#wayfarer's rest

[redwayfarers]

Wayfarer Week: Injury

Fandom: Wayfarer IF Ship: N/A Characters: Cassander Inteus (OC), Amali Sero, Aeran Kellis Rating: Gen (vague descriptions of an injury) Words: 702 As it says on the tin - prompt 3 for @wayfarer-week! Enjoy my boy being a dumbass lmao

Sero is cleaning their daggers when the news reaches them. It’s already been a shitty week, all things considered, and they do      not    need any more additional stressors. So here they are, secluded in their study, trying to process it all and just take a moment for themself when someone knocks on the door.

“Kellis,” they greet, lifting their eyes from the daggers. They shine brighter than jewels on the Emperor’s crown, but it doesn’t stop them from giving them a loving, thorough sweep once more. Sero takes a moment to look Aeran over - his hair’s messy and dirty, there are bags under his eyes and he smells of days on the road. There’s a patchy stubble he has yet to shave off. Worry’s etched into the lines of his face. “Kellis, what happened?”

“I came to give my report,” he says. “Cass would’ve come with me as well, but he’s with Sirin now. Bastard almost got killed by a beast.”

Sero’s heart drops to their heels. Their face hardens and they’re on their feet in moments. “Where’s the injury? What did Sirin say?” 

“On his back– I took him there as quickly as I could but–” Aeran is gripping the door tightly. His nails are scarily white. Sero places a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezes. 

“Calm down, kid,” they say, playing up the certainty of their voice. “He’s in capable hands. You go wash up. Any reports can wait until the morning.” 

“I–” Aeran looks down. “I will.” As soon as he’s out of sight, though, Sero all but flies down to the infirmary. Their heart beats wildly. Aeran’s reaction indicates this injury isn’t a mere scratch. Did it touch the spine? Stars and hellfire, not the spine. They move on instinct, trying to will themself not to freak out. 

Not him, not him, not him, Sero chants, opening the doors loudly. Their eyes fly over the infirmary, looking for the familiar sight of red hair. Before they spot Cassander, however, they spot Sirin, who’s washing her hands next to a nearby, empty cot. She nods at them and approaches, drying her hands. 

“Grandmaster?” her voice is measured and even.

“Cassander–” 

“Will live,” Sirin finishes, tipping her head in the direction of a certain cot. And sure enough, Sero sees Cass’ bright, red head and the tips of his ears. “But can you keep your voice down? He, like the rest of the people here, is sleeping.” 

Sero sighs deeply in relief and clears their throat. A part of them wants to offer an explanation - my son is injured and I wish to see him - but the admission doesn’t really sit right with them. Not like this. Not to Sirin before anyone else. The other part, the Grandmaster one, makes them straighten their back and nod. It’s that part that also says, “I apologize. Is the injury serious?”

“He’s very lucky that it missed the spine just so. As it is right now, it’s deep, but nothing life-threatening.” Sirin squints. “I do recommend he grow a pair of eyes behind his head, though. This kind of luck doesn’t happen twice.” 

Sero rubs their temples. So he’s been a dumbass, so innocently unaware of what his recklessness does to people around him. They recall Aeran’s worried face, the whites of his nails as he grips the door. The desire to throttle Cassander sometimes overpowers them, but Sero persists. “I hope he learned his lesson, for fuck’s sake,” they reply. 

“Me too. I’d hate to patch him up twice over the same mishap.” With that, she goes on her merry way and Sero makes a beeline for Cass’ cot. Their hands shake just slightly as they remove hair from his eyes and feel the steadiness of his breath against their fingers. His skin is warm, sharp with growing stubble, and alive.

“I’ll throttle you when you heal, I swear,” they whisper. “Don’t make us worried like this.” Not you, not you, not you. Not you, of all people. Their hand stays for a moment longer. But they should let him rest now, probably. 

There’s a time and a place for accusations of dumbassery, but for now, they’re just happy he’s alive.

[dndtreasury]

Wayfarer (Set) by Dragons & Stories

[coldshrugs]

can't participate in a fun and silly fandom event if you haven't hundred percented the game, just so you know

[beyondmistland]

What do you think of the theory that Lord Vance might have been Master of Laws and finished due to going blind? It would account for there being a lack of Riverlanders on the Small Council, likely Renly came in just afterwards.

Its not a bad theory but there's also no evidence for or against it.

Thanks for the question, @cynicalclassicist

[lyriumsings]

happy birthday!! 🥳💖

Thank you!! 🥺❤️✨

[wayfaringstrangxr]

I always saw myself as a "too straight" person, you kow, because of how I dress and all. Then today I was on a work meeting and one of colleagues went "Fernanda, you're gay, right? Cause you look gay" and I was like "thank you?"

[fear-is-truth]

𝜗ϱ fiancé! + husband! 𝓟𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝓑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍 hc

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw headcanons﹒violent fantasies﹒infidelity

a/n: i would like to thank anon for requesting this and credit to dear bow anon for helping out !!

one night, as you both rode in a cab on the way to dinner, patrick takes off his walkman and suddenly asked, “have you ever thought about getting married?” his tone was casual, but his body language betrayed his tension—the tightening of his grip on his leather gloves, the unnecessary way he adjusted his tie. when you turned to him, surprised, he waved it off almost immediately. for the rest of the ride, he ignored you, listening to his walkman.

full fic : the perfect girl

weeks later, the topic re-emerged. it was a quiet morning after sex—patrick lay beside you in his perfectly starched egyptian sheets, sunlight streaming in through the windows. “would you ever consider marrying me?” he asked abruptly. the question startled you—again. you blinked at him, unsure if you’d heard correctly. “marry you?” patrick shifted slightly, propping himself up on an elbow. his face was unreadable, though his jaw tightened slightly. “yes. i’d assume it’s a reasonable consideration,” he said, as though the idea had been entirely logical. your heart fluttered despite the lack of romance in his delivery. “yes, patrick,” you said after a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. “i would.”

full fic : patrick’s proposal

patrick wasted no time. the next day, he presented you with a ring: an 18k rose gold cartier panthère ring, encrusted with diamond accents.

smutty drabble: jerking him off

pre-nuptial agreements (obviously)

meticulously plans every detail of your engagement and future wedding. the venue must be the right blend of modern elegance and exclusivity, the guest list is capped at “only the most important people,” and the floral arrangements must feature imported orchids flown in from singapore. no compromises.

scrutinized every decision down to the smallest detail: the font on the invitations (garamond, elegant but understated), the centerpiece arrangements (white roses only, no filler flowers), and champagne (dom pérignon, chilled to exactly 45 degrees).

patrick donned a pair of ray-ban wayfarers as the two of you arrived at the reception venue (the pierre hotel), stepping out of the rolls-royce.

your wedding dress was custom-designed at dior’s paris atelier. it was a minimalist masterpiece: a structured bodice with a square neckline, flowing into a clean, floor-length skirt with a cathedral-length train. the fabric was italian silk-mikado with a soft sheen, the epitome of elegance. no lace, no unnecessary frills—patrick deemed them “garish.” the veil was long and simple, edged with the thinnest line of swarovski crystals for just a hint of sparkle.

