’d been at it for hours. He didn’t stop ‘til sunrise.”

Kayla rubs harshly at her eyes. “Fuck.”

“He’ll be okay,” Austin whispers. He runs a gentle knuckle over Will’s forehead, then turns his careful, imploring gaze to Nico. “You kept an eye on him?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Nico inclines his head. “Had a feeling.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Kayla admits. “He was —” She trails off, staring at something in the left half of the cabin — the empty half. “He was like this after the Titan War, too. I think he spoke maybe two words for the entirety of September.”

Nico almost can’t imagine it. The very thought of it makes something twinge in his chest, clench in his stomach.

“We’ll figure it out.” He nods, to convince himself as much as Kayla and Austin, who look to him with way more trust than he deserves. “We won’t let it — it won’t get that bad. We’ll help, and if we can’t figure it out we’ll get help. It won’t be as hard as last time.”

It won’t be as hard as last time because there won’t be twelve shrouds, Nico doesn’t say, but he doesn’t need to. Both Kayla and Austin nod, looking at their sleeping brother with firm resolution.

“This time, we’ll be there.”

[hypnoticsphere]

zuko headcanon time!!!!

He always knew that firebending was never going to be his strongest weapon, not with Azula around. His baby sister, a firebending prodigy with blue fire and lightning. So, with the resources he was allowed, he was able to study with Master Piandao. The art of the sword came easy to Zuko. Mostly.

He had trouble with his footwork. Always springing into action too soon; unable to stay patient and wait for an opening attack. Many of the reasons he struggled with his Katas. Zuko was a problem solver, he was able to make up for his mistakes with quick thinking, but Piandao wanted to limit any sort of mistakes at all. So, he proposed that Zuko take ballet once he arrived back home. A dance that required discipline, strength, and patience.

Zuko had vehemently denied it, arguing that it was going to make him look stupid. Azula already had enough to make fun of him, he really didn’t want to fuel the fire of his sisters insults. Piandao wasn’t forcing him to take ballet, only trying to help him better his already remarkable skills. He told Zuko to read up on it, maybe he would even think it was “cool”.

And, well, that’s just what Zuko did. In the palace library, he searched through scrolls about various cultural dances. Ballet came from the Air Nomads, and later enriched (stolen) into the fire nation. Zuko looked through the drawings, captivated by their flexibility, and wincing when he saw that they were standing on their toes.

He ran to his mom, doing everything to avoid running into Azula let alone father. Ursa was outside in the garden, throwing vegetable scraps to the turtle ducks in the pond. Zuko scared them away as he rushed to her side, practically shoving the scroll in his poor mother’s face. Ursa, ever the saint, took the scroll from Zuko’s vibrating hands and arched her brow towards him.

“Ballet?”

“Master Piandao told me It’d make me a better fighter.” Not true, but also not entirely a lie. Zuko was just embarrassed on how much he wanted to take a dance class.

Ursa smiled, rubbing Zuko’s hair affectionately, “Okay, then. I’ll see what we can do about getting you a private instructor.

And that’s how it began. Almost every morning, before his training with his firebending teachers, Zuko met with a strict, rather terrifying, woman named Arami to learn ballet. Despite her rough around the edges personality, Zuko liked her. A lot more than his bending teachers. He listened to her intently and hung off her every word.

It was around the same time Zuko found his interest in the theatre. Arami shared scrolls with him, and taught him how various dance styles were incorporated in his favorite plays. He would take her practices and merge them with his kata’s and again with his swords, those forged by him and Master Piandao. For once, he felt confident in his own ability, enough to discourage Azula’s taunts. It was even okay when his mother left, grandfather died, and Father was crowned firelord.

And then, he was burned and banished, outcasted from the fire nation with an impossible task. His passion and his love was snuffed out in an instant and replaced with anger as he lost sight of who he had built himself to be.

[imakemywings]

For the femslash writing, a Meladriel would spark so much joy 💛

Alright, this will be the last fill for the month (and a day late whoopsie)

I think the power plays Galadriel pushes these two into make for such an interesting dynamic. This fulfills the "euphoria" square of FotF's Pride month bingo (I think).

Fandom: The Silmarillion

Pairing: Galadriel x Melian

Length: 3k

Summary: Galadriel is determined to show Melian she is capable of more than Melian believes. Melian wonders if her pupil grasps her lessons.

AO3 | Pillowfort | SWG

The Patience of the Oak

The resistance of Melian’s mind was as the howling of the winds storming the Helcaraxë. Galadriel wobbled upon a hair’s breadth of solidity beneath her feet, as though she were up in the flexible treetops amid the crack of thunder, or balanced upon some high-flung crossbeam of a ship at sea. If she did not keep her balance, she would fall. If she did not keep her focus, she would be lost, swept out into the ether of those winds.

Still, she pushed forward.

That she could do so at all was a riot of triumph; half of her had expected to get nowhere at all, and while the force of Melian send her skidding backwards, it did not drive her out entirely.

In the physical world, she was only most distantly aware of her fingers clenched around the edge of the table, of her toes digging into the floor until the joints ached. There was no space in her consciousness for the physical now; there was only the vastness of Melian’s mind and the determination of Galadriel’s spirit to know it.

In her own strength, in her conviction, Galadriel had confidence; Melian believed her feebler and more delicate than she was in truth, but Galadriel could show her her error.

The wind blew harder, a silent roar in the blackness through which Galadriel could feel the shine of light from those things she wished to know, those repositories of Melian’s knowledge and power. She stretched herself out towards them, reaching, reaching, reaching, and with another extension of herself, tried to ward off that part of her mind so keen to liken this experience to the terror of a blizzard (She, unlike her sentimental siblings and cousins, would not fall prey to dwelling on the death of Elenwë, lost in just such a storm). The more she allowed those thoughts to enter her mind, the greater risk they would sink their roots in, reshaping this experience into that one, and Galadriel did not want the dual struggle of fighting to reach her goal and not to be overwhelmed by her own past.

There, just ahead of her, a softly glowing center of thought; Galadriel, so near to her goal, surged forward with renewed energy in spite of the flagging of her strength; she did not mean to take yet, only to touch, to show Melian she could—

      That’s enough, I think. Melian’s voice sounded faintly amused and not altogether unannoyed, as one whose pet is both bothersome yet entertaining. Like a flick of her fingers, Melian snapped Galadriel out of her mind, flinging her fully back into the physical realm, and Galadriel staggered away from the table, stumbling over her feet until she landed hard on her seat, sucking in air like a winded horse.

The smoothness of the wood on the table did not allow Galadriel to do much damage to her hands, but her fingers ached from gripping it, and deprived now of the ecstasy of struggle and success, the full measure of her exhaustion came upon her, and she slumped down to the floor, hair strewn about her, and slept.

***

In the garden, Melian waited. Galadriel had felt her call earlier in the day, but forced herself not to rush. With care she dressed and arranged her hair in a neutral style and sipped weak wine as she reassured herself no damage had been done. Standing now upon the threshold of the eastern Jewel Garden, characterized by riotous bursts of a rainbow of fruits and flowers, she smoothed her skirts and lived in the final moments before having to face up to the queen’s displeasure. In her mind, she rehearsed the many words she had prepared for this meeting, but when she came near and met Melian’s night-dark eyes, those thoughts ran wild and she fought desperately to rein them back in.

