#he’d be an astounding father too

[avocado-writing]

Could I request headcanons for Astarion, Gale, Wyll, Halsin, Dammon, Rolan, and Zevlor react to his gn crush confessing to him while obviously waiting for rejection?

absolutely my love, here you go!

Astarion

Is not surprised you’re confessing (he knew how you felt it wasnt subtle lol), but is surprised that you seem so defeated about it

sort of annoys him? Upsets him? Of course he’s going to feel the same way, how can you think so little of yourself? He’s of the opinion that you’re wonderful. it’s so easy to fall for you.

but then he hesitates: he knows how easy it is to think poorly of oneself. He can’t judge you too harshly.

takes your hand, tells you that you’re lovely, and invites you out for coffee the next day. just the two of you. his heart skips a beat when you light up.

Gale

admires how courageous you are. can see you’re shaking as you admit your feelings.

”why do you think I wouldn’t feel the same way? you are one of the most spectacular people I’ve ever met. Anyone would be lucky to have you. I’d be lucky to have you.”

smiles when he sees how you start to grin, puts his hands on your waist and brings you in for a kiss.

if you’re a magic user dancing lights erupt from you because you’re so overwhelmed ✨

Wyll

Oh, sweet Wyll. Gobsmacked that you think he’d turn you down.

takes your hand and guides you somewhere where the two of you can be alone.

when you have your privacy he asks if he can kiss you.

you feel heat rise in your cheeks but nod, and he gives you the most astounding first kiss you’ve ever had lol

then he takes you out for dinner and holds your hand across the table the whole meal

(when you’re together properly he makes jokes the whole camp was asking “wyll they won’t they” about the two of you and you groan lmfao)

Halsin

another one who takes you to a private place to talk.

brushes your hair out of face and then cups your cheek in the same gesture, begins to wax poetic about how perfect the oak father made you and how you are without fault.

has echoed your feelings for a long time now and is glad you made the first move which takes a lot of the weight off your chest

he scoops you up in his big arms and swings you around until all the worry is gone and you’re laughing 💕

Dammon

his heart hammers in his chest when you tell him. he’s only a blacksmith!!!! he doesn’t know how to handle this!!

I imagine you confess to him while he’s working at his forge so that not all of his attention is on you, it’s better to soften the blow when he says he doesn’t feel the same.

puts his tools down, takes off his gloves, and holds your hands. tells you he’s admired you for a long while and is glad you feel the same.

you squeak when he kisses you but his soft touch keeps your grounded ❤️

Rolan

is offended how nervous you are (you don’t find him THAT intimidating do you?! He’s been trying to be nice because he likes you!) - and also a bit annoyed because he’s been working up the courage to confess for ages but you got there first

”Good, I like you too >:(“ “you do?” “Yes >:(“ “then why do you seem so grumpy about it?” “I’m not grumpy! >:( >:( >:(“

you kiss him on the cheek and he’s so flustered he loses control of the spell he was transcribing and magic missiles his office window to pieces lol

Zevlor

this is a battle of the least self-confident lol. you’re like “I don’t think you like me” and he replies “my dear you have so many better options than me”

so it turns 180, with you convincing him that you do like him and listing all his merits!

eventually youre at a stalemate. and then you just kiss each other, trepidatious at first and then getting more passionate as you relax 💕

[gurugirl]

Good Friday*

soft dom priest!harry x sub!reader

Summary: Based on this request. Y/n is a brat and she's in for it.

A/N: Thank you for this request! I did change the request slightly due to some safety 'caging' rules for while he was away but I think you'll like it. 4.8k words

Warning: 18+ only, smut (oral), bdsm w/consensual sexual punishment, use of flogger and other instruments, cage play, dom/sub dynamic, religious themes (actual bible quotes), blasphemy

Priest!harry Masterlist

It wasn’t unusual that Harry was busy. He was often pulled away from Y/n for members of his parish that needed him. But Y/n didn’t like that. She wanted to have his attention all day every day. Of course, that was impossible. Especially on Good Friday before Easter.

“Father please, let’s just stay here a little longer.” She was nearly purring as she crawled down his body to worship his frame. Both were naked in their bed together. Harry had Y/n lie on her tummy and read out of Song of Solomon as he massaged her back and bottom. He knew she would get like this so he was trying to do sweet things for her before he left her all afternoon. And now she was turned on and warm and needy. But that was exactly his plan.

“Can’t pet. You know I’ve got to get to it. I have responsibilities other than you. You know that.”

Y/n pouted and looked up at him as she continued moving down his torso, keeping her eyes locked on his. Her intent was to lick his cock and make him give in. He rarely did. His willpower astounded her.

“Please. Father, I need you,” her eyes glinted upward over his form as she lowered her mouth to his prick which was already half-plumped.

“Ah ah ah… you’re not listening to me very well, pet.” He pressed at her forehead to stop her from applying her lips to his skin. As satisfying as that would have been. He really did have things to do. And he enjoyed denying himself (and her) immediate pleasure.

She sat back as Harry got off the bed and began dressing and combing his hair. She followed him and watched with a sad face and the occasional sigh so he’d know how sad she was.

He bit the inside of his cheek to hide his smirk. He enjoyed this.

Just before he picked up his bag to leave he pointed to the bedroom as he looked at Y/n, “In the cage. I’ll be back in two hours to check on you. I’m not going to lock it since I’ll be gone so long but I do expect you to be in there for me when I return.”

She had books and a glass of water and a nice blanket so her cage wasn’t all that bad. In fact, she loved it. It had never been a punishment for her. But there was something about being in the cage while Harry was away that gave her comfort and made her feel safe.

But two hours was a long time. And when she looked at the clock and realized that Harry hadn’t returned when he said he would she began to worry. She let herself out to use the bathroom and peek out the front window. She was undressed, wearing only her red collar with its bell and her gold choker necklace. Running her fingers over the H that dangled from the necklace she straightened the curtains back out and sat on the couch.  

And the longer she sat and considered everything the more upset she got. She didn’t understand why she couldn’t just go with him. There would be so many people at the church no one would catch on.

Although, there was the one time that he brought her along and she kept lingering around where Harry was and listening in and peeking around doorways to spot him.

No one noticed it but Harry did and he scolded her for it, saying she was being a little too obvious. Plus they were still treading thin ice after the prayer group incident where Mr. and Mrs. Jeralds might have seen or heard something that night. They still didn’t know either way. Which led to Harry’s new rule. That she was only allowed on regular days of service until they were certain they were in the clear.

Returning to her cage, she pulled the door closed and laid down on her side with a frown. She was a bit worried about the priest. He said two hours and it had nearly been three.

When she heard the front door open and his footsteps into the house she sat up quickly and crossed her legs, awaiting his presence. But before he went into the bedroom to see her she heard him go into the kitchen first.

Now she was angry that he didn’t immediately come to see her first. She crossed her arms and leaned back into the bars and cinched her brows together.

Harry pushed the bedroom door open and looked at the cage where his pet was sitting with a frown and body language that told him she wasn’t happy. He figured she might be a bit put out by his tardiness. Harry was never tardy.

“What’s wrong pet?” He knew what her answer would be.

Except she didn’t answer him. She stared down at her crisscrossed legs and pouted instead.

Sliding the handle to open the door Harry crouched down to get a closer look, “I asked you a question. It’s rude not to answer.”

Silence. She hugged her arms around her middle tighter and jutted her bottom lip out, face angled downward.

“I know I’m late but there’s no reason for you to act like this. You know I get held up sometimes. I’m busy, Y/n.”

The first noise that sounded from her was a scoff as she closed her eyes. She knew she’d be in for it with that.

Harry licked his lips as he nodded, “So it’s like that then? All right. Look at me.”

Y/n held her ground, not moving, nor opening her eyes. She was going to make a point.

“You’re acting like a child. Did I somehow leave a lovely and mature adult woman and come back to a bratty immature little girl?”

Turning her head to look down to the floor next to her knee she huffed and sunk into herself further.

“So that’s it then? You’re no longer my sweet lover? Just a brat? Someone that needs to be punished and not loved on?”

Her ridged composure softened the slightest. She would prefer to be loved on yes, but being a brat was always a good way to get his attention. And she knew he was leaving again soon to go back to the church for a few more hours so her best bet, in her mind, was to act out and have him put his attention on her and get him worked up in the process. Maybe he’d spank her.

Harry reached a hand in and brushed it over her naked knee, “Because I had planned on coming home to you and holding you. Giving you something special for being my good pet before I have to go back to church. Clearly, you don’t want that.”

Y/n looked up at the priest and rounded her eyes. She suddenly regretted her behavior but she was already committed so she stayed silent despite the obvious hesitation Harry saw in her.

“Come on. Get out.” Harry took her hand and gently pulled at it.

She didn’t budge at first. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction of her giving in so easily. But eventually, she did move and crawl out of the cage when Harry stood up and raised his voice to have her come out.

She sniffed as she stood and looked down at the floor.

“Look at me.”

With a heavy sigh, she slowly turned her eyes up to his.

“Good. Now, go use the bathroom. Right now.”

She knew what this meant. He was going to lock her in her cage (at the very least) while he was away and he needed to make sure she’d emptied her bladder beforehand. They’d done this before.

Silently she made her way to the bathroom as Harry filled a glass of water for her in the kitchen.

When he heard the sink turn off after she’d washed her hands he knocked on the door, “Come out here.”

She was pretty sight stepping out into the hallway. Her cheeks were hot and her little red collar looked so lovely on her neck. Harry looked down over her nude shape. Soft breasts, a pretty belly button, grabbable hips and thighs, a bottom he loved biting.

“Drink.” He handed her the glass of water and watched as she took a few gulps of it and handed it back to him.

“Is that all you want? You’re going to be in the cage for another few hours so if you get thirsty that’s going to be on you.” Harry always made sure she stayed hydrated even when she wasn’t going to be locked in her cage. He always took care of her the best he could.

She nodded silently and looked downward again.

Harry nudged her toward the bedroom and made her turn to face the cage. She half expected him to spank her or something but instead, as he walked away and then returned put the leather gag belt over her face, “Open,” he said plainly.

She opened her mouth and the silicon ball fit between her lips and silenced any noises she might have made. He secured the belt in place behind her head and removed his hands from her completely. Which she hated. She wanted him to spank her or manhandle her or something. But he was rather cold and his touch was missing completely.

“We’re going to put these in,” Harry put his hand out showing her the weighted Ben Wa balls. “Take them.”

Y/n took the balls in her hand as her priest pushed at her low back, causing her to bend forward the slightest. She heard the snap of a cap and then felt his fingers on her entrance as he smeared lubricant over her.

The set of balls were connected with a thin rubber-like string. The first one was larger and the lightest, which aided in keeping them in place inside of her, while the other two were smaller and heavier. The cord would stick out and make pulling them out easier.

Harry took the balls from her hand and pushed her thighs further apart, “Relax.”

She felt him push the first, larger ball inside, his finger plunging into her deeply to secure it before inserting the next two one by one. It was a pretty view. He loved stuffing them inside of her. Plus it was good for her pelvic floor muscle so he felt like he was doing her a favor really. Though it was more for edging her than anything else in that moment.

“Get in,” he gestured toward the door of the cage.

She climbed in, clenching to keep the balls in place, and got to her knees as she looked up at Harry with big, pleading eyes. He knew that if she weren’t gagged she’d have somehow found her voice in that moment and begged him to spank her or stay with her. But he didn’t have time to argue with her or listen to her soft voice and whimpers as he left. The gag was for that purpose. More for himself than to punish her.

Harry locked the cage and shook his head, “Had plans to love on you but instead, this is what you deserve. Had a hard day today, pet, and I still have to go back and endure more hours away from you yet you chose to act like a bratty child so I didn’t get to come back home to my pet and hold her and kiss her like I wanted. I needed you. Maybe when I return later on you’ll be better behaved.”

Harry sat the glass of water down next to the cage for her so she could reach out and grab it if she needed it. Next to that, he placed her cell phone (in case anything went wrong and he needed to return home to unlock her cage). Her heart swelled at his kind gesture and his words. Now she truly felt awful. Felt so bad for being so mean to him when all he wanted was her love. Now she’d really gone and done it.

Harry grinned to himself as he walked out the front door and headed down the street to the church. Tonight, he would have fun with his pet.

Y/n imagined all the scenarios of what would happen. Surely she’d get a good punishment when he got back. But she’d make sure to show him her appreciation. She’d be so good for him. She’d kiss his feet and say yes, Father to everything and love on him and allow him to do whatever he wanted to her.

He could have tied her up and blindfolded her too. He could have done a lot worse but he gagged her. The sentiment was clear. You don’t want to talk? Okay, we’ll make sure you don’t make even a single peep then.

And the Ben Wa balls? Those weren’t really a punishment at all. She loved how they felt inside of her. Made her feel full and each time she moved the balls slid around inside of her. She had to clench and clamp down to keep them in but that only got her more worked up and wetter by the minute.

This time Harry was away for another three hours. Just over. She’d been lying flat on her back looking up at the ceiling and watching the shadows move along the walls when the sun changed position in the sky as Harry got home.

He entered the bedroom and she quickly scrambled to her knees and looked up at him as she gripped the bars of the cage. She was sweet again. But he already planned on doing some not-so-sweet things to her.

He unlocked the cage and helped her stand up. She pressed her thighs together to hold the balls in place as he undid her gag. Three hours was a lot for the gag to be on and when he saw the way the leather dug into her skin and caused red marks he did feel a little bad. But just a little.

“Spread your legs.” He was still being quite cold with her but at least his hands were on her this time as he gripped her thighs.

She opened her legs up and Harry groaned. She was puffy and wet. The little cord that stuck out a few inches was shiny with her arousal, “Are you all hot and bothered, pet? Did this get you worked up?” He cooed as he smoothed his hands upward on her thighs and slowly got onto his knees, looping his finger into the handle and pulling.

“Yes, Father. I was imagining it was you inside of me. Almost came once but I stopped myself because I know you wouldn’t want that.”

Harry watched as the first ball made its appearance, shiny and slippery, “That’s right. I wouldn’t have been very happy if you’d let yourself come. But I hope you know you’re not going to be allowed to come at all tonight. You were a brat to me earlier.”

She bit her lip and nodded, “I’m sorry, Father. I know I was bad. I hope you can forgive me for my behavior. I don’t deserve to come. Your punishment is just whatever you decide for me.”

When Harry had removed the slippery balls he smiled as he stood and gently smeared her arousal over her mouth before putting his pointer and middle finger over her tongue and in her mouth, “There’s my good pet. Keep showing me how well-behaved you are and tomorrow I’ll give you something special in the morning like I planned earlier.”

Harry removed his hand and turned around, leaving Y/n standing breathless and needy by the cage as he cleaned the balls. She stayed put.

When he came back into the room he put the balls back into their rightful spot and pulled out a flogger. The one with oiled leather falls. The one that hurt quite a lot. But it was Y/n’s favorite when she knew she’d been bad.

She understood quite well what Harry was doing. He’d made her sit with the Ben Wa balls for hours to edge her and now he was going to flog her and not allow her to get off at all. The orgasm denial was going to be the real punishment in this scene.