patrick wore a bespoke zegna tuxedo, black with peak lapels, tailored to absolute perfection. the cuffs of his shirt bore subtle platinum cufflinks engraved with your initials and the wedding date. he spent an obscene amount of time choosing the exact shade of black for the tie.

patrick stole quick glances at you, a flicker of irritation shadowing his eyes at the slight asymmetry of your smile. he stewed in his own perfectionist hell, a seething internal monologue growing increasingly deranged.

the bridal portraits was complete nightmare. after making the photographer redo them six damn times—he still found fault. he had scrutinised the angle of your neck, the curve of your jaw, the flicker of light in your eyes. in his eyes, the photos should’ve been magazine-perfect. anything less was sacrilege!

his vows were an unsettling, almost surreal monologue. a strange, disjointed stream of poetic nihilism, peppered with bizarrely intellectual references. sprinkled in lines from fromm’s the art of loving, twisting them into cryptic confessions that left everyone unsure whether he was being sincere or just… pretentious patrick.

the reception unfolded in an impossibly sleek manhattan venue. a cavernous, glass-walled space filled with patrick’s circle of high-powered cronies, along with stick-thin models who seemed more at ease snorting cocaine in dark corners than nibbling on the overpriced amuse-bouches.

the waitstaff darted around the room, terrified to stumble into discussions about stock portfolios, yacht repairs, or debates over which luxury rehab center had the best cold-press juice cleanse. conversations were a mix of shallow ambition and transactional networking.

the dining experience was an exercise in culinary pretension. dry-aged wagyu steaks with precise marbling, delicate beluga caviar that was more a statement of wealth than taste, and desserts that were too decadent (and high in calories) to exist. everything was paired with wine that cost more than most people’s annual mortgage.

the cake was a towering six-tier masterpiece from sylvia weinstock, adorned with sugar flowers so intricate they looked real. each layer featured a different flavour, from vanilla-bean sponge to passionfruit mousse.

only dom pérignon vintage 1985 was served—patrick had insisted on it. the bottles were presented on silver trays by impeccably dressed waitstaff, with glasses refilled before guests could even think about asking. patrick spent weeks debating between this and krug clos du mesnil but ultimately decided the former “sent the right message.”

during the ceremony, patrick’s bored mind slipped into violent fantasies. he imagined choking out the priest with his necktie and chopping up his groomsmen like sashimi.

despite being invited out of obligation, evelyn didn’t show. patrick hadn’t mentioned her absence until much later, casually remarking, “it was better this way.” he didn’t dwell on her, but jane—his secretary and a guest at the wedding—looked quietly heartbroken for some reason.

dancing was beneath patrick. instead, he lingered by the bar, a martini glass filled with a pristine, artful concoction he hadn’t ordered but took anyway because it fit perfectly in his hand. he’d observed the guests, mentally doing fit checks.

after the night wound down, patrick would lie naked in your hotel suite, staring at the ceiling with an unsettling stillness. his jaw clenched as his thoughts spiraled. not about the wedding itself—that was a calculated performance he’d mastered. no, he was questioning the tie. the damn zegna tie. why hadn’t he gone with the brioni?

insists you accompany him to every social gathering, but not because he wants your company. you’re his accessory, his proof of a successful relationship. he spends the evening flaunting you on his arm, introducing you to people who matter to him (read: people whose opinions validate him), and correcting your behavior if he deems it less than perfect.

his morning routine is sacred, and by extension, you’re expected to have one too. patrick buys you a shelf’s worth of high-end skincare products and insists you use them exactly as prescribed.

takes immense interest in your wardrobe. if something looks even remotely outdated or “cheap,” he’ll whisk you through fifth avenue, steering you toward hermès or dior

has a habit of buying you extravagant gifts after every argument—designer bags, clothes and jewelry. “i thought this might cheer you up,” he says, like he didn’t just shatter your nerves an hour earlier.

morning sex is first thing when you both wake up, right before his meticulously scheduled workout—his body at its peak energy. once finished, he’d kiss your forehead and disappear into the bathroom for his grooming routine.

insists on watching the patty winters show and sit you both in front of the television. you often have no choice but to endure his running commentary.

patrick has a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. he claims it’s beneath him, but when he goes, he micromanages the process to an extreme degree—reading labels, debating brands, and spending 20 minutes in the imported cheese aisle.

your wedding photos are framed in the living room, carefully arranged in a symmetrical layout. patrick often stares at them as he works out.

his idea of romance sometimes verged on the grotesque. one evening, he decided the two of you should watch the texas chainsaw massacre together. he ends up fucking you into the couch as he enjoys the music.

not the type to be overly vulnerable, but in the privacy of your bedroom, he’d occasionally let down his guard. pillow talk with patrick is a mix of unnervingly sharp observations and random musings. he’ll ramble about the fisher account, dissect music lyrics in great detail, or comment on global events with an eerie detachment.

occasionally, he’d break the stream of words with a sudden, “you’re listening, aren’t you?”

patrick hates surprises—unless they’re from him. when your coworkers once threw you a small birthday party, he was visibly irritated the entire evening. “it was tacky,” he said flatly on the drive home. “you deserve better.”

he got you reservations at dorsia, a perfectly chosen gift (think chanel jewelry or a bvlgari clutch), and a bouquet of flowers with handwritten note that’s short, formal, and oddly impersonal: “to another year of excellence—patrick.”

patrick rarely laughs, but when he does, it’s usually at something dark or absurd. once, you tripped over a stack of magazines he left by the couch and groaned in pain. his response? a sharp, startled laugh, followed by an unconvincing, “…are you okay?”

he adores the opera—not so much for the art but for the prestige it carries. he’ll plan elaborate evenings at the metropolitan opera house, ensuring both of you were impeccably dressed. he wore a brioni tuxedo, while he’d insist on you wearing a custom-made gown from carolina herrera or oscar de la renta.

despite his outward sophistication, his attention drifted from the stage to you. hand resting lightly on your thigh, fingers tracing small circles through the fabric of your dress.

he’s absolutely neurotic about cleanliness. he’ll never leave a glass on the counter without a coaster and can’t stand an unmade bed.

hates clutter and will occasionally “edit” your belongings—quietly throwing out things he deems unnecessary, like old magazines or sentimental knickknacks, without consulting you.

micromanages household tasks. he critiques the way you load the dishwasher, fold laundry, or even stack the fridge. “this is inefficient,” he’ll say, rearranging items while you stand there, biting your tongue.

patrick has an affinity for the ritual of lighting cigars. he’ll let you hold the match for him occasionally, but only if you did it exactly right.

would only agree to a pet under duress, and even then, it would have to be something sleek and purebred. when you suggest something more practical, like a rescue, he’s visibly horrified.

