#more so in Autumn... but to touch him then is not without risk

[yeleltaan]

How do you need to be touched?

Two results depending on the answer to one question:

gently.

You need to be held as though you're going to break. you need someone to trace your scars like cracks in a wall, crumbling. their touch is almost painful; you've been without it for too long, without someone to hold you. but, you cannot bring yourself to pull away.

fervently.

You crave a hug that cracks your ribs... the feeling of your wandering soul being crushed back into the bones that can't seem to hold it. you need a hand gripping yours so tightly you almost fear it may leave a bruise, a reminder that you are here. and that you are not alone.

Tagged by: @derjaegermond ! Thanks 8] Tagging: hey... hey you. Reader. I'm tagging you.

[jeankluv]

— I’m a sucker for reincarnation au, so imagine that after dying fighting curses at the age of 24, you are reborn in a new world with no curse and no sorcery. A normal world.

You remember almost everything about that distant life you had, for years you thought it wasn’t real, but as years started to go by the memories of that life started to be more and more clear, but one thing was still unclear. The blurry face who always smiled at you and that always made your heart flutter. For years you tried to picture that face, to try to remember them. But you always ended up empty handed.

Now you were already pass the age when you died, those curses didn’t exist and you didn’t have to risk your life on risky missions. But still, although you were happy with everything you had in life, something was missing.

You heart was still not full.

“I found you…” You heard one autumn morning when you were walking around the beach with your dog.

“Excuse me?” You asked.

The person was hide behind a cap, and you couldn’t see his face completely.

He approached you and your eyes finally met and you felt how your heart stopped beating when those blue eyes met yours.

“You…”

Memories of your previous life and those ocean eyes started to flash on your head. How you two met in the first year, how he would always tease you, how he would run through the whole Jujutsu Tech whenever you ended up on the medical area… How he held you in your last moments and how he promised you to find you in the next life.

He was there. Gojo Satoru was there. Your Satoru was there. He found you.

“Satoru…” You cried.

“Yeah that’s me.” He held you in his arms, but this time he was not letting you go, he was not going to waste his time.

“I missed you… Even though I couldn’t remember you, I did.” You said against his chest.

“It’s okay… now we found each other.” He whispered against your hair, even in that life he was still taller than you. “I missed you… Living without you was like being in hell… those five years…”

“Five years?” You looked at him, what did he meant by five years. It couldn’t mean what you thought right, it wasn’t possible right? He was Gojo Satoru…

“I died…” He touched your cheek and you looked at him with sad eyes. “But that life doesn’t matter anymore… I care about our now.”

You smiled. “Yeah…”

“So, would you let me take you out on a date?” He smiled and the two dimples that you used to see in your memories that didn’t have an owner, now they did.

_________

Jujutsu Kaisen materialist

[letterstodixon]

you're so lame

summary: Daryl goes on a run and returns home to a sweet reward.

pairing: daryl dixon x f!reader (established relationship)

word count: 951

era: pre-negan alexandria

warnings: not proofreading. fluff is a warning itself.

divider by @/saradika-graphics

a/n: i think this is more of a drabble and not a one shot, but i hope you enjoy it anyways ! it was inspired on this video.

taglist: @vaniniweenie

Generally, ever since the world went to shit, no one was allowed to have a bad day. If you were in danger, you had to protect yourself, hunt for food, or fight off some walker if you were unlucky... Or fight off other people, if your luck was even worse. If you lived behind a wall that protected you from the outside, you still had to go get food. Being considered one of the leaders forced you to put yourself at risk for the good of your community.

Well, Daryl hated being considered a leader.

Don't get him wrong, being a hunter was one of the things he was best at, and if you asked him a few years ago, he preferred to be in the comfort of the woods, in solitude.

Well, that changed since you came into his life.

From the prison to Alexandria, neither of you even imagined the idea of being friends. You came with Michonne and, unlike her, your nature was much more easy going and friendly, kind, seemingly naive. Daryl prejudged you all that time, until you proved to be loyal to the group, and you didn't hesitate to cut off a head or two. His attraction to you grew more every day, and who was he to fight against that? Well, he avoided the feeling for a long time... Until the tranquility of Alexandria came. It was enough to live under the same roof and have a bed to share every night, and that's when he knew he didn't want anything else for his life. Yes, he still knew how to move in the woods alone, but he also knew he was home when he had his arms around you on a cold autumn morning.

As soon as his walkie rang that morning, with Rick's voice urging him to get up, his mood changed drastically. He was usually a grumpy man, but it made him even worse to be insistently woken up when he didn't want to do something. He just hoped his call hadn't woken you up.

"Babe?" He heard behind him, your sleepy voice making itself heard in the room.

Rick's a dead man.

"Go back to sleep, sunshine. I gotta go." He replied as quietly as he could, turning to look at you. With his elbow on the pillow, his free hand came up to your face, caressing your cheek softly as a smile appeared on your lips, eyes barely open.

"Be careful out there, okay?" You told him, your hand on his while leaning into his touch. There was no better way to wake up.

"Always am, babe." He assured you, leaving a short kiss on your lips before getting out of bed. "Got any plans for today?"

Before answering, you rubbed your eyes, yawning as you sat up on the bed. "I should probably get up too. I promised Carol to help her with kitchen stuff, might do some desserts if we can."

Daryl listens intently, nodding as he finishes getting dressed, placing his crossbow on his back, which rested propped up right next to his nightstand. Leaning over the bed, he kissed your lips once more.

"Don't burn anythin'" He said, leaving the room and closing the door before the pillow could hit him.

...

The run had been better than they expected. They managed to get food, some medicine, and warm clothes to get the community through the winter without any problems. As he was making his way into the house that you shared, he couldn't help but smell the sweet aroma that was in the air, indicating that you had indeed managed to make those desserts you promised. As he took off his boots at the entrance of the house and left his crossbow aside, he walked into the kitchen, listening to you hum under your breath as you worked on the counter, a few candles lighting up beyond the light on in the kitchen.

"Glad you ain't burn anythin'" He exclaimed, making you turn around startled, a hand on your chest as you closed your eyes, while Daryl rolled his. Such a drama queen.

"You scared the crap out of me, Dixon. You're lucky I love you." You said, walking over to him as you placed your arms around his neck, scanning his face for any possible bruises or scratches, but finding none, while his hands rested on your hips, watching you with the same attention as you watched him. "Made it home safe and sound, I see."

"Had to, m'wife woulda kill me if I didn't." He replied, a smile threatening to appear on his lips. Looking behind you, he noticed a cake with something written on it, making him squint. "What's that?"

"Oh! I made a cake and managed to write something for you." You said excitedly, moving away so you could take the cake in your hands and bring it to him.

Who wants to eat anyways? Ew.

Daryl tilted his head, taking a step back as he blinked in disbelief. "I don't..."

"I got the wrong cake. Fuck, I'm sorry."

As you set that cake aside, you went to get the one in the fridge, presenting it to him the same way you did with the last one.

Congrats on the successful run, hunter!

There were few times that you had been able to hear Daryl laugh out loud, but this time, you had achieved it without hesitation. His laughter being too contagious, you laughed too, covering your mouth as he rested his hands on his knees, shaking his head.

"Yer lucky I love you, woman. As lame as you are an' everything'"

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Get Lost

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You get caught in the corn maze after dark but you don’t think those footsteps belong to someone trying to help you find your way out.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen

Note: this is the fifth and final of my autumn fics as decided by all of you!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

Jaden points across the dash, receiving a swat from Alexandria as she tries not to veer. 

“Hey,” she cries out, “don’t do that. I can’t see over your ugly sweater.” 

“Oh, whatever, Lex,” he snips, “I was just trying to show you that.” He points again, this time without blocking her view, “you see that sign ahead?�� 

“Sure, I see it,” she leans over the wheel as your nail taps across your phone screen. You huff. You wish they’d stop arguing for one moment. “A maze?” 

“A corn maze. Doesn’t that sound fun? I haven’t been to one since I was a kid.” 

“Of course, you haven’t,” you scoff and let your phone hang carelessly in your hand. “We’ve all seen that movie with the evil kids. Who wants to go running through a field?” 

“I do,” Ashton says, “better than driving around looking for those shoes that don’t exist.” 

His girlfriend, Samira, laughs and leans into him. You blow a raspberry. 

“It’s all the way out in the middle of nowhere,” you sneer. 

“Well, Mrs. Xanny, you never want to do anything so your vote counts for nothing,” Jaden retorts. 

“Excuse me,” you roll your eyes. 

“I’m up for it,” Ashton raises his hand. 

“Me too,” Samira mimics him. 

“Me three,” Jaden declares. “So looks like you two are outvoted.” 

“Whatever,” you mutter and Alexandria sighs. 

“Fine, but nobody better leave me behind. I’m not getting lost because of you idiots,” she growls. 

“Don’t worry, Lexi, I’ll hold your wittle hand,” Jaden teases. 

The others laugh and you go back to your phone. You’re more interested in the new heels at your favourite boutique than some dirty and scarecrows. Alexandria steers on as she continues to snap at Jaden to stop distracting her. Her driving is a lot scarier than anything that might be hiding in the maze. 

You swipe and tap and tune out the world around you, especially the two lovebirds exchanging not so subtle touches beside you. Jaden had to insist on sitting in the front. Finally, the car rolls, the axle jostled by the lumpy ground, and you look up at the gray sky. You hate daylight savings. 

When the wheels are still, you’re reluctant to get out. You could offer to watch the car until they get back. It’s cold and you don’t feel like slogging through soil and seed. 

“Hey, Lex,” you begin. 

“If I’m going, you’re going,” she snips as she undoes her seatbelt. 

You curl your lip and make a face at her back. The others are already out of the car. Jaden’s bouncing eagerly, Ashton’s staring at the gate to the maze, and Samira is draped off her boyfriend’s arm. They probably just want to find a dark corner so they can makeout. They are so high school. 

“Fifteen bucks?” You read the sign above the table, “blech. I could put that towards my hair appointment tomorrow.” 

“Oh, boo hoo,” Jaden snorts. 

“Don’t act like you don’t have the money,” Samira jeers. 

You call these people ‘friends’ lightly. You all just kind of stick together out of familiarity. Most people you’ve met aren’t much better so why risk downgrading. 

You take a step and feel your tall heel sink into the mud. Ew. 

“Oh, my boots,” you whine as you lift your sole, the muck dripping off of it. 

“Wash em after,” Ashton says. 

“These are Louis’,” you snarl. 

“And you have at least three identical pairs at home. Lighten up,” he barks back. 

You cross your arms and seal your lips with a wry smile. You’re not arguing with him. He’s been a jerk ever since you turned him down at his sister’s twenty-fifth. You suppose it was his birthday two, them being twins and all. Not that he looks very much like Alexandria. 

You trod after the four others, trying not to step too deep in the mud. You growl at the ground. You know what’s not dirty, a salon or a store. 

“Nice boots,” a deep voice rolls over you as you join the queue for tickets.  

You lift your head and look over at the man nearby. He steps up next to you as you eye his bristly upper lip. It’s a look, not a good one. 

“Brave girl going in alone,” he comments. 

You frown, “I’m not,” you step closer to your friends and they chatter. 

“Oh, coulda fooled me,” he remarks as he reaches into his jacket. “So, those Louis boots... those are last year’s...” 

“How would you know?” 

He shows the lining of his jacket. Also Louis. He pokes his fingers into the interior pocket and slides out a pack of gum. He pushes out a piece and pops it in his mouth. He tucks the pack back into his pocket and drops his hands to his hip. 

“So,” he chews the gum loudly. “You’re not really dressed for a maze.” 

“And you are?” You scowl, looking him up and down. He copies your posture and does the same to you. 

“I’m not here for the maze, baby girl,” he winks and snaps the gum. “But you have fun.” 

He turns and struts away before you can respond. Your lips open in confusion. What could he mean? You blink and shut your mouth, stepping up between Alexandria and Ashton. 

“So, how long are we going to have to stand around?” You ask. 

🌾

You hold your phone up in irritation. Your bars are totally gone. Great. This maze thing is so fucking boring. What are you supposed to do now? 

You sniff and shake your head. You sigh and put your phone in your jacket pocket, keeping your hand in the fleecy insert as the chill creeps up your leggings. You guess you’ll have to help or whatever. 

“Alex--” you look ahead then back, and side to side. Your heart leaps and you rush forward as fast as you can on your six-inch heels, “Alexandria? Ashton?” You look around the next corner and the opposite way along the other pathway. “Samira?” 

You spin again, your ankles tangling together. You blink as the tall corner adds to the dimness setting over the horizon. You gulp as your heart pounds in your throat. You slip your phone free once more and turn on the flashlight. 

You aim it ahead and listen for voices. You don’t hear much past the dense wall of stalks. As you brush a bit too close, you cry out and back away from the hanging husk. You shake of the crawling sensation and turn back and forth again. You lost your sense of direction. 

You look up at the sky. The clouds are thick, you can see neither moon or sun. You stop and pull your phone closer. You bring up your maps but it’s just a blank screen. Still no signal. 

Fuck it. Just walk, you’ll find the way. 

You shine the light ahead of you, your heels sinking into the mulch of footsteps, husks, and stones. You walk unevenly over the soft ground. You mumble obscenities as your arches start to bemoan the height. If you had known about this special excursion, you could’ve worn your Uggs. 

There’s a scuff, a strange echo of your own steps. You stop but it keeps going. You squint and twirl around, the light glinting off the corner and slicing through shadows. “Hello?” You call out. 

The footsteps continue but no one answers. You can’t tell if they’re ahead of you or behind you. Or to the left. Or right. You sway back and forth. This is getting weird. 

You take a breath and set your feet. You nearly trip as your heels dig in once more. You grunt and pull them out. You’re about to just scream for help. 

A sudden rumble makes you squeal. What the hell was that? You twist around and it happens again. It’s laughter? Someone’s laughing at you? 

You look at the tall stalks of corn, searching between the tight rows. 

“Alright, not very funny. Ashton....” you holler. 

The laughter gets louder. 

“Jaden,” you hiss. 

The laughter stops. 

“I really am not amused, okay? I want out. I never even wanted to do this stupid thing--” 

“Those boys are long gone, sweet peach,” the voice drawls around you like the wind, “I’m all man.” 

“Where are you? Who are you?” You ask. 

“I’m right behind you, baby, and I’m your knight in shining armour,” he purrs. 

You gasp and turn around. You beam the flashlight of the phone in the man’s face. You only get a glimpse of that short brown mustache before the cell is knocked from your grasp. 

“What are you tryna do? Blind me?” He snarls as your phone disappears between the corn. 

“What-- What do you want?” You step back, dragging your heels from the mud. 

“I wanna help, baby,” he slithers. “You seem lost.” 

You blink at him. He’s a dark silhouette against the greyness trapped in the maze. You bristle and look over at the corn. 

“Sure, I’ll just grab my phone, thanks--” 

“Ah, ah,” he comes up to meet you, blocking you with his arm. “I don’t work for free, honey pot.” 

“Fine, then go away,” you spit. 

“Woah, ho, you haven’t even asked what I want in return, sweetie,” he brings his other hand up to touch your cheek and you flinch away. 

“You’re not getting it, dude,” you back up. 

“Just a little suck. Hell, you give the little guy a nice kiss and I won’t even make you finish the job--” 

“Ew, no way,” you smack his hand down as he reaches for you again. “Fuck off--” 

He’s quick. He grabs you by your jaw and snarls as he looms over you, “for such a pretty mouth it sure is fucking filthy. Won’t matter what I put in it--” 

“Hey,” you grunt and writhe in his grasp, twisting your hands around his thick forearms, “get off--” 

“I’m trying, trust me--” 

You ram your knee up and feel the crunch in his pants. He wheezes and lets you go. You shove him and stagger backwards. You look at the corn one last time. Your phone is somewhere in there. 

As he cradles his crotch and snarls, the urgency of the moment slaps you across the face. Fuck your phone. You need to get away from this creep. 

Thank god you got insurance on your cell plan. You turn and lift your knees. You land on your toes, keeping your heels off the ground as much as you can. You’re not going very fast and you know you look ridiculous but you don’t care. You want to go home. 

You pump your arms as you breath hitches. You hear groans and another set of steps, just like before. You get to a corner and turn before you crash through the corn. You heave as you race away, ankles threatening to bend. At what point do you just ditch the Louis’ and mourn them with your phone. 

You cough and slow down. Shit. You’re in terrible shape. You look over your shoulder, your breath foggy in the plummeting temperature. You don’t see him. You don’t hear him either. Good. 

You turn-- 

“Boo!” The man startles you so you shriek. 

You stagger back as he cackles and you hurl yourself forward. Your feet catch as your heels stab the ground and you stumble with your arms flailing away from him. Your shallow breaths thunder around you as you charge through the maze only to find yourself trapped at a dead end. 

You stop and waver, lungs filled with fire. Fuck, fuck, fuck! You stomp with each internal proclamation. 

“Look, sugar tits, you can keep running and I’ll keep chasing,” the man struts up behind you as you spin to face him. “But it all ends the same way.” He sets his feet wide and cracks his knuckles. “And since you bruised my left nut,” he snarls, “you can kiss that better first.” 

“Uh, like why are you doing this?” You ask. 

He chortles, “like because I can.”  

You snarl and cross your arms, “you’re a loser. And you’re old. Like, can’t you find someone your own age to creep on?” 

He laughs louder but there’s not much humour in it. He stalks closer and your defiance glimmers, just a little. You don’t know where he gets off. Does he really think he can just tell you what to do? 

“So, I knew you were gonna be a handful,” he grabs you by the neck and you wince. You slap his wrist and he tuts, bringing his other hand up to grope your chest, “in more ways than one.” 

“Hey, fuck--” you grit out. “Hey!” 

“Look, sweetie, it’s a simple transaction. I pull my pants down, you keep those teeth to yourself, and be real nice to me,” he glares down at you. “The way you crushed my balls, you’re lucky I don’t make you lick my boots.” 

“What is wrong with you?” You growl. 

“Oh, a lot,” he smirks. “Now, those boots must kill your feet so...” he jerks you roughly, “on your knees.” 

Your eyes tinge just a little but you won’t cry. Not because of him. You gnash your teeth and grimace at him as he peels his hand away. 

“You got one thing going for you, baby, and that’s that pretty face. I can change that, trust me,” he warns. You swallow avert your eyes. He chuckles again, “god, I love that pout.” 

You bat your lash and fight to keep the litany of insults inside. You caterpillar faced fuck. You viagra powered moron. You overgrown frat boy. 

“The next time you open your mouth, it better be to gobble my cock,” he sneers, “so don’t even say it.” 

You look at him again. You set your eyes and your jaw. You step closer and he lifts his chin just slightly as he stares you down. 

You grab his belt and he twitches. You unbuckle it and whip the ends aside. You pop the button open and yank the zipper apart. He watches you, his eyebrow tweaking. You push his fly wide and roll your eyes as you feel his naked pelvis beneath your fingertips. Of course, this weirdo is hanging loose. 

You reach under his pants and angle his hard dick through the teeth of the zipper. You stroke him up and down with a dry, tight grip. He hisses and shifts his weight. 

