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eddiemadmunson · 2 years

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Little mouse part 3

Paring: Aemond x reader Warning: this is pure smut, dirty talk, fingering, oral sex (female receiving) English is not my 1st language

Part 1, Part 2

You didn’t know what to do or say. It seemed like a nightmare. Your Prince caught you with your hand inside your undergarments, moaning his name like some cheap whore.

“Did I tell you to stop, little mouse?” he asked you darkly and you gulped loudly, your hands trembling with fear and something else. You were terrified that he would punish you for this but at the same time you were extremely aroused, when he was looking at you like this, like if he wanted to ravish you

You shook your head and your fingers started moving again. You were so nervous that you tried to look away, but he grabbed your chin and made you look at him.

“Eyes on me, little mouse! I want to see you falling apart!” he commanded, his thumb slowly tracing your bottom lip.

“Go on, tease that tight pussy with your fingers. You do this every night, don’t you? Pleasuring yourself with your own fingers, thinking about me, wishing it was my fingers, don’t you?” he mocked you, his eye shining.

“Yes, my Prince,” you moaned desperately, trying to chase your orgasm, but your fingers weren’t able to satisfy you, not tonight when he was so close to you.

“Your fingers aren’t enough, am I right, little mouse?” he teased you, slowly licking his lips, while his eye devoured your body, falling on your pussy, where your fingers were failing to bring you pleasure.

“Do you know why?” he asked and you shook your head, frustrated tears already filling your eyes.

“Because you are too soft on yourself, too slow, you need to go deeper, reaching for that magical spot inside you, that will make you see stars,” his voice was almost hypnotizing.

“Let me show you, little mouse,” he swatted your own hand away, his long cold fingers made first contact with your hot pussy and you gasped.

“You are so warm, little mouse. So wet, is this all for me?” he asked as his skilled fingers traced over your aching center

“Yes my Prince, only for you!” you whined.

“Please,” you begged.

“What do you want, little mouse?” he lightly touched your clit, but it was like a feather touch.

“Please touch me,” you begged him.

“I am touching you,” he smirked and you let out a frustrated scoff.

“Say it out loud little mouse, what do you want me to do?” he provoked you, his fingers barely touching your wet folds, driving you absolutely crazy.

“Please, My Prince. I need...” you choked on your own words, embarresed to say those words aloud, your fingers desperately grabbing the lapels of his leather jacket.

“Please, I need... I need your fingers inside my p-p-pussy,” you finally stuttered and his smirk only widened.

"All you have to do is ask, Y/N,” he captured your lips in hungry, possesive kiss while his finger slipped inside your dripping pussy. You moaned loudly into his mouth. He added second finger, stretching your pussy deliciously and you gasped, he took the opportunity and slipped his tongue deeper into your mouth. The kiss was deep and passionate, ending with a not so gentle bite on your bottom lip.

“Let’s find out, if you really taste so sweet as I think, little mouse,” his sinful lips left yours, trailing the side of your neck, stopping at your breasts.

“Latter” he hummed and soon you felt his hot breath on your sex.

Don’t you dare to close your eyes, little mouse, I want your eyes on me the whole time,” he commanded and you happily obeyed, you didn’t want to miss a single second of this surprising night.

He curled his long fingers inside your dripping cunt hitting something deep inside you that made you moan loudly, he pushed your raising hips back down on the bed, and his thin cruel lips wrapped around your clit, sucking it harshly into his hot mouth.

“Gods, oh gods, my Prince, I think I am dying,” you moaned breathlessly, waves of pleasure running through your body.

“You are not dying, don’t worry. You are only experiencing how does it feel, to be eaten out by a hungry dragon. And I give you permision to call me Aemond, when you scream my name, little mouse,” he smirked and his fingers continued their asault on your soaked pussy and when he bit your clit gently with his teeth, you came, moaning his name loudly into the silence of the night.

“What a good little mouse, cumming for me like a good girl,” he praised you and you nearly came again from hearing those words.

“Open your mouth!” he ordered and you quickly obeyed, hoping to hear him call you “a good girl” again.

He put his wet fingers inside your mouth, his eye darkened with desire

“Suck, taste yourself on my fingers, little mouse,” you moaned at the taste, wrapping your tongue around his digits, sucking gently, your eyes never leaving his face.

“Listen to me, little mouse. From this night on, you are forbidden to touch yourself, I am the only one, who can touch you, lick you, taste you... fuck you. Trust me, I will know if you disobey me, and you won’t like to see me pissed,” he warned you and you nodded, feeling the rush of redness coming to your cheeks when he mentioned fucking you.

He slipped his fingers from your mouth and wrapped them around your neck

“Do you understand me??!” he asked you again.

“Yes, my prince Aemond," you whimpered, overhelmed by the fact, that you actually liked the feeling of his hand around your neck, squeezing you tightly

He noticed that and chuckled darkly

“Oh, my little mouse, you and I will have so much fun”.

You picked up all the courage you had inside you and asked him shakily and pointed at the obvious bulge in his tight pants “do you want me to touch you, my Prince?”

“As much as I would like to feel these lips wrapped around my cock, I think that you woke up half of the castle with your moans, little mouse, we will continue this another time”, he left as quietly and quickly as he came, if it wasn’t for that pleasant feeling in your core, you would think that this was all just a dream.

Part 4

Tag: @moonmaiden1996 @andreeasancheez @nomugglesallowed @powellssaturn @filmelunar @schniiipsel @itzwhatever123 @cl-0-vr @ipadkidsworld @kitkat-writes-stuff @cullenswife @scaraza

#aemond targaryen #aemond x reader #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x you #aemond one eye #aemond the kinslayer #house of the dragon #my writing

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springnote · 11 months

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JJBA part 3 Dio smut pretty pleaseeee? <3 ty ty

I hope you like it!

Dio x fem!reader smut

warnings: nsfw minors dni, edging, orgasm denial, piv sex, some exhibitionism, authority kink

Shameless. That’s what Dio was. He stood completely bare as he looked you over, a proud smirk on his face as you admired him as well. His pale skin shined from oils he’d had you massage into his muscles, and his freshly washed and combed hair looked like gold silk around his gorgeous face. He’d look angelic if he didn’t have a devious, fanged grin on his face, and a clawed hand running slowly over his massive cock.

“You serve me so well,” he hummed with a lick of his lips. “Do you think you deserve to come now?”

He’d been edging you all evening, in between massages, sloppy kisses, and his strangely gentle caresses. Your core ached from so many ruined orgasms, your slickness drooling down your legs from how desperate you were. Getting to see his impressive cock twitch with interest when you took a step forward definitely made you feel even needier.

“I…I think I deserve whatever you decide to give me,” you said, your eyes hooded as you added. “…Master Dio.”

You were much more to him than an underling or plaything he’d eat from, but the term “master” made him growl and scoop you up into a deep kiss, bruising your lips in the process. You barely noticed how he moved to the large window, gasping when the cold glass touched your breasts and you were met by the sight of the full moon and sky full of stars.

“I’ve decided you deserve to cum on my cock,” he chuckled darkly as he pressed into you. “It’s time I treat you for being such a good girl, and I think all of Egypt should know how good you are for my cock.”

“Master Dio!” You gasped, feeling slightly shy now. All of Egypt wouldn’t see you, but who knew which of his underlings might walk through the courtyard and look up, seeing you full of him as he thrust away. You couldn’t deny how good it felt, and the affectionate but rough kisses he trailed up your shoulder eased you into the idea.

“Come now dear,” he purred with a rough thrust into you. “let’s make a sight more beautiful than any star in the sky.”

