#potential title: to and from the autumn

[pyrriax]

[mahalachives]

Part 1: The Lady of Autumn

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The worst part about nursing school isn't the exams, the clinical rotations, or even the soul-crushing student debt.

It's the persistent feeling that you're being slowly murdered by sleep deprivation.

Which, ironically, is exactly what they're training you to prevent in others.

"Just four more blocks," you mutter, clutching your textbooks as you trudge home at 2 AM. Streetlights flicker ominously above, casting elongated shadows that seem to reach for you with hungry fingers. You make a mental note to report this to the city's Department of Overly Dramatic Lighting.

Your phone buzzes.

Your roommate: Did you die from studying? Should I eat your leftover pizza?

You respond: Still alive. Touch my pizza and you won't be. I've memorized 206 bones in the human body, which means I know exactly which ones to break.

The wind intensifies, scattering crimson and gold leaves in a spiraling dance reminiscent of flames.

That's when it hits you—the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

Cold fingers trace your spine despite your thick jacket. You quicken your pace, mentally cataloging potential weapons in your bag.

Trauma care textbook? Too unwieldy, but could give someone a concussion—and then you'd be ethically obligated to treat them. Pen? Requires close combat skills you definitely lack. The pepper spray is buried somewhere in the depths of your backpack—unreachable in time, like that one french fry that falls between car seats.

A shadow shifts to your left. A figure emerges from between two parked cars.

A man. Unmistakably dangerous.

"Wallet and phone," he demands, voice gravelly with impatience.

"Seriously?" Exhaustion momentarily eclipses fear. "I'm a nursing student. I have seventeen dollars and a maxed-out credit card. You'd make better money outside Starbucks.”

His expression hardens, something feral flickering behind his eyes. "I said, wallet and phone." Moonlight catches the blade in his hand—not the cheap switchblade you'd expect, but something with an almost ceremonial quality to its curved edge.

"Fine, fine," you say, reaching slowly for your bag. "No need for violence. The seventeen dollars is all yours.”

As you move, he lunges forward—startled by a passing car or simply impatient.

The knife slides between your ribs with disturbing ease.

"Oh," you say stupidly. "That's not good."

Pain erupts, sharp and searing, as your textbooks crash to the pavement. The man flees without even taking your wallet, his footsteps fading too quickly, as if he's vanishing rather than running.

You press against the wound, your training asserting itself through the shock.

Pressure. You need pressure.

But blood seeps between your fingers with alarming speed, warm and sticky against your increasingly cold skin. Iron and copper fill your nostrils—the unmistakable scent of your own mortality.

"Help," you try to call, but it emerges as a whisper.

As you slide down against cold brick, vision blurring, something inexplicable happens. The shadows around you deepen, moving with apparent purpose. The autumn leaves aren't merely wind-blown—they're circling you in a deliberate vortex, faster and faster until they blur into a wall of fire-colored light.

In your fading consciousness, you witness something impossible.

A tear—as if reality itself has been sliced open by the same blade that pierced your side. Through this aperture pours light unlike anything you've seen before, golden, warm, and impossibly ancient. It smells of cinnamon and woodsmoke and something else—something that reminds you of lightning striking earth.

As darkness encroaches, one final, absurd thought crosses your mind. I'm definitely going to miss that anatomy exam tomorrow. Dr. Phillips will never believe I died as an excuse.

Then nothing.

Until you wake to a ceiling painted with flames and falling leaves, each one rendered with such excruciating detail that they appear to be actually falling, burning, dancing above you.

You sit up cautiously, your muscles responding with unfamiliar grace. Your body feels simultaneously lighter and more powerful, as if gravity holds less sway over you. Your hand instinctively finds your side where the stab wound should be.

Nothing. Not even scar tissue.

Just smooth skin beneath unfamiliar silk nightclothes embroidered with flame-colored threads in patterns of leaves and fire. You realize you've never felt silk this nice before.

When you swing your legs over the bed, the room tilts strangely. Your balance is off, your center of gravity shifted. You nearly stumble, catching yourself on an ornately carved bedpost shaped like twisted branches. Your reflexes seem sharper, but your limbs are longer than you remember, more elegant.

The door opens, and a petite woman with auburn hair enters, carrying a silver tray. When she notices you're conscious, she startles violently, nearly spilling a glass of dark liquid. The smell reaches you—wine, but infused with unfamiliar spices and something that makes your nose tingle.

"My lady!" she exclaims, voice pitched high with unmistakable terror. But beneath the fear, you detect something else—a morbid curiosity, as if she's witnessing a predator that might choose another target instead of her. "You're—you're awake!"

You stare at her, bewildered by her fear. "Yes... How long was I asleep?" And why are you looking at me like I'm going to use your spleen as a hat?

She sets down the tray with trembling hands, maintaining maximum distance between you. "Three days, my lady. The High Lord has been most concerned."

High Lord.

The words should be meaningless, yet they resonate with peculiar familiarity, like a half-remembered dream. Images flash unbidden—a throne room with walls of amber, a crown of golden antlers, hands that can conjure fire with a snap of fingers.

"Where am I?" you ask gently, afraid she might bolt at any sudden movement. Your voice sounds strange to your ears—more musical, with an undercurrent of authority you've never possessed.

Her eyes widen further, pupils dilating with renewed fear. "The Autumn Court, my lady. Your home." She retreats toward the door, never breaking eye contact, as if you might attack without warning. "Shall I... inform Lord Eris of your awakening?"

"Yes, please," you reply, mystified by her reaction. "Thank you."

She curtsies deeply—too deeply, almost mockingly so, though terror doesn't resemble mockery—and hurries out, closing the door with a soft click that somehow conveys relief.

You slide from the bed, noticing an ornate mirror across the room. Approaching cautiously, you examine your reflection.

You look... different.

Not dramatically, but there's something otherworldly about your appearance now. Your features are still recognizable, but sharper, more refined. Your skin glows with a subtle luminescence, like late afternoon sunlight through amber. Your eyes now hold flecks of gold that shift and dance like embers in a dying fire. And most obviously, your ears now taper to delicate points. Fae ears. You touch them gently, half-expecting elaborate prosthetics.

But they're warm, sensitive—undeniably yours. When you touch them, a strange shiver runs down your spine, and the candles in the room flicker in response.

I can feel the magic, you realize with a jolt of both terror and exhilaration. It hums beneath your skin like an electrical current, responding to your emotions. The knowledge of how to use it feels tantalizingly close, like a word on the tip of your tongue.

The door opens without warning—no knock, no announcement—and a tall, imposing figure enters. He has auburn hair threaded with gold and eyes like smoldering embers. His face is all sharp angles and aristocratic contempt, beautiful but cold. Yet something flickers in those burning eyes when they meet yours—recognition, followed by confusion, followed by calculation so swift you almost miss it.

"Sister," he says, voice deceptively smooth, like honey concealing broken glass. "How... unexpected to see you awake." His fingers tap against his thigh in a pattern that seems deliberate rather than nervous—one-two-three, pause, one-two—as if counting or sending a signal.

Sister?

He approaches slowly, burning eyes assessing you with predatory intensity. When he passes the window, you notice how the late afternoon light bends toward him, as if drawn to his presence.

"The healers doubted your recovery. Father remains quite... displeased about the incident."

"Incident?" you echo, your voice sounding foreign even to yourself.

A flicker of something—suspicion?—crosses his features before vanishing behind indifference. He stops, studies you with his head tilted slightly, like a raptor sighting prey. "Yes. Your ill-conceived experiment." His smile never reaches his eyes, but a muscle twitches in his jaw—tension or suppressed emotion. "Three days unconscious is theatrical, even for you."

"I was trying to understand them," you say, surprised at the words rising unbidden from some deeper knowledge. "Mortals. Their bodies may be weak, but there's something... innovative about it."

He circles you deliberately, like a predator stalking prey. His movements are too fluid to be human, too predatory to be comforting. "You seem... different."

"Different how?" you ask carefully, fighting the urge to back away.

"I can't quite identify it." He stops uncomfortably close. You can smell autumn on him—fallen leaves, woodsmoke, the sharp tang of apples fermenting into cider. His smile turns cruel, but there's a guardedness to it now. "Is this your new strategy? Feigning amnesia for sympathy? It won't work on Father, I assure you."

"The spell may have had... unexpected effects," you admit, the half-truth forming easily. Something tells you revealing your true nature would be dangerous—possibly fatal. "I'm still... adjusting."

"Hmm." Skepticism radiates from him, but also a hint of curiosity. He examines your face as if searching for cracks in a mask. "Memory loss? Or something more interesting?"

You meet his gaze steadily, despite the instinctive fear his presence evokes. "Let's just say I'm seeing things from a new perspective."

A bark of laughter escapes him—genuine, if brief. "How delightfully cryptic. Perhaps you've finally developed an interesting personality to match your talent for cruelty." He steps back, and you resist the urge to sigh with relief. "Disoriented or not, Father expects you at dinner tonight. The Night Court delegation arrives tomorrow, and he won't tolerate any... incidents."

Night Court. Again, words that should mean nothing yet trigger faint recognition. Dark stone halls beneath a mountain. Political rivals. Ancient grudges. Assassination attempts thinly disguised as diplomatic overtures.

So basically Thanksgiving with extra stabbing.

"I'll be there," you promise, uncertain what else to say. "When should I present myself?"

"Sunset. Wear the red. Father will expect a demonstration of your control after your... mishap." Something almost like concern flashes across his features. "Don't disappoint him. The last time..." He gestures vaguely to a thin scar on his wrist. "Let's just say his temper hasn't improved with age."

"Thank you for the warning," you say, the words feeling strange in your mouth—genuine gratitude toward this dangerous, beautiful creature who is supposedly your brother.

His eyebrows rise slightly, that calculation returning to his gaze. "Now I know something is wrong. Expressing gratitude? Perhaps we should summon the healers again."

"Perhaps I'm simply in a generous mood." Or perhaps I'm not actually your psychotic sister, but just a nursing student who got stabbed and body-swapped into Fantasy Mean Girls.

"See that you are." He turns to leave, pausing at the threshold. "Oh, and sister? Try not to terrorize the servants so thoroughly. The last one you 'played with' still hasn't regained use of her hands. Even Father found that distasteful."

With that, he vanishes, leaving you alone with horrifying implications. And a newfound appreciation for your old life of student loans and instant ramen.

Whoever you now are—whoever's body you inhabit—is someone who tortures servants for amusement. Someone whose mere presence evokes terror. Someone even her brother approaches with caution.

You sink onto the bed's edge, heart racing. Your legs feel weak with the enormity of your situation. Magic. High Lord. Autumn Court. Pointed ears.

All impossible, yet undeniably real. And in a few hours, you must somehow convince a father you've never met that you are his daughter, a daughter renowned for cruelty and volatility. And you thought your nursing practical exams were stressful.

"This can't be happening," you whisper to the empty chamber.

As if in response, the flames in the fireplace leap higher, responding to your distress. On your bedside table, the wine in the glass ripples without being touched.

You stare at your reflection one final time, adjusting the crimson gown that drapes over your unfamiliar body like liquid fire. The fabric responds to your touch, rippling with actual embers that dance along the hemline without burning.

Magic. Your magic, apparently.

"You can do this," you mutter. "Just channel your inner Regina George with a sprinkle of sociopathy."

A knock at the door makes you jump. The same terrified servant enters, keeping her eyes downcast.

"My lady, Lord Eris asked me to remind you that dinner begins in ten minutes."

"Thank you," you say automatically.

The servant freezes, eyes widening in shock.

Right. Apparently psycho-sister doesn't say 'thank you.'

You clear your throat. "I mean... how dare you interrupt my preparations!" The attempt at menace falls embarrassingly flat, your voice rising into a question at the end.

The servant's expression shifts from terror to confusion. "My apologies, my lady. Shall I... help you with your hair?"

"No. Yes. I mean—" You attempt a haughty sneer. "Make it quick, or I'll... turn your fingers into twigs." Was that threatening enough? Too specific? Not specific enough?

The servant approaches cautiously, as if expecting a trap. When you don't immediately immolate her, she begins arranging your hair with trembling fingers.

"You seem... different, my lady," she ventures, immediately flinching as if expecting punishment.

"Do I? How fascinating that a lowly servant thinks she can analyze me," you reply, wincing internally at your awkward delivery.

"Of course not, my lady. Forgive me."

You catch her eye in the mirror, and genuine remorse floods you. "What's your name?" you ask softly.

She freezes mid-motion. "Briar, my lady. Though you've asked seven times this month."

"And I keep forgetting because you're so..." you search for something suitably cruel, "...insignificant."

Rather than appearing hurt, Briar looks relieved. This is familiar territory.

"That's more like you, my lady," she says, almost smiling.

Great. Even my attempts at cruelty are recognizable as fake.

"Tell me, Briar," you say as she pins a golden leaf-shaped comb into your hair. "What exactly is expected of me at dinner?"

Briar's hands pause. "The usual, my lady. Lord Beron will want a demonstration of your powers. You typically create those little fire animals that dance across the table." Her voice drops. "Though perhaps not the ones that tried to set Lord Eris's sleeve on fire last time."

"And what about the Night Court delegation?"

"They arrive tomorrow, my lady. The High Lord and his Inner Circle retinue from the Night Court." She hesitates. "Your father expects you to behave... diplomatically. After the incident with the wine at the Winter Court."

"Ah, yes. That incident."

"When you made Lord Kallias's wine freeze in his throat because he suggested your fire powers were less impressive than his lady's ice abilities? He nearly died."

Holy crap. Who AM I?

"A measured response," you manage to say.

Briar finishes your hair and steps back. "There. You look beautiful, my lady."

"Thank—" You catch yourself. "Obviously I do. Now get out before I decide to use your eyeballs as earrings."

Briar curtsies hurriedly and backs toward the door.

"Wait," you call, softening despite yourself. "Your hands. Are they... I mean, will they heal?"

Her expression shifts to pure confusion. "My hands, my lady?"

"My brother mentioned something about... never mind."

"Oh! You mean Lily's hands. After you made her hold burning coals." Briar's voice is matter-of-fact, but she subconsciously rubs her own palms. "The healer says she might regain partial use eventually."