“Careful, like sandpaper,” he rasps. 

You tut and look down. You huff. You move one foot back and bend your leg. You put one knee to the ground then the other. You make a face as you come level to his tip. Ugh. 

“Don’t look so fucking enticed,” he barks. You roll your eyes again and he swats your head. “Keep doing that and your eyes are getting stuck.” 

Old. Man. 

You pump him again and slowly, inch by inch, lean in. 

“Ah, I said kiss the left one first, then you can get to the main dish,” he puts his hand on his hip. 

You swallow and push down a tide of disgust. You lift him and lean your head to the side. You crane around and pucker, pressing your lips to his left ball. He twitches and groan. 

“Damn, those lips are soft. Do the other one.” 

With bile brewing in your stomach, you obey. You pull back and put his tip to your lips. You narrow your gaze at his pelvis and spread your mouth around him. You wet his swollen head then work your way down his length. He might be a desperate loser but he’s not small. 

You bob up and down as you take more and more of him. He curls his fingers into his hip as his other hand goes to the back of your head. He urges you on and you bat his hand with yours. You push back against him and flick your eyes up. 

“You are a stubborn one,” he rebukes. 

Your lips meet your hand and you pump him emphatically with both, popping off his tip so he whimpers. He clutches a wad of your hair as his eyes gleam desperately. 

“I kissed it better,” you wipe your mouth, “you show me the way out, and you might just finish, old man.” 

He stares down at you. Agitation and amusement battle across his expression. He takes a breath and lets it out. 

“One last kiss and I’ll get you out,” he says, “And then you’ll get me off.” 

The cold air swirls around you and the darkness floods through the corn. You squeeze him slightly and put a sloppy kiss on his tip with a loud muah. You let go and tickle along his length. You grab onto his arm and pull yourself to your feet. 

“I want out. Now.” 

“Alright, princess,” he snickers. “Don’t you worry, I got a throne you can sit on when we’re home free.” 

[hlficlibrary]

HL Fic Library ✨ Fairy Fics

Remember to leave kudos and a comment on the fics you enjoyed to show your appreciation! You can find the library's other recs here.

✨ Truth Behind Golden Eyes by MyEnglishRose / @lwtisloved {E, 228k}

Louis is a royal servant born with magic in a kingdom where his sole existence is outlawed with a war he has no idea he has a part in upon him. Harry is the prince on whom the burden of mending a broken kingdom falls upon and he might be willing to risk it all for a simple servant if only he admitted it to himself.

Or. A Fantasy AU loosely inspired by Merlin BBC where one relationship has the power to define the destiny of the whole land.

✨ Collision by itjustkindahappened / @tequiladimples {E, 226k}

Mythology/Fairytale!AU in which Louis is a dainty fairy with a temper who wants to be intimidating and Harry hurts people. Naturally, they hate each other.

(Featuring Liam, the big and not-so-bad wolf who’s got a thing for humans, Zayn, a human with supernaturally good looks, and Niall, the cupid who just wants his job to be easier.)

✨ Black with Autumn Rain by whimsicule / @baroness-elsa {T, 93k}

“Thank you,” Geoff says, taking a sip of his tea. “What did you tell him?”

Louis has a sip as well, lets the tea burn down his throat too quickly, too hot, and he feels it all the way down to his stomach. “The truth. Essentially,” he replies after a moment, licking his lips, relishing the slightly bitter taste of the brew that’s never quite strong enough for Louis’ liking. At least it’s not decaf. “That my dog scented it. That I didn’t touch the body. That I came here first thing.”

Geoff nods pensively. “Did he believe you?”

“Probably not. There’s only so many people who can drown on dry land before it gets fishy.”

or: Harry is a journalist, Louis has lots of secrets and the moors aren't exactly the ideal place to rekindle a lost romance.

✨ fae (series) by whoknows / @crazyupsetter {E, 46k}

The wait isn’t long before something starts rustling in the bushes. Harry takes aim, squeezes the trigger, body moving unconsciously. They’re motions he’s done a thousand times before, and his body knows how to do it without the input of his brain now. It’s what makes him such a good shot.

He misses. The shot misses.

Something howls in the woods, a pretty clear indication that Harry hit it, but there’s no telltale sounds of a big body dropping, no animal charging out at him to take him out before he can finish the job.

Something does turn and run, though. “Fuck,” Harry spits out, scrambling to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, giving chase. He’s not going to lose this hunt.

The trail of blood goes on longer than Harry thought it would. He doesn’t know how long he runs for, but his muscles are burning, chest heaving with exertion, until the trail just - goes dead. No more blood, just like that.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

✨ through walls of trees by @ineverateakiwi {T, 41k}

Elesdon is a country divided into five kingdoms and had long been considered peaceful. After a coup in the heart of the country, Lady Sulia ascended to the throne and imprisoned the four courts, stripping them of their powers. With the exception of King Louis Tomlinson, who submitted to her favors.

But something is changing on the horizon. Magic no longer obeys her, and scarcity threatens her reign. Desperate to stay on top, she brings Harry and Liam back into play, entrusting them to her most loyal warriors.

The beginning of a series of mistakes that may give them the opportunity they needed to defeat her.

✨ Gently As She Goes by graceling_in_a_suit {T, 33k}

Louis had been Harry’s best friend for as long as she could remember. She was a shoulder to cry on, a head of hair to practice braiding on, a mind as mischievous as Harry’s to scheme up antics and pranks with, someone to fall asleep next to when the nights were cold or when they both got lonely. Someone to dance with, to learn with, to laugh with.

They were girls together.

Then Louis left.

A modern fairytale (literally!) featuring a quest to bring a lost girl home, celtic goddesses, braiding, friendship, true love, and magic.

✨ I Want To Be With You Everywhere by @haztobegood {E, 30k}

A Seed from the Cherished Tree A Cloud from the Mighty Summit A Flower from the Perpetual Volcano A Pearl from the Perceptive Lake A Love across the Faery Realms

Fae Proposals were a rare and ancient ritual. The presentation of the four Tokens to one’s mate would initiate a lifelong, inter-realm bond between their souls. But the Tokens could only be gathered if the lover could overcome the elements of all four Faery Realm Trials.

The Trials were dangerous, deadly even. But for Harry, Louis would risk it all.

✨ Years of Blood and Magic 

by cherrylarry / @beelou , devilinmybrain / @thedevilinmybrain, foreverfanficaddict / @chaotic-bells , idolizingthelightt / @idolizingthelight , @justalarryblog, 

Outofroad / @out-of-road, @perfectdagger {T, 30k}

Harry goes along willingly, but frowns, intrigued by who else is helping Liam on the case. “You have another… like me? In there?” “Hm, not like you. I mean, like you in the supernatural sense? Yes. But I hope you don’t mind, take offence or even feel threatened by him. I was desperate, and he’s been surprisingly helpful behind the scenes like you a few times." “May I know who it is?” Harry stops dead in his tracks right in the doorway just as he sees Louis turning to face him. The spell is broken once Louis opens his mouth and rolls his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Payne, it had to be him?” --- When Detective Payne calls Harry to help him catch the murderer that is killing children and vampires in their city, Harry and Louis must set their differences aside to fight against the biggest threat they have ever faced.

✨ Delight in Masques by kassio / @fakedeepplantjerker {T, 27k}

Popstar Louis Tomlinson has been pulling one over on the mortals for years. In the five years since he put on a human illusion and tried out for the X Factor, none of them have realised that he’s one of the Fair Folk – a cat shapeshifter, to be precise – and he’d like to keep it that way.

When he returns to the X Factor as a guest judge, the last thing he expects is for some half-Siren fool to use magic on the judges. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what Harry Styles does. Now Louis has to track down some rogue changeling before he exposes them all. Even worse? Apparently, Harry doesn’t even know what he is.

(An urban fantasy adventure, set in the world of - but not crossing over with - the October Daye book series. No need to be familiar with those books; I just want to give credit where it's due on a lot of the worldbuilding.)

✨ all their words for glory always sounded empty by 5sexualhomos / @hogwartzlou {NR, 26k}

Due to his overprotective father, Prince Louis of the fairies has never left Faefield. When he finally gets the chance to go out into the world, he must keep his identity a secret, which shouldn’t be a problem.

That is, until he meets his roommate Harry.

✨ Away With The Fairies by @snowy38 {E, 22k}

Harry liked pretty things.

Mostly the ornate flowers that grew around him, the trees majestically climbing towards the sky, sometimes the little colourful birds that flitted around in the branches of those trees.

Harry's wings themselves were considered beautiful, big butterfly-like shaped things glistening pink in the light but white underneath, almost translucent.

He fluttered them behind him, feeling the breeze brushing off them. He was high up where he could see the most, studiously watching the human life on the ground below.

He shouldn't be here of course, he was beyond the borders of the part of the forest where his kind lived, but he couldn't help it.

Because Harry had found the prettiest thing of all.

✨ Flowers of Tomorrow, Seeds of Today by @haztobegood {G, 7k}

Louis grows up in a little cottage. Harry grows up inside the Forest. A dandelion grows at the Edge of the Forest. A wish on its seeds brings Louis and Harry together.

Or, Louis is a changeling and Harry is a human and their fates are more connected than they know.

✨ All This Time (I was Waiting for You) by @ohharold {E, 4k}

Harry and Louis have always been destined for each other. Some time apart has Harry reminiscent of their first meeting.

✨ Wonderland by orphan_account {G, 4k}

For the prompt: Harry the fairy takes up residence in Louis’ attic to hibernate through the cold months, but Louis ends up finding him whilst putting up the Christmas decorations. Queue grumpy Harry being woken up, but he can't go back to sleep once he's tried to hibernate, so he starts following Louis around, full of excitement and questions about his first Christmas.

✨ Carry These Feelings by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {G, 3k}

Harry is one of the fae, and has to return to Court once a year to please the Queen.

He makes a detour on his way home to Louis.

Two weeks and I'll be home.

✨ glow. by dontletmedown / @princessyles {M, 3k}

All Louis wanted was to escape the city and find inner peace. He didn't know he would also meet a beautiful fairy that would be part of his meaningful destiny he never knew he had.

The destiny to save.

✨ the most fantastic things by bluegreenish / @greenblueish {G, 2k}

When he reads a fairy tale today, and it’s one about love, Harry will find himself in it. Because in all the fairy tales about love that exist in the world, he knows that a little part of Louis and him is written in between the letters, hidden between every page that curious fingers turn.

or, Harry's version of the fairy tale Thumbelina, minus marrying toads or moles, plus waxing poetic about Louis.

✨ If You're Hoping for a Harbour by LadyLondonderry / @londonfoginacup {G, 2k}

Harry finds a ring.

✨ Curiosity by @hellolovers13 {G, 1k}

Fae Harry lets curiosity get the best of him.

Human Louis is intrigued.

[kuntprodukt]

AMATO AMAR PERDONA

notes: the title is taken from The Divine Comedy, Canto 5(second circle) of Inferno. Initially this was an idea I wanted to include in my other fanfiction, so I guess this can be considered as a bonus.

Priest Leon S. Kennedy x female reader | 18+ MDNI. smut, female reader, light religious themes, Leon is a priest, blowjob, blasphemy kink, improper use of confessional booth, snowball kiss, semi public sex.

tags: @sprawberry

After years of fighting B.O.W, he finally sets on something calm, helping and saving people without risking his own life, but as time passes by, a bitter realization hits Leon harder than he expected; that not everyone was born for this. Maybe it is adrenaline addiction or without noticing he had found comfort in his misery at that time, but he is grateful that the routine incorporated easily into one’s life as deeds accumulate, overshadowing any thoughts about changing his life again and he didn’t have any other way other than focusing on the work.

The church is old and is not located in the best place, which tends to have windy weather. He suspected those are reasons why the building doesn’t have a lot of visitors, not like people are deeply religious nowadays either. Sometimes it feels like walls are thinner than paper, the wind brushes and whispers sweet, quiet nothings, barely audible to human ears while Leon prepares for his tasks or just lollygags during his free time. It has been said that airy currents can bring many unwanted things; pebbles, the leaves during the autumn season and the smells that disclose people’s secrets. He could never have expected it to bring a woman into his life, making it more colorful than any light arrays coming from the glass-stained windows in his church. From a small spark, a Great flame has risen.

The only thing he needed to do was to help you with your husband’s funeral, but he fucked this up. Really fucked up all this, his mind was repeating multiple times that it was his job to console you, he should have put down your little advances, but he couldn’t, deep down the urge to delve into something prohibited was stronger. The conflict between his morality and passion had died down in two shakes of a lamb's tail. Your appearance was like a quick bullet going through his routine and destroying it, adding the thrill that consumed the guilt he was supposed to feel. Little touches of your fingers, while no one is looking, quickly have moved to more intimate encounters, indulging in each other’s body on the altar, under the eyes of Jesus.

Some days, even the confessional booth was filled with your voice, telling him your desires and how much you want him to fuck your brains out of your head, to make you a dumb slut in front of the son of God and there has never been a trace of shame in your words. A long time ago he deduced a devil would sound like you; with a sweet-sweet intonation describing, in the holy place and not trying to hide all details, how his cock would fill nicely your pussy. Leon’s mind didn’t help much in those cases either. It has always vividly recalled how good your moans echo against the walls of the church. Either there is no need to imagine anything he hasn’t already done in this building, every cranny has heard and the All-seeing eye has witnessed you indulging in the temptation of each other’s body. The gentle love transforms into a deadly sin, but it is better to suffer in hell together, than alone.

His cock was already hard, tucked out, stroking it with his hand while his blue eyes are set on your knelt state. He tugs your hair, pulling you closer to his aching length, pushing it against your lips. They almost envelop its head, the soft and plush skin of them on it, he keeps tracing and brushing his tip, smearing a little bit of his already leaking precum but not letting you go any further. Almost all day passed without even a light touch which is too much for him, a man like him can have a quick good time, and teasing himself was a bad decision.

“Daddy Kennedy, that’s not polite to make a lady wait” Your tongue peeks out to lick away the bitter substance on your lips, teeth bite down slightly on the lower skin after tongue retreated. His grip on your hair tightened, cracking out a smile and pushing your head closer now.

“It is ‘Father Kennedy’” his correction leaves his mouth quickly, leading to a light slap on your lips with his cock as a silent command to open your mouth. “and I still didn’t hear any holy words from this mouth”

You loll out the tongue, feeling him dragging his leaking head against the exposed wet surface, smearing and filling your tastebuds with the bitterness of his precum, which makes more saliva pool in your mouth. The man in front of you not only teases himself but you too.

“What do we say?” He inquires breathlessly, his blue orbs almost shining from intensity and heat in the dimly lightened booth. He slaps his cock on your tongue inducing a soft wet sound to escape when it connects with the flesh.

“O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended you and corrupted your man.” Your eyes keep the contact with Leon’s as the prayer leaves your mouth quickly, something you have already repeated a billion times and he is already familiar with those words, not his first time to hear from one’s lips and it wouldn’t be the last time. This is so boring in the end, repenting feverly about something you can’t help but spit on. So why not alter it? Punishment is much more tempting than forgiveness. Your lips ghost on his aching cock, movements of your tongue brush more against the tip, flicking ‘accidentally’ at it and leaving him to covet for more. “Alas, I don’t detest all my sins cause the pain of hell is more alluring than the pleasures of heaven”

“Do I need to teach you everything?” Leon’s voice breaks the silence with a rough tone after you alter the prayer. You wish he would strike you, but he doesn’t. His attention shifts, watching a string of saliva dripping along his flesh from the tip of your tongue. Your eyes are on his face, meeting his gaze and not wavering. “Don’t you have any shame in that body of yours? Carrying on your whoring so openly in front of me” There is a silence, but even with the lack of his order you can grasp what he wants right now; the grip on your hair lessens, letting you be more free in your actions. “But be not afraid, my dove, this don’t disgust me, I am here to absolve you from your sins”

You don’t need to be ordered around to know what he implies. His body shudders when your lips embrace his cock in the wet and warm sensations around him, your hand slides down with your mouth along the length until you reach the base. Leon doesn’t notice how his own palm returns its grip on your hair, his hips buck up pushing you deeper to get more from your mouth already. A greedy bastard you would call him. Deep inside guilt tries to crawl out, but your mouth around him let this bullshit disappear and focus on how your tongue flicks against the head, playing with the sensitive spot under the tip, while your hand keeps pumping along the flesh, spreading the dripping saliva with every stroke. The acolyte corrupted by a widow, he should be drowning in guilt and beg for forgiveness of the Lord, but the sight of you in between his legs reminds him that God can’t give a blowjob in the confessional booth, maybe is that what’s tempting.

“Forgive me Father for I have sinned, my last confession was a year ago” Leon’s ears catch another woman’s voice, pulling him out of overflowing pleasure. This can’t be you, your mouth is busy with his cock and for a brief moment, he felt his blood hitch in his veins, at this hour usually there are no visitors, but seems this isn’t your lucky day. Your head halts its movements, keeping his cock in your warm and wet mouth, looking at him with a clear surprise. An idea sparkles in your mind, and you try to move more, to push his buttons and see him struggle cause of your doings, but his hand prevents this by giving a quick tap on the back of your head; ‘Don’t move’. A quiet sob before a trembling voice speaks up again. “I accuse myself of adultery, I have been eyeing and lusting for the man who isn’t my husband, God, I-…I am so sorry”

O the irony of the situation having someone confess the sin of lust while you are kneeling in between his legs. His hand grips harder your hair to tilt your head better so the tip rubs against the soft and velvet of your cheek, stretching it and he can feel your drool roll down, staining his pants. Leon takes a brief peek at the shadowed figure in the grilled window, trying to recollect himself. Shaky breath leaves his lips, listening to a woman’s words fill the space, his blue eyes dart down to your messy frame; trying to swallow your saliva. Leon can’t keep still himself, his hips start rolling into your mouth, enjoying the wetness of your tongue brushing along his sliding length. The pleasure makes it too hard to stay still, making him greedier for more. Your tongue flicks on his tip every time his cock moves back and forth slowly, leading his head rests against the wooden wall behind him, his half-lidded gaze keeps eye contact with you.

“Have you given into the temptation?” Leon asks. His voice feels so sensual to your ears, but they aren’t addressed to you. The poor woman whispers something, but you don’t catch her words cause your attention is mostly on the dick in your mouth.

His cock slides further, the tip rubs against the back of the throat provoking it to squeeze and tighten around him nicely and you try not to gag, not to sink too deep but your efforts are useless. His grip holds you well as he pushes you lower, highlighting his control over you right now. Drool drips more, its excess gathering at the corners of your mouth. There can be heard some noises coming from you, sending pleasant vibrations over every nerve of his body, but those wet sounds get muffled by his own heavy voice and shaky voice, trying to control it and not to get caught. This wouldn’t do anything good for his reputation.