“So, my pupil—”

Galadriel did not mean to interrupt, but the amok words burst through her teeth before she could swallow them.

“You underestimate my strength!”

Melian fell silent, those dark eyes sweeping up and down from the thrust of Galadriel’s chin to where her toes dug into the grass. She set aside the pomegranate she had been picking over when Galadriel arrived (Melian did not need to eat, but playing with the food of the Elves seemed to entertain her; she would leave the seeds out for someone or something else to claim.) Galadriel held open the curtains of her mind, inviting Melian inward, to show how little she had to hide from her teacher.

Melian wore the form of the Elves, as was her pleasure, and on that day gleamed in carnation yellow, her sleek black hair drawn away from her face with crisp white deer-bone clasps, a gift of the king.

“It is a particular kind of pride, to receive a gift and demand only more,” the queen remarked, and Galadriel drew in a painfully sharp breath. Now in the moment, now with Melian’s low, musical voice picking apart the flaws in her, the shortcomings in her behavior, it seemed foolish to tell herself her tutelage with Melian was not potentially on the line. But she could not now contemplate being exiled from Melian’s presence, or she would falter.

“I respect the extent of my teacher’s knowledge,” said Galadriel, lowering her head. “Had I no curiosity in it, we would never have begun this. Is it not natural I should wish for more?”

“That for which you wish and that of which you are capable do not always resonate,” said Melian. “As we have discussed before.”

Galadriel looked up without thinking, to fix Melian with an expression of helpless desire.

“And still I protest,” she said, straining to keep her voice even. “I am capable of more than my teacher believes.”

“Young you are still, and—”

“I am not a child!” Galadriel insisted urgently. “Horrors have I seen as well, teacher, and much did I overcome to make it to your doorstep. I am strong enough for what you may impart!” When Melian did not immediately respond, Galadriel could not restrain herself from adding: “Much more do you show Lúthien. Is it because I am no daughter of yours that I am not worth  more?”

 “You are not like Lúthien,” said Melian. “She who bears my blood is no Elf, though she may in face and body resemble her father. She is unique, and better able to grasp my knowledge and my power.”

“You have not faith in me,” Galadriel concluded, casting her eyes down unto the ground in tense despair.

“Had I not faith in you, we would not stand here now,” said Melian, rising to her full and considerable height. Again, Galadriel lowered her head. “Still I once more counsel you to restraint. Lúthien, besides being my daughter, has many more years to her name than you. She has had more time to learn and to develop her patience. Yet as I have said, your potential is strong. But you will squander it and turn to cruder, lesser matters than you might if you do not exercise care.”

Melian drifted around her, pale feet sliding noiselessly through the grass, her fingers brushing over the boughs and flowers that surrounded them.

“I feel your hunger, daughter of Eärwen,” she murmured. “Never do I touch your mind but I feel it. Already you have shown greater restraint than others may have. Yet I would look for more.” Even behind her, out of sight, Galadriel could picture, could feel Melian so clearly it was as if she looked upon her. “Those most eager warrant the most caution.”

Galadriel held her tongue and remained still until Melian came back into her sight. The queen did not touch her; never had Galadriel seen her touch another but the king or the princess, and those rare times when she laid her hands on Galadriel for a lesson.

There was more that Melian could have said, that she must know, but she did not, and Galadriel was relieved.

“What is it you desire from me, child?” Melian asked, and Galadriel seemed to feel her words as much as hear them. Her eyes darted up to Melian’s oval-shaped face, divine in her beauty, distant even in her nearness. “My power? Or something more tangible?”

Galadriel’s legs felt weak. The beat of her blood was too loud in her ears.

“I…desire…whatever my teacher would give me,” she said, speaking with markedly slow deliberation.

“You ask for things you do not understand,” Melian said.

“I know my strength,” Galadriel insisted, meeting Melian’s gaze directly. Melian held it, tilting her head slightly, observing, observing. Then she turned away.

“Your inability to admit or recognize your limitations tells me I have been right to maintain the pace we are at,” said the queen, and Galadriel’s gut turned to ice. “You have not yet the maturity for more.” She made to walk away, and Galadriel should have been grateful that Melian was not going to punish her for the invasion of her mind—though she knew now she had gotten as far as she had only because it had amused Melian to see how far she could push against the queen’s half-hearted resistance—but all that consumed her mind was the intolerableness of Melian’s dismissal.

In desperation, she threw up her hands and a bubble of silence ensconced them both; within the bulb of Galadriel’s power the birds hung still in the air, the beetles froze midflight; the wind did not sway the leaves. Slowly, Melian turned back to her.

“I am more capable than you acknowledge,” Galadriel said, straining to speak with so much of her focused on maintaining her spell. “I am a princess of the Noldor, a Calaquendi of the Blessed Realm, a daughter of the houses of Finwë and of Olwë. I have gazed upon the light of the Trees and I have sat at the foot of Manwë and Elbereth Gilthoniel. I have crossed the Helcaraxë. I have fought the forces of Morgoth Bauglir. I am not a child, nor an ignorant. I am not careless, nor incapable.”

Melian made a turn of the extent of Galadriel’s spell while she sweated to keep it up. The queen touched the birds, the bugs where they dangled midair, aware or unaware of their imprisonment.

“Remarkable,” she said, and through the burning of Galadriel’s straining body, she almost smiled.

Melian waved her hand and Galadriel’s spell burst apart, returning the denizens of Doriath to their freedom. Galadriel panted and bent forward, her face hot with exertion.

“You would do better not to trap things so idly,” the queen remarked lightly. Her eyes flashed over to Galadriel’s face. “It has never been your power I doubted, my pupil.” Melian came to her then, and she smelled even at a distance of the onset of rain, so that to breath her in was as if to stand amidst a gathering storm.

Melian reached out, and with her fingertips, she touched Galadriel’s face, tilting it up towards her. A spidery hand crept over her cheek, her nose, her mouth.

“What a fascinating spirit yours is,” she murmured, and as nearly always, her expression was inscrutable. Galadriel did not dare reach out to Melian’s mind now, but she made a slight opening of her own. “Is this truly what you desire?”

“Yes,” Galadriel breathed. “Greatly have I desired this.” It was no good to lie to Melian now; even if she had kept her mind closed, it seemed she had made herself too plain. Lying to herself was a far simpler task than lying to Melian.

“Very well, then. Let us explore.” Melian leaned in, and Galadriel felt the prickle of electricity along her arms and down her back before Melian’s lips touched hers.

The wind was back, but this time it drew Galadriel in rather than pushed her out; she was wrapped up in the maelstrom, that electricity surging through her until her nerves were alight and her lungs breathless. The queen’s mouth was cool and wet against hers, and despite Galadriel’s height, she had to push up on her toes to seek a deeper kiss. All around her was the presence of Melian and that crisp-rain smell filled up her senses; she curled her hands at her sides to stop herself from grabbing at the queen for stability as the presence of Melian bore down on her.

And then she swooned.

***

When Galadriel opened her eyes, she saw the layered canopy of Doriath undulating in the wind above her, and amidst the green, Melian’s face, from below. Immediately she moved to sit up, but she felt drained, not unlike her weariness of the day before, and Melian placed a hand on her forehead to hold her in place.

“Take a moment, Arwen,” she said. She looked down, and smiled, and Galadriel stilled. “I did warn you.”

