#written in one go because i thought it would be funny

[dreamdragonkadia]

As Written Above, So Shall It Be Below Part - I Word Count: 7.7k A/N: The drama is a slow build up. Feedback, comments, thoughts, and theories are always appreciated! Main Pairing: Rhysand/Reader/Feyre Prev - Next

And as simply as that, as simply as if you were not on your deathbed, not near the gates of the afterlife, not slipping in and out of wakefulness for hours at a time while glancing at the stars, trying to read them, trying to understand past their whispers.

"Be strong."

"Don’t let go."

"Live."

As if your body had not nearly torn itself apart to bring her into the world—

A year and a half passed by.

It was slow at first. 

The kind of slowness that stretched infinitely, where days bled into nights, where every breath was a struggle, where the aching in your bones was a reminder that you had survived when you should not have.

The nights were the worst. The stillness. The memories that crept in when you were too exhausted to keep them at bay.

You had died that night.

Had felt the pull of something beyond this world, had heard the soft murmurs of the stars, had felt the presence of the Mother, cradling you in the liminal space between life and death. 

"Not yet." The words had been so soft, like the brush of a gentle breeze against your skin. "Not yet, my dear sweet child. You have not finished your role. For who else shall guide death than the twilight between?"

Then—nothing. Only that whispered truth, before you had been wrenched back into the land of the living. Back into the world of pain, of struggle, of breath that came too raggedly, of a body that struggled to hold itself.

The stars outside your window had confirmed it had not been a dream. They had blinked back at you, watching, waiting, and through their silent, celestial song, they had left you with one more message.

"You’ve been granted the gift you have longed for."

For days, you had turned those words over and over in your mind, searching for meaning. Not once did the stars align with an answer to this. 

At first, you had thought it meant her—the tiny child that slept beside you, her breath soft against the night air. But Estella had never been longed for—not in the way the stars had implied.

No, you had not longed for her, because she had never been expected, never planned. She had been a possibility, a future spoken of in hushed tones between you and Rhys, those long, winding conversations that stretched through the dark, where you had imagined what could be.

Your head against his chest, his fingers gliding through your hair, the slow, absentminded movements soothing in their intimacy. Body aching in the best possible manner, muscles spent, breath still uneven, skin brushed raw from the hours before.

The world had been silent then, the walls of your shared bedchamber cocooning you in warmth, in peace, in the kind of safety that only came when there was just the two of you, tangled in sheets and starlight.

His heartbeat had been a melody beneath your cheek, a rhythm you had learned by memory, one that had held you in reality more times than you could count.

"One day," you had murmured, your fingers tracing idle circles over his chest, over the inked swirls of his tattoos. "One day, perhaps. But not now."

Rhys had only hummed, his lips brushing over your temple, his free hand smoothing along the curve of your spine.

"No rush, my love," he had whispered, voice rich with affection, with promise. "We have all the time in the world."

And at the time, you had believed it.

Rhys had always been content to wait, to want what you wanted, to trust that time would bring whatever it was meant to.

To bring his kin into a world that was more peace than war, more light than shadow.

Time must have laughed at you both.

It must have found it funny, too, when the healers had to fight you to rest. "Milady, it will take time for you to heal."

Time.

It was a sick joke, a whispered cruelty wrapped in kindness. You had spent years wielding your body like a weapon, pushing it beyond its limits, enduring pain that would have broken lesser beings. 

Fit to be a lady of the Court. Fit to be the wife of a High Lord, according to the last ruler of the Night Court—because his son would have nothing less than perfection.

And yet, it had been this—this moment of creation, of bringing life into the world—that had nearly ruined you. That had left you so fragile, so weak, that even now, the memory of those first days felt like a fever dream.

Vassa had laid beside you on the bed, cradling the infant you could not hold, because you did not have the strength. Her voice had been soft, wry, but her eyes had glimmered with something close to worry. "Time must be your worst enemy currently."

She hadn’t been wrong.

If only you had your magic during that time. Maybe a week at most—and you would have been fine. Would have been able to stand, to move, to breathe without feeling like your bones were barely holding together. Would have been able to hold your child yourself.

But the pain had not completely left, even a year and a half later. It lingered, a constant companion, whispering its reminders with every slow step, every deep breath. You still could not reach for the well of power that had once sang beneath your skin, could not even grasp at the echoes of what had once made you strong.

Not until today.

The sunlight streaming through the windows was pale and cool, the room silent except for the soft crackle of the fire in the otherwise still morning. You reached for your teacup, fingers trembling slightly, feeling the familiar press of porcelain against your palm.

Then—

Magic.

Not a whisper.

Not a flicker.

But a surge, a roaring current flooding through you like it had never left. Like Amarantha had never taken it.

The teacup slipped from your hand, crashing against the floor with a violent shatter, tea splattering across the intricate carpets. But you hardly heard it.

Because magic—your magic—returned to you.

It was a rush of heat, of life, pulsing beneath your skin, sparking in the air around you. You felt your heart lurch in your chest, a tremor running down your spine. A thousand tiny flickers of power curled around your fingertips.

It was the feeling of wholeness.

Of being complete.

As if a missing piece of yourself had finally been restored, as if the emptiness you had carried for so long had been nothing more than a cruel illusion. 

And then—the aftermath began.

The doors to your suite within the castle in Scythia flew open, slamming against the stone walls with a deafening crack. But you were already on your feet—

Or at least, you tried to be.

A stumble, a sudden gasp as your body struggled to process the sudden, overwhelming power mixed with previous pain.

A winged Fae stood at the threshold, staring at you in stunned disbelief.

They had seen it. Had felt it.

Your body had flickered—winnowed.

And you had not been the only one.

The corridors erupted in shouts. Fae cried, some fell to their knees, others threw their heads back in laughter, in relief. Because the magic had not just returned to you. It had returned to everyone. The land, the air, the very walls of the castle hummed with power.

It was back.

And the days that followed brought the truth in waves of stunned disbelief. 

Amarantha was dead.

The Bitch Queen had been slain.

And Prythian was freed—No longer a land of endless torment.

It was too much.

So much that, instead of collapsing into a chair, you found yourself on the floor, legs barely able to hold you. There had been murmurs of what came next. The Fae who had lived in exile for nearly twenty-three years whispered amongst themselves, voices uncertain.

But it was not your voice that broke the silence.

It was hers.

Estella.

Sweet, fierce Estella, with her long, silken black hair, her star-flecked eyes that had never once let you forget who her father was.

She sat on the rug beside you, fingers curling into the soft fabric of your dress. And then, in that small, quiet voice, she asked the question you had not yet dared to.

"Mama, are we leaving?"

The room stilled.

Your breath hitched, fingers curling into fists against your lap. Because that was the question, wasn’t it?

Would you return to the lands that had been stolen from you? Would you uproot the lives that had been built here, in the quiet sanctuary of the human lands, where these Fae had rebuilt something resembling peace?

Who was to say that the courts of Prythian would accept them back? Who was to say that Rhysand would forgive you? 

You had left him. You had vanished. He had lived through hell while you had hidden away, while you had raised his daughter in secret.

Would he hate you for it? Would he curse your name?

It was suffocating, crushing.

But it was Vassa who unknowingly made the decision for all of them.

The human queen who had stood by you, who had fought beside you, who had claimed these exiled Fae as her own.

She turned, back straight, chin lifted, her voice unwavering.

"I would never abandon any of you. For you are citizens of my land. And if you choose, you will continue to be part of my people."

There was silence. Then—murmurs. Soft, uncertain, but threaded with relief.

Because no one would be cast out. Because no one would be forced to return to a land they no longer knew.

And you—

You could no longer pretend that the answer had not been forming in your heart from the moment Estella had spoken.

How could you abandon the people you had brought here? How could you ignore what the Bone Carver had told you all those years ago?

The words that had haunted you since the moment they were spoken. The decision that had sent you fleeing from Under the Mountain, taking who you could, slipping through the cracks of Prythian’s destruction into the quiet, forgotten safety of the human lands.

The decision that had made you leave him.

The Bone Carver had not hesitated, had not softened the blow of the truth. "You are not his, not bound to his soul,  Starseer"

Starseer. A title of one who was blessed, one who had been taught to read the celestial language woven through the heavens.

A gift—and a curse.

For the stars did not lie.

You had stared at him then, at the version of yourself staring back—your younger self, the child you had once been, the form he had always decided to wear in your presence.  His head tilted, his gaze flickering with something unreadable.

"How odd." The words had been murmured more to himself than to you, but they had still struck a target. "There will be another who comes to claim it. You are but a temporary replacement."

The breath had left your lungs.

"But he does love you."

You had not realized how much you had needed to hear those words until they were spoken aloud, until the truth of them settled into the marrow of your bones. "Does your High Lord even know you’ve come here? That you have opened the doors with his blood?" The Bone Carver had paused then, waiting, but you had not answered.

You could not answer.

Because Rhys did not know. Did not know that you had stolen a piece of him.

That the doors to the Bone Carver’s prison had only opened because you had offered the magic tied to him. The silence had stretched, your shoulders trembling as fat tears dripped onto the stone floor, pooling at your feet.

You had clenched your jaw, had fought to compose yourself—

This was unbecoming of you. Unbecoming of the Lady of the Night.

But the Bone Carver had only watched. Had waited.

And then, with something like curiosity curling in his voice, he had murmured—

"You have known this. You’ve read this in the stars. I am only confirming what you already suspected. It is why you declined when the High Lord tried to instate you as High Lady."

Because it had never been yours.

Had never been meant for you.

Not truly.

"I do not understand," the Bone Carver mused. "Why are you crying?"

You had not known how to answer. Had not known how to articulate the emptiness that had clawed its way inside your chest. So you had spoken the only truth you knew.

"I am heartbroken."

And the Bone Carver had been intrigued.

Had tilted his head again, had narrowed his dark, endless eyes as if peering into something only he could see.

Then he smiled. Not in mockery. Not in cruelty.

But with fascination.

And he had asked you questions.

Questions about the way grief sat inside your ribs like a living, breathing thing.

Questions about how love could still remain when it was destined to be severed.

Questions about how it felt to be temporary.

As if he had never experienced what you had in that moment. As if he had never known what it meant to love something he could never truly have.

And maybe—maybe, in his own twisted way, he hadn’t.

But you had.

The Bone Carver had left you with one simple request. "Do not come back. Do not come save me. I do not want it."

Whatever that had meant. Perhaps it was a warning. Perhaps it was a mercy.

But then—before you had turned to leave that cold prison, before you had sealed the doors once more—

He had said one last thing.

A whisper, soft as wind through a graveyard.

"Well, I think I would like to see her just once."

A pause. A tilt of his head. "Bring her when you can. The Princess of Night."

You had not spoken. Had only met his gaze—your own gaze, the one he had stolen from your past—and let his words settle. And as you had turned to leave, his final words had echoed, curling around you like fate itself.

"The stars align when they see fit. And be sure to take the vial with you when you run."

Centuries had passed since that day.

Centuries since those words had been uttered.

~                               ~                                ~

The council’s decision had been unanimous. They would stay in Scythia. The Lady of Night would officially be brought onto Vassa’s personal council, a bridge between Human and Fae.

