#and that I'm constantly at fucking risk whenever I leave the house or out any part of myself online

[lich-of-dreams]

.

#I talk abt it a lot with friends and loved ones but I'm like. really tired man. #I don't just mean physically(even though that's a thing) #I'm just really tired of hearing about new ways that people want folk that share traits with me dead #and constantly pulling up “Well we're not like xyz country!” yeah you fucking are #you're white and never had to fucking deal with it #I'm tired of feeling like there's nowhere in the world safe for me #and that I'm constantly at fucking risk whenever I leave the house or out any part of myself online #that yk some fucking lunatic might just think they have to put me down #I wish my ancestors really were as savage as they made us out to be #maybe then things would have been different.

[dredshirtroberts]

because i know if i don't get the words out of me they will sit and fester and i run the risk of exploding the relevant emotions out onto an unsuspecting passer by, but i've also already ranted about this in the group chat and in person and in a direct message, so now you guys get some too

Guess who is just now realizing they were vastly exploited and abused by their parents and first employers (same people) because i existed to make their lives easier and not to be my own person

it's ~*~me~*~

It's just like. God it's no wonder things panned out the way they did. I was burnt the fuck out, overworked, underpaid, under-appreciated, just fully taken advantage of.

I did so much for my parents all the fucking time, and they just did not even care how much I was doing until I stopped. And then I was being "lazy"

UM HOW ABOUT YOU PAY THE PERSON RUNNING EXACTLY 1/3rd OF YOUR COMPANY MORE THAN $10.50 AN HOUR WHEN THEY'VE WORKED FOR YOU FOR 7 YEARS AND, I SIMPLY CANNOT STRESS THIS ENOUGH, WAS RUNNING A THIRD OF THE COMPANY OPERATIONS ACTIVELY 100% OF THE TIME. AND ALSO WAS YOUR FUCKING CHILD.

(I rounded up to the 10.50 mark - and that's assuming 40hr work week on salary. I frequently went above and beyond, had to use my own money to do certain operations and then wait to be reimbursed, and often ended up having to juggle several high priority things and end up dropping at least one which would get me into trouble because i wasn't doing all of the things all of the time to perfection every time.)

So it only makes sense that at every job from that point on, I felt obligated to Accurately Report my time, and any slacking off I felt like I didn't deserve to get paid for, even if it wasn't actually slacking off and just there wasn't anything to do. Getting me to take breaks is a fucking nightmare and of COURSE i feel bad whenever I am incapable of helping with anything around the house (which disregards what I am capable of doing around the house and will have done even a little). I was chided for "wasting time" constantly through the first 7 years of employFUCK I FORGOT A JOB.

okay it's been listed.

but yeah i was told any moment i wasn't working actively on something was wasted time, and that i wasn't going to go anywhere, and i felt overwhelmed because i was running an entire operations department for a small business that was actively growing and got to a Decent Size before I left, and I had so much on my shoulders, and I think I found the start of the pattern of being threatened that I had no real place anywhere, and that if I fucked up badly enough I could be dropped with no repercussions on the side of the droppee's part (but then as soon as I am the one leaving, suddenly I'm irreplaceable and actually really necessary and am I sure I want to go? i have such a good thing going here and jesus christ i've been abused............)

I just. I'm so mad. I'm so fucking mad.

They're goddamn lucky I've removed them from my life, because if my parents were still in any way connected to me, I would....would.....

i'm going to eat my chicken nuggets and watch the world collapse (view recent news clips)........

#i'm SO MAD

[bakingandbooks3]

A Court of Song and Serpents

A bit short but the begging of a project I'm SO excited for- hope you love this as much as I do.

Summary: What a time to be alive as Nesta Archeron, going backward to move forward and finding that the places she once called home are now empty tombs.

Nesta

Nesta held her breath for a moment, a pause, and stilled entirely. The Court of Nightmares. She knew the verdict would be severe, but never would she have expected exile to a world of terror. The horrors of that place, of how it was once the main residence of the High Lord- till Rhysand.

Rhysand, the man who boasted of lands bountiful with choice and reason, now sat across from her donning unmasked hatred. A look he kept shielded from his mate, reserved just for Nesta. The kind that rips one apart from the inside out, would carve out the belly of a beast, burn a witch on a wooden pyre.

Nesta felt nothing, she always did. It wasn’t hard to see what he was thinking of her, how his beautiful wife’s wretched sister was little more than a gambling thief who slept her way through his glorious city. Now, fingers smeared that blank canvas so pure of her darkest shades.

Eyes flicking back, she studied that same sister. The Cursebreaker, the Savior.

How small and insignificant she became next to the glimmering shining thing Feyre was. The lands spoke of her beauty and kind touch, and how she sacrificed everything to save a world of people, and Fae that she was raised to despise.

Nesta wished it’d be known that her touch wasn’t always kind.