Galadriel’s eyes fluttered shut in chagrin, but only for a moment, as she did not wish to deprive herself much of the sight of Melian looking on her with such fondness.

“Elwë fainted in the beginning as well,” Melian reflected. “Before we had learned how to be with each other.” This made Galadriel only more determined to prove that she too, could learn to be with a Maia. She wondered how long it had taken Melian to learn to moderate her strength with an Elf. “Shall I take you back to your rooms?”

“No,” Galadriel managed. Her mind felt fuzzy as if from a long sleep, or too much wine. She could not tell if Melian was still in her thoughts or not. “I wish to…remain.”

Melian hummed an agreement and stroked a hand through Galadriel’s golden hair.

“But you should rest,” said the queen. “And do not rush.” Despite her will—or perhaps in service of another desire—Galadriel’s eyes slid shut and her mind focused the more on the touch of Melian’s hand.

“I am capable,” she insisted quietly. “I can learn whatever lessons you would teach me, Your Grace. I will make myself learn them.”

“This I know,” said Melian. “I would not have taken it upon myself to teach you if I did not believe in your abilities. Yet you are young—no child, by the measure of Elves, I know—but young still, and impatient. You would rush headlong from one thing to another without truly understanding either. And I would see you cultivated with more care. Do you not trust me as your teacher, Arwen?”

Now Galadriel needed to pause and consider, for Melian made valid argument: She believed in Galadriel’s ability to learn, and so had taken Galadriel as her student. But why had Galadriel taken Melian as her teacher if she did not believe in Melian’s ability to teach?

Ah, Melian called again on her pride—daring Galadriel to say she believed that she knew better than Melian the pace and scope by which her lessons ought to progress.

A part of her wished to groan; the better part was more concerned with the presence of her head in Melian’s lap, and the queen’s graceful hand on her head. She could almost forget she had come here for a scolding.

“I am tired,” she murmured. “I trust you, teacher.”

“After your expenditures the last forty-eight hours, I am not surprised,” Melian said, again sound amused in spite of Galadriel’s rather inappropriate behavior.

“I wish only that you should know I may understand you.” Melian hummed something neither fully agreement nor disagreement and stroked Galadriel’s hair again.

“In stillness, one may come to know the forest,” she remarked after a long silence. “But without patience and quietude, much will go unobserved and unknown. My lessons for you are not only in the realm of magic and of wills.”

If she were less worn out, Galadriel might have found it in herself to be embarrassed to realize Melian had been trying to temper her impatience from the start.

“Forgive me, teacher,” she said without opening her eyes. “There is much you know that I wish to know also.”

“And much you will know, in time,” Melian said. “A sapling cannot know the truths of the oak without the will of time.”

Now Galadriel made a soft noise not quite a groan and turned her face more to Melian’s lap, which she supposed was hardly more improper than her presence there already, which Melian had created herself.

“You need not drive yourself so hard,” Melian said gently, her nails scraping lightly over Galadriel’s scalp. “Forget not the value in rest, and slow progress. As long as I stand, you will be safe here. Accept this gift I give, and the time which it grants.” Galadriel relaxed her shoulders and breathed in the sharp rain-scent of Melian.

“Shall I sing to you, dear?” the queen asked.

Galadriel mumbled her agreement, and Melian smiled. Carding her fingers through Galadriel’s hair, she set to warbling a tune about the wind whistling through the treetops and a robin looking for shelter. In the clear ringing of Melian’s voice, Galadriel could understand how one might forsake Eldamar to linger a little while more in the reach of her song. It seemed to soothe away Galadriel’s fears and anxieties, and yet to open her to wonders of the world ‘til then unknown to her. While Melian’s voice washed over her, she seemed to sink into new communion with the woods around them, as if through Melian those other things reached out to her: the moles in their burrows and the squirrels in their trees and the moss creeping over the rocks and the worms tunneling underneath. Melian was a part of it, and it was a part of her, and she drew Galadriel into this world which she otherwise touched only through a veil.

Yet it did not alleviate her exhaustion, and to the sound of Melian’s singing, with the queen’s thigh beneath her head and her hand in her hair, Galadriel slept.

[sinnamonrolle]

[the little moments] ♡ Barbatos

9 - That moment when Barbatos froze time

✿ part of a series! ✿

❀  gender neutral reader  ❀

“Thank you for inviting me. I really needed this.”

The sound of crystallization twinkled around you, gently melding with the waves from the lake. It almost resembled music, if not for the organic pacing. There was no rhythm or beat, just the creation and breaking of crystals according to the laws of nature. They would form in clusters, then, as if pushed over an edge, they would shatter and fall into the water, yet moments later, a new bud would grow, undeterred by its flexible and flimsy surface.

“Of course, I’m glad I could provide you with a chance to rest. It isn’t easy to live with the brothers.”

The gazebo was small, neat and tight against the edge of the lake, but it was beautifully designed and sculpted with elegant frames curving upwards to support the glass roof. If it weren’t for Barbatos telling you about it, you wouldn’t even have known there was a roof to begin with. Although it looked like it came straight from a fairytale, you felt a little out of place, like you were too mundane, too simple for such an elegant place that held so much history. 

Looking up, the eternal Devildom sky and its many stars winked back at you. You felt like some sort of royalty sitting at this expensive table, sipping your drink like you owned everything in this garden, despite the true owner sitting across from you at this very moment.

“Your drink is delicious too,” you said, looking at the round, lowball glass in your hands. Your eyes traveled up a little further, past the snow globe sitting at the center, and then reaching Barbatos’ hands—empty.

He smiled at you when you met his eyes.

“Where is your drink?” you asked, realizing how empty it was on his side of the table. Even though he carted over a whole tray of various sweets that, after taking a closer look, you found were all your favorites, he merely interlocked his fingers and watched you.

“I’ve already tasted it,” he said simply. His expression unchanging, he reached over to set one of the sweets next to you. “I believe this dessert goes extremely well with this drink. Why don’t you try it?”

You refused to look at it. “That’s not the point, Barbatos.”

“Oh?” Barbatos, who was in the middle of leaning back into his seat, paused, and turned to you, making such intense eye contact despite how mild his expression was that you forgot to breathe for just a second. So mild, so unreadable, you could only begin to guess at his thoughts. “That’s not the point?”

“No, no it isn’t,” you said firmly. “The point is that I can’t be the only one eating and drinking here, especially since you are the host. You’ve already done so much for me.”

Even if you felt just a smidge like royalty, that didn’t mean you let it get to your head.

As you began to push some of the sweets towards him, he laughed—a deep, warm sound that made your heart flutter more than it should have, and what made it worse was the gloved hand that covered yours as he stopped you. Even through the fabric, you felt the heat seeping through, and you stilled, now focused entirely on the shape of his hand.

“While I did invite you so that you could have a break, I actually had something to ask of you as well,” Barbatos said, again with that same smile you’ve seen so many times before. You bit your lips, eyes flitting between his hand on top of yours and his dark olive eyes. “It’s nothing serious, just a curiosity of mine.”

“What is it?”

With his free hand, he took the snow globe sitting at the center of the table and pressed it into yours, clasping your hands along with the snow globe.

Barbatos… his hands… holding? Mine??

Pulling away with a soft squeeze, as if he could sense how distracted you were, he chuckled and called your name. “Do you know what this is?”