#jjba smut #jjba x reader #dio brando x reader #dio brando smut #jojo’s bizzare adventure x reader #dio x reader #dio smut

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her-penetrating-soul · 29 days

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━━━━━━⚘ᥫ᭡᭄∘˚დ━━━━━━

🤍 ‿⚘Crafted into the shimmering moonlight, I'll forevermore rest my head upon you. I'll uplift you when you need my shoulders, my darkly prince of the darkness. I'll always give you words of affiliation. I'll pick up those shattered pieces of your whirling soul. I'll extend my arms out to you. You'll never be alone as long as I have breaths to breathe. I'll smile for both of us. I'll cherish you for you. I'll show you there is hope out there. I'll show you that you're beautiful even when you think you're not. You'll be my autumn. My crispness in the air as the leaves fell to the floor waltzing upon the pavement. I'll be that twilight delight for you. In me, you'll find that lost child that left long ago. You won't feel abandoned anymore. For your my shimmering moonlight. That even though we're miles apart. Our souls are underneath the same twinkling stars. Gaze into the skies. I am right there with you. Smiling down upon you, my darkly prince of the night. You were crafted into the constallions as I was. You're my mirrored one. Those reflections you see in the mirror. I am the there wutg you. Painted in you. I am a murmur away. Not too far away, solely close your eyes, and I am there with you. Side by side, hand and hand, I smile, you smile. I cry, you cry, never above or below. You are beautiful. I see nothing but beauty before me in your frail stillness. Feel what I am feeling. You'll see I'm not wrong. You're absolutely divine. Crafted as one sonnet of symphonies. A melody arising through the mist of time itself. You are my black keys to the piano. I the white ones. Play the hymns. You shall see I am in the music you listen to. I am always with you. It's never too far apart. Close those beautiful eyes of yours I am there with you draped upon you. Engraved into your abyss. Forevermore, your twilight delight. My glimmering moonlight shines solely for you. Only for you!⚘⁀🤍

Written: April 1st, 2024

©Copyright Rights Reserved:

🤍༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶🤍

━━━━━━⚘ᥫ᭡᭄∘˚დ━━━━━━

#her penetrating soul #dark beauty #darkness #couple #couple closeness #couple in love #true love #true devotion #photography #poet #poetry #my writing #spilled ink #soulful #soulful love #soulful beauty #soulful expressions #soulful sentiments #soulful moments

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delirious-donna · 2 years

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Shikamaru’s cock is massive. Like I’m talking a monster cock here. And he knows.

But he is a little self conscious about it! He knows bigger is not always better, especially when he is so thick around his base that he has to focus extra intently on getting that last inch and a half in, carefully, so as to not destroy her.

I’m imagining him treating a new partner very delicately, like a daffodil, doing his best to get her as sopping as possible so when he can finally, FINALLY, thrust in, she feels nothing but electrifying pleasure. 🕷

🕷 oh my dear... you really do know how to feed me well. This was such a treat to read and yes, I concur, Shika is very well endowed. Makes me so sad to think that he is self-conscious about it but I can certainly imagine him being that way. He would treat a new partner like a fucking queen, and anyone can fight me if they disagree!

Let's have a peek, huh?

"Shika... please. Just fuck me already!"

The answering chuckle was dark... knowing... enough for your toes to curl into the sheets.

Shikamaru raised his inky irises, that annoying cock to his eyebrow as lips and chin shining with arousal came into sight. He flashed a lopsided smirk before his teeth nipped at the crease of your thigh. His fingers continued their assault on your sopping pussy, scissoring and twisting.

The past hour had been a blur of pleasure, every little action serving the higher purpose of preparing you. You knew how big he was, remembered the first time he had let you see the monster that lurked below his waistline.

What a difference it was from simply feeling it through the layers of his clothes and seeing it naked before your eyes. The gasp has fled your lips before you think to stop it. Shika had groaned, averting his eyes whilst a rose hue coated the apples of his cheeks and the tips of his ears.

It was big and that was with a capital B.

However, what stood out most was the sheer girth. Your little hands could wrap around it, but the closer you came to the base, the harder it became to keep within your fist.

Shika was so very sensitive, especially the darkly blushing tip that flared down into a prominent mushroom before his shaft curved ever so slightly to the right.

You had spent an age learning every vein that beat against his flesh, each little area that made him hiss through clenched teeth and exactly how much pressure he liked. Yet, when it came to the time of finally taking that last step and asking him so sweetly, so desperately for him to fuck you - he hesitated.

He had warned you. A drawl of a lecture that he wouldn't give you the dick you craved until he was satisfied you could take it. It was said with a smirk but you could peer past the veil to see his sincere concern and it tugged your heart.

The man named the lazy genius was certainly not lazy this night. He had spent an age simply kissing you, fondling your aching body, narrating exactly what he was going to do and you were a puddle for him.

"So wet already, princess. You that desperate f'me?"

You were, you really were. He had worshipped your skin; hands feeling the weight of your breasts, thumbs that flicked at your nipples that stiffened under his intense scrutiny.

Shika left a wealth of possessive marks, it was a treasure trail as he journeyed lower until he was ready to feast on your pussy. You were more than wet, you were drenched and each time he refused your advances to 'get to it', your blood simmered ever hotter.

When he finally - finally - gave in, you were already seeing stars from the pressure of his weeping cock head prodding at your entrance alone.

The slow sink was blissful agony, your walls forced apart and your hips wantonly attempting to rock up to help him slide in further. Shika halted you with a groan, sweat beaded on his brow.

"Gotta - shit - princess, gotta stay still... please."

That last inch is a bother. The burn is tight against your cunt, the muscles stretched to capacity as his girth settles at your entrance. A lazy thumb grinds against your puffy clit, sending sparks to ignite in your veins as a final groan flares to life.

Shika smiles brightly, an unusual sight on his stoic face but you accept it. His lips bruise with intensity, kissing the air from your lungs whilst he shifts back to thrust back in instantly.

Oh fuck... the prep was worth it. The wait is more than worth it for how he is going to ruin you, but without a hint of pain.

#delirious answers #🕷 anon #shikamaru thirst #shikamaru nara #shikamaru x reader #shikamaru smut

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thesistersarcheron · 1 year

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Pairing: Feysand Rating: E Word Count: ~3.7k Summary: Every court has their own Great Rite with unique, ancient traditions. The Night Court’s priestesses have played coy with Rhysand since he inherited the throne last year about what imbuing the land with his power really means; all they tell him is that he is meant to spend the night in the Night Court’s mines while everyone else gets to attend the orgy without him. He doesn’t expect to find Feyre, a faerie made of crystal who leads him on a chase deeper and deeper into the mines as the Rite’s magic overcomes him. ———Check out Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, and Chapter 4 on tumblr, go to my masterlist for more, or read this fic on AO3 here.

“Pick one.”

The hand around Feyre’s waist tightened, and her mate’s lips grazed her temple.

Feyre shook her head, struck speechless, and tore her eyes—wide and awed—from the wall of crowns in front of her to glance, uncertain, at Rhys.

“I can’t just—take one.”

Her voice was breathless. Awed.

And she had been rendered so by the radiant, endless trove of jewels stretching out around her on all sides.

After a week in a palace made of moonstone atop the tallest of the southern mountains, Feyre thought little would have the ability to do that anymore. Jewels rarely impressed, anyway, and after experiencing the mating frenzy…

It had consumed her and Rhysand both, and they had surrendered to the seemingly endless pleasure it wrung from them gladly. The memory of the long, endless nights taking her fill of him left her weak in the knees and wanting.