Harry handed her the flogger as he pulled the metal suspension bar and straps down from the ceiling. Her eyes widened. It’d been a while since he’d had her cuffed to the suspension bar.

He pulled at the Velcro cuffs and motioned for her to come to him, “I’m sure you thought maybe I’d spank you, but you love spankings too much.” He pulled at her wrist and lifted her arm to secure her into the first cuff and then taking the flogger from her he pulled her other arm up, securing the Velcro to her wrist, “So, no spankings for you tonight. You’ll get this instead,” he tapped the leather braided handle over his palm as he spoke.

Y/n nodded silently.

“Tell me, pet, what’s happening right now.” He needed to know she was able to verbalize what was going on. A check-in of sorts.

“You’re going to punish me for being a brat, Father.”

“That’s right. You made my hard day even harder and so I’m going to make your hard day even harder too. It’s only fair. Isn’t that right?”

She nodded, “Yes, Father.”

Harry circled her frame as she tried to keep her eyes on him while he walked around her slowly.

“And what’s this for?” He gently brushed the falls over her shoulders, letting them slide down over her breasts.

“To flog me. Because I’ve been bad.”

“Yes. But why this one? We’ve got some lovely soft ones I could use. The rabbit one you love to play with. Why this one?”

“To mark me. To show me how I’ve sinned. The stripes are for the servant who knew their master’s will but did not get ready or act according to his wishes,” she quoted a partial verse from Luke in the Bible before continuing, “and so I will receive a lashing.”

Harry smiled, “Good. Smart girl. That’s exactly right. Are you ready to be made righteous again?”

“Yes, Father. Please. Make me righteous.”

The first thud over her back bit into her soft skin and stung as expected. She didn’t whimper nor make a peep. She was ready for the bite.

The second one had her hurling forward a few inches and sucking in a sharp breath.

But the third had a gasp falling from her mouth and her eyes squeezing shut at the pain.

“Blows that wound cleanse away evil; strokes make clean the innermost parts.”  Harry quoted a passage in Proverbs as he issued the fourth strike.

She bit down, clamping her teeth together, and squeaked as her body swung forward.

He watched the red marks on her skin grow a deeper hue and begin to welt as he continued, “I will punish their transgression with the rod and their iniquity with stripes,” he spoke calmly as he landed the flogger down over her back again. The fifth hit.

The first tear rolled down her cheek as she tried to stay composed. The smarting sting all over her back was beginning to expand and wrap around to her ribs slowly as he brought the oiled leather falls over her back again. She yelped.

“This is for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness, pet. You’re doing well. I’m proud. Only four more.”

She sobbed at his praise and nodded with her lips trembling. Her fists were clenched together tight as she braced herself for number 7.

“Repeat after me,” his lips pressed onto the top of her shoulder before he got back into position behind her, “I am but a sinner seeking forgiveness.”

She opened her mouth just as he applied strike number 7 and she whimpered as she swayed forward and panted her words, “I am but a sinner seeking forgiveness.”

“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper,” he draped the flogger over her back softly before bringing it down hard over her back for the 8th hit.

“Whoever conceals his transgressions will not prosper,” she spoke weakly as the pain was immense and her shoulders were beginning to ache from the way she was putting all her weight onto them.

“But he who confesses and forsakes them will obtain mercy.” Another blow to her back as she wobbled and cried out at the ninth.

“Uh…” her breath shuddered as tried to remember the words. She knew he was quoting Proverbs but suddenly the words escaped her as her mind began to stretch thin into paper and airy like dandelion seeds, bending slowly into her submissive state, “I’m sorry. I forgot, Father. I need help.”

Harry dropped the flogger to the ground as he noted her voice was tiny and that her composure had been lost. He took her wrists from the Velcro suspension bar and let her fall into his arms, “That’s enough then. You’ve done well.”

He brought her to sit on the bed next to him and lifted the glass of water up to her lips to make her drink. Her eyes were full of tears as she looked at him sweetly and gulped down a drink.

“There you go. Are you okay, pet?” He softly brushed her hair from her face and spoke quietly to see where she was.

“I’m okay, Father. I just forgot the verse you said and I couldn’t repeat it. I’m sorry. You can keep going. Only one more.”

Harry shook his head, “No that’s enough for now. I bet you’ve learned your lesson.”

Y/n whined and shook her head, “No. I need more. I was so bad. Please.”

She sunk down to the floor and put her hands on his knees and slid her palms up his brushed wool pants to the tops of his thighs, “Please.” Her rounded eyes begged him for more.

“What do you want then? Hmm? What do you think is appropriate?” He tilted her face up as he tenderly grasped her chin.

“I want you to come. I need you to or I don’t feel like I deserve your forgiveness.”

“Okay. And how should I come? What should we do to make that happen?” He brushed her wet lips and felt his heart go wild in his chest. He knew what she’d ask for. What she’d beg for. Something that she loved that was never a punishment.

“Please, have my throat and my mouth. I beg you. Choke me with your cock and come wherever you want. I’m yours to use however you please.”

Harry smiled and pushed his thumb into her mouth, “This mouth? Want me to fuck it? Gag you with my come? Is that what you want?”

She nodded, “Yes, Father, please.” Her words were mumbled over his thumb that he still had pushed into her mouth.

“Good girl,” he stood up. “Undo my pants.”

Y/n lifted her fingers to his button and then pulled at his zipper before yanking the material down and then bringing his cock out of his boxer briefs. He was already angrily hard.

“It’s so yummy, Father. My mouth is watering,” she whispered as she inspected him. His cock was right in front of her face, tempting her to taste but she would wait until he gave her permission.

Harry chuckled and wiped the drool from the edge of her mouth, “Your mouth is watering, pet. Well, then. Get to it.”

She immediately jutted her tongue out and began licking him up and down as she kept her eyes on him. This was the easy and soft part. The moments before she sucked him into her mouth and he began to fuck her face.

Harry watched his pet swipe her wet tongue over his shaft and peck warm kisses along his soft skin. A beautiful picture he wished he could have framed and hung up in his living room. He was sure that his parish would not approve.

When she finally popped his tip into her mouth and sucked he grasped her hair and sunk himself into the hilt and groaned.

Harry had been worked up since that morning when he left her. He wouldn’t last long but he would make it good, for both of them.

He began to rock his hips into her as he held the back of her head to keep her in place. She grasped onto his thighs and gagged every time his smooth tip bent down her throat.

“Keep your eyes on me, pet. Want to watch those tears fill up in your eyes.”

She did her best. It was hard to keep them open the way she knew he wanted. His cock was wide and long and every time she gagged and gurgled over him she was tempted to smush her eyelids closed. But she was determined to be the best girl she could be for him so she kept her eyes on his, even though her sight was blurred from the moisture beginning to fill in her vision.

“Yes… my sweet pet. Loves getting her throat fucked. Just made for sucking cock, aren’t you?”

Y/n hummed around him in response as he pulled out before thrusting back in, his cock curving down her throat and she heaved in reflex to the obstruction hitting her tonsils.

“Choking darling?” Harry spoke amusedly as she drooled and forced her eyes to stay open.

He could feel her nails digging into his skin tightly. If she needed air she’d let him know so he continued getting himself off in her mouth. A low groan fell from his lips as he used the hair he had carded between his fingers to move her over him as he pleased, pressing her so far down her nose grazed the skin and hair at his base.

And he was quite pleased. Even when he was holding her down on him and she was coughing and gurgling, she was still looking upward into his eyes with her bleary ones.

Her face was wet and her mouth was stretched out, puffy pink lips wrapped around his dense cock. He smiled down at her and pulled her off of him so she could catch her breath. His own chest rose and fell rapidly as he was right on the edge of his own orgasm.

“Taking me so well,” he gently wiped his thumb over her temple, “I think it’s time for your reward. What do you think?”

She nodded quickly, her fingers still pinching into his skin in anticipation of what was to come, “Need it. Please, Father.” Her voice was a bit scratchy as she spoke but he knew she’d want it.

With his fingers still in her hair he moved his other hand down to her throat, wrapping his palm around the collar as he pushed her down over his shaft and then held her in place as he began to fuck into her throat in heavy thrusts that had her wincing and swallowing around his tip with each punitive glide.

His thighs began to shake and his mumbled words and groans grew louder, “Fuck baby, fuck… Open up for me… Just like that…” He looked down at her wet, hot little face as he held her still for his cock.

He choked out a gasp as he began to come, stilling his harsh thrusts and burying himself in beyond her soft palate and uvula. His cock twitched and throbbed as she swallowed him down like the good girl she always was for him once he got her on her knees before him this way.

He watched her blink up at him with doe eyes as he pulled himself out. She gasped and heaved as saliva spilled out of her mouth and down her chin.

Harry reached for her under her arms to help her stand and gently turned her to look at her back, making sure she was still okay.

“Time to get you cleaned up, pet. Then we’ll make dinner and watch something on TV together. How’s that sound?”

Nodding her head she clung to him as he brought her into the bathroom to wipe her back with a rag and help her clean up between her legs. He had her face the mirror as he stood behind her and began to dab the cool rag onto her skin where the raised flesh was bright pink and hot under his hand.

She looked at him through the reflection of the mirror, “Thank you, Father.

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[kingdaddydaichi]

@luvkun4 @boyfrwenz @chaoskrakenuwu

i've been so stupid h*rny lately and i just want a nice and sweet drabble of daichi fucking his cum back into you and whispering absolute filth about how he's gonna make you pregnant 🥲

Characters | Sawamura Daichi x Fem!Reader

WC | 300+

A/N | Thanks for requesting this anon! Hope its filthy enough for you! I haven’t written anything nsfw in a while, i’ve been in a bit of a rutt with it, thats why its pretty short! But hope you enjoy none the less!!

TW | Breeding kink, mating press, pet name ‘baby girl’.

Tip-Jar☕️ | Navi | Drabble Masterlist

Daichi couldn’t stop thinking about how you ran your hand along the soft fabric of the small bodysuit, the words following after infiltrating his brain all day.

“Dai! Look how cute this is! Can’t wait till we get to go shopping for this sort of thing.”

It was innocent, you didn’t realise you had just opened Pandora's box in his mind. Thoughts of you plump and round, pregnant with his child. He struggled to keep his composure.

It was only later when he finally got you into bed, the sinful sounds of not only skin on skin but Daichi’s filthy words, that you realised what you had unleashed.

“Mmm want me to fuck a baby into you?” He groaned, his eyes trailing down your fucked out form, focusing on where you were both joined. “Think I didn’t see what you were insinuating earlier? I’m gonna fuck you so full, you will be so pretty pregnant”

His thrusts were wild, fast and hard. Your legs shoved to your chest as he pistoned his cock in and out of your overstimulated cunt, completely drunk on your pussy. You were babbling, nothing that came out of your mouth made sense, pure nonsense mixed in with moans and whimpers.

It wasn’t long before he was pumping his first load inside of you, a hiss leaving his mouth at how you pulsated around him. Milking him for every last drop he could give you.

“Fuck… take it babygirl, take all my cum” He moaned under his breath as he pulled his cock out, watching as you ever so slowly started to leak his cum from your puffy cunt.

He tutted under his breath at the site, barely allowing you to catch your breath before he shoved himself back inside, ramming his hips back flush against yours. The whimper that passed your lips only egging him on to fuck you harder this round.

“Can’t have any wasted if you're gonna get pregnant can we?” He growled under his breath, pressing a kiss to your ankle before pushing your thighs back against your chest once again

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[livwritesstuff]

If you need incentive to write the 04 scene of Steve’s mom meeting Eddie, Moe, and Robbie, this is it. The image of Steve stepping in front of them??????? Astounding and I am all but begging you to share what was said — if, of course, you feel the inspiration and need that extra push to write it :)

truly anything for you

tbh this is basically an extension of the last part of this

“–Also, my mom is here.”

“What?” Eddie yelps, which, yeah, fair enough, all things considered. Steve’s been estranged from his parents for over a decade now, so it’s only natural for Eddie to be completely shocked finding out that his mom is here, in their home. 

“Well…y’know, I invited them,” Steve replies as he shifts the way he’s holding their eight-month-old daughter Robbie. 

It’s true – he had invited his parents to the party that he and Eddie are throwing today to celebrate…they’re celebrating a lot of shit, actually, because they’d had a pretty wild few months, but he’s invited them to all the important things over the years.

Before Eddie can respond, Moe wanders over and tugs on the hem of Eddie’s shirt as she says, “Daddy, look at ‘dis, Auntie Robin put a flower in my hair.”

“I mean yeah, duh, Steve,” Eddie finally says as he absently picks up Moe (being mindful of the daisy tucked behind her ear, of course), “I mean, you always…Steve, she’s here?”

“Yeah, she-uh, I dunno. She showed up. We – I sorta yelled at her, I think…”

Steve trails off as his eye catches on a familiar figure hovering by the front door – his mom, he knows, even with her back to him. She must feel his eyes on her, because she turns in their direction, and by then Eddie had realized that something was pulling Steve’s attention so he’s turning too, and then Steve’s mom and Eddie are standing face to face, and alarm bells are going off inside Steve’s head that he can’t really explain, but before he can dwell on it, he finds himself slipping into an old tendency to just blindly act, to protect the people he loves before all else. 

Steve takes a step forward.

Where before he’d been standing in line with Eddie, Steve steps forward, meets his mother with a steady gaze as he puts himself between her and his family.

His mother isn’t blind to this. Steve can see on her face the way she recognizes that step forward for what it was, because he’s got one foot planted firmly between Eddie’s own, and his shoulder is blocking Moe from view completely, and he’s angling himself in a way directs Robbie away too even if doing so hadn’t been a conscious decision, because it all makes crystal clear the kind of threat that Steve perceives his mom to be.

She blinks at him, lips slightly parted, and for a moment Steve finds himself feeling a little bad for her – but only for a moment, because she made her choices just like Steve’s father did, and now they all have to live with them.

Steve lives with those choices every day by being the parent he had needed as a child, and right now that means standing between the parents he did have and the family he has now

“Steve, I–” his mom starts, “I need to be going, but…I’d like to be introduced to your…if you’ll let me.”

She’s looking at Robbie (trying to, anyway), and it makes Steve wonder if she’d even be here today if he hadn’t sent his mother a card back in the spring of ‘02 announcing the adoption of Moe, if he hadn’t spent the years since then sending her updates about his kids. She wonders if she would have shown up at all if it was just him and Eddie.

Steve loves his kids with a kind of love he had never experienced before, but the same is true for Eddie. Sure, it’s a different kind of love, but no less big and no less important. There’s no way in hell Steve will be allowing his mother to pick and choose which parts of his life she gets to participate in. If she wants to know the girls, she goes through Eddie first. Non-negotiable.

Before Steve can say as much, Eddie adjusts his hold on Moe (still keeping her behind Steve, he notices) to free up a hand and hold it outstretched.

“Ed,” he says, and he follows it with, “Steve’s husband,” and Steve can hear the shit-eating grin on Eddie’s face without even needing to look, and he knows that he’s smiling too because he always does when Eddie calls himself Steve’s husband. Then he adds, “Can’t believe we’ve gone this long without an introduction.”

Steve’s mother introduces herself and shakes his hand (though she doesn’t seem to have anything to say to his second comment, Steve notes).