Yes, this is called “holding hands!” you almost blurted out, but if you did, not only would he be disappointed in your intelligence, he probably would never hold a meeting with you again, much less your hands. Whatever remained of your rationality kept your mouth tightly shut. 

You peered into the transparent globe. This snow globe was relatively simple in terms of decoration, having only a small pink sheep curled up in the middle that slept peacefully among the snow. But because it had been picked up earlier, some of the snow flew up and was now settling down again, covering the sheep with sprinkles of white.

It was such an adorable snow globe, you couldn’t help thinking. You wondered where Barbatos got it from, and if you could get one as well to put on your desk. 

“It’s just a snow globe,” you said, handing it back to him. “Why do you ask? These are pretty common.”

When he accepted the globe, the warm fabric of his gloves skimmed across your skin. You froze. The itchy sensation tickled your heart, as if urging you to act on whatever thoughts you had in your mind. You doused it with a big sip of your drink, letting the fruity taste distract you from the thoughts bouncing in your head. 

If you keep touching me, I’m going to go insane! This is worse than the brothers!

“I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he said, again with that same smile that seemed to never leave his face. You looked away to start cutting the sweets on your plate, putting maybe just a little too much force on the fork than you should have. “I’ve always found them intriguing.”

Tilting your head, your eyebrows furrowed. “What’s so interesting about them? They’re just snow globes.”

“It’s just amazing how humans, the majority of which are unable to use magic, invent their own form of magic,” Barbatos said, slowly spinning the globe around with his long, slender fingers. The agitated snow flew up again, covering everything inside in a flurry of white. Yet despite the commotion, the sheep slept ever so peacefully. “Demons may be powerful with all sorts of magic at our disposal, but we cannot compare to humans’ creativity.”

You watched the storm rage around the small sheep, as if the blizzard was a sort of barrier, or protection against the world beyond it. But to the sheep, that was its world. Was it trapped in this small glass? Or would it be better that this small world was all it had ever known, this paradise of eternal snow?

“We’re just desperate,” you said slowly. Your gaze landed on the lake beside you, just in time to see a cluster of crystalized magic fracture and fall apart, returning back to where it started, only to repeat the same process all over again. Unhurried, it bloomed at its own pace, as if time did not exist. “We spend our lifetime wishing for things. Those who want it bad enough just take matters into their own hands, and some end up more successful than others.”

Barbatos hummed, the low timbre of his voice tickling your ears. “It’s not so bad to be desperate,” he said. “As a result, you managed to create something so beautiful, similar to our time magic. It’s wonderful to see.”

He tapped on the snow globe, the muffled sound catching your attention. His eyes were narrowed with a playful smile that had you nervous but also surprised. It was rare for Barbatos to display anything other than an unreadable expression, smile included, on his face.

“Would you like to learn?” he asked, and of course you could never refuse when he’s the one asking you. How could you when he’s asking so nicely? Even though he was busy with his duties, he still offered his time and attention—this meet up, too. You could barely grasp how long the desserts he’s been stuffing you all this time took him to make.

The stuffy feeling in your chest curled up just like the edges of your lips. “Of course, I would love to.”

For a moment, he seemed satisfied. His lips were set softly, and his eyes were warm, gentle, indulging, as if the moment you asked for anything, he would do it for you without hesitation. As if you asked for the moon, he would also give you the stars, and he probably wouldn’t even sweat doing it.

“Perfect,” he said, getting up from his seat. He offered a hand to you, pulling you up when you accepted it. “Why don’t we save it for our next meeting? For now, shall I demonstrate?”

It wasn’t a question, because then, a wind blew, ruffling your clothes, and the temperature dropped, evident in the puff of fog that left your lips when you exhaled. It was currently summer in the devildom, so you were nowhere near prepared for the sudden temperature change. 

But of course, Barbatos, ever so thoughtful, set a hand, the same one that had helped you up earlier, on your arm. It fought away the chill biting away at your flesh, but it also increased your heart rate way too much for it to be healthy or normal. Not like you let it show.

He was just casting a spell, you told yourself, mentally smacking your face. Just casting a spell. 

“What do you think?” Barbatos said. Despite the magic being applied, he didn’t take away his hand, which slid down to cradle your elbow. Even through the spell, the warmth of his palm stood out, like it was burning wherever he touched.

Distracted, you almost missed his question. It took you an embarrassingly long time to gather the words scattered in your mind. He probably thought you were an idiot, but you didn’t let that stop you from answering.

Taking a look around you, you saw how the previously green leaves of the tree had now turned a deep red, tinging into purple at the edges. They slowly fell off with the wind blowing by, blanketing the ground with their regal crimson. Some even drifted onto the walkway. Although, at a certain point along the path, the autumn leaves stopped entirely, as if there was an invisible wall preventing them from going any further.

“How does this work exactly?” you asked, turning to Barbatos. “You didn’t only change the season, right?”

He regarded you softly with a smile that you had never seen on him before. It was a small smile, not unlike his normally polite ones, but it reached his eyes in that they crinkled so gently at the edges, the love bands underneath his eyes scrunching up in fondness, and if you squinted, there seemed to be a hint of pride lining his eyebrows. 

“You’re so observant, my dear,” he praised, and you felt your heart soar in your chest, expanding and expanding until something that you could only describe as a mess of warmth and gooey tenderness was the sole thing you felt coursing through your body. Nothing could beat compliments. Especially when it came from someone that you cared about. “Your observations are exactly right.”

He gestured at the scenery before you with his free hand, his white glove a stark contrast against the vibrant vegetation. “Although time magic has varied applications, this type is the most common in art. If it makes it easier to understand, the closest analogy is precisely the snowglobe.”

As if someone pressed the two times speed button, the leaves coating the ground withered and dried into scratchy piles of dead greys and muted oranges. Dark clouds soon rolled in after, followed by a gust of wind that, thankfully because of the spell, skimmed right over your skin. You looked up through the glass roof. Breathing out a cloud of fog, you saw that it had begun to snow.

“This technique isolates space,” Barbatos continued. “The isolated space has a separate flow of time decided by the caster. It could be sped up, slowed down, or completely stopped. Anything goes, which makes the art created with this technique so interesting.”

“I can see why,” you said, laughing. “I never knew the garden looked so pretty in winter.” 

With the snowfall came a sort of quiet that only a dark winter night could bring, a kind of chilling hush that fell over the land and slept softly against the white expanse of snow. It was something you didn’t know you missed until this moment. How long had it been since things were this peaceful? 

Barbatos’ grasp on your arm tightened. “You should visit more frequently,” he said in a light voice, watching the snowflakes flutter down. “I don’t see you very often.”

Nothing changed, but something felt different from before.

You reached out a hand. As if it had been summoned, a single, tiny snowflake, one among the indistinctive many, arrived and landed on your palm. In a second, or maybe even less, it melted as quickly as it came. It barely left anything behind, like it had just simply vanished, disappeared into the darkness from where it came. 

There was an itch of guilt in your chest.

“I should,” you finally responded. “I’m sorry, Barbatos.”

He drew nearer. If he was close before, he was closer now, to the point where he could wrap his arms around you in a hug if he just extended his arms. It was such a fragile distance. 

“What is there for you to apologize for?” he asked, his other hand coming up to softly clasp yours, the one the snowflake fell on. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

You attempted a smile, but you didn’t think it was particularly convincing. “Maybe I’ll move into the castle. That way I can see you more,” you joked, but you knew it would likely never happen. Diavolo probably wouldn’t mind, but then what about the brothers? What about the rest of the Devildom, the ones that saw you as nothing more than some human? 

