#nightrails

[fawnandshadows]

Elriel Month Day 18

Chapter Three

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.5

Warnings: Language

Gifting this fic to by beautiful bestie @sakurakittypeach

The third time they had met in the garden was under the watch of the moon and the cover of shadows. 

Elain had tucked Nyx snuggly into bed, kissed him on the cheek, and then silently dashed down the steps and out back — silently sprinting passed Nuala and Cerridwen, who gave each other sly grins as their friend rushed past. 

The cool night air kissed her warm skin as she stepped barefoot onto the patio. 

She spotted him immediately. 

Her nightrail whipped behind her as she ran towards him, standing by the night-blooming jasmine that grew along the length of the fence, she could feel the concrete of the patio turn into the soft grass of the garden as she ran towards him. 

His tall frame twisted towards her just in time to catch her as she propelled herself at him. Her fingers lightly brushed wings, causing them to twitch and shimmy, and as Elain wrapped her arms around him she didn’t think twice as she lowered her lips to his. 

  Soft. 

They were so warm and soft and molded to hers perfectly. 

One large hand settled on her rounded bum, while the other laid flat against her back, pressing her closer into his chest. And Elain could feel the roughness of his calluses through her thin cotton nightgown. 

Elain wrapped her legs around his hips more firmly, and let her fingers tangle in the silky hairs at the nape of his neck, her nails gently scraping against his sensitive skin. 

His lips answered hers in earnest, as if Azriel wanted to taste more and more of her. His fingers dug into her backside, gripping as if he never wanted to let go. 

When they finally pulled away, Elain was not prepared for the sight of a kissed-senseless Azriel: his cheeks were flushed from desire, and the heaviness of his eyelids just barely showed the molten churning of his golden eyes, and his kissed-bruised lips were parted as he breathed in short puffs of air. 

“Good evening.” Elain said, her lips brushing over his.

Azriel opened his mouth to speak, and closed it again. Once, then twice, before finally saying, “Is that how you greet your friends?” His voice was dazed, as if he was removed far from reality and was struggling to come back. 

“It is how I greet my special friends.” Elain whispered with a smile, slowly untangling her legs and falling down his body until her feet were planted on the soft grass. His hands never left her body, they simply grazed along the length of her curves with the fabric of her dress gathering above his hands. 

Something flashed in his eyes as a low growl came from his throat. 

Little goosebumps formed on her arms and legs. 

“I hope you don’t have any other…special friends,” Azriel said, his voice dark. He nipped at her bottom lip. “For their sakes.”

“Only one,” Elain said, her hands coming up to cup either side of his face. Some of the tension in his strong jaw faded at her words. “I think you might know him, he’s a bit broody and moonlights as a bat, sometimes he lets me use his dagger.” 

Elain felt the chuckle rolling through him, and something warm curled in the base of her stomach.    

His lips landed on hers, moving gently, as if savoring the feel of her before pulling away, and Elain watched as his blissful expression turned guarded. 

“Elain,” He said gently, his thumb rubbing back and forth over her waist. “I think I owe you an explanation for that night.”

Her heart stuttered in her chest at the words, and she slowly nodded her head as she fought off the sudden onset of shivers that racked through her.

Azriel quickly straightened her nightgown and tucked her snuggly into him as his wings came up to cocoon them away from the chilly spring air. 

He took a deep, steadying breath as he said, “You looked like a dream that night,” His eyes flicked down to her thin, cotton nightgown. “Much like you do now, and I couldn’t believe my luck, that we somehow ended up in the same place, in the dead of night. That we both had gifts for each other, Gods Elain, I was so nervous to give you that necklace. I thought — I thought it would have revealed everything I felt, that you controlled my every waking thought, that you had taken complete ownership of me without even trying. And when you let me put my hands on you, when you leaned into my touch, when you offered yourself to me, I thought I would finally learn what paradise tasted like,” His lips brushed over hers once more. “As it turns out, paradise tastes a bit like honey. And then I heard this voice in my mind,” Azriel paused for a moment, as if fighting something off. “It was Rhysand, ordering me away… so I left. And when I went to his office,” His voice was strained, and a small bead of perspiration trailed down his forehead. His entire body tensed, and Elain gently massaged his temples and then his neck, whatever she could to ease some of his pain. “And he ordered me away from you, indefinitely, he was upset that we were so intimate with Lucien in the house. He was worried Lucien would call in the Blood Duel and upset the peace.” 

His body relaxed, but it shook as if he had broken through some spell. 

Elain let the information sink it, let it settle in her mind. 

Azriel never rejected her. 

She wasn’t a mistake. 