when you finally get the pet, patrick is immediately jealous of the attention you give it. if the cat / dog sits on your lap during movie night, he’ll stare at it with naked dislike. “i don’t understand why you let it do that,”

patrick has an odd relationship with your pet. he’ll complain about it incessantly—“it sheds everywhere,” “it’s always underfoot”—but despite his constant bitching, you’ve caught him talking to the pet on more than one occasion. “she likes you more than me,” he mumbles bitterly. the pet tilts its head, oblivious, which irritates him further. after taking another sip of scotch, he nudges it away with his foot—not enough to hurt it in your presence.

but the true ugliness of patrick’s jealousy comes out when you’re not looking. he’ll straight up kick the poor thing or lock it out from your bedroom.

doesn’t officially cheat, but he indulges in frequent encounters with sex workers—usually in secluded, high-end hotels. these encounters, hidden from you, are his way of dealing with his violent fantasies.

afterwards, he comes back to you, his demeanor completely unaffected. he doesn’t apologize, doesn’t act like anything has changed—because, in his mind, it hasn’t. you’re still his. you always will be.

when he’s bored, he’ll ask you to try on outfits—sometimes just a simple dress, but mostly it’s something risqué. he watches you from the other side of the room with that detached gaze, silently critiquing your appearance. “it’s not quite right,” he’ll say, before giving you another outfit to try on like you’re his personal doll.

full fic : leather & lace

while patrick doesn’t outright admit his dependence on you, it’s clear in the small moments. if you’re gone for too long, he’ll call, his tone petulant as he demands your whereabouts, as though your absence disrupts his routine.

at age 27, patrick doesn’t yet feel the need to rush into parenthood, but there are times, especially while having sex, that he considers the possibility. it’s an idea that briefly excites him, but he quickly dismisses it with a wry smile, preferring the idea of you and him maintaining an image of “perfection” without the messiness of raising a child.

though you’ve never spoken about the future in concrete terms, patrick assumes you’ll always be by his side, forever wrapped in his controlling, perfectionist bubble. he doesn’t see any reason why you’d want to leave; after all, why would you when you have everything?

 fear-is-truth 2024 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[cambion-companion]

could I request for you to write an scenario in which Raphael does not die to Tav nor their party, but in an other similarly humiliating circumstances, and Tav when learning about this desperately goes to save Raphael from his father by bargaining with Mephistopheles? (hilariously in a very sad way, I assume this, is the only moment that Mephistopheles would ever "value" Raphael's life, but then again that is devils for you) and Raphael's confusion at the whole thing, someone taking a terrible bargain to save him, just… because they… like him…??? (bonus points, if Tav still has a crown to willingly give Raphael XD)

It's beat up Raphael hours huh? (also Korilla will be fine)

Hi there love. This turned from a drabble into a oneshot haha

Have fun running to Cania to pick up your wayfaring devil!

Raphael x reader (gn)

Korilla had come to you.

Broker and bruised, battered and bloody. Her long curly hair matted with mud and dried viscous.

“Help him.”  Her first words, rasped from a throat raw from screams.

“Korilla!”  You caught her weight as her knees buckled, lowering her gently to the ground.  The Dwarven woman wasn’t your friend by any means, but she had been your ally.  “Who needs my help?”  You couldn’t fathom who she might be referring to.

Surely it wasn’t Raphael. It couldn’t possibly be the enigmatic, self-assured cambion.

Korilla’s answering rasp dispelled any doubt. “My master.”

A fog of shock settled over your mind, your hands loosening around Korilla’s shaking form.  She whispered the truth into your ear, her bruised lips trailing her blood onto your clammy skin. With fading voice Korilla told of the attack, Raphael’s demise and his imminent doom.

“Portal. Diabolist.  Cania.”  Korilla’s breaths grew short as she fought valiantly once more against the oncoming black.

“Hold on, Korilla.  You’re going to be okay.”

“Save him.” She said again, her eyes slowly glossing over as the life left her broken body.

You cursed.  The warlock’s last actions had been to find you in a desperate hope you’d help Raphael before he was consumed by his father.  His father who just so happened to be an archdevil. Mephistopheles.

“Little shit could’ve mentioned that.”  You grimaced, lowering Korilla’s body to rest upon the cold earth.

You stood, pinching the bridge of your nose as your thoughts whirled and clashed. Not only had the attackers killed Raphael, but they had also looted his house, stealing the Orphic hammer and the only hope you’d had of defeating the Elder Brain.

“Damn it.”  You returned to your companions with the news. “Looks like we’re taking a rescue party to hell.”

“Who’s the damsel in distress?”  Astarion asked, tilting his head as his red eyes flickered over your blood-flecked form.

“Raphael.”

The plan was to use as much stealth as possible. The vaults of Mephisto had been broken into not long ago, according to Raphael, so it was possible.  A direct confrontation with the archdevil himself was out of the question.  

The diabolist in Baldur’s Gate took some convincing, but in the end you were able to push enough gold across the counter to seal the deal.  

���Very well.  Though I warn you, you’ll not return alive or with your souls intact.”

“Yes, yes.”  You waved the woman off, her visage reminding you of Korilla. “Believe me, I’ve heard it all before.”  Your eyes scanned the musky shop. Do you have anything that will locate a specific fiend?”

With a Locate Creature spell scroll ready in your bag you watched as the diabolist created for you a portal. Ice crystals immediately crusted on the edge of the black abyss, the wind coming from the portal nearly freezing your shoes to the floor.

“Quickly, and remember the disguises!”  She ushered you and your party through, the frigid darkness enveloping you with a grim finality.

Through cold halls you’d snuck, invisible fingers cold as death scraping along your back and through your hair as you passed beneath torches of blue flame.

Time lost all meaning here.  Your eyes began to play tricks on you. The only thing keeping your mind focused was the spell lighting the edge of your vision with a warm glow, growing brighter as you hurried to where Raphael was being held.

An age, or an hour had passed.

The wrought iron door, so cold to the touch it burned, swung noiselessly inward, admitting you to an octagonal shaped room. On the far wall you saw him, his form dark, chained by one wrist to the wall.

“Raphael.”  You hissed, unexplainable relief flooding your frozen veins when his head moved in response.  

Your companions waited by the open doorway, keeping watch from the shadows.  You snuck as quickly as you could to where Raphael was restrained. His glowing eyes looking down upon you with consternation before recognition slowly dawned across his sharp features.

You held up a hand, silencing him as he opened his mouth. Movement could be heard from outside the prison room. You were running out of time.

“Can you get us out of here if I free you?”  You hissed, still keenly aware of the nature of the devil.

Raphael nodded, his tail moving to and fro in agitation.  Something about his vitality seemed to be missing, you had never imagined seeing him in such a state. ��It was unsettling.

The matter of removing the singular shackle proved to be more challenging than you’d thought.  Astarion’s lockpicking skills proved futile.

“It’s a magical seal.”  Raphael breathed, his voice low yet sharp with anger born of desperation. “Now’s not the time to play the fool.”

You gave him a severe look which he matched right back at you, his eyes sparking flame.

