#if novel I prefer soft because it's harder to turn the pages at times

[heftmanrhamm]

Heeeeyyyyyyyyy @brezideje :) !!!! Thank you for tagging me!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! :D <3 <3 💖<3

hardcover or paperback // bookstore or library // bookmark or receipt // stand alone or series // nonfiction or fiction // thriller or fantasy // under 300 pages or over 300 pages or the exact number of pages needed and no more or less // children's or ya // friends to lovers or enemies to lovers // read in bed or read on the couch or anywhere // read at night or in the morning or anytime // keep pristine or markup // cracked spine or dog ear

Tagging: (this is like, if you're wanting to do it. No pressure. Apologies if you've already been tagged or something :) ) @miniaturestarlightdelight @five-potatoes-high @iiep-wop @streetjack

[wasabito]

thank you to @sparkexplosive and @vs-redemption for beta reading it for me! merry christmas & happy holidays everyone ♥️

➽ synopsis: being a member of the royal guard is a grueling and thankless job, so you decide to remind katsuki a little of what it’s like to be young again—what better way to do that than with some healthy competition.

➽ word count: 1.7k

➽ tags: fluff, budding romance, royalty au, childhood friends

➽ author’s note: i had a ton of fun participating in my first ever secret santa!! this is my gift-fic to the lovely @katsushimaa​ hope you enjoy, yssa!

"So, this is where the hell you've been hiding?"

His voice tore through the midday stillness like a blade, equal parts raspy and gruff. He sounded irritated and mildly fatigued. Not that Katsuki Bakugou would ever admit to being anything less than a hundred and ten percent. He climbed off his steed, heavy boots crunching under the weight of his feet, and secured his horse against the stump you were leaning on.

You flipped the page of your book, not sparing the man even a cursory glance. You would prefer to keep your attention occupied by fictitious worlds, warriors, and battles fought in the name of love and justice.

It was much easier to allow yourself to become the bearer of fictional hardships, because at least they could be solved through a well-constructed plot with each turn of a page, as opposed to the realities of your actual life, a slow spiraling disaster in comparison.

Bakugou stood in front of you, vein ticking on his throat with every clench of his jaw. His arms were crossed tight over his chest, red gaze pinned on your hunched form. He wasn't at all the kind of person anyone could easily ignore. His very presence demanded attention and drew eyes like a magnet.

Case in point, no matter how much you tried to ignore him, you simply couldn’t.

"Please tell me you aren't going to stand there the entire time. Take a hint will you." You went to turn another page, but Bakugou reached over and snatched the book from your hands with deft fingers and speed you couldn't hope to match.

"Give. It. Back."

"Nah, I don't think I will just yet." He sneered, thumbing through the pages. "I was told to bring your dumbass back to the estate, so that's exactly what the hell I'm 'bout to do."

You blew a puff of air from your lips, eyes blazing with a kind of defiance that only burned harder the more you glared at him. "Then I guess you'll just have to drag me back kicking and screaming."

Bakugou only smirked, teeth spread in a feral grin that sent a chill down your spine.

That had always been his intention.

Almost an hour later, you stood before your parents, clothes dusty, creased, and smudged from having been manhandled like a sack of flour before promptly dumped in front of your waiting audience.

A frown marred your delicate features as they began their lecture.

Your mind drifted elsewhere the more they reminded you of your lineage and that you were royalty and how it was imperative you behave as such. You’d heard it all before, known this for as long as you could remember. As the King and Queen of your home country, your parents never failed to emphasize the importance of keeping your every move in check because of the reputation you had to uphold.

Katsuki stood somewhere behind you, and although he stayed mostly silent, you could almost hear him grinding away at his molars. The King and Queen were taking turns subtly digging into him as well, implying that his incompetence was a stain upon the royal guard perfect record of achievements. If he couldn't keep you in line, what was the point of holding rank?

They annoyed him way more than they did you, but he dare not voice it, not if he wanted to keep his head attached to his shoulders. Far be it from him to send himself to the guillotine

You both were in for a long night.

“Honestly, this kind of behavior is unbecoming of someone of your status. What will our countrymen think if they see you roaming about unattended like a vagabond?” Your father stroked his beard as if waiting for a response. But everyone in the room knew he really just liked to hear himself talk.

He was no better than a machiavellian swindler in expensive robes. A puppet if you would.

The real leader of the land was your mother. After all, she had only married into the family, having been the daughter of a mere advisor with no royal blood. She spoke little, but her glare was more than enough to convey just what she was thinking.

By the end of the lecture, you felt like all of your energy had been sapped from you, but thankfully your parents left you to retreat into your bedroom for the remainder of the day. Bakugou escorted you, following close behind.

“You’re gonna do it again, aren’t ya?”

You paused, foot nearly catching against the carpeted floors of your bedroom. Fiddling with a piece of your hair, you shrugged. “...maybe.”

“You’re a huge idiot.” Bakugou shook his head with a low laugh.

A tiny smidgen of a grin danced on your lips as you considered him. He was your childhood friend. No one knew you better than he did. And he was also the guard most assigned to watch over you and keep you safe from harm.

Despite that, you’d come to notice how much he’d changed. He wasn’t the same Katsuki you grew up knowing and you missed him dearly. Occasions like this, where a part of his guard was let down, were becoming few and far between. There had to be something you could do.

“Let’s make a wager. If you can manage to find me, I’ll do one thing at your command.”

“Challenge accepted.” He reached into the folds of his uniform, pulled out your little novel, and slapped it right into your open palm. "No matter where you run off to, I'll find ya. Trust me on that, princess."

His eyes were like candles in the night, ignited by a spark of passion. Not a single lie could be detected.

"I won't make it easy on you, Katsuki, just so you know."

"Heh, you better not." He sniffed, tucking his hands into his uniform pockets. And with a final half-wave, he was gone.

In and around the capital city, winter had completely lost it's bite. The weather was tepid, swinging a mild breeze that coasted through the countryside. It was the sort of winter where one felt as if woolen clothing were worn more for comfort than necessity. In what should have been the chilliest part of the year, Bakugou found himself traversing one of the many beaches that hedged the southern peninsula.

After a full week following the challenge issued in your bedroom, Bakugou realized you were entirely too good at evading him or any of the other guards at the kingdom’s disposal, for that matter.

Day in and day out, he spent his shifts searching tirelessly for you, just to stumble upon you in the most random of places and only when you had wanted him to find you. The running score was six to five in your favor, but he was determined not to lose to you again.

And there you were, standing at the very edge of the shore, as if a mere thought had manifested you right before his very eyes. Your loose billowing dress of soft satin waved to him like a white flag of surrender in the air. He'd finally found you.

"Not gonna run off this time?"

"Nope! You won this round." Your cheeks creased in a smile.

Given the boots he'd worn, it was no surprise that his feet kept sinking into the sand. You said nothing as he toed off his shoes and socks, bare feet settling into the depths of warm, grainy sand.

He couldn’t help but feel more relaxed. Over the past few months, he’d found himself losing sight of his goals, caught in the dredges of the mundane and routine.

The cool waters lapped at both his and your feet, fizzing and bubbling, leaving behind traces of salt. You went further into the water’s touch, your back to him as the tides licked at the your calves. Even he had to admit, the view was a beautiful one, possibly even more so with you against the backdrop.

“I’m glad you found me,” you called over the cry of seagulls. “For a second, I was worried you’d lose this round.”

Bakugou rolled his eyes. “Tch, as if I’d ever lose to you, princess.”

“Naturally.” You laughed.

“What the hell are we doing out here anyway?”

He knelt to roll up his pants, a mere moment away from following after you like always.

“I... really just wanted to show you the view. Do you remember when we used to come down here as kids? Remember how we used to dare each other to see who could go the farthest into the ocean?”

Of course he remembered. Those were some of his most cherished memories of his time spent with you before duty to the kingdom took precedent.

You reached a hand out to him, an open invitation. “I just thought you needed a little reminder of what that was like.”

For some reason, Katsuki was determined not to meet your gaze, scowling at some point on the horizon, until you came over and nudged him with your elbow. “It wouldn’t kill you to admit that I’m right.”

With a sigh, he reached over and tugged you into a hug. You snuggled close to his chest, gripping the back on his uniform. It may have been your imagination but you could’ve sworn you felt the soft press of lips against your temple.

“Thanks... you know... for everything.”

Beaming, you leaned back to get the full view of his heated cheeks.

“Of course, of course.”

There was something earnest in his eyes that told you no matter how far you went, or however far you traveled, he’d always be a step behind you. It sent your heart hammering in your ribcage. You were suddenly all too aware of the way he held you secure against him like he would never let go.

“What are you thinking, princess?”

You blinked owlishly, taken over by your feelings and mumbling a hushed. “Oh, nothing.” The two of you were just a royal and a guard, bound to one another by duty.

If there could be anything more than that...well, only time would tell.

[jaeminlore]

To Live and Let Go | Renjun

summary: if there’s something left to be learned, then my time is running. why would i waste it all, wasted on you?

words: 2.3k+

category: librarian!renjun x tutor!reader, fem!presenting!reader, adventure au, a bit meta, what’s going on idk ur guess is as good as mine, some sections are written better than others, reader is a tutor for prince jaemin, this sucks so bad i’m so sorry.

note: this was a commission for @yrb-reads who donated to a charity of their choice. thank you :) i’m terribly sorry it took so long and it's definitely not up to par the way it should be. if you want something else written to make up for it let me know. there was depression, full time job, and a death in the family i would like to blame, but i should’ve prioritized this story more for you, and for that i’m sorry. thank you so much for donating, and i hope this serves as a holiday gift for you. again, sorry about the short length

To Renjun, libraries feel like home. Especially the castle’s library, located just west of the kitchen; a hidden gem unknown to most people. Really, only known to Prince Jaemin and Renjun, if he really thought about it. Perhaps a few tutors and scholars as well.

But these factors don’t make it home. Instead, it is the wooden walls of thick cedar trunks, built long before the castle walls were put up; when the builders didn’t have the heart to tear such a piece of architecture down. It’s the way it smells like a forest at all times, and how the inside walls are chipped and falling onto the bare floor. It is the large shelves, made just decades ago, crammed up against each other and overflowing with the royal family’s books. Each piece of literature is practically an heirloom, save the small shelf in the corner where the prince hides his new romance novels he gets delivered straight from the village of Rubin.

The library feels like a bridge between the kingdom and the village. Inside these four walls, wooden and chipped, Rubin feels like one entity, undivided by classes or rank.

It also happens to be the one place Renjun is allowed to hang his paintings.

Ever since he was younger, it has been Renjun’s dream to be a portrait artist. To be able to place his thumbprint in Rubin’s history by painting the royal family or a few important nobles, is all he has ever wanted. But the King and Queen prefer a man of nobility to do the work, so Renjun was shot down. Since he sold everything he had to come and shoot for his dream, the royal family had offered him a pity job.

Correction: Prince Jaemin had begged his parents not to turn Renjun away empty-handed and convinced them to let him earn his pay here in the castle.

Prince Jaemin does a lot for Renjun. He had introduced him to his friend and closest servant, Donghyuck, who has a sharp tongue but no real malice to back up anything he ever said. Renjun had moved in with him, and used his side of the house as his painting room. Donghyuck barely even complains about the scent of oil paint anymore.

Prince Jaemin also got him his current job as a bookbinder. Which, in itself, is a very lonely and tedious job. Perfect for a boy like Renjun who only wants to work with no outside distractions. Aside from his friends in the castle, that is. Or the prince’s tutor, who comes in for study material.

Most importantly, Prince Jaemin lets Renjun hang up his portraits in the library. He had said that they deserved to be hung up, even if it couldn’t be hung up in the royal hall. Renjun had nearly burst into tears in front of the hyperactive prince.

They had met during a touchy time in the prince’s life. He had just returned to the castle after a trip to the village. There, he was hiding from potential assassins, but for some reason, the prince seemed more upset about coming back.

It was in the quiet of that library that Jaemin let Renjun, a complete stranger at the time, in on the secret that he was in love with a girl from the village. For the young artist, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Prince Jaemin was known for his free spirit and hyperactive personality. There was no way he could become attached to a noble raised under discipline.

Of course the prince was raised under the highest of discipline, but he somehow found a way to rebel against it all and stay true to himself, even if it meant hiding the portraits he liked the best in a forgotten library, or befriending the healer and servant of the castle instead of the lords.

He was wonderful, and Renjun couldn’t wait for him to be king.

The library was home because Prince Jaemin made it home. He had crafted a place between the castle and the village — a place of seclusion — just for Renjun and his thoughts.

-

“I just want them to listen to me,” Jaemin moans, dropping his chin onto his open romance book. “I’ve been asking them for almost a year and a half to let me go back to the village, but they refuse to listen to me.”

Renjun hums non-committedly. “Chin up, please. I’m not finished.”

Jaemin glares at Renjun through his eyelashes but obliges, a pout still evident on his face. He returns to his casual pose of leaning his cheek against his fist and turning the pages of his book. “Anyway, I really want to go back to the village.”