Not completely public, but enough. Enough for whispers to start. Enough for the neighboring lands to hear the rumors. There would be an official ceremony when you returned.

If you returned.

“Will you be all right alone?” Vassa muttered, shifting the little Fae on her hip. Estella let out a tired yawn, her small hands curling against the fabric of Vassa’s cloak.

You smiled, adjusting the bag slung over your shoulder.

"Will you be all right when the other human queens find out you have a High Fae on your council?" you countered.

Vassa’s eyes gleamed. “They may shove their condescension up their asses.”

You snorted, reaching for Estella as she all but melted into your arms, nestling her face into the crook of your neck.

“I will be fine,” you said softly. "I leave my people in your care."

"As far as I'm concerned, they are my people now as well. Come home quickly."

And with that—

You winnowed away.

~                               ~                                ~

For the first time in fifty years, you stepped onto the lands of the Night Court. Not Velaris. Not the City of Starlight.

But to the heart of the Western Isles. To a prison carved into rock and time. The air was freezing. A barren, forgotten place. The worst place in existence. A place where no child should go.

And yet—here you were.

Estella had been bundled so tightly in furs, wrapped securely against your back, that you envied the way she had drifted into sleep. She had not stirred once during the climb. Not even when the wind moaned through the empty crags, howling like a wounded beast.

You swallowed hard, shoving your growing unease into the back of your mind.

By the time you reached the top, you swore—you swore—you would never come here again. Not for the Carver. Not for anyone. Your fingers curled around the pendant hanging beneath your tunic, the small vial of blood hidden within its hollowed center.

The last thing you had of the High Lord. The last thing you had stolen. You had taken the Bone Carver’s advice seriously.

And thank the Mother for it. 

The walk through the tunnels was familiar. Even in the dark. Even in the silence. Even as the walls themselves seemed to breathe, to hum with an energy that did not belong to this world.

You didn’t even have to say the first word.

"You brought her."

A voice. 

A whisper of a voice that should not have carried so far, that should not have slithered into your bones like a memory.

And as always, he looked like you. A child’s version of you.

Eyes flickering. Small hands curled at his sides. Lips parting, as if tasting something new in the air.

And for the first time, the Bone Carver smiled.

"It has been too long," he mused, tilting his head, that eerily familiar gaze raking over you like he could see beneath your skin. "I've missed our talks. Tell me you brought me a good bone."

The words curled around the cold stone walls, lazy, indulgent. You barely had time to react before your fingers twitched, before you tossed the small bag through the wards of his cell.

Bones. Human bones. A gift. A bargain. The bones of the last Queen of Scythia. Vassa had struggled to part with them. Had stood over them for days, conflicted, torn.

But in the end, she had given them to you. Because Vassa understood what few did—the price of power. This was your price.

The Bone Carver made a pleased sound as he knelt, delicate fingers brushing over the bones, arranging them with slow, meticulous reverence.

Then he spoke again. "I’ve heard the High Lord might be on his way shortly."

Your heart froze. The words slammed into your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs. Your lips parted, your mind raced, a thousand responses forming at once—

But before you could reply, the small body strapped to your back stirred. A warm little hand pressed against your shoulder. A tiny, sleep-filled voice mumbled—

"Mama?"

"I'd like to see her," he whispered. "And then I will tell you whatever you wish to know."

Your jaw tightened.

"I brought her here for you," you replied, shifting the little Fae in your arms, adjusting your grip, meeting his gaze without flinching. "You're the one who asked to see her."

A flash of surprise flickered across the Carver’s face—your face. The child he had chosen to wear as a mockery, a challenge.

He had not expected that answer.

"I didn’t think you would come here just for that," he admitted. "But you have always been full of surprises."

His gaze slid to the child in your arms.

And when he spoke, his voice was soft, too soft.

"She is a mirror image of your husband," he mused. "But is that something to call him still—"

A pause.

A long, terrible pause.

"—when he thinks you are dead? When another has entered his life?"

You licked your lips, "I—"

"You need not say anything, Just listen." And so, you did. To his story. A story you had already heard whispers of in the human lands. A story of a mortal girl. The Cursebreaker. "And she will have the place you never sought. The title he wanted you to have. The title everyone will bow before."

Your fingers gripped instinctively around Estella. But the Bone Carver wasn’t finished.

"Understand—she is not you. And you are very special to your people, just as she will be. They think you are with the Mother, in an immortal land. They grieve for you. Your death is a pawn on the board. And once I tell you what I am about to, turn your head away. Do not come back. Do not break your own heart again."

It was a stupid hope. A fool’s dream. It didn’t take a genius to understand what the Bone Carver wasn’t saying. That the Cursebreaker was Rhysand’s mate.

That whatever love had once bound you to him, was nothing now.

Your lips parted.

And when you spoke—

Your voice so small.

"Okay."

~                               ~                                ~

No one needed to know. No one needed to know anything the Bone Carver had said. Estella had not understood, had only asked in that small, curious voice, “Hybern?”—her little head tilting in that way she often did when trying to understand something far beyond her years.

And like that, you stepped away from the impending war. It was not your business. It had nothing to do with the Fae under your protection. And it certainly had nothing to do with your daughter.

Or so you kept trying to tell yourself.

Trying.

Lying.

Pretending.

"I do not think you should go." The words left your lips in a murmur, barely more than breath, as you sat at the council table within Scythia’s castle.

The other advisors had long since left. Only you and Vassa remained.

Vassa leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms, her reddish-golden hair gleaming in the light.

"And I told you not to go to Prythian alone two months ago," she mused, voice mockingly casual. "Looks like we’re both really bad at listening."

You lifted a brow. "Your attitude is unbecoming, Your Highness." A calm counter. A quiet warning. A stare that had made Estella second-guess her actions more times than you could count.

But Vassa was not Estella. And she was not easily cowed. Instead, she only smirked. "So is pretending you’re not already halfway out the door."

Silence. Tension, coiling too tight. Because Vassa knew. Of course she knew. She had known you too long, had seen the way your hands clenched when war was spoken of, the way your body braced when whispers of Hybern began to spread.

She had seen the way you shut your eyes too tightly at night, as if willing yourself not to dream of the past. And she had not asked you once about what the Bone Carver had said.

Because she already knew how this would end. But she had still waited. Still let you lie to yourself.

"Jurian is likely unstable, Vas." Your voice was firmer now, your patience fraying. "He was tortured by Amarantha for centuries. He hates Fae. Why would he be working with the King of Hybern? This is a trap."

Vassa did not waver.

Instead, she sighed, leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the polished wood of the council table. "And this is why you are on my council. The other Queens call me a used fool. A puppet. But I trust you. That’s why I have to go. We’ll find nothing out if I stay here. And I can trust my people in your hands while I’m gone."

Her lips quirked slightly, a ghost of amusement curling at the edges. "Besides—" she added, voice light, but her gaze sharp as steel— "you fought beside Jurian during the war. I’m sure I can use the stories you told me to my advantage."

Your stomach twisted. Because she was right. Because Vassa was a Queen—but she was also a soldier in her own making. And she had already made her decision.

But that did not mean you had to like it. "Be careful, Vas."

Your voice was quiet. A whisper. A prayer.

Because even Human Queens were not untouchable.

~                               ~                                ~

If screaming was an option, you would have been cursing the Mother herself. But Estella was asleep in your lap, her small face pressed against your ribs, her soft breaths a rhythm against the rising tide of your frustration. So instead—

You turned your rage to paper. To the endless parchments and reports, the tangled web of alliances and betrayals, the half-finished letters and too many maps scattered across your desk.

Trying to figure out something. Anything. Because the next time you saw Vassa—

It would be the biggest I told you so moment in history.

Five months. Five fucking months. That’s how long you had been ruling in her stead, sitting at the head of her council while the other advisors whispered of war.

That’s how long it had been since Vassa was betrayed.

Since she had been sold by the other Human Queens—the very ones who had sat in these halls, who had smiled at her across lavish feasts, who had once called her sister.

Five months since you had taken control, since you had held the council back from calling a war at this outrage. A fight—

One you were heavily leaning toward. Because there were only so many polite letters you could send. Only so much diplomatic restraint you could exercise when the rest of the Queens had assumed Scythia would crumble.

That without Vassa, the country would fall in line. That the people would bow. That the "Long-eared Fae vermin"—as they so eloquently put it—would finally be put in their place.

They had been wrong. So very, very wrong. Because Scythia did not kneel. Because its people—Human and Fae alike—had flourished beneath Vassa’s reign. Because the same Fae they had sought to cast out were the very ones who had:

 Restored the land’s agriculture. Created a functioning plumbing system. Reinforced the city with magical wards and barriers.

And so much more.

They had called Scythia a lost kingdom.

But Scythia was thriving.

And you were not going to let them take that away. Not from the sacrifices that Vassa and her mother had made. Not from everything you had built together.

Not even when your dreams had turned strange—

Some nights, it was Amarantha’s laughter, slithering through your mind like poison, her red lips curling, her nails digging into your flesh as she whispered your name like a promise of ruin.

Other nights, it was an ash dagger in your grip, an ash arrow, your hands trembling as you drove them forward—except you never saw where they landed, never saw who they struck down.

And then, there were the other dreams.

Gentle ones.

A painting of a night sky, Velaris stretching endlessly in the distance, the scent of salt and citrus on the wind. A melody played by musicians, familiar, aching—one that left you waking with tears on your cheeks, your chest hollow, empty.

A song from home.

And still, you endured.

Even when you had felt the wall break—the ancient border between human and fae lands shattering—there had been no room for panic. The only proper reaction had been to send those from the Day Court to create wards, an alarm system of sorts for the outer villages.

You had been so caught up in your own thoughts, so focused on the battle to come, that you hadn’t noticed the way Estella was stirring in your lap. Hadn’t noticed the sleepy flutter of her violet-streaked eyes until—

She let out a small, sleepy sigh, her warm little body shifting closer, her hands curling into the fabric of your clothes.

"Mama?" she mumbled, her voice soft with sleep.

Your heart softened instantly, the stress in your shoulders easing just a fraction as you ran a gentle hand through her hair.

"I'm here, sweetling," you whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She blinked up at you, her eyes—his eyes—filled with quiet trust.

"Bad dream?" you asked softly.

Estella shook her head, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips.

"Vas is home…" A small, sure voice.

The words barely had time to sink in before the doors to the council room slammed open.

"I—There—Mi’lady—" the guard was panting, his armor disheveled, his wide eyes wild with shock. "There was a firebird—an army—and then—the firebird changed into Queen Vassa!"

You blinked. Once. Twice.

From the corner of your vision, beyond the guard—

A figure stepped through. And you let out a cry. Your hands trembled as you set Estella down, as your body moved before your mind could even catch up.

You ran. Across the council chamber, across the space that had felt too big without her in it.

And when you reached her—

When you threw your arms around the human queen—

"You are okay." The words ripped out of you, raw and relieved, your grip tightening as if to confirm she was real. Vassa let out a breathless laugh, but the emotions in her eyes told you everything.

That it had been close. That she had barely escaped at all. Then—she let you go.