You raised a hand to the ice-covered metal, about to dispel the magic surrounding the lock. “You owe me a favor.  A big one.  I don’t know yet what I will ask of you, but you will deliver. Understood?”

Raphael’s gaze scorched you for a moment, it was clear he was furious with his current predicament. But he had no choice, and both of you knew it.

He nodded curtly.

You cast your spell.

Raphael’s wrist broke free with the sharp sound of metal splintering. His hand closed tight around your arm, the dungeons of Mephisto melted away as you and your companions were yanked unceremoniously back to the material plane.

At least, your companions were.  Deposited non-gently upon the hard ground of your camp.

Raphael kept hold of you.  Taking you back to the foyer of his house. The house which still lay in semi ruin from its previous sacking.

He was angry.  Each step he took crackled fire and promise of swift vengeance.

“Raphael…”  You said hesitantly, following him down into the dining hall.  “Raphael, Korilla-”

“Is dead.”  Under the glow of firelight, you could properly see the state he was in. You winced when he turned to face you. “I know. Though not as dead as those who dared pillage my home, the fools.”

“Do you know who?”  You remained wary as you watched him conjure an armchair and sink down into it.

Raphael ignored your question, he issued orders in the abrasive Infernal tongue, seemingly into thin air.  His fingers clicked and a spark of flame licked around them.  Unseen servants began bustling around, clearing the debris and wreckage.  Setting the House of Hope back in order.

Raphael leveled his gaze upon you.  His expression was not unkind, it was calculating.  He had underestimated you and overestimated himself.  Not a mistake he’d make again.

“Why?”  No flowery words, no ado.

“I still need the hammer.”  You had the response prepared, having known the question was coming.

“You could have hunted down the thieves without my help.”  Raphael narrowed his hellfire eyes. “Why come to my aid?”

“Korilla asked me to.  It was her dying wish.”  You fidgeted under his piercing presence. “Besides, you’re a useful ally.  I still need your help to save the world.”

Raphael arched a brow, unconvinced. “Half-truths are still considered lies, dear.  But there are matters I must attend to.”  He stood, restless.  

“Will your father come for you again once he realizes you’re gone.”  The question came before you could stop yourself.

“Concerned for me?”  Raphael appraised you, a knowing tilt to his head. “No.  He will not.”

You didn’t argue, Raphael was clearly on edge, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

You rubbed circles against your aching temple. “Well, seems we have some thieves to track down.  A hammer to retrieve.”

Raphael looked as though he was biting back a sharp retort.  He chewed on his words, looking you over. “Yes.”  He growled, infernal fire flickering off his form. “You may watch as I peel their souls from the writhing mortal flesh.”

In an unexpected move, Raphael strode to you and took your hand, placing a kiss to your knuckles. His breath hot on your still chilled skin. “You may even assist me, if you so desire.”  He straightened.

That was as close to a “thank you” as you were going to get.

You set your jaw grimly. “When do we start?”

[dinozarr]

⠀ “f-f-fuckk~ please fuck me harder.”

𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐃𝐒 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐒 . . . who was obsessed with you from the moment he saw you. the way you flaunted yourself to the rest of the class, impressing your professor from your sheer intelligence. he could never take his eyes off you, always stealing longing glances your way anytime you took the notion to sit next to him. he always found himself pushing his glasses up high, gripping his pencil tighter, and shifting in his seat whenever you were around. the affect you had on him was like no other.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it didn’t help the fact that you were top of the class either, so he couldn’t use the stereotypical excuse of being your tutor in order to just talk to you. he had to go a different route. it wasn’t something he was proud of; dumbing himself down for the sake of one’s attention, yet he didn’t necessarily care since it was with you. he found himself purposely failing the quizzes and discussion boards your professor would post, expressing evident irritation at his forced grade.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀much to his dismay, after scrounging your socials, he discovered that you had your own “tutor sessions” up on a particular website called OnlyFans. he hadn’t a clue as to what it was, yet didn’t mind all of the sexual ads he continued to get when looking at your “tutor prices”. he was utterly oblivious to the fact it was a porn site, messaging you like some sort of professional customer. it was cute, you gave him that. his profile being himself with his adorable little black-framed wayfarer glasses.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you thought he would’ve changed his mind the moment he stepped foot into your loft apartment, seeing your setup and alas realizing your tutor sessions weren’t what he was expecting at all. however, when revised of the terms he initially agreed you, giving him an op-out, he remained persistent and gave full consent; practically begging for the session to start. you were startled by his assertion, not expecting to see such a side of the quiet boy that sat in the back of your mathematics class.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀nor were you expecting for your viewers to absolutely adore him. they loved watching you ride his over-average erection that had your walls practically begging for mercy with how his veins raked along them, his tip kissing your cervix beautiful with every hip roll you gave. you were unaware of how large he was, bottom lip being crushed between the brim of your teeth as you adjusted to his enlarged size. just from being halfway down his dick you could feel your lower abdomen forming a heated knot, eyes squeezing shut instantly.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀his eyes were literally a sight for sore eyes with how cutely he sat beneath you, trembling hands not knowing where to go as they roamed you body freely. his glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, fog coating the frames with both of your breaths fanning against them. his face was on full display for everyone, thanks to the overhead camera you had. the likes and money continued to roll in the more you kept the camera on him, your viewers loving every second of it.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀you had your hands slightly resting on his shoulders, fistfuls of his shirt clenched in your grasp to guide you along him. it was adorable how his eyes were coaxed in tears, the dazed glint that swirled within his irises causing a snarky grin to mar your features. he looked utterly fucked out, lost in nothing but raw euphoria. his mouth was barely open ajar, whimpers and cries being the only noises to fill the wide-spread apartment. aside from the sounds of your squelches on his dick of course, your sopping cunt sucking him in farther with each thrust.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀it was no surprise that you were each on your third orgasm by the time it hit one hour into the session, you couldn’t get enough of it despite him being balls deep in you. and, to reward the man of such behavior, the minute he reached his climax you were already on your knees before him. he hadn’t a clue as to what you were doing until you shoved the entirety of his drenched erection into your mouth, gargling back your gag reflex with small eye rolls.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀your actions had the man melting into the chair, the feeling of your cold, silver-lined tongue piercing that dragged across his base sending bone-crushing chills down the man’s back. all he could do was cry out moans of pure ecstasy with his head thrown back against the top of the chairhead. the rest of what you couldn’t fit in your mouth, you kneaded with your hands; hollowing out your cheeks with your tongue gliding through the slit of his tip. saliva drooled from the sides of your mouth, coating his dick even more and causing even louder noises to extrude from the situation.

⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ “please let me cum, please o-oh fuck, ohmygod.”

⠀⠀⠀ ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

ARMIN ARTLER. ARAN OJIRO. EREN JAEGER. suguru geto. aki hayakawa. connie springer. kento nanami. NORITOSHI KAMO. CHOSO KAMO. AOI TODO. sae itoshi. shidou ryusei. OLIVER AIKU. imamura yudai. SHOUEI BARO. kuon wataru.