“I know,” Renjun sighs and dips the tip of his paintbrush into the copper-colored paint he had mixed. “Right now, you have to obey them. You may be the prince but obviously they’re the king and queen.”

“I’m about to be nineteen,” Jaemin mumbles angrily.

“And when your coronation arrives, you’ll have more freedom to do things like visit the village.”

“Her grandmother died, you know,” Jaemin says, morose. “I could’ve been there for the funeral, at least.”

Renjun grabs a slimmer paintbrush and begins to note the details of Jaemin’s face. “I know, Your Highness. But if she’s anything like you’ve told me, then I’m sure she understands.”

Jaemin bites his lip and looks at the book sadly. “I just miss her.”

“It’s your duty to stay here. I’m sure she realizes that.”

Jaemin rolls his eyes, albeit sadly, and goes back to posing.

“Your Highness! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” Renjun’s brush shakes slightly as his mind registers the new voice. It is Jaemin’s tutor. You, a servant the same age as the prince, seem to be the only one he will actually listen to. Perhaps because you entertain his many ideas. Perhaps because Renjun had begged him to keep you around.

Because you not only entertained Jaemin’s ideas, you also praised Renjun’s art. You are a no-nonsense tutor, but as a friend, you have had neverending praise and encouragement to the two boys.

Renjun longs to be around you as much as Jaemin is. In fact, you are the only real reason Renjun finds himself being jealous of the prince. He often wonders how Jaemin could even think about a villager he only knew for a week, when you are right there beside him, every day.

Just the blossom of your smile could make Renjun’s mind freeze in all it’s concerns. Suddenly, the portrait in front of him means little to nothing, and all he could really think about was how many different shades of pink and brown he’d have to mix before he matched the color of your lips. “Hello, Y/n.”

“Good day,” you greet, bowing slightly. “What are you painting today?”

Renjun almost forgets to breathe when you walk toward him and lean your head over his shoulder to inspect his art. He can smell the amber musk on your collarbones and feel your soft hair tickle his cheek. “J-Jaemin.”

“You always paint him,” you murmur, almost in boredom. “Say, do you do favors?”

“Come again?”

“Like, if I paid you, would you draw a portrait of me? I think my mother would really like it— she’s always asking me to get a portrait done.”

Renjun feels his tongue rest heavy in his mouth. Before he can speak, Jaemin grabs your arm. “He can do it! Now let’s get to my lessons!”

And that was that on that.

-

The stream trickles loudly, leaping down and over the rock formations and falling into the pool with grace. This is where Renjun comes to find inspiration. It’s also where he comes to practice his art.

It’d be nice to do it into the library, but Renjun knows that he would abandon all his actual duties — the ones that he gets paid to do.

He eyes his oil paints, color coordinated from lightest to darkest shade. He dips his brush in pure white, to lay a foundation coat atop his canvas.

Truth be told, he could paint you from memory. But if he told you that, he’d have to admit to his crush on you, and that’s far too embarrassing. No, thank you.

Renjun takes off his sandals and plants his feet on the soft grass. The blades tickle his toes, so he tries to relax his muscles. He has the canvas stretched out on his knees, which is a bit unconventional, but it works. He looks up at the afternoon sun; his straw hat scrapes the trunk of the tree he’s leaning against.

“Sorry I’m late. Jaemin needed help with Latin...” You wander in and trail off, looking at the pool in wonder. “This is beautiful.”

You’re dressed in silver shades — Renjun wonders if you intentionally made yourself look extra beautiful, or if that’s you, in the reflection of the water. He clears his mind and his throat. “I figured It’d be a nice background for a portrait.”

“How do you want me posed?” Your lips are upturned, soft, and Renjun starts a mental list on how to keep you smiling.

“Whatever you’re comfortable with,” Renjun hurries. “We’ll be here for an hour or so each session until it’s finished.”

You sit in the grass, atop your knees, and smooth out any wrinkles in your garments. “My Mother is going to be so thrilled, Renjun. Thank you so much for doing this.”

His tongue feels heavy at the compliment, so he settles for a simple nod. The foundation coat is still drying, so Renjun pulls his sketchbook and a pencil out of his bag. “Do you mind if I start with a few sketches?”

“Of course not,” you say. Your eyes clip to his, bright and clear, and Renjun thinks this is going to be a lot harder than he initially thought.

(The next session, Renjun is so focused on getting the outline of your back right that he doesn’t even notice you moving towards him.

“You’ve got paint on your brow,” you say.

Renjun reflexively wipes at his face, feeling himself blush at your observation. “Is it gone?”

You grin — looking straight at him — and reach up. Gently, you use the pad of your thumb to scrub off the paint. “Now it is.”

Renjun thinks he’d rather melt into the floor than finish the rest of this session.)

-

Renjun threads the spine of his latest project: scribe records from the recent knighting tournament and ceremony. Even as he pulls the last thread tight, his finger raw and screaming, he’s thankful that he wasn’t the one editing these records.

Jaemin hasn’t been to the library in awhile. His current betrothement has him in a frenzied mindset, and Renjun is sure he has more important things to do than hang out with his friends.

Still, he misses the company.

He sets the glue along the spine and aligns the pages with the leather backing. He’s so busy focusing on making sure the lines are straight that he doesn’t notice someone walk into the library. “Hello, Renjun.”

Renjun jumps, and the spine of the book misaligns. He leaves it on his table, and when he turns around, you’re there smiling at him. “Hey, Y/n. I didn’t know you tutored Jaemin today.”

”I don’t,” you admit. A bashful look overtakes your face and you focus on one of the books in Renjun’s return pile. “I wanted to thank you for the portrait. My mother loved it.”

“I’m glad!” Renjun says, brightening up. He notices that you still look rather distant. “Is something wrong?”

”it’s just...” you bite your lip. “Do, um, do I really look like that?”

Renjun wants to ask what you mean. But he sort of knows. “Your portrait? Is it not to your likeness?”

You furrow your brows. “I just... You made me look very beautiful.”

“You are very beautiful,” Renjun replies, voice low and steady. “Surely, you know that.”

Embarrassment paints your face and you shrug. “I dunno...”

“I know,” Renjun says, surety building in his voice. “Whether you believe it or not, it’s a fact that you are very beautiful. I hope my painting portrayed even an inch of your beauty.”

You look aghast at his words, mouth open in shock. “Are you… Are you serious?”

Renjun stares at the way your lips look, pursed in confusion. “Why on earth would I lie to you?”

“I don’t mean to insult your integrity,” you say, eyes wide. “It’s just that no one has ever been so upfront with me.”

This is it, Renjun thinks. This is my chance to confess. He takes a deep breath, steps closer to you. Toe to toe, so that your chest is brushing against his. And the outside air lessens it’s chill, so that Renjun is sure he’s sweating, nervous and hot and wanting.

His luck hasn’t run out yet. “Can I be upfront again?”

Your breath hitches, leaving Renjun’s own words isolated, suspended in the air between you. “Yes,” you finally say, honeyed lips nearly brushing his own.

“I’m in love with you,” Renjun allows himself to say. “And I want to kiss you. Selfishly.”

“Then do so.”

Your lips are honeyed; candied peonies against his own cruel briars and thorns. Renjun wonders if he’s good enough for you. If book binding and tutoring go hand in hand. If he’ll be stuck forever in the royal library, giving you books to read to the prince. He wonders if this is the life of a peasant, always one step behind the nobles.

Two people in service to a prince can never truly serve each other.

But Renjun doesn’t hold on to that thought. Instead, he surges forward, holds your body like it’s falling, kissing your mouth and your chin and your neck and your skin and—

“Hey,” you cup his face in his hands. “This isn’t the last time you’ll have me. There’s no need to be urgent.”

So he slows down. Gentle touches and warm gazes. Tastes you as much as touches you. All lips and no teeth. Memorized the palm of your hand against his jaw.

You’ll still be here, you said so.

Renjun decides to let go.

[pasteljeon]

Shadows (m)

summary | he could love you … if only you’d let him in.

genre | venom au, venom!jk, smut, angst

warnings | tentacle porn, oral (female receiving), edging, guk has a fat cock ana oop, size kink, sexual tension, mating cycles, heat sex (yeah, you read that right)

length | 1.9k

notes | i crawl out of retirement for this one (1) halloween fic that i’ve been dyin to write since forever. and, as some already know, this also just an excuse for tentacle porn. :D happy halloween everyone! wish i could’ve written sth longer, but it’s still midterm season for me & i’m beyond buried in work rn :”( regardless, please enjoy!

.

.

.

“Kook.”

Silence. The mass lying in the middle of the room remained motionless.

You sighed, forehead thumping against the one-way glass. Theoretically, you knew he wouldn’t be able to see you, but he could sense you. Feel your presence.

“Kookie. Please.” Your breath ghosted across the barrier.

The darkness shifted, a tendril reluctantly reaching to seek out your heat, pressed against where your palm was splayed on the other side.

“Miss ___.” You flinched, the monotone voice of your assistant startling you momentarily.

“The next trial begins in ten minutes. Should I bring the volunteer in?”

Her perfectly manicured nails tapped against the sleek black clipboard, sharp eyes unimpressed as they note your affection for the containment within.

Living organisms with compositions so extraordinary they were coveted as a chance to revolutionize humanity. A symbiotic relationship, they relied on molecular bonding with a host to survive. A symbiote. The term alien often whispered with every passing of fluttering white lab boats.

Simply put, they were experiments.

And you headed them all.

You glanced back briefly, only to find he’d already retreated, unmoving once more.

.

.

.

The research facility was intimidating, stripped white walls bare and plain, the building expansive and equipped with the latest technology. Endless floors filled with glass walls lining different divisions.

Within these walls, there was transparency. Outside of it, no one knew much at all.

The guilt chipped away at you slowly.

They were real. They felt. They were very much capable of the same human emotions your species processed. They hurt. Felt pain. Each compatibility failure was destroying them.

There were many that did not survive the crash. All that was left, scavenged from the space outreach initiative, were seven uniquely distinct specimens. All the equivalent of a male.

They all had binary identifications, but you gave them something else. A name.

Namjoon. He was exceedingly intelligent. The first few months had been spent attempting to establish ground communications with them. Namjoon had picked up your language easily, and it no longer shocked you to see a massive dark blob flipping through encyclopedias. He liked to read, consuming pages like oxygen. With every routine checkup, you’d deliver a few novels you’d enjoyed in the past. His upper section of his blobbed body would incline, and you’d imagine he was thanking you.

Seokjin was the eldest of the bunch, as concluded by your preliminary findings of their biological structure. Oddly enough, though it had been discovered early on that their kind could sustain themselves on anything, they still preferred human flesh. It didn’t make them dangerous, necessarily—you could teach them human ethics. For the most part, Seokjin tried not to nip at your ankles when you visited. As a substitute, you taught him how to cook. There was a mini kitchen set up in his quarantine, and some nights were spent with him stretching his mass over your shoulder and watching you work.

Yoongi was, kindly put, lazy. He slept most of the day, scarcely reacted when you tried to interact with him. You did, however, discover he liked music. He got speakers. Headphones made his head hurt, he once signed to you. Noise sensitivity.

Hoseok was so human it hurt. He was energetic, restless. He bounced around his containment. His own version of dancing, almost.

Taehyung and Jimin refused to separate. When you first examined them, you’d nearly mistaken them for one entity. Soulmates, if the concept existed in their world. They shared one cell, liked to tussle and fight one another.

Then there was Jungkook. He was shy, barely moved when you first met. If not for the pulse beneath his silk, there was no sign of life at all. You were endeared as he slowly broke from his shell. He liked you. You knew because you were the only one that could get close, that could touch him without repercussions. He’d killed his hosts, regardless of compatibility, thrice before they paused trials. He hated it more than any of them.

But here, they were safe.

And yet here, they were also being harvested. Used. To become the steppingstone in humanity’s evolution. Time was running out, and the private company that spearheaded the research was demanding results.

Here, they are to become weapons.

And you were going to break them out.

.

.

.

“Kook. Jungkook.”

Your voice was urgent, though steady.

Panic setting in heavy in your stomach when you saw him press himself closer to the wall.

“Hey, hey. It’s okay. I won’t let it touch you. But we need to get out of here, and fast. The building’s going to collapse,” you coaxed. The flames licked your back, warning you of the fire that blazed across the hall.  

He quivered, drawing away from your extended hand.

Fire. Bad. Hurts.

You bit back your gasp. His voice was low, a quiet rumble in your head.

You steeled your nerve. “I know. Bond with me.”

He stilled.

And then—mine. You belong to me. We are one.

And you said, “always.”

He shot to you, sinking beneath your flesh and making a home in the beating of your heart.

.

.

.

You disappeared.

As the building burned, so did all the data and files you’d accumulated over the years. The symbiote all dispersed, you having found a suitable host months prior. Some were friends, some were not. But they all cared, and you knew they would find sanctuary in a peaceful life with them.

So you let them go, and turned over a new page.

.

.

.

You monitored your vitals for the first few hours, fearing the compatibility would elude you.