What right did you have?

Barbatos leaned towards you, his head just shy of touching yours. He looked intently at you. “My dear,” he said slowly, softly, as if he was afraid that you would miss his words if he went any faster. “You can have anything you want. As long as it is what you truly desire.”

“...Anything?” you whispered.

“Anything,” he promised, and that was enough.

There was something in your throat, something sour that stuck around and refused to come out, and you didn’t know whether to cry or smile, so you did an odd combination of both where it came out more like a wince with your furrowed eyebrows and curled lips, but in the end, it didn’t matter. Your vision blurred, and you guessed that your body chose to cry after all.

You tried a laugh. “You’re so silly, you know,” you said with a trembling voice. “Promising me ‘anything.’ You can’t go back on your words, okay?”

“What kind of demon would I be to go back on my words?” Barbatos said, but you’re pretty sure he was joking. He smiled, and you found that you couldn’t really say anything back when he smiled like that. “Let me give you a gift.”

When he looked down at your hand, you followed his gaze only to see a snowflake in your palm. You thought another one had landed until it melted and crystallized and melted again, all within the span of a couple seconds.

“Do you like it?” he asked. “It’s your snowflake now. It’ll be with you until the end of time.”

You almost couldn’t believe his words. Who could lay claim on a singular snowflake? Yet he had clearly done so just now, so nonchalantly, so casually as if it was something normal that anyone could accomplish and give as a gift.

“What if I lose it?” you choked out, staring worryingly at the timeless, ever transforming droplet of water. “It’s so tiny.”

Barbatos chuckled quietly, drawing your attention back to him. Fondly, he said, “You won’t, my dear. Why don’t you take a closer look?”

Following his words, you studied the snowflake closer, tilting your hand this way and that, when suddenly, the light caught against something around the snowflake. You tried again. A sparkle glinted back at you, and you realized it was from a thin layer of something resembling a plastic film wrapped around the snowflake, encasing it, isolating it from the outside world. A notch stuck out at the top, like it was meant to hook onto something.

It had become… a pendant.

You looked at Barbatos, incredulous at how he came up with an idea like this. He met your exasperated look with a calm smile and gentle, olive green eyes. But at that moment, you fully realized the weight of his words, that he had already begun to fulfill his promise, that his gift meant more than a mere gift.

Anything, he said. Anything. 

If you wanted the moon, he would even give you the stars.

“Barbatos,” you said, and he responded with an attentive hum. “If you ever go back on your words, I think I’ll cry.”

Finally, finally, his forehead rested against yours, as if he had finally allowed himself to do so. The fragile distance between you two had closed. But even though he was so close that you could see the bright green specks in his eyes, you still couldn’t figure out what was going through his mind. Would you ever?

Maybe, the day you find out would be the day you would be able to give him anything he wanted. 

“Please, don’t cry,” he said, and suddenly his voice was so loud, so firm against the swaying snow. His hands were so warm. “I may be a demon, but I’ll always be your demon.”

A cozy feeling tickled your heart.

-------

im sorry this is so late OTL

but don't worry, this series will eventually be finished!

Masterlist!

[eternal-kosmo-ghoul]

terzo smut. now.

❝say it louder❞

➵ “i won’t let you ‘till i hear you say it” —❤︎

pairing: terzo x gn!reader

theme: smut ❣︎

a/n: filthy terzo porn as a warmup for my upcoming swiss fic 🤭

cw: nsfw content. no gendered language for reader’s body. bondage. edging. slight fingering. begging kink. terzo is a huge tease

┅✦┅

“come on now, mi amore. i know you can do better than that.”

this aching feeling of not being able to release anything was downright excruciating. your entire body felt like it was on fire, but the sheer agony of being denied from your climax over and over and over again,

it was torture.

and terzo was reveling in it.

tied up like a pretty little present on the bed, scarlet red rope restraining you from any movement. you were helpless and completely bound to the papa’s bed. legs bent all the way back that your feet were touching the bed frame. he was making you flexible.

your were completely stripped of any clothing, leaving your bare body exposed to his piercing gaze. it was like a secret garden. terzo’s secret garden. only he could get to see you in such a state.

and there he stood over the edge of the bed, eyeing your body like a predatory looming over his prey. you were his sweet treat to enjoy.

“t-terzo… baby.. i-i can’t..” you pathetically whimpered. poor you. you couldn’t even get a full, coherent sentence out. terzo really was just having a power trip right now.

“awww, what’s the matter, honey? i can’t understand you when you’re speaking like that…” he spoke in that sugary sweet tone, acting like he wasn’t doing such naughty things to your body.

his gloved fingers prodded and teased at your sex, which was already aching with a sensitive desire to be completely filled up.

you whined from the little contact. “a-ahh! mmh… t..terzo..”

“what’s that, babe? i can’t hear you…” terzo practically purred, his voice having that mischievous flair to it, only serving to fuel your arousal.

you could see that terzo was rock hard through his pants, you swore you could even see some pre-cum leaking through the fabric. but he seemed completely unaffected by it. he was more interested in your arousal.

terzo just grinned devilishly and leaned down, his hot breath brushing against your ear.

“say it louder, dolcezza. and maybe, i might just let you cum.”

oh he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

the little tease he was, always egging you on and keeping your sweet hole edged and begging for something to fill it up.

and terzo always got what he wanted from you.

“p-please… please terzo…”

“hmm? what was that, darling? i can’t hear you… speak up now~”

you couldn’t hold back anymore. all of that pent up pleasure building within you was enough to make you burst out into a blubbering, near-to-tears mess.

“please terzo, please let me cum! i-i want to cum so badly… want your cock inside of me— mmh p-please..!”

terzo let out a moan of satisfaction and clicked his tongue, pleased with your reaction.

“there we are… that’s the good little pet i know.”

you looked up to see terzo take off his gloves with his teeth, pulling them off like it was nothing. he then thrusted his digits into your entrance like it was nothing, making you cry out from the feeling and your body spasm against the restraints.

he just smirked and thrusted his fingers deeper.

“now it’s time to let you have your reward.”

[pabsterthelobster]

The "Ascended" Spidersonas

For the third volume of Spider-Verse comics that came out in 2019, the concept of the "Spidersona" that was popularized by the release of the animated film Into the Spider-Verse was acknowledged by way of integrating three different Spidersonas each issue into the comic multiverse through short character profiles at the end of each issue. The former half of these 18 characters would even show up in the final issue of the run in person, with Sun-Spider getting some particularly special treatment afterwards.

Spidersona hero names are bolded and real names (if avaliable) are in parentheses.

Issue 1

Spider-Requiem (Polymnia Swan) of Earth-98117: Created by Cotton Valent from Thailand, Ms. Swan, named after the Greek Muse of Dance, hides her scarred face with her mask and uses her webs to control handmade puppets in combat.

Spinster of Earth-93191: Made by Antonio Demico of France with a design inspired by both the French Revolution and the original Madame Web, the Spinster can generate webs from her prehensile hair which she can then use to spy on conversation like a

V of Earth-43890: As written by V-0-3 from Poland, V is a robotic Spider who lives in Kyoto in the year 2177 who fights crime both physically and digitally, being able to connect herself to the internet to stop cybercrimes.