NOTEZ : was notttt expecting this to lead into a camgirl!reader but ay fuck it we ball

© TAKST4Z 2023 — all rights reserved. mature discretion. please do not plagiarize or steal any of my works or graphics.

[paperstorm]

2024 fic round up!

I was tagged by so many lovely people I have lost track of them, so my whole tag list is under the cut! I wrote 270,000 words this year, including the entire Missing Moments season 3. Thank you to everyone who commented or kudosed or reblogged or read silently, the support for writers in this fandom is really so wonderful 💛

Missing Moments [a series of canon compliant tags for every episode of Lone Star, seasons 1-3 completed]

3x01 – Imperfect pieces pulling at the glue (9.1k) 3x02 – Up in smoke (9.4k) 3x03 – Wayfaring strangers (10.4k) 3x04 – Homeward bound (15.7k) 3x05 – Reconstruction (7.3k) 3x06 – All these sacred melodies (8.5k) 3x07 – Everest to mariana (8.2k) 3x08 – "You have one new message..." (12.4k) 3x09 – Cracks begin to show (5k) 3x10 – Push and pull (5.2k) 3x11 – Where the rain won't hurt (9.7k) 3x12 – Losing streak (4k) 3x13 – Heard the risk is drowning (15.3k) 3x14 – Live in the layers (5.6k) 3x15 – Switch (5.5k) 3x16 – Everything and every dream (5.6k) 3x17 – Move into the new (7.5k) 3x18 – Forever is the sweetest con (10.1k)

Hold me too close (1.8k)

Carlos’s lips curve into a small responding smile and he shakes his head. “It’s okay.”

He tilts his chin forward, asking for a kiss, that TK gives him readily because he thinks it would hurt like having a limb ripped off if he didn’t. Carlos’s lips are smooth and damp against his, wet with the salt from his tears.

“Wanna go for a walk?” TK asks when they part, and Carlos quickly nods.

A small extension of the scene after Tommy sings at their wedding.

In Loving Memory for @carlos-in-glasses (1.3k)

The word son catches his eye, and Carlos frowns and tucks his head to look closer. His legacy will continue to live on through his son’s own dedication to public service, is written at the bottom of the thin obituary.Carlos feels his stomach roll and his mouth slacken. Heat blooms in his cheeks and the tips of his fingers tingle. Next to him there’s a tiny, nearly imperceptible gasp – as TK finds the same words and his grip tightens further on Carlos’s arm.

Silver Lining's Gold and Shining (25.3k)

A story of nine pivotal moments in Carlos's life, and nine times his best friend was there beside him.

Butterflies and Sky-High (8k)

TK leans in closer and rests his forehead against Carlos’s cheek, understanding that this is hard for him. Carlos is so heart-warmed by the gesture that it gives him the courage to say, “I’ve been reading about demisexuality. It’s this thing where …”

“I know what it means,” TK says softly, and thank God he does because Carlos isn’t sure he would have done justice to an explanation anyway. Not right now.

“I think … maybe I am. That. I didn’t think I was anything other than gay but then I was reading and some stuff started to make sense.”

Made From Stardust (8.2k)

Adoration swells in your chest as it always does when the warmth of his smile is draped over you like a blanket. You could not express in words, not even if you spoke 50 languages instead of just two, the magnitude of your love for this man. It’s too big, too necessary, too seeped into the cracks of every plane of your existence. You cannot be you without him, because the you who sits here on this couch with your fiancé in the home you share with him would never have taken shape without his guiding hands. A man named Carlos Reyes would have existed, but not this one. He would have been somebody else.

A collaboration with @reasonandfaithinharmony, check out her beautiful gif set 🖼

Fine Line (6.8k) for @heartstringsduet

Carlos ghosts a kiss along TK’s cheek, feeling the shudder of TK’s inhale as he murmurs, “You need me?”

“I …” TK swallows, his throat clicks and Carlos hears it.

Their knees bump and Carlos trails his fingers through TK’s hair and just waits. He doesn’t ask again, he just holds TK in a vertical embrace and strokes his hair and stays patient.

“There’s something that’s helped in the past,” TK says in a small voice. “Something you and I haven’t done before.”

brighter in the morning (40k so far) cowritten with @strandnreyes

Sometimes nights together are hard to come by, but TK and Carlos find ways to connect as husbands in the morning.

A series of 12 mornings together for each of the 12 episodes in season 5 (plot permitting …)

Somewhere in a Song (23.7k so far)

Fresh out of rehab for drug and alcohol addiction, lead singer TK and his band Stranded are pushed into a tour he's not sure he's ready for. To combat the bad press from his very public hitting of rock bottom, his label suggests they take up-and-coming country singer Carlos along with them. Between TK's still healing wounds and closeted Carlos's fears that his parents don't support his musical career, a rocky start might turn into finding exactly what they both need.

Tagging @theghostofashton @birdclowns @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut

@carlos-in-glasses @actual-sleeping-beauty @thisbuildinghasfeelings @herefortarlos @heartstringduet

@goodways @alrightbuckaroo @lightningboltreader @freneticfloetry

@liminalmemories21 @nancys-braids @whatsintheboxmh @bonheur-cafe

@reasonandfaithinharmony @thebumblecee @never-blooms @lemonlyman-dotcom

@sanjuwrites @orchidscript @jesuisici33 @kiwichaeng @honeybee-taskforce

@hereghostslive @butchreyes @just-inside-her @firstprince-history-huh @captain-gillian

@tellmegoodbye @anactualcaseofthetruth @ironheartwriter @eclectic-sassycoweyes @ditheringmind

@emsprovisions @irispurpurea @nisbanisba @corsage @chicgeekgirl89

@carlossreaders @ladytessa74 @denizoid @everlastingday

Want to be added or removed from the list? Lmk

[nabihaiderali]

"Returning What Was Once Lost" — an orphaned Sakina once again finds herself in the arms of her father...

Feeling bittersweet as Ayyam-e-Aza—the Shi'i mourning period—draws to a close after over two months. It's a season of tearful goodbyes as well as reunions, of loved ones put to rest, of martyrs uniting in the next world, of earthly wayfarers aching to return to this very same realm next year...

[mangxakorado]

Go and rest your limbs here for a little under the juniper, O wayfarers, by Hermes, Guardian of the Way,

Not in crowds, but those of you whose knees are tired with heavy toil and thirst, after traversing a long road;

For there a breeze and a shady seat and the fountain under the rock will lull your toil-wearied limbs;

And having so escaped the midday breath of the autumnal dogstar, pay his due honour to Hermes of the Ways.

— “Hermes Of The Ways” (Author Unknown), in Selected Epigrams from The Greek Anthology translated by J. W. Mackail

[quietblueriver]

Got to thinking about masc Laudna (thanks to all the amazing artists circulating those) and useless lesbian Imogen and needed some fluff, so pls find below a random modern AU feat. Laudna in a muscle tank; Laudna w/floppy hair; Caviar, Mister, and Flora as excellent pups; (background) wingwoman Fearne; vet Imogen; and shameless fluffy flirting.