“That’s why you haven’t been around,” Elain said slowly, watching as something flickered in Azriel’s eyes. “You were ordered away from me, but you — you would have kissed me that night?”  

He slowly nodded his head, which was still cradled in Elain’s hands. 

“You didn’t leave me?” Elain asked, her voice shaking. Azriel tugged her closer into his chest as tears slid down her face. “I thought you left me — I thought you rejected me.” 

“Fuck, Elain,” Azriel said, his voice breaking over her name. “I hate myself for causing you pain. I never should have left that night — I’ve been wanting to kiss you for forever, and you wouldn’t believe how many night I’ve stayed up agonizing because if Rhysand had never interrupted us, then maybe,” He broke off with an audible swallow, Elain watched his throat bob as he worked through his emotions. “Maybe we wouldn’t have lost so much time.” 

A stray tear fell from the corner of Azriel’s eye, and Elain wiped it away with her thumb. 

She buried her face in his chest. 

Hot tears streamed down both of her cheeks as relief swept through her body with knee-wobbly ferocity. 

Azriel supported her as her knees gave out. 

“Please,” Elain whispered, clinging to his strong form. “Don’t go,” She sniffed as his hands calmed her shaking form. “Stay here tonight. With me.” 

A small tremor racked through Azriel. 

“Of course.” Azriel rasped, gently holding her as they walked through the garden.

They slowly made their way through the house, stopping once to check on Nyx’s sleeping form — on his face with his wings and bum up in the air, a small fist in front of his open mouth — and Azriel left her only briefly to change into his sleeping clothes. When he entered Elain's room she had already tucked herself into bed, Azriel could see her golden hair splayed on her white pillow and a cute lump snuggled under a pink quilt, which was gently moving with her breaths. 

A fire heated and illuminated the room as Azriel slowly padded across the hardwood floor to her, he met her wide brown eyes as he reached for the blanket to pull it back. He settled onto his side, his wings relaxed behind him, and grasped her hands. 

There was enough space between them for a small child, but their joined hands met in the middle. 

Softly, they whispered their good nights and stared into each other's eyes as they heard the front door open and close below them. Cassian's drunken, booming laugh carried easily up the flight of stairs and into Elains bedroom, as did Feyre’s drunken shush. They vaguely heard Rhysand whispered scolding directed towards them, and Mor didn’t even try to be quiet as she laughed at something Cassian had done. 

It must have been Nesta who was walking up the stairs, the click of her heels on the wooden steps. 

Elain held her breath as her sister passed the door, and gently let it escape her once she heard the opening and closing of a door. Nesta’s even steps were the only indication that she was the only sober one. 

Elain wasn’t sure who fell asleep first, but she was the first one awake the next morning — one of her legs thrown over Azriels hips, and her head pressed into the crevice where his neck met his shoulder. The steady thump of his heart was in her ears, and even gentle rise and fall of his chest lulled her back to sleep. 

——

Tagging: @thefangirlofhp @azriel-shadowsinger @achelois-daughter @reverie-tales @elrielbliss @frogsdeservelovetoo @sakurakittypeach @kingcasteel @shedoessoshedoes @cassianfanclub @strangecreationchaos @silverdreamscapes @shy-violet-soul @alwayssara @tswaney17 @imjustslytherin @downingg2001 @fuckmelifesucks @swankii-art-teacher @mrspettyferr @elriel-month

#elriel #elain x azriel #pro elriel #elain archeron #azriel #elriel fanfiction #elriel fanfic #elrielmonth22 #elrielmonth #in the garden #fawnandshadows writing #my writing #fawnandshadows Elriel month

[sabraeal]

Age of Reason, Part 4

[Read on AO3]

Written for PurePassion, the other half of @traditional-with-a-twist, who also won the Obiyuki Madness Kitty! I am not often asked for more of this fic, but I am all too happy to oblige!

The thing is, the ambiance— it doesn’t add up.

Country nights run black as pitch, and the shadows here stretch deep in the stuff, dragging across the marble floors like a tiger’s stripes. The sort of inky darkness so thick a mind might trick itself into think it could leave streaks on a man, that it might even be solid enough to reach out and swallow given half the chance. The kind of endless deep that really gets the small animal of the soul shivering, wondering what might be on the other side— or if there is an other side to find. Toss a dir down a well like that, and you might be more surprised to hear it hit bottom.

That alone could have a man jumping at his own footsteps, thinking he sees ghouls and demons and worse around every corner. There’d been more than a few grifts where Obi had the dark do the heavy lifting, letting a moonless night press in around the kind of men who had more pride than sense. The kind that were eager to prove there was no vengeful spirit lurking around the village hall, or no vampires stalking through their forests in the dead of night. Convincing the shepherd went a long way in convincing the sheep, after all.