“I can hear you rue your sin… my child, so…” he swallows hard, pausing to admire your messy state; eyes are watered, some tears roll down and your cheeks are stained with mascara, your face starts to get redder and the lack of oxygen makes you feel lightheaded, holding your breath to not mess with your gag reflex. “God is… All-forgiving..” Another heavy sigh leaves his mouth, trying to control his voice and not to groan as you swallow the excess saliva, provoking another jolt of pleasure running through his body. The warmth and how you struggle made him almost choke on the moan and forget what he was saying. If not for that lady, he would be already face fucking you without any obstacles. He swallows hard again, his tone is lower now, but there is an audible shakiness. “Repent your sins and pray to be shielded” A pause, staring at you with a darkened and burned gaze. “By the temptation of the devil… my child“

He knows well who is the devil here. His voice almost breaks in a high-pitched tone at the end of the sentence, when he rolled his hips into you, again to grind his tip into the back of your throat, his leaking tip from precum fills your taste buds again and you swallow some of the salivas, making tight walls clench around him, almost begging to cum. Personally, Leon doesn’t have the patience to keep that visitor any longer here, it gets much harder to keep his voice steady and right now his own pleasure is much more important than one’s problem. And he is nothing but a man. Hearing a mumble of prayer on the other side of the booth. His grip lessens on your hair, giving you control of your movements. You pull back, letting air to reach your lungs finally. Your lips create a strand of saliva between his dick and your glistening and swollen lips, inhaling greedily for air, while his mouth is covered by palm, trying to not groan which threatens to crawl out from his lips cause of the messy sight in front of him. His struggle is like an addiction, you can’t stay away from him right now, your lips return to pepper his cock with kisses, making him twitch in the hot air of narrow space and you sink down with your mouth, sucking on the tip while hand returns to pump his length, watching him struggling not to moan. Too bad he got lucky, the other voice ceased to exist, leaving him with you.

“That’s how you pray, sweet dove” Leon teases, the corners of his lip tugging up into a smirk. You hum, sending another wave of pleasure. Another flick and he feels his balls tighten, his cock throbbing in your mouth and his fingers return to your hair, taking control of your movements back into his hands. “Such a good little thing, fuck…” Leon mumbles, feeling beads of sweat forming on his forehead. He chases the rising pleasure in his body, his hips bucking to meet your face. Deepening thrusts, his head grinds against your throat. Another low moan escapes his lips. “Sucking so well, God made you for this, right?”

All he can see is your messy face, sloppily taking him so well, Leon is so focused on you and your mouth, his orgasm approaches quicker than he expected. His body shudders and with the last thrust his cock throbs for the last time and spurts out a load of cum, filling your mouth. His legs feel numb, and with a heavy gaze he is watching your mouth fill with his fluid so well. Leon’s mind is still under the influence of his orgasm and the post-nut clarity doesn’t hit him, so he doesn’t register how you get up so quickly, your hand lays on his stubbled cheek to pull him into a kiss. Mouth opened kiss. Your tongue doesn’t shy to intrude into his mouth, sloppily kissing him and passing the warm, slightly sticky, and salty substance into his mouth. His own cum. His taste. It fills his mouth and a moan crawls out against your lips. He pulled you tightly against his body, kissing you back harder, tongue probing and sliding against each other, playing and mixing his cum with your salivas. His Adam’s apple bobs and he swallowed it, the devil cocktail, feeling hot underneath his collar. Leon pulls back from a kiss, a string of fluids connects your lips, and if there was more time, he would fuck you on some of the wooden pews or better, on the altar. Alas, all he can do right now is to reach for your mouth to trace along the swollen and wet flesh of your lower lip. Not like his are better right now, he can still taste himself on the tip of his tongue.

“The god has freed you from your sins” he whispers, still panting heavily and his gaze is intently observing you with a deep, burning desire.

“Amen, Father” you respond.

[arcadiaa-writes]

He hated working late, he always got home to her sleeping soft, and tonight was no different. The drive home had taken slightly normal, unusual autumn weather causing diversions, so she would definitely be fast asleep.

The house was in darkness, confirming his suspicions and he took each step up to the bedroom carefully, avoiding the ones that creaked and finally made it up. There she was, laid on her front, her hair slightly covering her face, his eyes raked over her. She’d, at some point, kicked off the duvet, exposing her little black nightdress. It had ridden to her thighs, just enough, but also not enough to completely expose her - but it wasn’t like he hadn’t memorised her every curve already.

He desperately wanted to touch her, run his fingers up the inside of her thighs, feel her soft skin, but he was freezing cold and he knew he’d startle her awake. He settled for giving her his usual forehead kiss and heading for the bathroom.

He had a tendency to zone out in his post work shower, enjoying the way the hot water cascaded down his body, the way the steam filled the room and he could just find a moment of peace. He was hazily letting the water engulf him, when a soft pair of hands slid up his chest from behind him, and a face nuzzled into his back.

“You should be sleeping,” he sighed, putting his hands over hers, enjoying the embrace.

She softly kissed his back, not quite tall enough to reach his shoulder, but she never cared, she just missed him, the long hours keeping them apart.

“So should you,” she whipped back and he couldn’t argue with her, he squeezed her hands, needing her touch. He felt her shiver against him, realising she wasn’t under the water.

“Come here, princess,” he guided her softly, so she was in front of him, them both in the heat of the water. He carefully pushed her hair out of her face, a ruse, before he cupped her face in his hand, causing her to smile. The smile that he adored so much. God, he’d missed her.

He couldn’t help but kiss her, tenderly at first; but her hands ran down his arms, and up to his face. Them both holding each other, and a simple, but playful, swipe of her tongue over his bottom lip ignited the passion in him.

He growled at her before kissing her harder, their tongues fighting against each other, his hands desperately pawing at her skin, cupping her ass so he could pull her closer to him.

“Oh!” She gasped as he ground her hips against hers, his hardness very much present.

“I’ve missed you,” he nuzzled into her neck, kissing and biting all those sensitive spots that made her mew so deliciously. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and the more he devoured her skin, the louder she got, the more desperate she became.

“I’m not going to be gentle, but I’ll make it up to you, okay?” He tenderly whispered into her ear, needing her to reply. She hooked her arms around his shoulders, knowing exactly what was about to happen.

“Okay,” she consented, tucking her head into the crook of his neck.

He needed nothing else, as he lifted her up, wrapping her legs around his hips. Pushing her back against the tiled wall of the shower, he reached between them both, guiding himself to her entrance, and without a word, pushing himself inside her. She bit down of his shoulder as she adjusted to his size, and he just grunted loudly as he rutted into her, taking his frustrations out on her, his grip on her hard, hard enough to leave bruises.

“Such a good girl,” he praised her, slamming his hips into her on every word and all she could do was moan in response.

She risked letting her head fall back against the wall, and he took the opportunity to wrap his hand around her throat. He watched as her eyes rolled back as he squeezed a little and it just encouraged him more.

“Fucking perfect,” he ground against her more, and her submissive nature just drove him crazy. He felt her clench tight around him, and he stopped moved, taunting her. She shuddered against him, she knew she couldn’t please, he’d torture her more, and in turn, torture himself.

“I thought you said you weren’t going to be gentle,” she smirked dangerously, and he cocked his eyebrow at her. She was playing his game, and he was too riled up to stop now. He pulled out, and he didn’t say a single word as he dropped her legs to the floor and span her around, forcing her face against the wall.

He pulled her hips towards his, and in one motion, entered her again. He grabbed her hair, using it as leverage as he used to last of his energy to take her, to claim her, his nails leaving indents in her skin, as he couldn’t control the primal growl that left him as he finally filled her.

His bucking became involuntary as he rode out his orgasm, and she was nothing but a weak whimpering mess. He made sure to cuddle her close, and praise her, soft kisses on her skin as he tended to her, washing her hair and letting her come back to reality in her own time. He wrapped her up in the fluffiest town and carried her back to their bed, letting her curl up against him, as they both drifted off to sleep…

[marigold-hills]

June 19: found | @wolfstarmicrofic | word count: 483

(Nothing explicit but slightly in the NSFW category so read at your own peril)

PREVIOUS PART • NEXT PART • FIRST PART

Remus holds a hand on Sirius’ jaw, fingers splayed and reaching the apex of his throat.

Sirius thinks oh. I found you. It’s nonsense. Moony, his Moony, has been there every step of the way, never once lost. Still: there you are, he thinks as the pad of Remus’ thumb brushes next to lips. A near-miss.

The sun has set and night falls softly around them, bird song giving way to the chirping of crickets. Remus has eyes like an autumn storm and strong hands. His sweater exposes the tops of his collarbones and Sirius wants to touch them, wants to feel the side of his neck where he bit in the library. Realises: it’s the only place his lips had touched.

“Open your mouth,” Remus says, and Sirius does, just like that, like a dog with a favourite trick. Gets a reward of a chocolate placed on his tongue. It’s… gods, he doesn’t know what flavour it is because Remus is looking at him like that, and his hand is there and how can he tell if the sudden weightlessness is from the chocolate or from the way Remus’s fingers guide his mouth closed?

“Did you like it?”

“Yes,” he says with a voice which doesn’t sound like his own, “again. Please.”

Small smile somewhere in the mischief on Remus’ face. “Those impeccable manners of yours. Open.”

Another chocolate, but Remus’ fingers don’t withdraw straight away, and he can feel the roughness of them on his tongue. Sirius is a quill in Remus’ hands, a wand, nothing but an instrument doing his bidding. “Another,” he says, and he doesn’t know himself if he means another chocolate or another piece of Remus on his lips. Both, he thinks.

They should talk. They were meant to. Sirius is supposed to tell him, but how could he now, with this moment so sharp between them? How could he risk a single word that could make his Moony stop? He’s terrified, because no matter what happens this is just a moment in time, just a fraction of their lives, and no matter what Sirius does it will finish. So desperately he wishes to preserve them right here, make this permanent.

Without thought, fuelled by the inevitably of end, he reaches a hand to wrap around Remus’ wrists and pulls it lower, until those fingers are wrapped around his neck. More, he thinks. Always.

It must show, in his eyes or in his movements, because Remus is nothing but earnestness now. His hand is sure, not pressing but there, and the other comes up to run through Sirius’ hair. “I’m here,” he says. “It’s alright.”

Remus tightens his hand, once, delicately, then runs it down Sirius’ sternum to rest where the Great Wolf tattoo is etched into his skin. Smiles like everything is fine and like nothing had changed. “Come on, love. We need to head back.”

@moon-girl88 @digital-kam @tealeavesandtrash @sweetstarryskies @alltoounwellll @hunnybeemarie @hoje--aqui @annaliza999 @hihimissamericanbi @gipitothefrog @shamelesswolfstarshipper @a-pine-cone @cosmicweeds @cocoabutterandbooks @bloodoffire @residentdisaster @shamelesswolfstarshipper @ravenwordss @prancingpony42 @themoonlovesthestars @starving-marauder-lover

(let me know if you do/don’t want to be tagged in next parts)

[violet-sumire]

Noumu!Rei snippet

(Features a nongraphic depiction of someone being burned to death. Also, it's just fucked up in general. Read at your own risk. I tried to add all relevant content warnings in the tags but please let me know if I missed one.)

"Come, Dabi! I'll show you something I've been working on for a bit," the doctor told him, his eagerness showing on his face. Dabi was skeptical. If the doctor was offering him another noumu, he didn't really want it. He didn't really trust those things beyond their utility.

As they walked through the lab, the doctor explained. "Have you heard of the hospital kidnappings, a few months ago?"

Dabi had.

"Well, that was me! Without All for One, I've had a harder time finding subjects. So I arranged for a kidnapping of a number of patients from a mental ward, people who would be more receptive to the process."

Dabi was well aware that the kidnappings were from a mental ward.

"Totally unintentionally, one of the victims happened to be your own mother, Dabi, if you weren't aware."

Dabi was aware.

"And I just couldn't pass up the opportunity! Her quirk may just be a typical ice quirk, but of an unusual strength. I thought she could make a powerful tool, so I used the same techniques I made Kurogiri with to turn her into something similar." They stopped walking, pausing at a chair. Strapped in it was a person shrouded in white mist, leaving no features visible. The doctor continued talking, missing the growing scowl on Dabi's face. "So I made her into this! I thought I'd give her to you, as a gift. You can use her as you like."

"...Use her?" Dabi spoke up for the first time.

The doctor laughed. "I didn't mean it like that! Though I suppose you could, if that sort of thing tickles your fancy. She won't object, I've made her to obey your every instruction." He reached to unstrap her, and she calmly stood up without a word. "No, her real purpose is as the ultimate fire extinguisher. Instead of ice, she makes a cold mist that will halt any combustion it touches, no matter the intensity. It should prove useful against your father, no?"

Dabi didn't acknowledge the doctor's words, instead looking directly at his mother. Her face remained entirely obscured, and she showed no emotion.

"Actually, I had to very carefully manage her programming. My goal was to completely override her original personality like I did with Kurogiri, but also preserve some affection towards you to make the imprinting easier. Do report to me on how well I managed that!"

Not taking his eyes off his mother, Dabi put a hand on the doctor's shoulder. He finally stopped his rant, looking at Dabi. "Eh-"

In a blink, the doctor was engulfed in flames. He didn't even have time to scream before his body was nearly reduced to ash in fire of an intensity Dabi rarely made.

Kicking the corpse aside, Touya warily approached his mom. "Mom," he said, voice high. She didn't react, just like she hadn't reacted to the doctor's sudden murder. "It's- it's me, Touya."

She still didn't react.

He stared, for a moment, before screaming and lashing out at a noumu tank behind him with his flames. "Damn him! Damn that doctor! Why'd he bring you into this, huh?" His fire continued to sputter in and out on his arms, powered by his frustration and sorrow.

Before he knew it, though, he felt the air cool around him. An icy mist swirled around him, putting out his fire.

"Don't burn yourself," a cool voice echoed through the lab. It was his mother's voice, but different. Touya whirled around, and his mother was still there, still wreathed in mist, her arm reaching out.

Shaking, he reached his hand into the mist, and found his mother's unseen hand, taking it in his own. It was cold, colder than he remembered, but it wasn't the cold of a corpse. It was like the chill of an early autumn evening, or of an ice pop on a summer day.

As blood pooled in his eyes in place of tears, Touya gripped her hand tighter, feeling her heartbeat for a few moments.

She didn't seem to react, but that would be alright, for now.

[fanficsiwillneverwrite]

realizing I haven’t posted the full thing on here, so:

England, 10th Century

On a brisk autumn day Aziraphale sits quietly in what will eventually become a souvenir shop in an area not yet calling itself Soho, London. It is right now a growing village within the freshly named Kingdom of England. He very much enjoys sitting and watching humans get on with their impassioned—nathaless, very short—lives at a safe distance with little interference, and this place in particular brings something quite unique to the whole experience. Perhaps it is the song they carry inside them, despite inevitable human hardships. Or the natural friendliness each person emulates as they pass each other. Or the laughter coming from the bellies of nearby children playing. Whatever it may be, love and therefore God exists within it.

This all is observed on his first visit to the eventual town called Soho, for he knew he would surely return. Around his third visit, the people seem much more trustful of his appearance. He is still very much a stranger to them, of course, a wanderer with no intention of settling, but they understand now he is no threat.

“What is it you are doing?” asks a small voice one day while he is painting. A new leisure activity taken up to mimic human existence. His hobby of book collecting is still fairly brand new—in comparison to his time here on earth—and sometimes a headache to preserve in these early years of literacy, so he takes breaks every now and again.

His name is Eustace, the small voice beside him. A young boy of eleven nearly twelve with innocent eyes and a mischievous look about him. He is very much the definition of adversity, somehow always stuck in the between stages of no good with his father no longer existing and his mother, a most notable adulteress. That is, a whore to the non-angels.

“Painting,” Aziraphale says placidly, though art is like literature in that it has not yet become itself. He uses minerals and organic pigments to revive the sight before him: overgrown strips of various greens blowing in the hectic blue wind with splashes of amber and crimson imitating the setting sun. The boy, curious, touches Aziraphale’s knuckle and follows along as the angel paints. He allows the moment to linger before looking up. “Would you like to have a go?”

Eustace nods, sitting. It is the quietest the boy has ever been. It is the quietest the boy will ever be. He splatters two wobbly shapes onto the wooden panel, exclaiming, “Us,” quite contently.

“Us,” agrees the angel, equally content with the extra additions to his painting.

Eustace—who was born about one hundred years too early to have a last name—is good natured at heart, but has a dreadful temper. “The boy needs discipline is all,” were the wise but drunken words of his father before his timely death just two weeks later.

It is a universal fact that all humans need discipline. Without discipline, they are at risk of becoming permanent pests to society, which include but are not limited to becoming flat earthers, loud chewers, murderers, Tiktok influencers and, of course, fallen angels.

Crowley’s shadow suddenly looms over them. And something inside Aziraphale bubbles, clearly a heightened angel instinct to know when demons are lurking. “Right now, off you go,” he tells the boy calmly but quickly as they stand.

Crowley half-heartedly—perhaps even playfully—kicks the boy as he leaves. “You and your little human pets,” the demon says with a mephitic scent on his breath.

Aziraphale shrinks. “Humans… are not pets,” he insists. They are God’s children and he is to watch over them until he receives orders saying otherwise.

“Hope you’re not too attached to this lot,” he continues, looking on at the growing community around them. “I’ve got direct orders from the big boy downstairs. They’re to all perish in three weeks time. No survivors.”

“Oh,” says Aziraphale, furrowing his brow. He looks over at the young boy now skipping along the pathway back to his home, blissfully unaware. There is always the hopeful chance these humans find power within themselves and refuse temptation this time around—after all, they are good people, deep down—but Crowley is rather exceptional at his job. And it only takes one wrong person to start a righteous war.

“I haven’t yet decided how I’ll go about it,” Crowley continues. “Maybe I’ll pick the biggest drunkest bloke of the bunch and punch him silly, then disappear into the night and let nature take its course.”

Demons, surprisingly, scarcely kill. It is listed in their job description, but they rarely find it necessary. Aziraphale is not even sure Crowley has ever physically harmed a human being outside of a punch in the face or a swing of a heavy tree branch to their unmentionables. Human brains, though very much full of bright ideas and creativity, tend to easily fall privy to violence. But they are still fairly brand new in the grand scheme of things; they barely make toddlerhood compared to the rest of the universe.

“It’s all part of God’s plan,” Aziraphale says with a timorous nod. “I’m sure of it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” agrees Crowley absentmindedly. He takes a short pause before continuing, “Do you think it’ll be cheating if I got the lord of the manor involved? Maybe tempt him with even more greed and power?” He turns to Aziraphale, but receives no answer. Only a look of worry. He quite likes the village as it is. Crowley waves it off. “Ah, I’ll figure it out. I’ve got three weeks.” His attention turns to the painting, and he yanks it away from the angel. “What’s this?”

Aziraphale takes it back and looks at it fondly. “Us,” he says after a moment, then starts in the direction toward the village.

“Us?” The demon follows suit, though a few steps behind. “What do you mean, us?”