-

“Shit. Fuck. Damn it.” Imogen hisses and pulls at the orange webbing of the leash, turning to try to free herself. It’s futile, Mister matching her turn for turn, whole body wagging with excitement at the game he seems to think Imogen is playing. 

“Good girl, Flora. I’m sorry, baby,” she says absently to the massive gray Dane mix waiting patiently to the side. Flora’s purple leash coils almost neatly on the ground next to her as she huffs and lays down out of the danger zone, and Imogen makes a note to give her an extra scoop of peanut butter tonight as she fights a scream. 

“Okay! Mister, stop. Stop! Fucking…” She’s bending down to try to get the handle on his harness when she hears the voice, lilting and curious and familiar. 

“Imogen?”

Her head snaps up, hands paused in their pursuit, and she barely has time to register Laudna, smiling a bit hesitantly in her round silver sunglasses, signature white streak falling unruly from the rest of her slicked back hair, before Mister catches sight of Caviar and pulls, yipping happily and tightening the webbing wrapped around Imogen’s ankles and…

The wind bursts from her chest in a very unattractive grunt as she hits the ground, arms flailing, and, helpfully, the leash unspools from around her legs as Mister keeps going for his friend, the fabric tensing at the point where it connects around her waist. Cool. Cool cool cool. 

The wet of the grass and dirt seeping into her cut-offs, she lets her head fall all the way back and sees Flora eyeing her almost boredly from her own spot nearby. Giving herself the gift of denial, she closes her eyes and pretends that she had imagined Laudna, that her very hot friend she wanted to make out with real bad hadn’t, in fact, been the one to see her bust it. It’s a nice fantasy, and then she hears Laudna’s voice, frantic. 

“Oh! Oh no. Oh I’m so sorry. Mister, down. Caviar, stay. Stay.”  

It’s the worry that makes Imogen leave the world where she isn’t a full mess; she doesn’t want Laudna thinking she’s hurt, and trying to deny reality for any longer is likely to make her seem concussed, at best. 

“Imogen? Are you alright?”

The handsome smile is gone, the corners of her mouth pulled down in worry. Her bottom lip catches under an incisor as she kneels, the silver of the gorgeous, intricate ear cuff she wears on her right ear bright against the sun with the dip of her head. As she settles, one hand runs through her hair, mussing it slightly so that more flops over the shorn sides, which look like they’ve been newly touched-up. 

It’s quite frankly, a lot for Imogen to be asked to handle, and that’s before she takes her sunglasses off and tucks them into the pocket of her black tee as she assesses Imogen, big, dark eyes moving with concentration over Imogen’s sprawl. 

This, of course, makes Imogen aware of everything about herself, but honestly, it could be worse. She’s in purple high tops, yesterday’s cut-offs, and the Bikini Kill t-shirt she’d spilled her iced coffee on earlier and hadn’t had the time or inclination to change, a pair of violet Wayfarers tucked into the collar. Pro: the shorts are Fearne-endorsed and make her ass look great. Con: her ass is currently in the wet grass, along with the rest of her. 

She sighs and Laudna’s brow furrows further, her hand reaching out to flit between the space above Imogen’s shoulder and her hip. Imogen wants to grab it, erase the distance. 

“Imogen?”

And fuck, she’s been too busy being a lesbian to answer. Grasping, she says, like she’s new to language, “Good. Fine. Mister.” 

Unhelpfully, her hand, without her conscious knowledge or consent, begins to gesture awkwardly and quickly between the leash secured around her waist and the space in front of them, one foot lifting to join it as if in emphasis. 

“No,” she says in admonishment to the wayward foot, staring it down, and Mister, now lying happily at her feet, tongue lolling, seems to wink at her. Caviar, all massive, muscled black body, sits perfectly beside Imogen’s other leg, the one nearer to Laudna, and he’s regal as always, the outline of his torn ear ragged against the sun. 

When she’d first met Laudna and Caviar on their move-in day six months ago, 3B to Imogen’s 5C, Imogen had cooed and, with permission, gotten to her knees to let Caviar sniff at her. Laudna had joined her, thoroughly distracting in her homemade black muscle tank, Whitestone High School Band in faded white letters forming a circle around a large tree. 

She’d smiled as she rubbed softly at Caviar's damaged ear, a match to the rest of the scars that littered his body and his docked tail. Pulling at her own cuff, she’d said, “I’ve thought of getting him one. It might be nice to match, although I think he looks quite rugged and handsome this way, too. A survivor, hmm?” Her voice had pitched higher with the last words, clearly directed at the pup, who turned and licked at her hand with affection. 

Imogen had swooned and, five minutes later, tripped on air as she left them to get settled, waving off Laudna’s concern and moving as fast as she could up the stairs without further shaming herself. 

A throat clears. Laudna’s throat clears. Laudna, who is still here, still right here, good gods Imogen what the fuck. She leaves her daydreams, the tilt of Caviar’s head feeling a little judgmental, and forces herself to meet kind dark eyes. Her skin is hot, absolutely red as a tomato, but she ignores that and tries for a smile. It’s not quite right, she can feel it in the strain of her cheeks, and her failure is confirmed with the narrowing of Laudna’s eyes. Such pretty eyes. Whatever’s happening with her mouth now is so concerning that Laudna’s frown deepens. 

Shit, maybe she should fake a concussion.

Her foot jumps again, admonishing her back, and yeah, fine, deserved. 

Focus drawn toward the motion, Imogen’s already busy admiring her profile, the sharp cut of her jaw and the proud, aquiline curve of her nose, as Laudna says, a little confused, “Is…is there something wrong with your foot? Your, your ankle, perhaps? I know the leash was…” 

At the slightly pained noise Imogen can’t suppress, Laudna’s reaching toward her pocket, her phone, Imogen realizes, and she’s shooting to sit up and grab Laudna’s wrist on instinct. “No,” she says at a volume just short of offensive. “No, I’m fine.” 

She lets go of Laudna’s hand and puts her own to the back of her neck, feeling bits of wet dirt and grass against skin and groaning in horror when she sees she’s left the same on the pale skin of Laudna’s wrist. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, Laudna. I’m fine, honest.” She closes her eyes and sighs, lets her mouth run because at this point why not. “Except that I can’t help makin’ an ass of myself in fronta you, I guess.” 

And it’s true. Since that first meeting, Imogen has: fallen up the stairs out of the mailroom at catching sight of Laudna in a full suit and tie; dropped an entire bag of groceries trying to hold the door open for Laudna, who had been carrying exactly nothing; choked on beer, spilling all over herself and Laudna’s kitchen floor at Fearne’s whispered suggestion about, what, exactly, Imogen might do to show her appreciate for Laudna’s Ticket to Ride prowess; tripped over her own feet or on nothing at all more times than she can count; and woke the whole building with the fire alarm at 11:30pm, the fallout of ignoring the phone timer for her frozen pizza for 23 minutes because she ran into Laudna in the mail room and didn’t want to leave.

“I don’t think that’s true at all.” 