Satisfied (because, frankly, Steve couldn’t really have asked for anything more, all things considered), he finally shifts to the side to introduce his daughters.

“This is Moe,” he says, “Wanna say hi, Moe?”

But Moe has suddenly gone uncharacteristically shy (or maybe she senses the tension and is wisely choosing the side that’s kept her snuggled and fed her entire life – she’s smart like that), tucking her face away in the safety of Eddie’s shoulder. 

Steve watches as Eddie murmurs something in her ear, watches Moe nod even as her little arms twine a little tighter around his neck.

She raises her head and gives a cautious, “Hi,” (with maybe a bit more side-eye than necessary, but…whatever. Moe is who she is).

“Hello,” his mom replies, with a kind of smile on her face that Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen before (a real smile, maybe, but he won’t dwell on that). She gives Robbie a little wave, “And who’s this?”

“This is Robbie,” Steve says, running a hand over her curls, “Can you say hi, Beans?”

Robbie only blinks her big blue eyes, one of her little hands clenched around a bit of Steve’s hair at the nape of his neck.

“How ‘bout a wave?” he suggests, mimicking a wave for his youngest daughter, who parrots the motion in his mom’s direction.

“How old is she, again?” she asks as Steve presses a kiss onto Robbie’s chubby cheek. He knows he already told his mother this but, in fairness, it certainly wasn’t the most memorable part of their contentious conversation not too long earlier.

“Eight months last week,” Eddie answers proudly. He looks at Moe again, “And how old are you, bug? Are you…” he pauses, pretending to think. He looks at Steve, “I think she’s only two, right?”

“Oh, definitely,” Steve nods, pretending to be serious, “Definitely two more than anything else.”

“No-o, I’m more three!” she argues, her little brow furrowing (Steve knew it would – with Moe’s third birthday only a few weeks away, they’ve had many a conversation about how Moe thinks she deserves three-year-old privileges because she’s “more three than two”).

“That’s right, you turn three soon,” Eddie nods, “And we’re gonna throw a…what kind of party?”

“A butterfly party,” Moe finishes.

Steve looks back at his mom.

“You’re welcome to come, you know,” he says, and beside him, Eddie shifts a bit closer, his shoe nudging up against Steve’s, “Y’know, if you’re around. I can send you the info.”

He already sent it. He knows he already sent it, but if this is his mom’s way of extending her own olive branch, of taking the first steps in restoring the relationship with her son, he’ll send it again.

“Sure,” she replies, running a manicured hand through her hair, “We’ll…well, you know your father and his schedule – I’d thought he would have considered retiring by now but…” she pauses, then shakes her head, “Yes, I’d like the details.”

Steve nods, makes a mental note to send his mom the information (because, despite his defensiveness, he really does want her to be a part of his life, his kids’ and husband’s lives too).

She takes her leave only a minute or two later, and when she does, Eddie turns to face him.

“Holy shit, Steve,” he says, wide-eyed.

“I know,” he replies, slowly shaking his head.

“Dude, that was crazy, and we’re definitely gonna have to debrief on whatever the hell you guys talked about earlier, but can I just say you got so fuckin’ lucky that Robin didn’t realize she was here.”

Before Steve can respond, he hears an ominous voice behind him say, “Robin didn’t realize who was here?"

[himexyandere]

Obedience Is Hard to Come By

Pairing: Yandere Butler x Female!Reader 

Word count: 577

Content Warning(s): Possessive behavior, age gap, brat taming, spanking

A/N: This is a short drabble I had rattling around in my head because I absolutely love the idea of butlers disciplining a bratty princess 😍 Next, I'll prolly upload some misc. yandere HC's!

Your duties as a princess were not too abstruse, nor were they necessarily hard to fulfill. That didn’t make them easy, however. Oh no, they were far from simple, you soon came to realize. Or rather, your loyal and extremely uptight butler did his very best to remind you just how demanding being a good little princess was each night you returned to your chambers. 

“Your posture during dinner was utterly abhorrent, my lady.” The sneer was evident in Alistair’s tone, even if you couldn’t see his middle-aged face, graced with sharp features, a strong, clean jawline, and wrinkles decorating the undersides of his steely green eyes. 

For a man who currently had you laid out over his knee, nightgown bunched around your midsection, and wrists tied at the small of your back, he definitely didn’t act like it. That was the kind of man Alistair was, after all — someone who could maintain his composure in most cases. Well, unless that case involved you openly grinding against him like you did after breakfast earlier in the day.

You had a feeling that your posture wasn’t the only thing compelling him to punish you now...

“And in the presence of a potential suitor... Tsk, you know better, I’ve taught you better than that.” 

Ah. 

Now that you took the time to recall the dinner with the supposed suitor, you should have guessed that it would’ve upset Alistair. After all, your butler wasn’t exactly the sharing type, nor did he ever intend to give you up to anyone. As far as every suitor was concerned, he would find some excuse, some reason to urge your father, the king, to reconsider.

He trusted Alistair’s judgment, as did you, but you did have to admit that it was only a little astounding that all of your suitors so far have had dirt dug up on them, effectively ruining their potential to be your husband. 

You wouldn’t go as far as to say that Alistair was planting evidence, of course — but that didn’t stop you from wondering if your butler was actually a lot more influential than he initially let on... 

“Are you spacing out on me, princess?” The velvety baritone of his voice brought you back to reality as you turned your head to glance at him over your shoulder with a wry smile gracing your features. 

“Not at all, Alistair~ I’m taking this punishment very seriously, can’t you tell?” The brattiness in you was beginning to rise to the placid surface once more, creating ripples and prompting Alistair’s patience to wear thin. 

His reply to your smarmy remark came in the form of his gloved hand swatting at your exposed rear, hard, the impact creating a loud and resounding “smack”. You squealed indignantly, startled but not surprised that he’d spanked you.

Alistair did it often, after all, since your brattiness knew no bounds more often than not. Still, part of you couldn’t deny that you did enjoy the punishment just a tiny bit. 

“I know what you’re thinking, princess—and no, I do not intend to leave this room until you have learned your lesson,” Alistair’s hand was still resting on your ass, which was already beginning to thrum with pain, even after one hit. “Count them.” 

Even though you were certain you would be ending up in the same position again sometime in the near future, it was nice to pretend to be good and obedient… For the time being.

[writtenfangirl]

The Light: Epilogue

I wanted to see if it was possible for me to write the sweetest, most tooth-rotting fic I could ever write and I did.

Also, can I just say, I genuinely love reading people’s comments and reblogs on my fics. I write my fics as a hobby and it honestly astounds me that there are people out there who enjoy reading the things I write. It’s a privilege, seriously.

Part 1

“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a large fortune, must be in want of a wife. However—“

“That is how you truly know this novel is fiction,” Benedict remarked, interrupting Y/N as she read from the book. She was laying on his lap, her back against the grass as the tree they leaned against shielded her eyes from the harsh rays of the sun. It was a beautiful day in the countryside, the breeze cool despite the heat of summer. Aubrey Hall sat below them, a towering figure despite their place on the crest of a hill. She could almost see the other Bridgertons out in the lawn, lazing about and spending the day together. Benedict had strictly forbade them from approaching them today and though she loved the other Bridgertons, the quiet was a welcome respite.

They’d taken a day together, just the two of them, after Y/N’s mother had written to her about her father’s current temperament. He still refuses to acknowledge Y/N’s existence after she refused to marry the Duke of Albany and chose to marry Benedict instead and Y/N’s father had told her mother that any child borne of their marriage will not be his grandchild. The letter had brought Y/N great pain and Benedict, in an effort to make Y/N feel better, had prepared a picnic for them and a whole day without responsibilities or talks of grandchildren and babies.

Because children was something at the forefront of every person’s mind when they came upon a childless wedded couple and Y/N’s and Benedict’s lack of a child had begun to worry Violet, especially as they had been married for a year. Despite repeatedly telling Violet not to worry too much about it as they were both very young and wanted to spend the early days of their marriage child-free, she did worry.

Y/N loved the Bridgertons like they were her own family but she missed the time she spent alone with her husband. Hence, Benedict’s idea of a picnic, just the two of them.

“And why is that?” She asked as she brought the book down and quirked a brow.

“I have met a great many men who have large fortunes, most of whom do not wish to marry.”

“What an astute observation, my love.“

“Do you mean to treat me with sarcasm, Mrs. Bridgerton?” Benedict’s brow was raised high but there was no denying the amused grin pulling at his lips.

“I treat you only with the best of my affections.” But her teasing smirk betrayed her true intentions. “Now, am I allowed to continue my reading or do you intend to interrupt me once again?”

Benedict leaned his head back, before tapping a finger against his chin. “Hmm. As much as I enjoy the sound of your voice, I do believe there are other activities better suited to it than reading. Although, if I were to interrupt you again, what, perhaps, would be the consequences of such an action?”

“Separate bedrooms.” Y/N’s grin could only be called devilish. She knew how much Benedict detested sleeping in separate rooms. They tried it the first two nights of their marriage before he declared that such an action was more akin to torture than rest. Ever since then, they occupied a single bedroom and it will remain that way until one of them perishes.

“What a grave consequence to such a small infraction. Very well then, my love. Continue your reading. I’d hate to have to learn to tolerate separate bedrooms.” Benedict’s face scrunched up in distaste.

“If we manage to read through the first three chapters, I will sit for you for an hour.”

Benedict’s face lightened, an almost giddy expression on his face. “Really?”

Y/N nodded, a smile gracing her lips. He’d been begging her for the past three days to once again sit for a painting as he thought the backdrop of Aubrey Hall would be beautiful, and though Y/N loved Benedict, sitting for a painting was always painful for her back. It took almost all of her concentration to sit still for the hours necessary to complete the painting and by the end of it, Y/N needed a very long and warm bath.

“Why you always choose me to be your subject is beyond me,” she said with a sniffle, “especially since my face now stands in the National Art Museum because of you. Is one painting of me not enough?”

“You have a very beautiful face. It should be shared with all of England.”

“You know how I hate myself in paintings.”

“How unfortunate for you to have married an artist enraptured by your looks.” This time, it was Benedict who’d let sarcasm run his tone, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips.

“I adore art and so a painter for a husband was the natural choice. I simply do not like myself in paintings. I love your landscapes and your portraits of others but not of me.”

Benedict frowned, a serious tone creeping on his voice. “You, my love, are a thing of beauty. The paintings I make of you will always be my favorite. When I one day perish, it is my fervent hope that my paintings of you will be the ones that live on. That it is my paintings of you that the art students of tomorrow will study, that they may learn how passion and love can heighten the beauty of one’s art. Anyone can paint a sunset or draw a landscape but no one else can paint my wife but me.”

She will never ever be used to Benedict’s sudden declarations of love. She had married an artist, that much was true but sometimes, she imagined Benedict could be a poet with the way he articulated his love for her.

“You are incorrigible, Benedict Bridgerton.” But her words couldn’t hide the rising blush of her cheeks nor could it hide the bashful smile creeping at her lips.

“For you, my love? Always.” Benedict said with that crooked grin before bending down and placing a soft kiss on her forehead. “Now make haste and finish your chapters before the sun disappears on us. When I paint you, I want it captured by the light. Such beauty should never be kept in the dark.”

She didn’t pretend to act irate anymore. Instead she kept reading until she ended at chapter three. And when she was done, the sun was still high in the sky yet her husband’s face had turned contemplative.

“I have finished. Shell we go inside that you may now paint?”

But Benedict only frowned, his dark brows meeting together at the center of his face, his bottom lip pushed into a pout.

“Whatever is the matter, my love? The sun is still high in the sky and you still have time to paint. And as I don’t expect you to finish your painting all too soon, you can expect me to sit for you tomorrow and the day after that and the day after that one as well until your painting is complete.”

He smiled at her, the little grin she loved so much. “Sorry, my love, my mind wandered but not towards the painting.”

Now it was her turn to frown. “Speak of what ails you, Mr. Bridgerton, that I may find its remedy.”

“I was only thinking—“

“Oh, did it hurt terribly? There, there, my love. Let me kiss your head to make it better,” Y/N teased as she reached for Benedict’s forehead in an attempt to soothe it. If there was one way to ease the mind of any Bridgerton, it was through humor.

Benedict rolled his eyes but he still had that smile on his face. “Stop it. I am being serious.” But he bowed nonetheless, pressing a kiss on his wife’s hands.

“Alright then, go on. What were you thinking of?”

“In all the years humans have existed, there have been hundreds upon thousands of ways we have told each other how much we love one another. Shakespeare measured his love with sonnets while Bach composed music and Da Vinci made art.”

Y/N frowned once again. “Where are you going with this?”

“I make my art as a form of telling you how much I love you but I realize now that, it is not enough.”

“Darling—“

“Art is not a good enough medium nor is poetry or music. There are not enough words or notes or paint in this world that could show, truly, how much I love you. I do not think I love any differently than Shakespeare or Bach or Da Vinci but I do think you make all the difference in the world. If they loved you too, they would have struggled just as much as I do.”

Y/N was at a loss for words. Her heart soared, giddiness spreading all across her body.

She and Benedict had only been married for a year. A full year of bliss and happiness. She’d heard it said by other ladies that marriages normally went stale after six months and she herself had seen how little regard her parents had for each other. In fact, her own mother refused to speak to her father when he refused to come to Y/N’s wedding with Benedict after Y/N refused to be wed to the Duke of Albany. And even now, after a year, he refused to speak to her.

She knew she was lucky. She married the man she loved, a man who loved her just as much as she loved him. It was a fate most women of the ton could only dream of yet to her, it was reality.

“Benedict, I don’t even know what to say,” Y/N said, her voice filled with the same amount of love as her husband’s declaration.

“Say nothing. I can read your eyes clearly enough,” Benedict said with a smile before he leaned down and planted another kiss, this time on her lips.

His lips were soft like butter and tasted like summer, like the sweetness of the cool breeze and the light of the sun. He tasted like home.

There were still many things wrong in Y/N’s world.

Her father had still disowned her and they hadn’t spoken since she last saw him that fateful day in the drawing room at Aubrey Hall. There was still the manner of Violet Bridgerton probing for a grandchild. But she knew one thing and that thing brought her peace like no other. Everything could go wrong in this world but so long as Benedict Bridgerton was at her side, then everything would be all right.

[the-lonelybarricade]

What Do You Know About Love - (4/?)

Summary: When Elain discovers a centuries old love letter, written in secret and never sent, she decides that she's going to be the one to finally deliver it. Even if finding its intended recipient means going on a mission with Lucien Vanserra. Set post ACoSF.

A contribution to @elucienweekofficial Day 4: High Society

Chapter 4 - Of Nights and Days

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter

-

As a child, Lucien’s Mother used to tell him stories of the Day Court.

She had never been to the Solar Court, as far as he could tell, but she always spoke fondly of its people, its customs, whenever the two of them were alone.

Not all Courts are like ours, she once told him. In Autumn, we’re so confined by rules; where we can go and what we can say and who we can speak to. But I’ve heard that in the Day Court, they value community over hierarchy. They relish in communal spaces—I’ve heard the High Lord even shares meals with his servants.

It sounded like an impossible thing to Lucien, at the time. His father barely indulged in a meal with his own children, let alone a servant. And he’d often been told, from his brothers as well as in his studies, that the High Lords of the Solar Courts were arrogant and self-serving.