And before you could say another word, she turned, kneeling to sweep Estella into a hug. The little Fae squealed, tiny fingers gripping Vassa’s cloak, burying her face against her.

"Please," Vassa grinned, pressing a kiss to Estella’s hair before standing again. "I cannot be kept down."

You exhaled sharply, raking a hand through your hair.

"What happened?" you demanded, scanning her as if she might vanish again. Vassa sighed, rolling her shoulders.

"I cannot stay long," she admitted. "I came to make sure everything was running smoothly—not that I doubted you, Lady of the Night."

A teasing smirk. One you didn’t return. Because there was something else there. A weariness that had not been there before.

"Vassa."

A warning. A question.

Her expression sobered. "Koschei released me—temporarily," she said. "Only to aid in this war. Against Hybern. It seems even that cursed lake-dwelling bastard does not want a kingdom under the King’s rule."

Your stomach twisted. "Released you?"

Vassa nodded, but not in victory. "By day, I am still a firebird. By night, I am myself."

A temporary reprieve. A trap wrapped in kindness.

"The war is coming," she said. "And I have been sent to fight in it."

A small curse escaped your lips before you could stop it. Then—you talked. Spoke of technicalities, of plans, of what needed to be done. Of how Vassa wanted to avoid war with the other Queens—for now.

"But if they come onto my land," she murmured, a flicker of fire in her gaze, "Teach them a lesson."

Your lips pressed into a thin line. Because you agreed. Because Scythia had already suffered enough betrayals. The next time someone dared to cross these borders—They would not leave unscathed.

A knock at the door. Vassa arched a brow, but didn’t hesitate. "Enter."

The door swung open. And your heart stopped. Because the first thing you saw was a human.

But the second—

The second was a High Fae.

And Lucien Vanserra looked as if he had seen a ghost. His amber eye widened, his mouth parting slightly, the scar at the corner of his lip pulling tight.

He stared. At you. Like he had just seen the dead rise.

~                               ~                                ~

If Estella hadn’t been perched happily in Vassa’s lap, you might have taken her to her room. Might have put her to bed just to avoid this whole conversation. But she was wide awake, tucked safely against the human queen, completely oblivious to what was happening in this room.

To the way Lucien Vanserra had not stopped staring. To the way his face was pale, his amber eye flickering with a dozen emotions too quick to name. You could’ve ignored the human man beside him, except—

Except his name had slipped out somewhere in conversation.

Archeron.

It had taken a long moment for the pieces to click into place. And when they had—

When you had realized who he was—

The Cursebreaker’s father.

The father of your husband’s mate. The man whose daughter had taken the place you had once stood in.

Your husband—

The man who was not really your husband anymore, because he had married another. It had to be by the grace of the Mother herself that you managed to stay composed. That you did not let your breath hitch, did not let your hands shake. You could have a moment later. When Estella wasn’t here to see.

But Vassa knew. She knew by the way your posture had stiffened, by the way your fingers had curled too tightly into the fabric of your skirts. By the way your face betrayed nothing at all.

Lucien exhaled, raking a hand through his hair before finally speaking. "We were told you were killed by the Weaver." His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it.

Something uncertain. Something disbelieving. His gaze flickered over you, still unable to reconcile what he was seeing. Like he was seeing a ghost. Like he was waiting for you to vanish.

"And the Fae that disappeared with you?" he asked. "Are they—?"

"All alive and accounted for," you answered softly.

His expression shifted. And you wondered—

Who was he asking about? Because it hadn’t just been Night Court Fae who had fled with you.

There had been Autumn Court Fae.

And Spring Court Fae.

Fae from every court.

The ones who had joined at the last minute, when the plan had been pushed forward, when there had been no time for regrets. When there had only been one chance to escape.

Lucien’s gaze flicked over you again—and then down. To the small figure in Vassa’s lap.

To Estella. 

And every instinct in you screamed. A warning. A threat. A demand. Your muscles tensed, your fingers twitching as if ready to strike, to shield, to protect.

Because you knew what he was thinking. What he was seeing. And Lucien hesitated. "She has to be—" He stopped. Because saying it aloud would make it real. Because the truth was too large to be contained in mere words.

"How is this possible?" His voice was barely above a whisper. "Does Rhysand know—?"

"No." The answer came fast. Too fast. A blade against his throat. His good eye widened. But you were already moving, already speaking, each word carved from iron. "And no one will." A promise. A warning. "So I will make this threat as plainly as I can."

The room went still. Lucien held your gaze—and flinched.

"If you so much as tell a soul she exists," you said, voice quiet, lethal, "I will remind you why I have been feared. Why people assume my bargains take souls. Why I was betrothed to the son of a High Lord beyond looks.” A beat. "I will skin you in a way that makes Amarantha look like child's play. Do you understand?"

His throat bobbed. Before he could speak—

Vassa sighed. "Yeah, you say anything about Estella and I don’t think divine intervention is going to help you."

Lucien let out a slow breath, his hands curling at his sides, his jaw tight. But he nodded. "Will you be coming with us?"

The words were carefully spoken. Measured. Expectant. 

The Queen snorted loudly. Then—she turned to you. That knowing, sarcastic smirk already curling on her lips. "Yes, will you be coming with us to defeat Hybern again?"

You knew why she was being like this. Because as much as Vassa adored Estella—

She had never quite forgiven you. For almost dying. For the trauma that still lived on that day. For the unknown risk that came with a child who had been sealed in time.

And so you said it—

A single word, quiet, firm.

"No."

Both Lucien and Mr. Archeron blinked. Like they couldn't quite process your words. Like the idea of you—you—not taking the battlefield was impossible.

"I can skin a single Fae with enough effort," you admitted, voice unapologetic, "however, I’ve never fully recovered from giving birth to that one."

You inclined your head toward the sleepy-looking child. "My body is still healing from everything that happened. So I cannot fight. No matter how much I might want to."

The words tasted bitter. Because they were true. They were a reminder of what had been stolen from you.

"I will be here to oversee things until Vassa returns home."

But you had not left them empty-handed. There were weapons, forged and warded with magic, enough for a small siege should it come to full-on war with the neighboring lands.

Vassa had been most entertained by your preparations. And Mr. Archeron—he had been watching you closely. Putting pieces together. Understanding, perhaps for the first time, why you were not just respected—

But feared.

You had also offered your Fae—those who had volunteered to go with them, to war. Even as you gave your blessing, the warning curled in the back of your mind.

Perhaps you should have thought twice about letting them go. Because it only took one slip. One whisper. One survivor making it back to Prythian—

And the truth would come crashing into the light.

At the time, you had believed it was worth the risk. You had believed it was a gesture made in good faith when news of the war’s end reached your ears. When you learned that Hybern had fallen, that the wall was no more, that the High Lords had stood together and won.

It had seemed like the final chapter of a life you had long since stepped away from.

But now—

Now you weren’t so sure.

Not with who Vassa had brought back. Not with the way Jurian was standing in front of you, blinking, his expression utterly unreadable. Not when his lips twitched, his eyes flashed, and suddenly—

He started laughing. A deep, wheezing sound, raw and disbelieving. Vassa sighed heavily beside you, rubbing her temples as if she already regretted bringing him here. But you couldn’t look away from him. Couldn’t stop the way your body tensed, couldn’t quiet the pulse of old memories surging in your chest.

The man who had refused to believe that humans and Fae could ever truly coexist. A man who had once been an enemy. A man who had stood on the same side of a war. A man who would have watched the rest of the Fae burn, but at least would have given you a quick death. Not quite a friend, not quite someone you could trust with your life. But a comrade, maybe.

And now, with him standing before you, laughing like he knew something you didn’t—

You had the sinking feeling that it was far from over.

Jurian dragged a hand down his face, still chuckling, before finally speaking. "Holy hell." He let out another breathless laugh, shaking his head. "So you aren’t dead after all."

His grin widened, knowing, as his eyes dragged over you, taking in every unchanged detail. Or maybe—maybe there were some changed details he was noting.

"I thought the rumors were insane, but here you are—standing right in front of me." He let out a low whistle. "Fucking hell, this is going to send a shockwave through Prythian."

Your jaw tightened. "Glad to see your dramatics never fail. Maybe a surprise, but no shockwave, that’s for sure."

"On the contrary," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "I have a feeling some people would be very, very interested to know you’re still breathing."

Your hands itched to summon magic, to do something—anything—to wipe that damn smirk from his face. At the very least, to hit him, just once, for old times’ sake. He always knew how to get under your skin, like an annoying little brother who had perfected the art of making you want to strangle him.

The only other person who could come close to that talent was Cassian—and even that was a far-off shot.

"As amusing as seeing this go down would be," Vassa interrupted, clapping her hands together abruptly, "I only have hours left."

She did.

You had already been given the rundown of the war—the losses (you did not miss the way Vassa’s eyes saddened when she mentioned that Mr. Archeron had died), the almost-losses that you didn’t want to acknowledge, and the entire meeting that had taken place after the war. "Which brings me to say—" Vassa continued smoothly, "Jurian has accepted my offer to come to my court and will be assisting you in my duties."

You blinked. "Excuse me—" you blurted, completely flabbergasted.

Vassa lifted a hand, cutting off any protest before it could form.

"IF," she stressed, "you need any extra help."

"It’ll be just like old times." Jurian snorted, crossing his arms over his chest.

You scoffed. "Yes, because we are gutting enemy soldiers instead of making sure this country runs smoothly," you snapped back sarcastically.

"You say that now, but let’s see how long you last before you start wanting to gut a few politicians."

“I’ve lasted hundreds of years as Lady of the Night Court. And these past months here. What do I need your help with?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tapped his chin, the gesture exaggerated, teasing. “Maybe when the High Lord of Dawn comes. Or when Day arrives. They’ve expressed quite a bit of interest in Vassa’s court, after all.” His eyes gleamed, like a knife catching the light. “Or, gods forbid, when the High Lord and Lady of Night arrive, seeking whatever political alliance serves their interests.”

Your stomach twisted, but you refused to show it.

Then, as if he were merely remarking on the weather, Jurian added, “Though I can only imagine how you’ll feel seeing your husband with his new bride.”

Your pulse stilled.

The room stilled.

Jurian just shrugged, as if he were merely remarking on the sky. “I don’t recall either of you formally dissolving your marriage, but I suppose death does that, doesn’t it?”

Silence.

The room was so silent. Your chest ached in a way you hadn’t prepared for. He had done that on purpose. He had wanted a reaction. Had wanted to see if the ghost of Rhysand’s love still lingered in you.

And it did. But that didn’t mean you would let him have the satisfaction. Your lips parted before common sense could catch up.

"I guess it’ll feel like seeing Drakon with Miryam," you mused, voice quiet, the kind of soft that preceded a storm. And then, you smiled, just enough to make it mocking. "But at least I knew my ex loved me, even when I was at my worst." A beat. Jurian’s smirk froze. "A monster, as she called you. Right? I can’t recall."

You knew how to draw blood even without a weapon.

The whole situation was a complicated matter, one that had once ignited a fight between you and Rhys long ago. You had drawn a line. Had refused to see Drakon or Miryam again, but had sworn—sworn—to keep their existence a secret.

Jurian’s expression flickered—just for a second.

But then—he huffed out a laugh, shaking his head.