Issue 2

Spidair of Earth-91202: As written by Dice Shimi of France, Spidair was bitten by a spider from a space laborabtory and possesses thick skin that protects him from extreme temperature immunity as well as the ability to glow brightly to blind enemies.

Sea-Spider of Earth-19192: Being able to breathe underwater and wielding a hook and grappling pistols, the sona provided by the UK's James Gifford is a Spanish nobleman who sails the seas aboard his ship the Aracne.

Spider-Sting of Earth-38418: As explained by Tori Apiradee, Spider-Sting's powers are more acidic in nature, with webs that can erode concrete and bricks.

Issue 3

Sun-Spider (Charlotte "Charlie" Webber) of Earth-20023: Considered the breakout hit of these sonas, Dayna Broder's Sun-Spider has Ehlers-Danlos syndrome, which makes her hyper-flexible at the cost of needing to use crutches and a wheelchair for stability. She has received her own dedicated story in Edge of the Spider-Verse as well as a vocal cameo in Across the Spider-Verse.

Garden-Spider (Petunia Parker) of Earth-71925: After being shrunken down in size, Petunia tends to her garden, swinging from the flowers like they were skyscrapers to fight against villainous insects like the Aphid. Her creator is Alyssa Ragni of the US.

White Widow (Venice Doadi) of Earth-23233: Carly Henson describes this sona as coming from a future timeline, possessing the ability to secrete toxins from her bare skin, which she coats both her webs and clawed fingers with.

[spidersmiceandeverythingnice]

Spider-Lily - an Elain snippet

They come in the night. Elain was dreaming of the garden she'd grow one day beyond the iron walls of the Nolan family fort, and was woken with a hand over her mouth.

She froze, adrenaline shooting through her systems. An old, ancestral fear spiked, curling it's claws into her.

Faeries.

She'd had enough of Feyre's odd companions on the grounds to recognize them - and this hand, slender and soft, with long nails, was too cool and too strong to be human.

Elain tried to breathe; her nose wasn't covered, at least. She turned her eyes up, following the pale line of the wrist and arm, up to a delicate shoulder cloaked in white, a spill of golden hair.

The faerie woman smiled, as sweet as poison and bright as a desert sun. She was stunning, far more beautiful than any other living creature that Elain had ever seen. Awe and terror clashed inside of her. If only she had her sister's strength, their talent - she thought she ought to try and resist, maybe to wrench her mouth free and say something witty. But she couldn't. She only stared, paralyzed and in awe.

"Shhh," the faerie murmured, and with the hand not holding Elain to the bed, she gently brushed hair off of her forehead. "Don't fuss. We don't want to hurt you."

It occurred to Elain that the faerie woman was not alone. Two figures lingered in her doorway, and for a split second, Elain was certain that the Night Court had betrayed them. But their armor was different - less flexible, with greater coverage. The faces beneath the dark horned helmets - yes, these were different.

"Priestess?" One of the two hissed at the woman in Elain's room. The question went unanswered as the woman gazed down at Elain with lidded brown eyes.

"Its alright," said the woman, smiling over her shoulder. "The little doe won't run. Fetch the sister."

The two armored figures were gone in an instant. At last, Elain remembered herself and shot bolt upright, knocking the woman's hand away.

"Don't hurt Nesta," she pleaded. "We didn't know - the Night Court just arrived here one day and we have nothing to do with them -"

The faerie woman appeared amused, eyes sparkling, and let out a chuckle that caused Elain's voice to die in her throat. With an almost friendly air, the female sat down on the edge of the bed, reached over and touched Elain's cheek.

"How sweet you are," she said. "You are just as your sister said you'd be. I knew you'd be my favorite."

Elain swallowed hard. It could not have been Nesta - never - but this meant that Feyre...?

"Sweetheart," said the faerie woman. "We have no intention of hurting you. Do you believe me?"

She stroked Elain's cheek, gazing at her with an eagerness that Elain did not and could not unferstand. Elain tried to remember if hypnosis was a common magical ability among faeries. Her throat was suddenly dry, her chest tight. Somewhere down the hall, Nesta howled with rage and there was a clatter of metal, a surprised grunt. Somehow, Elain knew that her sister was being captured by the soldiers, dragged physically from her sleep. Though her eyes filled with tears, Elain was fixated on the carved planes of the beautiful face in front of her. She could not have looked away even if she tried.

"I believe you," said Elain.

The woman smiled. "Good. Will you come with me?"

"Where?" Elain whispered.

"To eternity," the faerie promised. "Come, I'll show you."

She stood and offered her hand.

Elain took it.

[missmagooglie]

words: hot, tremble, desire

Hot: from the Babysitter AU 🌶️🌶️🌶️

At first everything seems to be going well, but after a few minutes of thrusting he realizes that what he’s doing isn’t building to anything. It feels good – his dick is thrusting into something hot and wet, of course it feels good – but it isn’t getting the job done.

Bonus Hot: from Therapy Baby

"All I'm saying is that's a pretty big ego flex there, Buck," Eddie continues, his smile widening as he jokes. "Thinking you’re so hot that a woman can’t be held responsible for her own ethics violations."

Tremble: from Therapy Baby

“Sorry,” Maddie says, her voice trembling. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. Are you both OK?” Maddie hasn’t started moving again, her hands gripping the wheel hard enough to turn her knuckles white. The cars behind them are starting to honk incessantly, which is no surprise given that they’re holding up traffic for no apparent reason on the freeway.

Desire: from the Practical Magic AU

Eddie isn't worried, though. Abuela has shown him how flexible spells can be when the caster has a clear intention, and Eddie's intention feels very clear right now. Once he’s prepared, he carries the bowl out to the edge of the garden for the final step. For every quality he desires in his true love, he adds a petal from a white rose to his bowl.

Work in Progress Guessing Game

[johaerys-writes]

A World With You | E | Dorian Pavus/Trevelyan

Ch. 60: A Last Dance

Read on AO3 | Read from the beginning

Dorian followed Cassandra as she ran, pushing shocked nobles out of the way without mercy. The Seeker’s jaw was set in a harsh line, her impressive muscles all tense beneath her uniform. She had her eyes fixed ahead of her with deadly purpose. 

“We can’t let Florianne get away,” she told all of them, only a little breathless from having run across the entire ballroom and along the length of the vestibule towards the palace gardens. “She either surrenders and comes peacefully, or she doesn’t leave the palace grounds at all. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Iron Bull said, hefting his heavy axe. None of them had had any time to change out of their uniforms in their haste to find the Duchess; they had only barely managed to grab their weapons and make a run for it. Sera beside Dorian clicked her tongue, her features twisting in a fierce grimace. 

“Will turning her legs into bloody pincushions work?” she growled. "'Cause that's what I'm planning to do."

“I doubt she’ll surrender without a fight,” Solas chimed in. The elf had spent most of the night hidden away in the corners of the ballroom, watching the proceedings from a distance and sipping on chilled wine, no doubt cataloguing everything for later use. Solas was always much more observant than anyone gave him credit. “Neither she, nor the assassins that will surely come to her aid.”

Cassandra grunted her assent, and tightly gripped the hilt of her sword.  