He’d always privately thought his mother was embellishing her stories, trying to stoke whimsy in a childhood that sought to stamp any brightness out of him. Or that perhaps she wanted it to be real, for her own peace of mind.

Regardless, Lucien always thought of her whenever he was in the Day Court. Always wished he could write to her, to tell her that everything she’d hoped was true.

It’s freedom like you’d never seen, he would write. Their spellwork is so advanced that they have no need for doors or locks. The entire palace is open archways and exposed atriums. A breeze off the sea could flow from one end and out the other.

It always astounded him, the openness. As if the High Lord of the Day Court had no qualms of someone wandering in and discovering all his secrets. If not for his mechanical eye, he would believe that, but a cursory glance was all he needed to detect the hundreds of overlapping wards, some of its spellwork so complex that it would take a scholar centuries to untangle its magic.

“Wow,” Elain breathed beside him, sweeping wide brown eyes over the pointed archway before them, and the row upon row upon row of arches behind it, each of them detailed with colorful tiles and carved pillars.

Then she turned, casting her attention over the railing of the veranda they’d winnowed into, taking in the temperate air and the swaying palms with no shortness of reverence. It agonized him, the way her pink lips parted so softly in wonder, the way his thumb twitched to trace the curve of her lower lip.

If there was one thing he regretted most about the Solstice, it was that he’d walked away knowing how those lips felt against his own. How they could let out the softest, sweetest little gasp. How he hadn’t, not for a single moment of reprieve, managed to stop thinking about them, even in moments where he needed to start thinking about something, anything else.

Moments like this.

Where Elain turned to him, something sparkling in her eyes, and said, “It’s beautiful.”

No it’s not, he wanted to say. Not even close.

There was no definition of beauty that could ever skew away from Elain herself. Though perhaps, through the standards that existed before she rose from the Cauldron and rivaled his every understanding of the word, the Day Court could be considered beautiful.

“I’m sure there will be an opportunity for a tour later,” Lucien said instead, somehow coaxing his voice into neutrality. “I’ve heard Helion boasts an expansive garden,”

“I heard there’s a thousand libraries, too,” she said, still with that thrilling look in her eye.

Excitement, Lucien thought. He’d never seen it on her before. Feigned enthusiasm, if he was lucky, but pure, genuine excitement? He knew he had nothing to do with it, that it was simply the result of being here, outside of the gods-forsaken Night Court for a change. Even so, an absurd swell of pride filled his chest, some latent instinct sated at knowing his mate was happy. That he’d brought her that happiness, indirectly or otherwise.

“There is,” he said, unable to help his small, satisfied smile. “Its scholars may even be able to help you find the recipient of that letter.”

Her face lit up. “You think?”

“They are expert historians. And,” he glanced at the palace’s entrance, ensuring no one was coming by, before saying, “I hear they’re insufferable gossips. If there was a scandal at a Halieia ball, one of them surely knows something about it.”

Elain laughed. Laughed. Just a small, bubbly giggle, really, and he swallowed, uncertain if he’d ever heard the sound before. If he’d ever elicited that sound before. He wondered how he would be able to cope for every infinite expanse of moments after, knowing what her laughter sounded like and that he was not presently hearing it.

It reminded him of the stories they used to tell children at revelries, the ones that were eventually passed to the human realms and became the fabric of myth and legend. Don’t eat the food, don’t drink the wine.

He knew the reason. There were fae wines rumored to be so sweet that a sensible male could become an addict from just a single drop. One taste, and he would become enthralled, willing to trade anything for another sip. A slave to his own desire.

That was how it felt to hear Elain’s laughter.

And as he contemplated all of the things he would be willing to do to hear it again, he considered how he was so, catastrophically, fucked. It would be impossible to endure one day of this, let alone a hundred—potentially more. Rhysand had given no indication of how long Lucien was expected to stay, nor what Lucien was even expected to do.

It was concerning to think that was how blindingly loyal he’d become to the Night Court. In a thousand centuries, he never thought he’d play willingly into the High Lord of Night’s machinations. Yet there he was, dressed in regalia that spoke of pride. Allegiance.

Rhysand hadn’t requested any bargain or oath of loyalty, but he hadn’t needed to.

The High Lord knew that Lucien would do whatever he asked. Because of her.

Elain looked at him, oblivious to the ways she’d permanently warped his loyalties. And to the carnage she wracked in him by slotting her teeth against her lower lip and saying, “That’s reassuring, because gossip is something we’re experts at in the human realm.”

“Oh, I’ve heard.”

Lucien thought of the endless gossip Vassa and Jurian liked to share with him. Who was seen where with whom, who was getting married, who was having children, who was running away with the blacksmith’s daughter. It all seemed tedious to Lucien, and always boiled down to two people fucking—or wanting to fuck, and avoiding doing so for strange, prudish human reasoning. He supposed with short life spans, humans felt the need to sensationalize every trivial event in their lives.

Though suddenly, Lucien wanted to know every petty piece of human gossip Elain had ever felt inclined to keep hold of.

The smile she offered him was intriguingly conspiratorial.

“There’s a secret to it, you know.”

He leaned closer, completely entranced. “A secret to what?”

“Gossip.”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“It’s a game,” she said. “At least in the mortal realm. There’s a delicate balance between offering up too much or too little. If you offer up nothing, your peers will think you're oblivious to your surroundings or worse—sanctimonious. But if you share too much that makes you untrustworthy.”

“I can see it already,” he murmured, fascinated at the gleam in her eyes. She had a competitive streak, and he was eager to file that discovery away for later use. “You must have been fierce competition during the social seasons.”

The proud tilt of her chin certainly suggested as much, though she was too polite to admit it.

“I perfected how to share details just tantalizing enough to not betray anyone who held me in confidence. And because gossip is always a competition of who knows most, I always received the most scandalous rumors in exchange.”

“You would make an impressive emissary with that skill set,” he said, pleased to see a flush crawling up her cheeks. In the past, she’d always shrunk away from his attempts to compliment her.

Encouraged, he edged the slightest bit closer, placing his palm against the rail to steady himself for her scent. In the open air, some of it was being carried away, drifting towards the green bay at the bottom of the hill. But the remainder of that sweet jasmine and pear scent lingered in the air around her, tangling his senses like a hidden snare.

Elain stiffened at their proximity, but she didn’t pull away. It was progress, he reasoned.

“What would you share with the scholars, then, to find out what happened at the ball?”

After a moment of thought, she said, “Do you think they’d be interested to know that the High Lord of the Night Court has taken up knitting as a pastime?”

“Oh?” drawled a deep voice. “How quaint. Do you think he’d knit a loincloth for me?.”

Elain’s hand flew to her chest, a gasp hitching out of those perfect lips as she scrambled back from Lucien, all of their so-called progress crumbling into sand. It was like she feared being caught alone with him, as if she didn’t want anyone to know they could be friendly with each other. For the sake of his pride, he told himself it was a lingering scruple of the mortal realm.

Yet it still rubbed against an old, festering wound.

Unwanted. Unneeded. Undesirable.

Hastily brushing his bruised ego aside, Lucien turned to their new arrival.

It was difficult to examine him too closely, in the same way one could never glimpse the sun in full. Magic radiated from him, even with a glamor, like a kernel of the sun lived beneath the High Lord’s dark brown skin. He was covered in more gold than cloth—a spiked crown atop his head, a collar around his throat, draping a waterfall of golden chains across his exposed chest and arms. White cloth hung from his hips, secured in place by a slanted jeweled belt, and the fabric was slit on both sides to expose his wide thighs.

“High Lord,” Lucien greeted, exceedingly careful not to glance towards Elain. He had no interest in marking her reaction to the male and all of the skin he had on display. “Lucien, Emissary of the Night Court, at your service.”

“A Vanserra,” Helion repeated under his breath. Not a question—if anything it was grumbled. And as Lucien raised his head, he could see the High Lord of the Day Court raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his broad nose. “I call in a favor and the bastard sends me a Vanserra.”

Wariness of his family name wasn’t unfounded, but Lucien couldn’t help his stab of irritation. Helion knew as well as any other High Fae that he’d been exiled from the Autumn Court centuries ago.

“I don’t use my family name,” he said flatly.

Helion hummed. “I don’t blame you. Tedious lot, that family of yours. I was hoping for the beautiful Mor, but I suppose your Knowledge of the other Courts may come in handy.”

With that quick dismissal, the High Lord’s attention roved away from Lucien and quickly landed on Elain. Lucien was careful to keep his expression neutral as the High Lord appraised her with an interest that made his skin itch. As if it no longer fit the beast stirring and writhing beneath.

“Where have they been hiding you?”

That deep, rich voice was now dripping in sensuality. The High Lord stepped toward her, a taunting smile growing on his lips when he noticed the way Lucien tensed. He knew what Helion was like with females—with males, too. Rumor said Helion was indiscriminate so long as a person was beautiful, and Elain was the most beautiful of all.

The High Lord offered her a bow, extending one of his broad hands to her. And Elain, too polite or perhaps equally enchanted, allowed him to take her hand and brush a kiss to the backs of her knuckles.

Easy, Lucien coached himself, tightening his leash on the instincts that demanded bloodshed at seeing another male touch his mate. Put his mouth on her—

Easy. He took a deep breath. She’s unharmed. She’s safe. She’s…

Enjoying it.

That was laughter slipping past her lips, mirth crinkling at her eyes, and a deep swatch of scarlet creeping over her elegant cheekbones. The bastard was practically half-clothed, and yet there wasn’t an ounce of the reservation she always seemed to possess in Lucien’s company.

In fact, her eyes were wandering over the High Lord’s exposed skin, admiring the golden cuff around his forearm—or perhaps the swelling muscle it constricted. Was that what she liked, then?

A sharp bitterness rose at the back of his tongue. Lucien was admittedly leaner than the High Lord. He knew he didn’t possess the same warrior build as so many of the males she spent her time around, but that could be helped. He trained regularly to keep his strength, but he could heighten his regimen, if that would encourage her eyes to wander towards him more often.

Though, if the appeal was Helion’s beauty… his striking face, which was notably unmarred, or his amber eyes, which were a matching color and simmering with impish delight as they beheld her. If those were what caused Elain to part her lips in wonder, then there was nothing Lucien could do to rectify that shortcoming in himself.

“Well?” Helion prompted, humor lacing his voice. “What brings a sweet little morsel like you to my Court?”

“She’s here on leisure, not Court business.” Lucien tried to sound bored, uninterested in whatever game the High Lord was trying to taunt him into playing. “Before you get any ideas, Feyre made it clear that she’s not to be involved.”

He produced a letter from his pocket between realms, holding it between his fingers in offer, but not extending it any further. Helion could take his damned hands off Elain and collect it himself.

The High Lord didn’t let go of her hand, but he did raise his mouth from its place at her knuckles to regard Lucien, then the letter—each with a cool indifference. With a snap of his fingers, a sun-kissed breeze swept in from the sea and snatched the parchment from Lucien’s fingertips. The swift, jerking motion morphed the paper’s dull edge into a blade, and Lucien hissed as it sliced against his thumb.

By the time the letter floated to Helion and unfolded for his surveillance, the blood had already welled and sealed over. There was no apology in the High Lord’s grin, only challenge. And if Elain was aware of the transgression, if she could scent the copper of Lucien’s blood carried over on the breeze, she said nothing. Only watched with curious eyes as Helion unfolded the letter.

It didn’t say much. Similar to Lucien's meeting with Rhysand the night before, the details were frustratingly cryptic. A trade deal. That’s all he’s been told. Not which territory they’d be trading with, not the contents of what they’d be trading, no indication of any timeline.

None of it boded well. And Feyre’s refusal to let Elain be involved did little to ease his suspicions. If it was a simple negotiation, why wouldn’t they want Elain to gain exposure to Court politics?

“I see,” Helion said, scanning the letter’s contents. He clicked his tongue, the golden paint smeared beneath his lower lashes glistening as he turned back to Elain. “Pity, that beautiful face would have made these tedious meetings much more bearable. But it’s a pleasure to have you in my court, nonetheless, Lady Elain.”

Elain bowed her head and, at last, withdrew her hand. “Thank you for your generosity, High Lord.”

“Call me Helion,” he purred. “If only because it will rile that mate of yours.”

She winced at the word. Mate. That sacred, special word that Lucien was so careful not to use around her. The one syllable monument to the fate they danced around, because if they were to acknowledge it she would get that look on her face, the one she was wearing now, and he would feel it like a serrated blade in his chest, sawing against the bone and sinew of a bond that refused to tear, though he felt each abrasion just the same.

Lucien resisted the urge to rise to the jab. He wanted to insist that he was not that kind of mate, that he was different than the territorial male she feared being shackled to. But if he continued speaking for her, it would only lend weight to the accusation.

He bit his tongue—bit it until he tasted blood in his mouth.

“Helion,” she said, testing the name and earning a lazy smile from the male in return. “I hear that you have a thousand libraries in this Court.”

“I do. Are you here seeking knowledge, Lady?”

Did she catch it, Lucien wondered, that subtle shift in Helion’s tone? Still warm, still overtly friendly, but sharpened just enough to suggest that he recognised the danger in the knowledge his Court guarded. And that by virtue of seeking it, Elain posed a threat.

She was a stranger to him after all. An Archeron, yes, but still mated to a Vanserra. That made her untrustworthy on principle. And despite her beauty and innocent demeanor, which may have earned her trust in the mortal realm, here it would only earn her scrutiny. In Prythain, any fae past infancy knew the flowers with the loveliest blooms were most often poisonous.

“No,” she said, turning timid beneath his assessment. “I—I never learned how to read, my Lord. My sisters and I lost any proper education to poverty. But I am fascinated by architecture, and I enjoy the quiet of a library to work on my embroidery.”

Elain, illiterate? He knew that Feyre had been, and that it’d once nearly gotten him killed. But surely he would know if his own mate was, too. Lucien’s mind scrambled back to every past encounter, trying to remember if he’d ever seen Elain reading. She’d been sitting in the library the first time he’d spoken to her, but she’d been thin and pale and absently staring out a window, not saying or doing much of anything.

Did she truly not know how to read? And no one in that house had noticed, or bothered teaching her?

Helion cast his eyes towards Lucien, measured the rage in his expression, and hummed. “We have tutors in this court who could teach you, if you’d like. And some say the architectural feats of my libraries do rival the knowledge they contain. I’ll let my scholars know you’re welcome to explore them at your leisure.”

Elain curtsied again. “You’re too kind, my Lord.”

And as that subtle gleam returned to her eye, the memory clicked. The letter that inspired her to come here. Just this morning, he’d cradled a flame in his palm and admired how his magic cast streaks in her hair while she’d read the letter’s contents.

“Helion,” he insisted again, gentler.

She played him. And he bought it.

Lucien had to turn away, casting his eyes toward the veranda and the city sprawled along the hillside below. There was no one to witness the smile twitching over his lips, the one he couldn’t restrain, though he tried.

Elain manipulated one of the most powerful males in the world. Someone who far exceeded her in age and power and stature. She did it without blinking, or losing the bashful glow on her cheeks.