But tonight is no moonless night— no, he’d picked an evening where the old lady sat fat in her velvet bower, molting moonlight the way birds might their feathers, so bright there’d been no need for candles, even in the deepest bowels of the manor. No need for any casual passerby to know someone had been poking around the old pile, not when a ghostly princess would soon make her debut. Last thing he’d wanted was folk around here wondering if the ethereal princess had a more earthly in origin.

Picked the first night of the full moon too, just in case he needed to move fast— these Clarinese were always so quick to fall back on reason, once the fear had its time to settle, like water sinking below oil in a flask. There were ways to make skin glow and sigils flare if an enterprising person knew the angles the moonlight would slant through the window and the sort of unguent and powders that would use it to its best effect. The real could become surreal in the right man’s hands, and Obi— well, he’d made himself the right man long ago.

But standing here, staring at this apparition’s ghostly pallor, so translucent he can see where her veins run along the length of her forearms and snake up the column of her neck, blood soaked and flaking from the linen of her nightrail, and well—

It just doesn’t lend itself to the word con man. Or the way her hip cocks, unimpressed, as she cradles that bundle in her arms.

“Ah, miss!” He presses a hand to his chest, sketching the barest bow. She’s no sleeping princess, that’s for sure, but it always pays to be polite. “Con man is such an ugly term. I am a helper of man, a hunter of the unknowable, a—”

“A scoundrel, then.” She sets her bundle against her shoulder, the wailing cutting off with a hitch. It turns to a whine, the blankets squirming in strange, jerking movements. “Or perhaps you prefer ne’er-do-well?”

His hand drops, boneless under that dubious stare of hers. “I’ll have you know I do quite a bit of good.”

“I’m sure,” she says, too polite to be sincere. “I am curious though— what’s the grift, here? The house is closed for the season, but you’ll hardly be able to convince the townsfolk that there’s ghosts in the basement, or werewolves in the orchard. And when the guard find out you’ve snuck past them…”

There’s a doleful little warning in the glance she gives him, one that promises a tour of whatever dark corners the royals like to keep their undesirables in. But it’s hard to feel the threat of it when Obi hadn’t seen so much as a single petal of Wisteria blue since he stepped into town, and he doubts he’s about to see more. “Grift? Miss, I was sent here. Asked— no, begged, really— to come investigate the goings on here at the manor. There’s supposed to be a girl here, spurned by her royal lover and left to sleep for—”

“Ah, you’re a monster hunter.” Her smile’s almost fond when she shakes her head, as if he were a child dressed in his father’s maile, declaring himself a dragon slayer. “I haven’t seen one of those since I left Tanbarun. I never thought one would try their luck here.”

He wouldn’t have if sleeping mistress hadn’t seemed like sure money. “Is that so.”

“I thought germ theory sent all of you scampering back over the border.” Hand rubbing in soothing circles over the bundle, she peers down the hall. “So where is your partner?”

“Partner?” This girl knows far too much for those doll-like eyes. “I’m alone. Why would you think I had—?”

“Because someone has to be the monster, don’t they?” She takes a step, glancing through one of the open doors. “What was it supposed to be? Tragic young maiden, wrongfully killed before her time? Scullion who got in the family way and chose to take her own life, rather than suffer the dishonor? Oh, or perhaps a vampire—”

“With all due respect, Miss,” he blurts out, impatient. “I believe it was supposed to be you.”

“Me?” She doesn’t so much speak the word as shape it, mouth rounding as her gaze drops, tracing the eerie trails of blood winding down her gown. “Oh.”

*

If Obi thought it had been a pain sneaking out, it’s somehow an even bigger pain sneaking back in to Torou’s room. The window’s loud, for one, grunting and groaning as he tries to swing the pane from the sash, nearly slamming back in on his fingers once he does get it open. The company, for the second— and third, since the young lady balks when he offers to hold her blankets and give her a boost, and in the process of strapping it to her back, he discovers it isn’t an it at all.

“That’s a baby,” he hisses, nearly dropping the thing in panic.

“Of course he is.” She turns her head over her shoulder, mouth matching the baby’s disgruntled pout. “What did you think he was?”

Evidence of a mental illness, he doesn’t say, settling instead for, “There, all snug now. Now will you let me boost you up?”

And for the fourth, well…there’s something left to be desired in their reception, too.

“What are you thinking?” Torou squeaks, fingers tights as iron bands where they grip his arm. “You meet a girl covered in blood, and you think we should bring her in on the take?”

“I think we should hear her out at least,” he says, watching the girl linger by the kitchen fire. “Let her warm up a little. Maybe get her a new dress?”