Will not. Belong together. Us.

His thoughts echoed, though always soft.

“Where do you want to go?” You wondered aloud as you fingered the plane ticket in your hands.

Hungry, he said instead. You could feel him gnawing at your liver. “Don’t do that. You might accidentally split it.”

If he had lips, you imagined he’d be pouting.

Where we going? You had the feeling he was trying to read the slip.

“Somewhere cold.”

You hate cold.

“You hate the heat.” The first calls for boarding had you wheeling your luggage to the gates.

Don’t care. As long as we are together. Can go anywhere.

You smiled down at your passport, cheeks warm. “Yeah.”

.

.

.

It took time to adjust to a completely different lifestyle. Your previous line of work had compensated your risk generously, and you’d had enough foresight to invest and save wisely.

Here, you’d picked up a job as a pharmacist at one of the local drug stores. It was terribly mundane, but you found you liked this kind of routine. It was a welcomed change from the scars you’d collected. A sense of normality.

It was October when everything changed.

Jungkook had been restless lately. Distant. Withdrawn.

It’s like he’d curled up in the corner of your mind. Lethargic.

You knew the symptoms.

“Kook.” He stirred faintly at the sound of your voice.

Lover. He rumbles lowly, rousing slowly.

“Your heat. It’s coming soon.” You rolled over, the sheets pooling at your waist. A tendril wraps itself loosely around your calf.

Yes.

“What will you do?”

Another tendril creeps up your stomach, squeezing your breast firmly.

You.

.

.

.

Their heats were intense. Nothing like you could’ve ever imagined. While they only occurred once a full cycle, the need overwhelmed them, made them ravenous and delirious. And a human host? They served as aphrodisiacs. Enhanced the craving until it all but consumed them.

You woke in a feverish haze, a thin sheen of sweat coating your skin, panties shoved aside and thighs smeared with wetness.

“J-Jungkook!” You gasped, back arching as he fucked you harder.

“Love. My love,” he rasped, fingers curling, watching you come undone with dark eyes.

It was also the only time they could fully materialize.

He was ethereal, pupils blown out, a thin ring of gold visible in the ebony that threatened to swallow it all. Completely naked, tanned complexion stretching over corded muscles, he hovered over you, arms braced next to your head. His hair was soft, luscious and long, falling in waves over his forehead. Darkness mirrored his every movement, his true form rippling beneath the surface.

“Want you. Need you,” Jungkook groaned, gaze smoldering as he fisted your sleep tee. “Please.”

“Since you asked so politely,” you managed breathlessly. You took his hand and slipped it underneath, guiding it until he traced the underside of your breast.

He ripped the fabric apart, buttons flying as he shoved the offending material off your shoulders. “Need. Can’t control. Please.”

In spite of the inferno brewing within, he remained your ever sweet Jungkook. The shadows drew closer, the touch soft though frantic, mapping your body in long strokes. He buried his face in your cunt, abnormally long tongue driving you crazy with every lick.

“K-Kook, I c-can’t,” you sobbed, fingers gripping his locks as he coaxed another orgasm from you easily.

His palms, warm and large, spread your legs apart. His cock was intimidating, tip angry and throbbing, a tantalising vein running along the side. He was dripping with something akin to precum, the substance slightly lighter and thicker than the human equivalent.

The dark tendrils snaked around you just as he slammed into you.

Your moan was lost to his lips, kiss messy and wild, your mind blanking with every thrust and the stroke of his tongue. His tentacles tweaked and pulled at your nipples, twisting and teasing, others suckling at your clit while some were wrapped around his length, providing ridges that edged your sensitive core.

“Mine. Mine. Ours. Breed,” Jungkook chanted, the grip of his shadows tightening as if to brand their shape to your skin. It was too much.

“Y-yes, Koo, need you, need you just like this,” you cried out, walls spasming around him as you reached your high once more.

The bedframe rattled loudly, Jungkook’s pace increasing inhumanly as he pounded into you. “N-ngh—ah! L-love, so perfect, made for me. Thank you, thank you,” he moaned, hips stuttering as he came, filling you up hotly. So much it spilled from where he remained inside of you, dripping down your thighs.

His forehead rested against yours as he fought to quell his hunger for just a moment longer. Though his release brought brief clarity, the lust was already beginning to trickle back in. His cock twitched, the ache so profound his shadows latched onto you harder.

Your legs wrapped around his back, eyes soft as you said, “I’m all yours. Don’t hold back.”

Jungkook exhaled shakily. “Make me crazy.”

He nuzzled your neck, even as his dick pulsed, he pushed his nose into your jawline and whispered, “Lover. You and me. Until the end.”

[whythinktoomuch]

v. a deadly giveaway

(pt. i)  (pt. ii)  (pt. iii)  (pt. iv)

“No, it’s huge deal,” Kara insists. “Alex hardly ever lets anyone choose their own weapons. Plus, she likes to judge people based on their preference in firearms. Like, for example, Mike with his big ol’ shotgun, which... well, don’t make me say it.” 

“It’s just that either way, I’d have to give it back, no?” 

Kara’s brow crinkles. “No...? Of course not. Why would we make you give it back?” 

“Well, when I leave, I mean.” 

“Oh... right,” Kara says. She hadn’t really considered a possibility in which Lena wouldn’t stay with them indefinitely, but nods as if she had. 

Lena looks over at the marked silence, one corner of her lips quirking up in a wry smile. She leans into Kara, resting her head on her broad shoulder. “So, what does your gun say about you?” 

Kara glances down at her trusty semiautomatic pistol and shrugs. “That I’m a quick shot?”  

"Oh?” Lena laughs, and the delighted sound has Kara’s spirits lifting, just a little. “It’s also a Glock.” 

“Sure.” 

“Which means you have big hands,” Lena continues. She takes one of the hands in question and traces over the callused lifelines with her fingertips. When Lena plants a kiss at the very center of her palm, Kara’s spirits practically skyrocket. 

So, Lena intends to leave one day, and Kara keeps forgetting about it until she’s forced to remember. Whether it be a stray comment or a pointed silence in response to questions about the near future, the reminder never fails to soil Kara’s mood for the rest of the day. 

Naturally, Lena notices. Kara makes no secret of her feelings, after all, though she’s somehow managed to keep certain choice words to herself thus far. But Lena makes a real effort to make it up to her every time: 

holding Kara’s hand, 

tracing lazy shapes around each knuckle with her fingers, 

telling her a silly joke, despite not remembering the punchline,  

pressing lingering kisses to her shoulder, the warmth somehow bleeding through two layers of cotton, 

falling asleep with her head in Kara’s lap, etc. 

But honestly, in the end, it all just makes it that much worse for Kara. 

“You can’t force her to stay,” Alex says with a sigh. 

Kara scowls because she knows that, but still. “Well,” she says, “you made Kelly stay here with you, didn’t you?” 

“Did not. I just made her like me enough to stay.” 

Kara mumbles something into her pillow that Alex has to force her to repeat more clearly, “Lena likes me too.” 

“That she does,” Alex says, rolling her eyes. “You know, she stares at the back of your head whenever she’s behind you. Not at your ass like a normal person, but your head. Like, she’s just waiting for you to turn around and see her.” 

Kara buries both her fists into her belly, trying to stave off the ache that comes with Alex’s words, and just groans and groans. 

“So, why haven’t you tried to kiss me again yet?” Kara asks, the next time she and Lena are killing time in the library together. There’s no one else around and Kara’s frankly got nothing much to lose these days. “Was it really that bad?” 

Lena doesn’t answer, but her forehead goes bright red behind the cover of her latest novel. She starts turning the pages a bit more quickly, at a pace that surely even she couldn’t be reading at. 

“Because if it was... this might be the perfect time to let you know that, well... it had been a while,” Kara says slowly. “And I wasn’t really ready or expecting a beautiful woman to just, you know—”

“Kara!” Lena slaps the book onto the table before her, her entire face blushing furiously. “What are you doing?”

Kara blinks. “Explaining?” 

“Explaining what?” 

“Why I think our next kiss would be so much better.” 

“You... think about that a lot?” 

“About kissing you?” Kara says incredulously. “Yeah, like, all the time!” 

Lena nearly upends the table in her mad scramble to get across, the momentum resulting in Kara’s chair tipping backwards and crashing to the floor, with the two of them toppling along with it. 

“Ow...” Kara wheezes, her back already sore from landing heavily against the back of the chair. “And wow, um... Cool.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Lena says breathlessly, grinding her hips against Kara’s like she’s ready to beg for forgiveness. “Are you okay?” 

Kara shakes her head in amazement. “I’m fine. And you’re perfect.” Then she pulls Lena down for a hungry kiss, and in accordance with her predictions from earlier, it is indeed much better than their first. 

Kara’s panting, then Lena’s panting, which only makes Kara pant even harder. She lets her hands wander—cupping the back of Lena’s neck, cradling her face, tangling in her long dark hair and tugging insistently, sliding down her arching back in reverence—until finally, they rest at the gentle swell of Lena’s hips. 

She pauses with her fingertips skating just past the hem of Lena’s shirt. It’s as far as they got to last time when Lena froze up on her, and now, as somewhat expected, Lena’s freezing up all over again. 

“You don’t have to apologize,” Kara says, cutting Lena off before she could try. “Kissing’s the best part anyway. Honest.” 

Lena ducks her head, pressing her forehead against Kara’s thumping chest. “I want to, Kara. I really do want to...” 

“Okay.” Kara strokes Lena’s hair, and she relaxes into the touch with a soft sigh until she’s boneless atop Kara’s blessedly solid frame. “Well, I’m okay either way.” 

“I just...” Lena’s muffling her words into Kara’s shirt now, and it’s harder to hear, but infinitely more distracting. “I just don’t want you to see...” 

Kara blinks a few times up at the ceiling in question, but it holds no answers for her. “See... your boobs?” she asks Lena instead. 

“What? No!” Lena says sharply, as if Kara’s the one who’s being cryptic right now. “Of course not!” 

“I’m not sure what we’re talking about then... but would it help if I went first?” 

“What do you mean?” 

But Kara’s already sitting up, leaning slightly back to give herself more space, then she whips her t-shirt off with a careless flourish. Lena’s hand—braced against Kara’s hip for balance—seizes up and her nails briefly bite into Kara’s skin. 

“... You... can’t be serious...” Lena says, her voice strained. “What the fuck?” 

Kara frowns, definitely not having expected that sort of reaction. “I ran out of clean bras.” 

“No. Just... you look like this?” Lena presses her entire hand flat against Kara’s abs, gasping when they tense up against her touch. “God, you’re such a dick.” 

Kara bursts out laughing, wrapping Lena up in the tightest of hugs, just so, so utterly charmed. They don’t even kiss again for the rest of the night. Instead, Kara just points out all the various scars that cover her body—a scattered, yet tangible timeline of everything she’s endured since the world fell apart. 

Lena brushes her lips against each one upon introduction, attending to these long since healed wounds like Kara was still hurting. 

Later on, when Alex accidentally walks in on them, she very loudly wonders why on earth couldn’t they just be having sex like normal people, goddammit.

Alex reiterates her very pointed question again when she’s getting ready for the next scavenging trip. “Please do it sooner rather than later. Preferably when I’m still out there, safe from catching you guys in the middle of whatever it is that passes for sex for the two of you.” 

“Shut up,” Kara mutters. “You can’t order us to do it.” 

“Sure I can,” Alex says easily, but she adjusts her tone at the pout her sister directs at her. “Look, I’m just saying. When she’s gone, you might end up regretting it. Who knows how long it’ll be before someone else you take liking to comes along?” 

“Never. I’m never going to like anyone ever again.” 

“Jesus.” Alex ruffles Kara’s hair affectionately until she flashes her teeth in a begrudging smile. 

“Oh, hang on,” Alex says, once she gets to the front gate. “I think I left some spare rounds under my bed. Can you go get it?” 

Kara rolls her eyes. “Why can’t you just go get it?” 

“Because with my luck, your girlfriend’s probably already there half-naked or something.” 

Kara ignores the flip her stomach gives at the very thought that Lena could be her girlfriend, let alone a half-naked one. “Because I’m faster, huh?” she says all cheeky instead, and Alex swats her over the head for it. 

When Kara shoulders her way into the room, she doesn’t expect to see Lena, but her presence in and of itself isn’t surprising. No, what’s surprising is the fact that Lena’s not wearing her flannel, and she normally wears that thing all day, every day, even with all that wear and tear, even under the scorching sun, even to sleep. 

But right now, the flannel’s off, and Lena’s wearing naught but a snug tank-top and the most terrified expression. 

It takes a beat for Kara to notice—so distracted by the sight of all this newfound skin now at her disposal—but Lena’s holding something in her hand. 

“Kara,” Lena starts, voice trembling. “I can explain.” 

But before Kara could ask for clarification, she sees it. A jagged oval of tiny divots on the outside of Lena’s bicep. It’s an angry red, swollen, and unmistakeable.

Kara feels the floor drop out underneath her, and her stomach plummets right after it. 