And it was the most attractive thing Lucien had ever witnessed.

[bullet-prooflove]

Birthday Bingo Celebration: Troublemaker - Will Trent x Reader

Tagging: @words-and-seeds @trublu2u @littleesilvia @oscarisaacispunk @elizabeththebat

Companion piece to Letting Go - Will finally decides to let go of Angie.

It isn’t until a month later that Will realises he’s forgotten Angie’s birthday. It’s the first time in his entire life that he hasn’t given that woman a second thought. He’s too busy chasing after his daughter Libby, because she’s seven months old and just learned how to crawl. The mischief that child can get into if left unattended for under ten seconds astounds him but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“She’s a trouble maker just like her momma.” He tells you as he scoops her up into his arms on his way into the kitchen. She'd been making a beeline straight for Betty’s dog basket before he’d thwarted her progress.

“Nice try sugar.” He mumbles against her temple as she starts to grumble. He begins to rock slowly, bouncing his hips a little as he clasps her to his chest and his baby girl, she starts to settle almost immediately.

“You’re a natural.” You say as you continue to cut veggies on the chopping board and he smiles as his palm comes to rest on the back of Libby’s head, his thumb smoothing over her feather light hair.

“It’s all in the hips.” He tells you and you can’t help but laugh.

Will has taken to fatherhood better than either of you had imagined. He’d been attentive throughout your pregnancy, barely able to take his hands off you inside the bedroom or out of it.

He’d listened to as many baby books as humanly on Audible whilst he was decorating the nursey, landscaping the garden and baby proofing the entire house. He’d spent evenings singing Nina Simone songs to your baby bump just so she would learn the sound of his voice. He’d laughed when she kicked, following the motions with his palm. You couldn’t ask for a better husband.

Libby raises a tiny hand, pressing it to his mouth and he kisses her tiny delicate fingertips.

“It was Angie’s birthday last month.” He tells you, his attention focused entirely on daughter. “It’s the first year I’ve forgotten it.”

“We can go this weekend if you like.” You say softly, inclining your head towards him. “Pick up some yellow roses on the way.”

“No.” He says quietly as he lifts Libby high in the air and she laughs out loud at the sensation, her tiny features lighting up with joy as she looks into her father’s eyes. “I meant what I said about leaving the past behind. I just want to focus on our future.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[thisnameisnotspokenfor]

Super Duper Rough snippet that I'm only posting because it made me laugh while writing it

@cloudfilledpillow please put your camera away

“What are they doing?” the star asked, pointing to the dance floor where many couples had begun to dance.

“They’re re-enacting a scene from the story,” she sighed, resting her chin on her hand. “Weren’t you paying attention?”

He blinked. “There was a story?”

Okay, so she’d take that for a no. 

What he’d been so focused on instead of listening to the story had frankly been beyond her, but luckily for him, she’d like this part of the story enough to explain it.

“There’s a grand total of 5 waltzes,” Asha explained. “And in each one the main character, Arabella, must find and recognize the cursed prince before midnight. But the trick is that he keeps on changing his appearance every time, meaning that he could practically be anyone at any given ball. And there are several fakes in his place.” 

“Fakes?”

“Yes like people pretending to be him. But there’s always something subtly off about them in comparison to the prince. Something that only someone who would truly know him as well as Arabella would know.” She paused. She hadn’t meant for her voice to get loud when talking about it. But there’d always been something about watching Arabella narrowly weave herself through the alluring world of monsters and traps that had excited her and from the looks of things the star looked excited as well.

“And then what?” he’d asked, failing to sit still as he’d leaned towards her.

She smiled, and gestured back to the growing crowd of dancers, “Usually they’d all be wearing masks, save for whoever Arabella is, and she has to find her ‘prince’, but given our circumstances, I think we’ll have to skip the masks part..”

“You still think they’ll choose a prince and Arabella?”

“Maybe? I don’t know,”

“Have you ever been Arabella? Or danced with the prince?”

“No Cepheus. I don’t dance.” she squinted at the star suspiciously. There was no denying it, he was thinking now, which could only lead to trouble. “What are you up to?”

“Well I-,” he started, pausing as the girls from earlier made their ay through the crowd, and stopped at the star. 

“Hello Cepheus,” one of them smiled. 

“Ah, Amala,” the smile that rested on his lips was a little too coy for Asha’s liking as he relaxed against the ship’s railing, casually conversing with the crowd of girls in front of him.

It wasn’t long before the band had begun to play the third waltz when the conversation had taken a turn. Apparently Amala (that’s what Asha thinks she was named) and her friends had asked Cepheus something, that he’d nodded to. She hadn’t known what he’d agreed to, but whatever it was had been enough to please them as they’d excitedly laughed and cheered before the star rose to his feet in one gracious motion.

“Wait where are you going?” she called, watching as the star held out his arm to escort Amala towards the dance floor where many couples had begun to waltz. 

“I’ll be back!” he promised, sparing her a simple glance before he smiled at Amala.

Wait…he wasn’t even going to translate their conversation for her? Or invite her?

Whatever. It wasn’t like she’d wanted to dance anyway! Stupid waltz.If she’d known this was what she’d get for surviving the assassins, then she’d probably have surrendered to them. She huffed re-angling herself away from the dancefloor. 

She’d opened her father’s journal- the thing she honestly should’ve done far earlier- and began to read. The preservation of both the pages and it’s ink letters had been astounding. Had the astronomer’s journals been indestructible? She could tell from the lack of ink run on it’s pages that they were, at the very least water proof. Water proof and thankfully not in cosmelathian.

'Good,’ she’d thought as she spared the star a glance.

To any onlooker oblivious of his origins, Cepheus would’ve been the perfect cast for the prince, and Amala for Arabella. Nothing had proved this point more than by how enchanted Amala had looked as they’d continued dancing, and Asha wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t as if Cepheus had been that good of a dancer anyway.

“Just wait until she discovers how insane he is,” she grumbled, earning herself a curious glance from both Capella and Valentino. “That’s not even his real form anyway! He’s probably bigger than this whole boat.”

“Baaaa-,”

“What? Those were his words. Not mine!” she argued back.

[anderstrevelyan]

Valas DeVir

Born: 1441 DR (51 years old); Class: War Cleric (of Kelemvor, he thinks); Race: Half-Drow; Origin: The Dark Urge

When he emerges from the Nautiloid, his memories gone, the first thing he notices is the cruelty: it feels outside of himself, sometimes, like when he writhes in visions of death at night, but it’s a sharply honed instinct, too: the way he interacts with the world. Strike first, shy from empathy, revel in the power of causing fear. Intense, passionate anger, often expressed in a quiet menace.

But as he stumbles through the first days, realizing he can’t do this alone, other parts of himself slip through. He’s calm under pressure. He’s not quick to trust or curious about a stranger’s story, but he’s loyal to those he lets in. He’s comfortable leading. Has a wry sense of humour, when it’s not overshadowed by the instinct to intimidate. He has a conscience, surely stunted from underuse, but a deep, desperate desire to stop spiralling into chaos. He’s utterly tender to those he loves, as surprised as he is by the feeling. Like Shadowheart, he clings to the small pieces of himself that pull at his subconscious, various affinities to physical things that feel like him. The glowing fauna of the Underdark, kept in jars and displayed for study. The strength and shape of soft drow leather gloves. The breadth of a starry night sky, the smell of dusty books by candlelight, the feeling of wind in his hair, the curious look in a small rodent’s eyes.

(Backstory after the cut, with some Dark Urge spoilers implied):

Born to Feron and Viconia DeVir in a quiet home in Baldur’s Gate’s Upper City, Valas was a child that never should have been: a symbol of hope, that the unlikely couple drawn together in the years after the Bhaalspawn Crisis could finally rest.

A fighter and mage by training, Feron—once ward of the late Gorion of Candlekeep—taught his son to spar with swords in the city’s streets and read him stories of adventure at night, content in the thought he’d never have to endure the real thing. Not with the curse of his own divine father, Bhaal, the God of Murder, finally free from his veins. Feron chose mortality. He chose peace. And what better way to live out that peace than to see the world through young, innocent eyes? Viconia, still astounded by the life she’d managed to find on the surface, named her son for the brother who intervened to save her from being sacrificed to Lloth. The whole family took on the surname DeVir, and Viconia tried to teach her son everything she could about the cultures he came from, marvelling at the understanding in his eyes. But the peace wasn’t to last. In 1453 DR, when Valas was twelve, a handmaiden of Lloth stole into the house and poisoned Viconia, leading to a death no cleric could cure. Feron tried to be the father he wanted to be in the years that followed, but grew distant, consumed with the thought that had he accepted a spot among the gods’ pantheon, he could have found a way to save his love’s life. Young Valas became fascinated with death, collecting the bones and dried carcasses of creatures he could find—bugs at first, then birds, or pieces of larger animals, filling the shelves in his room with the macabre collection. He started to approach it through faith, which Feron encouraged despite his own distrust of the gods—Viconia had found hope and strength in her deity, after all, after she lost everything of her life in the Underdark. Valas began praying to Kelemvor, and before long the young teenager was blessed by the death god in return, intending to continue training as a cleric and one day serve as a Doomguide. If anyone suspected his devotion was born out of a desperate desire in his grief to believe Kelemvor’s central tenets—that death is a natural part of life, not to be feared but to be honoured—rather than actual acceptance, they didn’t voice it. The druid Jaheira continued to visit, as she often had in Valas' youth, especially as Feron’s dreams of slaughter started to return. She’d take Valas into the lands outside the city, helping him find more trophies of things long gone but hoping to inspire him with the flourishing sides of nature too, to hold in balance. (If she thought she saw, a time or two, the young man snap a bone to steal a bird’s last breath, surely she must have been mistaken? He’d so calmly insist it had already been dead, and surely a lawful-neutral god wouldn’t have blessed him if that were a lie.) In 1456 DR, Feron’s godly inheritance still spelled his doom in the end. He was attacked in the streets of Baldur’s Gate, and turned into the Slayer. It’s said his fifteen-year-old son was killed in the ensuing rampage, along with dozens of bystanders, until a group of adventurers were able to cut him down. When Viconia, years later, was resurrected by Sharrans after all, hearing of the tragic death of her husband and the slaughter of their son at his own twisted, clawed hands pushed her firmly back to the Lady of Loss, in her grief at coming back to no one. But Valas DeVir didn’t die that day. He was taken, in secret, by a fledgling Bhaalist temple determined to shape him into everything his father could have been, should have been, but rejected. For what could be a better punishment for a fallen, soft-hearted Bhaalspawn than to look back at the world and know his cherished son will become the perfect picture of murder he fought so hard to never be?

[katealpha]

Commission from the absolutely astounding Little Polka!

www.deviantart.com/littlepolka

——————————-

Judy Hopps thought she’d struck gold when she got to join the ZPD as a rabbit. In a way, she did. But just being able to feel useful took a lot of struggle against even her own fellow officers to get even a modicum of respect. But she powered forward until she single-handedly (with a little help of a certain fox) solved the city’s biggest case, twice. Judy found herself going from zero to hero over the course of months. While she found herself making a few mistakes after that, she made up for them and kept moving forward. However, it would soon dawn upon Judy that that “keeping moving forward and never quit” mentality may not apply to everything. In this case, her blossoming romance between herself and Nick Wilde; the fox who had helped her become the best bunny one could be.

And now, he helped her become the biggest!

‘This is impossible’. Judy had been repeating that phrase in her head for the past several months since she learned she was pregnant after a rather pleasurable night with Nick. By all accounts, it was. Bunnies and Foxes couldn’t have offspring. That’s what Zoogle had told her, as well as common sense. I moose and a polar bear couldn’t conceive. Just like a lion and a zebra couldn’t. But here Judy was, waddling slowly down the hallway of the ZPD. Her bloated belly strained against her thankfully stretchy uniform that had been tailored just for her. She was big, even for her kind in this stage of pregnancy. When she felt them move, she knew that these weren’t bunnies growing in her belly. Something…bigger. Something taking more from their father. Nick himself was halfway mortified at what he’d done to his favorite dumb bunny. She had to constantly reassure that silly fox that everything would be okay. Most likely, at least. There were concerns for her wellbeing come labor. Just shared in these concerns, but decided not to trouble herself about it. Bigger or not, they were babies that didn’t ask to be the way they are. Besides, she had a job to do!

In her right paw was a steaming cup of coffee that was going to one Officer Wolford. This had been her job since she reported her pregnancy to Chief Bogo, who was just as dumbfounded as the mother-to-be herself. To her dismay, Judy was put on desk duty until after the little ones were born. It wouldn’t be too long. Just a few months. But everyone could tell from looking at the big bellied bunny by the way she waddled around, offering to get coffee and donuts for everyone that she was itching to get back out there. But for now, just leave it to Judy to type up reports, flyers, and whatever else they need. Eventually, Judy’s pregnancy was noticed by the media. It was as inevitable as her babies growing within her. When she was arranged for an interview, she took it and told her city that she still had no plans of slowing down.

“My doctors are still trying to figure out how it happened. Their best guess is that Nick’s got some mutated gene that worked its magic in me.” She said with a scoff as she rubbed her paw over her stretched stomach. “It’s been an…interesting few months. Being a mom isn’t something I expected to have thrust onto me so soon, and the future still isn’t certain…but for now, I’m not going anywhere! I might be huge with these kids that I’m not even certain are bunnies or foxes in there, but I have no intentions of stepping down from serving this fair city in any little way I can. I REALLY don’t know when to quit..haha!” She chuckled and shrugged, only for her belly to visibly move on camera. It made her wrap her paws around it, looking flushed at her interviewer and smiling before the camera cut off.

[landinrris]

Ok since all of the other Norrix fics have been asked about and that's my #1 ship, I vote for "May 2024- Martin’s Birthday" :)

Ah this thing that was supposed to be finished like two and a half weeks ago and is suffering from missing-first-scene syndrome because I can't figure out how to start it (even though I know what I want the scene to be).

Anyway, this is supposed to be a small fic that revolves around Lando and Martin spending Martin's birthday together. Lando goes through the day with him, trying and failing to figure out what to post for him, and keeps coming up empty. He eventually posts those two stories- one accidentally and one on purpose.

-----

One of the best things about visiting Martin in Amsterdam is the quiet boat days through the canals. No one bothers them like this even if he’s sure plenty of people know what Martin’s boat looks like. The privacy never ceases to astound Lando even nearly two years in.

Today is no different save for the fact that Lando feels significantly less like death than he did last time he was on board. This time, he’s able to enjoy the nice breeze that comes off the water— gets to unapologetically watch the way Martin calmly steers the boat with one hand while his other rests along the edge behind him, fingers barely brushing the sleeve of Lando’s shirt.

It’s such bone-deep satisfaction made more so by how accomplished Lando feels and the fact that he gets to celebrate Martin’s birthday with him this year. Lando catches Martin’s eye and smiles, wishing he could lean closer to kiss him. All he trusts himself to do is tilt his head down in the direction of Martin’s hand as if to mentally lean into the touch.

“Should we get a picture?” Martin’s father asks in the lull of his mother updating everyone on an ongoing dispute with one of the neighbors. “I swiped the Polaroid from the living room.”

“Did you make sure it had film this time?” Laura asks from a few feet away, an allusion to something Lando doesn’t know the backstory of.