And although Rhys’s scales and claws had receded back into the deep well of power within him after that first night, he had not bothered to replace the damper on his power. She spent the full week at the heart of it with him, bathed in the night-dark tendrils rippling off him like smoke—dreams and nightmares and lullabies given form. They reached for her, drawing her deeper and and deeper into their embrace, and each new caress of Rhys’s magic against her skin was more silken and decadent than the last.

Those ribbons of dreams were dotted with stars that coalesced into shining diamond cuffs around her wrists. During one of the lulls, Rhys had smiled to see the way they shone against her skin and, with a snap of his fingers, replaced them with the real thing, drawn out of some pocket dimension with half a thought. That brief moment of clarity had faded again into burning, animal desire when he saw them on her.

They ate simple meals while lounging in bed together—roast chicken and greens, creamy soups, richly spiced stews—and swam in a bathing pool cut into the cliffside and climbed to the peak of the mountaintop palace to gaze up at the stars at night from cushions of eiderdown, until the ever-present need roared back to life and Feyre found herself sprawled over the table or perched on the lip of a balcony.

They talked, and Feyre learned more about her High Lord than she’d ever dared to imagine—the models of the stars he built in rare moments of leisure, the artist’s quarter he couldn’t wait to show her in a city called Velaris, what coming up as a half-Illyrian in a war camp had been like, the family he lost and the Inner Circle he would protect to his final breath.

She barely had the presence of mind to have Rhys jot down a note for her sisters to let them know where she was and why she never returned from the Fire Night festivities. Rhys had groaned at the reminder that the world spun on without them, but wrote a second note to that Inner Circle.

“So they don’t get any ideas about interrupting,” he’d murmured darkly, slicing the line through a T with calm, murderous grace that made Feyre’s blood heat again. “For at least a week.”

They barely pulled themselves together when a pair of them finally came knocking the morning after Rhys’s deadline. The roguish, long-haired male and the gorgeous blonde female, Rhys’s cousin Morrigan, who had accompanied him into the cave during the Rite winnowed into the dining room in the middle of the first breakfast they managed to eat without interruptions.

Feyre had to give it to them. Their timing was incredible.

But as Rhys set down the knife he was using to butter his toast, he shot a look like cold death into one of the writhing shadows in the corner of the room, and Feyre realized for the first time that tendril of darkness was not one of his. The shadowsinger’s then. The male Rhys considered a brother.

And in the dining room, Rhys’s second brother took one long look at Feyre, and drawled, “Well, she certainly beats a crate of jewels, Rhysie.”

A snarl ripped out of Rhys, so furious and savage that Feyre dug her fingers into his arm, as if she might have to hold him back.

“Cassian.”

“I’ve never had an oread before,” Cassian went on, tying back his dark hair. His wings flexed, spreading wide.

Rhys fisted his hands on the table and rose so, so slowly from his chair.

Cassian paid him no mind, waggling his brows at Feyre instead.

Gently, Rhys pried her hand off of him. One glance at his face revealed feral, predatory fury.

The wrath of a newly mated male.

Feyre had to avert her eyes to avoid the temptation to drag him out of the room and show him what she thought of the beastly snarl on his lips.

Morrigan, who had been half-hidden behind the hulking Illyrian, peered around the edge of one wing and gasped at the sight of her. She nudged Cassian with a sharp elbow.

“Hurry it up,” she hissed out of the side of her mouth.

Cassian chuckled, rolling his shoulders. “Is it true that her pu—”

Rhys exploded.

Fists flew, teeth snapped, growls cut the air, and Feyre cringed as blood sprayed a pile of silk cushions piled on the floor after Rhys slammed a particularly vicious punch into the side of Cassian’s face. The general gave as good as he got, though, ducking the next blow and kicking Rhys back, gaining a moment’s reprieve to regain his footing before Rhys winnowed behind him and trapped him in a headlock.

“Welcome to the family,” Morrigan said, her songbird voice dry as ash, as she breezed past Rhys and Cassian with so little care that Feyre surmised that their dirty, ferocious brawling was a regular occurrence. She took Feyre’s hand, pulling her out of her own chair and spinning her into a twirl so insistently that Feyre couldn’t refuse. “And, oh, just look at you! Amren’s going to have a heart attack.”

Feyre’s jaw dropped. “Amren?”

The name brought to mind claws so sharp they tore through the very fabric of the world, glowing eyes that peered through the tears to hunt their master’s prey—

“Mor!” Rhys barked. The hold he had on his brother slipped as Cassian dropped to his knees, dragging Rhys down with him. “Fuck, Feyre, don’t—“

Cassian sank his teeth into Rhys’s arm, and Feyre’s horror melted into uneasy concern as Rhys swore filthily.

She took a step toward the brawling males. “Should we…?”

Mor caught her by the arm.

“Oh, don’t worry about those two. Or Amren. Rhys needs to get it out of his system sooner or later, and even if he’s been terribly selfish keeping you all to himself up here, Amren wouldn’t dare take a chunk out of the newest member of our little circle for her collection.” She winked at Feyre, who did her best to forget decades of chilling bedtime stories. “We have things to do, anyway.”

Feyre eyed the wrestling males. “What, like give each other concussions?”

Mor barked a laugh, but Feyre couldn’t look too long; just the sight of Rhys’s shirt riding up and the muscles flexing beneath it as he bared his teeth stoked the fire between her legs—

Her mate stilled, his dark eyes cutting to her.

Mor and Cassian seemed to sense it, too. Cassian took advantage and rolled, pinning Rhys beneath him, and Mor, still snickering under her breath, took Feyre by the elbow.

“You’ll fit in nicely.” She squeezed Feyre’s arm. “Come, let’s polish you up and see if we can’t get Nuala and Cerridwen to scrounge up something for you to wear. They were beside themselves when they heard the news, you know. One of their own on the throne after a Great Rite mating ceremony. It’s like something from a storybook.”

Tearing her attention away from Rhys, away from the sobering reminder of her new place amongst the Night Court’s ruling family, Feyre asked, “Nuala and Cerridwen?”

“The wraiths who deliver the offerings to your people on Fire Night. They’ve been here all week, making sure you two didn’t starve to death while—” Mor cut herself off, and a knowing smirk curled the corner of her red-painted lips. She glanced at Feyre. “Hm. I supposed you wouldn’t have seen them. They’re quite discreet.”

Feyre cast her mind back to all of the meals that appeared like clockwork wherever she and Rhys found themselves at mealtimes—their bedside, the bathing pool cut into the mountain, the wide balconies overlooking the snow-kissed mountain range beyond, and, once, against a wall in one of the wide, endless hallways—and blanched. “No, I suppose I haven’t.”

“Well they have excellent taste. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about.”

And she didn’t. The twin wraiths stepped out of the shadows in the stairwell that led to the High Lord’s suite, falling into step on either side of them.

As they approached the door, Mor made a choked noise. The room was restored to immaculate order, the bed made so neatly Feyre could bounce a copper off of the plush comforter, but even the open windows did nothing to clear the scent of herself and Rhysand, embedded as it was on every surface in the room, from the air.

“Perhaps you might wish to stay here while we dress her, Lady,” one of the wraiths murmured, quiet laughter in that voice. Mor nodded, wrinkling her nose, and Feyre…

Feyre bit her lip to suppress her own grin at Mor’s relieved nod.

She couldn’t find it in herself to be ashamed of thoroughly loving her mate. Already, the bond ached keenly, and all of those years of longing in the mines paled in comparison to the razor-sharp yearning strumming down that line.

“Yes,” Mor said. She was still smiling, though, so happy for her cousin that Feyre couldn’t help but adore her. “Perhaps I might.”