He does not answer and continues along the path. A mother and her daughter draw near. The daughter carefully carries fresh pails of water in each hand. They smile and nod in the same way Aziraphale does as they move around him. And there is hopefulness in the air that humans can overcome any obstacle the Devil throws at them—that is until the daughter abruptly throws one bucket to the ground and dumps the other over her mother’s unsuspecting head when they near Crowley. The mother, quite reasonably, lets out a horrified shriek as she stands there soaking wet.

“Oh dear,” mumbles the angel at the sight before him. The demon simply smiles, smugly, as the mother begins chastising her ungrateful daughter. Aziraphale looks at him disapprovingly.

The Devil always starts small like this. A misbehaving daughter is promptly written off as teenage rebellion or even bad parenting to the world around her. But a daughter’s suddenly sour mood quickly rubs off on others, and soon it is the entire village misbehaving: neighbors arguing over property line, drunkard men brawling over women who barely give them second glances, lords terrorizing their workers, and even people plotting coups. Crowley happily reports to the demons down below that he is ahead of schedule ten days in.

Angel and demon stand now together as pandemonium erupts around them. “It’s too easy sometimes,” remarks the demon dryly as they take in their surroundings. One man stands before an angry mob, plotting against their local but recently tyrannical—all thanks to Crowley—leader. A few others nearby spit at his stupidity and cook up a plan of their own. Both will be dead by the end of the week.

“They will learn from this,” says Aziraphale with certainty.

“Hey there, boy,” calls out Crowley to the boy, Eustace, walking past. He gathers a stick and stone from the ground below and tosses it over to him, then points. “Go try setting that hut on fire.”

Eustace almost complies, but Aziraphale interferes and orders the boy to say his prayers instead.

“Hampering with the ineffable plan, are we?” teases Crowley.

“You can at least spare the children.”

Aziraphale and Crowley have always been on relatively good terms throughout the years, despite their obvious differences. It makes little sense to be at each other’s throats constantly when they work so closely together. “Nope. No survivors, remember?” But they are still—by definition—enemies.

The lord of the manor intervenes on day thirteen when he finds his profits have halted. He demands order from his people. They try to hang him.

It takes about sixteen days total to destroy the not yet Soho village and everyone in it. A new personal record for Crowley. He thinks about finding the angel—who fled as soon as the killing started—to gloat about his success, but it might be too soon. Later, when Aziraphale’s nerves settle. Instead, he takes in the scene before him: smoky air, torched huts and bodies of the damned all around—he barely even lifted a finger. Humans are and will always be the Devil’s playthings.

“What happens now?” questions a small and nervous voice beside him.

And Crowley fumes at the very sight of the human, the lone survivor. His teeth clench and his snake eyes bulge. It looks almost like he might burst. “NO SURVIVORS!” he yells out to no one, because the angel, he knows, is long gone by now.

Aziraphale makes a habit of performing small miracles each day. Simple miracles, really, like vanishing the clouds to create a perfectly sunny day, or planting a coin for someone to find later, or repairing broken down bicycles. He rarely regrets them, even the ones he is reprimanded for by the heavenly authorities upstairs. But in the many years to come after this miracle is granted, he does look back on it with remorse.

“Jump into that fire there,” Crowley demands, snapping his fingers frantically in the boy’s face. The boy’s eyes blink rapidly in discomfort, but he makes no effort to move. The demon then slaps him, half heartedly, of course—Crowley is a demon, not a monster. “Come on, boy. Into the fire!” He whistles in a way an owner might call his dog. It does not intimidate the boy. “Kill yourself!” He takes away his eyewear and reveals his true colors in a last attempt to scare him into death. The boy merely lifts his eyebrows in shock. But, like everything else, it does not frighten him. And as the words flow out, he wonders why exactly anyone should die—the ineffable plan is questionable at best, and just plain cruel at its worst. “Have it your way,” he mutters, putting his eyewear back on. He stomps away. “Some poor bastard will end up killing you, anyway…”

The boy follows, much to the demon’s dismay. “What are you?”

“A demon,” he answers boredly. “Go away.”

“You did all this?”

An ordinary reaction to quite an extraordinary event, especially for a boy so young, but the truth is Eustace has no real fondness of this village or of the people who previously occupied it. Very unlike the peculiar angelic-looking stranger who visits from time to time. He has no memory of his father while his mother preferred the company of grisly old men over her own son. And because of this upbringing, the villagers did not treat him kindly. In return, the boy sought vengeance with all of them. In his eyes, a demon is a blessing compared to his previous state of living.

“Yep.”

“But why?”

“It’s my job.”

“You kill people?”

“I tempt people to kill people.” There is a difference. He stops and bends to meet the boy then tips his eyewear to reveal his true self again. “You ask a lot of questions.”

The boy shrugs. “You have a lot of answers.”

Crowley’s lip twitches slightly. “Look, you’ve been spared, so go out and… live. Find another village. Rebuild this one, if you want. I don’t care. Just stop following me.” He begins walking again.

“Can’t I come with you?”

“No.”

Despite his answer, they continue like this for another few hours: Crowley wanders, and the boy follows him as if he were the demon’s own shadow. He can easily abandon the child, fly off somewhere the boy can never reach, not even in his darkest nightmares, but something tugs at him to stay.

Crowley, and therefore the boy, eventually settle beside a river and the demon strips nearly his entire essence to slither into the lawless water, paying the boy—or, Nuisance, as he has mentally begun calling him—little mind. “That’s much better,” he hisses as the waves rock him back and forth, back and forth.

“You’re a demon and a snake?” asks Nuisance, who has mastered the art of asking too many questions.

“Obviously,” replies Crowley, his sharp tongue flicking out for dramatic effect.

“What’s it like?” The average man Crowley encounters screams at the very sight of him in his true form. This one, apparently, becomes some sort of philosopher. “Being a demon and all?”

Hell , he thinks to say—because it is, most days. “Enough with the questions already.” He transforms back into his human form. Naked. Free. “Just… get in the water, Nuisance.”

He suddenly goes red. “I can’t swim.”

Crowley floats on his back, allowing the current to carry him away. The boy, as expected, follows. “Even better,” he says. “Get in.”

“But I’ll drown.”

“I know.”

This, he thinks, is the very moment Crowley decides Nuisance will become his thrall, his human pet, who will bend to his every will and do all his unnecessary bidding. He has been asking for something of the sort from the lot downstairs; they have yet to get back to him on it.

He sighs. “Right, come on,” Crowley continues, climbing out of the water and replacing his dark robes. The boy shields his eyes from the sight. “I need a drink.”

Man’s first images in caves and on stones told enthralling yet devastating stories while always emphasizing human togetherness. Some of Aziraphale’s early favorites include: Beware of Big Fire and How To Kill Bear Using Pointy Stick with its exceptional sequel, Big Bear Fight Back. Such works, unfortunately, are very hard to come by these days. Most, if not all, have been forgotten, buried or otherwise, leaving the angel with only memories of simpler times. But humanity’s desire—or rather, their need—to tell stories is still very much a core part of their identity. And after the library burnt down, he felt it necessary to help preserve at least some of human history.

He has settled, temporarily, in a peaceful spot far away from most of humanity, but it has never quite felt like home. It is, to put it simply, a cluttered mess that keeps himself, his books and his art, as well as all the other trinquets he has collected throughout the years, safe from unpredictability. Home —the meaning as well as the physical place—is something he is still searching for.

“Knock, knock…” Crowley enters without actually knocking.

“Ah, Crowley,” greets the angel, suddenly aware of the disorder around him. Stacks of books fill most of the space with some even as high as his ceiling. Art pieces and other trinkets fit neatly around them. He is certainly in no real position to have company over, much less a demon, but Crowley looks unbothered. Aziraphale clears space on a nearby cushioned bench to give his friend a place to sit. “Pardon the mess. I’m still”—he relocates a few books from one tall stack to another, and both stacks crumble, flooding the floor with loose and rather delicate texts—“rearranging. Would you like something to drink? Maybe some mead, or cyder?”

“I can’t stay long,” says Crowley, sitting up. Aziraphale moves to clean up the mess around them. “I’ve come to ask you a favor, actually.”

“Oh?” he questions with a handful of books.

“I’ve got to pop into Kyivan Rus real quick, start some war or something of that sort. To be quite honest, I only skimmed the paperwork.”

“Do have fun,” says Aziraphale excitedly. “The Vikings are exceptional company.”

“The thing is, I need you to look after my pet while I’m away,” he continues. “Kyivan Rus’ is good fun, but not when there’s a war.”

The angel gives him an inquisitive look. In the many years he has known Crowley, he never seemed like a pet person. “Your pet?”

“It’s an easy job, really. You just need to feed and water him each day. Let him out whenever he has to go. That sort of thing. He’ll tell you what he needs.”

“Your pet?” Aziraphale repeats, because he is still stuck on the fact that Crowley, the demon, is willingly caring for a creature of God.

“Nuisance!” Crowley whistles. “Come here, boy!”

He drops his books when the creature called Nuisance enters his hut happily. “Oh dear.” He expected a wolf or maybe even one of those talking birds, not a human child.

“Clean this mess up, will you, boy,” orders Crowley, snapping his fingers in a demanding way.

“Yes, Master Crowley,” says the boy, kneeling to gather books.

He wheezes at the very sight. Crowley, however, practically beams at the boy’s obedience. “Erm—Crowley? Can I speak with you for a moment?” He glances at the boy, then manages a soft smile to hide his true horror. “Privately.”

They go behind a large wooden bookcase not yet filled with books, so the boy cannot see them. “So? Whattya think?”

“What do I think? Crowley, you have enslaved a human child!”

“He’s not my slave,” says Crowley, sounding almost disgusted at the very thought. “I pay him a silver penny first of each month. If he does his chores, that is.”

“You are breaking all sorts of laws, upstairs and down. I am sure of it. You must—” He pauses and pokes his head out to have another look at the boy. He looks vaguely familiar, Aziraphale realizes: long dark curls and piercing brown eyes with a content smile on his face, despite being put to work. He notices the angel staring and waves at him before continuing his cleaning. Aziraphale gives a meek wave back, before his attention returns to Crowley. “You must release the human child back to wherever he came from, or I fear I will have no choice but to alert the higher authorities.”

“Alert the higher authorities? In case you’ve forgotten, angel, it was your miracle that got me stuck with the human child in the first place!”

“My miracle—?” He blinks, thinking back. Suddenly he realizes: the boy from the village; the one he felt a need to save. That day, right before the killing started, he told the boy with the fondness for painting to hide beneath his bed and to only come out when the world around him fell silent. He also performed a small miracle inside the room, so people would unknowingly look past the bed and the little feet poking out from underneath. “Well, that wasn’t an invitation to get yourself acquainted with the boy! Why did you let him stay with you?”

He shrugs. “Was bored, I guess.”

Aziraphale panics. The ineffable plan is not to be tampered with. And yet, they both did.

“So, will you watch him or not?”

“Very well,” he agrees reluctantly, after a moment of quiet contemplation. It is partly his fault, after all.

“Nuisance. You’re staying here for a few nights,” Crowley announces, reemerging from behind the bookcase. Aziraphale follows suit. “This is Master Aziraphale, that angel I was talking about. You are to obey his every order or you will suffer the consequences when I get back. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Master Crowley.”

Crowley is quick to exit, leaving Aziraphale behind with the child. He takes a moment to collect himself before opening his mouth to speak, but… What can an angel say to a human child, especially one who now knows angels and demons live among him. There really is only one question on his mind: “Your name isn’t actually Nuisance, is it?”

“No, Master Aziraphale—”

He recoils at the name, at the very implication of it. “Please, Aziraphale will suffice.” He kneels beside the boy and begins assisting him clear away the books. “And your name? Your real one, that is.”

“Eustace,” he says softly.

“Well then, Eustace, it is lovely to have officially met you.”

When Crowley returns a few days later, Aziraphale urges him to, in the most simplest terms, release the boy back into his natural habitat. “He’s not my prisoner,” responds the demon. “Look, if he wants to go, he can go. I won’t stop him.”

“I must insist you make him leave, Crowley,” says the angel while Eustace—or Nuisance—is outside doing his business. “This life, our work, is not something a human child should be involved in.”

The demon sighs, then calls: “Nuisance!” Aziraphale retreats behind him, so he is not to be blamed. He hates being the bad guy. He is an angel, after all; bad is not in his vocabulary.

The boy hurries to his master. “Yes, Master Crowley?”

“Leave. Get out of here,” orders Crowley dryly with the snap of his fingers. “I don’t want you anymore.”

The boy remains unmoving, but a panic expression forms on his face. “Have I done something wrong?”

He turns to the angel, his temporary caretaker these last few days, for answers. “Oh, my dear boy, no... Quite the opposite, in fact.” The angel glances at Crowley for confirmation; the demon simply offers a half-hearted shrug. He tries again: “Wouldn’t you rather be with your own kind? Find a village, a group of people who you can depend on and finally be free from all this angel and demon business?”

“I’ve got no place to go. Please, Master, don’t send me away,” begs Eustace. “I’ll be good. I’ll obey!”

“Fine. I’ll have you back,” relents Crowley, fairly quickly. He glances at the angel to see if he notices; he does. They leave before Aziraphale can comment on it.

—

The boy ages one year while Crowley remains exactly the same. He grows out his beard and trades in his dark and menacing robes for more casual ones to make it look like he too is changing, but his eyes still glow yellow and sin still engulfs him. Each encounter now with the angel starts with a lecture about the boy. But he pretends not to listen, and the angel moves on to other important matters, such as where they might have lunch that day. Nuisance, of course, is a few steps behind them. Humanity has never been so peaceful.

They are sitting observing the humans together, as they typically do on slow days, when Crowley asks, “Have you ever thought about… I don’t know, joining this lot?”

Aziraphale misinterprets his question. The humans around them are farming, and angels are not very keen on participating in tasks involving manual labor. Nuisance, by order of his superior, Crowley, is flapping around making annoying bird sounds as they work. “If you want to have a go at farming, by all means…”

“No, I mean—have you ever wanted to experience life from a human’s eye? To… fall in love.” And Aziraphale blushes, turning away. The wind picks up. Storm clouds gather. A few drops tap his head. Crowley’s attention turns to Nuisance, who is now being reprimanded by one of the workers. “Maybe even start a family.” He watches Nuisance fall on his own accord, but he continues to caw with his feet kicking in the wind. “Feel your body age. Feel your body… die.”

He turns back to Aziraphale and notices a gleam in the angel’s holy eyes; he gulps. A soft mist cools them as it begins to drizzle. “Have you?”

“Master, it’s raining!” calls Nuisance from afar.

The moment passes. Crowley stands. “Not really, no.”

“Master—”

“I heard you the first time,” yells the demon back to the boy now dirtying his clothes.

“Crowley,” says Aziraphale delicately. He glances at the laughing boy, then hesitates. Whatever he might have wanted to say, he says this instead: “You caring for the boy is quite ethical, you know. A demon sent to kill him decides to raise him instead.”

Crowley wants to say, I know I shouldn’t have him but I can’t bring myself to let him go. But he cannot bring himself to confess such a thing, to an angel or to himself. “Ironic, isn’t it?” he says instead.

—

They cross paths again with Aziraphale a few months later when Crowley is ordered to spread a small plague around the Kingdom. He gets sidetracked and they end up at some farm to count the obscene amount of sheep there. The boy’s idea for fun.

Nuisance stands tall on a wobbly wagon to have a better look. Crowley watches from afar while holding the wagon steady for him. He counts aloud, “Sixty two, sixty three—”

“No, no, that was number thirteen you’ve just counted,” corrects Aziraphale, pointing. “Notice the little black mark on his nose.”

“They all have a black mark.” The boy huffs because he has lost his place. He starts again. “One, two, three…”

Crowley, something growls at him. The familiar call from down below; he has been avoiding it all week. The sky turns gray and the wind blows hard.

“Twelve, thirteen—” The sheep begin moving, almost in a panic, at the storm or something else. Nuisance balances himself along the edge to be closer. The wagon tips; Crowley weighs it down with a firm hand. “Ah, Hell, I can’t see!”

Crowley…

“Eustace,” scolds Aziraphale, oblivious to the growl. “Might I ask you to use kinder words.”

“Sorry, Aziraphale,” he says, then starts counting again.

Crowley!

He quietly leaves to follow the sound, knowing there will be painful consequences if he does not. Angel and boy do not notice. Thunder rumbles. He walks a good distance before encountering a bubbling pile of animal excreta, which is better known in human society as horse shit.

Crowley…

“Yeah, I heard you the first time,” calls out Crowley. “What is it you want? I’m very busy up here, you know… wreaking havoc and whatnot.” He looks cautiously over at Aziraphale and Nuisance to be sure they are not listening. They are still, in fact, happily unaware.

The Master’s not happy, Crowley, it spumes out. Not happy at all.

The demon feigns ignorance. “And how’s that my problem?” Temptation can honestly get quite boring, especially in this age of manic Man. He tempts a man to steal tomatoes, that man will stuff those tomatoes into the mouth of his enemy until he chokes.

We will return at nightfall where your fate will be decided.

In the five thousand years of him witnessing human love and human suffering, Crowley has come to one simple conclusion about this so-called ineffable plan: the Almighty did not spend seven days creating a perfect universe. They spent it making an insufferable one. The choice is and will always be either good or bad—angel or demon—with a noticeable lack of a third option. A perfect universe should always include a third option.

Do not bring the human child, the final message warns. And the demon halts. Crowley spent the last year hiding the boy from them, leaving him with the angel or distracting him with a meaningless task to keep him away from the trouble.

A rage ignites within him knowing all his efforts are now proven futile. “FUCK!”

Nuisance screams with him in the distance and he rushes to protect him from whatever horror they let loose on him. His panic dwindles slightly at the sight of the wagon turned over with the boy on the ground beside it. He cries out in pain; the angel kneels before him.

“You’re going to be just fine,” assures Aziraphale in a soothing voice, placing a gentle hand on Nuisance’s distorted leg. It molds back into its original shape. “There, that’s much better, isn’t it?”

He sniffles as Crowley brings him to his feet. “It… doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“That’s miracles for you—like it never happened,” says Crowley distantly. His attention quickly turns to the angel. “Can you watch him tonight? I’ve got this thing, you know… and I can’t very well take him with me.”

“Oh, I'm not able tonight. The Archangels are coming down to check up on things,” he says. Nuisance stands between them, testing out his walk with his newly healed leg. “I’m trying my hand at crumpets this time,” he adds excitedly. His appreciation for man’s ever expanding cookery does not extend to the angel’s above him, but that does not stop Aziraphale from sharing these newfound recipes with them.

“Can’t you hide him behind your many books?”

A soft rain begins to fall. “They will surely notice…”

“They might not!”

“Best not risk it,” replies the angel casually. “You wouldn’t let him anywhere near your kind, would you?”

“No, but that’s very different.” He stomps away without a proper goodbye. His pet follows him dutifully.

And as day transforms into night and the rain pours down hard, Crowley walks to what might very well be his impending doom with Nuisance just a few steps behind. “Where are we going?”

“We’re not going anywhere,” says Crowley to the boy who loves asking questions. “I’m going to get a drink.”

“Can’t I come with?”