What’s she’s got clings to her in all the wrong places, too stiff and crusted to seem like a second skin, but molded to her in a way that suggest it’ll feel like one when she pulls it off. Torou doesn’t miss it either, a breath huffing out as her arms cross over her chest.

“Fine. One dress.” She casts the girl a long look. “And one night. We can hear what she has to say, but if I don’t like it…”

Her thumb hitches over her shoulder. “That’s all I ask.”

*

“Oh…” There’s a chair drawn up before the fire— he’d dragged it there himself while he waited, not quite sure why he bothered. At least, not until the girl sinks down into it with a sigh, stretching out her legs until the joints crack. “Feels like I haven’t done that in ages.”

The baby’s still in her arms, sleeping now, small face tucked up against her chest. It— he grunts every breath or so, little frown furrowing deeper with each one, an old man’s face writ in smaller lines. It doesn’t seem possible for someone to be that tiny, to be that new and be out in the world with only a few scraps of cloth to keep him safe.

“Ah, I don’t mean to be rude, but…” Her head tilts back to look at him, hair shining penny-bright in the firelight. “Do you happen to have some…something to eat?”

Torou glances at him, unimpressed, before telling her, “There’s some stew I can warm up. Bit of bread too, if you don’t mind it’s a bit stale.”

“Oh!” Her breath hitches. “That…that would be quite enough, thank you. I don’t have anything to pay you, but I’m sure I could, um…?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Obi tells her, feeling the weight of the purse at his belt. “It’s on the house.”

There’s not a drop of noble blood running through Torou’s veins— neither of them; if he knows one thing, it’s that for sure— but she could give the finest countess a run for her money with the arch on her brow now, a look so loud he practically hears, ‘Oh, is it now?’ echoing in his ears. He gives her a charming smile, his best, and only budges that brow a bit higher.

“On…?” The girl’s cheeks flush, not perched all pretty on the apples of her cheeks, the way a prince’s mistress should, but splotchy like a farmer’s daughter. Not ideal for running this grift, but beggars can’t be choosers. Not like vengeful ghosts were given to be bashful anyway. “The kindness is appreciated, but I couldn’t presume to…” Her head shakes, though he doesn’t miss her glance toward the pot, all hunger. “This is a place of business.”

Between one blink and the next, Torou changes; stubborn giving way to surprise, then gives way to a different sort of stubborn. She’s already reaching for a trencher when he says, “Seems a fair exchange to me, miss…for a name.”

She hesitates now, one arm squeezing tighter on the babe, shoulders hunched as if her slight body could protect him from anything more substantial than a breeze. “…Shirayuki.”

He mouths the name, oddly familiar on his lips. A nice one, even if it doesn’t come with a last name to match. Not all do, where he’s from. He certainly doesn’t have one to give. “And him?”

She’s more eyes than face— probably even was even before that babe of hers pulled every last scrap of life from her it could— and all of it glances down to the bundle in her arms, a pink, wrinkled face pouting out from the swaddle. “I…” Her voice is so soft he hardly hears it over the scrape of the ladle. “I don’t know yet.”

Torou bustles over to her, thrusting the bowl between them. “Not going to name him after the father?”

It’s a cheap ploy, but an effective one. The sort they’ve made their bread and butter on for years, spooling out reason and rumor alike from the townsfolk they fleece, using every last thread of it to weave their grift. Except on this girl— this Shirayuki— there’s no crying or raging, no nothing. Just a tightening of her mouth and a small furrow carving itself between her brows.

“I don’t think,” she says, so carefully, tightening the makeshift swaddle around him, “that would be a good idea.”

Torou’s mouth goes a little pinched too. “You can’t eat and hold that thing. Here,” she says, holding out her arms. “Let me take him. Just for a minute.”

The girl shrinks back, eyes measuring the distance between Torou’s outstretched hands and the door. Whatever number she gets can’t be compelling.

“Listen,” Torou sighs, cocking a hip. “If he’s going to eat, you got to too, right? Can’t do that without both hands.”

Obi’s mouth twitches. “Unless you want me to feed you, Miss. I’d be happy to serve on bended knee, if only you said—”

The girl can’t get the babe into Torou’s arms fast enough. “Thank you.”

Her mouth twitches, meeting the babe’s eyes. “Don’t mention it.”

*

“Tell me you aren’t thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Torou mutters, jogging the baby boy up on her shoulder. He’s fussing quiet-like, not enough chest to make the full-bodied shrieks a bigger babe could, but he’s grunting— whimpering, really— nosing around Torou’s neck like if he roots hard enough, he might find his mother.