Imogen blinks her eyes back open and raises her eyebrows incredulously. “That’s nice and all, but Ms. Gertrude still gives me stink eye.”

“To be fair,” Laudna’s lips are quirked and Imogen’s stomach does that thing it does when she feels like she’s made Laudna smile, “I think that might just be her face, darling.”

And that’s new, the term of endearment and the shade of purple in Laudna’s cheeks just after she says it, but then again, Imogen doesn’t usually talk about what a queer disaster she is because of Laudna in front of Laudna, so. 

“Um,” she says, and Laudna tilts her head and looks at her with what Fearne has told her probably 100 times really is fondness and not Imogen just wishing things, at least half the time tacking on an offer for a threesome that Imogen declines with a blush fierce enough to make Fearne coo and cackle. 

Unsurprising in the face of Imogen’s inability to find her words, Laudna still doesn’t seem totally convinced that Imogen isn’t hurt, humming under her breath before she asks, “Are you quite sure you’re alright? You know Letters is an EMT. They were just around the corner getting coffee. Actually, just to be safe…” 

She’s reaching for her phone again, and Imogen is distracted by the way the movement shifts the fabric near Laudna’s hip, the little sliver of nearly translucent skin on display where the black of her shirt has escaped the black of her linen pants. It’s only the glint of the screen in the sunlight and the threat of further shame that overrides her useless lesbianism, pushing her to shake her head and bring a hand to Laudna’s knee. 

It has the intended effect—Laudna stops texting and instead turns her full attention to her knee—and as soon as Imogen’s fingers twitch nervously, Laudna’s hand is on hers, surprisingly cool, calloused fingers wrapping around to rest against Imogen’s palm. 

She seems surprised at her own action, a thick, dark eyebrow raised like she doesn’t quite understand what’s happening, and it gives Imogen the smallest burst of confidence. 

“Hey,” she offers, and the smile that takes up residence feels much more natural, if a little wider than usual.

“Hello,” Laudna responds, shoulders relaxing a little as she smiles back. 

A cold nose nudges at her tricep and Imogen sighs. She tilts her head back and reaches her free hand for Flora, who has been waiting very politely for her mother to conclude her embarrassing, gay interaction and before that for her annoying cousin to get it together. She’s due her well-deserved walk. 

“I know, baby. Okay.” Laudna still hasn’t let go of her hand and Imogen doesn’t want her to, so she acts like she’s Relvin’s kid again for a second and does something about it, keeping her hand on Flora’s big jaw as she looks to their joined hands and then to Laudna’s open expression. “Would y’all, uh, you and Cav, I mean, wanna join us? For a walk?” 

And fuck. Mistake. Mistake. Mistake. Mister is up and on her as soon as she says the word, which means Laudna is forced back, hitting the ground next to her with a surprised noise that’s unfairly cute. 

“Oh my gods.” She pushes Mister to the side, stands, unclips his leash from her waist and hastily clips it around the closest light pole. “Laudna, shit, I’m so sorry. Let me,” she offers her hands to Laudna, who takes them after giving Caviar a reassuring pat, smiling the whole time. She’s still smiling as Imogen starts to help her up, smiling a little less as it becomes clear that Imogen has miscalculated the amount of strength to use, and trying very valiantly to turn a wince into a smile just before they collide. 

Imogen somehow manages to keep them stable, back foot out for balance and arms braced at Laudna’s waist. Before she can stutter out yet another apology, Laudna’s smiling again, for real, and then she’s laughing, and Imogen can’t look away. 

“I’m fine, darling, I promise,” she says through a last bout of laughter, running her hand through her hair again and shaking her head. “We would love to join you for a walk.”

“Oh,” she says, because of fucking course she does. “Neat.” She is pretty sure she’s never said that before in her life. 

“Neat,” Laudna echoes kindly, like it’s something people say, although Imogen is pretty sure she wants to laugh, too, the purse of her lips giving her away. 

“Oh, hush,” Imogen says, and Laudna does laugh then, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Yeah, yeah. I’m a useless lesbian. I get it.”

Laudna tsks. “Nonsense. You’re quite capable. Fearne has told me all about how well you did in vet school and I’ve seen the waitlist at your clinic.” 

She pats her leg and Caviar moves to stand beside her, leash in his mouth. Imogen grabs Flora and moves to get Mister, eager as ever, from the pole, clipping his leash around her again. 

“You know you don’t have to call the clinic. Just text me. I’ll fit y’all in whenever. And,” she has to say it, even as she wants to hug Fearne and shower her in those flaming hot chips she loves for definitely talking her up to Laudna, “I wouldn’t believe everything Fearnie says.” 

Laudna slides her glasses back on with something close to a smirk,

“Hmm. Well. That’s a shame. She’s told me quite a few things about you that I’d like to believe.” 

Imogen stumbles, cursing under her breath. The sting to her pride eases when Laudna’s stabilizing hand comes to her elbow and then stays for a long moment, eventually sliding down her arm and keeping close, the backs of their fingers brushing the whole walk home. 

[fragilelovelythings]

Let it Happen (Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader)

Billy Butcher x Fem!Reader 18+

Summary: You go clubbing and you see him, lost in his dancing.

---

There he was, no dramatic coat, no psychotic vibes, no crazy eyes glaring at any supe. The man stood proudly, swaying as naturally as he pulled any trigger against danger. 

The way his hips moved to bear witness, to a chaotic swing and sexual drive pulling his body forward and backwards. Looking at Butcher this loose seemed a sin, one you know you were truly into whenever he looked at you behind his wayfarers. 

Feeling the thrill you kept glancing at him, desire conveyed in your stare. 

Butcher didn’t acknowledge you or anybody: he just moved his head side to side gone to the beat of the tech music he embraced. You bit your upper lip, without knowing how to catch his attention. You held a breath and closed your eyes, playing the game and feeling your body boiling through tight lips. And then, when you opened your brown eyes he was right before you, his tall frame making you tremble. The dark glasses remained put and the smirk in his masculine face made you curl your lips, abashed.

The second you felt him lean and the smell of something raw and manly drove you insane, he whispered against your left ear, mouth brushing your dark brown curls. 

“Good shit innit?” The raspy voice provoked an unnamed trail of need, wanton moans still trapped against your awkward giggle. 

Wishful thinking. 

“Yeah, good shit” you reply, hoping he meant the music and he barked a laugh, something barely audible above the loud, trance magic now enveloping you both.

“Ain’t you a sweetheart” You can’t contain the surprise and point at yourself, your sweaty hand mix of the hot atmosphere and the nervousness eating you up. He leaned again, this time intentionally brushing his thick lips against the lobe of your ear “Yeah, a wanton wee thing” 

You couldn’t help the way your body reacted, sweat mingling, ears burning by the sensual contact and you incline immediately against him, daring. 