“No,” he says, turning to face the boy. He has aged an entire year, this boy so soon to become man, and Crowley remains the exact same. He will always be the exact same. Regret fills him. “This entire year has been wasteful—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

The boy’s eyes glimmer. “About… what, Master?”

He hesitates, then turns away to make it easier for himself. “About you. You’re not my pet. You’re a human child.” And Crowley is just a demon. His black wings awaken and stretch out in magnificent emphasis. “And stop calling me Master. I’m not anyone’s Master.”

Never being great with goodbyes, he allows the storm to take him away and watches as Nuisance fades into the dark night, finally leaving behind the life that can never be.

He should worry about being bathed in holy water or whatever punishment the demons have in store for him, instead he thinks of Aziraphale serving crumpets to the archangel Gabriel—who looks at the food quizzically and miracles it away after an appropriate amount of time passes. And the disappointment on Aziraphal’s face when he realizes, once again, his superiors have failed to appreciate the complexity of humanity’s most simplest things. If he ever encounters the Almighty again, he will scream at them, so maybe they will finally understand: perfect worlds have third options!

The rendezvous spot is in the eye of the storm. Ironic how the only light in this gloomy night becomes darkened by God’s fallen star. The wind howls around him and lightning strikes as Beelzebub and Hastur emerge from the mud. Crowley stands crooked, awaiting his fate.

“You’ve been slacking up here, Crowley,” Hastur grumbles.

“Ah, Hastur,” greets Crowley, his attention turning to the wild, bug-infested lump atop his head. “Have you done something with your hair? It looks—er, nice might not be the right word here.”

“Where is the suffering? The endless wars? The terrible plagues?”

Crowley scratches his head. “Well… I mean, this lot’s lifespan is thirty years, if even that. I say we’re doing a pretty good job.”

“When was the last time you even tempted someone?”

“When was the last time you even tempted someone?”

“Enough,” Beelzebub silences their rambling. Her attention returns to Crowley. “You have abandoned your duties here. Your loyalty to the underworld, your loyalty to our Master, is something…”

“…that should never be questioned. I know.” Crowley has heard this speech before. It is a little less intimidating the second time around. “Look, I’ve just been in a dry spell lately. You win some… you lose some.”

“More loss than win, I say,” spits out Hastur.

“We have reason to believe you have been harboring a human child for over a year now,” continues Beelzebub.

He shifts. “Right. Nuis—the boy… the human.” Thunder roars above them. “He’s long gone now. Threw him out weeks ago.”

“How did he even end up in your services?”

“Oh, erm, I sort of destroyed his village and all the humans around him, and then…” And then he kept him. It is as simple as that. “It’s all a bit fuzzy, looking back on it now.” His mind wanders to the brown eyed boy from not yet Soho and the life that could have been. The Crowley he could have become. “Couldn’t get a minute to myself, actually.”

“So, you’re saying this human child, this boy, is the cause of your disloyalty?”

With his mind still very much far away, he answers: “I guess so.” He quickly shakes any forbidden thoughts away. “I mean, not really. No.”

But the damage is already done. Beelzebub looks at Hastur and he immediately melts away. Crowley internally starts to panic. Outwardly, he smiles to hide it.

He flies straight back into the storm as soon as he is able, then falls with the pouring rain to the place where he and the boy last parted. He hits the ground hard, but rolls quickly to his feet and scurries away while calling out: “NUISANCE!”

No answer, but the heavy rain and the wind and a great might of thunder. Lightning illuminates the world around him, but there is no boy nor demon in sight. He keeps running, using the wind and his wings to move him faster.

And still, he calls out, “NUISANCE! NUISANCE, CAN YOU HEAR ME?”

A faint cry breathes behind the noises of the storm. He tries following it, despite the chaos around him. The rain is sharp and the wind, exceptionally vicious. But he runs and he runs until he reaches the agitated river where offbeat waves slosh around in disorder. Something twists then breaks inside him at the implication. He should have taught him to swim. “Fuck! Fuck! FUCK!”

Lightning briefly ignites the world around him and he searches for the boy. Woody debris moves rapidly with the river. He follows it, hoping for a glimmer of life. “Nuisance!” he continues. He waits for an answer, then calls out again when he hears nothing. And lightning strikes—

“Nuisance! Boy!” Something catches his eye, odd movement within the rapid water, so he jumps in without a second thought, only to grab rubbish. He tosses it, and fights the current to stay afloat. “EUSTACE!”

Thunder grumbles as he finally allows the river to take him. He sinks beneath the waves and the water muffles the storm. His eyes open, searching. Fish and rubbish and everything in between move with him. Only bubbles form as he attempts to call out, “Boy!” one final time and—

Bang! Something crashes into him, hurling him forward. He turns and hope flutters inside him as he uses all his might to grab the floating figure. He resurfaces with the boy securely in his arms.

And rain nearly vanishes as he throws the boy and then himself onto dry land. The boy is pale and wet and frighteningly unmoving. He cradles him, searching for any signs of life.

“Come on!” He hits him on the chest, then checks for a heartbeat. Nothing. He repeats, harder. “Come on! Wake up…” Dawn is breaking and a gentle sunrise peeks through the dispersing storm clouds as Crowley continues pumping his chest. Birds chirp in the distance. Rain and wind transform into a gentle mist. And anger fills him. How dare they chirp. How dare the rain stop. How dare the sun rise for a new day.

He looks up. “Please.” There is desperation in his tone, much like the moment he begged not to become one of the fallen. “Do whatever you want with me, but—please—just let him be alive.” He waves a gentle hand over Eustace’s unbeating heart and, preternaturally, the boy awakens, coughing out the death inside him. And Crowley, gratefully, disappears into the morning fog.

He has never been great with goodbyes.

—

Aziraphale returns to the village of not yet Soho for the first time in well over a decade and, to his delight, it is as superb as the old one. The people are divine and the food is absolutely scrumptious. The villagers are even much livelier than their predecessors. This might even be a nice place to settle one day—if angels could settle, that is. But this new hope quickly transforms into worry as he locks eyes with the demon known as Crowley, who hides himself in the shadows nearby.

“Crowley,” the angel greets nervously.

“Angel.”

They stand together, angel and demon, in silence watching the humans be just that: human. A mother bounces her weeping child as another one, naked and uncaring, dances around her. A blacksmith bends a weapon into its respected shape, pounding metal against metal. A young boy, no older than thirteen, skips through a crowd, uncaring. And he notices Crowley’s eyes follow him. A discomfort settles within him.

“So, what sort of ineffable chaos is in store this time?” he tries to ask casually.

Crowley’s eyes remain on the boy. “Nothing. Not here, anyway,” says the demon. “Just thought I’d stop by. See how everything’s faring.”

“It’s faring quite nicely, I think,” says Aziraphale happily. He hesitates, then adds: “It should be a nice place to settle. Maybe one day.”

The demon shrugs. “Our lot’s not supposed to settle,” he reminds. Two women near them carrying pails of water. They smile. Crowley acknowledges them with a nod as they pass. “But I won’t tell, if you won’t.”

“Crowley,” begins the angel after a moment. “We don’t ever talk about...” The boy who so suddenly vanished from their lives—more so Crowley than Aziraphale, but he still feels the effects. He remains ignorant of the boy’s fate, as Crowley goes on as if his time with him never happened. “About lunch,” he decides to say instead, to not open old wounds. “I’m certainly famished. How about it? My treat.”

“Not today, angel.” And he walks away without saying goodbye, which is something he has perfected throughout the years.

—

Fifty years go by without much noise. War, disease and corruption remain stable. But so does peace, soundness and love. Crowley is still a firm believer of the third option but he is less loud about it these days to avoid repercussions.

He visits a village north of not yet Soho, London to tempt a clergyman there. Men who devote their lives to God are, after all, his easiest targets. They think with power, not with faith. It will likely take only a few moments to convert him. He makes his way toward the church and waits for him in the graveyard.

Eventually, a bell sounds and a church door opens, but it is not the clergyman who exits. It is… a boy of exactly thirteen. His stomach twists at the very sight. Dark curls. Brown eyes. His exact image. An impossible thought crosses his mind as the demon moves closer for a better look, removing his eyewear to see more clearly. The might be a grandson, or maybe even a son, the way human men breed these days. There is no real way of knowing, though. Soon, Crowley’s shadow covers this boy, this descendant entirely and the boy turns to him without fear. And Crowley knows. Dear God, he knows.

He studies his face just to be sure, the exact same innocence from fifty years before. “It’s you,” the boy says as his eyes brighten, “Master Crowley.”

He stumbles back. The church bell rings again. “Oh, fuck.”

—

New York, 1987

Mindless humans flood the streets of Manhattan with their wild hair and wide shoulders, all in a rush to be somewhere. A few teens listen to Springsteen on their boombox nearby: playing is a song about loss, about oppression, but his upbeat voice disguises it as an American dream, and so the kids dance carelessly on their stoop. Crowley passes them and switches it to Queen just for the fun of it. They stop and ponder at the change. His lip twitches in devilish joy.

He enters an old brick building a few blocks down from them. Much like the ones outside, these humans also embrace the big hair and large shoulder pads—only much duller to better blend in with the office space. It reminds him a lot of headquarters downstairs. Most of this lot lost the gleam in their eyes the moment they asked, “When can I start?”

But the worker on the third floor in the eighth desk to Crowley’s left lost that light shortly after becoming the third Duke of Newcastle upon Tyne, circa 1768. He may look like an ordinary thirteen year old boy wearing a banal suit with a matching gray tie, but he is one of the greatest anomalies of all time. The demon finds a group standing beside the water cooler discussing the matter passionately:

“He just looks young for his age,” claims a woman. “He’s been here over thirty years.”

“He’s one of those, you know… small people,” another chimes in.

The woman beside him shakes her head in disagreement. “He’s a boy genius. Probably skipped a few dozen grades to get here.”

“Why would a boy genius choose to work here? As an accountant?”

“Maybe he was cursed by a demon or something,” says a young lad. His coworkers all ignore him and he sips his drink unbothered as Crowley pushes past them. Their paper cups dissolve and water spills out onto their clothing, except for the one who guessed right.

This not quite boy but not quite man goes by many names: Eustace, in his youth. The Duke of Newcastle upon Tyne up until the war with the colonies brought him to America around 1775. Elzy Lay, briefly, in his rebellious years. These days he is simply known as Stacey Newcastle. But one still calls him something else entirely:

“Nuisance!” Crowley greets. His happy expression is met with a blank stare and soulless eyes. Stacey’s attention turns back to his work. The demon plops himself onto the desk. “I’m in town for a few days. Supposed to tempt some politician who’s been acting a little too saintly for the boys downstairs. Don’t understand the point, really. These blokes find their way back to corruption without the devil’s voice in their heads—how about lunch?”

“I’m busy,” he answers boredly.

The demon reaches for a manila folder and flips through it before Stacey promptly yanks it from his grasp. “What is it you actually do here? Looks like a lot of rinse and repeat to me.” Stacey does not answer. A phone rings in the distance. Somebody coughs. Crowley swings his feet in the air as he takes a good look around at the zombies all poisoned by capitalism, just moving through the motions without thought. His attention turns back to the boy, who behaves similarly. “This place is Hell, you know.”

“I know.”

Guilt briefly consumes him but he shakes it away as they both stand. Stacey takes his paper and starts toward the fax machine. Crowley follows as if he were the boy’s shadow. “I'll go… tempt that… erm, priest or whoever real quick, then we can meet up for an early dinner. How about it?”

“I said I’m busy,” he replies irritably. He pauses, seeming to regret his harshness. “Why are you even here?”

“I told you,” says the demon. Stacey inserts the paper into the machine and dials a number; the machine begins scanning. “To tempt that… erm, did I say politician or priest? I forget...”

“You said both.” The fax machine finishes and he goes back to his desk. Crowley follows. “You don’t need to check up on me anymore. I’m fine .”

Crowley removes his eyewear and looks at him with his true eyes, then gestures at the dullness around them. “Are you?”

Stacey turns away without answering and continues with his work. Humans are not meant to last forever; his soul, at this point, must be screaming to get out.

And Crowley finds himself back on the streets of Manhattan soon after—alone, watching humanity pass him without a second thought. When did they become so stiff, so robotic? He remembers, fondly, of the days when they were running in fields and embracing the rain. Now they hide from it in their brick boxes. Now they march in unison, giving meaning to things not meant to have meaning.

“I didn’t know you were going to be here.” He turns to see Aziraphale walking among them, a welcome light around sudden gloominess. “We could have carpooled.”

“Just here to cause some chaos, angel,” he says distantly, then turns to him curiously; rarely these days does he see Aziraphale outside of his bookshop in Soho, London. “Why are you here?”

“Oh, performing a few miracles here and there,” he says, unconvincingly. He gestures to Stacey’s office building. “I thought I’d treat Eustace to lunch.”

Something twists in his stomach as they both look up at the old building before them. “He’s busy.”

—

England, 10th Century, cont.

A group of children swing happily in a circle, singing a joyful tune about death—to cope with their many hardships. But Aziraphale claps along anyway. Humans create the most beautiful art when confronting the worst kinds of tragedies. The song finishes and they come tumbling to the ground in fits of giggles; the angel applauds their performance. And the children all scatter at the sudden intrusion of a man with his wagon. Aziraphale greets him kindly before stepping out of his way.

The angel follows the children, who settle again near the harbor to watch the fisherman set sail. They wave passionately at the stranger, then run off when he blends too much with the sea. Aziraphale remains. His eyes close, listening to the birds squawking and the sea swaying. This moment makes up for all the pain God inflicts into this world.

He feels a tap on his shoulder. “Erm, angel,” says Crowley nervously.

His eyes open as he turns to greet his old friend—but his smile falters when his eyes meet the demon’s very serious demeanor. “Crowley,” Aziraphale says quietly. When the demon says nothing, he takes the lead: “How are you?”

Crowley shifts uncomfortably. “Oh, fine… I’m fine ,” he assures halfheartedly, and Aziraphale does not quite believe him. “You?”

“Well, I—”

“Great, great… Listen, we may have a slight problem.”

He wonders, briefly, if earth’s ineffable destruction moved up slightly. But surely the archangels would have informed him of such plans. A nervousness settles inside him. “What sort of problem?”

Crowley moves to reveal a boy: dark hair, brown eyes, an exact copy of a boy now surely an old man, of a man perhaps now dead. But still, he questions: “Eustace?”

“Yep,” growls Crowley.

“Oh, dear.”

—

New York, 1987, cont.

The metaphorical work whistle blows at five. Stacey exits the building briefcase in hand and joins the zombies in their stride. Demon and angel follow. They pass the now empty stoop with the opening of Another One Bites the Dust playing faintly out the window—the music stops, starts playing again, and then stops before repeating. The kids inside argue about the switching tape:

“What did you do to it, man?”

“I didn’t do nothing. It was your boombox that jacked it up.”

“My brother’s gonna kill me!”

Aziraphale turns to Crowley disapprovingly. “Oh, you didn’t?”

He laughs wickedly. “Oh, yes I did!”

The angel gestures toward the window and the music miraculously switches back to Springsteen. They continue on. Stacey disperses from the crowd and madly dashes into the road when he catches sight of a dumper truck dashes forward. Aziraphale gestures toward the road and the truck swerves to miss him. Stacey turns to them with an annoyed expression, and the angel steps back. “You must be more careful, Eustace.”

Crowley hums, feeling that twist inside him again. The human soul is screaming to get out. But he moves on instead of facing the guilt. “Right, so how about dinner?”

Stacey takes them to his flat instead: a cramped rodent infested hellhole far below his price range. He lives in filth because he simply does not care anymore. Aziraphale wheezes as a family of cockroaches scurry across the room. Crowley, uncaring, crosses to the window and looks outside. The same kids from before now run in the streets cheerfully, blasting that blasted Springsteen song again. He groans, then snaps it back to Queen.

He plops down onto the worn green sofa bought in some 1955 furniture catalog. Aziraphale hesitantly joins him. Stacey presents them with a collection of take-out menus. “Choose your poison.” The angel eagerly begins looking through them while Crowley channel surfs. And half an hour later, the three of them sit before the television as the Golden Girls theme plays.

“Got any alcohol?” wonders Crowley aloud as he stands. He moves to the refrigerator and opens it. The only thing inside is a raw onion and some batteries. He closes it and turns back to the television. The laugh track plays as Sophia makes a jab at Rose—then, suddenly, loud music playing above them overpowers the show’s plot. He moves to the window again only to find the streets now explosive with human beings no longer mindless devotees to the Man. “Now that’s more like it!” A shirtless man with a stomach painted red, white and blue dashes across the street. A car, nearly hitting him, honks in fury. “What has them in such a frenzy all of a sudden?” continues Crowley. The man now chugs a beer as bystanders cheer him on.

“Tomorrow’s Fourth of July,” says Stacey plainly, turning up the volume as the music upstairs gets louder. A knock at the door brings Aziraphale eagerly to his feet. He greets the Chinese delivery boy kindly and takes the food.

“Is it really?” says Crowley, his eyebrows lifting as a nearby policeman cuffs the shirtless man. “Seems like only yesterday this lot was throwing tea in the harbor…”

“Fireworks have been going off all week,” says Stacey irritably. Once, his eyes would have sparkled at the light.

“Oh—perhaps we might want to take this to the rooftop,” suggests Aziraphale, his eyes brightening when he turns to Crowley. He always has had a special likeness for fireworks. “To watch them up close.”

The shirtless man now gets shoved into the back of a police car as the people around him chant, “USA! USA! USA!”

A single spark shoots up into the air and explodes into the night, like a new star bursting into being. Demon and angel stand together, like before, to watch the fire as it sputters around them. “Remarkable, isn’t it?” says the angel, beaming. “They brought the stars to them.”

He hums. “They did, didn’t they?” But not quite as spectacular as the original. “Sort of.”

Stacey stands alone beside the edge, his eyes unlooking at the people below. They walk uncaring but fearful of their own unknown mortality, something Stacey has not felt in quite some time. Guilt takes over, but Crowley fights it. Aziraphale leans in. “Do you think he’s all right?”

“No,” says the demon quietly.

“Yes, I figured as much. He’s ignored my last few letters—and that only seems to happen when he’s fallen into one of his ruts.”

His eyebrows raise. “Does he write to you?”

Aziraphale nods happily. “We became unofficial pen pals when he went off to war.”

“Really? Which war?”

Another firework bursts and blue sparks illuminate the sky. “This one, actually.”

“He never writes to me,” grumbles Crowley. A car horn honks in the distance. Someone screams, joyously. That blasted Springsteen song plays again, and it feels like all of America passionately—blindly—sings along to its facade.

Aziraphale’s demeanor quickly shifts as another firework crackles in the sky. “Erm, there have been rumors going around… upstairs,” he says. “About a certain ineffable plan.”

Armageddon: the end of the world. It starts with the devil spawn and ends with the greatest war between evil and good, leaving these inbetweeners to fend for themselves. And then life itself, at least here on earth, concludes.

Aziraphale clears his throat, nervously. “You’d tell me… that is, when the baby does arrive—”

But a blood curdling scream interrupts him, and they rush to look over the edge. The music stops and people gather. “Fuck!” Crowley mutters.