He holds up his hands, the picture of innocence. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“You don’t got to tell me that.” Her gaze darts over to where the girl sits, digging into her stew slowly, methodically even, but still— there’s an intensity to it. An urgency. Probably can’t remember the last time she ate, but she’d rather die than give that away. He’s seen it before— hell, done it before. “But I mean under all that not thinking. Tell me you’re not going to…”

There’s no need to say the words, not when they both know— “She’s perfect.”

“Are you nuts?” she hisses, so close to shrill he nearly shushes her. The baby does it instead, whining into her shoulder, little limbs jerking where he rests. A hand to the back soothes him, but Torou still glares, so tense that mane of hers nearly stands on end. “We don’t know anything about her.”

“Come on.” His charm might be wasted on Torou, but reason wouldn’t be. “This isn’t like our other jobs. These people actually knew the girl. We can’t just stuff you in a nightgown and hope for the best.”

“And what’s to say she’s got the look anymore than I do?” she sniffs, chin taking it most stubborn angle. “Sure, you found her in that creepy old pile. Sure, she was covered in blood. That’s doesn’t make her…her…”

She glances down at the kid, strangely pale— and even more strangely silent.

“Look at her. She’s so thin you can practically see through her. Put her under the moonlight with that bloody dress and even I thought she could be…” He clears his throat. “Red hair too. Not easy to find in these parts.”

Though he could have sworn he saw it recently. Not as apple-bright as this, but still, something close. Kissing-cousins. Family.

“You can dye hair,” Torou mutters, but there’s no heat behind it. No conviction. He’s got her hooked, now he’s just got to reel her in.

“To that color?” His shoulder bumps her, drawing a gurgle from that sleepy baby throat. “Come on, it’s not like we have better plans. What’s the harm?”

Torou stiffens, a palm absently rubbing over the baby’s back. “What if you’re right?”

He blinks. “What?”

“What if…?” She licks her lips. “What if this isn’t a coincidence?”

A scoff escapes him before he can catch it, which means he has to commit. “You can’t really think she’s the mistress, can you? Torou, you—?”

“I know what I saw,” she growls, voice pitched low. “She was cursed, Obi. And no one knows why! What if…what if they find out she’s awake and—”

“Torou.” His hand weighs heavy on her shoulder, trying to ground her, to recognize it’s earth under her feet. “We make up all our grifts! There’s never been a vengeful ghost, or a werewolf, or a…a cursed princess. They’ve all been parts you play!”

She shakes her head, all eyes when she looks up at him. “But the best lie has a grain of truth in it. What if…what if we’ve finally found ours?”

Obi frowns down at her, a strange sense of dread knotting in his gut. “We know what this world can do, don’t we? And if it could do something like that…”

Then maybe it wouldn’t be just the two of them. Or maybe they wouldn’t be here at all. A little bit of magic could change everything, once a body started to believe.

“We’ve made a mint making other people fools,” Torou says finally. “But I’m telling you, Obi. If we get involved with this girl, we’ll be the bigger ones.”

He’d love to get the last word in on that one, to tell her she’s just being as gullible as their marks, but he can’t get a peep out, not when the little man on her should rears back his head and wails.

“Oh!” There’s only the trencher left in the girl’s hands when she turns back, already half-eaten. “He must be hungry.”

It’s Obi that lifts him from Torou’s shoulder, letting a grin tilt his lips. “Hey, Miss,” he starts, patting the little guy on his back. “Tell me if you’ve heard this one before…”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #sleeping beauty au #my fic #age of reason #ans #okay this was supposed to be 4/4 with a potential for more #but it looks like it's more like 4/5 with a potential for more #but we have finally reached the end of the fics I owe for this year #well except the do-si-do stuff #almost onto the ones for next year. OH BOY 🤣 #no rest for the wicked

[maros130]

#yardromance #trainyard #rsa_theyards #nightrails #railway #railroad #railpassion #200mm #pentacon200 #lights and shadows #trackside #lights #nightphoto #nightshot #nightphotography #cityscape #Budapest #photographyart #hobbyphoto

[allegoricalstudio]

In love with this city 🌆 . . . www.allegoricalstudio.com Link in Bio . . . #allegorical_photos #londonphotographer #londonvideographer #photography #photographers #londonphotographer #canarywharf #london🇬🇧 #eastlondon #battersea #chelsea #nightphotography #nightrail #nightshooters #capitalshooters #uk #beautifullights #longexposure #longexposurephotography #longexpoelite #longexpo_addiction #classicshot #bigben #elizabethtower @metro.co.uk @londondecanted @londondisclosure @london_gurus @its_so_london @uk.spinners @uk.shooters @london_metropolis (at Big Ben Tower, London) https://www.instagram.com/p/CbKDUx4sJyV/?utm_medium=tumblr