And Nuala and Cerridwen were discreet, just like Mor promised, dressing Feyre in a gauzy replica of the gown she wore for the Rite without a single sly look or snide word. That gown had been reduced to dust by Rhys, as had many of the clothes she’d worn recently, and one of them—Nuala, maybe, but telling them apart was near impossible even after they introduced themselves—only winked when she asked how they possibly could have remembered what she was wearing that night. The dress was a perfect copy; the only difference was the band of diamonds belted at her waist to hold the two panels together and the diamond cuffs they sighed dreamily upon seeing on the vanity and fastened around her wrists.

They didn’t linger, either. One twin brushed her hair into a smooth sheet of gold and the other buffed a cloth over her skin until she sparkled with practiced efficiency, and they handed her back to Mor within minutes.

The fight was over when they reached the dining room. Rhys must have won the fight and healed most of his injuries—the hole Cassian had bit through his sleeve had disappeared completely. His skin glimmered faintly with the residue of his magic under the light, and his wings, drawn out of that secret place where he kept them hidden, were spread wide. So arrogantly wide that Cassian, shuffling about somewhere behind him, was obscured from view.

“You’re a vision, Feyre darling,” Rhys said, at her side in a heartbeat. His eyes flashed, and the heat in them was a white-hot brand against her skin. They should have known better than to put you in that dress today.

She reached out, ignoring the way she was suddenly aware of the weight of her breasts beneath the taunting silk, to graze a sickeningly dark bruise on his jaw that he’d missed. “I wish I could say the s—“

Cassian groaned under his breath. “Oh, blease, fucking sbare be.”

At her side, Mor snorted. “Ego a bit sore, Cass?”

Feyre craned her neck, peering around Rhys’s wings.

Please don’t look at him, the thought that slid into her mind was strained, apologetic, and…

Feyre bit her lip. Those impressive wings weren’t spread out of simple dominance, but as a screen to block Cassian from view. Her view, if the way Mor grabbed a napkin from the table and swanned around them was any indication.

And Feyre couldn’t resist poking the bruise, just a bit. Perhaps it was cruel to test Rhys’s limits while the instincts of the mating frenzy still raged, but she wanted—needed—to know. So she lifted herself onto her toes, peeking over her mate’s shoulder and through his wings…

And found Cassian nursing a crooked nose that seeped blood onto the floor.

“Noses are off libits when we’re sbarring,” he was grumbling, spitting a mouthful of blood into the napkin Mor handed him with a grin. “An’ always hab been.”

Mor lifted a brow. “And biting isn’t?”

Feyre couldn’t help herself. Mor’s poorly concealed amusement was contagious, and she laughed. “Poor Illyrian baby.”

Rhys stiffened, his lips a thin line, and held out an arm to Feyre. “We need to go. Now, please.”

“Such manners,” Mor trilled. She met Feyre’s eye over her cousin’s shoulder, wicked amusement in her warm eyes. “Do try to get yourselves under control before you come back. It would be such a shame to see the Court of Nightmares reduced to bloody rubble.”

Feyre started. “The Court of Nightmares?”

“They’ll love you.” The next look Rhys cast at her promised to devour her, but his eyes snagged on the arm she threaded through his, the facets of her skin glittering faintly in the watery morning light stretching in through the wall of windows to their left. “Though a little bloody rubble might help convince them of it.”

His tone was so flatly serious that Feyre didn’t have anything to say to that.

So she cleared her throat. “What does she mean, ‘before you come back?’”

If he were put off by the abrupt change of subject, Rhys didn’t show it. No, he only shot her a devious grin and said, “Before we come back.”

Magic tugged and wind whipped and Feyre shrieked as the ground fell out from beneath her as Rhys winnowed them into the sky. His wings were already extended, beating hard, and she clung to him as they soared to a balcony twenty feet below.

The shock of falling and landing and throwing a shoe at her mate’s head (“Some warning next time, you prick!”) bled together; it wasn’t until Rhys apologized, brushing a chuckling kiss over her lips, that she relented and allowed him to lead her into another mountaintop palace, this one made of red stone.

Down and down and down, they descended into the dark heart of the mountain as he explained his plans for the afternoon. He spoke until they came to a door sealed by a web of wards and spells that, smiling softly at her, Rhys disabled with a wave of his hand.

The door slid open, and he gestured her forward.

Into a trove bursting with treasure.

She gasped. The collection stretched from wall to wall on either side of them, caskets and busts and mountains of riches fading back into shadow as far as Feyre could see, all of it brilliantly lit with a gentle turquoise light that shimmered off of the ceiling like…

Glowworms. Just like glowworms.

Feyre looked closer, and she could see that the trove was lit by glowworms, the floor formed of glassy obsidian tile that stretched as far as the eyes could see, reflecting the glittering jewels and metals and silks like a night-sky blanket of constellations over still water.

“It’s… Gods, it’s just like the altar.”

Feyre took a step into the room, breathless at the sight of a trunk full of gems the size of her fist. She startled when the floor beneath her shimmered and shifted, skittering backward as if she might sink into it like she might have fallen into the lake under the mines. But when she glanced down, she found only herself, her sparkling, polished skin incandescent, as if she were lit from within by that gentle light from above.

“One of my ancestors must have taken some inspiration from the Rite,” Rhys said, brushing a soothing hand down her arm. Together, they watched the light shatter and refract against his own golden skin until Rhys took a deep breath, cooling the warmth kindling on the bond between their souls.

“Come,” he said, lacing their fingers together.

He drew her to the back of the trove, past countless millennia worth of treasure collected by High Lords who, Cauldron save her, must have magpie blood somewhere in their line. Just one of the many trunks they passed put the small collection of gems Rhys had amassed over the years, Feyre’s favorites, to shame.

But she couldn’t spot any of her jewels in the collection. No, with every step, the heady need thrummed back to life once more, burning hotter and harder than before.

Rhys groaned low in his throat. The sound shattered Feyre’s fragile resolve, but when she turned toward him, he was gone.

“Run, Feyre,” a dark voice rasped into her ear.

A clawed hand traced the edge of her gown from the pulse pounding in the hollow of her throat to the jeweled belt at her hips, rough calluses scraping the skin exposed by the low neckline. He barely stopped to graze her breasts, didn’t so much as weigh them in his palm, and Feyre whimpered with need as his hand stopped by her navel. A long, long tongue licked a hot line up her throat. He gripped her belt, pulling until she felt the hard length of him against her ass.

“I want to chase my pretty little gemstone again.” She was shaking with anticipation by the time his hand fell away and he growled, “Run.”

So Feyre ran, adrenaline pumping fire and ice through every inch of her body. She darted across rivers of sapphire and through forests of emeralds. Rhys nearly caught her beside a small sea of diamonds—a shining glass display laden with bracelets and lavaliers and rings—and she ducked away, laughing breathlessly as she climbed across mounds of intricate, hand-knotted rugs straight from Cesere. A swath of shadow swiped out of the shadows at her; Feyre shrieked, whirling away, but he caught her around the middle, dragging her down to the plush silk beneath her feet.

Their joining was hard and fast. Rhys laid her out on the rugs, dragging her skirt to the side with one hand and freeing his cock with another. Then his mouth was on her, feasting once again, and then he was in her, around her, and the bond became all she knew. All sounds were muted, all colors faded, and all that existed was the feeling of him, falling into eternity beside her. Everywhere she looked she saw him, all scales and claws and rolling muscle, surrounded by twinkling constellations of fragmented light, and he held her, moving in her, carrying her through it, as she shattered for him again and again until he joined her.