The horror must show on your face because Briar adds hastily, "She spoke out of turn, my lady. Everyone agreed the punishment was... appropriate."

"Of course," you murmur, stomach churning.

When Briar leaves, you take several deep breaths. I'm inhabiting the body of a literal psychopath in a family of magical sadists. Cool. Cool cool cool.

The dining hall is breathtaking and terrifying in equal measure. The ceiling soars impossibly high, its fresco depicting scenes of battle and conquest. Flames dance in mid-air instead of candles, casting everything in flickering amber light.

At the head of the table sits a male who can only be your "father," Lord Beron. His power radiates from him like heat from a furnace, ancient and oppressive. His eyes—identical to Eris's—track your entrance with predatory assessment.

Eris sits at his right hand. Three other males who share your familial features occupy seats along the table—more brothers, you assume. Their conversation dies as you enter.

"Ah, the prodigal daughter awakens," Beron says, voice like gravel over silk. "How good of you to join us."

You dip into what you hope is an appropriate curtsy. "Father."

"We were taking bets on whether you'd grace us with your presence," says one brother, his tone suggesting he lost money on your arrival.

"Sorry to disappoint," you reply, taking the empty seat across from Eris.

Beron studies you with narrowed eyes. "I'm told your little... experiment left you somewhat altered."

"Nothing that affects my abilities, Father." You hope.

"We shall see." He gestures to your untouched goblet. "Show us."

Crap. Fire animals. How do I—

You stare at the goblet, willing something—anything—to happen. The magic inside you stirs sluggishly, like a reluctant student being forced to solve an equation at the board.

Come on. Fire. Animals. Dancing. How hard can it be?

To your relief, a tiny spark ignites above the wine. It grows, taking shape—limbs forming, a tail, ears—

"A... bunny?" one brother snorts. "How terrifying."

Indeed, a fire-rabbit now hops across the table, leaving no burns despite its flickering form. It looks less "creature of nightmare" and more "adorable woodland friend."

Beron's expression darkens. "Is this a jest?"

"I thought I'd try something... different," you manage.

"Different," Beron repeats flatly.

The rabbit multiplies, becoming two, then four, then eight tiny fire-bunnies hopping around the table. One nuzzles Eris's hand.

"Stop this foolishness," Beron commands.

You frantically try to extinguish them, but they only multiply faster, now nibbling at ghostly fire-carrots that materialize from nowhere.

Eris chokes on his wine, and you can't tell if it's suppressed rage or laughter.

"Perhaps she hit her head harder than we thought," suggests another brother, watching as a fire-bunny does a little dance by his plate.

"ENOUGH!" Beron roars, slamming his fist on the table.

The bunnies explode into shower of sparks that reform into—

"Butterflies?" Eris's voice cracks.

Dozens of fire-butterflies now flutter around the chandelier, casting warm, gentle light across the room.

The brothers exchange baffled glances.

"Who are you," Beron asks slowly, "and what have you done with my daughter?"

Oh no.

"I don't know what you mean, Father," you stammer. "I'm simply exploring... gentler forms of expression."

"Gentler," he repeats, as if you've suggested something obscene. "My daughter, who set her nursemaid on fire for brushing her hair too roughly, is exploring gentler forms of expression."

"Maybe it's a side effect of her spell," offers one brother. "Temporary insanity."

"I'm not insane," you protest. "I'm just..." A human nursing student trapped in a homicidal fairy's body. "...evolving as an artist."

Eris snorts into his wine, earning a glare from Beron.

"Control your creatures," Beron demands.

You concentrate, and the butterflies reluctantly merge into a single flame that hovers over the table before extinguishing itself.

An uncomfortable silence falls.

"Perhaps we should postpone the delegation," suggests the brother beside you. "If she's going to behave... oddly."

"No," Beron's voice is final. "The alliance is too important." His gaze fixes on you. "But you, daughter, will remain in your chambers tomorrow unless you can demonstrate appropriate behavior."

"What if..." you begin carefully, "...what if I promised not to harm anyone?"

The silence that follows is deafening.

"Not harm anyone?" Beron repeats incredulously. "That's the entire point of the delegation. To show strength. To remind them of the consequences of betrayal."

"Through diplomacy," you suggest weakly.

All five males stare at you as if you've sprouted a second head.

"I think," Eris says slowly, "that my sister is merely disoriented from her spell. She'll be herself by tomorrow." His eyes meet yours with unmistakable warning.

"Indeed," you grasp the lifeline. "Just a temporary... adjustment period."

Beron doesn't look convinced, but he returns to his meal with a dismissive gesture. "See that your 'adjustment' concludes before they arrive. The Night Court already thinks us weak after your mother's... display of mercy last solstice."

The brothers return to their previous conversations, though you catch them casting curious glances your way. Only Eris continues to study you openly, his expression calculating.

Later, as servants clear the plates, Eris corners you in the corridor.

"Whatever is happening with you, sister, fix it," he murmurs. "Father is already suspicious."

"I'm trying," you reply truthfully.

"Fire bunnies? Promises not to harm anyone?" He scoffs. "If I didn't know better, I'd think someone replaced you with a Spring Court weakling."

Your heart skips. "Don't be ridiculous."

"The sister I know would have turned that servant's hair to ash just for looking at her directly." He narrows his eyes. "Tomorrow, when they arrive, you will act like yourself. Feared. No more of whatever... this is." He gestures vaguely at all of you.

"Or what?"

A cold smile spreads across his face. "Or I'll tell Father exactly how your experiment failed. And what it might mean for the power dynamics within our court."

The threat hangs in the air between you.

"Fine," you manage. "I'll be more... myself."

"Good." Eris steps back. "I'll have the servants draw up a training schedule for you in the morning. Your magic is clearly... unstable." His eyes linger on yours, as if trying to peer through to the truth. "Sleep well, sister. Tomorrow will be... illuminating."

After he leaves, you hurry back to your chambers, heart pounding. The situation is worse than you thought. Not only are you trapped in a body that isn't yours, in a world of magic and cruelty, but now you have to pretend to be someone you're not—someone terrible.

The moment your door closes behind you, the tears come. Hot and desperate, they stream down your face as you slide to the floor, your back against the door. The elegant gown pools around you like congealing blood.

"I want to go home," you whisper, your voice breaking. "Please, I just want to go home."

Around you, the flames in the fireplace respond to your distress, flickering wildly before dimming to barely-glowing embers. Even the magic of this place seems to mourn with you.

For the first time since waking in this nightmare, you allow yourself to truly feel the loss. Your life. Your future. Your identity. All gone, replaced by this twisted fairy tale where your "family" measures love in scars and power in screams.

There, on the cold stone floor of a monster's bedroom, you cry until exhaustion claims you.

Tomorrow, you'll have to become the villain of someone else's story. But tonight—just for tonight—you allow yourself to be exactly who you are: lost, afraid, and desperately hoping for a way home.

Author's Note: Thanks for diving into this canon(ish) ACOTAR adventure where a nursing student with a "do no harm" oath is suddenly piloting the body of Autumn Court's resident psychopath—think "Florence Nightingale trapped in Bellatrix Lestrange" but with more awkward attempts at being evil.

There's something deliciously ironic about a healer having to pretend to be a torturer. More chapters coming soon! 🫡😶‍🌫️

[forkingandcountry-if]

For King and Country is an 18+ period immersion fantasy fic which seeks to combine the extensive background work and history associated with high fantasy titles such as LOTR with more ‘realistic’ storytelling and settings. It may contain distressing content like depiction of regressive attitudes (sexism, misogyny and prejudice), major injury to the characters, character deaths, blood, gore, abuse and optional sexual content. More specific warnings will be given at the beginning of each chapter.

Chapter 1 Out Now! (277k words)

Remember those long summer days when the countryside was green and life was still young, when you were but a little culver and all the world was promised for you.

But summer has ended. Amidst the furore and tumult, autumn crept in unnoticed, finding you unprepared, still a greenhorn.

Now, the old order is dead, yet the Empire endures. In this new and uncertain world, what are you willing to do for your King and Country, O little culver?

Ah little tragedies, that you could not remain in the safety of your family's country manor, that they could not shield you once again from this world.

You must take to the capital at once, like all men and women of good birth, for king and country and the glory of the commonwealth! The spirit of progress and change has swept through the nation. The heady days of revolution are long over, and the streets have been washed clean of blood and filth. Invited to serve in the King's Army and attend university as a ward of the king, you must answer the King’s call. Navigate and become increasingly entangled in the web of intrigue, gossip, violence, and ideas that swirl around the nation. Enter a society radically different from the one you were raised to expect. These are the years that will decide your fate and that of your fellow countrymen. Act wisely, for it is not often that the world is within your grasp.

Features

Fully customize your MC. Choose your pronouns, sexuality, appearance and more. Assume the identity of a citizen of noble birth and experience the story through their eyes.

Romance one of eight ROs or engage in a polyamorous relationship with a pre-selected two of them. The only possible poly route is the Young King and the Queen Ruler.

Practice and specialise in the skills of the King's Army with the option for swordplay, marksmanship, offensive galderquid and diplomacy.

Define your political leanings on the leading issues of your time.

Debate, engage and make allies and enemies with the various competing factions and interests that flock to the city.

Study at Azma University, earning your lecturers admiration for your diligence, intellect, ambition or adventurousness or cruise through relying on your wealth and ability to hide.

Help to stabilize or sabotage the Empire.

Don't lose your head.

Critical Lore*

Talent

Galder denotes the practice of magic within our nation, a discipline requiring extensive study and mastery. The ability to manipulate Galderquid, the fundamental essence of magic, is a rare and intricate skill, demanding years of rigorous training to achieve even moderate proficiency.

Every individual possesses a basic affinity for Galderquid, but those with exceptional potential are identified through comprehensive evaluations conducted by village or city physicians around the ages of 12 or 13. These assessments determine the individual's capacity for advanced magical education.

Upon evaluation, candidates are assigned a national rank based on their proficiency. Those demonstrating exceptional aptitude are offered state-sponsored education at the Azma Univetsity at the age of 18. Others are placed in various other institutions or may pursue private tutelage.

Galder is often referred to as the "fifth philosophy," characterized by its non-intuitive nature. Mastery requires adherence to rigorous methodologies grounded in reason, first principles, and established precedents. The study of Galder encompasses several specialized fields, each with distinct applications and techniques:

Sympathetic Galder: This field focuses on influencing the minds of individuals or animals. It includes practices such as illusion creation, language translation, emotional manipulation, and sleep inducement.

Transmutative Galder: Involves altering the intrinsic nature or form of objects. This process generally relies on the principle that the original and transformed items must possess equivalent 'worth.' The approximate worth of common subjects of transmutation can be found in any good transmutation book.

Invocation Galder: Pertains to the summoning and manipulation of natural elements, including water, earth, fire, and wind.

Clerical Galder: Associated with the Church, this field is predominantly closed practice. However, educational institutions provide instruction in healing and charming, which are also fundamental aspects of clerical magic.

Archery: Involves the use of Galder to manifest a bow and arrows composed of energy. These projectiles deliver significant blunt damage upon impact but they have more varied usage and techniques as taught by bow-masters.

Blade-Use: Similar to Archery, this field focuses on creating blades, swords, or daggers from Galder. These weapons inflict substantial blunt damage but they have more varied usage and techniques as taught by blade-masters.

The Second Civil War

The Second Civil War, also known as the Revolution, erupted ten years ago and lasted for two years, reshaping the political landscape of the realm. The conflict ended with the ascension of King Edmund I of House Wynd, following a tumultuous period of unrest and upheaval. The war’s roots lay in years of widespread discontent under King Wulfric I Wynd, whose governance was marked by controversial policies and growing resentment among the populace.

The immediate trigger for the war was King Wulfric's deathbed decision to legitimize his illegitimate son and name him heir presumptive, bypassing his eldest daughter, who was widely expected to ascend the throne. This unprecedented act enraged both the nobility and commoners, particularly in Redeemist regions, where it was seen as an affront to both justice and religious teachings. Protests erupted across the empire, with laborers and yeomanry deposing officials loyal to the usurper in a series of violent uprisings. Martial law was declared as the disinherited princess rallied loyal houses and nobility to her cause.

The rebellion gained a critical leader in Marshal Walthe Courtney, a veteran of the unpopular Eleven Years’ War. Courtney’s military acumen and strategic alliances with peasant uprisings turned the tide of the conflict. Alongside the Princess’s royal forces, his army executed a series of decisive sieges, culminating in the Siege of the King's Seat, where the usurper was overthrown.

The war concluded with a great council of the great houses instituting sweeping reforms. Though the monarchy was retained, it was bound by a codified constitution, the Grand East Code, ensuring limits to royal power. Tragically, the Princess died on the battlefield, leaving behind a will that named her youngest brother, Edmund, as the rightful heir. She bypassed their older brother, Cassian, whom she described as “too choleric and red-blooded in his aspect for the duties of kingship,” appointing him as regent until Edmund came of age at 18.

The post-war reforms sought to balance power and placate the revolutionary factions led then by Courtney:

Parliamentary Restructuring: The previous weak bicameral parliament that had been unable to prevent the amendment of the Act of Succession was replaced by a unicameral National Assembly with expanded suffrage for yeomanry and laborers owning sufficient land. Eligibility criteria were simplified, and elections were set to occur every eight years.

Military and Noble Oversight: Nobles' heirs were required to serve as wards of the king for 24 months upon reaching the age of 18, receiving military training and living in the capital. This was framed as a means to unite the realm but also served to prevent rebellion and strengthen Edmund's legitimacy.

Expanded Education: Azma University, previously exclusive to the nobility, was opened to all individuals of suitable skill, broadening access to education and opportunity.

General Walthe Courtney, hailed as a war hero, was appointed Lord Protector with sweeping powers to some extent by the demand of the peasant army he'd led. He served as Commander of the Armies and a critical stabilizing force throughout Edmund’s reign and Cassian’s regency. The King’s Council was restructured to include the elected Premier, who could recommend cabinet appointments, although the King retained the final decision. Early in his reign, King Edmund has established a precedent of accepting the recommendations of both the Premier and the Lord Protector, balancing the demands of reformists and royalists alike.