"I’m so glad you never change," he muttered, his tone half-amused, half-exasperated. Then—his eyes flickered with something else. Something calculating. "I figured you did after being told you didn’t fight anymore, though. Why is that—?"

Before the question could even be finished, the doors slammed open. Jurian barely had time to react before a tiny figure barreled through.

You didn’t need to look. Didn’t need to check. The timing was impeccable. Standing in the threshold, her dark hair mussed from sleep, her tiny fists rubbing at her eyes.

“You are supposed to be in bed, Estella.” Vassa laughed as the little fae ran into her open arms. 

"Because of that." You pointed at the child, your tone flat, resigned, as if Estella’s existence alone was enough explanation.

Jurian blinked once.

Twice.

Then he snorted. "No."

"Yeah."

"You are messing with me."

"There is living evidence."

His lips curled into something wicked. "Oh, the drama you could start." A slow grin stretched across his face, his eyes flickering with delight. "Did he know?"

Your expression didn’t shift. "No."

"No?" Jurian echoed, blinking again. "As in, not at all? Not even the slightest clue?"

"Not even the slightest. I didn’t even know."

He let out a low whistle, stepping back as if he needed a moment to process the absolute madness of the situation.

"So let me get this straight—" he counted on his fingers, dramatically. "You disappeared. You let the world believe you were dead. And in all that time, Rhysand had not the faintest idea that you were carrying his kid?"

You exhaled slowly, your patience thinning. "Yes, Jurian. That is exactly what I just said."

"Fucking hell." He let out a giddy laugh, pacing a few steps. "And here I thought my return to the living was going to be boring."

Vassa sighed loudly, shifting Estella slightly in her arms, brushing the child’s hair away from her face as she sleepily blinked up at Jurian.

"You do realize," Jurian continued, tapping his chin thoughtfully, "that if Rhysand ever finds out, it will be the single greatest meltdown Prythian has ever witnessed?"

Your stomach twisted. Of course, you knew.

If he ever saw Estella—

There would be no undoing it.

But before you could shut Jurian up, he turned back to you, grinning like a fox that had just stumbled upon an unguarded henhouse.

"So, tell me," he purred, "who else knows? Or am I the lucky first?"

Your fingers twitched.

Because the list was short.

Vassa.

Lucien.

A handful of trusted Fae in Scythia.

And now—Jurian.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason." He grinned wider, too wide, before slinging an arm over your shoulder. "I just need to know how many people will be in attendance when Rhysand inevitably finds out and absolutely loses his shit."

You shoved him off.

"You will say nothing."

"I make no promises."

"Jurian."

"Relax." He held up his hands innocently, though his smile said otherwise. "Your secret is safe with me. Who would I even tell?"

Your jaw tightened.

Vassa shook her head.

And Estella—still half-asleep—let out a tiny huff, looking between the two of you before mumbling, "Too loud."

"That’s your kid, all right." Jurian snickered.

You sighed, rubbing your temple.

This was going to be a nightmare.

[the-blind-assassin-12]

OOOOOOOOHHHHHHKKKKKKKAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!

Okay.

OH. KAY.

Listen. I have had this story on my TBR for a while now, and as soon as I started reading it I became increasingly annoyed with myself for not getting to it sooner. Because it. is. FANTASTIC. Every now and then I read a story that indelibly stamps itself on my heart, and this is definitely one of them. Frankie and Audrey are hereby cordially invited to live in my brain and never pay a single cent of rent, in perpetuity.

Alright, I'm going to try by absolute best to corral my thoughts and emotions into something resembling coherence. But no promises.

There was just so much to love about every aspect of this story. But let's start with the characters. First of all, I love me a strong, capable female OC, and Audrey is all of those things and then some. I would read a whole story just about her because she's so complex and intriguing and funny and flirty and guarded and just fucking cool, like I would love to be her friend. And this Frankie is so fully fleshed out that he feels alive in every single way. He's the same skilled, ice in his veins/fire in his blood Frankie that we saw in TF. The same guy who loves his friends fiercely. But you've breathed so much life into him by expanding on his personality traits and even his flaws and demons. I was already in love with this man but you somehow reached into my heart and cranked that shit up to 11. More on both of these lovelies later, but real quick - the supporting cast here? Pope, Benny, even the elusive Davis and airplane guy and Spencer - were also all so well written. They all felt like their own individual entities with purpose and intent. I loved getting the skinny on how the guys (and Aud) each got their callsigns, too. Especially Mr. Benadryl Miller lol.

Moving on to the plot. HOT DAMN. You snuck a "learning to love without having been shown the proper way to do so" story into a smut the way I sneak my dog's allergy pills into hunks of deli meats. Like!!! Abraca-frickin-dabra! One minute it was all bangin on the hood of the Rover and making Pope feel like a third wheel, and then all of a sudden there were all these FEELINGS that neither character knew what to do with but they just kept on BUILDING and suddenly... uh oh, idiots in love. You did an incredible job of scaling things up as the idiots (I love them with my whole heart and I would protect them until my last breath) danced closer and closer to the fire, but you also did a great job at balancing it all out with lighter moments. It's like when you're weightlifting, right, you can't just plop a whole bunch of weights on at once. You have to build up. It never got too heavy all at once, even when it got the heaviest. Those last three chapters were masterfully done. I mean the whole damn thing was, but the way everything unfolded towards the end there with all of the dark parts finally coming to light? Say it with me. "Masterful."

UM THE SMUT HELLO THE SMUT WAS HOT THE SMUT WAS SPICY THE SMUT WAS SO FRANCISCO MORALES CODED I COULD SCREAM THE SMUT WAS THE FUCKING BEES KNEES.

The writing throughout this entire story was flipping beautiful. I could so easily see every detail, every movement (as a former BJJ practitioner, I lost my mind when Audrey triangle choked Benny in nothing flat. that is, in my experience, exactly how it goes with the Bennys of the world when they challenge a "Small Girl" to a sparring match) every bit of tension had me holding my breath and biting my lip and just FUCK, MAN!

Okay, it happened, I ran out of coherence. Just please know that I loved this story an absolutely abnormal amount. Thank you so incredibly much for sharing it with us!

The Margay (COMPLETE)

Series Summary: Santiago recruits Frankie to contract for a covert government agency that pairs them with danger in more ways than one. Two frayed things toe the line between the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. And maybe, just maybe, they make it out alive. A series of one-shot snippets taking place during and around missions. * - Denotes smut.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x Sniper!OFC Audrey 'Moose' Goddard. POC OFC. No age gap.

Rating: Explicit 18+ / Minors DNI

Chapter 1 : There was Bogotá That One Time * Chapter 2 : Not So Much 'Squeezing' as 'Crushing' Chapter 3 : The Laughter of Damned Things * Chapter 4: His Other Nickname * Chapter 5: 'That Your Husband?' * Chapter 6: If You're Both Lying to Me, I Swear * Chapter 7: Apologize to Housekeeping * Chapter 8: Benadryl * Chapter 9: Memorize it. Destroy it. Chapter 10: Read the Last Page Chapter 11: What Happens in the After * *NEW 7/7*

Extras

Art Commissions from the lovely @kenobiwanx : An Embrace and Frankie and Aud in Jamaica Chapter 8 Moodboard Chapter 9 Moodboard Chapter 11 Moodboard Writing Playlist

Margay Universe One-Shots

Down, Boy * - Frankie Morales x OFC Audrey Goddard The boys end up at a dive bar on Frankie’s birthday. Snipers are good at pool. Frankie’s not gonna be able to wait until they make it home. Can be read as a standalone.

Margay-Adjacent One Shots - Written about Frankie x Audrey but flipped to reader perspective. Can be read as stand-alones.

Dominica * He’s like this sometimes. When his demons curl their talon-tipped fingers into the back of his skull. That’s when he replaces them with yours. Barbados * You've been carrying on with whatever this is for months, pushing and pulling, until one night Frankie wants control.

Author Masterlist

Thank you so much for reading.

[11queensupreme11]

So all the Cú talk reminds of the fact of in ireland irish (Gaelige) is a mandatory subject. Like you there's no way of getting out of it UNLESS you have something like dyslexia, ADHD or something of the sorts

Just cos the language is super old (pretty sure it's one of the oldest actually but I'm not sure) and really difficult to learn , cos ot follows it's own rules

So I just had the mental image of Cú bullying Percy by speaking in irish and since she has both dyslexia and adhd, will absolutely not be able to make heads or tails of what is going on and has zero chance of understanding it

Also I noticed how you said Anubis hates the English and I honestly feel like Cú would too.

I'm not gonna get into Irish history, cos it's long but as an example of how badly we were treated. During the times were Africans were slaves IF they had Irish blood in them they were immediately cheaper or even free because they're seen as tainted with barbarian blood, cos we were also bot consider white too lol

But ye , considering the English made us speaking our native language, celebrating our culture and also lead to a MASSIVE population decrease (8m to 4m) I feel like he'd hate them. I'm saying this cos I can imagine them bonding over how to traumatise the Brits

ALSO I AM NOT ASKING YOU TO SUDDENLY HAVE CÚ SPEAKING IRISH TOO PERCY. like unless it's a nickname or something or maybe curses I feel like that's pointless and kinda ooc, so obviously I'm not telling you to make Cú's whole personality be irish lol

I just thought of it in irish class yesterday and thought it was funny

Anyway love ya x

THIS WHOLE THING JUST REMINDED ME OF MY ISSUES WITH CÚ CHULAINN'S AGE (tho either way, he'd still hate the english LMAO, but my question is whether he was actually alive to witness the shit england was putting ireland through)

the thing about the ulster cycle is that it's not very... cohesively written?? idk if that's the right word for it, but basically it's not written by the same author, but many authors over generations. so a lot of the dates and real-life historical events being talked about in there contradict each other

some sources deducted that he was born in 200 BCE, but king fachtna, cú chulainn's grandpa, dies in 94 BCE.

then another deduced that he was born between 13-28 BCE

then another at around 1 CE

etc. etc. 😅😅😅 however, most of the answers do seem to agree it was at least in first century BCE and not CE, which makes him 2000+ years old.

i think back then ireland and britain (not yet england at the time) interacted, but idk much about conflicts so that's why i was wondering if cú chulainn was around to personally witness/experience it before going to valhalla

but yeah, regardless, he'd absolutely HATE THEM. cuz even if there was nothing really going while he was alive, he definitely experienced some shit while he was traveling around valhalla's many irelands as the years went and learned what the english have been doing and how they continued to shit on the irish even after death ���� probably killed many of them cuz they pissed him off so bad too 💀

ALSO I'M PLANNING ON HAVING HIM SPEAK IRISH TO PERCY, BUT LIKE... PET NAMES LOL. but actually very cute and loving ones solely because he knows she won't understand it, meanwhile he calls her insults in english 😂😂

cú chulainn speaking to percy in english: 👹🖕

cú chulainn speaking to percy in irish: 💖🫶

[nevesmose]

Separation 11347

This was, by Trazyn's infallible reckoning, his eleven thousand three hundred and forty-seventh divorce from Orikan. The Diviner, on the other hand, was adamant that it was in fact only their eleven thousand three hundred and forty-sixth. This dispute was what had caused the current divorce.