They didn’t speak when it ended; no words were necessary. Rhys simply held her, cradling her with infinite tenderness, as if she were the most precious treasure to be found in the trove.

Long moments passed before a cooling wave of magic restored her to perfect order, hair neat and skin shining. The wrinkles fell out of her dress as they stood, his scales melting away, and he cupped her jaw in his hand.

He studied her for a moment. Whatever he was looking for and whatever he found made him smile.

He brushed a kiss over her lips. “My Feyre.”

Feyre brushed back a strand of raven-black hair, watching his eyes flutter shut. The lines of his face softened, and her chest seemed too small to contain the urgent, depthless affection beating against her breast with bruising force.

“Rhys…”

His hand caught hers, and he laid another kiss to the inside of her wrist. “I know.”

Then he guided through the aisles of finery once more to a wall of crowns set into glowing niches. Each was studded with gems so fine that Feyre had never seen their like in all her years in the mines, each different from the last and so brilliant in its own right that they must all be priceless…

And he wanted her to choose one.

He pulled her impossibly closer, murmuring against her temple once more, “Go on, Feyre darling. Whichever one you like.”

“I can’t,” she said again. Still, she reached out a hand to test the platinum point of one diadem crafted to look like a band of stars.

“It will be hard to find one that doesn’t pale in comparison to you,” her mate crooned, nipping at her ear. “None of it compares to you. None of it ever could.”

A delicious shiver raked its fingers up Feyre’s body.

“Choose one, High Lady,” he whispered against her skin.

Fear followed those words—fear and anxiety and dread. What business did she have on the throne?

But a thrum across the bond grounded her, and when she glanced over her shoulder, she found Rhys looking back, solemn and understanding. Another pull at the bond, this time full of promise—to help her, to guide her, and to show her how to rule at his side as his equal.

The Night Court chose you. The midnight voice in her mind was a gentle thing. Fragile. But it is a sacrifice, to accept the magic’s decision. I understand if you don’t—

“No,” Feyre said, reaching deep within herself. Deeper than the connection between their minds, deeper than the bond between their souls, down, down, down to the endless abyss of starlight that had chosen her, revealed itself and opened to her, atop the altar. It was life and death and endless, shimmering bliss, and its lights danced and shone under her attention. “I do.”

Rhys loosed a shuddering breath of relief.

Feyre gripped his hand and reached for the diadem of stars.

#feysand #feyre archeron #rhysand #rhys #a court of thorns and roses #a court of thorns and roses fic #my fics #bejeweled #feyrhys #feyre x rhys #rhys x feyre #acotar #smut #acotar fic #it is what it is and it is finished which is all that matters to me rn #did someone say secret court of nightmares bonus chapter? maybe! but not rn

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starrierknight · 9 months

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reece ┊ 𝐗𝐈𝐗 ┊ satoru's heart, suguru's mind, choso's soul

⋆ ˚｡⋆┊𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐒┊⋆ ｡˚⋆

♱ — 𝐧𝐨 𝐚𝐠𝐞, 𝐧𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲!

♱ — 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐬: open! (14)

♱ — ooooo? what's this? /⁠ᐠ⁠｡⁠ꞈ⁠｡⁠ᐟ⁠\

⋆ ˚｡⋆┊𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐒┊⋆ ｡˚⋆

♱ — 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠: M.LIST ┊ NEW! ┊ AO3 ♱ — 𝐢𝐧𝐟𝐨: BYF ┊ FAQ ┊ TAGS ┊ MUTUALS

⋆ ˚｡★ all works belong to 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓. please refrain from plagiarising any of my works and do not repost/translate/modify/copy onto any platforms.

#best viewed in dark mode :)#꒰ ✰ ꒱ — my stars shine darkly #@/divinespit for pearl drop hearts #@/bangssefi for cross & roses #@/cafekitsune for thin stars #@/hitobaby for star mdni banner #@/plutism for lace

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chansaw · 2 months

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ok. here it is. the longpost i've been too lazy to actually make until just now.

so, here's what happened. the google algorithm sometimes pushes links to articles it thinks you'll like on the mobile homepage. unfortunately, google knew enough about me to put this hellish article onto my screen:

read that headline. then read it again. really, really stare at it. stare into the abyss. eventually, it will stare back. it'll whisper in your ear: "the heathers reboot was good, actually."

i read the article, incredulous. but, to my surprise... the author had somewhat of a point? it's been five years since paramount unceremoniously aired the show in october of 2018 after its premiere was delayed at least twice due to mass shootings. then after another mass shooting occurred before the final two episodes of the ten-episode long season were supposed to air, paramount hastily aired a heavily edited ninth episode and scrapped the tenth entirely. as far as i can tell, the show is not available to be streamed freely on any streaming site (not even paramount's own paramount+), though you can rent or buy it from amazon prime. maybe the author was right. maybe it was time for a rewatch and reconsideration. i wouldn't even have to spend any money; i archived all ten episodes of the show onto one of my external hard drives back in 2018, so i plugged 'er in, drank a bit of fireball, and clicked play.

after episode five, i gave up. i couldn't stand it any longer. i slammed my laptop shut and went to bed.

needless to say, i have thoughts.

right off the bat, here's the biggest thing. i wish to god that someone other than the miserable pile of sweaty skin that calls himself jason micallef had been in charge of this show. it might not have saved it from its fate, but maybe it would have been at least watchable? a modicum more entertaining? when the show was originally announced, leslye headland (who would later go on to create russian doll) was attached as showrunner. later, it was announced that micallef would be showrunner instead, although headland directed the pilot and executive produced the series.

in my honest opinion, if leslye headland had remained in creative control, this would have been a much different - and, in my opinion, better - show.

i can't help but wonder how heathers (2018) would have turned out if she had stayed at the helm. would it have marred her career so badly that netflix would have never agreed to produce russian doll? would she still be notable enough to be given charge of the newest disney plus star wars show? perhaps her decision was for the best. perhaps she knew there was no saving this project, try as she might.

and people tried!!!! during my rewatch, i was enamored by the production design and slick lighting and cinematography. some of the costume design hasn't aged well, but when it hits, it hits. i have to give credit where it's due: it is a beautifully shot and designed piece of television.

if only its actors had given half as much of a shit.

grace victoria cox (veronica) and james scully (j.d.) both attempt to replicate their predecessors' cool sense of disillusion and disenchantment in their roles, but both just come off as totally and completely bored in every scene. j.d. is supposed to be darkly charismatic, but scully has the charm of a plank of rotting wood. they lack the spark of chemistry to get the audience to feel invested in their relationship. without convincing leads to anchor it, the show has to depend upon its titular heathers.

i am, of course, in no way biased at all, in any shape or form. just saying. but one thing the article gets right is that melanie field’s performance as one miss heather chandler shines. field is fucking brilliant and her screen presence is formidable. she makes the most of every line she's given, and is at turns, ruthless, hilarious, and even (gasp) sympathetic. i am so glad she’s been booked left and right in tv shows (such as amazon's a league of their own, a spin-off with much more respect for its source material) that showcase her immense talent since whatever the fuck happened here. but i'm not biased!!!

juan barquin, the author of this article argues that viewers and critics alike both misunderstood heathers (2018). micallef's brilliant satirical messaging flew right over our heads. it had a message, goddamnit, and the misinformed masses closed their eyes and ears because they didn't want to hear it. it almost reminds me of the starships troopers discourse that is currently enveloping the app formerly known as twitter. starship troopers was nearly universally panned upon its release but is now recognized as a prescient satirical romp that targets jingoism, nationalism, and the culture of forever wars. we didn't get it back in 1997, but we do now. unfortunately, this is not the case with paramount's heathers.

the main cause of all the brouhaha around heathers (2018)'s release, barquin says, is because of its "shameless criticism of American culture, the prioritization of guns as a faulty means of defense, and the educational system’s blatant ignorance around the actual needs of students." which, sort of? it is true that a rash of killings (such as parkland and the pittsburgh synagogue shootings) spurred paramount's decision to nuke the show from existence. the show does, in fact, directly address and involve such matters. unlike the movie, the show concludes with westerburg high blown to pieces and its students all dancing in a prom in heaven. which.... yeah. you can see why that wouldn't have played out well.