Her father throws her an unimpressed look. “I did, as it happens. Come closer so you can be in the shot.” He probably intends on gathering them around for an attempted selfie, but surely they deserve a family photo they can more easily post without worrying about too much information getting out.

“Here, let me take one for you all,” Lando offers. Predictably, he’s met with a chorus of protests, but Lando waves them off. “No, I insist. Get a family pic for the birthday boy.” He sees Martin roll his eyes at the mention of birthday boy but doesn’t pay it any mind.

It takes a little maneuvering to get them all situated, Martin’s mother taking Lando’s spot on his left while his sister and father are off to his right. They press in close to the center of the frame while Lando positions himself to take their photo. The sound of the shutter followed by the film being pushed through the rollers is satisfying. Maybe this should be what Lando takes up next.

He pulls the slide free from the rollers and presses it facing the bottom of the camera like Martin showed him once— when he’d laughed and said, “No, you don’t actually shake it, let me show you.” He hesitates on whether he should hand the camera back to Martin’s father or not.

His father does reach for the camera and photo but not to put it away. “Alright, your turn.”

Lando swears he almost falls where he’s standing, but he’ll blame it on another boat’s wake they rock through. “What?”

“Yes, your turn. Give them room, you two,” he motions to his daughter and wife. And then suddenly, there’s room next to Martin as there had been before. Only this time, Martin pulls him closer and settles his hand not on the wheel against the back of Lando’s neck. It makes Lando so incredibly warm inside, filled with an energy inappropriate for the time and place.

He can smell Martin’s cologne from this close and thinks about not moving away once the slide spits itself out of the camera. Martin doesn’t let him go either, content to let Lando relax against his shoulder while Martin’s father sits back down. They don’t say anything, but they don’t need to— the same thoughts are likely going through both of their minds.

A few minutes later, Martin’s father speaks up. “Oh, these came out lovely.” They pass the photos around, eventually getting to Martin and Lando.

It’s true, the photo of Martin and his family looks like a family should. Happy and pleased to be with each other to celebrate a birthday. The photo of Lando and Martin stops the breath in his lungs, but part of that might be because Lando’s not sure if he’ll ever get over explicitly couple-coded pictures of them together. Pictures where they aren’t going for an element of plausible deniability. One of Lando’s hands is resting out of frame on Martin’s thigh— decidedly not platonic.

“You were looking for a photo to post earlier, weren’t you?” Martin teases quietly, his head bent close to Lando’s.

Lando snorts quietly because yes, he had been trying to figure out a picture to post, but surely this was not going to be the winner if only because he hadn’t had coming out immediately after winning his first race (and on Martin’s birthday) on his Bingo card.

“Maybe I’ll save this one for the actual coming out if it ever happens, yeah?” Not that Lando ever necessarily wants to formally. But at the very least, it’s more open than he’s ready for people to see. People have seen enough of their relationship in the last month.

“That’s the post we’re joint-posing me and you kissing after the next win?”

“Yeah, we’ll save it for that one.”

Martin hums and turns to pull his phone from his pocket before taking a photo of each of the Polaroids even if he’ll likely only share one of them. He doesn’t keep it out for long enough to post— probably will once they’re back on land, but before he focuses his full attention back on the water, he leans closer to Lando and presses a kiss to his temple, so quick Lando thinks he hallucinates for a moment. The small and smug smile on Martin’s face is all that remains.

[sobeautifullyobsessed]

Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight

a Stephen Strange x OFC Romance

genre: pre-Infinity War, slow burn romance, older man/younger woman, teacher/student to friends to lovers characters: Stephen Strange, Wong, Teyla of Hadeeth (OFC), Moraine of Hadeeth (OC), additional OCs as Kamar-Taj staff rating: general audience to begin with, later chapters will contain 18+ material

Ch.One | Ch.Two | Ch.Three | Ch.Four | Ch.Five | Ch.Six | Ch.Seven

Chapter Eight

The Sanctum was quiet, and Stephen hadn’t thought to set his alarm—so he wasn’t surprised that he’d slept later than he had in…well, probably since medical school.  No, that’s not quite right, he reminded himself; post-accident, they’d dosed him up for both pain and sleeplessness, but he had never awoken in the hospital feeling completely refreshed, as he had this morning.  He’d battled depression, too, in those post-operative months, alternating between mourning his loss of purpose and angrily lashing out at the world for failing him where he just knew he would have succeeded in managing a cure enough so he could work again.  He’d had plenty of days when he had slept twelve hours plus, feeling like there was no point in leaving his penthouse (growing emptier of furnishings week by week), let alone his bed.  Discovering the world of the mystic arts had rejuvenated him, and he applied himself religiously to learning everything he could, soaking up knowledge and skills like the thirstiest of sponges—just as he had in his university days.  Since the Ancient One’s passing, he seldom slept more than five or six hours a night; so much to do, so much to still master, a Sanctum to oversee—but it was a life that he loved.  Even more fiercely than his life in medicine.

Moreover, he knew exactly why he’d slept so soundly.  He had needed to, certainly—and his young Hadeethan Healer had given him an unexpected peace with her understanding and unconditional forgiveness, effortlessly reading his truest need.  Astounding, especially considering the burden of grief she was carrying.  The grief he was sole witness to.  He needed to find her at once.

Stephen dressed quickly, anxious to see how Teyla was faring.  He stopped by her room; the door was open, so that he could see that she had made her bed, but she was nowhere in sight.  He hurried down two floors to the common room, just off the kitchen, where most of Sanctum occupants took their meals.  Two of the Sanctum retainers were clearing away the breakfast things, but they paused to greet him; one asked if he would care for something to eat, and he politely declined.

“We have a guest staying with us for a few days,” he told them, eager to locate her, “A young woman from off-world—she’s been training at Kamar-Taj…”

One of the women was nodding in recognition, “Yes, Master Strange.  Teyla, right?”

“Yes…you’ve seen her?” he asked, a sense of relief settling over him.

“She was here earlier.  She had some tea and a little to eat.  That was about…hmmm,” the retainer looked to her partner for confirmation, “About an hour ago.”

“Do you happen to know where she went?”  Though Teyla was comfortable enough on the city streets the day before, Stephen would’ve preferred she wait for him before returning to her father’s loft.

The women consulted silently, before the second answered him, “She told us to tell you not to worry, Master Strange—and that she would not leave the Sanctum without your permission.”

“Oh.”  Surprised, but secretly pleased that Teyla had anticipated his concerns, Stephen thanked them, and then turned to leave.  Since she had to be somewhere in the building, a quick locator charm would make her easy to find.

He discovered her in the rooftop greenhouse, speaking with an Adept who was tending to the plants, herbs and greenery that were vital to spell work.  The hothouse also contained a modest assortment of fruits and vegetables—grown year-round to help meet the dietary needs of the Sanctum residents—as well as a bee hive, situated at the far end near a section of flower beds.  Teyla seemed very absorbed in the conversation, with the Adept explaining in detail the uses of the various florae.

Stephen approached them quietly, not wishing to interrupt until a convenient moment arose.  The Adept—a young man named Dominic--noticed his arrival, and broke off his lesson in order to tender a respectful greeting to the Sanctum Master.  Teyla immediately looked to Stephen.  The moment was sunny, warm, bright—and though he knew that she still mourned, there was a light in her eyes which spoke her gladness that he was near.

“Teyla,” he said simply, a world of gratitude and affection compressed into two syllables.  He felt his smile grow—nearly certain that he had to look like an utter goof—and she answered with a tilt of her head, and an endearing, bashful sort of smile.  Stephen felt like he had stopped time, even though the Eye of Agamotto rested safely back in Kamar-Taj; his heightened awareness brought him the realization that something vital had changed between them.  Though he was still Teyla’s teacher and mentor, he couldn’t help but think of her less as a student, and more as an equal…as a friend…as a soul who’d seen his past pain and ongoing insecurities and somehow…somehow understood.  Without a need for words, without a call for explanations.

Amid those musings, he watched her eyes widen, and time began again–with Stephen well aware that she had read him once more.  You’ve got to stop doing that, Teyla; some secrets need to be revealed slowly.  He sent the thought her way, testing if she was actually reading his mind, or just his emotions.  Her expression did not change, but she beckoned him closer, her voice echoing slightly in the confines of the greenhouse.  "Are you well this morning, Doctor?”  Her greeting was solicitous, her manner deferential.

"I am, Teyla.  Very well, indeed,” he grinned, “I had the best sleep of any I’ve had in many years.”  But you knew that already, didn’t you, my dear?  You gave that gift to me.

"I hope you do not mind, Doctor Strange, but I was impatient to explore your domain," she informed him, "And Dominic has been kind enough to show me about the garden.  I had not expected to find such a lovely refuge atop a city building."

"Hmm...I never really thought of it that way, but I suppose that's true."  He came to stand beside her, dismissing the Adept with a small nod.  Dominic moved off, continuing his inspection and care of the next section of plants.

Stephen leaned close, lowering his voice for privacy sake, "How are you today, Teyla?  Was your sleep restful at all?  And is there anything I can do for you?"

"I am..." Teyla sighed softly, "I am...acclimating...to my new reality--one without the love and wisdom of my father to guide me."  Her voice broke, but she mastered her tears before they could claim the day, "But I carry him with me now, as never before--and I believe his spirit survives, merely in another form, so that someday I will look upon his face again."

"That's a lovely thought, Teyla," Stephen said, astonished at her resiliency, "It took me decades to discover that truth."  She looked to him, breathing in his sincerity as a comfort and as a fortification, "That we are so much more than random bits of material in an indifferent universe.  That thought has given me strength in even the most dire circumstances."

She bowed her head, whispering so that he barely heard her, "Even so, it shall for me."

He placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, "You're not alone in this, honey.  Whatever you need, you only have to ask.  Even if it's just a shoulder to cry on."

Teyla raised her chin, her eyes focused on his.  As soft as they were, Stephen also saw her resolve to move forward despite her sorrow.  "thank you, Doctor Strange.  You have been a true friend to me--and I will remain forever grateful."

He shrugged modestly, "You are very welcome, Teyla of Hadeeth.  Though I think I owe you a larger show of gratitude..."

Her brow creased slightly, annd her eyes flitted from his to look past him, drawing his attention away.  "Something is wrong," she murmured, tilting her head toward Dominic.

The Adept stood several feet away, hands on hips, closely scrutinizing a row of berry bushes.  He shook his head, snorting in frustration, then headed towards the far corner of the hothouse.  A row of weathered gardening tolls leaned against the glass, beside an old wheelbarrow.  Dominic retrieved a spade, and then returned to the plant he had been examining.  Curious, Stephen went to join him, with Teyla following right behind him.

Dominic motioned to the bush, and Stephen saw that the fruit was badly discolored.  "That's some kind of fungus," he informed the Sanctum Master, "I’ll have to uproot it, or the rot will spread to the surrounding plants.”

“Is that really necessary?”

“I’m afraid so, Master Strange.  This one won’t survive much longer,” the younger man pronounced, “Just look at the currants—they’re inedible.  And they’d be useless as part of any potions or simples.”

“Well…if that’s our only option,” Stephen conceded, “No use wasting time.”  He motioned for the young man to continue.

The Adept nodded, and turned to complete the chore.  Teyla stepped forward and laid her hand upon the spade handle.  “Wait but a moment please, Dominic.  I believe I can work a cure upon this bush; I have seen similar sickness in fruit-bearing plants on my home world, and I may have a remedy.”  She looked to Stephen, eager yet respectful, “If you would allow it, Doctor Strange.  There is a Hadeethan spell that may be of some use here.  I have worked it at least a dozen times.”

“You think it might work on an Earth plant?”

“We cannot know until I try--but I should act quickly, or the damage will be irreversible,” she urged him confidently.

Curious to see a practical application of Hadeethan magic--and remembering the surprising charm of the floating flower petals which Teyla had created for the youngsters of Kamar-Taj--Stephen stepped back, allowing her the space to work.  She took several deep breaths, and then kneeled before the bush, exploring the leaves and berries with the lightest of touches.  Gingerly, she cupped a cluster of the pink currants in hand, and bent her face close, breathing them in as though seeking their scent.  She exhaled softly over them a few times, and Stephen was amazed to see their mottled pink and grey skin turn lavender for several seconds, before reverting to their sickly color.  "Yes," she said quietly, addressing the plant itself, "I see the ill and I believe that I can remedy your distress."

 Stephen glanced at Dominic, who appeared equally impressed with the plant’s response.  “It’s probably worth a shot, Master Strange.  Otherwise it’ll be a total loss.”

“Alright then,” Strange decided.  “Teyla, please—do what you can.”

She nodded, grateful for his trust, and then turned her attention to the task before her.  Teyla placed her hands palm to palm, as though in prayer, while resting her fingertips against her lips.  She began to hum a simple run of notes, repeating it several times before stretching her hands over the leaves and berries, and gliding them in a circular pattern which grew wider with each pass.  The circle became a figure eight, her hands confidently weaving to and fro as the notes she hummed rose in pitch and volume. A pale blue light began to emanate from the narrow space between her hands and the currant berries.  Stephen noted that it was less vivid than the blue that had accompanied the fall of flower petals which she had conjured for the young Novices, but coupled with her music, he realized it was a form of magic far different than that practiced by the sorcerers of Earth—a magic unfamiliar to him, even with his many forays across the multiverse.

Beads of perspiration had broken out upon Teyla’s brow, yet her concentration remained unwavering.  After several minutes of her sustained ministrations, her soothing melody rose in a crescendo, and then declined into silence, and the blue light pulsed several times before appearing to recede into the plant itself.  Teyla breathed a heavy sigh as her hands fell to her sides, and her shoulders slumped enough that Stephen thought for a moment that she might collapse.  “Teyla—are you alright.”

Her head bowed, she raised a hand, stopping him as he approached her.  “A moment please, Doctor,” she responded, sounding as weak as she looked, “I need just a little more time to recover.”

Stephen drew closer, thinking to help her to her feet, and Teyla turned to him with tired eyes and an ashy pallor.  She took his offered hand lightly—aware of the near constant pain that lived there—while advising him, “Sir, I will be myself again in short order.  But look, and you will see that the blight has been eradicated.”

And indeed it was, for the currant berries already looked more wholesome, their dull, murky pink transformed to the appealing translucence of pink champagne, the leaves and stems grown to a healthier green—and remarkably, fresh tendrils were unfurling themselves along several branches.

“Incredible,” he murmured, gently helping Teyla to stand, encouraging her to lean against him as she began to recuperate.  “It’s more than cured,” he observed, “The whole plant looks…rejuvenated.  What is this magic, Teyla—and will you teach it to me?”

Despite her weakness, she laughed softly, “Are you so eager, Stephen Strange, to be a student once again?”

“Learning is a lifetime adventure, Teyla—that’s a truth I’ve been lucky enough to discover firsthand.  I have never turned away the opportunity to learn something new.  Never in medicine, and never in the mystic arts.  But this,” he declared, incredulously, “This is a combination of the two.”  He shook his head, imagining the things he might have accomplished as a doctor if he’d had such magic at his disposal.  “When can we begin?”