At first he had settled contentedly into his usual divorce routine, entering his meticulously-preserved time loop of a "Happy Divorce" party plucked from the Terran city-state of Nova Yoruk in early M3 as the Imperium kept its years.

As had been the case so many times before, the Lord of Solemnace basked over and over again in the reassurance of the assembled middle-aged humans that he was indeed so much better off without that asshole in his life, rounding off the festivities with a cake depicting a miniature confectionery figurine of Trazyn using a guillotine on a similarly-constructed sugar-based effigy of Orikan.

It was all very gratifying, and he was certain that when the amusement faded he would return to find Orikan waiting for him apologetically, his eminently bullyable faceplate resembling a weeping juvenile felid.

It was, however, not to be. He returned to the Galleries to find no trace whatsoever of Orikan. He was so disconcerted that he even briefly considered retrieving his much-prized clone of the primarch Fulgrim from stasis, but decided against it. It had, after all, only been a few subjective decades since he had placed the clone into a detailed diorama of the genuine being's final battle with his erstwhile companion Ferrus Manus for enrichment purposes. He had been thoroughly pleased with himself for coming up with entertainment of such realism and, judging by his mute tears of joy, so too was the clone.

What a wonderful caregiver I am, he had thought, jauntily walking away. Perhaps he and Orikan should adopt, which when used by Trazyn the Infinite is a word which means kidnap, an Astartes or Aeldari together.

Time passed and with no sign of Orikan's return, Trazyn felt it justifiable to seek other outlets for his multifarious urges. After exhausting every category on Cronhub and getting banned from Nemesorindr, he arose to find that the necrodermis of his lower limbs had spontaneously reformed itself into the shape of a baggy, ill-maintained example of the Terran garment known as sweatpants.

This could not stand. He resolved that he would start A Project, an undertaking of such majesty and glory that no one, least of all that cycloptic fool Orikan, could deny him the attention he deserved.

After brief forays into stop-motion animation and painting miniature Space Marines (accomplished by shrinking normal Astartes through arcane technosorcery and ignoring the resulting high-pitched noises as he applied pigment of a much too viscous consistency to their battleplate) his thoughts returned once more to his display of the battle between the primarchs on Isstvan V.

Theirs was a tragic tale of heartfelt companionship severed by corruption and betrayal. He himself had mentally projected several hundred phaeronfics about them to the great repository of the Necron race whose name, although untranslatable into any other language, was best rendered as The Sarcophagus-Belonging-To-Us-Alone, and some of them had even received multiple scarabs of approval from the discerning audience entrapped there forever.

Surely, he reasoned with the confidence of a being who had long since activated the developer console of his necrodermis body and manually increased its confidence, intelligence and charisma variables to 100, this meant that no one other than he could restore their friendship.

And so, in single-minded pursuit of compassion and friendliness, the Archaeovist and his forces wrought a swathe of destruction across the galaxy.

A foray into the Eye of Terror itself resulted in the capture of Fulgrim through the use of a vast two-pronged stick to pin the writhing daemon prince to the ground where he had been basking one day, while the sacrifice of his entire collection of ancient Terran doujinshis to the haemonculi of Commorragh itself had given him forbidden knowledge sufficient to wrest back the very soul of Ferrus Manus himself and place it into a suitably prepared necron host body via the biomorphic resonance of the necrodermis which had coated his hands in life.

Finally, the moment of glory came. The daemon Fulgrim and the metallically resurrected Ferrus Manus were placed into the same containment chamber and -

It was not at all what Trazyn had hoped. After a monumental bout of hand-to-hand combat lasting for hour upon hour, the two primarchs had settled into an uneasy stalemate, in the sense that Fulgrim was currently coiled around a light fixture on the ceiling and Ferrus had run out of objects to throw at him.

"You're even uglier now than you were when you had flesh," Fulgrim hissed venomously.

"And you were more of a snake then than you are now," Ferrus shot back, the frozen inexpressiveness of his necrodermis faceplate matching the famously stone-faced countenance he had displayed in life.

Fortunately Trazyn, who never made a mistake of any kind whatsoever, had prepared for such an eventuality. A concealed slot opened in the ceiling of the containment chamber, dislodging Fulgrim from his perch, and through the opening there descended a vast garment of woven silver-metallic fabric, emblazoned with inscrutable Necron symbols and sized in such a way as to accomodate the bodies of both primarchs.

"This is your get along shirt," Trazyn said, his voice amplified throughout the containment chamber. "You will wear it."

[dammit-tazmuir]

YEAH. Every time I see people talking like she struggles with being in Corona's shadow, I'm like??? Guys, she made the shadow.

She never wanted to be Crown Princess. She may say "Ultimate power—and posters of my face," but that doesn't mean she wants fame from just anywhere. And honestly, the emdash there could well indicate that the latter was not just an afterthought but a straight up lie. The whole answer could be a lie, even, but either way she wants eyes off of her. Perhaps long enough to achieve true ultimate power, and then eyes on her would be good, but for now she needs stealth. Perhaps she's only saying what she thinks people will believe.

In GtN when asked which twin to fear, Harrow initially thinks Corona, because she says "I" and Ianthe says "we". Harrow takes this at first as Corona being more independent and dominant, while Ianthe sees herself as part of a unit. Later information makes it much clearer that Corona only speaks for herself and doesn't really have the power or sway to speak for Ianthe, while Ianthe very much does have the ability and inclination to speak for both of them. (Possibly also "royal we" but lol.)

This isn't to say I think Corona is an innocent victim or harmless. She is a bleeding heart and a diplomat first and in many ways wonderful, but threatening herself to force Ianthe to do something wasn't a new occurrence, and it's made a point she does similar types of flattery and ingratiation that Ianthe does with people. (Paraphrasing, "You look at We Suffer like you want her to think you're into her, but you're not.") And "what throne will I mount if you don't bind me down?" to Judith, with true fear, is... Baby what tendencies do you have that you don't trust yourself with...? Regardless, it certainly wasn't a one-sided deal. Just, IF one side has distinctly more power in their dynamic and the con they pulled off, at least by any metric other than how far the other would go for them, it's easily Ianthe.

There is also! The very high likelihood that Ianthe is why Coronabeth is as unnaturally gorgeous as she is. Like. "Nobody who's seen [her] in the flesh wastes time with an adjective." Corona has been barred entry to places because she's TOO pretty. Her beauty is written about in Cohort files, including one that says Ianthe's appearance next to Corona's suggests Ianthe may not be as good at animaphilia as Corona. We ofc know Corona isn't a necro. Animaphilia is never clearly explained, and when Pal says he thought it was her specialty her response is "that's just for show", which, knowing Tamsyn's love for layers... (Also Mercymorn, whose eyes show no signs of age in sgarp contrast to her peers, accuses Ianthe of being "one of those animaphiliacs" and let's be real she's a hypocrite lmao.) We know Ianthe can do body modifying stuff because of what she easily did to Harrow's hair, and when she's reunited with Corona she starts fussing over her looks and talking about how to fix her up.

Everything suggests that animaphilia involves altering the body and appearance, and that Ianthe has gone out of her way to use it on Corona to make her as radiant as humanly possible and then some, to ensure all eyes stay on her.

Also in the aforementioned Mercy bit, "[She said] I wasn't as pretty as someone called Cyrus. It was like being back with mummy." And yeah that's ouch to read, but Ianthe says it "with a touch of fond nostalgia". She's not bitter. She thinks it's funny. (Her sense of humor is ridiculous at all times and that's not un-related but like. Not the important detail here lol.)

The issue is people take her words at face value (she lies frequently) and/or project how they would feel in what they can see of her shoes. And it's entirely possible her feelings are ultimately mixed. It's possible she's doing a balancing act between a desire for recognition and immediate gratification versus sticking to her longterm goals that she wants even more. It's also possible that any hint of "oh woe is me, Corona always got all the attention" is fully her doing a bit, fishing for sympathy for something that doesn't actually remotely bother her. It's fully possible her only real issue with "they turned our birthday into a memorial" was being pissed people chose to believe Corona was dead. There are a lot of possibilities, but all of them involve her life in the shadows being entirely by her own design.

OF COURSE there's also just The Unwanted Guest (and anyone who hasn't read it should immediately). So like...

Whatever part of her might be genuine about craving recognition and praise could, you know, be pretty new actually. Or she could have been a little before but gotten a big boost lately. Imagine feeling a sudden need for things you didn't think you cared about, and those feelings aren't even yours, except they are, and it's entirely your own fault...

Whatever the case, we may not know any of her plans exactly, but so far, she's always been at least pretty adjacent to, if not exactly, wherever she wants to be.

The inherent misunderstanding of Ianthe's character as the constant second fiddle.

I see many posts about how Ianthe must be oh so devastated to always be number two. I also see so many posts calling Ianthe pathetic and a lot of them don't sound ironic about it.

Did anyone else here notice how every single character in the books who thought Ianthe was pathetic at some point has either converted to thinking she's probably one of the most dangerous lyctors to have ever existed or is just straight up dead now? What a coincidence. Or maybe, just maybe, having the common sense to survive until the end of Nona and realising Ianthe is to be handled with caution go hand in hand.

Even Pyrrha Dve says that Ianthe freaks her out.

Ianthe could have ended the jig with Corona at any point, proven the world that she is the golden child, not her sister. But why would she? She would have given up a good portion of her control over Corona for a little appreciation from people she doesn't care about. She would become the "crown princess of Ida as she never wanted". Having Corona see her as the only reason she ever manages anything is simply so much more valuable to her.

Harrow called Ianthe a boot licker and asked her how she isn't ashamed of groveling to Augustine like that. The woman straight up told her she simply understands that "being ashamed is a privilege". A couple hundred pages later Augustine dies by Ianthe's choice and Ianthe takes his place at God's side. Weird. Another funny coincidence. Or maybe Ianthe just understood that sticking close to Augustine no matter the cost would open a gate to promotion eventually?

Asides Alecto waking up, this Woman has thus far achieved every single one of her goals or is still on her way to doing so. She did not suffer a single major setback. The only people who ever managed to give her minor setbacks were people who understood exactly how dangerous she is and how serious she is to be taken as an adversary, people who understood that her main if not only weaknesses are a) that she cares too much about the people she loves and that the gaslighting is simply a desperate attempt to make sure they never leave her. (see Coronabeth and the gun) b) she has no patience and gets bored easily, thus will take short cuts whenever she can rather than doing a job correctly from the start.

I firmly believe she'll either suffer a terrible fait in Alecto or take god's place. Or both.

[fingertipsmp3]

Also I feel like I have to say this but FUCK Toy Story 4. Awful movie, bad execution, poor excuse for a sequel.

[corioliseffect]

new curse dropped: having fic ideas but i refuse to write rpf/don't think i even could

[match-your-steps]

just read a review of the lego movie from 2014 and it is genuinely a horrible piece of literature and through perusing the comments underneath the review, I have gained an intense dislike of the reviewer. it's not even that I liked the lego movie and he didn't it's just that a lot of the stuff he says is factually incorrect, really stupid-sounding, or he doesn't provide any real reason, and in the comments, he reacts to even the friendliest and politest constructive criticism as if it's a personal attack on him.