She built her bricks firm enough that her house of grace never shattered; Held firm, it was all she had left in her. Too many eyes on her filled with grief, excitement, retribution-Nesta was keenly aware of how this Court of Dreams felt of her.

“This is an exile.”

Rhysand's smirk peaked so slightly, his mate tensing.

“No, no. This is an intervention, a chance for you to find yourself away from bad influences and habits. You can’t keep living like this, and I refuse to let it continue happening and I take the fall for it. Your decisions are impractical and immoral. You are sober much less than you are drunk and-”

“If you’re going to condemn me, do it. But don’t sit here and act as if this is out of kindness.” Nesta snarled. She hated the barbed words, but it’s what she felt. “Who are you to question my morality?”

“I think I can speak for my wife when I say that your presence here is….” Rhysand growled but pulled back, like he forgot Feyre was right there, too.

Nesta wished he would’ve let go, so maybe that facade Rhys reserved for Feyre was broken. No, that’s cruel. As much as she hated this and him, he was making her sister happy.

Something Nesta could never do.

“I do not give a shit what my presence is doing. The decision has already been made, so stop scolding me like a child and make good on your word, Rhysand.” Bile rose in her throat, the words feeling nothing but slimy and disgusting. Foreign, yet habitual all the same. Sometimes, she forgets there once was a woman called Nesta who was so much more than the viper living in her now.

Sometimes she remembers that she can’t ever be her again.

Home was nowhere for her, not in a person, not in a place, certainly not in this bombastic group of “heroes”. Nesta didn’t need a hero, she just needed someone to care. But Nesta knew better, no one would. She was taught to be unlovable, just a woman to be sold off and married- to climb her mothers' ever-growing social ladder.

But Nesta on her own was never enough, even with her mother six feet under and rotted away there were unsung expectations unmet. She was a catastrophic failure and a dark smear on a family name that never truly held weight to her.

Nesta looked up, felt everything all at once again, could only see one man pacing a worn-through tether between them. He wasn’t going to stop this, but she could see it, how it looked like he wanted to jump out of his own flesh, the veins of his arm prominent and knuckles normally so brown a new fresh fallen snow.

There was no prince to save Nesta, much less any will to save herself. So when Mor took the pleasure of bringing her to a living Hell, Nesta did not fight.

She was tired of fighting, after all, she fought an inescapable fate for the first twenty years of her life…

Flowers always made Nesta sneeze, but Elain lit like lights during winter whenever she could thread them through her hair. They all symbolized something, Laine would say. There are ones for good days, and hard storms, for sunshine and stars.

Nesta was always adorned in flowers that paralleled the estate. Astute, cold, tired, where she was warm, comforting, and smelled like cookies- ones that Celia normally baked for the sisters. She never asked Laine why she picked the ones for her that she did, her reasons would stay silent for now.

Spring was a high time of activity in the Archeron estate. There was always a flurry of activity, from preparing their mothers' obscene balls, to guests at every corner in every room. The halls were sprinkled in candles and on walls hung frames nearly kissing it was packed so tight.

They were in the gardens. It was an Elain day, as the girls would call it, and no matter how boring or mundane her wishes were they’d be fulfilled. Nesta was propped on the floor in front of Laine, who was bunching handfuls to weave in tangled auburn coils that gathered on Nesta’s head- as a bird's nest would.

Eventually, Nesta would have to learn braids or risk knotting the curls entirely.

The eldest basked in the silence she created from mentally muting her middle sister, and spared a glance at Feyre. What she saw was not surprising, but required far more willpower than she expected to not burst into laughter and risk the flowery rat's nest on her scalp.

Feyre appeared to be so bored out of her mind she was eating discarded flowers of Elains. Actually, ingesting them, as if she was a critique. When Elain wasn’t looking at Feyre, she’d grab another couple and study them- analyzing her next experiment. Glaring at the blues and yellows as if she was speaking to them, “Which one of you will make me puke the fastest so I can run away?”

In time, Feyre looked up from her taste tests to see Nesta grinning at her so violently you’d think Feyre hung the moon.

And Feyre beamed back, crossing a pinkie across her chest and pointing it back to Nesta. Then she viciously spit out the grass she’d just finished chewing, crying directly at Laine, “This MUST stop at once, my stomach hurts far too much to continue on here.”

Elain, in a garden so quiet, simply ignored her sister's poor attempts at escape. Making Nesta work even harder to stifle the shaking of her shoulders, covering her mouth and nose before she started wheezing. Elain would hardly hurt a fly but sent Nesta a glare that could’ve easily killed a man.

Nesta cleared her throat, “I do believe there are more of the blue flowers down that hill near the pond. Would you mind getting some more for Laine?”