The air in the palace gardens was a touch less stifling than before when they finally reached them, their boots ringing against the smooth, patterned marble. A hint of movement ahead of them alerted them to the presence of Florianne; she was standing on top of the marble railing overlooking the yard and the impressive fountain, balanced at its edge like a cat. In the mere moments that had passed since they all quit the ballroom, she had managed to change out of her frumpy and voluminous skirts and into a much more flexible leather ensemble which fit her form snuggly and made her blend into the background of the night. She was wearing a mask, much like the harlequins she had employed to wreak havoc in the palace, and an arrow was already nocked in her bow, pointed at them. 

“Where is your leader?” she asked. “Is he not going to do us the honour? Please inform him that I am sorely disappointed. I was so looking forward to a last dance.” 

“Please don’t flatter yourself, Duchess. The Inquisitor has other business to attend to,” Dorian replied with a sickly sweet smile. “Believe it or not, you are actually second or third on his list of priorities. You will have to contend with us.” 

Florianne’s lip twitched in disgust. She recovered quickly, her gaze sweeping over them in utter contempt.

“Look at you,” she said, the words dripping with sarcasm. “At all of you. What a perfect picture of defeat you present! You thought you stole the moment of my triumph, just as you stole the Freemen army from Gordian, yes? And now you've chased a defenceless woman into the garden. Are you proud of yourselves?”

“Defenceless?” Dorian scoffed. “Please. You’re as defenceless as a viper in a prickly pear bush.”

Cassandra tensed beside him, taking a step forward. “We have the palace. Surrender, Your Grace. You don’t have to die today.”

“Surrender? Now? Oh, you poor deluded thing. The night is still young. All I need is to keep you here long enough until your Inquisitor comes for you. And then, I'll kill him too.”

“Oh, it takes a lot more than a couple arrows to kill him,” Dorian agreed. “He’s quite the resilient fellow, you see.” 

“We'll see about that,” Florianne said as she disappeared in a cloud of smoke. 

Cassandra’s sword was out of its scabbard before Florianne’s smoke bomb had touched the ground. “Find Florianne. Hurry!”

“You got it!" Iron Bull said as he grasped his axe handle with both hands and jumped over the railing. He landed on his feet with a tremendous roar, laughing as he swung at the Venatori guard that was hiding in the bushes. 

“She's up on the wall!” Cassandra yelled, cutting down the Venatori that jumped before her. “Don’t let her out of your sight!” 

“Leaving so soon, Your Grace?” Dorian asked with a high-pitched laugh. He tapped the end of his staff on the ground, and the crystal on top of it shone brilliantly in the night. Magical energy flowed through him, sweet and fiery and pure, exhilarating him; he gathered his focus and visualised a rune of merciless fire, which quickly materialised where Florianne was perched precariously upon the wall. “Now, is that any way to treat your guests?”

The rune erupted in flames as soon as Florianne moved; she lost her balance and fell down into the gardens with a shriek, landing amidst some bushes. Solas was quick to take advantage of the opportunity; he summoned frost, chilling the Duchess and slowing her movements. 

But the effect didn’t last for long. Whatever her armour and weapons were made of, these were no ordinary items: she tapped an embroidered patch on her sleeve with her hand, and the ice soon melted and cleared off her. She flashed them both a rueful grin before she disappeared back in the shadows, shooting a few poisoned arrows in their directions for good measure.

They all glided harmlessly off the barrier Solas summoned around them. 

Dorian side stepped to avoid the incoming attack of a Harlequin, and then toasted his assailant on the spot. He had no interest in keeping the Florianne alive for even a moment longer, not matter how valuable a captive she might be. Someone as crafty as she was was dangerous to keep around; besides, whoever was willing to give the keys to an entire country over to Corypheus deserved every bit of the pain and disaster that was coming their way. 

Read the rest on AO3!

[cherricdwines]

CLOSED STARTER ;

@wiltcdroses / oliver & emrys

         ━━━━        VULNERABLE AND IN THE DEPTH OF HIS GRIEF, oliver banks would do anything to protect his sisters. two little girls who had lost both their mother and father within a matter of minutes. two little girls who much like oliver, would never know the warmth a mother could provide. they would not remember their father’s laugh or how he would chase them around their garden, throwing them over his shoulders claiming to be the luckiest man alive. all they would know was oliver. oliver, who was always on edge, who worried incessantly. oliver, who refused to let them lose anything or anyone else.

upon hearing of his father and stepmother’s deaths, the boy was quick to take them in. to move them away from a home stained with blood and heavy with loss. he’d move them across the country — away from people, objects, and places that could bring back the painful memories. in doing so, there was a great deal of sacrifice. oliver would leave his job, friends, and home behind. he’d have to start anew. working full time while attempting to learn the role of caregiver to twin toddlers simply was not feasible. not for him anyway. and so, when he heard a local club was hiring bartenders with more flexible hours, he jumped at the opportunity. it meant he’d have the days with them and when it came time for the girls to rest their heads, someone else could take over. they’d know him. oliver would be there when they woke and when they closed their eyes. it was only the hours in between he would miss out on. it seemed to be the best solution.

only, this job was unfamiliar to him. the boy was stressed beyond belief, and feared even stepping through the door. there were too many people, too many lights and loud noises, and his head — by god, it was never quiet. there was never a time to pause or think or even react. running on two, sometimes three hours of sleep, he often slipped up. it was all catching up to him. so much so that he completely forgot he picked up a shift. having meant to start at 7pm, oliver hadn’t arrived until an hour and a half later, waiting for a last-minute sitter.

rushing into his boss’ office, completely out of air and still sporting a princess tiara one of the girls placed on his head during teatime, oliver banks was nearly ready to topple over.

“i’m sorry — i am so, so sorry i’m late. i’m usually off thursdays and i forgot to tell the sitter i needed her tonight and then i forgot i worked tonight. the girls just—” a deep breathe, a long exhale “—wanted to play, but then i saw the time and i had to wait for the sitter to arrive and— and… i’m sorry.”

[tabletopmayhem]

B A S I C S

Full name: Tabitha Concordia Vittoria Sangiovanni, but call her Tabby

Gender: Female

Sexuality: Lesbian

Pronouns: She/her

Clan: Mekhet

Bloodline: Sangiovanni

O T H E R

Birthplace: Krakow, Poland

Family: Her human family is meaningless, as she was kidnapped at six years old and raised by the Sangiovanni family of necromancer vampires. She was chosen by the Matriarch to become her daughter's ward, as the family line was dying out and needed new blood to intermingle with their mortal children. They tried to marry her off to her foster brother. Tabby wasn't thrilled, and jumped on the chance to go to America instead to aid the family overseas. She was embraced as a vampire once she reached the New World.

Job(s): As a loyal member of the Sangiovanni for many years, and perhaps the most personable of her twisted brethren in New York City, she was their...public relations with other vampires.

Phobias:  The madness of age, losing her own morality, her own habitual inaction and the consequences of it. Small dogs.

Guilty pleasures: Classic cars, vintage pearl jewelry, intricately plotting the demise of people she hates in bed at dawn, comforter tucked under her chin. She claims it helps her stay positive.

Hobbies: Gardening, cultivating her Rose Wives, zombies of her murdered lovers that host living, thriving roses she carefully hybridizes in her greenhouse. Playing piano. Puzzles.

M O R A L S

Morality alignment: Chaotic Good(ish), which is odd for a necromancer, but she's very singular.

Sins:  lust / gluttony / pride / envy / wrath / sloth

Virtues:  charity / diligence / kindness / patience / justice

She's the type of person who has to be pushed to the edge to do anything, which hasn't been good for the people who love her. One could make the argument that she's more neutral than good, but her intentions are generally good.