“That—that’s a bite. You’ve been bitten,” Kara’s shouting, oh god, when did she start shouting? “You were bitten, Lena! When were you bitten? When did you—god, when were you going to tell me, when—”

Lena quickly sticks herself with the item in hand—a syringe filled with some bright blue fluid—depressing the plunger right into the bite. Within seconds, the redness and swelling die down, but the bite—ugly and prominent even on pale skin—remains. 

Kara’s throat hurts, from the shouting, from the hopelessness lodged in the very center of it all. She’s inexplicably crying already. 

“I was bitten eight months ago,” Lena explains swiftly, quietly, as she throws her wretched flannel back on, disappearing the bite that’s already been branded in the forefront of Kara’s mind. “It’s... manageable. I can keep it at bay. It’s just a monthly injection. I’m fine.” 

“It’s not a cure,” Kara says in a croak. 

“No.” 

“Monthly... injection?” Kara swipes at her eyes with a clenched fist. “How long do you have left?” 

Lena hesitates, her lips pursed. “I’m... running out.” 

“How. Long?” 

“Four months,” Lena says, and Kara feels hitherto unregistered parts of her heart crumple and die. “I have to leave, Kara.” 

Kara wants to protest—it’s still her natural inclination despite everything—but before she can even open her mouth to do what she does best, Alex steps into the room behind her. 

“What the fuck is going on here?” 

[sylvanfreckles]

Eye of the Beholder

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: Sam encourages Cas to try to express himself by taking up drawing. It seems to be a lost cause...until Castiel tries to draw Sam’s soul.

(Something warm and soft and hopeful after FebuWhump)

* * *

Sam leaned  against the low wall surrounding the picnic area park and let his head tip back to catch the warmth from the sun. They'd hit this town to check on rumors of a demonic possession at the local college, only to find Claire and Kaia had beat them here and pretty much had the whole thing taken care of. Now, he was enjoying just keeping an ear on the banter as Dean checked over the girls' gear and Jack chattered enthusiastically about the old fantasy novels he'd found on one of the rooms at the bunker (apparently Kaia had heard of the author and they were bonding, much to Claire's amusement).

A hint of movement at his side had him cracking one eye open to see Cas settle into a similar posture. Watching Dean and the kids with a fond look on his face, Cas caught Sam's eye with a smile. “He's good at that.”

“Dean's always been good with kids,” Sam agreed. “Probably because he still acts like he's twelve.”

Cas gave a very un-angelic snort, and Sam shifted around enough to watch the angel now. He couldn't remember when life had been this peaceful before. There were hunts still, sure, but it finally seemed like there wasn't some big bad pulling the strings behind it all. He couldn't remember a time in his life that had been like this—just the routine of the hunt and home, with their own network of friends and family.

It took him a moment to realize Cas's attention wasn't on the others anymore. The angel was looking out across the park at a mural painted on higher wall that ran around the park's perimeter. He was pretty it was a memorial to the town's history as part of the underground railroad, based on what he'd learned before they got here.

“I think the high school kids work on that every year,” Sam commented, nudging Cas with his shoulder. “When I was researching the town I found an article that said it was one of their graduating projects, and every year a group of students repairs and restores the mural.”

Cas shook his head and looked back at Sam. “Humanity's capacity for creation will always amaze me.”

Sam blinked. He hadn't...thought about it like that. Dean had always said Cas was just a weird little nerd, but was that why he always seemed to stop when he saw a statue, or a carving, or a painting? That it wasn't a type of art he preferred, but he was appreciating the human act of creating art?

“Have you ever tried?” Sam asked, trying to be casual about it. “Making something, I mean.”

The look Cas shot him was quick, but Sam thought his friend looked grieved. “Angels weren't made to create. We can only replicate.”

Sam started to protest, but hesitated. Zachariah's Beautiful Room...he'd offered Dean things from Dean's past, not some idealized thing he'd want. Gabriel had pulled from human television to make his TV world. Even Lucifer, in creating Jack, had used a human body to impregnate a human, not some celestial act of creation.

“Have you ever tried?” he repeated.

Cas pushed away from the wall. “There's enough in this world to admire,” he replied, though he wouldn't meet Sam's eyes and his shoulders remained tense. “You don't need my...'pitiful scratchings'.”

* * *

Cas's words twisted through Sam's head as he followed the others through the small downtown area back toward the hotel. Had Cas ever tried to make something around them? Had one of them said something like that? Or was this some distant event from heaven, some other angel stomping out any fraction of individuality?

He pulled up as they passed a small, disorganized craft store. “Hey, go ahead without me,” Sam called when Dean turned around. “We need a couple things.”

Sam waited until the others turned away, giving Jack a reassuring nod and smile, before pushing the door open and slipping inside the store. It was cramped inside, with shelves and bins overflowing, and the smell of cinnamon and beeswax filling the air. It wasn't completely a lie...they always needed things like natural pigments and scraps of leather for hex bags, and some places sold essential oils or crystals he liked to keep on hand for emergencies.

It just wasn't why he was here now. He squeezed past a rack of wooden beads and nearly knocked a dressmaker's mannequin over, but finally found the drawing section. The sketchbooks were easy enough to sort through—he grabbed a large one with a dark cover that had an elastic band to keep it closed when not in use. The pages were about the size of a standard sheet of printer paper, so it was big enough for Cas to have lots of room to experiment on each page but small enough to travel with him. The drawing supplies, though, were a little harder.

Sam stared at the selection of pencils, paints, and markers. If Cas had truly never tried something like this before, where could he even begin? Would he want something like colored pencils, that would have a smooth texture on the page but need to be kept sharpened? Or paints, which might be easier to blend and shade but wouldn't be portable? Or start with the very basics and get a box of crayons and hope Cas didn't think it was too childish?

A long, flat box at the end of the shelf caught his eye. Pastels. He had a flash of memory of one of Jess's friends in college who worked with pastels, the way their hands swept over the canvas to leave bright ribbons of color and then darted back to smooth and shade. Sam could suddenly imagine Cas, pastel stick in hand, a smear of pigment on his chin, brow furrowed in concentration as he filled a canvas with bright color.

He bought the sketchbook and pastels plus some silver charms to make a stronger protection hex bag for Claire's car, to make it seem like the drawing supplies had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. By the time he got back to the hotel Dean had already ordered pizza, while Kaia and Jack had Claire sandwiched between them on the couch as they tried to convince her to watch an old fantasy movie with them (Sam was on their side, Willow was awesome). Cas looked up from picking at the label on his beer bottle when Sam walked up to the table, eyes widening further in surprise when Sam set the bag from the craft store down in front of him and presented the drawing supplies with a flourish.

“I thought you might like to try,” Sam explained as he pulled out a chair and sat down next to Cas at the room's little table. “I mean, I'd kind of be interested in seeing an angel's...uh...'pitiful scratchings', you know?”

Cas hesitantly ran the tips of his fingers over the dark cover of the sketchbook. “Sam...”

“Just try?” he suggested. He scooted closer so that his shoulder brushed Cas's, knowing the physical contact helped when the angel was dealing with something new or difficult. “No one's gonna laugh if you can't do it. Well, maybe Dean, but he's an ass.”

“I heard that!” Dean shouted. As far as Sam could tell, his brother was completely focused on something on his phone. That was obviously just an automatic response.

The angel was quiet. Then, slowly, he tugged the pastels out of the bag and lifted the lid of the box. The colors almost seemed to glow under the room's overhead light, and Cas gently brushed the bright gold stick with the tip of one finger. “I'll try.”

“Good,” Sam bumped Cas's shoulder with his own, then leaned a little more closely against him, grounding him. “I can't wait.”

* * *

Sam bit his lip as he flipped through the first few pages of Cas's sketchbook. The angel leaned against the table almost despondently, arms folded across his chest and head tipped forward so that Sam couldn't see his eyes.

“These are good,” Sam said, trying to sound encouraging. “I mean, they look just like the, uh, things you were sketching. That's...that's good.”

Technically speaking, the sketches were good. There was a vase of wild flowers Kaia had put on the kitchen table the second day of her and Claire's visit. The bust of one of the old Men of Letters. Jack's profile as he read from a large leather-bound book. They were perfect and lifelike and exact, yet somehow...empty.

Cas took the sketchbook out of his hands and gently folded it closed. “Angels weren't given the breath of life,” he said, his voice quiet in the stillness of the library. “We can't...we can't create, Sam. All I can do is copy. These are copies of life.”

Sam winced. “Maybe you just need some practice. I mean, this is your first time, right? Nobody's perfect their first time.”

His friend's smile was sad when Cas finally looked up at him. “I feel no inspiration, Sam. I look at the world and nothing calls to me. The flowers and Jack...I chose those because I knew that was what a human might choose. I could have just as easily chosen the scalpels in the infirmary, or the backseat of the Impala, or every doorknob in the bunker. There's no...it's not creation, Sam. They're just copies of life.”

With a sigh, Sam ran one hand through his hair. “Cas, a lot of artists struggle with that. Maybe you just haven't found the right thing yet. With some more time I bet you could find the, the soul of a vase of flowers, or whatever.”

Cas grunted. “Flowers don't have a soul.”

“You know what I mean. Artists, they...they capture a part of themselves in the world around them. Their art reflects their own soul, you know?”

“I don't have a soul either, Sam.”

“You know what I mean.” Exasperated, Sam took a few steps away, then paced back again. “When you look at something that kind of pulls at your heart, you can make something that has a bit of your soul in it, you know? It's what humans have done for thousands of years, even longer.”

Cas let out a mournful sigh and rubbed one hand over his eyes. “If you could see your own soul you might understand,” he said wearily. “Compared to that even an angel's true form is inadequate.”

Sam huffed out a breath. He'd just wanted Cas to have a new experience, maybe find a hobby that could bring him joy. He hadn't meant to start some kind of identity crisis. Then his friend's words caught up to him. “Wait...Cas, are you saying you can see my soul?”

His friend gave him a flat look. “I am still an angel.”

“No, no, I mean...you can see my soul?”

“Of course, Sam.”

Heart pounding, Sam spread his arms out. “Then draw that!”

Cas stared at him for a moment, then slowly shook his head. “Why would you want to see something like that?”

“Are you kidding? Of course I want to see it!” Sam turned in a full circle before grabbing one of the library chairs and dragging it in front of Cas. “Is this good? Or, wait, do you need better light?” His soul through the eyes of an angel...who wouldn't want to see that?

There was still hesitation in Cas's movements as he slowly picked up his sketchbook and lifted the cover off the box of pastels. “You're sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Cas flipped to a clean page and stared over the top of the sketchbook at Sam. Sam waited, eyebrows raised expectantly.

“Do you need me to do something?” he asked, when Cas made no move to start drawing.

Cas frowned, then reached in the box for a pastel. “Just talk. About one of your passions.”

A passion...okay, Sam could do that. Like Dean had always said, he was a huge nerd. “Oh, I found that book about cuneiform we were talking about,” he said, sitting up a little straighter. “You were right, the author was completely ignorant of the language schism toward the end of the Bronze Age....”

He talked on and on while Cas drew. The angel glanced up at him from time to time, a little smile brightening his face. It was almost exactly the image Sam had conjured in the craft store...Cas with a smear of pigment on his chin, bright colors filling the page in front of him. As he drew the angel seemed to relax, the perpetual slump of his shoulders easing back, the worry lines in his forehead smoothing out.

Sam could have pumped his fist in victory. He knew this had been a good idea.

Then Cas set the pastels down and hesitantly pulled the lid over the box. He seemed unsure of himself again, tipping the picture up to makes sure Sam couldn't see it.

“Is it done?” Sam asked. “Can I see?”

For a moment he was afraid Cas would refuse, then the angel slowly turned the sketchbook around.

Sam had seen human souls before...or at least he thought he had. They'd been wispy balls of bluish light, nothing too amazing. This was...this was something else.

The page was a riot of colors. Sweeping and dazzling, greens and blues with threads of red twisting through them, all turning back in on themselves over and over. There were jagged cracks in the swirling shapes, but they'd been filled in with a golden color so vivid he almost brushed his finger over the page to see if it felt warm.

“In some cultures,” Cas's voice was quiet as he explained, “when an item is broken they mend it with gold, so it is more beautiful and valuable because of the cracks.”

Sam drew in a breath. “This is how you see my soul?” The cracks...memories of Lucifer and the Cage, everything they'd lost, the darkness he'd hidden for so long...Cas saw them mended in gold?

“Oh, Sam,” Cas's hand was warm on his shoulder and he looked up, surprised to see tears in his friend's eyes. “This is you.”

He swallowed and looked back down. There was so much...so much hope. Despite it being almost incomprehensible swirls of color on paper, he could feel the hope and faith and trust nearly radiating off the page. Was this...was this really what Cas saw in him?

“Whoa, am I interrupting something?”

Sam pulled back, scrubbing a sleeve over his face. He hadn't even heard Dean coming. “We were just,” he tried to explain, gesturing at the page.

Dean was staring, tilting his head to one side. “Okay, man, call me crazy, but why does this look like Sammy?”