Guilt finally consumes him as an ambulance starts in the distance. He hears everyone’s murmurs, their concern, their prayers. He does nothing but look at Stacey’s misshapen figure on the ground below them: the eternal boy, once again putting himself into a deep slumber.

[separatist-apologist]

Never Not Mine

Summary: Elain Archeron has been betrothed to the seventh born son of Autumn for as long as she can remember. With her family's reputation in the balance, Elain is resigned to her fate.

That doesn't mean she has to like it…or that she has to make it easy for him.

Chapter 1 | Read on AO3

Feyre and Nesta come to Autumn the night before Elain’s wedding, tanned and a little blonder than normal. It was too late to intervene—Elain had already been fitted for the dress she’d wear tomorrow and was, essentially, under lock and key. No guards, but an endless parade of servants that seemed to pop up any time she tried to leave the room.

Elain knew that was Lucien’s doing. He’d been sleeping on the sofa she now sat on each night, keeping watch so she didn’t try to escape and vanishing before she woke up. They’d barely exchanged a sentences worth of words since she’d foolishly climbed over the balcony.

“How are you feeling?” Feyre asked as Nesta paced back and forth. If she told her sisters the truth, they were likely to do something foolish. Something that got them all in trouble. Nesta was already trying to angle out of her marriage and didn’t need Elain mucking that up. 

“Excited,” she lied, catching the way Nesta’s eyes narrowed. “And nervous, of course. We barely know each other.”

“Is he kind?” Nesta demanded, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Yes,” Elain replied, not bothering to add that he was rude in equal measure. 

“All mother talks about is how handsome the Vanserra’s are,” Nesta said with a dark scowl. “I see nothing special about them.”

Feyre shrugged. “They’re not ugly.”

“They’re hardly beautiful, either,” Nesta argued. If Feyre said the sky was blue, Nesta would argue it was gray and if Nesta thought the Vanserra’s were ugly, then Feyre found them to be impossibly beautiful. They had always been that way, leaving Elain to mediate.

“There is a charm to them, certainly,” she agreed, not taking any particular stance. “I am acclimating well. How are things at home?”

“Dull,” Feyre said as Nesta opened her mouth. “I paint and Nesta plays piano and we wither away, waiting for our turn to be good, dutiful wives.”

“They’ve banned arranged marriages in Summer,” Nesta said sharply, her tone rife with implications. Run to Summer, she seemed to say. As if Summer would risk a war with their neighbors simply to harbor her. 

“Perhaps other courts will follow suit,” Elain said noncommittally. It was too late for her. Tomorrow she’d walk willing with Lucien through a priestesses temple, watched by her family and his as they pledged fidelity and honor to the other. It was a farce and one Elain was committed to seeing through, now. If her sisters managed to escape their own prescribed fates, she wished them well.

But there was no more escape for her. 

“Have you seen anything?” Feyre questioned. Elain bit her bottom lip.

Yes, she wanted to say. How did she explain that what she’d seen was a particularly steamy affair with the man she had sworn she wouldn’t touch until she was forced to. Elain refused to think about it lest Lucien scent the accompanying arousal that always followed and got the wrong idea.

Visions were imprecise, a snapshot of what could happen and not necessarily what would. A wrong turn, a different word spoken and the entire world rearranged itself. 

That did nothing to remove the image of Lucien without his clothes shifting over her, or the expression on his face—

“Elain?”

She blinked. “No, nothing. I haven’t looked, though, either.”

“Well, maybe you should tonight,” Feyre suggested. Elain only smiled, certain she did not want to know what the next day had in store for her. Let it remain a mystery, even from her. If she saw herself beneath him, she’d panic and never make it down the aisle. 

There was something she wanted, though, and Elain found exactly how to get it later that afternoon. Cadmus poked his head in, expression guarded.

“Lady Elain?” The second eldest Vanserra looked the most like his father, his red hair browner, his russet eyes lacking some of the ringed gold the rest of his brothers had. Even his features were those of the sharp elegance of the High Lord rather than the softer edges the Lady bore. “How are you?”

“I…” A dagger glinted off Cadmus’s belt, silver hilt inlaid with vibrant rubies. “Can I borrow that?”

Cadmus looked down at his body, hands hovering over the weapon. “My dagger?”

Elain made her eyes big and round as she bit her bottom lip, and hoped Cadmus was no better than the males back home. “I don’t know how to use it, if you’re worried for your brothers safety”

“What’s to know? Stick the sharp end in anything soft,” he said with a wry smile before unstrapping the hilt. “If you do stab my brother, try not to kill him.”

Elain blinked. “Just…just like that?”

“It’s become almost a tradition to provide my new sisters with a weapon to use against my brothers. I’m starting to think Vanserra’s like to be threatened.”

She frowned. “It’s not like that.”

“For you, maybe,” he chuckled, watching as Elain quickly hid the dagger beneath an ornate pillow. “If you’re frightened, though, you could tell me.”

That was curious. “Why? What would you do?”

“What any good brother would do. Knock him around like he’s a youngling again, and hope his good sense returns to him.”

“That’s…unexpectedly kind,” she murmured. 

“We’re nearly family, right?” he said gruffly, glancing back toward the hall. “Anyway ah…don’t kill him. And uh…if you need any help, ask Arina. You know, for plausible deniability.”

“Right,” she agreed, holding back the urge to laugh. The Vanserra’s could be so unintentionally funny when they wanted to be. Absently, Elain wondered what Nesta would make of Cadmus. Nothing positive, she decided.

Nesta was supposed to marry a High Lord, which was a tragedy given how she hated all of them. Maybe all men, truthfully—Elain had never once seen her sister betray any interest despite the numerous men who had been interested in her. 

Elain hid the dagger beneath her pillow once Cadmus left, just in case Lucien decided to try anything. Elain knew she was likely going to have to let him touch her, but if he tried anything she didn’t like, she’d whip the dagger out just to remind him that he might be married to her, but he didn’t own her. 

It made her feel a little better, though only marginally. As she made her way through the palace, Elain found servants hanging floral arrangements and cleaning every surface for the upcoming spectacle. Everything smelled like cinnamon somehow and if Elain was braver, she might have made her way to the kitchen to see what they were cooking.

If she was braver still, she might have asked to help.

Instead, Elain emerged into the gloomy afternoon with a heavy sigh. It felt like the world was mourning, too. She intended to meander through the apple orchard again, kicking the rotting fruit on the ground with the toe of her boot until she didn’t feel so angry anymore.

Instead, she found Connall and Tanwen standing off to the side, flanked by two smoke gray dogs, each holding a rather large axe. When they saw her, their eyes lit up.

“Baby sister!” They called in unison, making their way toward her. “Want to smash some pumpkins with us?” “Smash some what?” she repeated as one of the large dogs wound its way through her legs, sniffing at her clothes with curiosity. 

“Pumpkins,” Connall said, russet eyes glinting with mischief. 

“It’s an old tradition,” Tanwen added. Of the two, Tanwen was taller and built more like a warrior. Connall was slighter, with a prettier face and hands that didn’t look like they’d done a hard day's work in their life. Tanwen’s hair was longer and braided off his face while Connall sported a shaggier look that seemed like it was popular with whoever he was courting.

With a face like that, Elain guessed everyone. 

“Smashing pumpkins is a tradition?”

They nodded solemnly. Connall added, “Whenever the Forest House is overrun, we come out here and destroy the heaviest looking pumpkins we can find. C’mon, join us. Beats sulking through the grounds.”

“I wasn’t sulking,” she replied, though she fell into step between them. 

“Sure you weren’t,” Tanwen said, elbowing her gently. “I’m sure you are merely contemplating the marital bliss you’re soon to find with little brother.”

“I don’t know how to swing an axe,” Elain admitted. Connall’s smile sharpened.

“We’ll teach you.”

The pair, accompanied by a dog she later learned technically belonged to Arina—Apollo—and another that Tanwen was fond of—Artemis—made their way toward a sprawling pumpkin patch. Elain was fascinated as Tanwen and Connall picked out three large pumpkins, hauling them each one by one before dropping them at her feet.

“Ladies first,” Tanwen said, cheeks ruddy from exertion.

Elain considered them, before pointing at one that was still a little green and covered in warts. Connall picked it up for her and set it atop a tree stump before handing her the smooth, wooden handle of the axe.

“Hold it like this,” Tanwen began, positioning himself behind Elain so his arms were wrapped around her. Warm, callused hands covered her own as he positioned them on the handle.

“Pull it back like this—not too far or you’ll drop it and hurt yourself. Use the power from your thighs, okay? And then swing hard—”

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

The three turned and Elain realized Tanwen and Connall must have known Lucien was nearby. He looked furious, though it was hard to take him seriously with Arina skipping merrily at his side.

“I’m debauching your wife, what does it look like I’m doing?” Tanwen said, throwing a rather charming wink in her direction. “She doesn’t know how Autumn Court females treat a male on their wedding night—”

A snarl ripped from Luciens throat before he settled himself, running a hand through his windblown hair. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

“Am I not allowed to be here?” Elain demanded, pointing the axe at her soon-to-be husband. 

“Lucien’s just grumpy—”

“I’m not grumpy,” Lucien interrupted as Arina laughed, hands clasped in front of her body.

“Your sisters gave him a good dressing down.”

“It was pretty funny,” Eris Vanserra chimed in, wrapping an arm around his wife's neck to kiss the top of her head. “Nesta Archeron has a barbed tongue and no sense of propriety.”

“That’s not true,” Elain protested, interested in what her sister said. “You’re thinking of Feyre.”

“It was both of them,” Lucien grumbled as he rubbed his jaw. “I thought the ladies of the Spring Court were sweet.”

Elain took that moment to swing, her sharpened blade slicing easily through the pumpkin. Tanwen whooped as Connall and Eris laughed and Lucien…Lucien merely watched, his expression unreadable. 

“Who told you that?” Elain asked him, dress covered in pumpkin guts. 

It felt good, though, in that moment, to wipe the look off his face. She was sweet. 

Just not for him.

LUCIEN:

Lucien tugged at the golden cuffs on his maroon jacket. He was deeply uncomfortable and somehow sweating despite how early it was.  He hadn’t slept at all the night before and given the noises coming from behind the door that they were about to share, Elain hadn’t either. It hadn't been crying, exactly…but something akin to mourning had been happening. It occurred to him that perhaps Elain had her own Jesminda that she missed.

Lucien couldn’t bring himself to care much. Instead, he perched himself in a tree outside the palace, closed his eyes, and prayed. 

Bring her back to me. Please, I’ll do anything. I’ll give you anything.

Easy words for a male who knew the Mother would not indulge this request. Lucien would have traded anything to see Jesminda right then. To hear her tell him it was going to be okay and somehow, someway this was all going to work out in their favor. He wanted to feel her hands on his face, her mouth slanted against his. He wanted to bury himself inside her and sob into her shoulder as he told her about the nightmare he was living.

And to do so would be the ultimate betrayal of the love he felt for her. To see her was to condemn her to death. She was gone, and Lucien knew she wouldn’t come back, and if she did, he wouldn’t touch her. Wouldn’t acknowledge her.

Wouldn’t look at her.

It didn’t stop him from pretending anyway. What kind of male was he, he wondered? His wife was inside preparing herself to marry him and he was outside wishing she was someone else. Daydreaming about another female. Would he think of Jesminda as he betrayed her later that night? 

Lucien half hoped Jesminda hated him. He certainly hated himself.

Lucien remained outside until Eris tracked him down, dressed in a deep brown jacket and cream colored pants. His brother swung himself easily into the tree, grunting softly as he sat on the opposite branch. “Brooding?”

It was almost comical. It was a scene they’d played before, only in opposite roles. Lucien had once gone looking for Eris the day of his wedding, finding him in the same tree likely with the same look of frustration on his face. Eris had wanted a way out, too, and he’d known what was waiting on the other end for him was his mate. There was something to work toward, at least.

Lucien didn’t care what Arina said—he didn’t believe he could love someone as deeply as he loved Jesminda and not be mates. 

“Just thinking,” Lucien said, wishing Eris would mind his own business. 

“You’ve got ten more minutes to find a last minute loophole,” Eris warned. “Though, I think you should marry her.”

“Of course you do.”

“She’s better than the females at court. Do you want father to pick one of them?”

“I want him to let me choose my own wife,” Lucien snarled, unable to keep his anger down.

“Love is for the lesser fae,” Eris said, ignoring the fact that he was in love with his wife. That was merely luck, Lucien supposed. “You are simply a cog in fathers political machinations. You know that.”

“Why not Tanwen? Or Cadmus?”

“Because Elain is a second daughter with no magical ability, unlike her sisters,” Eris reminded him, a cold edge creeping into his voice. He ought to have known better than to look for comfort from his brother. Eris had done his duty no matter how little he’d wanted to, giving Eris a mate and Beron a foot in the solar courts. “He needs sons he can marry off to all his most important nobles. Count yourself lucky that isn’t your fate”

“Is this luck?”

“Elain is nice,” Eris reminded him. “She’s not scheming and you’re unlikely to find her in Tanwen’s bed.”

“Are you sure about that?” Lucien asked, a surge of jealousy flooding through him. He didn’t want her, and yet didn’t want anyone else to want her, either. She was merely off limits. If he could have, he’d have ordered them all not to speak to her, either. 

Swinging his legs out of the tree, Eris landed smoothly back on solid ground. The world was mocking him—after two weeks of rumbling thunder and moody fog, the sun had come out blazing, igniting the world in a golden glow. 

“I’m certain. Now get down before father realizes you’re missing and takes the lash to your back on your wedding night.” Lucien considered it only briefly, but ultimately chose to join Eris on the ground, heart thudding painfully in his chest. 

Eris didn’t look at him at all, adorned in a crown of burnished leaves similar to the one Lucien wore. As they stepped back into the Forest House, Lucien felt the full weight of it for the first time in his life. Never had he ever felt more like a High Lord's son, the weight of his responsibility and duty dragging behind him like chains wrapped around his ankles.

He was drowning, and it didn’t matter. Lucien followed Eris through the labyrinth of halls toward the adjoining temple that spiraled deep into the ground, housing their family jewels and a private library you need permission to enter. Lucien knew on any given day, Arina would be down in the dark reading by faelight. 

Priestesses historically were not welcome in Autumn. Beron found them too scheming, but feared angering the mother by shutting them out entirely. His solution was using daughters of Autumn, deemed unlikely to marry by their families, and making them priestesses with fathers that had a vested interest in curbing their ambition. Housing them in the palace allowed the High Lord to keep a watchful eye on them via his wife, who was charged with overseeing the priestesses along with the ladies at court. 

Now the head priestess stood at the end of the temple, adorned by multicolored light from the stained glass behind her. Rows of benches held their families, though Beron sat behind the priestess on a throne built specifically for him, lest anyone forget the true power of Autumn. 

Elain was waiting in the atrium just outside, dressed, hilariously, in a fluffy gown of white lace and pale pink ribbon. Her hair was piled high atop her head, as if someone with a grudge had decided to try and make the beautiful Elain as unappealing as possible.

It was working, too. Lucien couldn’t help his barking laugh when he saw her, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings overhead. Elain turned, eyes wide with horror that melted into irritation.

“Be quiet,” she hissed, shoving the traditional red ribbon of Autumn against his chest. His brothers filed in behind them, not daring to make eye contact or otherwise react. 

“Who did you piss off?”

“This was my mothers wedding dress,” Elain informed him, chin held high in the air. “And the traditional bridal clothes of Spring.”

Lucien only shook his head, thinking of how lovely Arina had looked draped in red. There was no point in starting his marriage by telling his wife she looked awful, but…well. Lucien wondered if Elain felt beautiful right then.

“Come on,” he murmured, offering her his arm. Elain took a breath, eyes glassy, but otherwise nodded her head. She had more conviction on her expression than Lucien felt, and it was sobering. This was happening, he realized. Under the watchful gaze of not just his father, but the High Lord of Spring, Lucien was marrying this stranger. Lucien could barely breathe, couldn’t think as he stood in that beam of light, eyes trained on Elain without actually seeing her. Elain seemed to be employing similar tactics, repeating the words when demanded but otherwise standing utterly still.

Something was building, some emotion Lucien thought must be radiating out of him. It wasn’t fear and it wasn’t hatred, though it felt somehow like both mixed together. Holding the ribbon in his hand, Lucien began winding it around their wrists until the long sleeves of her ugly dress pushed upward, pressing them skin to delicate skin. 

The scene of Elain invaded his senses once again, making him dizzy. He needed fresh air, to get far, far away from her. Elain looked up at him through dark lashes, their eyes connecting just as the priestess pronounced them married. Something solid slammed into him. 

No, not slammed.

Snapped.

Lucien stumbled backwards, forgetting for a moment they were still tied together. Elain came with him, falling into his chest and oh, he wished she wouldn’t touch him just as his traitorous body ignited with pleasure.

Touch her, smell her, taste her—

Lucien righted Elain, trying to apologize but unable to get the words out. If he spoke, he might just blurt the truth out. 

You’re my mate.

If Elain knew, she was doing a far better job than he was hiding it. Her expression was one of confusion but not of recognition. If she didn’t know, good. There must be some way out, he reasoned, even as every other part of him rebelled at the thought. The Mother was mocking him. Elain Archeron was mocking him, with her beautiful face half lost under the weight of her gown and hair. Who had done this to her?

Lucien wanted to kill them.

“Are you okay?” Elain whispered, ignoring the crowd promptly descending upon them.

It wasn’t a lie when he said, “No. I’ve never been less okay in my life.”

And it was all her fault.

ELAIN:

Elain wanted to cry. The Lady of Autumn had done her best to try and make Elain look presentable, but it had been her mothers wishes to see her dressed like a traditional bride of Spring—the sort that had fallen out of fashion centuries before. She could still hear Lucien's barking laugh in her ear and the look of disgust on his face once he’d tied that ribbon around them.

It shouldn’t have mattered, truthfully, but Lucien had looked every inch an Autumn Court prince and she…she’d looked ridiculous. Embarrassing. Only her mother was happy, which seemed to be the only thing that ever mattered. Who cared if Elain was suffering internally so long as everyone else got what they wanted? 

Stomping from the great hall, where a lavish feast in her honor had been prepared, Elain made her way outdoors into the sunshine. It was only there that she began pulling pins out of her hair like a petulant child, tossing them to the leaves with reckless abandon. 

Why couldn’t she make peace with what was happening? Everyone else in her position had. Arina and Eris were in love, her parents were in love, the Lady of Autumn and the High Lord…tolerated each other. And Elain couldn’t even muster that. 

She hated Lucien with a passion that clawed at her chest and threatened to strangle her. She didn’t want him to touch her, not like this. Not when the sight of him cringing away as he disentangled himself from her and promptly walked away without so much as a reassurance that things would be okay.

She’d left him downing a cup of wine and imagined he’d be so drunk he was incapacitated for the night. That was a good thing, right? So why did it make her feel so awful? So ugly, so…so unwanted. Cast aside by everyone, loved by no one. She wanted to curl up somewhere and wait to see how long it took them to notice she was missing.