The King's Army and Azma University

The King's Army, colloquially known among the common folk as the Small Army or King's Life Guard, serves as a voluntary armed force in peacetime within the Empire. Its primary role is to function as a national guard, maintaining peace and order across the extensive and diverse territories of the Empire and swear loyalty solely to the King.

During periods of peace, the King's Guard is comprised of volunteers who contribute to the stability of the nation. However, in times of war, the monarch is vested with the authority to implement conscription, thereby obligating the great houses to raise men to fight for their king.

Following the Great Council of 421, significant reforms were introduced regarding service in the King's Guard. Those heirs of great houses are now required to complete two years service and training within the King's Army as wards of the king although this time can be commuted upon ascension as Lord/Lady Paramount of their house. This training is relatively light compared to full military training, designed to balance the economic and educational responsibilities of these citizens with their military duties.

Azma University is a theological university founded in the year 262AR by Trista of Azma, a master of theology and galder and was recognized by the King as a royal college in 289AR. It's Faculty of Theology is unrivaled across the entirety of the world and is considered one of the foremost institutions for education in galder, theology and philosophy.

Azma admits its students on the basis of the national ranking system and the census taken each year, those students with a sufficiently high natural affinity for the study of galder are offered a place in which to study it beyond the common extent offered by tutors and hedge-witches.

Azma has in recent years, following the second civil war and the increase in punishment by religious courts for physicians who attribute false rankings, with an increased student cohort particularly from the yeomanry and international scholars though the large majority of the general cohort remains largely consisted of the children of nobility.

Beyond its Faculty of Theology, Azma University is one of the foremost institutions driving forward the development of innovations regarding farming and building, mechanics and the engine'ering class that has developed in major cities across the Empire.

Situated in the capital city, Azma University benefits from its central location in what is often regarded as a hub of youthful energy and societal activity. Its reputation as a center for young nobles and genteel individuals enhances the college's role as a key venue for social introduction. It is frequently heralded as a place where the most advantageous social and matrimonial matches are made, positioning it as a pivotal institution in shaping the elite's social landscape.

The Empire

The Empire, as it is commonly known, is a vast realm governed by the Nine Paramountcies and the Imperial Household, all of whom rule from the King's Seat. This grand structure of power was forged between the years 23 ANU (Anno Non Unitus, or Year of the Ununified) and 1 AR (Anno Rex, or Year of the King) through the conquests of King Adan I, who earned the title "the Unifier."

From its inception, the Empire adopted an expansionist stance, which has characterized much of its history. This policy of territorial growth has been met with widespread approval among its citizens, largely due to the substantial wealth and resources it has brought to the nation. As the largest empire in the world and the unifier of the continent, it has established itself as the dominant lingua franca of common, further solidifying its influence and stature.

Throughout the Empire's history, the Imperial Household and the title of King have primarily been held by House Galagar, reigning from 1 AR to 399 AR, and later by House Wynd, from 399 AR to 438 AR. There have been instances where other houses acted as regents, temporarily holding the title on behalf of House Galagar, such as House Champion (348 AR-352 AR) and House Abbey (9 AR-13 AR & 154AR-155AR).

Despite its vast wealth and dominance, the Empire has faced relatively frequent rebellions in its paramountcies where calls for independence have persisted. Historically, these uprisings have been met with swift and overwhelming military responses. However, recently in 399AR during the Wyndham Rebellion, King Hendrick the Conqueror succeeded in overthrowing House Galagar and replacing it with his own house who have led the empire since.

*The lore detailed here is accurate but also only extends as far as the protagonist's knowledge of these subjects at the present time of the fic, some detail will be lost or may have been withheld from the MC and they may have misconceptions.

Romances

When the advisors are not praising his good sense, nor the bards his mirth, the church his piety or the poor his generosity, the question emerges just who is King Edmund I Wynd?

The young king thrust into a position of power who uses it as well as he knows how, having learnt from the mistakes of his grandfather and father and the long shadow of war that is still cast over the continent?

Or is he merely the figurehead, installed after a turbulent civil war, a king whose true authority has been surrendered to the councilors around him, contenting himself with the trappings of kingship rather than its substance?

Alas who is to know?

Name: King Edmund I Wynd

Age: 21

Height: 6'5

Appearance: Edmund stands at a 6'5, noticeably lanky although his seemingly permanent jaunty posture appears to cut an inch or two of him. He possesses short bronde hair styled in such a fashion that it appears wind-swept and fashionably ruffled with various products used to achieve the effect. He possesses a lean athletic physique although it is evidently achieved through some sort of diet or exercise for aesthetic rather than being muscles created by years of work. He nearly always has a relaxed expression with a smile and his pale face is framed by his grey eyes.

(he/him) poly-route, solo-route

Tropes: Life of the Party, Commitment Issues

-

Could it be that she, the queen consort, wields the true power behind the throne, acting as a surrogate for her kind lord, who never could bring himself to grasp the reins of authority?

She possesses the strength and allure of a king in her own right. Under her vigilant oversight, the king’s armies have routed the empire's foes, and now her gaze turns inward, determined to root out the treacherous elements within the realm.

Yet, amid her march towards peace at the end of a sword, there are those who seek to see her order destroyed. How long can it last? A queen consort without an heir, without children, lacking a direct claim to the throne, aging, and some even question her bond with the king himself.

Name: Veronica Abbey-Wynd

Age: 36

Height: 5'9

Appearance: Veronica stands straight at a tall 5'9 although her heels often push her to 5'11 or even 6'0. She has long wavy chestnut brown hair although more often than not it is in an updo of some sort for practicality. She has a healthy physique with faint lines and wrinkles, with an olive skin as well as doe-shaped deep brown eyes. Somehow a picture of beauty and severity, all the soft lines of her body somehow harsh.

(she/her) poly-route, solo-route

Tropes: scary hot, masc women

-

Walthe Courtney, Commander of the King’s Armies and Protector of the Realm, emerged as a formidable figure in the Second Civil War. Leading the rebels with unmatched martial prowess, he earned the acclaim of being the finest swordsman in the land. His valor and leadership were instrumental in overthrowing the usurper-king and restoring order to the fractured realm.

In the aftermath of the bloody conflict, he was celebrated as a folk hero—a commoner who rose to lead his people to victory and bring about a semblance of peace. His contributions were rewarded with knighthood and elevation to nobility, an ode to his honour.

Now, as Protector of the Realm, Walthe ensures the continuation of stability with a steady hand. Yet, despite his efforts, a persistent thorn remains, a challenge beyond even his considerable grasp, casting a shadow over his otherwise successful stewardship.

Name: Walthe Courtney

Age: 43

Height: 5'11

Appearance: Walthe has short, practical wavy black hair streaked with grey throughout, reflecting years of experience and hardship. their muscled, well-built stature is a testament to their years of service. He has warm tanned skin, indicative of his heritage being from the centre of the continent. His light green eyes stand out against his rugged features, with a determined, piercing gaze.

(he/him/they) solo-route

Tropes: The Stoic, No Sense of Humour, Heroic BSoD

-

From the day his family and house declared for the usurper-king, it was clear that Lorn Greenspan, the youngest of seven brothers, would be sent away as a ward.

Only eight years old, he had to play his part, leaving behind the familiar chill of his home—its cold peaks and harsh landscape fading from sight. He was a pawn in a conflict he could scarcely comprehend

His father had told him plainly that he must be strong—because until the day their house bent the knee, Lorn would remain a ward, and his father had no intention of surrendering.

Forced to adapt, Lorn became useful, talented, indispensable—not out of love for those his family would call captors, but out of necessity. Now, he stands as your closest advisor and a member of your house in all but name—cool, calculating, indifferent. Yet beneath that icy exterior burns a quiet resolve. Though he never expects his father to yield, he is determined to see his homeland again, even if it means waging war to bring it to heel.

Name: Lorn of Greenspan

Age: 18

Height: 6'0

Appearance: Lorn has a thick head of dark chestnut hair, gently wavy, it is always styled fashionably with pomade and volume. He has a tawny complexion and almost amber, brown eyes that if you didn't know him you'd think were perpetually concerned and caring rather than probing and scanning. Though under his stylish clothes you couldn't tell it, his body is lean and athletic from harsh training.

(he/him) solo-route

Tropes: advisor-turned-lover, secretly-in-love, black cat

-

The unbroken line of Galagar Kings may have fractured at Kirston Wall, but the proud Highland rulers never truly relinquished their claim. To them, Hendrick the Conqueror and his descendants are nothing more than traitors. Yet, they understand that a king's throne is grounded in the right of conquest, and so they bide their time, quietly assembling their forces, tempering their men, and honing their blades.

Preparing for the inevitable clash, they drill relentlessly through lashing rain and violent gales, each generation more convinced of their righteousness and the frailty of their enemies. The realm may slumber in uneasy peace, but in the Highlands, war is always on the horizon.

Kent Galagar, the young Lord of Kirston, was shaped by this belief from childhood. His father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather—all were kings in their own eyes, their thrones stolen by usurpers. To Kent, acknowledging this truth makes you an ally, a friend. To deny it brands you an enemy, destined to be crushed when the time comes.

For Kent, proud, arrogant, and stubborn as he may seem, the world is divided by a simple truth: those who support the Galagar claim, and those who will fall before it.

Name: Kent Galagar

Age: 18

Height: 5'9

Appearance: Kent possesses a mane of thick, raven-black hair, often left loose or tied back with a leather strap. His skin is scattered with freckling, with a pale complexion. He has piercing blue eyes and a gaze that can shift from arrogant levity to fiery determination in an instant. His powerful frame is unmistakable, with broad shoulders and a chest that strains against the fabric of his tunics. His physique is defined—broad-shouldered and muscular, but not overly so, with a build that suggests both agility and power. His movements carry the confidence of someone who knows his strength and is unafraid to use it.

(he/him) solo-route

Tropes: Intense, enemies to lovers, jerk with a heart of gold

-

The nobility are arrogant, cruel, greedy, scheming, and foolish—qualities Arfryn has learned all too well through her peripheral access to them. Her current place among them is no accident but the product of the sweat, blood and tears of her entire family.

Born to a guildman father and a common mother from the east continent, Arfryn witnessed firsthand how the shifting tides of national conflict mirrored the fortunes of her own family. Every struggle either bolstered their wealth or teetered them on the brink of ruin, a fate shared by the yeomanry at large.

Her father, Jasper Caldwell, is the first Premier elected from the Small Parliament, a yeoman elevated by the newly enfranchised class. He has—in no uncertain terms—made it clear that his own position hinges on the peace of the realm.

Arfryn, understanding these dynamics, sees through the superficial grandeur of the nobility. Though she finds them to be the very embodiment of arrogance and folly, she is determined to bend them to her will. For now, she plays the game—offering smiles, be gracious, and dance while they are watching.

Name: Arfryn Caldwell

Age: 20

Height: 5'11

Appearance: Arfryn has a striking presence with her rich, deep brown skin and loose, jet-black braids that cascade down her back. Her eyes are a penetrating dark brown, revealing a sharp intelligence behind a charming, amiable demeanor. She dresses in elegantly simple fabrics that highlight her natural grace—always muted and refined to suit her surroundings but always at the very forefront of courtly fashions. At 5'11 her movements are deliberate, blending seamlessly into the nobility’s world, designed to make her easy to like and hard to hold grudges against.

(she/her) solo-route

Tropes: Steel Magnolia, Dark Feminine

-

In public Dean Champion is everything a Lady-Knight should be, prodigiously skilled with both galder and weapons, valiant, chivalrous and extremely popular amongst all who meet her or have the chance to witness her in action.

She like many knights is also spoiled to a fault, her suits of armour gleaming and her squire-boys tasked with keeping them so, as they are expensive and extravagant. Indeed she wears them because all people like a performance.

In private, Dean has dedicated herself entirely to her studies at Azma University, determined to learn all there is about the study and practice of galder and perhaps indeed the deeper secrets that only the great masters know—all the better to become both loved and indispensable to the state.

As the younger sibling of a line with many children, she does not expect to ever inherit and nor does she ever want to, she is entirely content with her career as a tourney knight and the life she's lead in the King's Seat thus far. Indeed Dean has long been utterly convinced that she'd make an awful Lady Paramount, she is convinced utterly that all those like her that revel in the spectacle, the fervor of battle and tourney alike are utterly unsuitable for such position.

Name: Dean Champion

Age: 19

Height: 5'9

Appearance: Dean has long deep auburn hair, typically braided for both practicalities sake and fashion, with strands often escaping to frame her face. Her skin is fair as if she'd somehow escaped the sun of both her home and the tourney. Her hazel eyes are bright and framed by dark eyelashes. Dean's build is athletic and commanding, showing off the results of rigorous training and combat practice, yet she carries herself with a grace that befits her status as a renowned Lady-Knight. Her entire demeanor projects a sort of graceful confidence, like that you'd expect of a Prince of ages past.

(she/her) solo-route

Tropes: The Lady and Knight, Knight in Sour Armour

-

Fran has long understood that she commands little respect at court—indeed, as a bastard, she finds herself dismissed even within her own family. Yet there is one, a young Lord who is but a child, who gave her legitimacy, who looks up to her, and has earned her unwavering loyalty. Her beloved little brother.

It is for him that she accepted the king's invitation to the King's Seat, to train in the King's Army. She wants to be his eyes, his ears, and his sword.

True loyalty is a rare commodity among the highborn, for what do they owe anyone but themselves and their own appetites?

She is content to endure their scorn and wear the title "Loyal Hound" with pride. After all, what insult lies therein? A good hound is strong, lethal, obedient, loved, loyal, and free to roam so long as it always returns. And return to him she will.

Name: Fran Radwell-Cadderly

Age: 18

Height: 5'7

Appearance: Fran's dirty-blonde hair is cut short, falling just above her shoulders—a length chosen for practicality rather than fashion. Her complexion is fair, lightly sun-kissed from time spent outdoors, with a few sun-spots across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes are a dull blue-green, carrying an intensity that contrasts with her otherwise unassuming features. Her build is lean and wiry, reflecting a life of rigorous training, with a strength that belies her slender frame. Though she dresses simply, her presence is commanding, a blend of quiet confidence and restrained power and it makes her feel much bigger than the 5'7 she stands at.