He let out a shaky laugh and ran his hands through his hair. “That's my soul, man.”

“You drew this, Cas?” Dean was leaning in even closer. “Ha, yeah, there's the little part that died when I told you Santa wasn't real. It really is your soul.”

Sam couldn't help but smile at his brother's antics and looked up to meet Cas's eyes. “Can I have this?”

“No way,” Dean interrupted, putting his hand on Cas's wrist.

“Dean, it's my soul.”

“Yeah. We're framing it,” Dean took a step back and held his hands up, like he was envisioning the drawing in a frame. “This is going next to the family pictures, Sammy.”

“We don't have family pictures, Dean.”

“We do now,” Dean clapped Cas on the shoulder. “You should do Jack next. I'll get 'im.”

“Wait,” Sam lunged after his brother. “What about you?”

“Not happening,” Dean replied, easily twisting away from Sam's hand. “Let me go get the kid.”

* * *

Jack, predictably, was thrilled. He sat in front of his adopted father, eyes bright, as he talked about his first memories of Castiel. Sam stood behind Cas's shoulder and watched the picture take shape—all interlocking golden halos bursting out of a dark shadow, radiating a light that was somehow yellow and blue at the same time that banished that darkness away. It was peace. It was strength. It was family.

It was Jack.

Claire and Kaia were next, crowding together into one of the big armchairs with their fingers intertwined. Sam had been expecting some kind of double drawing, maybe two pages side-by-side, but the drawing Cas produced was somehow Claire, somehow Kaia, and somehow a blend of the two of them that went beyond anything the human eye could see.

“That's what it looks like to be soulmates,” Cas explained when Sam asked.

When they went back to Jody's house with the girls, Jody sat for a drawing. Her soul was all graceful arcs swooping around a central, solid core. Sam could almost feel it extending beyond the page, pulling them all together around the woman who had chosen to care for the motherless.

There were others, as hunters checked in at the bunker or they met them in the field. Eileen's soul was a fury of purple and silver, sharp with the kind of love that dove into battle with sword held high. Bobby's was a blend of muted shades that spoke to the loss the older hunter had experienced, and his determination to carry on.

Sam was dropping a new sketchbook in Cas's room one day, a few weeks later, when he spotted a few loose papers that had fallen out of the old one. Meaning just to pick them up and shuffle them back in, he was startled to find he had a picture of Dean's soul in his hands.

It couldn't be anything else. While Sam's had had cracks mended with brilliant gold, Dean's looked like it had been broken and pushed in on itself over and over, more like overlapping plates of ice from a lake that had been melted and refrozen. There were layers and sharp edges, and a few twisting shadows of darkness that lingered in odd corners.

But it was warm. Despite the cracks and the broken parts...despite the trauma and ache and pain it was good. It was the soul of a man who loved so completely he would—and had—lay down his life for his family.

He heard a shuffle from the doorway, and turned to see Cas was standing there, staring at the paper in his hands with something like guilt on his face. “Sam, I...”

“When did you draw this?” Sam asked in a whisper. “He kept saying he didn't want you to do it.”

Cas hesitated, then approached close enough to gently take the drawing from Sam's hands. “It was from memory. Dean and I have always had a connection, since I pulled him from Hell.”

Sam almost laughed. “A more profound bond?” he teased. Cas's lips twitched in a smile and he nodded. “We should hang it up with the others.”

Shaking his head, Cas frowned down at the drawing. “He keeps saying no one would want to see it.”

“Well, he's wrong,” Sam looped an arm around Cas's shoulders. “Come on, I know where he stashed the extra frames.”

[phoxphyre]

10 Writing Questions Tag Game

Thank you @sbazzing and @vkelleyart for the tag! I’m loving reading everyone else’s answers. 

1. What’s your favorite genre to write?

Historical fantasy--I get really hooked on the research. I fell in love with history in school and then majored in Classics in college and have just...never emerged. I thought that might be different for fanfiction, but given that I’m now knee-deep in a regency AU...um, I guess not. 

For fanfiction, mostly AUs so far. I love canon desperately, but I think I’m too new to fanfiction to have developed the knack for finding “gaps” to fill with fic. Maybe it will come? 

2. Do you pull inspiration from real life, or do you pull things from other books/fan fiction you’ve read?

All of the above? The emotions are definitely drawn directly from my own experience, and my characters tend to have a lot of bits and pieces of myself and other people I know in real life. It’s hard for me to write something that feels “true” without putting myself into it. But the situations are all fantasy!

I saw a great interview with Lin-Manuel Miranda (one of my personal heroes) where he said that he has a lot of browser tabs open in his brain all the time. That rang true to me. I can only hope that I’m mashing all of those influences into something that feels new. In fanfiction in particular I’m still learning the norms around how much it’s okay to borrow from/be inspired by other people’s fics. 

3. Do you tend to write one-shots, short stories, or longer things?

Hahahahaha. *snort* I’m constitutionally unable to write short things. I was that person in school who had to cut literally pages from my papers, and then shrink the font size and narrow the margins. Even my short stories turn into novellas. My novellas turn into epics. My epics turn into...well, see answer 8 below. 

4) Do you prefer to write description or dialogue?

Dialogue! Internal monologue, too. Descriptions are harder for me and I end up having to go back and fill them in after the fact. 

One thing I love about writing for CO (versus my novel, which is based in a fantasy version of ancient Asia Minor) is that I get to write modern dialogue. Lord, how I have missed snappy dialogue. 

But then of course I have to go write a regency AU. Apparently I live to suffer.  

5) Favorite fic/book of all time?

Oh wow, it’s a long list. I reread a lot and there are a whole pile of books that are old friends at this point. Off the top of my head? 

Carry On and Wayward Son, obviously!

The Prydain Chronicles

The Blue Sword (and a lot of other Robin McKinley books)

Possession

Kushiel’s Dart

Tigana

Clockwork Angel

The Aubrey and Maturin books

The King Must Die

Daughter of Smoke and Bone

In Other Lands

I could go on...and on...

For fanfic: I’m new to the CO fandom and I’m still working my way through...well, pretty much everything! It’s a joy to read all of this for the first time. 

It’s way too hard to pick one favorite, but I have a special place in my heart for @vkelleyart‘s Light a Match Inside Your Heart, which is the first fic I ever read and pretty much the direct reason I’m here now.  

6) Favorite Trope?

Slow burn? Does that count? I have a soft spot for “romantic leads trapped in a conveniently private cave in the middle of a dangerous adventure.” Also time travel...I have grave doubts about being to pull it off myself, but it’s my favorite thing in the world when other people do it well. Looking at you, @sharkmartini. 

7) Are you the kind of person to work on more than one wip?

Three months ago I would have said I’m a strict one-project-at-a-time person, but fandom is already totally ruining that master plan! I have 2 Snowbaz WIPs plus my (sadly neglected) novel, and another fic poking around the edges of my brain. Two months ago I was worried that I would never have fic ideas. Whoops. 

I usually only actively write one thing at a time, though, partially because I don’t have time to do more, partially because I like to immerse myself in one story at a time, and partially because if I jump around too much I never finish anything (ask me how I know!). I usually only read one book at a time, too. 

8) How long have you been writing?

I’ve wanted to be a novelist for almost as long as I can remember. I wrote novels all through middle and high school, including an epic work called “Battle Maiden,” which I still have and which included the immortal line, “Why didst thou not tell me it was thy first time?” 

I’ve been working on my current novel off and on for almost 20 years (work, parenting and the rest of real life keeps getting in the way, but I love the story and characters). I’m on my third discrete draft and have high hopes for this one. I’ve been in the same writer’s group for years (which, fun fact, now includes two published novelists) and I’ve done something like 10 NaNoWriMos, mostly drafts of my novel but some other stuff for fun. Oh, and I write poetry in fits and bursts, but I almost never show it to anyone. 

I don’t think fanfiction existed when I was in school (the Web wasn’t a Thing until I was in college), but I wish it had. I’m pretty sure I would have gone deep. 

9) Do you tend to write more in the morning, afternoon, or evening?

Morning! I like to get up at 5am before anyone else is up and write over way too many cups of coffee. But with two young kids I’m trying to learn to snatch writing time where i can. 

10) Do you prefer to post and update your wip chapter by chapter or wait until it’s 100% complete before sharing it?

In theory, there are a lot of advantages to writing the whole thing first. In practice, I need the validation of posting as I go. I have my eternal novel for writing long internally consistent things that no one ever sees! I had a bad experience in a writing class in college and went for almost 20 years without showing anything to anyone, so I’m trying to unlearn that. Fandom is a way for me to practice sharing with other writers and artists. I’m so happy to have found you all! 

I’m so late to this that I feel like everyone has been tagged already. Trying to think of whose I haven’t seen yet. @sharkmartini? @krisrix? @warriorbeeofthesea? @knitbelove? 

[clericbyers]

nancy helping trans girl!mike pick out a name

Nancy knocked on the wooden rail for the staircase down to the basement to alert Mike about her arrival. The young girl looked up from her seat at the usual D&D table, hand stilling as her scribbles in a notebook came to a stop. She tucked a stray hair behind her ear and chuckled lightly to herself as Nancy came to settle down next to her.

“Came down to say hello,” Nancy smiled as she watched Mike indiscreetly shove the notebook aside. “What are you working on?”

Mike frowned. “Nothing much.” She played with the sleeves of her colorful sweater and gave Nancy a glance. “I mean, it’s something but...I don’t know if you want to help.”

“You know I’ll help you with whatever you need,” Nancy reached out to overlay her sister’s hand with her own. “Tell me what’s up; it’ll stay between us.”

Mike fidgeted again and then reopened the notebook with a sigh. She flipped to a page and then turned the paper until Nancy could read the chicken scratch scrawl. “I’m, uh, I’m trying to pick out a name. Since Mike isn’t, well, that’s not...that’s not my name.”

Her voice was soft and nervous and Nancy just wanted to pull her in for a hug. Nancy read over some of the names with a small hum and started speaking some aloud. “Grace, Juliet, Sarah, Jessica...”

“None of them sound right,” the girl groaned, running her hands down her face with frustration. She reached back to pull on her ponytail with a pout and then waved a passing hand. “I’ve been trying to figure something out for days now. I think I’m just too used to Mike already.”

Nancy cocked her head to the side. “Just because you’re used to it doesn’t mean you should settle for something that makes you uncomfortable.” She squeezed her sister’s hand with a smile. “Here, I’ll help look up some names, too. I think Mom still has her baby names book from when she and Dad were trying to find names for Holly. We’ll brainstorm together; two brains is better than one, right?”

She smiled warmly, a light in her eyes that wasn’t there when Nancy first came down to check in on her. “Thanks, Nance.”

“No need to thank me.”

Nancy was able to find the book and the two sisters spent at least an hour scouring through names and testing them out. It was difficult finding something that the young girl would like, something that fit the woman she wanted to be, something that echoed her and gave her comfort in being addressed as so. “This is a million times harder than naming my paladin,” she groaned ugly, head hanging upside down off the couch as Nancy kept searching through the book. “Everything sounds so plain and stupid! I don’t see a ‘Courtney’ when I look in the mirror! I sure as hell don’t see a ‘Portia’.”

Nancy laughed and patted her sister’s leg before slamming the book shut. “What was your naming process for your paladin?”

Brown eyes slowly turned to Nancy with a narrowed gaze. “Me and the boys picked up one of your old 8th grade history textbooks and picked some names from the 1700s European history section.”

“Let’s do that then,” Nancy stood up and walked over to a stack of books in the corner of the room. “We keep trying to pick something from scratch but there’s no harm in picking a name from someone you admire. That’s how nicknames happen, too!”

“Right,” she drawled but followed Nancy anyway, settling down next to her. “But there’s a bunch of boy names in history textbooks.”

“Then we’ll use something else, it doesn’t matter.” Nancy opened up an old romance novel her mom had stored down here years ago. She flipped through it and then grinned. “Oh, how about Riley?”

The other girl made a face. “Riley? No.”

Nancy picked up another book. “Sam?”

“I already said no to that a couple days ago.”

“Parker.”

There was a small pause. “Maybe.”

Nancy sent her a grin. “See? We’ll work something out. Grab your comic box, girl, we have some searching to do.”

The two spend another hour making a bit of a mess in the basement searching for names. By the time their mom came downstairs to bring them up for dinner, there were three potential names in the basket: Parker, Logan (from Wolverine, who also chose the name Logan as she happily explained), and Rowan. Nancy could barely contain her smile when her sister came up the stairs sharing the names with her mom and trying to figure out which one would work best. Karen sent Nancy a look full of gratefulness and Nancy ducked her head shyly and patted her sister’s back as they made their way to the dining table. As usual, their dad wasn’t there; he had taken up avoiding all interaction with the family after his middle child came out as transgender, but Nancy barely saw a difference really in his lack of presence. She much preferred seeing her sister smiling and chatting as animatedly as she usually did than stifled by fear and the potential to be purposefully misgendered by a bigot for hours on end.