Elain turned her attention to the forest, determined to march right in. She bet Lucien noticed when it was time to do his husbandly duty. Then he’d be missing her. That's all she was good for anyway, right?

Elain didn’t make it two steps before someone stopped her. It wasn’t Lucien or his brothers, nor was it her sisters or anyone from the Spring Court. The male standing before her oozed darkness, with shadows trailing after him like a cape and eyes so vividly blue they looked like twinkling, violet stars.

Elain took a step back on instinct. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said, knowing exactly who stood before her. She’d never met him, nor his father, though she had heard the rumors about the High Lord of Night. They said he’d killed Tamlins father.

They said Tamlin killed his. 

Rhysand didn’t need to wear a weapon to seem lethal. Tall and powerfully built, she was certain if he wanted to, he could end her right there. His lips curved upward into a smile and too late, she remembered the people in his court were rumored to read minds.

“I hear congratulations are in order. Married to little Lucien…how delighted you must be.”

“I…” Elain trailed off, heart hammering like a jack rabbit. 

“I don’t think I’d leave my new bride to wander the grounds,” Rhysand continued, jamming his hands into his pockets absently. “But perhaps the males of Autumn are more…liberated…here.”

Elain’s mouth was dry. “Can I help you with something?”

Rhysand cocked his head, a lock of blue black hair trailing into one of his eyes. “Can you help me?” he asked, pondering this question with faux concentration. “I suppose you can. I’m looking for—”

“Rhysand!” Eris Vanserra barked, crunching onto leaves without ceremony. “Decided to show your ugly face for once? Or will I find your spy lurking in my woods again?”

“There’s no need for hostility,” Rhysand purred, eyes trailing behind Eris toward Feyre, who’d clearly been trailing Eris. “I’ve come to speak with your father.”

“Does Elain Archeron look like the High Lord of Autumn?” Eris demanded, his annoyance plain.

“She is far lovelier, I’ll admit, though your father has his charms—”

“Stop talking,” Eris muttered, nodding his head toward the doors so Rhysand would follow. Elain watched the High Lord of Night even when Eris’s fingers curled around her wrist, dragging her back inside with him. Rhysand was looking at Feyre in her spring green gown, hair half braided off her face. There was something curious about his expression—as if he’d never seen a female before and wanted to study her.

Feyre wrinkled her nose back, betraying her unguarded disgust before turning on her heel and flouncing back inside and to Elain’s surprise, Rhysand chuckled. He didn’t know how skilled Feyre was with a weapon, training in secret with a sentry she’d once been friends with before Tamlin found out and had him sent to the border. It was too late, then. Feyre was a menace with a bow and arrow and not horrible with a sword, either. No one could control her and in truth, not many tried.

Elain wondered what Tamlin would do with a wife that liked to stalk the woods for monsters. Monsters like Rhysand, Elain thought, wondering if Feyre hadn’t sensed his presence and come looking for the disturbance. She half wanted to see the showdown, if only to watch a High Lord get trounced by a noble's youngest daughter.

Feyre was nowhere to  be found by the time they all landed in the Great Hall. The once lively feast fell silent—even the musicians stopped their playing to watch, wide-eyed, as Rhysand strolled into the room. His eyes slid over the long tables piled with food, the people stopped mid-dance, and those that sat at tables holding goblets, drinking until their fair skin was ruddy from wine.

He grinned when he saw Beron. “Sorry I’m late,” he said, not sounding very sorry at all. Beron looked murderous, though he stood quickly while eyeing Eris trailing just behind. Elain watched as Cadmus fell into step beside his elder brother, the two flanking their father when he came down the elevated platform that held the throne he’d been lounging on. Everyone tried to pretend this was merely business as usual.

The music restarted and chatter resumed as Beron and Rhysand made their way out of the room, but Elain knew every immortal ear was straining to hear what was whispered between them. Why now, she wondered? Tamlin was gripping his goblet so tightly Elain could see the whites of his knuckles and Nesta’s eyes danced with silver flames, arms crossed over her chest.

Elain started to make her way to Nesta to ask when Lucien caught her attention. He was drunk, she realized. Stumbling forward, he grinned broadly not at her, but at someone behind her. Elain didn’t turn to see the female he was making eyes at, unwilling to even acknowledge how humiliating his behavior was. 

“You reek,” Elain hissed, catching Lucien by the arm and turning him around. “Go drink some water.”

“Telling me what to do already?” he asked, eyes strangely glassy as he looked down at her. There was an intensity to his expression she didn’t think she liked. It was as if he was undressing her with his gaze. 

“Yes. Water. Now,” she hissed quietly enough that no one but Lucien could hear.

“And if I say no?” he challenged. Elain wanted to cry. 

“You are not the only one experiencing misery, Lucien, and yet am I out here making a fool of you?” she demanded, hating the way her voice cracked beneath angry tears. “You could at least keep it behind closed doors.”

Lucien considered this. “You’re right. I…” he swallowed, sliding his hand over hers in the crook of her elbow so she had to join him as he went for water. “Sit down and eat something.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Do it, or I’ll feed you from my hand like a baby bird,” he threatened, pulling out a chair from a neglected, empty table. Lucien dropped beside her, gulping down icy water as Elain picked food from a platter in front of her and spread it over two plates.

“Here,” she said, pushing a plate toward a wide eyed, strangely ashen looking Lucien.

“I—I’ve eaten already,” he said, gingerly moving the plate further from view. “You’re kind to offer, though.”

He was so strange, she decided. If he didn’t want to eat, he could suffer, then. No one could say she hadn’t tried, though. Elain began chewing, lost in thoughts of Rhysand just outside the forest grounds and her family that would vanish before the night was over. Her stomach tumbled as she thought about what the night had in store for her. Perhaps if she closed her eyes tightly it would be over quickly without a lot of fuss.

“Was there another male?” Lucien asked abruptly, interrupting Elain’s considerations. Looking at him, she found that same burning intensity from a few moments before. She didn’t think she liked when he looked at her that way.

“What?”

“Back in Spring. Was there a male you…preferred?”

Elain shook her head, though she wanted to ask why it even mattered? She was here, wasn’t she, wishes be damned? 

“None?” 

“No, Lucien. I’ve been set aside for you my entire life.”

“Sure, but…” he rubbed the back of his neck. “That didn’t mean you had to…”

Elain wished a hole would open beneath her and swallow her up. Surely he wasn’t implying that he wished she’d been with someone else mere hours before he was about to be with her? If she’d been less of a lady, she might have launched herself across the table to throttle him. 

“Please do not worry about it,” she implored, desperate for this conversation to end. “Let’s just…lets just get through this afternoon.” Lucien eyed her dress again, but kept whatever comments he had to himself. “Fine.”

His reluctant compliance was better than expected. And Elain would take what she could get.

LUCIEN:

“You’re acting strange,” Arina said, catching Lucien in the hall on the way to his new bed chamber. His old one had been cleared out without ceremony, and he’d bet if he went to Elain’s room, he’d find her folding his clothing like a good little wife

“I’m not,” he lied. Lucien was desperately trying to avoid his brother and Arina, if only because he was afraid that might see him and just know somehow. Or smell it, more likely—the way he could currently smell the mating bond Arina and his brother shared wrapped around her like a lingering perfume.

It smelled like sex. Lucien hated it. It was like a warning pushing up against him, reminding him that she belonged to someone—a male who might rip Lucien’s throat out, should he feel like it. Elain seemed oblivious to what was happening which was the only mercy Lucien could find in their miserable situation. How long could he keep her in the dark before she realized? Before she felt the pull, the urge to touch him, too? Before someone scented him on her and told her? 

“What’s going on?”

“Besides being actually married to a stranger, nothing at all. I, for one, have never been better—”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” Arina snapped, clearly irritated. “There’s something else about you.”

“I’m just…” Lucien ran a hand through his hair in frustration. “It's my wedding night, Arina, and my wife hates me. Put the pieces together.”

“I doubt she’ll be upset if you put it off.”

“Or she’ll run and tell her father to get out of the marriage,” Lucien retorted, though truthfully, Elain simply didn’t seem like the vindictive sort. His mind drifted back to lunch, watching as she put together two plates as his mind warred. On the one hand, the part of him driven by instinct had been screaming and clawing for him to simply accept it from her, thus cementing the bond before she ever had a choice.

The other, more rational part of him, wanted to throw that plate across the room before cursing at the Mother for what she’d done. It was supposed to be Jesminda. It was Jesminda. Lucien’s heart beat erratically at the realization that all the times he’d laid with her and sworn she was his mate, when they’d laced their fingers and talked about when it might snap…all of it had been a farce. 

Lucien couldn’t stop thinking about Jes’s own mate. He was out there somewhere. Maybe she’d find that male and she’d realize what they had paled in comparison. Would she laugh a little at their silliness? How young they’d been, how foolish to believe what they had transcended the gods.

Lucien would have left Elain if Jes appeared right then. If she’d asked him—he wouldn’t make her beg—he would have left. Damned Elain, his life, his mating bond, just to see her again. And he knew that if Jes learned he had a mate, she’d bow out entirely. When the bond snapped, there was a finality to it. 

He was a mated male. He owed it to Elain to try and make things work, and maybe he owed it to himself, too. That didn’t mean Lucien wanted it, either. Gods, he didn’t know what he wanted other than to drink himself into oblivion and wait for some obvious answer to present itself.

“When Eris informed you that you were his mate, what did you do?” Lucien asked, interrupting Arina’s self-important lecture about being a good husband.

“I suffocated the air in the room until he got on his knees and apologized,” she said, eyes gleaming with amusement. “That’s different, Lucien.” Elain probably couldn’t nearly kill him—he’d been told she had no magic to speak of—but he imagined her reaction would go nearly as well. 

“Just…let me deal with my marriage my way, okay?” Lucien ordered, unwilling to be nice to Arina at that moment. Butt out, he wanted to add, though slipping into his bedroom and closing the door behind him was response enough. 

Inside was something out of Lucien’s personal hell. Elain rose to her feet when she saw him, eyes bright from what seemed to be some amount of crying. Her hair was unbound and artfully arranged around a night dress that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. Lucien blinked, frozen in place as his eyes moved of their own accord.

BETRAYER

“I—put on a robe, please,” Lucien managed, turning in a circle like some kind of animal. She was his. He had no claim to her at all. The competing desires threatened to unmake him. Lucien heard Elain sniff.

“Shouldn’t we…”

“Not like this,” he breathed, certain he would have felt that way even without the mating bond. “I—we could just…go to bed?”

“What about…you know?”

Lucien took a steadying breath and turned again, relieved to find Elain had wrapped a throw around her body. Her face had a little more color, her eyes a little less red. 

“If I offered to just…pretend…would you tell someone?”

“No,” she breathed with the saddest look of hope on her face. “I would swear we did.”

Oh, thank the Mother. “Then we’ll turn the lights off, get into bed, and in the morning go about our business as if we did.”

Elain nodded, dropping the blanket gently to walk to their bedroom. Lucien nearly choked at the sight of her from behind. Mother spare him, she’d be the death of him. Lucien didn’t need to like a female in order to admit she was appealing and Elain…Elain was just as pretty from behind as she was from the front. His eyes slid down her spine, landing on the soft curve of her waist, the flare of her hip, the sway of her ass. 

Cauldron damn him.

Elain turned as Lucien steadied himself on the frame, wondering if sleeping beside her was a good idea at all. Servants talked—and everyone was nosy. If he was caught sleeping on the sofa, his father would know and put Lucien in a deeply uncomfortable position. Lucien wouldn’t put it past his father to demand to watch. He’d like enjoy knowing that he ruined every other coupling they’d ever have.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she warned, holding up a trembling finger. Was he looking at her in some particular kind of way? Lucien was certain he wasn’t. Still, he merely crossed his arms over his chest as he eyed his new wife. 

“I was lost in thought,” he said, forcing himself to look only at her face. As if that made things any better. She was so heartbreakingly beautiful it made his teeth ache. She’d always been beautiful, which had warranted the space—if he spent too much time in her presence, he might find he liked her, and liking the woman who’d been forced upon him felt like giving in to his fathers demands.

Or worse, admitting Beron might have been right about him. 

Elain still eyed him warily as he crossed the room, grabbing a pair of linen pants neatly folded in a drawer that had her scent all over it. In the bathroom, Lucien splashed cold water on his face and ordered himself to get together. The mating bond was making him stupid. He didn’t want her…and yet he did. Physically, anyway. Lucien wondered if he could get away with escaping to one of the nearby cities for a few weeks just to clear his head long enough to stand in her presence. 

He returned to find Elain dividing the bed in half using pillows. “That’s not necessary,” he mumbled, reaching over her to toss one to the floor. “And obvious.” “I don’t want you getting any ideas,” she replied in that prissy way of hers. 

Lucien bared his teeth. “Trust me, lady. My only idea is sleep.”

“I thought all males wanted—”

“I’m not an animal,” he growled, fully aware he was a liar. “I don’t relish the thought of forcing myself on someone, wife or otherwise.”

“And if I never want you?” Elain asked, eyes narrowed to slits.

“I’ll tell all of Pyrthian you are terribly infertile and I’m a martyr—”

Elain launched a pillow at his face. “You’re not funny.”

Lucien flopped into bed, one hand thrown over his face. “You wound me.”

“I don’t believe anything could wound that over inflated ego of yours,” she responded. Lucien was learning that despite her meek appearance, his wife had a sharp tongue. He rather liked it, if only because it absolved him of any guilt he might feel for his own remarks. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” Lucien said, settling against the pillow. “You could tell me, you know. If there was another male.”

“There wasn’t. There isn’t.” There was something bitter about her tone.

“Never?” he questioned, his curiosity making him stupid.

“Never.”

“You’re not…?” Shut up shut up shut up— “You’re not curious?”

“Stop talking, Lucien.”

“If it were me—”

“I know where you’re going with this, and I’m telling you to stop while you’re ahead,” Elain gritted out. “Find someone else, if you’re feeling frustrated, but don’t try and frame my lack of experience as an opportunity.”

“Cauldron, Elain, I wasn’t…” But he was. Lucien knew it was a bad idea. If he got himself in her with the mating bond pounding in his chest, he was likely to take things too far, to do something he regretted. He couldn’t help himself no matter how badly he wanted to, and her proximity was clouding his judgment. He tried to pull up an image of Jes, but his mind shifted to Elain in sheer white lace and the rosy pink of her nipples—

Lucien rolled over, frustrated more with himself than anything else. There was no way he was going to sleep, no way he trusted his dreams not to betray him.

Not for the first time, he wished he was dead.

But maybe it was the first time he’d wished for it the loudest.

And the gods did nothing.

[shadowdaddies]

May I humbly request another Eris x reader? Autumn's Eden was so sweet and I had read it a countless amount of times already. Still with the secret mate element and something abou how she is a cat person and Eris is evidently a dog person with cat person energy

ahh I'm so glad you liked it!! 💜 lol as a dog person with cat person energy myself, I really feel Eris here

Bramble

Eris x Reader fluff

It was by the edge of the woods, far away from the Forest House, that you were meeting your mate in secret for time together when you were almost discovered. Eris had winnowed you to a place that was far from everyone else, where the two of you could be yourselves without anyone finding you. It was a high risk any time that you met with Eris - the both of you knew the dangers if his father or brothers discovered you, because you would not be an approved wife for him. But Eris was your mate, and it was worth any risk to be able to spend time with him, the other half of your soul.

It was a perfect afternoon, the sun shining through the crisp Autumn breeze creating the perfect weather for a picnic together. Eris had made his way on top of you, the sexual tension between you two escalating when he suddenly looked up, scanning the tree line. You could hear his brothers in the distance, apparently on a hunt as the sounds of their horses’ hooves approached you at an alarming rate. 

Eris was able to winnow you away just in time, burning anything you touched to eliminate your scent. After that scare, you decided that you needed to stay away from Eris as well as busier places in town for awhile until any possible suspicions died down.

After two weeks passed, you found yourself lonely. You were missing your mate, and needed someone to keep you company while you were forced to keep your distance from him. One day while buying groceries in the square, you discovered a black and white kitten trailing you down the street. Stopping at a cart to buy some fruit, you giggled at the feeling of the kitten winding its way through your legs, purring as it looked up at you.