[andiloveyoutooangel]

"I know that face." Her voice is low, raspy from sleep, but still playful. He floats above her, caught in the act. Morning sunlight slits through the cracks in the blinds he's trying to close. Whatever doesn't fall on his skin lands like patchwork on the blanket she's curled up in, her tired eyes meeting his. "What are you worrying about now, hmn?"

"Ah, désolé, did I look worried just then?" Despite his self-assured tone, his expression betrays his sheepishness, as he ducks down to press a kiss to her forehead, "I only wanted to close the blinds so the sun wouldn't wake you before your alarm. I guess, uh, I woke you before your alarm, instead...?"

She's been so tired lately, is what he doesn't say, so busy and drained of energy. He wants her to be able to rest fully, as much as she needed, in the way where he'd threaten a solar eclipse if the sun dared disturb her on her first day off in so long.

"Taylor, you're so dear to me. Thank you." She says, simply, sincerely. Her smile is warmer than sunrays, "It's okay, you don't have to. Sun's good for me, in the winter."

"Ah. Okay, okay." So he leaves the blinds, slightly ajar. No solar eclipse then, if his love prefers the light. The dark of the room is warmly hued, tinged with mellowed gold. He hovers awkwardly, wings slowly flapping to keep him uncertainly afloat.

Wordlessly, she raises a wing and an arm towards him, an invitation, a request. Slowly, carefully, he lowers himself beside her. With much less care, she unceremoniously tosses the blanket over him so they're sharing, and he grins, ducking his chin beneath the covers.

He lets a wing drape over her, covering his charge, his human, his partner. In turn, she intertwines a hand with him and closes her eyes. Safe, content, trusting.

"I love you." She says, squeezing his hand gently.

"I love you." He returns, and they doze until the alarm wakes them properly.

[paragonrobits]

some important calvin and hobbes facts in case you haven't read the original comic strip in a long time or only absorbed stuff on it from memes and out of context bits on here:

Calvin's last name has never been given, and neither has any of his parent's names. This was actually why his uncle Max only showed up for a brief storyline; the creator of the comic, Bill Watterson, ultimately felt that while it was fine to have him as someone for his parents to talk to, it felt far too awkward to never have Max refer to them by name and he never made a return appearance.

The general tone of the comic is fairly light-hearted, with a big emphasis on goofy slapstick comedy contrasted by clever wordplay and often surprising adult-centered jokes that'll hit you like a slap. A big part of the comedy is, as Watterson put it (paraphrased) "It's really funny to me when people express deeply stupid ideas with really fancy terminology." One notable example you might have seen is that one bit where Calvin asks his mom for money to buy a Satan-worshiping rock album and his mom replies that there's nothing genuine about them and they're just putting on the attitude for shock value, and comisserates with Calvin as he deplores that mainstream nihilism can't be trusted. He concludes that childhood is disillusioning.

There is a LOT of criticism of the extreme materialism and selfish mentality of the late 80s, when the comic was initially written. This may go a long way to explain how its aged so well; much of what it criticizes resonates well with people today.

Bill Watterson views comic strips a legitimate form of artwork, and repeatedly fought to have more space to draw more beautiful and artistic backgrounds, which was a very hard fight and unpopular even with other comic strip artists. He eventually did win some compromises and a lot of Calvin And Hobbes' artwork shows it, with the use of space to indicate time as well as a sharp contrast between the often plain environments of mundane life contrasted by the wildly beautiful imagery of Calvin's imagination (which often sports realistic depictions in an art shift of sorts).

Hobbes is explicitly not an imaginary friend, by word of Watterson himself. We don't know WHAT he is exactly, and Hobbes is apparently unaware of the strange nature of his reality; people look at him and only see an ordinary stuffed tiger plushie, but he has a tangible effect on the world that would be physically impossible for Calvin to do on his own. He's apparently been around for a while, and was apparently around when Calvin was a young baby.

On that note; Hobbes has implicitly killed (notably treated as both a gag and also with the vibe of 'he's a tiger, duh') and while he doesn't do it again on-screen, he doesn't have any moral issues about it. Calvin claims that he's never had trouble bringing Hobbes to school because the last time he did, Hobbes killed and ate a bully named Tommy Chestnut and simply comments that it was gross and he needed a bath. Calvin's tried to repeat this again, but Hobbes was grossed out at the thought having to eat a kid raw and not being allowed to use an oven first, or complaining that children are too fattening.

Hobbes became gradually less human-like in body language and more like an actual cat in both body language and behavior; this was due to Watterson drawing more inspiration from his cat, who also inspired a lot of Hobbes' running gags, such as pouncing on Calvin when he got home. Several years into the syndication of the strip, Watterson's cat passed away, and he did a tribute to her with a comic strip of the two of them agreeing to try to dream together so they can keep playing when they have to sleep; Watterson's commentary (if I recall right), remarks on his cat: "We can see each other again in dreams."

[oveliagirlhaditright]

Speaking of amvs (I mentioned one in the tags of my last post), I'm also finally finishing a Bangel one that I started ages ago, and I really love it<3

But when I do finish it, I wonder if I should publish it now or just wait a little bit and upload it for the "I Will Remember You" marathon. I'm thinking the latter, honestly.

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

for whom good omens is being written

Hey maggots and the rest of the fandom, it's the Good Omens Mascot here. Today I read a post about this tweet:

The accompanying video genuinely made me cry. And I've been thinking about this for a long while, as far back as February, when I saw a lot of conflicting opinions on what people wanted from the third season. It really is true that no matter what you do, some people will be dissatisfied. But what matters is that Neil is writing this for Terry.

And I was reminded of some paragraphs from the Good Omens TV Companion, which I'd read in Amazon's sample excerpt of the book. I know this is a long post, but I really truly do think you all need to read these, I've done my best to select only the most important parts. Here you go:

'His Alzheimer's started progressing harder and faster than either of us had expected,' says Neil, referring to a period in which Terry recognized that despite everything he could no longer write. 'We had been friends for over thirty years, and during that time he had never asked me for anything. Then, out of the blue, I received an email from him with a special request. It read: “Listen, I know how busy you are. I know you don't have time to do this, but I want you to write the script for Good Omens. You are the only human being on this planet who has the passion, love and understanding for the old girl that I do. You have to do this for me so that I can see it." And I thought, “OK, if you put it like that then I'll do it."

'I had adapted my own work in the past, writing scripts for Death: The High Cost of Living and Sandman, but not a lot else was seen. I'd also written two episodes of Doctor Who, and so I felt like I knew what I was doing. Usually, having written something once I'd rather start something new, but having a very sick co-author saying I had to do this?' Neil spreads his hands as if the answer is clear to see. 'I had to step up to the plate.' A pause, then: 'All this took place in autumn 2014, around the time that the BBC radio adaptation of Good Omens was happening,' he continues, referring to the production scripted and co-directed by Dirk Maggs and starring Peter Serafinowicz and Mark Heap. ‘Terry had talked me into writing the TV adaptation, and I thought OK, I have a few years. Only I didn't have a few years,' he says. 'Terry was unconscious by December and dead by March.'

He pauses again. 'His passing took all of us by surprise,' Neil remembers. 'About a week later, I started writing, and it was very sad. The moments Terry felt closest to me were the moments I would get stuck during the writing process. In the old days, when we wrote the novel, I would send him what I'd done or phone him up. And he would say, "Aahh, the problem, Grasshopper, is in the way you phrase the question," and I would reply, "Just tell me what to do!" which somehow always started a conversation. 'In writing the script, there were times I'd really want to talk to Terry, and also places where I'd figure something out and do something really clever, and I would want to share it with him. So, instead, I would text Terry's former personal assistant, Rob Wilkins, now his representative on Earth. It was the nearest thing I had.'

(...) As Neil himself recognizes, this is an adaptation built upon the confidence that comes from three decades of writing for page and screen. But for all the wisdom of experience, he found that above all one factor guided him throughout the process. 'Terry isn't here, which leaves me as the guardian of the soul of the story,' he explains. 'It's funny because sometimes I found myself defending Terry's bits harder or more passionately than I would defend my own bits. Take Agnes Nutter,' he says, referring to what has become a key scene in the adaptation in which the seventeenth-century author of the book of prophecies foretelling the coming of the Antichrist is burned at the stake. ‘It was a huge, complicated and incredibly expensive shoot, with bonfires built and primed to explode as well as huge crowds in costume. It had to feel just like an English village in the 1640s, and of course everyone asked if there was a cheap way of doing it. 'One suggestion was that we could tell the story using old-fashioned woodcuts and have the narrator take us through what happened, but I just thought, “No”. Because I had brought aspects of the story like Crowley and the baby swap along to the mix, and Terry created Agnes Nutter. So, if I had cut out Agnes then I wouldn't be doing right by the person who gave me this job. Terry would've rolled over in his grave.'

And, finally, this paragraph:

"Once again, Neil cites the absence of his co-writer as his drive to ensure that Good Omens translated to the screen and remained true to the original vision. 'Terry's last request to me was to make this something he would be proud of. And so that has been my job.'"

I think that's so heartwrenchingly beautiful, and so I wanted you all to read this, too, just in case you (like me) don't have the Good Omens TV Companion. It adds another layer of depth and emotion to this already complex and amazing story that we all know and love.

Share this post, if you can, please, so that more people can read these excerpts :")

Tagging @neil-gaiman, @fuckyeahgoodomens and @orpiknight, even if you've definitely read these before :)

[lemonduckisnowawake]

*gasps as I crawl up to this blog, covered in blood and sweat and gore* After 300 pages of story scenes, 700 pages of short stories, multiple documents of additional short story dumps, 7 folders, and some other things, I have successfully found at *least* FIVE romance scenes that aren't written with hatred and pain, aren't written out of spite, aren't made to be ridiculous and/or funny, aren't heavily made to be an allegory, aren't noncanon cause meh, AND aren't made to be a tragedy. At least 5 (it's sadly less than five but I'm done looking at what I didn't) small written things in over 6 years of Serious Writing that feature a romance that is soft, taken seriously, canon, AND not made to be purposefully ridiculous cause I Could Not.

All that to prove to a friend I could do romance softly and seriously after they shared something really very sweet and well written. ALL THAT JUST TO SHOW THAT I KIND OF ALREADY SHARED SOMETHING LIKE THAT A FEW WEEKS BACK

[lov3notts]

"you what?"

ᥫ᭡Theodore Nott x F!Readerᥫ᭡

summary: accidentally drinking a lust potion, you asked your best friend Theo for help.

warning: smut, cursing, unprotected sex, size kink maybe? cream pie.

word count: 2.4k

18+only; minors don’t interact

Navigation; masterlist; request rules

“You what?” Theo’s eyes widened, you wanted him to do what? He wasn’t sure if this was a dream or not but if it was he didn’t want to wake up

Earlier that day , you had accidentally drank a lust potion. 

How, you might ask?

Well the boys (Enzo/ Mattheo) thought it would be funny to prank Draco by giving him a lust potion as payback for pranking them earlier that week

At lunch the 2 boys were there first, taking their usual spots they slip the potion to a bottle of Draco's favorite drink and placing it on the spot were Draco usually sits

One by one the group gets to the table ,leaving you and Draco left. 