#allegorical_photos #londonphotographer #londonvideographer #photography #photographers #canarywharf #london🇬🇧 #eastlondon #battersea #chelsea #nightphotography #nightrail #nightshooters #capitalshooters #uk #beautifullights #longexposure #longexposurephotography #longexpoelite #longexpo_addiction #classicshot #bigben #elizabethtower

[middleearthpixie]

More Than Meets the Eye ~ Chapter Forty-Four

Author's Note: I'm still getting over being sick (currently have just about no voice) and will have a houseful of people soon, so I probably won't be able to update tomorrow. 💜

Summary: Life with a newborn is utterly exhausting for both Arielle and Thorin and they find adjusting a bit more difficult than anticipated

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Arielle (Elen) Farran (female OC)

Characters: Arielle, Thorin, Dwalin, Bard

Rating: T

Warnings: Screaming baby, exhausted parents

Word Count: 3,861

Khuzdal Translation:

mimûna - little one (f)

Raklûn - precious, darling one

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @kibleedibleedoo @xxbyimm @ocfairygodmother @exhausted-humxn-being @shalinizhara @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover

Previous chapters can be found here and on AO3

In the coming days, Arielle and Tiriana were bombarded with visitors, and she couldn’t help but smile as she watched Thorin show off their daughter. He was the proudest of fathers, and far more nervous about letting anyone too close to Tiriana than Arielle was. Word spread of the new princess’ arrival and as it did, gifts rolled in from what seemed like all of the realms of Middle Earth.

Of course, life with a newborn meant sleepless nights and as the first few weeks ground on, Arielle was quite certain she was never going to sleep a full night again. The same time every night, Tiriana would fuss in her cradle at the foot of her parents’ bed.

The wail woke Arielle from her already restless sleep and she threw back the quilts as she whispered, “I’m coming, mimûna. I’m coming.”

But patience was not Tiriana’s strong suit and she let out a scream loud enough that Thorin stirred, lifting his head to grunt, “Wha—?”

“I’ve got her.” Arielle drew on her robe, skirting the bed to bend over the cradle. Thorin grunted something unintelligible and dropped back to the pillows. A moment later, his snores echoed in her ears. Well, at least one of them slept.

“Shhh…” she murmured, stroking Tiriana’s silky dark hair to calm her. It worked to a point, but by the time Arielle sank into the chair and loosened her nightrail, Tiriana was screaming once more.

Those cries quieted as she went to work and Arielle bit back a wince at the sharp sting that accompanied her daughter’s latching on. It wasn’t quite as bad as it had been, and Narnerra assured her it would lessen further in the coming days, but it still made for several uncomfortable minutes. But then, once they were both settled, a sense of peace crept over Arielle. She leaned back, and patted the baby’s bottom as she whispered, “I do look forward to you sleeping through the night, raklûn.”

Tiriana’s eyes closed as she nursed and when she pushed away, it was with a little coo that made Arielle forget how tired she was, if only for a moment. She lifted the baby to her shoulder, patting her back gently until she burped.

When Tiriana was finished, she gazed up at Arielle with sleepy blue eyes and Arielle was struck by how much she looked like Thorin. His dark hair. His blue eyes. His nose. “You are every bit your papa’s girl, aren’t you?” she murmured, tracing a fingertip along Tiriana’s cheek.

The baby stared up at her so intently, it was as if she absolutely understood what her mother was saying. Then, she smiled, which melted Arielle’s heart immediately.

That faded quickly enough, however, when Arielle went to place Tiriana back in her cradle. Tiriana scrunched about, whimpered, then began to cry as Arielle slipped back beneath the quilts. Arielle lay there for a minute more, hoping the baby would just give in and go to sleep.

It wasn’t meant to be.

Thorin lifted his head again, mumbling, “Baby’s crying,” in a thick voice before dropping back into his pillow.

“I am well aware of that, Thorin.” She let out a sigh as she sat up once more.

“I’ll get up with her,” came his mumbled reply.

For a moment, she considered taking him up on it, but he had to be up and out early to meet with Bard in Dale before they ventured to Esgaroth. “No,” she patted his shoulder, “I’ll get her.”

“Thank Mahal…”

She scowled at him as she slid to the edge of the bed. Tiri’s cries grew louder as she lost her patience with both of her parents. Swallowing an annoyed sigh, Arielle pulled on her robe once more and got up, then lifted Tiri from her cradle again.

The baby quieted as Arielle padded into the living room, but when she sank onto the sofa, the cries started up again. So, she slowly padded about the room, rocking and shushing Tiri until she quieted down. A glance down to see the baby’s eyes closed, her fist tucked up against her cheek, and Arielle tried sitting once more.