You maneuvered your way out of the kitten’s hold, heading back to your apartment when you heard a small “meow,” and turned to see the kitten still at your heels. You bent down to pet it, heart melting at how it purred and pushed its head further into your hand. You grabbed a blackberry from your grocery basket, holding it out to the kitten. The animal sniffed it tentatively before chomping the fruit aggressively, nicking your finger in the process. “You’re a hungry thing, aren’t you?” you asked the cat as you watched it rub against your ankle, meowing for more food. Holding out another blackberry - more careful to avoid being bitten this time - you watched the kitten devour the fruit. “I bet you could eat a whole bramble of berries.”

~~~

It was about a month later when you came home, growing concerned when you didn’t see your cat, Bramble, come up to greet you as she usually did. Setting down your bags, you cautiously called out, “Bramble?” Peering around the corner, you nearly wept with relief as you took in the sight of Bramble curled around Eris’s neck, purring as she licked his ear. Eris’s lip curled at the cat’s show of affection, leaning away from the animal as he looked to you. You giggled at his expression - an attempt to appear annoyed by Bramble - but the mirthful look in his eyes proved otherwise. 

You practically ran to him, carefully lifting Bramble from where she rested on Eris’s shoulders and setting her down as he pulled you in for a kiss. You could feel the passion from him, so many words unspoken as you were finally reunited with your love. Eris pulled back, his forehead resting against yours as silver lined his eyes. “I’ve missed you so much, my dearest love.” You sniffled, twining your fingers in his brilliant red hair as you held him as close as you possibly could, listening to the sound of his heartbeat.

Bramble chose that moment to jump on Eris’s leg, her claws digging into his skin drawing a hiss from him as he looked down at her and sighed. He brushed your hair behind your ear, pressing a kiss to your nose as he teased, “you couldn’t have gotten a dog?”

[pekoehoneyncream]

Ghoaptober # 10

Prompt: Night

Words: 1200~

TW: None (sfw)

This version of Ghoaptober was created by @spadesandshovels

I went into this one with no plan and this is what became of it. Should I warn for miscommunication?

Enjoy!

Soap stood by the open window, watching the few late night stragglers walk by on the pavement below, politely blowing the smoke from his cigarette outside and dispolitely using his empty mug as an ashtray. The cool air breezing in carried the inexplicable crisp smell of autumn.

He could hear Ghost’s slow breaths in the bed behind him, and wasn’t sure if the man was asleep. Usually if Ghost was awake he was as silent as his namesake, but sometimes he liked to lend Soap the assurance that he was nearby, without risking his welcome by actually approaching. 

Soap was up because he couldn’t bring himself to keep laying there. 

He’d gone to bed and had expected that as soon as he was horizontal Ghost would make himself comfortable on Soap’s chest as he always did, but instead Ghost had curled up on the edge of the bed, letting no part of himself drift toward the centre line to touch any part of Soap. He'd laid there, flat on his back, bereft. Cast adrift by the sudden distance Ghost had sought from him. The need for Simon had flared in his chest like a physical ache, but he had long ago promised himself that he would never force Ghost to do anything that made him uncomfortable. 

Soap's love for Ghost, that carried Johnny’s heart safe and warm in its jaws, was squeezing tight. Lips pulled away to bare sharp teeth that cut bloody longing trenches into his heart with every beat it dared take without being assured of Ghost’s returned love. 

Taking another deep pull off his smoke, Soap tried to think back over the day, searching for anything that might have caused this. They were on leave, staying in Ghost’s flat in the city, and they’d gone out. They both got a bit stir crazy if they stayed in all day, so they took little walks, popping into whatever shops caught their interest. Soap had thought they’d had a nice day, no one had even said anything about the plain black half-mask that Ghost wore to keep himself comfortable. 

Soap had thought Ghost looked well bonnie in his wee snood, as he always did, but people got odd about that kind of thing. 

Cursing, he dropped his cigarette. The cherry had crept down to singe his fingers while he hadn’t been paying attention. Cursing again, he bent to snatch the butt up off Ghost’s floor and hastily dropped it into the mug before its heat could nip his fingers again. 

“Johnny?” Came a quiet gravelly rasp, Ghost letting the word draw out sleepily. 

“Aye, mo chridhe. Ah’m ‘ere.” Soap assured, nudging the mug further onto the lintel, distracting himself by debating if he should rinse it now or just hang it ‘til morning. 

“What’re you doin’ o’er there?” By the bed creaks Ghost had rolled to fully face him. He’d chosen to sleep facing the door, leaving Soap the side closest to the windows. 

“No’hing, m'anam. No’ a ‘hing.” Soap resigned himself to climbing back into that cold bed, if only to not worry Ghost. 

Turning around, he was met with warm calf brown eyes watching him in what he might have called a pout if he wasn’t sure that Ghost would steal his cuspids, bicuspids, and molars for saying so. Soap suppressed a smile and settled himself back in bed. Laying to one side instead along the centre, so as to allow Ghost more room to stretch out without risk of touching. 

He stared up at the ceiling, clenching and unclenching his hands, forcing himself to be conscious of all his limbs, so none could habitually stray over to Ghost’s tempting warmth. 

“Johnny?” Ghost was still watching him, Soap could see that much without turning his head. He hadn’t rolled back over to face the door. Hadn’t turned his back to Soap again. 

“Aye, Lamb?” Soap answered, trying to keep his tumultuous emotions out of his tone, while not letting it fall alarmingly flat, “Whit d’ye need?”

“Feel better?” The question was hesitant, like there was more hiding underneath that Ghost was afraid to say. 

The thought of Ghost fearing him in any manner punched a hole straight through Soap’s soul. 

Throwing himself upright, he turned to Ghost, remembering at the last moment that he didn’t want to be touched and clawing his fingers into the pillows instead of letting them hold Ghost’s face. He loomed over Ghost for a moment, nose-to-nose, watching the black of his pupils swallow the brown of his eyes, then Soap's higher thinking kicked into gear and he backed off as quick as he could.

If Ghost wasn’t keen on being touched, Soap getting in his face like that was probably the last thing he wanted. 

“Aye, Ah’m guid, Si.” The casualness Soap tried to project was completely undercut by the way he’d barely stopped himself from entirely falling off the bed and was currently addressing Ghost whilst precariously perched on the bottom corner of their mattress. 

“What’s wrong?” Ghost sat up, but made no effort to close the distance, the worry creasing his face pouring acid into the new hole he’d bored through Soap’s soul. 

“No’hing!” Soap tries for a smile, “Jus’ no’ sure if ye wan’ed me close like tha’, as ye dunnae wan’ me touchin’ ye.” 

“What? Why wouldn’t I want you to touch me?” Ghost’s honest confusion confused Soap.

“Iffin ye didnae wan’ me tae no’ touch ye, why’d ye not-” Soap scrabbles desperately for any word that isn’t some form of cuddle, fails, and gestures helplessly to the centre of the bed. Where they’d usually be cooried up and sleeping away at this time of night.  

“You said your knee hurt!” Ghost exclaims, “I didn’t wanna make it worse!” 

“Ye didnae say tha'! Ye jus' laid nex’ tae me, keepin’ away frae me like ye wan’ a divorce!” Soap can feel tears pushing at the back of his eyes, it’s a bit horrifying how the very idea of Ghost leaving him makes him want to cry. 

“I don’t want a divorce! I just didn’t want to hurt you!” There's a frantic edge to Ghost’s voice and he’s swinging his hands in wide explanatory gestures, as he only does when he’s truly worked up. 

“Well, ye failed.” Soap sniffles, pressing his hands hard against his eyes, as though he could physically dam his tears, “Ye no’ wan’ing me is hur’ful.”

A hand clamps around his wrist and Soap is hauled up the bed to be crushed against Ghost’s chest.

“I always want you, Coinneach John Mactavish.” The words Ghost breathes against his hair ring like a Priest laying a curse, like a Witch casting a blessing. Resounding with layers and levels of passion, belief, and sanity.

Johnny takes the time he needs to calm himself, held tight in Simon’s arms, basking in his warmth and how he presses his lips against Johnny’s temple in one endless kiss. 

“Will ye’ lay doon wi’ me, mo chridhe?” He raises his head to stare earnestly into Simon’s eyes, not able to rid his voice of the small uncertain plea that creeps in. 

Ghost answers by physically lifting Johnny off his lap, planting him in the middle of their bed, then flopping onto his chest to pin him there. Reveling in the delighted laugh that chases the shadows from Johnny’s eyes. 

They lay chest to chest, heartbeats slowing, breathing each other in. 

“Johnny,” Simon grumbles into Johnny's pecs, “We’re not fuckin’ married.”

“So ye dae wan’ a divorce?” Johnny exclaims with a theatrical gasp, pulling back to stare at Simon with wide betrayed eyes.

The pillow that immediately smacks him across the mouth is a small toll to pay for the fit of giggles that steals a smile onto Simon's face as he playfully tries to smother Johnny's snickering.

Thank You For Reading!

My notes for this prompt were "Sleepy cuddle fluff" and I suppose we got there in the end.

Simon likes sleeping on top of Johnny because it reassures him that Johnny is near and protected. He also hates feeling pinned down or trapped so switching is out of the question. Johnny loves it, Simon's like a warm weighted blanket.

PekoeHoneynCream's Masterlist

[yaralulus-secret-santa]

a timeless gift

happy belated birthday, @yaralulu!

(Read here or on AO3.)

It’s his first year alone.

The last time the two of them had spoken was… ages ago. Before the War. Guilt seeps into his veins, straight out of his bleeding heart. What right do you have to care? He hadn’t made the effort to reach out before. For every excuse, a year slipped by—He couldn’t write because his father would know, or his brothers had broken his hand and his magic was too afraid to work in his favour. He was too busy making amends for being the worst son, the weakest out of all seven who couldn’t block out the world even if he wanted to. It just wasn’t… politically correct.

All of it was bullshit. Lucien worried about Tamlin, and he never did anything about it. He waited so long, watching his best friend lose everyone he loved one by one until there was no one left. Fuck. I’m the worst one, aren’t I?

Lucien slips out in the middle of the night, parcels tied tightly and neatly by the deft hands of the lesser faeries who work in the kitchen. He’d asked for discretion along with his order, specific down to the smallest detail. He enchants a satchel to carry everything while hiding the bulk of his baggage, a bottomless bag. He pulls a servant’s cloak over his bright red hair, the most traitorous part of him.

(No, the most traitorous part of him are his feet that guide him across the border between Autumn and Spring.

Or is it his cacophonous heart that beats louder and louder with his filial betrayal.)

The Spring Court has changed. No longer is it a High Lord’s pride, boasting bramble and thorn if only to expose the thin skin of emissaries and visitors. Its edges have smoothed out, but the forest and flowers wilt. Lucien reaches for a hanging leaf, thinning from lack of sun and water. It longs for these necessary things, elements that keep it alive, and withers while waiting.

Lucien gasps softly at the way the very land mirrors its Lord.

Is he… dying?

He picks up his pace, unwilling to winnow but rather using his strength as a High Faerie to cover more ground. His father would have sensed his movement, and would have likely sent his brothers to track him down before he crossed over. He casts one last glance over his shoulder. If he’s caught, this could have been his last night at home.

Is this worth the risk? Lucien asks himself, but his soul responds with a resounding ‘ yes ’. He needs to be here now, pushing through the golden wrought gates of Spring’s manor. There is no resistance towards his invasion, almost as if the very structures understand the depths of their Lord’s yearning. Tamlin needs someone— anyone —to be there for him.

His eyes adjust to the darkness, and he strains his ears to find a sign of the Spring Lord. Lucien scours the inside of the manor, finding each room empty. He reaches the end of the hall of the second floor, peering out the window to look over the grounds. Beneath him, the High Lord’s private garden awaits him, dull and without color save for—

Save for the bright yellow eternal roses and right there, in the center of them is him.

Lucien has never moved faster in his life, dashing back down the stairs and sprinting towards Tamlin. He needs to tell him a hundred different things. He needs to reassure him. He makes sure not to step on the flowers, all while falling to his knees before Tamlin, breathless and wild.

“You are not alone,” he gasps, voice raw with everything he’s failed to say. “ Tamlin. ”

The High Lord looks… defeated. Dark circles frame those once-brilliant emerald eyes. Lucien had loved them as a child, thinking he looked magical. The Autumn Court is so orange, yellow and red. It was always a wonder to gaze upon Tamlin’s leafy green eyes. None of the wonder is there, or the joy. Only pain.

Lucien squeezes his calloused and scarred hands. I’m here, his touch conveys.

“I’m so sorry for not being there for you.” For decades.

They promised to be best friends, despite it all. Lucien may be a fool for clinging to childhood promises, but Tamlin is worth fighting for. He could change his Court. He could change the entirety of Prythian. He’s still here, after everything. He is strong, and he is kind. Lucien can feel it just by holding his hand.

Pain silences Tamlin, but he squeezes Lucien back softly. Thankful?

“I brought gifts,” the Autumn faerie whispers in the cover of night. It pains him to release Tamlin, but he needs both hands to pull out all the food from his satchel. Parcels and parcels of food cover the ground around them, it’s not enough to make up for Lucien’s absence after all this time, but it’s more than enough to feed the High Lord.

Tears line those emerald eyes as each dish is unveiled.

“These are…” Tamlin croaks, his voice raw from disuse. Or screaming until he couldn’t take it anymore. Lucien cannot tell which.

“These are every dish prepared for your mother whenever she visited the Autumn Court. She also mentioned to the cooks that you were vegetarian. I’m unsure if that’s still true, but I elected to follow that directive as well.” Lucien offers Tamlin a hopeful smile, and his cheeks begin to ache when he realizes that Tamlin is in agony. Have I done the wrong thing?

Tears spill down Tamlin’s cheeks, staining the edge of the nearest parcel’s cloth.

“I have overstepped. My Lord, my sincerest apologies,” Lucien starts to pack up his gifts.

Tamlin’s voice gives him pause. “They’re not coming back.”

“Oh, Tam.” Lucien gets up and skirts around the little picnic he made for his friend. He kneels beside him and pulls him into a tight hug. The touch, the comfort—the support gets to him and Tamlin breaks down. Lucien holds him, rubbing his back and rocking him slightly to soothe him. “You’re alright. You’re not alone anymore.”

He feels the way Tamlin’s fingers curl into his vest, holding onto him with whatever he has left.

Lucien had worried about what to get Tamlin for this birthday, his first one alone. He had commissioned an ornate hand-carved fiddle that he planned to send over later, but he doubts that music will be heard anytime soon in this darkened place. Tamlin is in a state of survival. No, worse. He is in a state of wondering if there is a point at all in trying to survive. Lucien can feel it.

Material things won’t ever replace what Tamlin has lost, but Lucien knows what he can give. He can’t fix it, but he can try. 

“I’ll be here for you. However I can. Whenever I can.”

Best friends forever.

It is a gift he will continue to give for years to come.

[manicpixiefelix]

Thinking of our fae AU and okay, I know it's assumed Reader is also Summer Court like the Cattons

But! What if they're actually Autumn Court?

Thankfully, the Cattons still basically adopt them and they and Nate are inseparable.

The Castle of Reader's family is similar yet so different from the Cattons, suspended in perpetual autumn bathed in that warm golden glow of the setting sun giving it a dreamy quality. Leaves a fiery tapestry making the trees seem to be ablaze in shades of red, orange and yellow.

Sometimes, when they pass by greenery on the Catton estate, it will briefly change. Demifey!Oliver is fascinated by it and the way shadows shift in their presence.

Obsessed Obsessed OBSESSED!!

Autumn Fae!Reader is absolutely a spectacular concept, I love all of this.

Also I think that the changes that happen on the Cattons land because of/around them are pretty cosmetic because it's not Their Land. Which means instead, the grass turns pale and gold beneath their feet but it's still just as lush as the grass around it. Leaves on trees they touch briefly become a rush of red and orange and gold, but they'll never fall in the summer court. Some smaller plants will seem to bow to them in the way they shrivel and shrink, but give it time and they'll bounce right back to their full glory.

The opposite can be said for the one time Felix visited the autumn court to support the reader. He grabbed one of the many falling leaves from right out of the air and it turned green between his fingers. The grass crunches beneath him, no matter how lush and lovely it may look when he steps on it. Because he's Summer Court & because he's Felix, I fully believe he has this weird affinity with plants, like a lot of royal fae I want to believe have certain powers or effects on the world that they don't fully understand or realise. Felix discovered his when he touched a flower and it began to immediately move to turn to him more directly in the moment of contact. What Felix and everyone else has failed to realise is that every single flower on the Saltburn Estate is growing in the direction of his bedroom (because of sleep it's where he statistically spends the most time on the property). The flowers of Saltburn don't grow to the sun they grow to Felix.

Anyways so I love this and I think Autumn!Reader & Summer!Felixs magic has bled into each other over the years, and that's most noticeable when they're doting on Oliver.

Wreathed in vines and laurels whose greenery is gold and almost brittle, with leaves in red,yellow,orange so vibrant they're like gems, but they flutter, healthy and strong, and never seem at risk of falling.

Chainmail carefully created with so much love by the reader and Felix together, the plants woven and grafted together with such great pains taken to make sure Oliver could wear it without himself getting pricked by thorns inside the garment. The garment itself has your trademark colouring, as if it had spent a long time cut from the roof, almost as pale as Oliver's skin, drawing little attention to itself when something is worn over it, even a plain t-shirt. Still, it's very much alive, cool, comfortable and flexible to wear and fight in. The thorns grow back on their own, but you have a hand in those too, as they grow in at the point of death; dehydrated and sharp as a tack. When he wins, and he always does, the whole crowd will see small roses bloom in triumph across whatever is left over and visible of the tunic, up his arms, across his back and chest, always just where the thorns are. It was Oliver's request specifically, to soften the spikes since he didn't want to hurt either of you in the excitement of his celebrating.

Other things Oliver has noted about the ways your two courts have effected you and Felix that neither of you seem to think about but that he finds endearing;

Sometimes he'll be stroking Felix's hair and he'll find a little autumn leaf in there. Not even because they'd been around Autumn leaves or rolled in any, being so close to you manifests leaves in Felix's hair. Oliver wonders with hope about when there will be leaves found in his hair.

Oliver has helped you garden before. You can only ever garden at Saltburn because you know that even if the plants look half dead when you place them, they'll be fine the next day on the grounds of the estate. Sometimes, however, you're surprised that a few of them look healthy and green and strong, even compared to the ones you did a few minutes before that. Oliver wonders how long it will take you to figure out that plants literally bloom in your hands when you talk so lovingly and fondly about Felix.

Anyways, enough rambling from me for this ask. Yes to Autumn Court Fae Reader is the point. 💖💖💖

[readychilledwine]

do you ever feel awkward writing for Eris? I saw your poll about doing an SJM bad guys week, so I'm guessing not.

Warning - This is going to become SJM critical. Please know I am not anti any of these characters. I am, however, critical of SJM as a long-time fantasy reader.

You answered your own question in your ask there, friend.

I do not have issues writing for Eris. The main issue the fandom has with him is the situation with Mor, and here's my stance on that:

We have an issue with the timeline around this incident, so I will make my judgement call when SJM does her eventual retcon and fixes it.

We know Eris is younger than Mor and Rhys, who are around the same age. Mor was sold to Autumn as Eris's bride at the tender age of 17. When Helion is giving us his gorgeous monolog talking about his love for Momma Autumn, we find out that she and Beron were married young and had barely been married for two decades around the start of the first war. Meaning Eris was around 19 at the time.

This passage from Rhys is a little hazy and unclear, but from how I and several other people took it, he was around 28 at the start of that war, meaning Mor was also around 27 to 28. That makes Mor at least 8 to 9 years older than Eris. Meaning, he potentially was a LITERAL child when he and Mor were engaged. He would have been around the age of 7 to 9 and already had the mindset to fear Beron.

This where I am going to look SJM critical. She is great at a few things, creating plotholes by retconing, and fucking up timelines due to her retconing.

Let's say she retcons to correct that issue. We still know Eris is younger than Mor by a year or two. So, let's say he was 15 to 16. At 15 to 16 years old, I want you to think about what you would have done in this situation:

You are a young prince or princess. Your father is a known abuser and racist. You all have just found out your betrothed has sullied themselves with a person your father considers below all of you, and you know it was done to get out of a marriage she did not want to be in. You and your men find her on the border of your father's court, beaten and with a nail in her womb. Here are your options:

1. You take her back to your father, the known racist and abuser. Thus making her, in reality, his problem. You have witnessed how your father likes to handle his problems. You also know he's angry and embarrassed this female made the choice to sleep with a lesser born bastard Illyrian over marry his high fae princeling.

2. You cannot risk touching her, so leave her somewhere her friends can find her without risking her or them having to enter Autumn. This will allow her to go home, where she is safe, and heal.

In both scenarios, Eris could not win. He either took Mor to his father and risked her death and was blamed for that, or he left her knowing her friends were more than likely coming and be blamed for that as well. He was now the villain in Mor's story regardless of what actions he took, and he was that villain as a teen. A literal child. As a child he picked to allow Morrigan life. To allow her to live without being trapped the way he and his mother are.

Eris, in theory, made a selfless choice. He made the choice to damn himself and his reputation for the sake of Mor and as he says, it cost him..

As for me being willing to write other SJM bad guys-

It is perfectly normal and acceptable in every other fandom to be attracted to the bad guys and to write dark fanfiction about them. You see it all time in Tolkien, Harry Potter, and (grossly since they are all children) it has resurged in the Percy Jackson fandom. Please have several seats and let me, and the several other people who are excited for it, enjoy my little story about Pollux, my reader, and his heavy cock that sways to and fro.

It's also, as someone pumping out the amount of content I am right now, really nice to get to write a dark fic with a villain here and there for a change of pace, so thank you to everyone who is supportive and open to me doing that.