(she/her) solo-route

Tropes: Guard Dog, Loyal Companion, Golden Retriever

Additional

Dashingdon Demo: out now!

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All Asks and Reposts are appreciated, work will be slow but steady and a demo should be ready shortly!

ask me lore questions please, I have far too many notes on this.

[superblysubpar]

dad!steve harrington x mom!you

a How Sweet It Is story

summary: you want another baby

2,886 words

warnings: please see the How Sweet It Is and Easy Like Sunday Morning masterlists for general warnings about these AU's | SMUT (piv unprotected intercourse / steve breeding kink harrington / kitchen sex and all the messy things like licking food off of another person for example) | NSFW 18+

a blurb for the "Trick or Treat, Freak?" event - don't forget to vote for tomorrow at the bottom of the story!

Autumn, 1993:

Steve rubs at his eyes as he turns onto your street, fighting a yawn as his radio rumbles quietly, the song too soothing despite the cold air from the open window trying to keep him awake. He curses at the time blinking back at him on the dash.

Midnight.

His kids will be up in five hours, maybe less.

He groans audibly to himself and knows that you’ll wake up with them first and insist he sleep in, but he’ll hear you singing or laughing or hear the kids ask where Daddy is and he’ll feel guilty and that’ll be that.

He hadn’t meant to stay at the hospital for as long as he had, but Eddie was sort of a mess and Olivia kept thanking him and apologizing and okay, so maybe, he’s a little excited to rub it in everyone’s face that he was the first one to meet Caroline.

It’s weird seeing one of your best friends have a kid. Weird seeing this guy in a Metallica tshirt who was just leaning over a theater seat and telling him his own kid was a little freak not even five hours ago, hold his newborn and cry.

And yeah, whatever, he cried too.

Meeting Caroline was worth the lack of sleep.

The same lack of sleep making his eyes blink and connect the dots too slowly that the house he’s pulling into should be dark. Yet as he rolls to a stop in his driveway, he finds almost every single light of the house is still on. Warm gold shines from his upstairs bedroom, the downstairs living and kitchen windows. As he makes his way up to the front steps, mentally preparing himself for wide awake yet overly tired three and six year olds, he pauses.

Fleetwood Mac?

He’s sure of it, as he steps closer to his front door and hears guitars and drums, hears your voice singing louder, somehow, than the stereo blaring.

It’s the mix he made you, for your birthday, all your favorites, and Steve closes the door gently, looking around in search of you.

The kitchen is empty, well, not empty.

There’s bold and…uniquely…decorated Halloween cookies on parchment paper. A mixing bowl and utensils all covered in chocolate, frosting, caramel, and essentially anything potentially sticky and edible in his house littered across the countertops.

He makes his way to the living room and finds a blanket fort and crayons literally everywhere, ironically, as the song of the same title starts just then. He goes to nudge the stereo lower when your voice singing on the stairs makes him pause.

His chest fucking cracks open at the sight of you. One of your old band shirts hangs loosely from your frame, no pants, a laundry basket on your hip. He leans against the door frame as you do a little spin-dance sort of thing when you reach the laundry room.

He watches you flick off the light and head to the kitchen and he’s a little alarmed you haven’t screamed or said hi until you stick a spoon of chocolate frosting in your mouth and then call out around the treat:

“You gonna come dance with me or just stare all night, Harrington?”

Steve smiles and watches you twirl in the kitchen and make what you think are flirty eyes at him. He tilts his head as one particular shake of your body in a terrible dance move shows off the high cut of black lace on your ass.

You don’t wear those enough.

“I’m good with staring, it’s a nice view.”

He slowly enters the kitchen, knowing it’s a trap, but a willing prey for your hands that grab him as soon he’s close enough. Your fingers clasp together at the back of his neck as you sway, much too slow for the song and he gets the hint, his finding a home on your waist.

“You remember when we slow danced to The Way I Feel at that shitty frat party?”

Steve smiles, his hands bunch up your shirt in his fingers and his forehead rests against yours.

He remembers it well. Really well.

Remembers the girl he’d made out with a few times in high school, how he messed up his shot with her even more times. How he somehow got a seat next to that same girl on the first day of class in an actual college he still couldn’t believe he got into. Remembers asking her to study, to ice cream, to coffee. Kisses at front doors and make out sessions that lead to more. To held hands and introducing him as your boyfriend. Whispered dreams of the future amidst I love you’s. Then, dragging him along to a party.

Can still vividly recall slipping an asshole a twenty. Your smile around the rim of the plastic red cup you stole from him. Your voice singing softly to him, like you two were the only people there as you swayed a lot like you were now.

The way the song ended and your mouth was hovering over his and you asked him if he wanted to get out of there.

How one thing led to another and you were in the backseat of his car with your head thrown back and his mouth was on your neck and nine months later he was a dad.

Speaking of…

His nose traces yours as fingers scratch up your spine, smiling when you shiver. He leans his head down, just enough to brush his lips against yours as he asks, “Where are the kids?”

Your lips part around his in a barely there kiss as you murmur, “Robin and Nance took them. They made you hocus pocus cookies.”

Steve breathes in as you breathe out, fingers pushing at your spine so your lips bump again, speaking so quietly, if he weren’t pressed up against you, you’d be unable to hear him.

“Was wondering ‘bout the gummy worms. Makes sense now.”

Your head tilts back as you gasp into his mouth when his teeth graze your bottom lip. Then you hum, eyelashes fluttering as you say, “Almost every potion requires worms, according to our little witch. Who, by the way, was only encouraged by Robin who brought her a chocolate wand.”

Steve’s mouth breathes against your jaw while you talk, his tongue slips out as he kisses the hinge of it.

“Oh yeah?”

You’re not so much dancing anymore, instead simply arching your body as Steve grips your waist and leaves a warm, trailing breath down your neck. You suppose it’s like a dip of sorts.

A hum slips past your lips as your stomach flips. Maybe this won’t be as hard as you thought.

“Ye-yeah. Said she can’t be a Sanderson though…for Halloween…cause,” you whine a little when Steve’s tongue glides over your skin, his smile following right behind it.

“Cause?”

The song on the stereo changes with perfect timing to Think About Me, and Steve’s mouth presses a kiss to your neck, encouraging you with a squeeze of your hips.

“Cause,” your voice is quiet, but sure, “Cause she only has Grace. And there are three Sanderson’s.”

Steve’s lips slow their kissing as he hears what you’re saying. Hears the song that just so happened to lead to the conception of his second kid.

He pulls away and blinks at you, pink cheeks and eyes like melting honey.

“Are you…” he licks his lips, swallows, and looks down at where your body clings to his. He looks around at the kidless house, listens to the Fleetwood Mac, and then looks back at your hopeful gaze up at him.

His hands cup your cheeks as he asks, softly, “You wanna have another baby?”

“Yeah,” you laugh around some tears trying to slip out, a little more emotional than you thought you’d be. “Yeah, I really do. I think they’d be good ages apart and they’ll be so close to Caroline and Robin and Nancy are gonna get Zoe in a couple of months and-“

Steve’s kissing you, mouth passionate and hot against yours as he moans into your lips. He backs you up into the counter as you grip at his shirt collar, neither of you really caring or paying much attention to where things are landing.

Your fingers scratch down his now bare back as he lifts you, wedging himself between your spread legs. His lips are frantic in their kissing as he tugs on your thighs, your ass, until you’re flush against him, grinding down in search of friction.

Your body floods with warmth as he unzips his jeans, as he pulls and tugs at your shirt with his other hand, too impatient to wait until he has both free and refusing to admit if he stopped kissing you, it’d be a whole lot easier.

Steve groans at the sight of your bare chest and your legs tighten around his hips now free of the denim. He leans over you on the counter, kissing the corner of your mouth before he whispers, “Hold still.”

“What, why, ohmygod-“

Steve drizzles caramel over your neck, your chest, your stomach, before flinging the spoon somewhere.

His mouth follows the drizzles, carefully licking up each drop as his hands squeeze at your hips, your thighs. His tongue glides across the curve of your breasts before it dips between the two and down your stomach where he gives you a kiss.

It’s all painstakingly slow compared to the speed you were just going, adamant for you to feel every pass of his tongue, every brush of his lips as he enjoys his treat.

Your body squirms underneath him, skin warm and only growing warmer as he pulls at your underwear roughly, leaving you completely naked on your kitchen countertop.

“Steve, we-“

Propped up on your elbows, you swallow your words when he removes his boxers and steps between your legs again. One hand rests on the counter next to your head, the other grips his length and tugs, once, twice, keeping eye contact with you while he lines himself up with your entrance.

“We,” he breathes heavily, stopping to kiss you once, before he keeps going, “Are gonna make another perfect, amazing, incredible kid.”

He pushes into you, capturing your gasp from the fullness of him inside of you. He pants into you, pushing deeper as he holds your stare, mouth never lifting from yours as he groans, “You’re gonna…” he sucks in a breath unable to to finish the thought when your hips roll and you whine for him to move.

“Please, Steve,” you beg into his mouth and he can’t hold off anymore, not that he really was before.

He pulls out and thrusts forcefully, hand gripping your hip and the edge of the counter as he slams into you again, and again, and again.

Your back arches off of the countertop, his name a gasp as you meet each of his thrusts and babble into his mouth.

“More, Steve, fill me up baby, please I-“

He swallows your words, grinds against you each time he pushes as far in as he can while his hand pulls your thigh up against his hip in a bruising grip.

It’s fast and not like you two at all anymore. Sex is usually some pillow talk and soft sleepy smiles and missionary and hand holding and so so so not Steve stopping his kissing and pouring more caramel over your face and chest in the middle of sex.

So not you two being loud, yelling names and making who knows what kind of noises as he smears and licks up the mess he just made and teeth nip at your skin and soothe it all away with kisses as he pounds into you like he used to. Not you when your hands grip at his shoulders and beg him to go faster, harder.

Steve’s gasping into your neck, thrusts coming closer together and your stomach tightens, warmth threatening to burst inside of you but you don’t want it to end.

Your fingers slip on the countertop, cookies fall to the ground, his name is yelled and it sounds an awful lot like don’t stop, never stop.

Steve searches for your hand and tangles his fingers with yours while the other finds your lower back and makes you arch up into him further. Your hips grind against his as his mouth pants along your throat, your jaw, before it locks against yours in a kiss.

It’s all a little filthy and wild, the way you let go of his hand and both of yours grip the back of his head and pull when his thrusts just keep going. The way you beg into his mouth like you’re sobbing, “Baby, please, please, ohmygod-“ and Steve grips your hips and pumps harder, deeper, practically growling out a “Yeah?”

Your thighs shake, you pulse around him, your heartbeat is in your ears as he hits that spot that makes you see stars over and over and over again until your mouth falls open and you don’t know what comes over you because you’re practically shouting, “Yesyesyesyes,” until it turns into a silent gasp as your orgasm takes over. It’s like the breath is stolen from your lungs, vision lost, as he spills inside of you with a deep, tortured - like he really didn’t want it to be over either - moan.

The pair of you breathe heavily, clinging to each other still, then you both start laughing, tired and euphoric. Foreheads stuck together as your hands move over each other’s bodies restlessly as your lungs fight for air around the laughter, until it all slows down and stops again.

Eventually, Steve clears his throat as his thumbs rub soothing circles on your hips.

“Sorry, don’t know…that was um…”

Your head finds it’s favorite place in his neck, curled up under his jaw, lips finding the pair of freckles you love so much in a kiss. There’s no energy left for anything other than a hum of agreement.

His hands roam higher, soft and soothing up your spine and back down until you yawn against his neck and a low chuckle rumbles in his chest beneath where your fingers draw against his skin absently.

Steve pulls away and his lips twitch at the sound of your protesting whine, at the way your hands cling to around the back of his neck once more. But he’s just adjusting so he can find your lips, granting you a gentle and sweet kiss. The tip of his nose brushes yours as his breath fans out across your bottom lip when they part for him. His mouth moves over yours sweetly, lazily, as his hands pull you closer to him. Your stomach flutters alive, only stirring up the just satisfied feelings when his tongue meets yours. Steve kicks up inside of you when your hips shift, searching for friction again, causing your laugh to break the kiss.

He swallows the sound, his hand roams higher until it’s cupping the back of your neck, thumb brushing behind your ear as he regretfully pulls away from your lips, but only just so. Steve murmurs against them, eyes watching your eyelashes flutter at the sound of his voice.

“Can I interest you in a bubble bath to clean up, Mrs. Harrington?”

His teeth scrape against your bottom lip, a kiss to your top one, his mouth moving over yours too fleeting as your entire body shakes with a shiver, practically drooling over his question and teasing touches with a moan worthy of a bite of chocolate.

Your hands curl into the hair at the nape of his neck, lifting your hips ever so slightly to cling onto his body a little harder, a little longer. The nod of your head knocks your lips with his again, and he rewards you with a deeper and lingering kiss. His arms wrap around your back as he pulls you closer still, neither of you ready to separate any time soon.

“You better tell them you ate every single one of those horrible cookies.”

He laughs into your mouth, nodding his head as you kiss him more.

Both of you are content to take your time getting upstairs, to let your kisses linger and melt like honey. Make sure each moment is remembered, so it’s all easily recalled from the sound of a song and the way you kiss him. Each pass of your lips over each other’s, each brush of a tongue or scrape of teeth or inhale of much needed air makes sure you’re not missing any of it as you clean each other up when you finally do get there.

Steve’s got your back to his chest as he hums into your temple the last song on the tape in between whispers of if it’ll be a boy or girl, names, personality, and all of the things you’ve come to love about your other two.

His hands roam over your body, warm water and sweet smelling suds cascading over you as he kisses your neck and shakes his head no when you ask if he’s tired.

And even if he were, the lack of sleep would be worth it.

[emeritusemeritus]

The little one? [Fred Weasley x Reader]

Title: The little one?

Pairing: Fred Weasley x wife!Reader

Timeline: Set during DH (canon has been altered slightly so that Fred and reader were married before Bill and Fleur)

Summary: A wedding brings out all the extended Weasley family, and their incessant questions about when you would start your family.

Warnings: Established relationship, getting married young, mentions of pregnancy and babies, but neither actually feature in the story. Mentions of sex and a few curse words.