The Wheeler home was one of the few places that allowed the young girl to find herself and be herself, so Nancy definitely appreciated their dad’s commitment to ignoring them. She just wished he could be supportive but that obviously wasn’t going to be an option.

“Mike,” Holly blabbed at the table as she made grabby hands toward the bowl of mashed potatoes. “I want potatoes.”

“Rowan,” she corrected with a grin, passing along the bowl anyway. “You can call me Rowan. For now at least.”

Holly cocked her head to the side but then smiled widely. “Rowan! That sounds fancy.”

Rowan smiled at her younger sister and took the potato bowl back. “Does it now?” Her eyes shifted to her mom, who was watching her three daughters with something like admiration in her eyes.

“Nancy, Rowan, and Holly all sound very fancy to me.” Karen beamed and spooned peas onto Holly’s plate. “Three fancy and gorgeous names for three fancy and gorgeous girls.”

[livvywrites]

11/11/11

Tagged by the lovely @witchywrite~

(and if you want to do my questions as well, feel free. but you don’t have to!) 

1. What is your favorite wip that you have worked/are working on?

THE MARTYR QUEEN. Hands down. It’s my baby. I do have a soft spot for SAPPHIRE DREAMING as well as an old wip of mine, but... I just. I’m in love with the story I’m trying to tell in TMQ, and its series. 

2. Do you have any routines/rituals you do before writing? 

Not as such, no. Mainly what I do is make sure I have something to drink (usually some flavored water, but sometimes a hot beverage or soda) and maybe something to snack on. Sometimes I’ll put on some rain noises, but for the most part, I just kind of pick a place and go. 

3. How long do you generally write for?

That’s a good question. I think I write from anywhere between 15 minutes and an hour usually, but I can (and have) gone longer. 

4. When did you realize you wanted to be a writer? How old were you when you started on your first story?

Oh, jeez. Sometimes it feels like I’ve wanted to be a writer forever. However, I think... that I’d have to say about 3rd grade or so? I forget what age that would be, but under 10. 

At about 11, I started my first real “novel” though I wouldn’t say that was my first story. I still have the composition notebook I started it in, though I later moved it to my first computer, which crashed. 

Um, as for stories in general... I wrote and illustrated my own picture book, about a superhero dog. I also turned an old calendar to a book. I don’t have the calendar, but the superhero dog might be at the house somewhere. 

5. What do you like to do when you aren’t writing?

I read. A lot. Mostly fanfiction these days, but I’ve been making it a point to read more original novels. I read Pratchett’s Tiffany Aching books. They’re so good. Currently I’m reading the Riddle Master of Hed, by Patricia McKilip. I like her writing style a lot, though I’m only two chapters in to the story thus far. (I read another one of her books, though. I adore it.) 

6. How many wips do you have?

Original novels? Just the two, through concentrated effort not to go starting more.

Original short stories/oneshots? Hahaha. Um. I don’t actually know. It’s a lot, though. More than 5.

Fanfiction, long fic? Just one that I have posted. Couple more in development. (Some of those are rewrites of old fics.) 

Fanfiction, oneshots? A lot. I like my short fic, okay? :P 

7. When you were a kid, what did you want to be when you grew up?

I went through a few things. Settled on writer in 3rd grade and... never stopped? I’ve cycled through a few backup careers since the, too. 

8. Give your main cast a God/Goddess they would work with if they were Pagan/a witch.

Oooh, this is interesting :o I don’t know a lot about most of the pantheons. I mainly studied/read about Greek mythology growing up, so that’s my forte. But recently I’ve been reading a lot of Nordic stuff, so that might make it in here too. (I’ll be branching out more eventually :D) 

Alinora: It feels like cheating, but I would give her Hades. Or some other death god. Given that Death is her patron in the story, though, it feels kind of like cheating.

Elaena: Death’s daughter in the novel, but... I don’t actually think any of the death gods really suit her personality? I’d give her... Artemis, I think.

Ava: Easy one. Demeter or Persephone.

Lyr: Hm... this one is a little harder, but I think I would go with Athena for him!

Talitha: Loki. I could see her working with Hephaestus or Athena. I could also see her being drawn to Aphrodite. But in the end, I really do think that Loki is the one who suits her best. 

Aishlynn: Um. I think Aishlynn would also be drawn to Artemis. 

Amara: Ahhh.... I want to say Apollo for her, for some reason? But maybe Aphrodite could work for her, or Ares. 

8. Speaking of that, which of your characters would be a witch?

Excellent question! I feel like Ava and Talitha would definitely be drawn to Paganism/witches. 

10. Give your characters an element, (fire, water, earth, air, or spirit)

I like this question! Mainly because I pretty much always associate my characters with the five elements :D

This is mainly going off the way I’ve adapted the elements in TMQ, though.

Alinora: Fire

Elaena: Air

Ava: Earth

Lyr: Water

Talitha: Spirit

Aishlynn: Spirit

11. What would your Main Character’s Altar look like if they were a witch?

Hmmm...

I admit outright that I have only the barest understandings of witchcraft, though it is something that interests me. I’m mainly going to pick things that I associate with Alinora, more than for their spiritual meanings. I hope that’s alright~ 

Alinora would have several candles. Probably black or purple, to suit her patron, but also red, for her element. The Death card from a tarot deck. Cinnamon, maybe ground in jar or a couple of sticks. Sunflowers, whether a picture of them or a vase of them. Roses, as well.

I think that’s everything she would have ^^ I probably should do some more in depth research so I could think of a proper altar, but... maybe later. *adds to list*

Thank you so much for these questions~ They were super fun!  <3

Questions and tags below the cut~ 

My Questions: 

1. 3 songs that remind you of your main character? (Or favorite character.)

2. Have you ever had to cut any characters? If so, what character do you miss/regret cutting the most?

3. Your favorite beverage, hot or otherwise, to have while you write?

4. Ideal writing time?

5. Do you keep notes of scenes/characters/worldbuilding, or do you keep it all in your head? 

6. How do you feel about your writing voice? Do you feel like you’ve developed your own, or like you’re still finding it?

7. What’s one of your favorite lines you’ve written? Preferably within the last chapter/10 pages, but any line is good!

8. How do you stay motivated when it comes to writing?

9. What’s the longest time you’ve ever dealt with writer’s block, and how did you overcome it?

10. 3 songs that make you think of your novel? (Bonus points if you say why!) 

11. 5 reasons you love your WIP?

Tagging: @quartzses; @writings-of-a-narwhal; @abalonetea; @apvtelesma; @serperina; @emmathenovelist (if i’ve tagged you before, feel free to choose which set of questions you do! also, gimme a shout if you want to be tagged, or not, in the future!) 

[lovecomesinattheeyes]

Wrote this Modern AU a while back. Not sure if it's going to develop into anything, but for now it's a smutty one shot. It'll be on ao3 soon. Enjoy!

His dark, curly hair pools against her naked belly. His eyes are glued to the dimly lit screen emitting sounds of swords clashing. The quiet clicking of the buttons on his controller the only clue that he's moving. Her silver blonde hair is tucked behind her ears as her violet blue eyes skim the words of the book held with one hand, her other hand lightly scratching his scalp, mindlessly playing with his hair until she needs to turn a page.

Their bodies are splayed across their bed and the heavy form of Ghost is nestled against Jon's back, his cold nose pressed up to Dany's shoulder.

It was rare for them to be home the same night. Most of the time one or the other would be working late. Her shifts at the hospital were demanding and the time between the O.R. was spent checking up on patients or trying to sleep. Jon's nights at the lab were just as late. He knew they were on the verge of a breakthrough and had been pushing himself harder than ever to isolate the gene that could lead to a cure.

Tonight though they had both managed to get a night off, able to be together, even if just to be near one another as they turned their brains off and imbibed in a mindless hobby.

"Fuck!" He mutters as his screen turns red. His failure at playing the fantasy game breaks her concentration from the sentence in the suspenseful mystery novel. He hastily turns the console off, letting the screen go dark before sighing heavily. He shifts his head to look at her over his shoulder, observing her continued reading.

"Ghost, down." He says, nudging the ball of white fur until the four legged companion slinks off the mattress and into his bed on the floor next to the window. Jon shifts his body so that he can gently kiss the soft skin along her ribs.

"What are you doing?" She eyes him as he tugs at the delicate lace of her underwear.

"Nothing..." He smiles against her hip.

"Doesn't look like nothing." She narrows her eyes at him as a shiver goes up her spine.

"An experiment..." He smirks as he manages to finagle the material lower, the platinum gold smattering of hair between her legs peeking out.

"For science?" She lifts her hips just slightly, allowing him to rid her of the panties.

"Exactly..." He muses as he huffs and rolls them past the dragon tattoo on her thigh. She lets the book drop from her hand and bites her lip as she looks down at him. A warmth pools between her legs as he kisses his way back up to her core.

"Mmm, I think this is a good start, what's your hypothesis?" Her hands reach for his chin, pulling him up.

"That you're capable of having at least three orgasms in under ten minutes." Kissing her palm he bends back down and drags his nose along her slit. She moans and arches her back.

"That's a compelling theory." She gasps as he readjusts himself between her legs, hitching one over his shoulder, resting it on his back as he pushes the other off the edge of the mattress so it dangles over the side of the bed. "What are your variables?"

He hums against her and she feels the reverberations through her entire body. "I don't think I should share those with the subject." He growls as he lets his fingers slowly slide between her folds. "For it to be a controlled experiment you'll need to experience the tests first hand."

"Ooo Jon, no one talks nerdy to me like you do." He chuckles softly before focusing back on the task at hand. He spreads her slick sex as his fingers begin circling her entrance. She grips the sheets and tilts her head back into the pillow, biting her lip. Jon's tongue takes one long slow drag from his fingers up, causing her to gasp and her body to arch again.

No matter how many times he'd done this, it never got old. The first time he had they were both half drunk, having stumbled back to his dorm room after a Halloween party. She'd never known sex could be that good. Dany primarily dated selfish jocks or shy nerds. Jon was a revelation to her. He told he had only been with one girl, but between his innate curiosity, physical instincts and plenty of research on the topic of how to pleasure a woman, he had developed quite the talent for sex; one that Dany appreciated reaping the rewards of.

Currently his tongue drives all thoughts from her head though as he continues to lave and suck at the bundle of nerves. Her legs begin to shake and her gasps and moans interrupt her ragged breaths. Dany breathes his name as the first orgasm takes her, spreading through her like a wild fire, forcing her to grip his hair and roll her hips into his face.

"There's one." He smirks proudly before dipping his head back down and continuing to lick as his fingers slowly work within her.

"Mmm, fuck Jon..." She sighs as she buries her fingers in his hair and runs the heel of her foot up his back. His other hand pushes on her thigh, opening her up to him further.

Her mind wanders to the first time they met. Those stormy eyes challenging just as strongly as his sharp mind argued. Jon Snow had infuriated her with his unwillingness to concede that she was right. They had been partnered together on a project in their cellular biology class. The only problem being they both had passion for the subject and an unwavering opinion about it. Eventually they compromised and she had seen that he was right, admitting to him as much. His humble demeanor allowed her to keep her pride intact however and from that point their feelings toward each other developed.

Dany pulls at his hair sharply as his talent for feasting on her makes her lose her senses. He hisses as he looks up at her. "Woman, you're going to rip my scalp off if you keep up with that."

"Sorry," she acquiesces, loosening her grip and moving her hands back to rest on her stomach. Seemingly satisfied he dips his mouth to her once more and sucks hard on the swollen bud. It causes her body to double and she props herself up on an elbow, watching as he continues to devour her with intent. "Fuuuuck." She breathes as her body climbs higher toward release. "Don't stop..." She begs as her head rolls back and her toes curl in anticipation. Hiss muffled agreeance only exacerbates her need to release. He glances up at the goddess that has somehow chosen to be his wife writhes in pleasure.

They were 22 when they met, over halfway through their doctorate program as both had started college programs when they were 16. He'd fallen for her hard and fast, but knew that he had a responsibility to finish college, that he couldn't let this distract him from his true purpose. He was lucky then that when he breached the topic, she was in total agreement. She had an overwhelming need to prove herself.

Her background was somewhat tragic. The story of a family who had the world at their fingertips. Doctor Aerys Targaryen was one of the most sought after brain surgeons in the world until the grief took him. The death of his wife during Danaerys' birth had broken him. Followed shortly by having watched his sons die from a genetic disease that he could not fix. Rae was the oldest, strong until it hit him when he was 20. He killed himself after he was diagnosed. Vic, on the other hand didn't care that he had the gene. He lived a dangerous life. He took too many risks, and the one that got him killed was beyond stupid.

Dany fortunately did not have the green but was left motherless and with a father who was a genius, but stunted emotionally and crippled by grief. He eventually went so insane he was put in a home and Dany was shipped off to live with a man who was close to her family, a colleague of her father. He cared for Dany, harbored her and sculpted her mind. Dany had inherited her father's brilliance and, from what others said, her mother's grace. However it hadn't been the only thing she inherited. Her wealth was unimaginable, but also untouchable until the age of 28, as per the trust agreement.