(it's worth noting that daniel waters, the screenwriter behind the REAL heathers, originally planned for the movie to end this way as well. but the suits at new world studios said that audiences wouldn't like it. reluctantly, he complied.)

and i do have to admit, there are moments of brilliance. westerburg's school shooting drills involve the drama teacher storming through the halls shooting students with silly string. if you "die", you get to go to "heaven" (a brightly lit room stocked with snacks). the survivors are ushered into the dark, cramped gymnasium and complain about how all the cool kids are in heaven now. teachers' desks are stocked with firearms, because as we all know, of course, the only thing that can stop a bad guy with a gun is a teacher with a gun. it's so absurd that it works.

but for the most part, the writing is sorely lacking. it seems like the folks in the writers' room spent hours sitting around the table trying to one-up each other with quippable quips, meme-able dialogue, and banter that matched the panache and dry wit of waters' screenplay. but what we got instead was "HAHHAHAHAH, QUEEF!" it's bad. it's so, so bad. the author's claim that “[t]he show rather impressively matches the film’s comic sensibilities with consistently funny episodes that are as pleasantly cruel as they are scathingly satirical” falls flat because, for the most part, the shows satire isn’t at all scathing or sharp.

there were so many moments of the show where i felt my whole body just light up with rage. it made me just so ANGRY because i could see shells and fragments of a better version of this show peeking through. instead, what we got is a show that made alt-right chuds say this:

i think the most offensive part of the whole article, though, is barquin's attempt to liken the show to bottoms. if anything, i'd argue that bottoms works better as a spiritual successor to heathers than the rebooted heathers itself! bottoms succeeds in every way that heathers (2018) fails: punchy and quotable dialogue, characters who manage to be both archetypal and multidimensional, all set in an exaggerated and heightened sense of reality that still feels lived in and real. most importantly, all of bottoms’ actors are firing on all cylinders; in heathers (2018), most of the leads are just there to get paid. i could go on, but that's a whole other post.

frankly, it's kind of incredible that paramount launched this show as the flagship of their new tv network alongside yellowstone (which is in its final season now with spinoffs on the way). they were really, really banking on this thing to have legs. but we live in a blessed timeline where this show is condemned to an eternity of oblivion. it's a bit of a pity, though, because... the writers envisioned some sort of american horror story-esque anthology setup and teased a “french revolution” second season at the end of the last episode. i kind of want to know where they were planning to go with that.

it could've been so very.

#heathers #long post

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hypovile · 2 months

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“My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone. It were a bad recompense for your love to lay any of them on you.”

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the-chronicle-of-holy-days · 27 days

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Day 16

Liber LXV Liber Cordis Cincti Serpente

I passed into the mountain of lapis-lazuli, even as a green hawk between the pillars of turquoise that is seated upon the throne of the East.

So came I to Duant, the starry abode, and I heard voices crying aloud.

O Thou that sittest upon the Earth! (so spake a certain Veiled One to me) thou art not greater than thy mother! Thou speck of dust infinitesimal!

Thou art the Lord of Glory, and the unclean dog.

Stooping down, dipping my wings, I came unto the darkly-splendid abodes. There in that formless abyss was I made a partaker of the Mysteries Averse.

I suffered the deadly embrace of the Snake and of the Goat; I paid the infernal homage to the shame of Khem.

Therein was this virtue, that the One became the all.

Moreover I beheld a vision of a river. There was a little boat thereon; and in it under purple sails was a golden woman, an image of Asi wrought in finest gold. Also the river was of blood, and the boat of shining steel. Then I loved her; and, loosing my girdle, cast myself into the stream.

I gathered myself into the little boat, and for many days and nights did I love her, burning beautiful incense before her.

Yea! I gave her of the flower of my youth.

But she stirred not; only by my kisses I defiled her so that she turned to blackness before me.

Yet I worshipped her, and gave her of the flower of my youth.

Also it came to pass, that thereby she sickened, and corrupted before me. Almost I cast myself into the stream.

Then at the end appointed her body was whiter than the milk of the stars, and her lips red and warm as the sunset, and her life of a white heat like the heat of the midmost sun.

Then rose she up from the abyss of Ages of Sleep, and her body embraced me. Altogether I melted into her beauty and was glad.

The river also became the river of Amrit, and the little boat was the chariot of the flesh, and the sails thereof the blood of the heart that beareth me, that beareth me.

O serpent woman of the stars! I, even I, have fashioned Thee from a pale image of fine gold.

Also the Holy One came upon me, and I beheld a white swan floating in the blue.

Between its wings I sate, and the æons fled away.

Then the swan flew and dived and soared, yet no whither we went.

A little crazy boy that rode with me spake unto the swan, and said:

Who art thou that dost float and fly and dive and soar in the inane? Behold, these many æons have passed; whence camest thou? Whither wilt thou go?

And laughing I chid him, saying: No whence! No whither!

The swan being silent, he answered: Then, if with no goal, why this eternal journey?

And I laid my head against the Head of the Swan, and laughed, saying: Is there not joy ineffable in this aimless winging? Is there not weariness and impatience for who would attain to some goal?

And the swan was ever silent. Ah! but we floated in the infinite Abyss. Joy! Joy!

White swan, bear thou ever me up between thy wings!

O silence! O rapture! O end of things visible and invisible! This is all mine, who am Not.

Radiant God! Let me fashion an image of gems and gold for Thee! that the people may cast it down and trample it to dust! That Thy glory may be seen of them.

Nor shall it be spoken in the markets that I am come who should come; but Thy coming shall be the one word.

Thou shalt manifest Thyself in the unmanifest; in the secret places men shall meet with thee, and Thou shalt overcome them.

I saw a pale sad boy that lay upon the marble in the sunlight, and wept. By his side was the forgotten lute. Ah! but he wept.

Then came an eagle from the abyss of glory and overshadowed him. So black was the shadow that he was no more visible.

But I heard the lute lively discoursing through the blue still air.

Ah! messenger of the beloved One, let Thy shadow be over me!

Thy name is Death, it may be, or Shame, or Love.

So thou bringest me tidings of the Beloved One, I shall not ask thy name.

Where is now the Master? cry the little crazy boys.

He is dead! He is shamed! He is wedded! and their mockery shall ring round the world.

But the Master shall have had his reward.

The laughter of the mockers shall be a ripple in the hair of the Beloved One.

Behold! the Abyss of the Great Deep. Therein is a mighty dolphin, lashing his sides with the force of the waves.

There is also an harper of gold, playing infinite tunes.

Then the dolphin delighted therein, and put off his body, and became a bird.

The harper also laid aside his harp, and played infinite tunes upon the Pan-pipe.

Then the bird desired exceedingly this bliss, and laying down its wings became a faun of the forest.

The harper also laid down his Pan-pipe, and with the human voice sang his infinite tunes.

Then the faun was enraptured, and followed far; at last the harper was silent, and the faun became Pan in the midst of the primal forest of Eternity.