It wasn’t meant to be.

No matter how soundly asleep Tiri appeared to be, the moment Arielle stopped moving, she’d begin crying. Her eyes burning with fatigue and her legs only barely obeying her, Arielle spent the night lapping the furniture, trying to keep herself awake by reminiscing about her first few days in Erebor, when Thorin’s apartments were a mostly forbidden realm at the time.

She remembered when Dis first escorted her inside Erebor, toward those apartments,

“Oh, no. Not his sons. Mine.” Dis smiled. “Thorin is my brother, Elen, not my husband. Oh, the very idea makes me shudder! I cannot imagine a woman alive who would put up with my brother for more than a night or two. He’d drive her mad. Now,” she began down the staircase, “come along and I’ll show you to his chambers and then yours.”

She’d been a bit unsettled by Dis’ declaration of her brother driving a woman mad. Of course, Dis knew him well enough and although he didn’t drive Arielle too mad, he certainly knew how to when he wished.

“Good. Now, I know some kings are fussy about people not looking them in the eye or not speaking unless spoken to, but Thorin has no rules about either. But, you should be warned, he tends to fall on the grumpy side of life more often than not, and when his mood is sour, it’s best to simply blend into the background. He’s fair, and fairly rational, but it’s still best to stay beyond arm’s reach. And I feel I should also warn you, he wasn’t exactly keen on hiring a valet, but had to be—ah—bullied into it because he’s really a bit of a mess when it comes to taking care of himself. If he had his way, he’d wear the same clothes for a month and would never remember to restock soap.”

The image that had come to her mind then made her laugh now. Thorin was not a man who would wear the same clothes for a month and he certainly didn’t mind being clean. Although he could return from the forges or from Dale or Esgaroth in need of a bath, she also rather liked when he was a bit on the muskier side. Somehow, she didn’t think there would ever come a day when she wouldn’t want him, period.

And of course, the first time she saw him was forever etched into her mind.

As he drew near, Arielle went from willing her heart to remain at its normal pace and instead fought with her eyes to not stare at him.

It was a losing battle, for this was the first time she’d ever seen him up close.

He was, in a word, gorgeous.

He was taller than his sister, which made him almost the same height as Arielle, and like Dis, he also had long, wavy dark hair, but in the low light of the corridor, she couldn’t tell if his was black or not. She thought it might be, but again, lack of light made a definitive guess impossible.

His eyes were blue. A beautiful blue that contrasted perfectly with the thick black lashes around them and the heavy dark brows above them. Unlike Dis, his beard was not quite as long, nor did it have any ornaments woven into it, although it was full and just as dark as the hair spilling over his shoulders.

His hair was black. Streaked with silver. His eyes were the most beautiful shade of blue. He’d passed his dark hair and those beautiful blue eyes on to his daughter, who now slept peacefully in her mother’s arms. If only she would stay asleep.

Arielle lost track of time, bumping into the edge of the table, the arm of the sofa, and when Thorin stumbled out of their room, he said, “Have you been up all night, mesmel?” she wanted to cry.

“Yes,” she managed, her eyes stinging. “Every time I sat down, she fussed.”

He reached for Tiri. “Let me take her, and you go get some sleep. You look spent.”

“You have to go into Dale.”

“I can take her with me.”

She managed to open her eyes wide enough to give him a long look. “And are you going to nurse her as well?”

“Oh.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Oh.”

He rubbed one eye. “You should have woken me.”

“You have things to do today.”

“I’d have gotten up.”

“Thorin.”

He stepped back, holding both hands up. “All I can do is walk the floors with her, Arielle. But I can’t if you don’t wake me. So, next time—”

“And risk something happening because you’ve been up all night? No, thank you.”

“Don’t be foolish. Nothing is going to happen to me. You need to get some sleep.”

“Well, I would, if your daughter would but let me!”

“Arielle, I’m trying to help, you know.”

“I don’t need help.” To her horror, her voice cracked and her eyes flooded with tears. “I need more than five minutes of sleep!”

“So wake me next time!”

“Why should I have to wake you when you are right there? You are her father!”

“I know! And I told you I’d get up with her. So, which is it? Do you want me to get up or do you not want me to get up because you aren’t even making sense any more!”

“Because I have never been as tired as I am right now because even if I could get some sleep, I’d still have to get up every two hours because that’s when she wants to nurse and you certainly can’t nurse her so it’s pointless to wake you up and go back to sleep to have you wake me up ten minutes later because it isn’t that she just doesn’t want to sleep but she’s hungry once more and the only time I even get to sit is when she wants to nurse and even that isn’t restful because do you have any idea how much nurser her hurts, because it is—”

“Arielle.”