The questions had been incessant ever since you had gotten engaged, never once letting up each and every time you attended some sort of Weasley family event.

You'd been dating Fred Weasley ever since your third year at Hogwarts and over time your relationship had just gotten stronger, knowing right from the start that you were endgame for each other, two souls eternally entwined.  You'd gotten engaged not long after the shop had opened in Diagon Alley, with Fred using the profits of his and George's wildly successful shop to buy you a simple but beautiful ring that he'd proposed with not long after.

You were both incredibly young but with everything happening with the war and the general unrest, time felt precious and neither of you had seen any fit reason to wait to start your futures together.

You'd gotten married in a small little ceremony in the woodland behind the burrow in the autumn, the spot you'd claimed as your own ever since the early days of dating, the spot you would both sneak off to in all weather to claim some time alone. Just your closest friends and family had attended, and you'd spent the evening laughing and dancing with the people you loved.

Bill and Fleur had apparently had very similar feelings and had wanted to marry as soon as possible, which meant Weasley family gatherings left, right and center in preparation for the big day.

It had started when Fleur's family arrived from France to meet the Weasley's and great aunt Muriel had took it upon herself to join in on the family gathering, stating herself to be the head of the family. The questions started from then on, with everyone over the age of 40 seemingly fixated on asking you and Fred the same question. Then, when Bill and Fleur's big day came, you'd been accosted by great aunt Tessie to help her to her seat during the reception and had been trapped there for a while as she went into excruciating detail about her own wedding and basically her entire life story. Truthfully, it wasn't entirely unpleasant with Tessie, not like talking with Muriel, but as you looked around the beautifully decorated marquees and saw Fred and George dancing in the crowd, clapping for the happy couple, you couldn't help but think about how much you'd rather be there with them, dancing with your husband. Fred had found you not long after and had attempted to steal you away to dance but Tessie in a rather spectacular fashion had also managed to get Fred to take a seat and had begun to drone on about her wedding once again with her new audience member.

"So when's the baby coming then?" She's asked with a wicked glint in her eyes, looking between you both.

"Do I look pregnant?" You'd asked in alarm, looking down at your stomach in your bridesmaid dress before flicking your gaze worryingly to Fred who looked just as shell shocked.

"Of course not dear!" Tessie laughed, slapping her hands down on her legs as she leaned back, "but you're married now!"

All words seemed to fall from your mind as you stared back in complete astonishment, not knowing how to respond.

"You know," she says, turning her attention to Fred who still looks frozen in place, "your mother was only 20 when she had William."

Ever since then, it was like the flood gates had opened and suddenly everyone was asking the pair of you about when you were planning on having a child, completely ignoring the fact that a potential war was on the horizon. It was exhausting, deflecting the same question twenty times from both families and towards the end of the night, you could tell that Fred's patience was wearing thin.

"So, have you two thought about trying for a little one?" A deeply unpleasant friend of aunt Muriel's had asked you both as you were making your way out of the marquee for some fresh air.

"Yeah we've just started actually," Fred snaps, making you turn your head quickly to look at him, eyes wide as you hear his words, knowing it would not end well. "Honestly it's exhausting, we've never had so much sex and that's saying something- every single day and sometimes twice a night, it's a miracle she can still walk."

You were horrified and amused in equal measure, not knowing whether to run away to hide your blush or your laughter at Fred's blunt delivery. The old woman looked up at Fred with utter disgust as she barged past him, fleeing from his rude and uncouth behaviour. It took one look between you both before your resolve shattered entirely and you both burst out into infectious laughter, doubling over as you wheezed. Fred dragged you close to him as you laughed and you squealed as he roughly pulled you into his chest, feeling his laughter reverberating through his muscular torso. You slapped his chest to scold him for his outrageous behaviour but he simply chuckled more and pulled you tighter, kissing the top of your head as you both made your way out into the woods, wordlessly falling in step as you sought out your spot.

"You know, I wish it was our wedding we were re-living," Fred says, slipping his hand down from your shoulders and entwining with yours as you walked, your other hand holding up the bottom of the long, satin bridesmaid dress so you could walk the final stretch to your spot without damaging the dress. You looked over at him, seeing the cheekily smile you loved so much and beamed back, nodding your head at the thought.

You approached the little fallen log that signalled the entrance to the little clearing in the woods and Fred suddenly dropped your hand and reached out to grab your waist, hauling you effortlessly over the little stump so that you didn't have to climb over it in your heels. His hands lingered on your waist for a few seconds as you leaned up to kiss him, silently thanking him for the little gesture. He winked at you as you pulled apart before pulling out his wand and casting a charm that created little firefly lights all around the little clearing, just adding a little more light to the moonlit clearing. You smile as you look up at the beautiful little twinkling lights, momentarily mesmerised by the beauty.

"Mrs Weasley," Fred says to your side, making you turn with a wide smile. Your new name and title still made butterflies erupt within you, the same way that Fred calling you his wife did. "Would you do me the honour of dancing with me this evening?" He asks with a smirk, extending his hand to you as he bows formally. His wedding ring glints in the moonlight and it makes your tummy flip once again.

"Why of course kind sir," you said flirtily, placing your hand delicately in his, gasping as he pulls you closer not a moment later, his other hand resting on the curve of your hip, just a little lower than what was deemed appropriate for a waltz as you begin to slow dance in the middle of your spot. "You know, my husband won't like that I'm dancing with such a handsome stranger."

"Husband you say?" He jokes, playing along, "I didn't realise someone had already claimed you, he's a very lucky man."

"I'd say so," you teased, laughing as he suddenly pinches your bum as you joke. "I'm pretty sure I'm the lucky one," you say with complete adoration as he smiles, the hint of a blush appearing on his freckled cheeks. "After all he does fuck me once a day and twice a night."

Your squeal echoes through the woods as he grabs as you, chuckling at your squeal as he spins you recklessly in his arms, both of you perfectly happy with your lives in that moment, without a mini Weasley.

[bonecarversbestie]

I've seen a theory floating around that Eris is actually also Helion's son, and while it’s an interesting theory, I think it takes a lot of impact out of both Eris’s and Lucien's stories.

Eris has a potentially beautiful arc ahead of him where he can prove that he is more than his blood and upbringing. He has the chance to break the tradition of abuse and tyranny in the Autumn Court, and lead it into a new age.

And Lucien has spent his life running from titles and power even though he is clearly destined to rule. He can’t really do that if Eris is actually the heir to the Day Court.

Also, I just love the idea of Lucien and Eris repairing their relationship and being High Lords together.

[myromanempiree]

Enchanting; act two

(previously titled: Dreamers with no stars)

thank you for 222+ notes on act one!!

Eris Vanserra x Archeron!Reader

Warnings: Rhysand sucks, angst, brief description of Eris' legs.

Summary: Will you accept this proposal?

word count: 1.2k

listening to: silver springs by fleetwood mac

“People empty me,

 I have to get away to refill”

-Charles Bukowski 

Recap, or read act one here

The walk back to the dais was as silent as the rest of their interaction. She felt guilty for not being able to seduce the man, but regardless, was glad she was even able to waltz without falling and crashing into something or someone. 

She moved swiftly up to her sisters as shocking words ring in her ears. 

“I will offer you support, in exchange for her hand.”

...

A voice suddenly exclaimed, “Over my wrinkled, dead body!” 

She turned to find Mor, her face flushed and eyes ablaze with anger. Her heels clicked against the marble as she walked towards Eris, her lithe hands crumpled into fists. 

“Morrigan.” Rhysand said,his eyes speaking more words than what came from his mouth. Mor looked up at her High Lord, staring stubbornly at him, before gradually bowing her head and moving away.

Rhysand inhaled and exhaled, steadying himself, before turning to the Archeron sister, seaking her input. She stood there with her eyes averted to the ground, her hand finding the sleeve of her velvet dress. Her mouth opened ever so softly before she closed it, lifting her head to look from Eris to Rhysand, Mor to her sisters. Searching for someone– anyone– to speak on her behalf, to remove her from the room's gaze, to get her out. 

Thankfully, Eris clears his throat, saving her from saying something unacceptable or stupid. “If that is what the lady wants, anyhow,” he adds, with his ever charming smile adorning his features. “I will give you a week to decide.”

… 

The rest of the evening was infinitely more unbearable than the beginning. It was silent, awkwardly so. Not the comforting silence that wraps you in a warm blanket. No attempts at conversation being made, other than Mor encouraging her to stay far from Eris. 

Upon finally returning home, she excused herself quickly. No longer wanting to suffocate in the silence that drowns the family. 

She had quickly paced down the hall, one hand tracing along the lightly patterned cream walls, needing something familiar to keep her steady. Needing the feeling beneath her finger tips to distract from the hurricane of thoughts in her mind.

The other hand balls into a fist, tightening and loosening along with the drum of her heartbeat. She went up the stairs rather quickly, opening her door and going to her room, knocking over the pile of books she'd recently gotten from the library. 

She grabbed the nearest novel and threw it onto her bed, a sound of anguish escaping her throat as she raked a quivering hand through her hair, gripping the strands. She quickly moved to the bedside table, where a decanter was expected to be, yet found it empty. 

A breath slowly left her lips, her hand loosening its grip on the strands of hair, leaving a soothing ache behind. She sat on the bed, running a hand along the tasseled fabric, pulling at one. 

She braced herself for further awkwardness as she dragged herself down the stairs to get more water, slowly moving to peek into the kitchen as she heard shouting. 

“Are you psychotic? She wouldn't last a day in Autumn!” Cassian– presumably– yelled. 

Rhysand countered, “We need her to, Cassian. We can get her out after, but we need this advantage.” 

Amren stepped forward, arms crossed as he sighed. “She's not like any of her sisters, Rhysand. She wouldn't be able to do what we need her to, she's not that type of female..” 

“But with Beron potentially supporting Koschei, we need insider knowledge,” Azriel said slowly, before Mor said, “What the Hel, Azriel! You saw what they did to me!” 

“Trust me, I hate Eris as much as the next, but this could potentially save us,” he told Mor. 

“She couldn't even do it if we sent her.” Feyre said, standing next to Rhysand. 

Her eyes widened as she stood behind the alcove, Eris long forgotten as she heard the distasteful words spoken about her. She slowly stepped forward, then back, her feet dragging along like the lurch of her heart.

As much as she hated the idea of a political marriage, she hated the idea of being dead weight more than anything. Everyone had previously played a role in the safety of her sister's Court. It was high time for her turn. 

Her feet moved quickly past the alcove as she stepped into the kitchen, a set of eyes looking at her. 

“I'll do it.” 

…

Rhysand had quickly gotten in contact with Beron and informed him of her acceptance, before Mor could talk her out of it. Much to most of the Inner Circles displeasure.

She was told not to pack any articles of clothing, and that all would be provided, including the wedding gown. The mere thought had her face immediately scrunching in disgust. 

Feyre had tried to coax her to cancel the engagement as she was putting her things in boxes. Though that hadn't worked, seeing as she now found herself in a new room.

Crisp Autumn air coming in through the cracked window as she put her things away, some maids had offered to help, yet ahe refused. There was a certain way she had wanted it done, and ordering people around felt odd to her. 

So she found herself straightening a series of clay sea creatures Feyre had made her, smiling softly as she moved the sea lion into its place. Gently patting its head with her finger tip, before turning to hang up a map. 

“You are aware that this shall only be your room until the wedding, yes?” A smooth voice said, causing her to almost drop from the odd position of on the chair and on her writing desk that she was in– which, admittedly, wasn't a good idea regardless.

She stepped down to find Eris, an eyebrow raised as he leaned against the door frame. A confident and easy grin on his face, eyes darting to look up at her. “I… when is the wedding? I was never informed.” She said, tilting her head. 

“Three weeks, Beron and Rhysand both want this to be quick.” 

“So you can't back out”, are the words implied. She nods, fidgeting with her fingers, pulling on the appendages to hear a satisfying pop. She awkwardly looks at his feet, the calf-high riding boots that grip his muscled yet lean legs. 

She was never one for idle chatter, small talk was dumb to her. What was the point of it if it was something simple? However, she had no clue what to say to the statuesque man in front of her, so she asked; “Do you have a horse?” 

His eyes flickered with confusion, an eyebrow raised. “Pardon?” he questioned, tilting his head at her in a way that strangely reminded her of a dog. “Riding riding boots, I think those are what you're wearing. Do you have a horse?”

“Ah, yes. Maybe one-day I'll take you on a ride. After our marriage, of course.” Genesis nodded, thanking him and watching as he left. Burying her face into her hands after realizing the innuendo of his words, she now knew that ‘Thank you’ was not a proper way to address his words. 

This further reminds her of their future marital duties, and in three weeks time, she would be in bed with Eris Vanserra

Three weeks couldn't come slow enough.

Taglist: @babypeapoddd @mybestfriendmademe @lilah-asteria @impossibelle @thestartitaness @thecraziestcrayon @minnieoo @nebarious @rcarbo1 @anyzandy @starsidesigh @wolvesnravens @96jnie 

Taglist is open! Dm or comment if you want to join

[acotarxreader]

⭐Other Worlds ⭐Pancake ⭐Healing Hands ⭐The Stray and The Snakes ⭐Hounded

Oneshot:

Stress Relief⭐👀🔥

Synopsis: Working for the Night Court has become near impossible with Azriel determined to drive you out the door but can a camping trip arranged by Rhys smooth things over.

Papertrail ⭐🥰

Synopsis: For months Azriel had gotten to know you through the intelligence letters you penned from the Autumn Court but finally meeting reveals your twisted reality.

BatBite ⭐

Synopsis: Azriel relies on liquid courage to finally act on his feelings for you but the next day, only one of you remembers and its the one marked with lovebites

Pancake ⭐🥰

Synopsis: Celebrating Feyre's 21st with a large party at the House of Wind proves to be quite triggering for you as you battle with the demons that followed you out of Under the Mountain.

High Lord of Game 👀 

Synopsis: Cassian and Azriel use a simple competition to decide who deserves the title of High Lord of Game, but at what cost to you?

Lessons in Herbology ⭐🔥👀 

Synopsis: You and Azriel are frequently at odds with one another but when Azriel accidently destroys your life's work, the illyrian will do anything to make it up to you.