She was raised with nothing but the kindness of strangers. The small amount of money received by her guardians covered the necessities. She had clawed her way out of her circumstances, applying for grants, taking out loans and working part time jobs in order to afford rent with a bunch of misfits.

Tyrion was a dwarf, incredibly smart and studying to be a lawyer. He had a quick wit and a sharp tongue, it was a good thing he chose to like Jon, because he could be a formidable person to have as against you. Missandei was incredible at languages. She was fluent in at least twelve that Jon was aware of and was currently one of the best interpreters at the U.N. Greyson or "Grey Worm" as everyone called him, was on the football team, one of the strongest and most gifted, but he was painfully shy and preferred the company of Missandei. Today they remain together, he works as head of security at the U.N.

Jon looks at the bedside clock, he's been between her legs for all of 7 minutes and she's edging toward her third climax now. Her hands are clawing at his shoulders as she's propped above him. "Don't fight it." He warns her. "I'll do the thing if I have to..." She grins wickedly at him and pushes his hair out of his eyes.

"Your experiment is going to fail, you might have to retest it all night. Bring on your variables, Jon Snow." Her voice is thick with desire and he groans against her at the sound of his name, laced with a sultry challenge. He nips at her folds causing a surprised gasp and a retraction of her hips. His digits curl into her and he strokes smoothly and circles his fingertips. A gasping breath is his reward and she grits her teeth against the wave of pleasure that threatens to take over her senses.

A nervous laugh bubbles out of her and he tears his mouth from her, lifting her leg to keep it hooked on his shoulder as he brings his hips flush to hers. He reaches down and hooks her other leg around his thigh before guiding himself to her entrance. "I'm nothing if not determined." He warns her as he inches into her warm depths. She grasps her own breast, trying desperately to find an outlet for the feel of the delicious pressure he fills her with. His fingers replace where his lips had just been and he begins to grind into her steadily.

She locks eyes with him and then glances back at the clock. "I only need to withstand for two more minutes." His eyes spark with mischief and he picks up speed.

"There is one thing working against you. I'm an expert in the field of your anatomy." His hand pins her hip where the second dragon tattoo curls around and he picks up the pace, his fingers circling her clit with more fervor. She moans loudly and her hand slams onto the mattress, her face buries into the pillow as she bites down, trying desperately and most likely in vain to fight the sensations he's driving through her.

"Fucking mother of...ah... Dany...shit!" He swears as he begins to feel the effects of their joined bodies on him as well. It drives her further toward the brink of ecstasy. She is always driven out of her mind when he loses himself like that. "Look at me." His breathy request causes her to peek up at him. The intensity of his gaze, the amount of wonder and devotion he looks at her with almost brings tears to her eyes. "I love you Daenerys Targaryen." He hardly ever uses her full name, she reserves it only for her professional life and insists everyone close to her call her the preferred "Dany". She gasps and her legs push against him, she's done preventing the orgasm from taking her, and she reaches for his hand that his wedding band rests upon, gripping him hard as she rides out her climax.

He grins down at her before he lets her leg drop back to the bed. He twists their hands together and smothers her body with his, kissing her hard as the last of her pleasure leaves her panting. "I win." He smriks before nipping at her lip.

"Really? Cause it feels a bit like I won..." She answers as she wraps her legs around his waist and pushes her hips up bringing her mouth to his ear. "I mean, who's had more orgasms?" She teases as she bites his lobe. He shivers and bucks hard into her, a grunting huff blows warm breath across her clavicle.

"Don't test me wife. I'll fuck you until you can't walk tomorrow." She moans at the thought. He'd only done that once to her before, in a fit of jealousy at having met her former boyfriend, Cal Drogo, at their ten year reunion. He was a burly guy, tall and handsome, a six pack that didn't quit and he clearly still had a thing for his old high school flame. Jon remained glued to her hip that night and when they got home, he showed her that he had Stallion pride, even if he didn't attend the same school or even cared an ounce for the mascot of her alma mater.

"Mmm, is that a promise?" She gasps as her heels dig into the hard muscles of his ass. She presses her breasts to his chest and sucks hard on the column of his throat. His chuckle devolves to a groan as he continues to roughly work his hips against hers.

“You tell me, do you have surgery tomorrow?” His purr sends a shiver up her spine and she tries her best to recall her schedule the next day.

“Mmm, I don’t believe I do.” She nips at his ear lobe and pushes her hips up to meet his thrusts.

“Well in that case...” He retracts his hips until he almost slips from her before lunging into her hard and stopping. “Turn over...” He slips from her quickly and pushes himself to his knees. He grasps his swollen and cock, covered in the slick honey and slowly works himself, coating himself. Her eyes darken as she watches but she does what he asks, biting her lip as she flips over, sticking her ass in the air and rubbing it along the knuckles of his fist as they move up and down.

“You want to fuck me like this?” She looks over her shoulder at him, pulling her hair to the side, displaying the third and final dragon tattoo that has its wings spread across the expanse of her back. She wiggles her ass tauntingly.

“I want to fuck you until you’re begging me to stop.” His cool tone sends another set of chills up her spine as he positions himself behind her, Jon pushes her knees further apart with his before he lets his fingers explore her sex. She stifles a moan as he slides his thumb into her, pinching her clit between his pointer and middle finger. His other hand continues to pump himself as he slowly circles his digits. Her muffled mewls growing in volume as she feels a familiar tension building again. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much won’t you?” He asks before he inches forward, sliding his cock between the cleft of her ass.

“Mmmm, mhmm.” She moans and pushes back against him. 

“Good girl...now...” He pulls his fingers out of her trembling cunt before he offers them to her other pair of lips. “Suck.” She opens her mouth and licks up his fingers before sheathing them in her mouth, as she does he drives himself into her hard and hisses at the depths he reaches in her body as well as the sharp sting of the teeth that dig into the flesh of his knuckles. He knows hes in for a long night with his Dragon Queen.

[aceyanaheim]

Dream Daddy Head-canons No One Asked For.

It’s Hurricane Time and I got bored. ( Keep in mind I’m still finishing the game) 

Robert’s been to jail before, misdemeanors and petty crime.

After getting bailed out he was made to work at the shelter with Mary and Damian.

His first reaction to seeing a shih-tzu was to shake it repeatedly because “What the fuck? Is this a dog or a rat?”

Damian had a talk with him about different breeds and “please refrain from shaking the living creatures in this facility, especially the small ones. We..kind of need them alive.”

That’s actually where he got Betsy. For all his hangups about smaller dogs who “don’t look like dogs” Robert wound up turning into a marshmallow around them.

Mary may or may not have arranged for him to adopt Betsy after seeing how good the volunteering did for Robert ( he drank and smoked less, tried to show up on time, he was always happy around the dogs)

She kinda wishes she had given him a bigger dog when the first thing Robert did was try to hunt for cryptids in the dead of the goddamn night. (Betsy’s a tough pup though. She does okay at keeping her human safe.)

Brian makes lasagna for Daisy every first day of school ( it’s her favorite dish)

Both Brian and Joseph have very...open reactions to anyone who suggests parents with Neuroatypical kids are burdened or need a support group.

They might or might not have egged the car of the last person who said that.

Brian and Daisy go on a camping trip the week before school starts every year.

Daisy’s first fishing rod was this tiny pink for-toddlers-rod that she still keeps to this day.

Amanda tutors Daisy in Social Studies, Daisy ends up helping her with English. ( that kid is smart) 

Lucien has the best English grade in Hugo’s junior class.

No one but Mary knows that it’s because when he was little he and Damien would have readings of Victorian novels.

Sometimes Mary and her kids would come along.

Lucien actually winds up babysitting the Christiansen kids a lot.

It is entirely possible that he’s the one who taught them to amp up the creepy twin factor to keep bullies away.

It is also entirely possible he makes sure he scares off the ones that the twins don’t creep out.

Not that he’ll ever fess up to it.

Christopher's middle name is Robin ( because Mary couldn’t resist)

Christian and Christie’s middle names are Matthew and Ruth respectively.

Mary and Joseph may or may not have been trying to outdo each other on who could come up with the most religious name.

Mary’s still not sure how much morphine she was on that she allowed that but she’s decided her kids just need enough confidence to carry the -slightly ridiculous- names.

Crish lucked out -sorta?- and didn’t get an uber religious name.

Chris spends a lot of time with Crish while the twins wander off. He almost prefers to hang out with his baby sibling over anyone else.

Carmencita and Ernest switch to Spanish at near every social gathering and it drives everyone up the wall.

Robert always eggs them on, he likes the chaos.

Robert also refuses to tell just where the hell he learned Spanish “it’s classified”

Robert has G.A.D. which he self-medicates for both by drinking and smoking

The dads have actually talked about getting him to quit because “Jesus Robert you’re not even like a chill stoned person. You get outright paranoid.”

Having Betsy helps him with it a lot. He has to keep things away from her so she won’t get into them and sometimes it leads to him even forgetting he has it.

Robert has a weird rule about smoking in front of the kids. He just won’t.

Lucien finds this hilarious and kind of annoying because “I’m your provider!”

“Well yeah but you’re still a kid”

Daisy learned to read when she was four. Brian found her hoarding t.v. manuals and car magazines and fishing books and..basically if it had letters in it she had it in her room.

She at one point made a fort out of them. He still has the pictures.

Chris scripts and stims a lot. He usually sings songs he hears on the radio and rocks on his feet. He’ll occasionally repeat lines from his favorite movies.

The real reason the twins were quoting The Shining was they grew up around Chris scripting and...also started talking in t.v. quotes ( since to them it just looked like A Thing Chris was doing)

The three of them can actually speak to each other in t.v. quotes and understand each other completely. ( everyone else, however, is clueless. No one’s figured out how to get them to stop. Robert also thinks this is hilarious.)

No one can figure out if it’s better or worse than Ernest and Carmencita's  bilingual shtick.

Both Hugo and Mat slip into Spanish from time to time.

Hugo has family in the Dominican Republic and P.R. but also in New York. ( it’s where his parents emigrated to)

Ernest actually really doesn’t like his name.

He went up to his dad once with a two-page long list of Hispanic Authors and asked why he couldn’t be named after one of those.

Hugo and went on to answer that he had family members named Usnavi and Usmail and Hugo’s middle name was Valentino and “honestly, just count your blessings-no you’re not drinking coffee.”

He was secretly really impressed because damn these were good authors and his kid knew about them? Since when? ( why isn’t he getting better grades?)

Craig spent a good amount after college just...drifting. He went there because he was told to and didn’t really find his drive for doing something until much later in life.

Because of that he kinda gets Robert. He can tell he’s kinda lost too.

Lucien used to have a baby cape.

He still dresses up in Victorian clothes for his dad’s birthday and special occasions.

A lot of conversations about media analysis between Mat and Hugo usually wind up with their kids weighing in.

Ernest tends to take Mat’s side just to be contrarian but he’s learned a lot about his dad from listening to his side of the conversations.

Mary has a favorite dog at the shelter. It’s this scraggly looking greyhound mix she named Stella.

Damian’s the only one who knows, she’s sworn him to secrecy.

She’s that volunteer that checks out all adoptees and flirts her way into convinces people to take “risky” cases home.

Damian wants to be mad but...well it’s not like it doesn’t work. He hates that they can’t use a kill-free policy, with Mary terrifying everyone they kinda do.

Damian Mary and Joseph all go way back. They met a youth service.

Mary was notorious for getting into and starting fights back then.  She had opinions on how Christianity saw a lot of things and no actual fucks to give about arguing with teachers and preachers and other students alike.

She usually wound up kicked out of Youth Ministry/Religion Class ten minutes in. You could set your time by it.

“Oh nooo now I get to do whatever the damn hell I want for thirty minutes whatever will I do with myself”

If Damian hadn’t been there, no one’s sure how long she-or the church would have lasted.

Mary was that Christian girl. The one that rebels hard and parties harder. The church was small, and every knew and talked about what she did and who she did it with and it made her smile.

When Damien started transitioning anyone from the Youth Group who so much as looked at him crooked inherently made things physical. ( but damn if Mary didn’t scare everyone just by looking at them. )

That’s where Joseph meets her. Joseph, who looked the part of the rebel, with black leather and piercings but whose biggest act of rebellion itself is sneaking rock music past his Very Christian Parents.

Mary takes one look at him trying to be “bad” and nearly bursts out laughing all the same feeling fondness for the kid. She figures if she doesn’t keep an eye on this dork, someone’s gonna eat him. 

Friendships can come from a lot less.

It’s the softness in Joseph that really gets to Mary, the same softness she found in Damian. It’s the fact that he refuses to judge her, it’s the fact that he nearly bursts out laughing at every argument she starts with other people. That’s where the friendship’s really born. That’s when she starts trusting him. By the end of the year, he’s as close to her as Damian. ( and she’s just as willing to tear people apart for him)

There’s a lot of conflicts and tears for the three of them on their orientations ( because no, Mary isn’t straight either) and their religion and their faith and those who share it. There were nights spent at couches where Mary couldn’t stand to be with her parents and long silent months were Joseph just went radio silent. ( Damian’s parents were actually hella accepting and the main crashing place but Damian had things to deal with too)

It’s what made Joseph want to be a Youth Pastor. He wanted a church that was friendly, he wanted to keep his faith. He wanted to keep other children from not feeling safe in a place where you’re supposed to. He wanted to tell kids that things always get better. He signed up for a degree in Biblical Studies the moment he was able to.