Of course, he had noticed your stare, whatever you thought was something casual becoming the reality he dropped at your feet. He didn’t seem creeped about it but delighted. If anything, the doe eyes you pulled worked marvels and when the weight of his broad right hand rested in your waist you felt him inhale deeply “A tight small lil’ waist you got here” You nod timidly, the thrill nesting quickly under your stomach “Wonder if it’s the only tight thing you got here for me” 

Taken aback you search his eyes, promising, and brave as never before, and you shake your head willingly. 

The way he lifted the glasses and you finally got a full view of his black pits of desire you moan.

[pjohoo-reclists]

Year in Review - Personal Reads in 2024 - Part I

This rec list is a bit different from the rest I've posted. These are some of the fics I've read and bookmarked in 2024 that have impressed me, or left me with some sort of emotional or thought provoking response.

The ratings, ships etc. are all varied. There will be some fics that you don't like, so please read the tags before tapping the link.

This list has has the longer fics (4k+) and this list has the short fics (0.5k-4k) - will be posted soon. Enjoy!

bloodtide by DragonflyxParodies

Not Rated | 4.5k+ | Incomplete

Percy Jackson & Neptune, Percy Jackson & Kymopoleia, Percy Jackson/Nico di Angelo

AU - Canon Divergence, Divine Retribution, Romans vs Greeks

There are no water gods in New Rome.

Solstice Meetings by ShaaKi

T | 4.6k | Complete

Poseidon/Zeus, Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Minor Percy Jackson/Apollo

One-Sided Attraction, Possessive Behaviour, Poseidon-centric

Lately Poseidon has been struggling to pay attention in Solstice meetings. The reason? Everyone keeps staring at him and it's starting to give him a complex. To make matters worse, Zeus had been acting odd for the past few years.

The Inevitable by DancingInTheSliverGlow

T | 5.2k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Hades/Persephone, Percy Jackson & Poseidon, past Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase

Post-Tartarus Trauma, Powerful Percy Jackson, Percy Jackson Needs a Hug

Percy hasn’t told anyone how strong he’s become. That would only take a single push to break the fragile membrane containing his mortality. It's moments like these that remind Percy how close to godhood he is. It’s in the way Percy constantly feels like he’s larger than his physical body. He can feel the ancient underworld rivers running through Hades’s kingdom, and remembers how when he reaches for them they fight his control but ultimately bend under his will. If he stretches his senses, he can even glimpse his father’s domain all the way on the surface world, the ocean constantly churning. The sea is always in the back of his mind singing its siren song, beckoning him to accept his fate and reminding Percy of the non-insignificant power he holds over the very fabric of the world.

Forgive Me Father For I have Sinned by Shadowhale

T | 5.4k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Triton

Misunderstandings, Protective Poseidon, Hurt Percy Jackson

 “It’s okay! Really, I mean I get it! I’m not offended or anything” Percy said quickly, almost stumbling over his words. He wasn’t lying, sure would it have been nice to have a father that cared but he wasn't delusional. Poseidon had been kind and gentle. He had left him a lot of good memories that Percy could cling to! He had even hugged Percy! At the end of the day he was a god, one of the Big Three. It would be the height of arrogance to presume that the god of the seas would ever care about a pitiful mortal. Besides Percy still had his mom it wasn’t like he really needed anyone else (No matter how nice it would have been). Or: Poseidon makes the startling realization that his favorite son believes his father does not love him.

Interlude: Atlantis by DustShattersLikeGlass

G | 8.0k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Percy Jackson & Amphitrite, Percy Jackson & Triton

Percy is a Prince, Percy Jackson is a Little Shit, Dysfunctional Family

Welcome to Atlantis Series Part 2 of A Family Built on the Weary

Fertility Deities and Lessons in Consent by Luraia

M | 16k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Annabeth Chase, Percy Jackson & Hermes

Genderfluid Characters, Consent Issues, Bad Parent Zeus

New god Percy Jackson just wants to settle down with his goddess wife Annabeth and create lots of little godlings. When they fail to make a child in six months of trying, Percy impulsively summons a fertility goddess to receive her 'blessing' without realizing how exactly the blessing is transferred. Here's a hint: it's through sex. Incidentally, Hermes is the god of thieves, gamblers, roads, doorways, initiations, athletes, wayfarers, shepherds, and heraldry, among other things. With such a big list, it's easy to forget he's also the god of fertility. And that he can easily change his form.

Dancing to Your Symphony by dcninja 

T | 20k | Complete

Percy Jackson/Hermes, Katie Gardener/Travis Stoll, Percy Jackson & Thalia Grace

Aged Up Percy Jackson Characters, Post Tartarus Trauma, Percy Jackson Needs a Hug

Hermes is in love with Percy but won’t say anything because he knows Percy deserves better than the drama that would come from a romantic entanglement with an Olympian. Percy is in love with Hermes but won’t say anything because he knows his feelings would never be reciprocated. Apollo and Triton plot to get them together, while Travis just wants to propose to his girlfriend. Or an already stressful night is made even more so as both Percy and Hermes reflect on lessons about healing, moving on, and allowing themselves to love again. At least it will be a memorable Winter Solstice.

The Prince of Changing Tides by dcninja

G | 24k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Camp Half Blood Campers, Percy Jackson & Camp Jupiter Campers

Camp Jupiter Politics, Outsider POV, Powerful Percy Jackson

“I just don’t understand why the Greeks treat him as such a big deal,” Marcel said “Or even the gods. Lady Juno and Lord Mars clearly backed him, and I don’t understand why. He certainly doesn’t look like much.” “Why don’t you just ask around?” she asked him. “Heroes have stories and people are always eager to tell them. I’m sure any of the Greeks could tell you more about him.” “It’s not a bad idea,” Jordan added. “It would be nice knowing exactly why he was part of the prophesied Seven. I know the Venus girl had sorcery and the Vulcan boy obviously had power over fire. But why Jackson? Just because they took a boat?” Despite raising him on a shield, Romans don't know much about Percy Jackson, or even the Greeks in general. As the Legion attempts to recover from the wars, they find out there is far more to the Son of Neptune then they originally thought, and learn quite a few things about themselves along the way.

Amen by CaffeinatedFlumadiddle

T | 39k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Poseidon, Sally Jackson/Poseidon, Sally Jackson & Poseidon

Fluff and Humor, Family Feels, Post Tartarus PTSD

Percy knows he rambles quite a bit in his prayers to Poseidon, but at least he is safe in the knowledge that Poseidon is too busy of a god to ever really listen… right? Meanwhile, Poseidon is trying to be a responsible god, but Sally Jackson keeps praying to him about their son and Annabeth Chase won't shut up about... what was she even talking about? At least the di Angelo kid keeps giving him McDonalds.

Ocean Madness by SirOliverSurface, undeath230

M | 87k | Complete

Percy Jackson & Luke Castellan, Percy Jackson & Thalia Grace, Luke Castellan & Thalia Grace

Book 2: Sea of Monsters, Gen or Pre Slash, Slice of Life

Percy knew that with Kronos rising he wasn't in for a good time, but he wasn't expecting things to be this hectic. It didn't help that she was involved, but he supposed at least he had his friends with him.