T H I S   O R   T H A T

introvert / extrovert / in between

organized / disorganized / in between

close-minded / open-minded / in between

calm / anxious / restless / in between

disagreeable / agreeable / in between

cautious / reckless / in between

patient / impatient / in between

outspoken / reserved / in between

leader / follower / flexible

empathetic / un-empathetic / in between

optimistic / pessimistic / realistic

traditional / modern / in between  

hard-working / lazy / in between

While on the surface, again, she's very kind and personable and gets along with everyone...that's her job. Her family is strange, and the more modern the world gets, the more they're looked at in askance. Necromancy seems a bit medieval. Her patience and caution, and her pleasant facade got her justice for the wrongs she silently suffered in the end, so who can say she's wrong? (probably all the people who died because she won't take action)

R E L A T I O N S H I P

OTP: Tabitha has had five wives, all mortal. What she really wants is to find someone suitable to be a member of the family, someone she can make Nonna happy by marrying and embracing. Nonna isn't concerned with the lesbian thing, but hell help her if she brings home someone who acts weird around the zombies. So far she hasn't had much luck (also cuz her wives keep getting murdered) One day she'll find someone, if she's patient.

BroTP:  Tabby likes the coterie fine, but they're not locals of course. Her closest confidant is Marchesa Hannah Rosso, but they also do not like each other much. Hannah is very brusque and ambitious, and Tabby is very passive and calm. They had a common enemy, but now he's gone.

NOTP: The Barone Luca Rosso, the guy that kept killing her wives because she wasn't interested in him. It was a bone of contention between them, understandably. She couldn't do anything to him because her wives were just humans, and no one would support her. But now the coterie encased him in concrete and dropped him in the ocean, so she's happy.

It doesn't bring back her wives, but she's a necromancer, she's got that part covered.

[joysunsafetygloves]

Application of Leather Working Gloves [Infographic]

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Here are some of the main applications of leather working gloves:

Construction and Carpentry:

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Automotive Repair and Maintenance:

1. Safeguard hands when working on vehicles, engines, and machinery. 2. Offer protection from oils, grease, and sharp edges. 3. Enhance grip for tasks like changing tires or working with tools.

Metalworking and Welding:

1. Shield hands from heat, sparks, and molten metal during welding and fabrication. 2. Prevent burns and cuts when handling hot or sharp metal components. 3. Maintain dexterity and control for precise work.

Gardening and Landscaping:

1. Protect hands from thorns, brambles, and other sharp plant materials. 2. Provide grip and dexterity for tasks like pruning, digging, and handling tools. 3. Safeguard hands from blisters and calluses during prolonged manual work.

Manufacturing and Assembly:

1. Offer protection for hands during handling of raw materials, parts, and finished products. 2. Maintain dexterity and tactile sensitivity for delicate assembly work. 3. Guard against cuts, abrasions, and impact injuries.

Maintenance and Cleaning:

1. Protect hands when handling cleaning chemicals, tools, and equipment. 2. Provide grip and dexterity for tasks like scrubbing, wiping, and polishing. 3. Guard against skin irritation and exposure to hazardous substances.

General Outdoor and DIY Activities:

1. Offer protection for hands during tasks like wood splitting, rope work, and equipment maintenance. 2. Enhance grip and dexterity for improved control and safety. 3. Safeguard hands from cuts, abrasions, and environmental exposures.

The choice of leather working gloves depends on the specific application, the level of protection required, and the need for dexterity and flexibility. Factors like material, thickness, and design features are important considerations when selecting the appropriate leather working gloves for the job.

For more information about Leather Working Gloves, visit here www.joysunsafety.com/product-category/leather-working-gloves or contact us +86 13603019083

[emyn-arnens]

Hiiii one or two more for Farawyn? 1 and 51? :) you rule thanks for doing these!

1. Introduction

Faramir’s hand pressed gently between Éowyn’s shoulder blades as he led her across the terrace that bordered the side of their house, its stone floor warm from the sunbeams that spilled through the colonnade on her right and slipped through the cracks between her fingers as she covered her eyes with her hands, as Faramir had asked her to. 

“Only a little farther,” he said, guiding her down the terrace steps and through the deep, springy turf that surrounded their house; past the cool shadow of the ash tree that grew behind their house; and over the flagstone path that divided her herb garden into two halves, until he stopped her by touching her arm, and she heard a door unlock and swing open before her—the door to her healer’s quarters that he had ordered the construction of in early spring, but had bidden her to not visit until the construction was done, so that he might surprise her.

“You may look now,” he said, and Éowyn heard a smile in his voice.

Opening her eyes, Éowyn saw before her the stone house, split into two wings that surrounded a small courtyard in the center, that she had watched Faramir’s hired hands construct stone by stone for months, and she stepped inside the open door, her mouth parted slightly in awe at the sight that greeted her: To the left, beneath the shadow of the blooming tamarisk trees that bordered the side of the house, was a low, cool room whose walls were lined with cedar-wood shelves, all filled with her various jars and bowls of compounds, pastes, and tinctures, and several worktables stood in the center of the room, and the ceiling was strung with bundles of dried herbs; to the right, sunlight streamed through the wide windows of an airy room that held several beds and small tables, and clay pots filled with mint, lemon balm, feverfew, and thyme lined the windowsills.

Éowyn turned in wonder, scarcely able to take everything in, and reaching for Faramir’s hand, she said, “It is more than I could ever have wished for.”

51. Sport

“Do not hold your shoulders and arms so rigidly!” Éowyn called to Elboron, watching her son grimace as the force of Faramir’s parry traveled down the length of his sword to his arms, and his blade wavered and fell from his hands, and he flung himself to the ground in defeat.

Hiding a smile, Éowyn stood up and collected Elboron's sword, bidding him to rest in the shade of the tree she had been sitting under and watch her and Faramir demonstrate. 

The length and weight of Elboron’s blade was shorter and lighter than she was used to, but it would serve, and she assumed her stance, keeping her shoulders open and flexible and her grip on the hilt firm, and she parried Faramir’s thrusts with ease, blocking each strike with fluid motions. With a wink that Faramir returned, she ducked beneath his next blow, caught the edge of his blade with hers, and twisted, disarming him; and as Faramir’s sword clattered to the ground, Elboron leaped up and shouted in amazement before running over to them and begging to learn the maneuver. 

Kneeling before Elboron, Éowyn smoothed his hair fondly and said, “Your father and I will teach you, once you have progressed further, but you must remember that although such maneuvers are eye-catching, they are solely means of defending yourself, for you must only fight when you have need to—to defend yourself or those whom you love—and not to seek glory in prowess or battle.”

Send me a number and two characters and get a five-sentence drabble.

[voidsumbrella]

oh right i was gonna poll about ocs

hi. this is adder!

he's a trans guy who was born after the apocalypse, and also the star of my webcomic which has updated- *checks notes*- like, 3 times, 2 of which weren't... actually about him. oops.

aaaanyway, he lives alone in a mostly-underground bunker on the edge of the woods. he's mostly just trying to survive, and he does a pretty good job, for the most bit.

there's always a lot of shit he's supposed to be doing on any one day, but his schedule's really flexible.

(also, feel free to toss other questions in the replies or tags or w/e, ill drop those in as well)