Feyre was already on her feet, mouthing her thanks as Elain turned her back to get the next bunch of flowers, “Why of course I will!” And with a very bad curtsey, Feyre threw off her shoes and was rolling down the hill, spinning wildly, her laughter sure to be heard in meadows far beyond theirs.

You would find the Archeron sisters all together, or never in the same place.

Laine was the easiest to find, by the waters or pond on the east side, in gardens surrounded with bugs and willows calling to the young girl. She could hardly read but if the text included any mention of colors and blooms, suddenly she was a scholar. Elain was not simple or dull, but rather a passive spirit, like a summer wind- brief, fleeting, but teeming with love and hope.

Feyre, as their mother said, was a reckless wild child. Far too young to care, far too small to be whipped into shape. If you were sent to find her and your life depended on it, may the Mother bless you. Feyre liked the kitchen, because of the immaculate food and maids who would shove any sweet down the littlest Archerons throat. But, also for the immeasurable amount of sharp items to be found in there. If it was pointy and could stab a wall or scare their ice-cold mother, Feyre would be running the halls with it in hand or making targets of her fathers old trade route maps.

Then there was Nesta, the firstborn. Molded to be another woman that she somehow couldn’t fit, as if her feet were too big or hair too long, Nesta was outgrowing the standards forged into her being. You would see her as a ghost, floating in and out of rooms, comfortable in silence and slumber, but never escaping people. She loved the maids and could recite all of their names like clockwork, and the workers loved her in turn. Always stuck in new worlds between pages or willingly dragged by the two youngers, Nesta teemed with liberation. She was often alone, but never lonely, and found new loves in the library or in the fields beyond marble confines.

Adela was constantly dissatisfied with her eldest's progress inside these walls, as if at eight she should’ve already been engaged to a prince. Granted, Adela knew better. Nesta would never truly find another kingdom to buy into when she already had a crown waiting for her elsewhere. She was known as fair and beautiful beyond her years, would age like fine wine, and become so much greater than Adela ever was. What Nesta saw as fit would normally come to be, an instinct Adela was unprepared she would inherit. Nothing left her more confused than this daughter only by blood, who was hated by both her parents for reasons far from the same, and how at less than ten years had an entire mansion wrapped around her fingers.

But Adela would wait, and simply leave them be for now. When viper's strike, they kill. And even though the Matron of the house wanted her little queen gone, she had other ways to see this through.

Anyways, children's blood on her hands would stain her diamonds.

---

Cassian

Cassian was violently fucking ill. Watching whatever the fuck that was did not help in the slightest. The second she was gone, so was he.

The General and High Lord were not on speaking terms, his presence was an obligation and not a request. When Rhys first displayed his plans, Cassian just about murdered him. Had his brother on the table in a chokehold that the Shadowsinger had to come and release Rhys from. The way his so-called family planned her exile was… horrific.

Cassian was full of light and humor, but not dull the way his family made him out to be. He could see this for what it was, punishing an already broken female for not meeting every damn need of a fully grown woman that was no longer her responsibility. Cass knew better than to downplay the sacrifices Feyre made, but he was also well aware that Nesta's habits were hardly a financial problem and more of a reputation scandal.

That’s what the High Lord did best, when his Court was breaking at the bonds, the mess would “disappear”. Just like the Illyrians hidden in the mountains, the displaced families of Spring, the homeless warriors of Night.

Cassian loved his brother, but more often than not he wondered when Fate would come to bite them in the asses for Rhys’ neglect.

Now, here he was, in his mothers' cabin, wings dragging behind him wiping tears long since shed over a woman who was thrown to the wolves and torn into so many scraps he wasn’t sure how he could put her together again.

He missed his Nesta, the one who threw glares and begged for her people, not this one who hardly spoke and caved into herself enough that she couldn’t see where she was heading.

Cassian fingered for his mug in the wooden cabinets and hit his mark, soon placing water to heat over a small fire over the counter.

He was not okay, not okay at all.

When you look for something in the dark for too long, you eventually find what you need but not always in the way you expect. Cassian coped the same as Nesta Archeron in his first years post-war. It was suffocating trying to be the happy one while dying inside. He watched men he looked up to fall and a lover he admired take her last breath- too much in far too little time. Cassian was not an idiot, he was simply perplexed. Why was he allowed to grieve in unacceptable manners, but Nesta was a sinner in holy clothing?

Bright walls and unlit rooms in the house were silent, only the winds of the mountains singing outside. The newly dusted snow wrapped the dirt in a delicate kiss- a forbidden touch. It was the peak of winter, just after Feyre’s birthday and another insufferable party.

One that Nesta wasn’t invited to.

Cassian wished he wasn’t invited either.

The cup in his hands was dwarfed in comparison to the bulky Illyrian holding it, but at least it was warm. At least it wasn’t empty.

Because if there was one thing he knew, it could always be worse.