Thou canst not charm the dolphin with silence, O my prophet!

Then the adept was rapt away in bliss, and the beyond of bliss, and exceeded the excess of excess.

Also his body shook and staggered with the burden of that bliss and that excess and that ultimate nameless.

They cried He is drunk or He is mad or He is in pain or He is about to die; and he heard them not.

O my Lord, my beloved! How shall I indite songs, when even the memory of the shadow of thy glory is a thing beyond all music of speech or of silence?

Behold! I am a man. Even a little child might not endure Thee. And lo!

I was alone in a great park, and by a certain hillock was a ring of deep enamelled grass wherein green-clad ones, most beautiful, played.

In their play I came even unto the land of Fairy Sleep.

All my thoughts were clad in green; most beautiful were they.

All night they danced and sang; but Thou art the morning, O my darling, my serpent that twinest Thee about this heart.

I am the heart, and Thou the serpent. Wind Thy coils closer about me, so that no light nor bliss may penetrate.

Crush out the blood of me, as a grape upon the tongue of a white Doric girl that languishes with her lover in the moonlight.

Then let the End awake. Long hast thou slept, O great God Terminus! Long ages hast thou waited at the end of the city and the roads thereof.

Awake Thou! wait no more!

Nay, Lord! but I am come to Thee. It is I that wait at last.

The prophet cried against the mountain; come thou hither, that I may speak with thee!

The mountain stirred not. Therefore went the prophet unto the mountain, and spake unto it. But the feet of the prophet were weary, and the mountain heard not his voice.

But I have called unto Thee, and I have journeyed unto Thee, and it availed me not.

I waited patiently, and Thou wast with me from the beginning.

This now I know, O my beloved, and we are stretched at our ease among the vines.

But these thy prophets; they must cry aloud and scourge themselves; they must cross trackless wastes and unfathomed oceans; to await Thee is the end, not the beginning.

Let darkness cover up the writing! Let the scribe depart among his ways.

But thou and I are stretched at our ease among the vines; what is he?

O Thou beloved One! is there not an end? Nay, but there is an end. Awake! arise! gird up thy limbs, O thou runner; bear thou the Word unto the mighty cities, yea, unto the mighty cities

Souce: https://www.reddit.com/r/OurFlagMeansDeath/comments/uzwrsm/ive_forgotten_to_post_the_last_few_cards_of_the/

#thelema #thelemic holy season #argentum astrum #holy days #silver star #tarot

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vorchagirl · 2 months

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Writing Pattern Tag Game

Thanks to @continuous-spec for tagging me in this writer meme, especially as I've only just gotten back into writing again!

Rules: list the first line(s) of your last 10 posted fics and see if there’s a pattern!

1. Saints and Liars: "Oh, Harry - it’s your favourite patient!" Cerys Ryder called in a sing-song voice as she clattered into Harry Carlyle’s lab just off the main medbay.

2. Through a Mirror Darkly: “Do I make you nervous?” The voice floated out of the shadows, deceptively soft, and Shepard bit back a gasp as Kaidan materialised beside her, a smirk gracing his lips as his eyes slipped down her form.

3. Everything: Today was not going to plan.

4. Distance: Gina Shepard paused outside of the Normandy's shuttle and drew in a deep, steadying breath as she waited for her team.

5. Haunted: The low hum of conversation buzzed through Tartarus as Sara entered, a conspicuous figure in her shiny blue and white Initiative armour.

6. The Naughty List: Gina Shepard watched the flames dancing in the fireplace, the fragrant smell of burning wood and the crackle and pop of the fire comforting.

7. The Interview: “Wait, wait! Hold the door!” Reyes jogged for the elevator as the door closed, cursing as it slid shut in his face and he skidded to a stop to avoid slamming into it.

8. The Charlatan's Seduction Plan: Sara hurried from the elevator and down the plushly carpeted hallway of Collective Imports, cursing the early morning traffic that had delayed her usual punctual arrival at work.

9. Dork: Reyes knew that the view from the roof of his prefab apartment was one of the best in Kadara Port, especially at night with the blanket of twinkling stars shining down.

10. The Outdoor Type: “I love camping.” The words were out of James’ mouth before he could stop them, and once they were out, there was no way to take them back.

Things I noticed: I tend to start with dialogue half of the time, my characters in a moment of action the other half, and I almost always use full names to establish my main characters.

I'm going to tag @hawkeykirsah @painterofhorizons @alyssalenko @silurisanguine @acciokaidanalenko @lonesurvivorao3 @foofyschmoofer @defaultjane and anyone else who wants to play!

#mass effect #mass effect andromeda #writing #vorchagirl #reyder #shenga #shenko

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therealvinelle · 9 months

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Hi! My ask is a top 3. Top 3 favorite books, favorite songs and favorite movies. I would also like to know the last book you read, last song you listened and last movie you watched. Not for any particular reason, just want some recs lol

Oh this is a fun one!

Favorite books

I take it back, choosing three isn't fun at all.

Agatha Christie has had a little too much influence on me as a person to not get the number one slot. If I had to choose one of her books, let it be The Mirror Crack'd. Jason Rudd showing Miss Marple in to see his wife whom he just mercy killed in her sleep and Miss Marple reciting Tennessee as a eulogy was deeply formative for twelve-year-old Vinelle.

Philip K. Dick, specifically A Scanner, Darkly if I must choose

Les Misérables. Like Christie, it impacted me too much not to make the list.

Favorite songs

In the interest of giving you recs, I think I'm going to give you repeat songs that I will never grow tired of.

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood by Santa Esmeralda, when the vibe is right for this one it's just right

Venom by Eminem, somehow my favorite Eminem song and I can't figure out why. I just really like what he does with the rhymes in this one and the song is always, always perfect for whatever I'm doing at the moment.

Drøm Hardt - Requiem 1 by Kaizers Orchestra, which surprises me too because it's not one of their flashier songs, but it also isn't one I ever skip when I'm listening to them. It's just nice. All of Kaizers is nice, every so often I remember the fact that I have tickets booked for their reunion tour and the sun shines just a bit brighter.

Favorite movies

Lawrence of Arabia and The Bridge on the River Kwai, directed by David Lean. Yes, these are two different movies, but I love them equally and they are weirdly the same movie in that exactly the things I loved about Lawrence are there in Bridge, meaning I have two movies with these wonderful things. Possibly three, if Doctor Zhivago is as good (same director, overlapping cast) as I hope it'll be.

The Silence of the Lambs starring Jodie Foster and Anthony Hopkins. It's just the best movie in the world, the pinnacle of feminist filmmaking to the point where I was very surprised to find out it wasn't classified as a chic flick.

Unforgiven starring, produced, and directed by Clint Eastwood. You should watch a few 50's and 60's Westerns first, but I'm a snob when I say that - really you can just sit down, giddy up and enjoy a beautiful movie about elderly cowboys who angst about what it means to take a life.

Last book, song, movie

Book: I've just barely gotten started on Ursula le Guin's Left Hand of Darkness, however I keep getting distracted so this could take me years. Or a weekend if I get the mania.

Song: No singular ones (unless you count me currently blasting Kaizers Orchestra to determine which of their songs to recommend) I've been abusing my Eurovision playlist lately... The Sunstroke Project, Vesna, Go_A, and so on. Oh and uh Hamilton. Violently unsexy but so very catchy, one might even say I'm helpless.

Movie: Halfway through Remains of the Day, I'm at the part where the lord of the house asks his butler to explain the birds and the bees to his adult godson.