Storm Chaser 👀 🥰

Synopsis: You and Azriel go your separate ways after a vicious fight leaves Azriels jealousy calling the shots but can the ever brave Illyrian brave a storm without you

Jilted👀

Synopsis: The morning of your wedding your fears are enforced by an old way of thought, sending you running and Azriel to cope with the aftermath but will a reunion set you both back on the path you should both be living?

The Silent Treatment⭐👀

Synopsis: Your past affair sends Azriel into brooding, with Elain being led to believe that the end of the relationship she hated so much had finally happened.

Songbird🥰

Synopsis: Azriel takes to the stage, slightly more than drunk and definitely slightly more than ready to tell the world how he feels about you.

Little Drop Of Starlight 🥰

Synopsis: A story of Azriel and you raising your daughter through the years, Azriels little drop of starlight.

Healing Hands 👀🥰⭐

Synopsis: A new suitor in your life interrupts your friendship with your three best friends at Windhaven. The budding healer in you finds yourself breaking more hearts than healing.

Honey👀🥰

Synopsis: Azriel frequents the hotel in Hewn City that you manage with his many lovers, a source of your constant teasing until Azriel can't replace the way he feels about you with anyone else.

Storybook👀🥰

Synopsis: Azriel's insecurities of not being good enough for the glowing Dawn emissary that had enveloped his world can't be silenced and erupt at Cassian's birthday party. But can he find his way again into the storybook life he believes you deserve?

Tease 👀

Synopsis: Friends with benefits is quickly running its course between you and Azriel with Mor's birthday party being the perfect setting to see which of you will cave first.

Flower 👀🥰💥⭐

Synopsis: You and Azriel are sent deep into the mountains in search of a flower that may save Feyre's life during childbirth but quickly the frenemy status is put to the test as past trials come to a head leaving you to decide between your new sister and the potential love of your life.

Tell me, Party Girl 👀🥰

Synopsis: Your former party girl title rears it's head again as you try to escape the reality of The House of Winds newest resident, Nesta. Very quickly tension bubbles over between you and the night courts current 365 party girl, leaving Azriel to do what he does best.

Series:

 Shadow and Flame 🔥💥👀🥰 ✅

Synopsis: Azriel is growing tired of feeling wronged by the Mother for not allowing Elain to be his mate until he meets a true stranger for the first time, you. Through a series of unfortunate events and ties to Lucien and Autumn, will the Mother keep the winds of fate blowing against Azriel?

Say My Name 👀💥and Part 2 👀💥🔥 ✅

After being separated from his brothers by the High Lord of Night, Azriel becomes accustomed to the new chain of command in his life, led

by you. But with the Mortal Realm war beginning to rage, will your relationship move beyond professional

Other Worlds ⭐🥰and Part 2⭐🥰👀 ✅

Nesta accidentally pulls you from our realm into theirs and a certain Spymaster can't help but be enamoured.

Timing👀 Part Two 🔥💥👀🥰 ✅

Synopsis: Timing works against you and Azriel as a series of unfortunate events lands the two of you alone for the night with a broken down car and a breaking down friendship

Mirror 👀💥Part Two👀💥🥰✅

Synopsis: You were gifted with the ability to mirror other fae's magic with a simple touch and your free spirit nature leads you to cross very close to the borders of a hidden city, where your future best friends and soulmate snatch you out of the sky to protect their border.

Silence in the Shadows 🔥💥👀🥰and Part Two 💥👀

Synopsis: Hewn City has been hit by a fresh crime wave, stumping the inner circle as they search for a solution. Azriel meets you in a crowded bar while trying to escape the stresses that the City was supplying him. But after a spur of the moment night together, Azriel is left wondering if the girl he spent the night with is truly all what she seems?

Moonlight Swim 🥰

Synopsis: Cassian has his heartbroken at the end of Illyrian training party he attended. Lovelorn and in need of a miracle, you cross his path to set his night on a course of centuries-long pining.

The Stray and The Snakes 🥰👀⭐

Synopsis: You're adjustment to the Night Court after meeting your Mate is made all the more difficult due to the unwelcoming nature of two particular sisters.

The Art of You 🥰

Synopsis: Cassian found recovery in the art that he created while preparing to apply to art school in New York, his greatest muse being his high-flying down-to-earth socialite girlfriend, you.

Swept Away 👀💥

Synopsis: Cassian is growing desperate to make his feelings about you known but Rhysand is ever protective of his little sister.

Hounded 👀🥰

Synopsis: Eris loves his dogs more than any other living thing and they love him but soon his eldest hound has found a new interest, you and your endless supply of bread rolls. An unlikely friendship begins to form between the Son of Autumn and one of Springs last border guards, Craos is just hoping to create some sort of parent trap situation.

Vicious little thing 👀🥰💥

Synopsis: Dressmaker for the Inner Circle was the dream job turn mundane nightmare, all in Court you could never quite warm to. A chance encounter with the infamous son of Autumn leaves you wondering if there's more to life than what it seams (get it lol cause seams not seems)

To the Library

Welcome to my lil library of fics I have enjoyed recently (and the gifs that summarise them way too simplistically)! This will be updated as I go 🩷

[katnissdoesnotfollowback]

WIP Wednesday ~ WIP File Game

Um hi there. *waves nervously* Soooo over the past two months, I've been tagged multiple times by different people to partake in various WIP Wednesday posts and WIP file games. Sadly, I haven't had as much time for fandom as I would have liked recently, and I've just let those tags sit there unanswered. Thank you for thinking of me @mega-aulover, @unnamednarrator, and @thesweetnessofspring.

I'm going to use this post to answer both types of tags, and the people I tag in turn, please choose which version you'd rather play, play both!, or play neither.

First... a snippet from chapter 40 of Spellbound:

“Peeta! Let me go!” There’s the metallic thunk of a heavy round. Hands yanking on my wrists. I stare at the body. His jaw blown off, silencing him forever. Eyes empty. Hollow. Gone. “Peeta?” That’s when the trembling starts. I blink and the shadows recede. His face gone, replaced with Haymitch’s skull gleaming oddly in the flashlight on the cave floor. The jawbone fallen at an odd angle.  Fingers dig into my wrists. Deep enough that it hurts. The pain in my wrists and my knee somehow grounds me. Pulls me away from that day in the sun baked streets and back into this one. “Peeta?” Katniss asks. I can barely make out her shape in the gloom, and I shake my head. Who dropped the flashlight? When did we wind up on our knees?  “I’m fine.”

And now for the more difficult part. Here's a list of my current WIP files. If it's listed as a story on AO3, I hope to finish it this year. If it's listed as not yet posted to AO3, then I'm hoping to start posting it/finish it this year. The third list is a bunch of random ideas that may never see the light of day, but I've included them for funsies.

Feel free to send an ask to receive a snippet if I have one, a summary, a long winded excuse for why it's still not done yet... I'm working tonight but I have tomorrow off and will answer asks then!

Stories on AO3:

Outside Chance

Outside Expectations

Outside the Lines

Spellbound

Where the Stars Crumble to Life

One Last Hope

Everything You Are

Ampersand (Series)

Fickle Games

No Reason

Holiday Havoc Ensues

Smutercising

Stories Not on AO3:

Bound to Get Burned

Caught in the Net of the World

The Courtship of Lambs

Crush My Bones with Bittersweet

Grief Catches Us All

Hand porn

In the Waiting Dark (the Red Moon Rises)

Kiss Me In the Dark

Making Dents in the Wall

Septimus

Sin Bin

Small Turn Ons

Spiral & Collission / Ellipses & Ignition

Tangled AU

Through the Eyes of My Love

To Know, Not to Be Known

Turning of the Seasons

You + Me

Random Files:

Anyways

Arrive Broken

The Art of Peeling Pearls

Autumn Delight

Awkward

Bed Head

Bend Me, Shake Me Any Way You Want Me

The Cold Side of the Bed

Dear Diary

Everlark on the Prairie

Fluffy Menace

Full Zeroes

Holiday Pet Sitters

Hypocrites

Kiss Me in the Dark

Kissing Clause

Last Dance

Long Have I Waited, My Darling

Love in the Library

Nude Dude Foods

On Lockdown

Peeta POV

Scrawled Upon My Skin

Shattered Into Ash

Seven Feathers

The Strong Arm of Justice

The Touch of Time

Under the Pink Sky

Yes, Chef

And Finally, for the Truly Brave (I mean it, don't do this if you have very clear lines of what you find acceptable in fanfiction), I will answer questions about my folder titled "What Is This Shit?!?!", where I put all of the weird, dark, morally questionable fic ideas that I'm certain about 95% of you all would absolutely hate. Actually some of them are not that bad, but others really are a dumpster fire. Send a number between 1 and 66 for a potentially unpleasant surprise, if you dare.

Now for the tags! I tag @mega-aulover @unnamednarrator, and @thesweetnessofspring because it's been over a week since each of you tagged me mwahahaha. Also tagging @shesasurvivor @louezem and @burkygirl (I've seen you lurking in my notes, don't think I didn't. Hope you've had a restful break from fandom and glad to see you around here again.)

[bloodismymedium]

Ur urbanspook headcannons? brava. Spectacular give me 15 more of these

Your wish is my command anon🫀🫀🫀

🦷 Mona’s favorite holiday, predictably enough is Halloween and she loves the autumn season in general. Bill meanwhile, as a stark contrast, REALLY gets into Christmas.

🦷 Mona is touch starved and she doesn’t know it. She completely melts when Bill runs his fingers through her hair or touches her for any reason but she tries to hide these reactions since she doesn‘t want to come off as “weak”.

🦷 Nathan Cole was Bill’s partner and the more level-headed of the duo, being the one who had to reel Bill in whenever he got “overzealous” during police work. Nathan’s a legit good cop and generally nice guy while Bill was an asshole who was the epitome of police brutality.

🦷 The Gimp seen in HELL was Mark, as in “Mark The Machine” who was a blogger/YouTube personality who covered real crime and serial killers and was documenting Mona and Bill’s murders for years, which piqued Mona’s interest in him as she believed he genuinely appreciated her “art”, resulting in her stalking him for a while until finally kidnapping him and turning him into a pet, which is the full extent of her showing any actual affection towards someone. The title of Mark’s “portrait” is a reference to his background as an Internet personality and how Mona has managed to break him down to essentially just a machine, a toy for her to use as she pleases.

🦷 As mentioned before, Mona has an extreme allergy towards sunlight and photosensitivity that makes direct contact with sunlight very painful for her. As a result, Mona only goes out late at night or very early in the morning when the sun isn’t up. On cloudy days she’ll wear a “disguise” composed of a sun dress, opera gloves, stockings, a sun hat, a tattered parasol and a pair of sunglasses, allowing her to comfortably be outside during the day while also protecting herself from any potential rays that may be peaking out.

🦷 Mona is double jointed and is extremely flexible as a result. Her flexibility and ability to contort herself comes in handy in her murders as she is an expert in hiding and breaking in and out of places and she can squeeze herself into tight spaces quite easily as well. This talent of her’s comes in handy on nights when she and Bill get naughty 😏

🦷 Mona does not care for personal hygiene, she likes being a decrepit, stinky girl. However, if there is one form of self care she actually likes it’s brushing her hair because she finds it soothing and she likes her hair in general. Bill is tasked with brushing her hair and has a tendency to smell it while he does.

🦷 Mona has a bit of a hoarding problem as she is an avid collector of many things ranging from knives and human bones/skulls to dolls/stuffed animals and many of her hideouts boasts some impressive collections she has amassed over the years.

🦷 Mona also has an interest in entomology and mycology and boasts some fairly impressive knowledge on the subjects as a result. She’s got some nice bug and mushroom collections as well but she keeps them hidden because Bill keeps trying to eat them.

🦷 Bill loves coffee while Mona is more of a tea gal. Bill prefers iced coffee over hot and Mona prefers hot tea over iced. Also, Mona can take or leave coffee, Bill meanwhile HATES tea.

🦷 Bill loved breakfast foods, eggs & bacon, pancakes, waffles, donuts, you name it, he was also a fan of eggs in general and isn’t too keen on sweets most of the time. Mona is a MEAT girl, any kind of meat will do but human meat/organs is her favorite.

🦷 Mona dislikes guns because she finds them to be an incredibly boring and “impersonal” way of killing someone that doesn’t inspire her much, preferring a more “hands on” approach to murder. Bill meanwhile doesn’t just like guns, he practically worshipped them and was a typical second amendment, NRA type before meeting Mona.

🦷 Mona’s favorite genres of music are Industrial, Alternative Rock, Grunge, Horror Punk, Goth Rock and Dark Cabaret, her favorite artist is either Voltaire or Tom Waits. Bill’s favorite genres are Hard Rock, Thrash Metal, Death Metal, Nu Metal, Groove Metal and Psychedelic, his favorite artist is either Rob Zombie or Disturbed.

🦷 By far, the worst thing Mona has ever done was when she blew up a daycare on Christmas Eve, collected the charred remains of the infants, stitched them back together as macabre flesh dolls and sent them to their parents in gift boxes on Christmas day. Even Bill was kinda shocked when she did this and genuinely didn’t think she could get anymore depraved until she did it… which only made him love her even more in the end.

🦷 Mona’s choice for a final meal would be brown sugar glazed pork chops with colcannon and roasted asparagus, filet mignon with lobster tail, black pudding, a slice of spiced apple cake with french vanilla ice cream and a cup of earl grey. Also if given the choice, Mona would choose to be executed by firing squad. Bill’s final meal would be two pounds of fried chicken with a pound of fried shrimp, scrambled eggs, roasted potatoes, a pound of strawberries and a bottle of fireball whiskey. Bill wouldn’t care how he’s executed, just as long Mona is there to see him off.

[flowerbetweenfangs]

Of A Feather

M!Harpy x F!Human

This was an entry into a little contest. I went with a harpy plague doctor as my character. Some people liked it and that was enough for me.

When the village head informed me that he could not pay me in gold or goods, I was sympathetic. A bad harvest combined with a harsh winter had left them with little to spare. What little resources they had were used up to try and keep the remaining people healthy, at my behest. 

While I had no intention of exploiting him, there was still the matter of payment.  After all, services had been performed, supplies used, risks taken, and time spent.