Cassian knew that if things were a little different, he’d be the one sitting in a prison of darkness and Hell because of mistakes made as a child. He’d be exiled by family, cast away by the only living remains of a life once lived.

Nesta didn’t know but long before this he had called it even, their sins atoned for in hurting each other equally.

She was the only one in the world who could tell which smiles he was faking.

To anyone on the outside, one kiss was merely that. How curious it was, the iceberg went far deeper.

So when the mug crashed against the wall, and in its wake resembled his inner turmoil, Cassian took to the skies and found himself at the door of a place far too familiar.

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.

.

AHHHHHHHH OMG OKAY hope you guys enjoyed this:) if you want to be added to the tag list let me know!

@lovemeforever12345 @champanheandluxxury @nahthanks@perseusannabeth@queenestarcheron@silvernesta

@loosingdreams@sayosdreams@audreycressworth@cyra04@that-golden-lyre@nessiantrashh@misswonderflower@dontgetsalmonella@caram267@bickbickbarnes@sabrinasam-blog

#acotar #cassian #nessian #acomaf #acowar #acosf #a court of silver flames #nesta archeron #nesta x cassian #nesta #acosf rewrite #bab writes #azriel #elain #feyre acotar #feyre archeron #rhysand #anti rhysand #okay it’s not really anti guys it just starts that way #so like bear with me #to have development you gotta bash them first #you know? #anyways love y’all

[somensfw-blue]

Mafia!Wilbur and reader?

Him having you seated in his lap at all times

Never wanting you to leave

Sneaking his hand up your skirt, not caring if anyone walks in

Giving you anything and everything you ask for

His hands roaming your body as you whimper beneath him

His cock deep inside you as your seated in his lap

Maybe even having you on your knees, mouth open and cock deep inside your throat while in a meeting

Putting a collar on your neck that says "cum slut" or "daddy's girl/boy/angel" any time one of his men tries to flirt with you, just to remind them who their messing with

Bending you over his desk and fucking you, making sure everyone can hear how you moan for him

-🌘 anon

oh we gonna discuss mafia au?!

wilbur didn't even give his men (and women, but i'm gonna use men as a blanket term) have the opportunity to unknowingly flirt with their boss's spouse. oh no no. he held a meeting where he introduced you to them as his partner, and told them that they were to ensure your safety at all times, and that included making sure any visitors or new employees knew to treat you with the utmost respect or risk their own death.

eventually you got a collection of collars (both subtle and obvious), all with tags holding variations of "daddy's angel", which you wore with every outfit, to every event. and they always glinted as he showed you off to everyone deemed important enough to be allowed to be introduced to you

whenever you sat in on meetings, you would be on his lap. it was just accepted that that was your seat. so when one of his higher ranking men only knocked once before swinging open wilbur's office door, they weren't surprised or bothered in the slightest to see you sitting on his lap. they just told wilbur the news and business something-or-rather, then left, all the while wilbur wrote notes, while you subtly wriggled your hips, unseen by the intruder. as soon as the door was shut again, he muttered about forgetting to lock it, before his hands slid to your hips, guiding you to resume your motion of moving up and down his cock, which he been warmly nestled within you while wilbur received the very boring business news

now the mouth cockwarming wasn't common. he preferred having you to himself, and sometimes having you knelt under his desk with his cock down your throat was too public. you may be seen, and he didn't want any of his men or visitors believing you were only there as his whore, and no longer respect you. but once or twice, when he was in the mood and you needed a punishment, and he had a meeting with someone who wilbur knew would not notice any changes in his face if you moved under the back-boarded desk. you had a pillow under his desk to save your knees, and you had your hands resting on his knees, and comfortably sat deep in your mouth was his cock, drool leaking out the sides of your mouth.

it wasn't uncommon for your moans and pleads for wilbur were heard throughout his house, his office door locked, as he pushed your chest into his desk with one hand while his other gripped your hips. his hips thrusted with no mercy, telling you how good you feel and how good you are, and reminding you to be as loud as you can, let everyone know who is fucking you brainless, who you belong to

(i feel like i got possessed by ace-race wilbur soot writing this bit) but god the praise he would give you. constantly reminding you how much he loves you, telling you how pretty you look and how he can't believe you are his. he would give you the world to ensure your happiness, steal the stars to make sure you are always safe and okay. his hands would touch every inch of your skin, fingertips graze over spots that make your skin raise with goosebumps, whisper words that make your skin flush and your core ache, kiss and mark places that remind you of him every time you move or look in the mirror. "you look so sweet when you're embarrassed, my love. so pretty. and your sounds are addictive. i will spend the rest of my life pulling them from you. and your taste, always delicious. i would die a happy man if you were the last thing i tasted. my beautiful and darling love, loving me back despite the man i am and the business i conduct. my angel, my wonderful and darling angel."

#;mafia au #c:WLBR #someblue thoughts #🌘 anon