Soon both of you walk in, but you seem to be in a rush

“Sorry guys I can’t stay and chat, I have to get back to studying, i’m just here to get some food to eat while studying” grabbing random things and the only drink you see left, you quickly stuff it in your purse

“Wait y/n!” Enzo saying frantically, giving Matt a worried look

You look up at Enzo as you start to zip up your bag. “Yeah?” 

“We were actually saving that for Draco, um- were having practice later and that’s his favorite”

“Omg I’m so sorry! Here-“ as your opening you bag Draco comes behind you , going to sit down 

“I actually got my own drink, y/n can have it” Dracos says while pulling out his drink from his bag,

Enzo’s and Mattheos’s eye widen.

“I- um, but we got it for you” Matt says with a bit of a shaky voice 

“Its fine, I don’t need it” as he waves his drink showing the 2 boys

“But-“ 

“Omg thank you Draco, I really have to go now guys see you later” you say as you're walking away before the boys have a chance to take away the drink.

Both Enzo and Matt try to call you back but you’re already gone, both freaking out inside. praying you don't find out what they did.

While studying in your dorm you couldn’t focus for more than 10 seconds. Thinking you might just be tired from all the studying you took a break. Getting up from your desk you head towards your bed. Laying in your bed you start to space out

At first it was all innocent thoughts, school, weekend plans but then they started to shift The only thing you could think of was pleasure. Thinking of a certain boy made your cunt throb, making your body hot

Your hand slowly creeps down to your shorts. Slowly playing with yourself imagining it was Theo’s fingers rubbing circles on your clit.

“Oh god Theo” you moaned 

but no matter how good it felt you couldn’t reach your climax. You were so needy and nothing was working. The rising heat from your body only made things more uncomfortable.

“God what is wrong with me, and why is it so hot” getting up from your bed you walk towards your desk, trying to find your drink, in hopes of it cooling you down . You picked up the bottle and before you can finish the drink you saw something written on the bottom of the bottle

“Payback- Enzo and Mattheo”

Your eyes widened with confusion. 

What?

Then you remembered how the drink was meant for Draco. 

everything started to make sense

This is why you were like this

You couldn’t even be mad at them, Your mind was clouded with the urge to get any satisfaction you could. all you wanted was any sort of pleasure but nothing was good enough. it started to get painful and a sudden thought popped in your head. Theo

he’d help right? He was really the only one you can go to. 

Your heart was racing at just the thought of Theo agreeing to help you out, being best friends all these years you had developed a crush on him, of course you never acted on it because you didn’t want to ruin your friendship 

Pacing back and forth your room, you finally decide to ask him for help. Nervously picking up your phone, you open Theo’s contact.

“Theo?”

“Hey Bella, what’s up?”

The nickname itself making you get butterflies.

 “Um- I need a favor, can you come over?”

“Of course, i'll be over in a few”

“Okay see you” hanging up the phone, your thoughts begin to consume you

What if he says no?

What if he laughs at your face and runs off

What if…

What if he says yes… 

Before you can continue, there was a knock on your door. That must be him. Slowly walking to your door, palms sweaty, you turn your door knob

“Hey, what did you need help with?” Theo goes in to give you a hug

Hugging him back, your nose is infused with his cologne  

God why does he always smell so good

He lets go and looks at you closely, he moves a strain of hair behind your ear to have a better look at you. His eyebrows frown, noticing your face is flustered and incredibly warm.

“Are you okay? Your face is warm” resting his hand on your cheek

“Yeah, um actually funny story-“ Quickly leading him to sit on the edge of your bed, holding his hands as you begin to explain

“Please just hear me out. I know it's odd ,but I have no one to go to,- just please-“ falling to your knees, begging.

“Hey hey, breathe. You know I'm here if you need anything. Now tell me, what’s up?” Theo's eyes looking at you with worry.

“Please I- I need you to fuck me” you blur out

That was the last thing Theo thought would come out of your mouth. 

You wanted him to what???

He was speechless, absolutely at a loss of words. jaw wide open

“Please, I'm sorry for asking you for this, I know it’s a lot and we’re best friends. But please I can’t take it anymore. I accidentally drank something that wasn’t meant to me and it had this effect on me. I’ve tried everything but nothing is working. I need your help please” your face heating up from embarrassment . I mean you only ever had the biggest crush on your best friend for years, but what you didn’t know was that so did Theo.

Theo had dreamt of the day he got to be with you.

How’d he spend hours pleasuring himself of the thought of you under him, on top of him and how good you’d take him in your mouth. God, was he hard the second you asked him to help you out.

How could he say no? 

Without another thought he picked you up from the floor. Sitting down back on your bed while you straddled his lap.

Looking into your eyes, moving a piece of your hair behind your ear, resting his hand on your cheek, he leaded in.  

Your soft lips on his, both whimpering into the intense kiss. Licking your bottom lip asking for access. You gladly gave it to him. 

Slowly rocking your hips on his clothed boner, trying to find any friction to satisfy you.

Slowly laying you down your bed, taking off your clothes until you were left in nothing but your matching black lace set. 

“Don’t worry Bella, i’ll take good care of you” Theo whispers as he starts to leave a trail of kisses down your body

“Theo please~” you pleaded, needing to feel something, anything.

“poor thing, you’ve must of been so uncomfortable for such a long time, don’t worry i’m here now”

He stopped to look at your lying body, face all flustered, messy hair. 

“God you’re so beautiful” he wasn’t lying, he’d always thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Always jealous of your ex boyfriends because they got to be with you. But now it was his turn and he was going to give you the best you’d ever gotten, he was going to ruin every other guy you’ve been with. 

Slowly pulling your panties off, dick throbbing at the sight of your wet glistening pussy. Trying to ignore his throbbing cock and focus on you, he gives you a sweet smile. 

“You're soaking wet, so ready for me” leaving little kisses around your pussy, teasing. finally burying his face between your legs, painfully slow licks as he takes it in, savoring every moment. 

As soon as you felt his tongue, you became a whimpering mess.  

“Theo~ oh my god yes” moving your hand to his hair, giving it a little tug. 

Theo couldn’t hold it in anymore, he started to devour you. eating you out as if he’d never get this opportunity ever again

“You taste so fucken good” he groaned against your dripping core. The vibrations sending you waves of pleasure 

“More please, Theo! oh my god~” it felt so good, his tongue making you feel things you’ve never felt before with anyone else

“So polite, even when your so needy” Theo smirked as he sees how much of a mess you were for him

He starts so pump one of his fingering into you while eating you out. Soon enough you felt the feeling you were craving for

“M-so close, fuck Theo i’m so close”

He stops what he’s doing, getting up grasping on his zipper and undoing the button. Tugging his jeans and boxers off. 

“Theo? Why’d you stop? I was so close” you looked at him with teary eyes. you were so close, god why did he stop

“Sorry princess, I wanna be in you, want you cum on my cock” godddd was he hot

His cock strung out his pants hitting his stomach , you were lost for words. In no world was Theodore Nott small, he was big- huge even. you’ve never taken anything close to his size.

Theo noticed your starring

“Like what you see?” A smile tugged the corner of his lips

“Don’t worry you can take it, I know you can”

You nodded at his works 

He lined himself up to your pussy, tracing himself up and down, teasing you.

“You have no idea how long i've been wanting to do this for” 

“Fuck ,Theo please, please fuck me” you whined 

“Anything for you, love”

he slowly pushed himself into you. You both let out a loud moan. 

“fuck, your so tight” Theo was out of breath.

You felt so good around him that he never wanted this moment to end.

“fuck Theo your big” you said panting 

“You think you can take more?”

More???

“There’s more??” Looking at Theo with a disbelief face

He chuckled “i’m only have way”

“Don’t worry you can handle it, can’t you baby?”

“Mhm- yes yes, I can take it”

Pushing the reset of himself into you. bottoming you out. heavily breathing, getting comfortable with the feeling of him stretching you out. 

“good girl ,You’re doing so well for me, are you ready?”

“Yes! fuck-please move, please” you begged

Brining your legs above his shoulders and laying them there. Gripping your ankles to keep you steady as he started to thrust into you. Both a moaning mess

“Fuck fuck fuckkk, Theo-” your eyes roll back, arching your back.

“You feel so good Bella, oh god-“ panting 

“Your squeezing me tight- fuck”

One of his hands moving to your waist. fucking you harder now, unable to stop. His cock was so fucking good, hitting your g-spot every time.

“Fuck Theo just like that, don’t stop, don’t stop please!” Your hands holding onto your bed sheets as he rocks his hips.

“You like that huh? You like it when your best friend is pounding into you, god you look so beautiful, taking all of me like a good girl” he groans while leaving kisses on your ankle.

Your walls clenching at his words

He groaned again as he felt your cunt throb at his praise. 

“Oh you like being called a good girl don’t you?” letting go of your ankle to grip your jaw to make you look at him.

“Who's a good girl are you?” Theo says as he speeds up his thrusts

Looking at him with half lidded eyes “Yours, all yours!!~“ you moan

“That’s right all mine, no one can ever make you feel this good, isn’t that right love?”

 “Mhm only you, ah~ i'm so close”

“Cum for me baby, come all over my cock”

You were absolute bliss, god you’ve never seen fucked this good, yeah you’ve had other hookups but nothing can compared to this, to Theo

You moaned loudly, shutting your eyes as you reached your orgasm “im- im cumming!!” Your body shaking from the overwhelming feeling

The way your walls clenched from cumming made Theo on the verge of spilling. He continues to thrust into you through your first orgasm. He didn’t expect you make such a mess all over his dick, your cum spilling out of you as he thrusts into you

You felt Theo twitch inside of you, knowing he’s close you moved his hand from your waist to your breasts.

“Mmm so soft…” Theo whispered. leaning down, putting his tongue on your nipple, swirling it around. “Mmm Theo that feels good” throwing your head back from a little act. Theo was soon approaching his climax.  

“Fuckk- can I cum inside of you? please oh god I can’t hold it anymore, please? Fuck-” Theo begged as he tried to hold it in, waiting for you response 

“Yes!! fuck Theo cum inside me” you practically screamed as you felt you stomach tighten.

He let out a loud moan as he spilled his cum inside of you. You screamed as you felt his warm cum spilling in you, triggering your second orgasm.

Theo’s thrusts became sloppy, riding out both your highs. He pulled out and laid beside you. Dizzy and breathless, taking a moment to catch your breath.  Finally when you both got steady, you look up at Theo

“Thank you Theo, really”

“No need to thank me Bella, you can come to me for anything anytime” smiling at you.

crawling onto his lap you whispered into his ear “stay the night? I don’t think the drink has worn off just yet~”

This was going to be a long night for Theo.

ᥫ᭡reblog's & comment's are appreciatedᥫ᭡

a/n: Thank you for reading my first ever fic!! a special mention to @leona-hawthorne for being an angel and giving me feedback on my first rough draft. It helped a lot:)!! another honorable mention to @nottsangel!! Im that anon who mentioned writing their first story, hope you like it^-^ thank you both, your blogs have inspired me to start writing. xoxo

©lov3notts ,do not copy, translate or claim any of my writing or works as your own.