“You flatter me, Stephen Strange, implying that I am fit to teach a Master any kind of magic.”  Her tone was gentle indulgence, and it occurred to him that that she might be teasing him just a bit.  “But if that is your will, I will try the best I can, providing you are patient.  Ever��patient,” she reiterated, “For the forests of Nalor did not spring to life in a mere cycle of the sister-moons.”

“And Rome wasn’t built in a day,” he chuckled, drawing a pretty smile from her.  The color was returning to her cheeks, and she drew away from him, no longer needing to lean against him to remain upright.  Stephen would’ve let her linger there beyond her immediate need to, but Teyla had already turned away, moving to rejoin Dominic in his rounds.

Curious to confirm the full success of Teyla’s cure, he plucked a few of the currants from the bush, and popped one into his mouth.  It burst with bright, sweet flavor the moment he broke the skin, so that he quickly consumed the others--thinking they were among the sweetest berries he had tasted in his life.

Knowing that she would be well out of her depth dealing with the financial and legal matters left behind in her father’s wake, Teyla had asked Stephen to contact her father’s lawyers and the Columbia Art Department Chairman on her behalf, so that he had spent a couple hours consulting with them by phone.  She also informed him that she felt strong enough to return to the loft unaccompanied; observing her carefully, he judged that she was ready enough to face whatever tasks lay ahead for her there—though he insisted she travel there via portal.  Stephen felt doubly responsible for her now, and ensuring that she was only an easily conjured portal away, was the best compromise at hand.

After addressing a few vital Sanctum concerns, Stephen visited the kitchen to pack enough hot lunch for two (with the cook shooing him out of the way as she bustled about her mealtime preparations), and then used a portal to join Teyla at her father’s place.  She greeted him warmly, though he could tell she had been crying once again—as he had known she would need to, choosing to do so in the privacy of her home away from home.  They dined at the kitchen table, with Stephen telling her that she must eat the full plate of chicken and pasta with pesto, which he doled out for her, reminding her that she had barely eaten in the time since they had arrived in New York.  Obediently, she made her way through the meal, while he filled her in on the details of the financial and living arrangements her father had provided for her.

That done, he turned the topic back to her little morning miracle in the Sanctum’s greenhouse—giving her a welcome distraction from the grief that lay beneath the surface waiting for a quiet moment to break fresh upon her heart.

“It is not a magic exclusive to Hadeeth,” she started, “Though rarely found—according to my teachers--it is practiced by at least a few dozen cultures across the multiverse.  Its primary purpose is for healing, although you were witness to that minor charm I demonstrated for the young ones of Kamar-Taj.”

“That was a sweet little bit of magic, Teyla,” he reminded her.

She lowered her lashes demurely, genuinely flattered.  “It is quite elementary, Doctor…”

“Stephen, please, Teyla,” he urged her, “After last night—how you helped me—we don’t need to be so formal now, do we?”

She raised her eyes to meet his, surprised but clearly pleased, “As you wish…Stephen.”  Again, he found the familiarity of her use of his given name…quite pleasant…and the little smile that graced the corners of her mouth, gratifying.  She nodded graciously, and then continued, “Such spell-making relies upon the practitioner to engage in what we call empathetic magic.  To not only discern, but to feel the subject’s condition and needs, and to bond with them enough to experience it themselves--to some degree at least.”

Of course, Stephen realized, that’s what makes it a perfect magic for you.  “But there must be a cost of sorts to that,” he surmised.

“Indeed,” she admitted, “But oh, Stephen, it is a beautiful price to pay, to be of such service to those in need.”  For a heartbeat, Teyla nearly glowed with the joy of it. 

“So break it down for me, Teyla.  Tell me how to make a start.”  Stephen patted her hand, then left his atop hers, enjoying the soothing warmth which was ever present when his scarred flesh came in contact with her skin.  “Teach me. Please.”

She studied his face carefully, and nodded solemnly.  “I will do my best, Stephen,” she promised him, “For I see your desire to learn is honest and true.”

“Now—as you surely know,” she began, “All life—from the lowliest insect to the most accomplished and powerful Master of the mystic arts…”

He grinned at that, appreciating the humor of her not so subtle reference.

“…all life possesses a unique energy.  By attuning one’s own energy with that of the lifeform in need of healing, one can establish a harmonic resonance—a bond that enables a Healer to read exactly what injury or illness that lifeform suffers.”

“Harmonic resonance,” he repeated, making the connection, “The notes you hum?”

“Yes, in a large part, though there are other factors that bear upon the resonance as well.”

“And once you’ve established that bond, how are you able to heal the damage?” he challenged her, “How do you set things right?”

Patiently, she expounded, “Well, that is…hmmm…that is somewhat trickier to explain.  Let us call it a temporary exchange of energy.  And by this means, the Healer takes unto themselves a fraction of the damage…a shadow of the symptoms…an echo of the pain, where necessary.”

“That’s why you were weakened after you healed the currant bush?”

Teyla nodded, “Though as you witnessed, I did recover swiftly.”

“The side effects on the Healer—they’re only temporary?”  Stephen considered how revolutionary introducing such magic into regular training at Kamar-Taj might be, where those with the aptitude could make a difference in the suffering of hundreds of lives in the same span of time in which medical professionals might only help dozens.

Teyla hesitated, cautious in reply, “Most often, yes; they are brief and rarely debilitating.”

“Which means there is a degree of risk?”  He had wondered about the downside of the promise of miracle cures—knowing well enough that nothing in the mystic arts came without some cost.

“The relief we offer to those in need far outweighs that risk,” she insisted, a little defensively, “At least for me and my fellow practitioners.”

“Risk nevertheless,” he asserted, easily reading her—for once—and what she left unspoken.  “In extreme cases, I’m betting you’d be putting your health and life on the line.”

Teyla nodded, “It is true.  But the work that you do, Stephen…the work that you and your fellow sorcerers do…is already far from risk free.”  She gave him that small, knowing smile—the one that told him she knew much more about him than she had ever dared to say aloud—and asked frankly, “Did you not lay down your life a thousand times over to protect and preserve this world, and every living soul upon it, from a most ancient, implacable malevolence?”

Stunned to have her mention it, Stephen’s mouth went dry.  “How…how do you know this?”  Was it something she had read in him—or something she’d been told about?

Her soft, brown eyes held infinite patience—and unabashed admiration.  With a wisdom beyond her seeming years, she told him, “You may not speak of your ordeal at the hands of Dormammu, but the story is already legend in Kamar-Taj, and on worlds far flung from here.  Yet you remain fully humble, even perplexed at times by the deference paid to by your peers…”

His mouth fell open, but he was speechless--transfixed by her gentle regard, and unable to muster his usual sort of blithe reply.  

“…and even the lowliest student here holds you in high esteem for that great and painful sacrifice,” she concluded.  “Truly, Stephen, would you now claim that the cost you paid was not worth what you accomplished?”

Stephen closed his eyes; he could not deny those facts, though he did his best to avoid the memories of that time, and all the pain that it entailed.  The truth was he had made that choice with no compunction, never factoring in the price that he would have to pay.  And given that choice again today, he would do the same in a heartbeat.

Teyla brushed her fingertips across his knuckles, knowing his answer without him speaking a word.  “So you do understand, Stephen—why there is no question of choice.  Your example is an inspiration to all those who study at Kamar-Taj.  To those who have learned of your deed across the many dimensions.”  She leaned nearer to him, her breath like a soft caress on his cheek, and his heart sped a little faster as he wondered if a third kiss was in the offing.  Realizing that if it were, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from returning the favor. 

Instead, she lowered her gaze, so that his heart lurched with disappointment—and she added shyly, “As you inspire me.”

He was silent a moment, a mix of emotions swirling through his thoughts--not the least of which was berating himself for wanting to kiss a very vulnerable young woman.  Not the time or place; he told himself--and certainly the most inappropriate thought I could have, given her condition.  Stephen shook his head, declaring adamantly, "I'm no hero, Teyla--please believe me.  I am, in fact, the farthest thing in all the worlds from that."

She sat back, her eyes narrowed in such keen study of him that he felt his heart was laid bare.  "As you say, Stephen.  Though I perceive a destiny for you, in which your courage, brilliance, and selflessness will become the stuff of legends."

"Well in the meantime," he scoffed, feeling the heated blush of embarassment (and shame at his fleeting thought of kisses) color his neck and cheeks, "I'm just a man reaching through a fog of uncertainty, to try my best to do the right thing."

"Of course," she smiled, her faith in him unfaltering, "One day at a time, one deed at a time.  Your destiny will find you whether you believe in it or not."

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YOTP - May

@the-red-butterfly It is them! my beloved old men! Thank you for (involuntarily) putting this ship in my head!!!

Pairing: Finwë x Thingol

Prompts: Flower language, Sick fic, Pet/Child acquisition, “Who are you?”, Sunshine, Medieval/Fantasy AU

Words: 2 105

Warnings: Sickness, curse, too many flowers, sadness

King Finwë sat upon his throne, sullenly pondering his realm and his much-regretted past.

As countless times before, his fingers twitched with the burning desire to beckon to an errant servant so he may pen a letter to his old friend from whom he’d been torn by time and fate, but he dared not. What could he even say to Thingol?

At all times, the eyes of his son and heir—burning with knowledge and rage far beyond what was normal and healthy at his young age—were upon him, and he was gripped by the laughable fear of disappointing the child. So, he stayed motionless until the waves of sickening longing subsided once more.

Either way, even if he had conjured up the courage to make his innermost thoughts known, he probably couldn’t have found the right words and would soon have given up on this ludicrous enterprise halfway through his miserable missive.

In his weary mind, time melted like cheap wax, and he saw the prominent figures of his life story floating past like blurry silhouettes behind a fogged-up window; twice, he’d lost his heart and both times, it had almost killed him.

First, Thingol—young and strong—had been lost in a dark forest never to be seen again until he finally re-emerged, years later, by the side of a terrifyingly beautiful woman whom he introduced to the world as his lady wife.

Vexed by having been deserted and replaced so callously, Finwë had himself rushed headlong into matrimony, only to be widowed soon after the birth of his beloved son, Fëanor.

Winter came and buried the last signs of life and hope underneath a thick layer of stifling white, and Finwë’s heart grew ever heavier with loneliness and misery.

One day, when he could bear his torturous isolation no longer, he broke his own decree—banning all wicked wizards and sordid sorcerers—by seeking out the most ominous and powerful of all the dabblers in the dark arts known to him.

Banished to languish in solitude, locked into a high tower surrounded by a barren desert of dead earth, Melkor was renowned for his boundless might and unimaginable cruelty, but Finwë had been driven beyond reason by the daily calvary of raising his darling child on his own. He was too lonely and heartsick to care about the danger.

Thus, he begged the malicious magician to grant him a second chance at love.

Even as he spoke that terrible demand, he felt his stomach sink with dread—Melkor’s sharp, pleased smile only exacerbated Finwë’s conviction that he’d committed a grievous mistake by going against his better knowledge and intransigent rulings.

“So be it,” the callous conjurer purred, opening his blackened fingers to reveal a single lotus blossom—symbol of purity, enlightenment, self-regeneration, and rebirth—which promptly went up in flames. “The spell has been cast. Return to your castle and await the good news!”

Overwhelmed and confused, Finwë turned to leave. On the threshold, he paused. “Isn’t there a price to pay? Is there nought you’d ask of me in return?” he asked warily.

“There always is,” Melkor chuckled. “But worry not—it’s out of our hands now!”

Unsure what to make of that and distinctly alarmed by the smug expression on the other’s face, Finwë withdrew to await the unforeseeable effects of his imprudent actions.

“We need to go,” Lúthien stared at her father with calm determination, her slender arms laden with vibrant violets, denoting watchfulness, faithfulness, and modesty. “Now.”

The sudden flowering of plants she’d never sowed had made her understand that strange happenings were afoot, and so she’d collected and packed whatever supplies seemed the most promising to her and now attempted to convince her father of her astounding, irrational need to depart at once.

Two contradicting impulses warred within Thingol’s chest—the outside world was not safe, and he avoided leaving the sanctuary of his realm, but, at the same time, he also rarely denied his uncannily wise daughter anything.

“We don’t have time to dither,” the young girl insisted. “Pack your things, we must away!”

Lately, she’d had increasingly recurrent terrifying and compelling dreams of flowers soaked in blood and the bright, angry eyes of a boy barely older than herself.

All she could say with certainty was that she needed to find both to prevent a great catastrophe. She truly hoped that this would be enough to sway her intransigently cautious father.

To her surprise, it did.

Time turned into a swarm of wasps, stinging and biting the back of her neck mercilessly as they crossed the unwelcoming wastes between their secret realm and the vague destination that beckoned to her with the mournful call of a dying siren.

As the hazy silhouette of a glorious city seemed to materialise out of mist and shadow, Thingol’s steps faltered.

“Why did you bring us here?” he asked his daughter breathlessly.

“I don’t know—I’ve led us to where we need to be,” she replied calmly, tugging on his hand in the old-familiar expression of exasperation she’d displayed since her earliest childhood. “Come now!”

With every jerky motion of his numb legs, the mystical King became more aware of a pervasive sense of “wrongness” in the air; he’d occasionally asked a brave scout or intrepid traveller for news about Finwë’s domain, and he’d always been reassured to hear that his lost lover was thriving.

Now, every street was deserted and quiet as a graveyard.

“They’re in mourning,” Lúthien exclaimed. “We’re too late!”

Again, Thingol bristled at his daughter’s confession—she’d never told him that they were to prevent the demise of someone, and—had he known—he would have refused to leave the safety of their home.

Meddling with fate never ended well.

“Na,” came a soft, croaking voice from behind a cracked, worn doorframe. “The Queen has been dead for quite some time, and we still have hope for our King!”

“What terrible fate has befallen him?” Thingol cried, casting off his mantle of haughty indifference to lay bare the truth of his heart and soul. “Speak up, woman, and I shall recompense you richly for the wisdom you’ll impart!”

Sucking her teeth and shaking her head regretfully, the crone shrugged her lopsided shoulders a few times. “After the Queen’s death, the King went and petitioned a dark conjurer for…succour, I guess. Great changes were promised to him, and he returned home victorious.”

She made an artful pause. “Then, he fell ill. Two full moons now, he’s languished in a feverish stupor, and none can rouse him from his sickbed.”

When Thingol merely stared at her, his eyes bulging out of their sockets with alarm, she gave a wheezing cackle.

“The prince is being attended by his uncles who are already vying for the throne, should the King succumb to his mysterious illness,” she then added in a tone that betrayed both dismay and gruesome sensationalism. “Do you know him?”

“We were friends, once upon a time,” Thingol confessed tonelessly. “And I’ve come all this way without knowing why—I must see him at once.”

The old hag pointed vaguely up the dirt road, baking in the merciless sunshine, and withdrew with a wistful sigh.

“The rhododendrons are in full bloom,” Lúthien muttered as they set off once more. “Nature itself seems to be crying out a warning! Grave danger and imminent desolation threaten this afflicted kingdom. Hurry, Father, for the shadows lying upon this realm grow ever longer and darker!”

Thus, they set out bravely in search of the stricken King—their steps echoed eerily through the gloomy, desaturated landscape of an unnaturally quiet realm that should have been awash with colour and sound on so fine an afternoon.