#about me #i have things to do but anon puts a chance to talk about kaizers in my inbox? oh yes i must answer the beckoning call

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broomsticks · 1 year

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@unspeakable3 ho ly shit you are phenomenal. if i didn’t admire you so much i would be so indescribably jealous at how quickly you write, for so long — and such good fic too. the humanity and the depth of understanding you have for each of your characters, the respect and recognition you pay to each of their stories, regardless of how minor a part they play in the story! your sheer creativity, coming up with all this magical culture and fleshing out the world. your taste in books and shows and movies and just Stuff is impeccable, too, i love hearing all about it — no wonder you’re such a great storyteller. <3

T H E canon compliant regulus fic. Stars Shine Darkly • regulus-centric gen, 200k, T. the worldbuilding! the magical culture and activities, the complicated black family relationships — regulus and his grandmother! regulus and kreacher! all these wonderful and unique OCs!

the DORK and his QUEEN. December, 1983. • regulus/OFC • 70k, M. just for you i will get aboard this regulus deserved better train and read some regulus fluff.

He Can't Hurt You if You're Already Dead • regulus-centric gen, 31k, T. unsuccessful attempts at haunting, and the difficulty in reconciling brotherly relationships when one of you is dead and the other is a wanted criminal, ahhh i cry

oh my gosh, i love your walburga??? I am terribly sorry for dying • 24k, M. what a premise, what a cool opportunity to explore this time period of the WW — the decline of the blacks, immediately following halloween ‘81! and the epistolary! cherry on the cake!

fics of all time The End of the Line • 16k, T. the structure of this fic. the increasing circles, the widening scope of regulus’s world, and it all coming back to grimmauld place and sirius in the end… inspired.

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for an explanation of why i just wrote you a whole ~thing~, check out this post & the ‘mutuals march’ tag below!

#mutuals march #regulus black #hp gen fic #speaky tag #hp fics #my fic recs #most noble ancient and dysfunctional house of black

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comfort-questing · 5 months

Text

yes I SAID I'd be writing my own aftermath fic for those scenes if the show didn't give it...

When he was a kid Stark had tried not to cry. But by this time everyone already knew he was weak; crying wouldn't make any difference now. And - as Linie's form crumbled to dust along with the mana-spun axe in her hands - there was no one left to see, or to know, here in the moonlight magic-ruined glade below the city walls.

His eyes were hazy and half-blinded by his lightning slash and the wound above one of them, his mouth full of dirt and blood, right arm numb to the fingertips and useless at his side. High above him on the walltops, the two magics that met against the moon's bright disc - one black as old blood, one shining as pure as the stars - exploded into light as Stark blinked upwards, ever-expanding coronas of brilliance.

He coughed, the acid taste in the back of his mouth redoubling as the pain in his stomach made him gag desperately. Not as heavy as his master's blows had been - but enough to coat the dirt in crimson beneath him, draining the last of his strength away with it. The night and the woods and the walltops and the moon were all spinning and tilting around him, unsteady as his cold and trembling body.

Fern had to be all right. Fern, and Frieren, and Graff who they'd left in the churchman's care. If all of them were all right, that was enough... enough to save this town, one way or another. Enough so that they would have done well, despite everything...

Master... would you be proud of me now?

This time, when his knees hit the ground, he told himself he could rest, because he had won.

(This time, he knew there was no way he was standing up again.)

There was hair tickling his face, and skin brushing against his, a whiff of soap and sweat and lightning-flash of mana, for a fleeting moment before it moved away. Trembling fingers found the hollow beneath his jaw, ignited sensation and with it pain, tracing out his pulse.

"Mr. Stark. Stark!"

He managed to open one eyelid, the other clotted shut with dried blood; just enough to see Fern, corpse-pale in the moonlight, white blouse stained darkly all along one shoulder and arm.

"Fern. Are you - "

He could barely hear his own voice, though shaping the words tugged painfully at his face. He tried to smile at her, though, because surely things would be all right now, whether he got to see them or not. She had won her own battle, Lugner's blood magic had marked her but she'd won. And Frieren... Frieren would be there, too, soon...

Everything was going dark again, his eye slipping closed. Dimly Fern's shouts echoed in his ringing ears, and the sound of approaching voices behind her, footsteps in the darkness.

"He's over here! We need to get him to the priest now, he's lost too much blood - "

Arms gathering him up, guards' metal armor chilly and hard beneath him, voices bouncing back and forth above his head. Pressure on his stomach, and his shoulder, and pain pain pain filling him as he gagged again, struggling by reflex.

"Hush, lad." The guard's voice was gentle, firm as the arms around him. "Stay with us a few moments more, now. You've done well tonight."

Stark woke slowly, to the tremble of firelight through his eyelids, and to breaths that went all the way down through his lungs with only a little pain, the comforting tightness of bandages steadying his aching shoulder. He could feel both of his arms again, and as stupidly tired as he was, the thrum and after-warmth of healing magic had lent him enough strength that he could think properly again as well.

...Yes. This was better. He could sleep for a week, easily, but he didn't feel like he was on the brink of death anymore.

"...need to rest for a while yourself, miss." That was the priest's quiet voice, somewhere across the room, closer to the firelight. "The Goddess kept you safe for certain tonight - half an inch higher on your shoulder, and you'd have bled out in a few heartbeats. Not that having a nicked lung is much better in the long term, but - "

"But Stark and I got here, anyway." Fern's voice was stronger now, and without the ragged desperation of earlier. "Thank you."

"Of course. Of course. This - has been one of the more exciting nights of my term here."

Stark opened his eyes in time to see Fern's rare smile dart across her face, where she sat across from the priest, the fire burning bright behind them on the hearth. There was the thin gray light of early dawn through the window beyond, and Graff's sleeping form under blankets in the cot beneath.

"Miss Frieren would say that when you invite demons into your town you shouldn't be surprised when things get exciting," said Fern.

"Ah. Yes. The elf. Where..."

Fern did not answer for a moment, her eyes going to the window instead.

"Fighting Aura," she said. "I think so, anyway. We should... look for her, soon."

"And I'll pray for her," said the priest. "And keep an infirmary bed open if she needs it, too, the way things are going so far."

Stark coughed as he tried to speak, but managed it the second time. "Frieren - isn't - back yet?"

"Stark! Stay still, you were hurt badly." Fern's hand hovered over his chest, a clear threat as he tried to get his elbows under him; how she'd gotten across the room that quickly, he wasn't quite sure. "No, she's not back yet, but she's all right, I know. Miss Frieren always is."

Truly Stark couldn't imagine anything in the land getting the jump on their eccentric little leader. After all, hadn't she been part of the group that destroyed the Demon King himself? But he'd feel better once he had his eyes on her, and their party was complete again.

"Fine," he said, falling back on the pillows. "Give me - a couple - minutes and we'll go."

It was more than a couple of minutes, but they did go.

That morning was a strange hazy time in Stark's memory, full of golden light and chilly mist, the jolting of the carriage wheels stirring the pain in his healing wounds into fresh jagged agony. Graff's set face across from them had something of the same look to it, his hand pressed to his own bandages under his coat. Fern sat bolt-upright with her face to the small window, the dawn riming her hair in brilliance.

Then the clearing, and the battlefield, with steel spellbound soldiers limp and scattered beneath the early sky; and a figure in white kneeling before them, with the birds kiting upwards on the rising wind above her.

And suddenly, his eyes were full of tears again, but of a different kind altogether, and oddly unashamed as he stumbled out of the carriage towards his new master, Fern at his side.

Now - now - everything was truly all right.

#sousou no frieren #frieren: beyond journey's end #whump #hurt comfort #frieren spoilers

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