If he couldn’t pay me with such things, what was left? 

Favors and flesh. 

I was taken to the man’s home, where a small gathering of people awaited me. They had obviously picked from the best looking and available people in the village. Hair combed and styled, attire perfectly coordinated to match skin and eye color, and subtle perfumes that did little to mask the stench of death that still clung to the doors. 

Even in the dim light of the candles, I could tell they were dazzling. 

The life of a plague doctor was a lonely one. Constantly traveling from town to town, potential suitors being scared off by the rumors that disease still clung to me, and many that I met died within the week. An omen of Death, bringer of the Reaper, harvester of Life. Titles that did not grant me land or wealth. 

The lot in front of me showed a fear I was all too familiar with. Some cast their eyes downward, but it did little to hide it. A few dared to glare or even scowl when they thought I wasn’t looking.  

I was about to depart, not wanting to further upset those still grieving, when the door opened. 

A chill from the autumn night stirred the curtains and made the candles flicker. As shadows danced across the walls, I could hear a few muffled whimpers and whispers. 

Labored breathing followed. 

The woman at the doorway was still wearing the gowns of mourning, her hair tucked away under a scarf. Despite this, her eyes weren’t red and puffy. 

In fact, she looked almost… Relieved to see me. She clutched a lantern, but I could see it shaking in her hand. For an instant, I feared she would drop it. 

When I took a step toward her, there was a flicker of hesitation in her eyes. She stared at my gloved hand, the fingers slightly limp. 

As her lips parted, I expected a biting remark or curse thrown my way. 

Instead, she tightened her grip on the lantern and set her jaw. 

Standing up straight, she drew herself to her full height. The lantern shook in her grasp, the flame dancing and moving the shadows on the wall. While far from an intimidating stature, the boldness that rolled off her gave me pause. 

Determination now gleamed in her gaze, the lamplight making it look almost like a hunter’s glint. 

Tension rose in the room. Eyes flicked back and forth. The crowd cleared a path as she walked up to me, no hesitation in her step. 

There was no need to ask who I was. The mask and robes left little doubt. 

Without a word, she curtsied to me. She looked back at the villagers, as if daring them to try and stop her. No one said a thing. In fact, everyone seemed to be relieved at her presence. There was a glimmer of hope. 

No one would have to choose a sacrifice to give to the boogeyman. 

We left the home, the door slamming behind us. 

I led the way, and she followed me to the outskirts. Not one person stopped to thank her or bid farewell. It suddenly made sense to me. They had wanted to be rid of her, and she of them. A few faces in windows twisted and contorted with disgust. Never with sorrow. 

Like me, she was an outsider.

Once we reached the border, where the dirt road gave way to the sprawling beyond, I saw her hesitate. She stared over her shoulder, and for a moment I thought she would weep. 

Clumsily, I reached into one of the pouches on my belt and produced a handkerchief. She stared at the square of fabric, and then began to laugh. Tears still welled, but I felt better knowing they weren’t from sorrow. 

I found myself entranced with the emotion and expression. She quieted too soon, and we were once more on our way. 

We walked in silence, and I was beginning to work out the terms of a contract and the conditions of my new companion’s stay. 

She continued to look out of the corner of her eye at me, smirking when our gazes met. I didn’t pry into the details of her life, nor did she mine. Perhaps it would come in time, when she became accustomed to her new position. 

When we arrived at my home, I allowed her inside and set up her accommodations. She explored the rooms and seemed satisfied. Rather than shrink away or cry out at the sight of my more macabre collections, she seemed intrigued. 

It was far from luxurious, but she would be comfortable until we found a more long term solution. I also supplied her with books so we could begin her training proper. She took them, but seemed confused, raising a quizzical brow. 

“We will start your studies tomorrow. By the end of the week, you should know what to expect moving forward.” 

I bid her goodnight then went to my own room to draw up the contract of her stay. 

An assistant would help relieve the burden of a few jobs, but I couldn’t afford to keep one for very long. My focus was purely on this new endeavor that I never removed my clothing to prepare for slumber. 

I was perched at my desk, having scribbled out dozens of lines on my papers when I heard the bedroom door open. Living alone, I had never gotten into the habit of locking it. 

She came into the room, wearing only her shift. It was threadbare, leaving little to the imagination. Her eyes flicked around the room, perplexed at my lack of a bed. The confusion didn’t last long and she approached the desk, standing behind the chair. 

While both of us were about the same height standing, she nearly towered over me. 

I turned to face her, and she leaned forward, putting her hands on the desk behind me. The bare flesh of her arms barely brushed against my robes. Even through the thick material I could feel their warmth. Breath fogged up the lenses of my mask, obscuring my vision. 

It was then I realized while I had expected a repayment in the form of a favor, she had chosen flesh. Perhaps she assumed that doing so would end her stay with me sooner and she could flee back to her village, or wherever she decided, after. 

Slowly, I lifted up my glove and pressed the back of it to her lips as I waited for the fog on my mask to dissipate. 

Her eyes became lidded as I felt the pressure of her lips against the leather. With an intentionally gradual pace, she brought them further down, where the glove went under my sleeve. 

She seemed perplexed at the material going so far up, but I could still feel her warm breath rolling down my arm. I was statue still as it flowed to my chest and heart. 

Blood sang in my veins as desire long buried began to claw its way from the grave. 

I retracted my hand from her. Her fingers twitched, curling on empty air. Slowly, she stepped away, eyes averting apologetically. Lips moved, tongue flitting nervously as she prepared to speak. 

Instead, I put my gloves on either side of my mask. 

Without waiting for a request for assistance, she slipped it off. 

I expected her to recoil in horror, or to flinch. But she only stared, eyes hungrily taking in the details of my face. While I was certainly far from a beauty, she clearly expected something more grotesque or marred. Her gaze seemed to focus on my hair, the long plumes that caught the light in a strange way, the way it frayed out.  

I stood up, expecting her to take a step back. Instead, she was resolute, not moving from her spot in front of me. 

My gloves found her hand. I could feel it shaking. She laced her fingers with mine, breath still tickling my lips. 

Gingerly, she set the mask down with her free hand. Dexterous fingers worked open my robes, running softly over the pebbled skin. Inhaling sharply, I flinched away reflexively as the shed material fell to the floor, leaving me in only my breeches and boots. 

While I possessed the same flesh as her on my head and torso, black feathers began to dot and eventually cover my arms, giving way to wings stuffed inside gloves. They too fell to the floor, no longer being held in place by sleeves.

I could see her eyes going lower, wondering what lay beyond the clothing. Ironically, the one part of my outer clothing that resembled a bird masked my human features. 

Then, she finally hesitated. Blinking, she traced over my shoulders and ran fingers down my bicep, stopping where flesh ended. The slightest edge of her nails made my feathers ruffle. A few formed a black ring around my boots. 

I could see the worry in her eyes. An unspoken question. 

What are you?

I made no move to pull her closer. Nor did I push her away. Neither of us spoke, not wanting to frighten the other. 

When she stepped back, I could feel a pang in my heart. The small space now between us cut through me like an icy blade. 

She grabbed her shift’s hem. Pulling it over her head, she let it join my feather’s on the floor. Despite all the heat coming from her touch, nipples were erect, skin covered in gooseflesh. I found myself closing the gap, letting our bodies share the warmth between them.  

Soft lips pressed against mine, arms encircling my waist. Legs wrapped around, bare flesh of thighs and calves rubbing against breeches and boots. My touch feather light, I followed every curve and crevice of her skin, unable to fully embrace and grasp her like she did to me. 

As I traveled downward, I could feel her breath catch against my neck, fingers digging into my back. I lacked the dexterity she did, but I could feel the trickling folds between her legs. Since I didn’t possess fingers, I moved my human mouth down and parted her thighs. 

The clothing we’d shed formed a slight cushion as she sat, hands tangled in my hair. I could feel her fingers exploring as my tongue plunged in and out of her. Each quiver and shake brushed against my feathers, the sensation only seeming to add to her enjoyment. 

Ankles locked between my shoulders, pulling me more into her. I increased my efforts, hooking her legs in the crook of my elbow. The gasps and moans became cries and screams of ecstasy, begging for more. 

The fingers in my hair formed a fist. My lips pressed to hers, groans and growls escaping me in a carnal language we both knew all too well, my tongue exploring as hers called out for more. 

When she finally loosened her grip, I shifted. Breeches brushed against her soaking folds, betraying the hardness within. Shaking legs spread wider. In the moonlight, I could see her shimmering wetness. Shallow breaths betrayed her ache. The need to be filled.

With some difficulty, I molted the last bit of my clothing. My boots clomped noisily on the floor. My breeches had barely slipped down my thighs when she managed to get up, her whole body shaking with the effort.

Once more, she leaned over, hands resting on the ground behind me. Straddling me, she lowered herself down. 

The warm and wet gripped me tightly, and I could see her spread across the girth, before vanishing behind my feathers. She tossed back her head at that, breath catching as she took a moment to recover, before starting again. I met her with each movement, once more devolving into the ancient language. 

However, she seemed to have had enough of it, and her lips covered mine. Her tongue explored, no doubt tasting herself. This only seemed to invigorate her further, moans and whimpers rumbling through the both of us. Even muffled, the sounds rattled me to my core. 

I wrapped my wings around her, not wanting a feather’s width of space between us. I wanted this to last. But I was dancing so close to the edge already. 

My taloned feet traced over her calves. The sharp tips must have lightly scratched her, because she stared at me, finally parting our kiss. Trembling legs gave out then, and she collapsed on top of me, labored breaths telling me she was at the brink herself. 

Despite the hesitation, she gave me a nod to continue. 

They gripped her ankles tightly, locking her in place. Taking her under my wings, I let her rest against me as I rolled my hips. Each thrust was punctuated with a sigh or a moan. The slow pace drew out each motion. 

Soon, I could feel her trying to wriggle down onto me, begging me to fill her faster. A few times I gave in, remaining inside her, only to draw back out again. She would bite her lips, scratching at the floor. The request was loud, despite a word not being spoken. 

Each breath and sigh further fanned the heat inside me. My motions were rough and out of practice, but she craved it all the same. 

Finally, I hilted and held her fast, feeling the flame of passion sputter out. She twitched around me, soft sighs telling me she could feel each drop inside her. It spilled out onto my stomach and hips, my grip finally loosening. 

We stayed entangled, clothes and feathers scattered around us. I managed to get my robes and drape them over her. The shivering eventually ceased, and she laid against my chest, hand resting on my shoulder. Slowly, her eyes closed and I could feel the soft breathing of slumber. 

The lenses of my mask gleamed in the candlelight, watching over the two of us.  

[fastlikealambo]

burn for you: coriolanus snow x black!fem reader regency au

summary: notorious rake coriolanus snow, duke of districtshire, must marry or face financial ruin. he sets his sights on you, an extremely wealthy woman in your own right and what transpires over one year told in 4 acts will change both their lives.

this is a sample chapter, please interact, comment or reblog if you would like to see the full chapter.

@rosewine-5

@saturnville

      Act One: Autumn

                                       

Just before the first leaves fell, Crassus Snow, the former Duke of Districtshire, died beneath the warm thighs of a chambermaid, a simple fact that brought joy to His Grace, Coriolanus Snow, his son and the new Duke of Districtshire every single time he thought about it.

The social season had begun and from his rooms in The Corso, he could see that the entire street had begun preparations for The Plinth Ball to open the season. Sejanus would be arriving soon to go over strategy for a successful social event but Coriolanus wasn’t the least bit worried, in fact he was annoyed.

He was a duke now, his name was on several ladies’ dance cards, he had an entire legion of staff and a village at his disposal, the world should have been his for the taking. But with his new title came his father’s old debts and the bastard loved to spend.

His Grace Coriolanus Snow, Duke of Districtshire, was flat fucking broke.

A knock at the door interrupted Coryo’s dream of a new cravat and with the arrival of his grandmother and cousin, his annoyance only grew with whatever Grandma’am was about to pester him with.

     “Coryo,I fixed the buttons on your jacket for the ball, pearls from the guest room curtains worked perfectly. I need to see it on you, make sure it fits like it’s supposed to.” Tigris said

 Coryo was only happy to oblige as his most beloved cousin moving back in with them after his father died had been the only bright spot in weeks. Slipping into the tailcoat, he looked in the mirror, admiring Tigris’ work.

Above all, he would look every inch the duke his father never was even if he only had a bit of cabbage and cold mutton to break his fast all day.

   “It’s wonderful,Tigris, thank you.” Coriolanus said truthfully, happy to see her smile while Grandma’am continued to look dour.

   “I had a letter from Lord Highbottom. He purchased the country estate without any warning and he intends to buy this home, our ancestral home, within a year if we do not pay what your father owed him for investing in his peasant child fighting establishment failure. You must marry well and marry now, Coriolanus! Do you wish me to be the laughingstock of the gardening society?” 

Grandma’am rather melodramatically threw herself onto the nearest settee, sobbing into a handkerchief while Tigris patted her back and gave her cousin an apologetic look.

No.

He did not wish to marry, not when there was fun to be had, that was something for a later date of his choosing, not in his first months of dukedom.

If it took selling off a prized horse or two, so be it.

Absolutely not, not happening.

    “You know my grandson, Coriolanus? He’s very much on the hunt for a suitable bride tonight! There’s not a young lady in all of Panem that wouldn’t want the title of Duchess and my grandson on their arm.”

Grandma’am’s voice unfortunately carried throughout the Plinth ballroom and it took everything in Coryo to not jump through the nearest window and to a brothel where his coin was far more interesting than his title.

       “Cheer up Your Grace, you’re scaring your potential brides.” Clemensia Dovecote quipped, stealing the  champagne flute from him with a smile.

      “Is it really that obvious, Clemmie?”

      “You look like you were bit by several snakes. Come dance with me unless you’d like to be set upon by overeager mamas in the next sixty seconds?”

Coriolanus could see Grandma’am leading an army towards him and joined the quadrille without a second thought.

All he had to do was pick the most agreeable one with the biggest dowry and their money problems would be settled with no more interference from Highbottom. 

He could buy all the cravats he wanted.

No.

He was still a duke and dukes did whatever they wanted and at this moment he wanted a drink, not a duchess.