[yuukiiqwq]

Satoru was confident that you liked him back. He was positive. He had no doubt in his mind that you were going to be his pretty little wife. Is he getting ahead of himself? Sure, he is, but he's that confident. That's until he noticed how he hadn't received any chocolate from you.

It was Valentine's Day, and he still hasn't received any chocolate from you. Yeah, he had a mountain worth of chocolate from all those people who gave him it, but where was yours? He couldn't find it anywhere. He was sure that you would have placed your chocolate on his desk since you hadn't given him his. He double no triple checked all the chocolates, yet he could not find the one that has your pretty little name written on it. He continued to search through the chocolate pile for the fourth time today.

He must have missed it, right? Or did someone steal it? He swear he's going to hunt that person to the end of the Earth. Who dared to steal something that was rightfully his?

"Satoru, calm down."

He looked up at his best friend, who was trying to hold down a laugh at his panic.

"She'll probably give it to you later. The day just begun."

Right. Suguru is right. You'll give him his chocolate later. He's a good boy. He can wait.

That's what he told himself, but Suguru and Shoko have already received theirs this morning, and his is still nowhere to be found. Where is his chocolate? You're just sitting there in your seat, looking all pretty as if Satoru is not going through a huge dilemma because of you.

He couldn't help his hands that kept inching itself closer to the chocolate you gave Suguru. He wouldn't know if he snatched it, right? Suguru had received a lot of chocolate! He wouldn't know if he took it... was what he convinced himself before Suguru slapped his hand away.

"Satoru," he sighs.

"But Suguru!!!" Satoru whined as he sunk down into his seat.

"Be patient. You'll get yours soon."

But how soon is soon? Satoru isn't exactly known for his patient.

It was the end of the day, and still no chocolate from you. He asked Suguru and Shoko to leave first because he thought you would finally give it to him when both of you were alone. But you haven't. Where was his chocolate?

The two of you were approaching the exit of school, so Satoru made a quick decision, grabbing your wrist and pulling you into an empty classroom. He quickly shut the door and locked it.

"Satoru?" You asked in confusion. "What's wrong?"

"My chocolate."

"Your chocolate?"

"My chocolate from you! The symbol of your love towards me!"

"I didn't make you any," you replied smoothly. "Forgot to make them yesterday, so I woke up early today to make them, but I guess not early enough. I only had time to finish Shoko's and Suguru's. I didn't have time to make yours. Otherwise, I would have been late."

Satoru swear the world just ended. He looked down at his chest because he swears his heart ripped out of his chest at your words. Nope. Still alive. Why is he still alive in this cruel world? You had no chocolate for him? None? Not even a crumb?

"That's fine with you, right? I mean, you got a bunch of chocolate from other girls! You don't need mine."

He swear he is about to burst into tears. He didn't care about other girls. He didn't care about their chocolate. He wanted yours. How could you be so cruel and deny him of your chocolate? To reject him like this? He was devastated. No. Beyond devastated. Where is the closest cliff so he can jump off?

Pure silence radiated the room as Satoru tried to comprehend this horrible situation. Then he heard a small giggle slip pass your lips. That small giggle soon turns into a full-out laugh.

"You should have seen the look on your face, Satoru," you say as you try to stop laughing.

Was this funny to you? Why were you laughing at his suffering? Do you know how much he looked forward to today? To receive the cute little wrapped up chocolate you made for him? He dreamed of today, and you didn't have chocolate for him?

He then sees you reach into your bag and pull out exactly what he had imagined. A cute little chocolate box wrapped up in a baby blue color with a touch of white ribbon to finish it off. Fuck. He thinks he just got a heart attack seeing your chocolate. His chocolate.

"Princess, please don't joke like that to me ever again. You scared me half to death. I was going to jump off a cliff," he whined as he took the chocolate from your hand.

You couldn't help but roll your eyes at his dramatic behavior. "Stop being dramatic, Satoru. It's just chocolate."

A look of offense dawned his face as you utter those horrendous words to him.

"Chocolate? Just chocolate?" He huffed at you. He can't believe you as you treat this amazing god send gift as just chocolate. "Don't you dare call this just chocolate! This! This right here is proof of your undying love towards me!"

You laughed at his antics– "You're getting ahead of yourself, Satoru."

He delicately placed the chocolate safety away in his bag, treating it as a prized possession. He's looking forward towards white day. He already knows what he wants to get for you. He pulled you into a hug, nuzzling his face against your neck as he mutters– "You won't be saying that after I wife you up."

[joycrispy]

Awhile ago @ouidamforeman made this post:

This shot through my brain like a chain of firecrackers, so, without derailing the original post, I have some THOUGHTS to add about why this concept is not only hilarious (because it is), but also...

It. It kind of fucks. Severely.

And in a delightfully Pratchett-y way, I'd dare to suggest.

I'll explain:

As inferred above, both Crowley AND Aziraphale have canonical Biblical counterparts. Not by name, no, but by function.

Crowley, of course, is the serpent of Eden.

(note on the serpent of Eden: In Genesis 3:1-15, at least, the serpent is not identified as anything other than a serpent, albeit one that can talk. Later, it will be variously interpreted as a traitorous agent of Hell, as a demon, as a guise of Satan himself, etc. In Good Omens --as a slinky ginger who walks funny)

Lesser known, at least so far as I can tell, is the flaming sword. It, too, appears in Genesis 3, in the very last line:

"So he drove out the man; and placed at the east of the garden of Eden Cherubims, and a flaming sword which turned every way, to keep the way of the tree of life." --Genesis 3:24, KJV

Thanks to translation ambiguity, there is some debate concerning the nature of the flaming sword --is it a divine weapon given unto one of the Cherubim (if so, why only one)? Or is it an independent entity, which takes the form of a sword (as other angelic beings take the form of wheels and such)? For our purposes, I don't think the distinction matters. The guard at the gate of Eden, whether an angel wielding the sword or an angel who IS the sword, is Aziraphale.

(note on the flaming sword: in some traditions --Eastern Orthodox, for example-- it is held that upon Christ's death and resurrection, the flaming sword gave up it's post and vanished from Eden for good. By these sensibilities, the removal of the sword signifies the redemption and salvation of man.

...Put a pin in that. We're coming back to it.)

So, we have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword, introduced at the beginning and the end (ha) of the very same chapter of Genesis.

But here's the important bit, the bit that's not immediately obvious, the bit that nonetheless encapsulates one of the central themes, if not THE central theme, of Good Omens:

The Sword was never intended to guard Eden while Adam and Eve were still in it.

Do you understand?

The Sword's function was never to protect them. It doesn't even appear until after they've already fallen. No... it was to usher Adam and Eve from the garden, and then keep them out. It was a threat. It was a punishment.

The flaming sword was given to be used against them.

So. Again. We have our pair. The Serpent and the Sword: the inception and the consequence of original sin, personified. They are the one-two punch that launches mankind from paradise, after Hell lures it to destruction and Heaven condemns it for being destroyed. Which is to say that despite being, supposedly, hereditary enemies on two different sides of a celestial cold war, they are actually unified by one purpose, one pivotal role to play in the Divine Plan: completely fucking humanity over.

That's how it's supposed to go. It is written.

...But, in Good Omens, they're not just the Serpent and the Sword.

They're Crowley and Aziraphale.

(author begins to go insane from emotion under the cut)

In Good Omens, humanity is handed it's salvation (pin!) scarcely half an hour after losing it. Instead of looming over God's empty garden, the sword protects a very sad, very scared and very pregnant girl. And no, not because a blameless martyr suffered and died for the privilege, either.

It was just that she'd had such a bad day. And there were vicious animals out there. And Aziraphale worried she would be cold.

...I need to impress upon you how much this is NOT just a matter of being careless with company property. With this one act of kindness, Aziraphale is undermining the whole entire POINT of the expulsion from Eden. God Herself confronts him about it, and he lies. To God.

And the Serpent--

(Crowley, that is, who wonders what's so bad about knowing the difference between good and evil anyway; who thinks that maybe he did a GOOD thing when he tempted Eve with the apple; who objects that God is over-reacting to a first offense; who knows what it is to fall but not what it is to be comforted after the fact...)

--just goes ahead and falls in love with him about it.

As for Crowley --I barely need to explain him, right? People have been making the 'didn't the serpent actually do us a solid?' argument for centuries. But if I'm going to quote one of them, it may as well be the one Neil Gaiman wrote ficlet about:

"If the account given in Genesis is really true, ought we not, after all, to thank this serpent? He was the first schoolmaster, the first advocate of learning, the first enemy of ignorance, the first to whisper in human ears the sacred word liberty, the creator of ambition, the author of modesty, of inquiry, of doubt, of investigation, of progress and of civilization." --Robert G. Ingersoll

The first to ask questions.

Even beyond flattering literary interpretation, we know that Crowley is, so often, discreetly running damage control on the machinations of Heaven and Hell. When he can get away with it. Occasionally, when he can't (1827).

And Aziraphale loves him for it, too. Loves him back.

And so this romance plays out over millennia, where they fall in love with each other but also the world, because of each other and because of the world. But it begins in Eden. Where, instead of acting as the first Earthly example of Divine/Diabolical collusion and callousness--

(other examples --the flood; the bet with Satan; the back channels; the exchange of Holy Water and Hellfire; and on and on...)

--they refuse. Without even necessarily knowing they're doing it, they just refuse. Refuse to trivialize human life, and refuse to hate each other.

To write a story about the Serpent and the Sword falling in love is to write a story about transgression.

Not just in the sense that they are a demon and an angel, and it's ~forbidden. That's part of it, yeah, but the greater part of it is that they are THIS demon and angel, in particular. From The Real Bible's Book of Genesis, in the chapter where man falls.

It's the sort of thing you write and laugh. And then you look at it. And you think. And then you frown, and you sit up a little straighter. And you think.

And then you keep writing.

And what emerges hits you like a goddamn truck.

(...A lot of Pratchett reads that way. I believe Gaiman when he says Pratchett would have been happy with the romance, by the way. I really really do).

It's a story about transgression, about love as transgression. They break the rules by loving each other, by loving creation, and by rejecting the hatred and hypocrisy that would have triangulated them as a unified blow against humanity, before humanity had even really got started. And yeah, hell, it's a queer romance too, just to really drive the point home (oh, that!!! THAT!!!)

...I could spend a long time wildly gesturing at this and never be satisfied. Instead of watching me do that (I'll spare you), please look at this gif:

I love this shot so much.

Look at Eve and Crowley moving, at the same time in the same direction, towards their respective wielders of the flaming sword. Adam reaches out and takes her hand; Aziraphale reaches out and covers him with a wing.

You know what a shot like that establishes? Likeness. Commonality. Kinship.

"Our side" was never just Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley says as much at the end of season 1 ("--all of us against all of them."). From the beginning, "our side" was Crowley, Aziraphale, and every single human being. Lately that's around 8 billion, but once upon a time it was just two other people. Another couple. The primeval mother and father.

But Adam and Eve die, eventually. Humanity grows without them. It's Crowley and Aziraphale who remain, and who protect it. Who...oversee it's upbringing.

Godfathers. Sort of.