As they crossed a flowering meadow, Lúthien slowed down, her bright eyes straying to a patch of irises sightlessly.

Thingol had followed her thus far without doubting her premonition, so he gathered a handful of the flowers, emblems of faith, trust, wisdom, hope, and valour, to offer them to Finwë as a token of his undying affection and devotion.

Finwë! At the thought of his indisposed beloved, Thingol straightened hastily and took up his tormented wandering once more.

The flagrant absence of life started grating on his nerves, and he kept throwing nervous glances over his shoulder, half-expecting a monster of compounded shadows and darkness to pursue his every wavering step. There was nobody, and, in a way, that felt worse.

More surprising still was that no one seemed to care about their approach in the least—no guards or defensive implements barred their way as Lúthien led them unerringly through the abandoned courtyard and up a broad flight of marble steps.

“Where’s the boy?” she asked, her uncannily full voice racing along the domed hallway, stretching out seemingly endlessly before them. “Where is everybody?”

As if conjured up by her words, a figure appeared at the end of the corridor—dark-haired and fire-eyed. The young boy glared at them with unequivocal hatred but made no move to stop them either.

Sentinels of dark crimson roses lined the walls in regular intervals, and Thingol absent-mindedly counted their beautifully mournful blossoms as he moved on as through quicksand.

At last, he pushed open a heavy oaken door and found his old friend, his impossible love, lying on a suspiciously undisturbed bed.

“Finwë!” he cried out at once, throwing himself to his knees beside the massive piece of furniture and cradling that cold, limp hand in his own fingers, caked with dust from his long travels.

Laying down the flowers he’d stolen from someone’s blessed land on Finwë’s barely moving chest, Thingol hung his head in despair.

“What happened to you? Why didn’t you…reach out?” he whispered, knowing that reaching him in his hidden kingdom would have been exceedingly difficult. Nevertheless, he believed he would have known if Finwë had sought his counsel or help. “My sweet love!”

At that fervent plea, Finwë’s lids fluttered like butterfly wings for a moment before unveiling his erratically rolling eyes.

“Who are you?” he groaned in a voice hoarse and cracking with disuse. “Where am I?”

“It is I, Thingol, come to deliver you from whatever ails you,” Thingol said, suddenly feeling his daughter’s cool, soothing hand upon his tense shoulder. “My own child has guided me here.”

He fell silent—it was evident that Finwë was neither able nor willing to fathom or disclose what great evil had befallen him, and he was afraid that he’d have to unearth the truth in an arduous quest that would lead him far away from the one he sought to help and save.

“Let me see,” Lúthien prompted in a soft voice and pushed past her petrified pater.

Suddenly, all her vague visions and perplexing premonitions made sense—akin to puzzle pieces slotting perfectly into one another, the certainty of what she had to do crystallised in her mind.

Her fingers moved nimbly and unerringly as she extracted tinctures and poultices from her bag and started applying them meticulously to the fevered man’s skin.

Soon, Finwë’s hazy gaze sharpened, and he sat up shakily.

“My son,” he rasped. “Where’s my boy? Thingol? Oh, how glad I am to see your face! And who is this pretty girl?”

“She’s my darling daughter,” Thingol explained, giving in to the overwhelming weakness of relief that surged through him at the sight of his friend’s restored spirits. He bent forward and pressed a coy kiss onto the papery, cool cheek of the reawakened king. “Some benevolent power has led us to you, so we may undo the curse that has threatened to rob not only your realm of their king but also your son of his father!”

“I thank you,” Finwë said with a mighty shiver. “I recall petitioning a dark sorcerer after the demise of my wife in hopes of being granted a helper and ally in the difficult endeavour of raising my son and heir.”

“Did he agree?” Thingol asked suspiciously.

“That he did,” Finwë affirmed with a wry chuckle. “Even as I left the villain, I knew that there’d be a steep price to pay. Nevertheless, I didn’t foresee that I’d nearly miss that second chance when it was finally bestowed upon my unworthy, craven soul.”

“Hush,” Thingol interrupted him as he wrapped his mighty arms around Finwë’s shivering frame as one would swaddle a sick child in a woollen blanket. “Whatever indemnity was demanded, I consider it paid in full. Now, rest! Lúthien and I shall take care of your son while you recover, and then, we shall see what the future brings!”

So, there goes a really silly one!

Month 5, still on track LOL

⇢ Masterlist

Lots of love from me!

[blowflyfag]

WORLD WRESTLING FEDERATION MAGAZINE : DECEMBER 1999

At The Crossroad

By Laura

Choices. Each one of us is faced with a myriad of choices in life. Some are of little consequence–like what pair of shoes to wear or which breakfast cereal to have; while others are life-altering–like who to marry or what career path to follow. One man forced with such a life-altering decision is X-Pac. 

Over the past several months X-Pac has been at a crossroads–it is not two paths, however, but three that confront the “Bronco Buster.” He must decide to whom his loyalties belong and what direction his career should take. In order to do so, he must take a hard look inside himself and determine who he really is and what his true purpose in life is. Is he Kane’s ally–destined to be mentor to a powerful yet vulnerable friend? Or is X-Pac simply DX at heart–a rebel whose very essence is the pursuit of “coolness.” Or does X-Pac’s need to run with the big boys–perhaps to compensate for feelings of inadequacy–override all others?

Each path would fulfill an innate desire within X-Pac–one of status and reputation, one of intimacy and feeling needed and one of creativity and recklessness. The question is, Which desire is most compelling?

X-Pac found in DX an environment where he was able to cut loose and express his rebellious nature. There, X-Pac had the freedom to let it all out and to defy authority–all with the backing of other like-minded individuals. 

DX was a tight-knit group. It was a family, and a very loyal one at that. Triple H, Billy Gunn, Chyna, Road Dogg and X-Pac all subscribed to the same set of values and beliefs–a “degenerate” lifestyle. X-Pac was able to carry that and live a rebellious existence–the ultimate cool. 

Although DX as a group is no more, their essence certainly lives on. Will X-Pac choose the DX green glow? Will he return to the degenerate way of life and carry on that tradition of defiance of authority? 

And then there is Kane. First paired up due to booking rather than affinity, the twosome proved to be one of the most intense tag teams in World Wrestling Federation history. This intensity  went beyond the mat. True, Chyna once caught Kane’s attention; and Kane’s father, Paul Bearer, had psychologically tormented and controlled the “Big Red Machine.” But X-Pac was the first  to truly touch Kane’s soul, to guide Kane to his own heart and give him the courage to realize his human potential, which was always there, buried deep inside. X-Pac and Kane… worked together like magic. 

X-Pac was amazing with Kane–his fearlessness was astounding, especially as Kane had a reputation for being an unpredictable sociopath. And with Kane not only did X-Pac achieve great tag team status in the Federation, but he also discovered the genuine one-to-one friendship he had never experienced, even in DX. 

It is no secret that X-Pac has always been self-conscious about his size disadvantage, and time and again he has tried to prove himself to be on the same page as the giants, such as the Undertaker. It wasn’t too long ago that X-Pac ordered Kane not to interfere in his match against Chris Jericho. Much to his chagrin, Kane did interfere and caused X-Pac much shame and humiliation. X-Pac wants to play in the major leagues–and with Undertaker and Big Show that need could be satisfied. However, if X-Pac chooses this path, he will be in league with more than he bargained for–he will be looking evil right in the eye. 

Perhaps there is more here than meets the eye, however. It could very well be that X-Pac has a dark side unbeknownst to all and that only with Undertaker does he feel he can truly explore and fulfill his dark potential…

What about consequences? If X-Pac returned to the degenerate lifestyle, it would be a lonely existence at best. The other members have left the nest and created new identities for themselves. To return to the DX way might very well be the demise of X-Pac–very soon he’d be out of style.

If X-Pac decides to remain loyal to Kane, he will have a true friend for life and a good career in the Federation, although possibly a limited one. A strong friendship may not be enough for X-Pac. Because of Kane’s social maladjustment, X-Pac could be limited in his creativity and progress. He would also have the Undertaker continually out to destroy him.

If evil tempts X-Pac and he enters into a deal with the Undertaker and Big Show, he has lost Kane forever. He also tarnishes his reputation–he could very well be perceived as a sell-out. Most important, however, is that if X-Pac goes down the dark path of destruction, he may lose his soul…

Three choices, three completely different paths to take that will significantly and permanently after X-Pac’s career in the Federation, as well as his life and reputation. Whichever road he takes, and whether he goes back to DX or falls under the Undertaker’s influence, how will Kane react? What if X-Pac does not choose either path, but instead creates his own–one offering ties to all three choices–ultimately becoming his own man? With the new millennium fast approaching, the “Bronco Buster” may surprise us all and become a pioneer of the 21st century–a true man of the ‘00s.

[imsparky2002]

Father Knows Best

"Adrien! Let down your hair!"

The sound of Gabriel's strict command immediately dampens Adrien's mood. He uses his long locks as a makeshift rope, allowing the man to climb up the tower, brushing off the dust from his coat, which he hangs up on the wall. "Thank you, Adrien." he says. The boy can't help but stand up straight as his father stares at him coldly, before a smile creeps up his face. “Thank you, Adrien.” he remarks. “It astounds me how you can do that every single day without complaint. Surely it must be exhausting.” Adrien brushes the statement off. “It’s no trouble, sir. Anything to help you.” he insists.

Gabriel gives him a pat on the head as he begins to admire himself in the mirror. “Look in the mirror, Adrien. You know what I see? A strong, intelligent and beautiful young man...” Adrien begins to smile. That’s a surprisingly warm compliment from his fathe-

“Oh, and you're here too.” Gabriel joked. This caused Adrien to show a surprising amount of annoyance, which only made Gabriel laugh. “I’m just teasing, son. Don’t take everything so seriously!” Gabriel said, as if his son were still a toddler. “Well I don’t find it funny at all.” Adrien thought, though he wouldn’t dare say it out loud. He decided that since his father was in such a jovial mood, he would ask a question he had been dreading to ask for awhile. “So…Father…I wanted to talk to you about something. Tomorrow is kind of a big day, you know it’s-”

“Your 14th birthday. Yes, Adrien, I know how calendars work.” Gabriel said snippily. Adrien gulped. That seemed to douse his good mood. “Well... I was wondering... could you take me to see the lights?“

The man’s eyes widened in shock, as he whipped his head around. “Pardon?” he asked, almost daring his son to say it again. Adrien decided to bite the bullet and continued. “Well, it's just that they always appear on my birthday, and I thought it'd be nice to leave the tower and see them in perso-” Once again, he was cut off by Gabriel, who just put a finger on his lips. “Oh, Adrien, you want to go outside?” he asked, with fake concern in his voice.

Gabriel:

Look at you, fragile as a flower

Just a ray of sunshine, there’s no doubt

Adrien:

I know but-

Gabriel:

That’s right, to keep you safe and sound, son

I was quite aware the day was coming

(He begins closing the blinds and windows.)

Knew that soon you’d want to leave the nest

Soon, but not yet

(Adrien is about to protest, as Gabriel shushes him.)

Shh! Don’t you fret

Father… knows… best

(He pulls a lever, which puts the tower in complete darkness. Adrien hates when he does stuff like this, and pulls out a candle to light the room.)

Father knows best

Listen to your father

(Adrien turns around to see Gabriel, making a scary expression and making his fingers into claws, giving Adrien a mini-heart attack. He knows his dad is trying to warn him of dangerous people, but does he have to scare the crap out of him?)

It’s a scary world out there.

(The man disappears, and as Adrien begins to try and calm down, he feels something pulling on his hair, causing him to hyperventilate. If there was one thing he absolutely hated, it was when his father would touch and tug at his hair without consent.)

Father knows best

One way or another

(Adrien tried as hard as he could to tug at his hair, until he felt Gabriel let go. The shock caused him to fall to the ground, being caught by his father.)

Something will go wrong, I swear!

(As he let go of his son, he began to make shadow puppets of dangerous criminals. However, Adrien remained unfazed. As long as he had his trusty frying pan, he’d be fine!)

Ruffians, thugs!

Adrien:

Wait, aren’t those the same thing?

Gabriel:

Snakes

Adrien:

Ooh, I love snakes!

Gabriel:

The plague

Adrien:

What?

Gabriel:

Yes!

Adrien:

Uh...

Gabriel:

Also large bugs, men with pointy teeth

Adrien:

Please stop! Ok, I get the picture!

Gabriel:

Daddy’s right here. Father will protect you

Here is something I suggest!

(He dramatically makes an entrance down a flight of stairs.)

Just be proper, stay with Papa.

Father... knows... best!

(He laughs as he disappears. Adrien decides he’s done with this, and begins looking for another candle.)

Father knows best

Take it from your daddy

Out there, you won’t survive.

(Adrien begins to tear up as his father starts to degrade him once again.)

Sloppy, underdressed

Immature, bratty

Please, they’ll eat you up alive!

(He rolls his son up into a burrito of sorts, using the hair as a tortilla, and insults him once more.)

Gullible, naive

Positively grubby

Ditzy and a tad bit vague

Plus, I fear

You’re getting kind of chubby.

(This confused Adrien, because his father had been leaving him hungry for years. Still, he felt himself begin to sob.)

I say this because I love you

Father understands

Father’s here to help you!

All I have is one request!

(Adrien lay on the floor in a fetal position, sobbing uncontrollably, as his father forced him to look up.)

Adrien?

(Adrien hiccuped as he looked up at his father, his eyes blurry from the tears.)

Adrien:

Y-ye-e-es?

(Gabriel stared at his son with a look of contained rage, his eyes were dead inside.)

Gabriel:

Don’t ever ask to leave this tower again.

(Adrien felt the pure malice in the voice, and it shook him to his core.)

Adrien:

I won’t, I p-promise.

(Gabriel smiled. Adrien flinched as his father stroked his face.)

Gabriel:

Don’t forget it

You’ll reget it...

Father.... knows... best.

(Adrien remained on the floor, continuing to cry as his father went out to get something he had forgotten to buy the first time around. His beloved friend Sass, slithered around, giving him some space. The boy decided he had enough. He simply couldn’t live like this, trapped and in fear of disobeying his father. And so he did something he hadn’t done in a very long time. He wished for a fairy.)

“P-please...” he sniffed, his breath hitching as he pleaded. “I wish I could leave this tower. I n-need help!”

Suddenly there was a flash of light, and a bubble appeared in front of him. It popped, and he could see a friendly-looking boy that seemed to be around his age. He had sparkly wings, wore a red cap, glasses, and had a magic wand. He flashed Adrien a warm smile, and floated down to the ground.

“What’s up, dude?” he said. “I’m Nino, your Fairy GodBro.”

And there you have my first songfic for Class of Heroes! This one was so fun and surprisingly easy to write. I decided to have Adrien be a little bit braver to Gabriel, knowing the man was abusive, but feeling there was no way out. That is, until Nino showed up! Weeby helped me with the dialogue before the song begins, so thanks to them for that. Also as you can see, there were some lyric changes, so let me know what you thought of those. I’ll be making a sequel post with Weeby’s help for Adrien and Nino’s first meeting. As usual, make sure to reblog, reply, post and ask to share the content. @artzychic27 @msweebyness