Yet as he made his way to the nearest servant, the sound of double doors opening made him stop and everyone in the ballroom cease talking and dancing.

You.

You walked through the double doors, a masterpiece for all to gaze upon and immediately every thought of leaving early left Coriolanus’ mind.

Perhaps there was fun to be had this evening.

[shadowdaddies]

What Makes A Prince?

@ruhnweek Day 2: Crown Prince

Ruhn Danaan x Reader

“How was the ceremony, Prince Ruhn?” Dec teased as Ruhn and Flynn shoved their way through the door of the White Raven, both of them tugging at the restricting ties around their necks that they donned from whatever royal event they had been sentenced to attend tonight.

Shoving off his suit jacket, Ruhn tossed it to a nearby chair before sweeping his arms under you. Your yelp turned to a giggle as he cradled you to his chest, sitting himself in the chair where you just sat, with you in his lap.

Tattooed arms wound around your waist, lazy fingers stroking your thigh. “Hi,” Ruhn whispered, pressing a kiss to your cheek before turning towards the expectant males at the table.

“Same shit, different day,” he groaned, running a hand through onyx locks before he caught the bartender’s attention to motion for a beer. “One of these days, I will make my father regret forcing the title on me,” he murmured, fingers tapping against the table.

A smirk spread across your lips at the newfound opportunity for mischief. “And how would you do that, Prince?”

His hand squeezed your side in a teasing reprimand, his laugh low at the squeal that escaped you from the touch. With a deep sigh, violet eyes stared into the amber liquid in front of him, apparently deep in thought. 

“I’m going after the Starsword,” he declared solemnly, drawing silence as all eyes at the table focused on him. He looked to you, irises swimming with galaxies as he spoke with a newfound hope. “I won’t allow myself to be under his thumb any longer. With the Starsword, I will have my title of my own right, not because of him.”

“I’ll go with you,” Dec said, nodding along with Flynn who echoed his sentiments. 

Your hand found his jaw, dragging Ruhn’s gaze to you. “I am with you, always,” you promised. “Whatever you have planned, I want in.”

A wicked grin spread across Ruhn’s face, the prince working his lip ring with his tongue as he eyed you with admiration before turning to the rest of the group. “Then let’s start planning.”

After hours of discussion regarding Avallen, the Cave of Princes and potential problems with Ruhn’s cousin, Cormac, you all came up with a reasonable plan to retrieve the Starsword. 

“You don’t have to go, if you don’t want to,” Ruhn whispered against your neck, arm wrapped around your waist as you lay tangled in the bedsheets. “I know you can handle yourself, but the ways in Avallen...” he loosed a sigh, onyx hair tickling your skin as his head laid against your shoulder. “They’re backwards when it comes to females. I couldn’t bear if anything happened to you.”

You could feel his muscles tensing, arms subconsciously holding you tighter to him. You turned over your shoulder, pressing your chest against his while you nestled close to his warmth.

“I said I am with you. I don’t care how dangerous it is, I love and support you,” you assured, pulling his lips to yours for a slow, soft kiss. 

“And I do live to serve my Crown Prince, after all,” you purred, leg hooking around his hips as you ground softly against him.

With a sharp breath, Ruhn’s eyes darkened, grip tightening on your waist. “That title doesn’t mean anything to me,” he breathed, voice rough with arousal.

Humming, you couldn’t hold back your smirk as you dragged a finger up his chest. “Well it means something to me, Your Highness,” you whispered. “You are not the ‘Autumn Prince’, you are the Starborn Prince. Sword or not, you are Ruhn Danaan, Crown Prince of the Valbaran Fae - and title or not, I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he echoed, thick with emotion as you found yourself moved onto your back, strong arms caging in each side of your head.

Hips ground against your own, eliciting soft whimpers while your prince smirked down at you through a curtain of long, black hair. “Now let me show you how I bow before my princess,” he purred, eyes glinting with mischief as he slowly dragged himself down your body.

[pynkhues]

Do you think it’s possible Lestat was married or had children as a human, to fill in the extra fourteen years between his book transformation at 21 and his television transformation at 35? I hope not, but I’ve seen others entertain the possibility

Mm, I think I'd say that I think it's possible, but unlikely? I talked about it a bit in this post, but Sam discussed in his interview with Autumn about where that extra time gets put, and how he thinks it makes the most sense to keep Lestat in the Auvergne under his father's thumb for longer, and I'm inclined to agree. Would that involve a wife and children? It could, but I don't know if it would?

Lestat's the youngest son of a broke, aristocratic family, so while there is some value in his father marrying him off to a woman with money to bring wealth into the household, the appeal likely wouldn't be there on the other side. The eldest inherits the title, wealth (whatever's left of it), properties, land and estate, and generally with younger children, it would be whatever leftover wealth / the allowance from their eldest brother (or dowries for girls) that would make them appealing matches. Therefore, it would be Lestat's eldest brother who would probably be able to marry a wealthy woman in exchange for her becoming a marchioness, any woman who married Lestat or his other brother would really be staring down the barrel of an objectively bad match.

Given what the Marquis' like in the book too - and his reasons for pulling Lestat out of the clergy - I imagine he wouldn't want Lestat to marry so far beneath him as to embarrss the family, or create further strain on the limited wealth left with other dependents, or run the risk of Lestat leaving with a new wife, given he's the only one capable of earning any money through his hunting - which I think likely would take any other potential marriage off the table.

I also think it's really important on a narrative level that Lestat's never had a real family before ending up in New Orleans. The fact that he never got to live a mortal life before Magnus killed him feels pretty vital to Lestat's character, and is one of the reasons Marius sends him to America. That sort of naivety and arrested development I think really contributes to the dysfunction of the Rue Royale household, and I don't know if it would have the same impact if he'd been married or had children before.

Also just in terms of managing narrative logistics in the adaptation, I think adding another romantic plotline for Lestat, however brief, will be untenable given the show's already got to fit in Louis, Nicki, Armand, Akasha, and his mother in what will likely be 8 episodes.

[pro-cycling-primers]

📊The Monuments📊

As promised in my introductory post, it's time to get Monumental...

What are they?

A mostly arbitrary classification of five of the oldest, longest, most prestigious and most difficult one-day races. It doesn't really mean anything beyond a higher UCI point earning but it's a handy starting point for the Classics (one-day races).

Milano-San Remo 🇮🇹 (mid-March)

The longest single race on the men's calendar, this gruelling ~300km outing regularly yields some of the most exciting racing of the season.

But only at the very end. It's an endurance test finishing with the final two climbs, the Cipressa and the Poggio, where the race-winning moves are often made.

Don't bother tuning in to MSR until they're at least on the Cipressa – about 20km from the finish. Outside of a favourite crashing, almost nothing that happens in the first six hours will matter toward the final result.

Expect: To be bored if you start watching early on, but fifteen minutes of absolutely electrifying racing after a long day out. Oftentimes an unexpected winner.

Ronde van Vlaanderen 🇧🇪 (late March/early April)

Spring is well and truly underway; it's time to head to Flanders!

The culmination of Belgian cycling's Holy Week, the Ronde combines cobbles with short, sharp climbs in the Flemish Ardennes for a brutal Sunday's racing. Every climb has a name and a history: the Oude Kwaremont, Paterberg, Koppenberg are some of the most iconic and decisive.

Expect: So many Vlaamse Leeuw flags the roadside looks like a daffodil field, aggressive and tactical racing, riders potentially having to dismount on the steepest of cobbled sections.

Paris-Roubaix 🇫🇷 (early April)

The only French Monument, Roubaix is affectionately known as l'Enfer du Nord/the Hell of the North. That's fitting for the conditions riders face: it's pancake-flat but the challenge lies in the bone-shaking cobbled secteurs (rated 1 to 5, 5 being the worst), usually totalling ~50km

The weather often comes into play, with wind and rain rendering the cobbles slippery and dangerous, shown on the 5-star Trouée d'Arenberg in 2021 (left). Finishing in the Velodrome André-Pétrieux (right), the winner even gets one of the cobbles as a trophy!

Expect: Pavé-induced punctures and other mechanicals, commentators debating the pros and cons of a wet Roubaix. A winner usually on the larger side of pro cyclists, as size = absolute power and more stability on the cobbles.

Liège-Bastogne-Liège 🇧🇪 (late April)

Rounding out the Ardennes end of the spring classics, LBL is the most climber-friendly of the Monuments, with enough hills to put many of the larger riders out of contention. First held in 1892, earning the race its nickname of La Doyenne, it continues to entertain to this day.

Don't let the lack of cobbles or inordinate length of the first three, LBL is still a brutal race of ~260km with 4,400m of climbing!

Expect: Hills. Hard, and plenty of them. Often better weather than the other three.

Il Lombardia 🇮🇹 (mid October)

Usually regarded as marking the end of the road cycling season proper, Lombardia favours punchy climbers as it meanders through Lombardy – another region steeped in cycling history.

It's a beautiful race, often taking in the shores of Lake Como while chasing up and down the foothills of the Alps. Autumnal conditions can affect the race with potential for slippery roads and chilly descents.

Expect: Assuming past performance predicts future results, Tadej Pogačar to win his fifth consecutive title, equalling Fausto Coppi's record. Beautiful helicopter shots of the landscape; it's not nicknamed the Race of the Falling Leaves for nothing.

See you in March for the last fifteen minutes of San Remo!

[hemmingsthoughts]

5sos fanfiction

Book title- Through the lens

Notes- wanting to share my book thats ongoing on Wattpad @starfirethoughts

Chapter 1-Through the lens

Lena Carter had always been a girl with a camera. It wasn't just a hobby, not a passing interest. Photography was how she saw the world—through the lens of her Canon, everything was a snapshot, a moment frozen in time.

She wasn't famous. She wasn't some big-shot photographer with glossy magazine spreads or her work hanging in the top galleries of the world. But Lena had something that most of the top names didn't: passion. It drove her, it consumed her, and it made every day a potential masterpiece.

Her apartment, a tiny place just on the edge of the city, was crammed with cameras, lenses, tripods, and stacks of photography books. It smelled faintly of coffee, old books, and the soft scent of paint from the canvas where she'd try to capture light in different ways. Photography was everything to her, even if the world hadn't fully noticed yet.

Today, like most days, she was on a mission. Lena had seen a post on social media about a last-minute, exclusive gig—a small concert by a band she'd never heard of before. But the venue was just the sort of place she loved: intimate, cozy, and perfect for candid shots. She'd gotten the green light from the event organizer to bring her camera, and she wasn't going to let the opportunity slip by.

She walked through the crowded streets of the city, her camera bag bouncing lightly against her hip. The brisk autumn air carried a hint of rain, and she quickened her pace. The venue was tucked between two art galleries on a quiet street, a place that looked like it belonged in a forgotten corner of the world, its stone exterior worn with time.

Inside, the dim lighting and smoky haze gave the venue an old-school charm. Lena set her bag down at the side of the room, adjusting the straps on her camera and scanning the crowd. It was already filling up, but she could still move around without bumping into anyone.

Then, the lights dimmed even further, and a low murmur ran through the audience. The stage was small, barely big enough for the instruments, but as the first chords of the band echoed out, Lena's heart skipped. The sound was electric—raw, energetic. There was something familiar about it, something that made her pause for a moment. She leaned in, trying to focus on getting the perfect shot, her fingers flying over the camera settings.

And then, she saw him.

Luke Hemmings.

Her first thought was no way. The Luke Hemmings. The lead singer of 5 Seconds of Summer.

He was standing on stage, eyes closed, microphone in hand, his voice sending a shiver down her spine. He was just a few feet away, bathed in the soft, amber light from above. His movements were easy and effortless, like the music was flowing through him. She couldn't believe it. She'd always been a fan, but this was... this was different. This was real.

She tried to calm her breathing, keeping her hands steady as she adjusted the lens, capturing the raw energy of the moment. The audience was swaying with the beat, but Lena's focus was entirely on him. His features were sharp, eyes intense, his tousled hair falling into his face, adding to the image of a rockstar she'd only ever seen on screen.

He caught her gaze for a split second as she snapped another photo, and for a brief moment, she froze. He didn't seem to notice it, though, or maybe he was too immersed in the music to care. The band continued to play, the intensity of the set growing, and Lena couldn't help but be drawn in even further.

As the song ended, the lights flashed on for a moment, and the crowd cheered. Lena, trying to keep her cool, adjusted the strap of her camera and moved to the side to grab a few candid shots of the band members as they took a breather. Her heart was racing, but she was a professional. This was her moment.

"Great shots tonight," a voice said, and she froze.

Lena turned quickly to find herself face-to-face with Luke Hemmings. The voice wasn't just familiar from songs; it was the real, live version of him standing there in front of her. His casual black jacket and jeans somehow made him seem even more effortlessly cool than she'd ever imagined.

"I... I'm sorry?" she stammered, blinking a few times as her brain tried to catch up. This had to be some kind of trick. Some elaborate prank.

Luke smiled, a little sheepishly, his blue eyes flicking from the camera in her hands to her face. "You were getting some great shots out there," he said, glancing toward the stage. "I saw you a few times in the front."

Lena's face flushed, and she cleared her throat, trying to seem calm and collected despite her racing heart. "Thanks," she managed. "You're... amazing tonight. I didn't even know you were playing here."

"Yeah, it's kind of a secret thing," Luke said, his tone almost conspiratorial. "Wanted to do something more intimate before the big tour kicks off. You a photographer?"

Lena nodded, swallowing hard. "Yeah. I mean, sort of. I'm trying to get my name out there."

"Well, looks like you're doing a good job so far." He chuckled, leaning slightly closer. "Would love to see some of your work, if you're cool with that."

Lena's heart pounded. This couldn't be happening, but here he was, standing in front of her, talking about her photography as if it were something important.

"Uh, yeah. I'd love that," she managed, her voice almost a whisper.

Luke smiled again, and for the first time that evening, Lena felt her nerves settle, just a little. This was the beginning of something she hadn't even dared to dream of. A meeting. A connection. Maybe more.

Her fingers trembled as she fumbled with her camera strap, trying to process what had just happened. She wasn't sure where this would lead, but there was one thing she knew for certain: her world had just gotten a whole lot bigger.

And it was only just beginning.