They moved to the same neighborhood on purpose, the three of them ( and Lucien eventually) like it always was.

Mary started dealing with depression after having Chris.

A big contributing factor was that Joseph had the ministry and Damien had Lucien and Mary...Mary didn’t have anything. She had no life outside of being a housewife. Eventually, Chris went to school and she had nothing to do but keep house.

It started slow but it grew, she was told having more kids would help ( and when she held the twins, she was happy.) but of course it didn’t make things better.

It’s really what killed her relationship with Joseph. It killed her a little each day too. She was told she’d be happy if she married and had kids, she wanted to be happy ( so why wasn’t she?)

She started resenting him, resenting her life, feeling trapped in it. This is around the time she befriended Robert.

Robert, who also hated himself, and his life, who was also miserable. Robert who she could tell her worst thoughts to ( “sometimes I wish I wasn’t a mom. What kind of parent am I” “Trust me I’ve seen worse”) things she wouldn’t want to tell Joseph, things she couldn’t even tell Damian.

Their friendship is based on wasted chances and miserable thoughts and an unabashed acceptance of both.

When she found out he slept with Joseph she gave him the silent treatment for a month. ( Damian of all people told him off. Mary’s still his best friend. This isn’t done.)

Eventually, Robert wears her down, begs her to get a drink and says he’s miserable and sorry and miserable and the next morning he makes her a hangover remedy at his house and they bury the hatchet.

Robert tries to bury an actual hatchet in the backyard, Mary laughs calls him an idiot and “where did you even get a hatchet” “shh don’t worry about it” and that’s when they actually make up.

Joseph took up carpentry as a hobby ( he thinks it’s funny how it plays into his name.) he built the kids a treehouse in the backyard and has made them a couple of toys.

Mary always loved horses. It’s something she shares with Christie, who she’s indulged in exactly 245 My Little Pony dolls.

One of Chris’ special interests is fishing lures ( not even fishing just the different kind of lures you can use) he’ll talk Brian’s ear off about it whenever he can find him.

One of Daisy’s special interests is marine animals, she’ll talk Hugo’s ear off whenever she can find him.

Ernest is absolutely not jealous about his dad talking to this other kid. Nope.

Mat’s coffee shop became The Place Where All The Kids hang out ( a few of them want to work there) and he’s somehow become the person they all talk to if they ever have a problem they can’t talk to their dad about. ( Also Pablo’s there and Pablo’s hot, and the older kids can appreciate that)

Unlike Ernest, Carmencita doesn’t mind sharing her dad. She’s actually gotten really good at advice and conflict resolution because of all the problems the others ( including Pablo) ask Mat’s help with.

Because all the parents get together so often -apparently- for barbeques and stuff the kids have kind of made up their minds that they’re all their parents. They have a dad for each occasion. If someone picks on you? Go to Brian, he’s the one who will tell you ( and teach you to throw a punch, just ask Daisy)  Homework problem? Go to Hugo. Fashion advice? Go to Damian.

There have also been talks had by some of the kids about whose parents could end up with whose. ( except for the Christiansen kids.) 

They might or might not be keeping an eye on Dadsona and who xe winds up dating.

[dazzledbybooks]

“Prepare for a snow-frosted, blood-drenched fairy tale where the monsters steal your heart and love ends up being the nightmare.” - Roshani Chokshi, New York Times bestselling author of The Star-Touched Queen A girl who can speak to gods must save her people without destroying herself. A prince in danger must decide who to trust. A boy with a monstrous secret waits in the wings. Together, they must assassinate the king and stop the war. In a centuries-long war where beauty and brutality meet, their three paths entwine in a shadowy world of spilled blood and mysterious saints, where a forbidden romance threatens to tip the scales between dark and light. Wicked Saints is the thrilling start to Emily A. Duncan’s devastatingly Gothic Something Dark and Holy trilogy. “This book destroyed me and I adored it.”- Stephanie Garber, New York Times bestselling author of Caraval Early Reviews: “Prepare for a snow frosted, blood drenched fairy tale where the monsters steal your heart and love ends up being the nightmare. Utterly absorbing.” - Roshani Chokshi, New York Times bestselling author of The Star-Touched Queen "Full of blood and monsters and magic—this book destroyed me and I adored it. Emily is a wicked storyteller, she’s not afraid to hurt her characters or her readers. If you’ve ever fallen in love with a villain you will fall hard for this book." - Stephanie Garber, New York Times bestselling author of Caraval "This is the novel of dark theology and eldritch blood-magic that I’ve been waiting for all my life. It’s got a world at once brutal and beautiful, filled with characters who are wounded, lovable, and ferocious enough to break your heart. A shattering, utterly satisfying read." - Rosamund Hodge, author of Cruel Beauty and Bright Smoke, Cold Fire “Wicked Saints is a lush, brutal, compelling fantasy that is dark, deep, and bloody—absolutely riveting! With a boy who is both man and monster, mysterious saints with uncertain motives, and a girl filled with holy magic who is just beginning to understand the full reaches of her power, this gothic jewel of a story will sink its visceral iron claws into you, never letting go until you’ve turned the last page. And truthfully, not even then -the explosive ending will haunt you for days! ” - Robin LaFevers, New York Times bestselling author of the His Fair Assassin trilogy “Dark, bloody, and monstrously romantic. This is the villain love interest that we've all been waiting for.” - Margaret Rogerson, New York Times bestselling author of An Enchantment of Ravens  "Seductively dark and enchanting, Wicked Saints is a trance you won’t want to wake from. Duncan has skillfully erected a world like no other, complete with provocative magic, sinister creatures, and a plot that keeps you guessing. This spellbinding YA fantasy will bewitch readers to the very last page." - Adrienne Young, New York Times bestselling author of Sky in the Deep  Excerpt: N A D4E Z H D A L A P T E V A Horz stole the stars and the heavens out from underneath Myesta’s control, and for that she has never forgiven him. For where can the moons rest if not the heavens? —Codex of the Divine, 5:26 “It’s certainly not my fault you chose a child who sleeps so deeply. If she dies it will very much be your fault, not mine.” Startled by bickering gods was not Nadya’s preferred method of being woken up. She rolled to her feet in the dark, moving automatically. It took her eyes a few sec- onds to catch up with the rest of her body. Shut up! It wasn’t wise to tell the gods to shut up, but it was too late now. A feeling of amused disdain flowed through her, but neither of the gods spoke again. She realized it was Horz, the god of the heavens and the stars, who had woken her. He had a tendency to be obnoxious but generally left Nadya alone, as a rule. Usually only a single god communed with their chosen cleric. There once had been a cleric named Kseniya Mirokhina who was gifted with unnatural marksmanship by Devonya, the goddess of the hunt. And Veceslav had chosen a cleric of his own, long ago, but their name was lost to history, and he re- fused to talk about them. The recorded histories never spoke of clerics who could hear more than one god. That Nadya com- muned with the entire pantheon was a rarity the priests who trained her could not explain. There was a chance older, more primordial gods existed, ones that had long since given up watch of the world and left it in the care of the others. But no one knew for sure. Of the twenty known gods, however, carvings and paintings depicted their human forms, though no one knew what they actually looked like. No cleric throughout history had ever looked upon the faces of the gods. No saint, nor priest. Each had their own power and magic they could bestow upon Nadya, and while some were forthcoming, others were not. She had never spoken to the goddess of the moons, My- esta. She wasn’t even sure what manner of power the goddess would give, if she so chose. And though she could commune with many gods, it was im- possible to forget just who had chosen her for this fate: Mar- zenya, the goddess of death and magic, who expected complete dedication. Indistinct voices murmured in the dark. She and Anna had found a secluded place within a copse of thick pine trees to set up their tent, but it no longer felt safe. Nadya slid a voryen from underneath her bedroll and nudged Anna awake. She moved to the mouth of the tent, grasping at her beads, a prayer already forming on her lips, smoky symbols trailing from her mouth. She could see the blurry impressions of fig- ures in the darkness, far off in the distance. It was hard to judge the number, two? Five? Ten? Her heart sped at the possibility that a company of Tranavians were already on her trail. Anna drew up beside her. Nadya’s grip on her voryen tight- ened, but she kept still. If they hadn’t seen their tent yet, she could keep them from noticing it entirely. But Anna’s hand clasped her forearm. “Wait,” she whispered, her breath frosting out before her in the cold. She pointed to a dark spot just off to the side of the group. Nadya pressed her thumb against Bozidarka’s bead and her eyesight sharpened until she could see as clearly as if it were day. It took effort to shove aside the immediate, paralyzing fear as her suspicions were confirmed and Tranavian uniforms be- came clear. It wasn’t a full company. In fact, they looked rather ragged. Perhaps they had split off and lost their way. More interesting, though, was the boy with a crossbow si- lently aiming into the heart of the group. “We can get away before they notice,” Anna said. Nadya almost agreed, almost slipped her voryen back into its sheath, but just then, the boy fired and the trees erupted into chaos. Nadya wasn’t willing to use an innocent’s life as a distraction for her own cowardice. Not again. Even as Anna protested, Nadya let a prayer form fully in her mind, hand clutching at Horz’s bead on her necklace and its constellation of stars. Symbols fell from her lips like glow- ing glimmers of smoke and every star in the sky winked out. Well, that was more extreme than I intended, Nadya thought with a wince. I should’ve known better than to ask Horz for any- thing. She could hear cursing as the world plunged into darkness. Anna sighed in exasperation beside her. “Just stay back,” she hissed as she moved confidently through the dark. “Nadya . . .” Anna’s groan was soft. It took more focus to send a third prayer to Bozetjeh. It was hard to catch Bozetjeh on a good day; the god of speed was notoriously slow to answer prayers. But she managed to snag his attention and received a spell allowing her to move as fast as the vicious Kalyazin wind. Her initial count had been wrong; there were six Tranavians now scattering into the forest. The boy dropped his crossbow with a bewildered look up into the sky, startling when Nadya touched his shoulder. There was no way he could see in this darkness, but she could. When he whirled, a curved sword in his hand, Nadya sidestepped. His swing went wide and she shoved him in the direction of a fleeing Tranavian, anticipating their collision. “Find the rest,” Marzenya hissed. “Kill them all.” Complete and total dedication. She caught up to one of the figures, stabbing her voryen into his skull just underneath his ear. Not so difficult this time, she thought. But the knowledge was a distant thing. Blood sprayed, splattering a second Tranavian, who cried out in alarm. Before the second man could figure out what had happened to his companion, she lashed out her heel, catching him squarely on the jaw and knocking him off his feet. She slit his throat. Three more. They couldn’t have moved far. Nadya took up Bozidarka’s bead again. The goddess of vision revealed where the last Tranavians were located. The boy with the sword had managed to kill two in the dark. Nadya couldn’t actually see the last one, just felt him nearby, very much alive. Something slammed into Nadya’s back and suddenly the chilling bite of a blade was pressed against her throat. The boy appeared in front of her, his crossbow back in his hands, thank- fully not pointed at Nadya. It was clear he could only barely see her. He wasn’t Kalyazi, but Akolan. A fair number of Akolans had taken advantage of the war between their neighbors, hiring out their swords for profit on both sides. They were known for favoring Tranavia simply because of the warmer climate. It was rare to find a creature of the desert willingly stumbling through Kalyazin’s snow. He spoke a fluid string of words she didn’t understand. His posture was languid, as if he hadn’t nearly been torn to pieces by blood mages. The blade against Nadya’s throat pressed harder. A colder voice responded to him, the foreign language scratched uncomfortably at her ears. Nadya only knew the three primary languages of Kalyazin and passing Tranavian. If she wasn’t going to be able to com- municate with them . . . The boy said something else and Nadya heard the girl sigh before she felt the blade slip away. “What’s a little Kalyazi as- sassin doing out in the middle of the mountains?” he asked, switching to perfect Kalyazi. Nadya was very aware of the boy’s friend at her back. “I could ask the same of you.” She shifted Bozidarka’s spell, sharpening her vision further. The boy had skin like molten bronze and long hair with gold chains threaded through his loose curls. He grinned. Buy Link: https://static.macmillan.com/static/smp/wicked-saints/ About the Author: EMILY A. DUNCAN works as a youth services librarian. She received a Master’s degree in library science from Kent State University, which mostly taught her how to find obscure Slavic folklore texts through interlibrary loan systems. When not reading or writing, she enjoys playing copious amounts of video games and dungeons and dragons. Wicked Saints is her first book. She lives in Ohio. Website: https://eaduncan.com/ Twitter: @glitzandshadows Instagram: @glitzandshadows Tumblr: https://ift.tt/2K0iS2l

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