“Oh, go jump in the lake!” She spun about as Tiriana began crying once more, and stomped out of the living room, slamming the bedchamber door behind her, which made Tiriana scream even louder.

Arielle sagged back against the door, tears spilling over her lower lashes to streak along her cheeks as she tried to get Tiriana to stop crying. “Please, mimûna, please, for the love of Mahal, stop crying!”

That only made the baby scream louder, which in turn made Arielle cry harder as she set Tiriana in her cradle and sank to the floor beside it. Her entire body shook from the force of her sobs, and no matter how she tried, she couldn’t calm herself.

The door opened and without a sound, Thorin sank beside her, wrapping her in his arms to pull her against him. “Shhh… mesmel… it will be all right. This will pass. It will…”

“She hates me, Thorin. She just hates me and I don’t know why and I don’t know what to do and all I want is to ask my mother why my daughter hates me so much, only I can’t because my mother isn’t here for me to ask so all I can do is fumble through it on my own and I’ve mucked it all up and now she hates me and you’re angry with me and I can’t even—”

“No,” he murmured, rocking her gently, pressing a kiss into the top of her head, “she doesn’t hate you, mesmel. She doesn’t. Why would she? You are still learning how to do this. I’m still learning. And she’s learning as well. See? She’s quiet now, amrâlimê. She’s quiet.”

She buried her head against him, swiping at one eye as she said, “I am so tired, Thorin… I feel as if I’m going mad from being so tired.”

“So, let’s bring in some help. Someone to watch her for a while so you can take a nap or go for a walk or just sit somewhere in the sun.”

She shook her head, which pounded now from the force of her crying. “I—I don’t know… I can’t make any decisions right now… I just can’t.”

“Then don’t.” He held her away, curving a hand against her cheek, his thumb moving to wipe away a lingering tear. “It will be all right, Arielle. I promise you it will.”

She swallowed hard. Her ears were plugged. Her nose ran. She was a disaster, her hair a mess of tangles about her shoulders. She never felt more disheveled in her entire life. “I miss my mother,” she whispered, tucking her head against his chest once more. “She would know what to do.”

He sighed softly, leaning back against the foot of their bed. “You could talk to Dis. She’s been through this twice.”

“What time is it? You should probably—”

“I’ll go when I go. No one will care if I’m late. It’s one of the advantages of being the blasted king.”

She managed a slight smile, which was ruined by a yawn. He kissed the top of her head, untangled himself from her, and stood to pull her to her feet. Then, he scooped her up in his arms and moved about to set her in bed. “Get some sleep. When I return, we will discuss getting you help.”

Her eyes slid shut of their own and she barely had the energy to nod. He brushed a hand over her forehead, along her hair, then bent and brushed her lips with his. “Sleep while you can. I will return as soon as I can.”

“I will. Be careful.”

“Always.”

And with that, he was gone, the door closing noiselessly behind him. Not quite a minute later, she was sound asleep.

Thorin rubbed his eyes and tried once more to read the contract Bard rolled out onto the table before him.

“Is everything all right, Thorin?”

He let his hand fall to his thigh as he let out a low chuckle. “My daughter isn’t all that fond of sleeping and my wife is utterly spent with walking the floors with her.”

Bard nodded. ‘I’ve been there. My wife and I didn’t sleep at the same time for five years.”

Thorin could only stare at him. “Five—five years?”

“I kid.” Bard leaned back in his chair. “Surely the King Under the Mountain can bring in a nanny for his daughter to give his wife a break.”

“He can, yes. But his wife will kill him if he does it without talking it over with her.” Now he rubbed his face with both hands. “In all honesty, how did you manage it?”

“Patience. It’s all you can do.”

“I was afraid you say that.”

“It will pass. How old is the baby now?”

“Almost four weeks.”

“Another month or two and she should start sleeping through the night.”

“That will not comfort Arielle, I’m afraid. She’s at her wit’s end.” Thorin looked down at the contract once more. “And I need to get back, so let me take this and have Balin look it over and I’ll return with it come the morning.”

“Very well.”

“The construction is coming along nicely on Esgaroth. Tell me, has anyone ventured into the lake to try to retrieve any of the gems from Smaug?”

Bard shook his head. “No, and I don’t believe anyone will. There are some who think he is just biding his time and will rise from the lake and destroy the town once more.”

Thorin narrowed his eyes. “They do know he’s dead, right?”

“They are a bit superstitious.”

“Just as bit.” Thorin rolled up the parchment and slipped the dark blue ribbon back around it. “Well, if there’s nothing else you need me for, I’ll be on my way.” He looked over at Dwalin, who’d accompanied him to Dale. “Ready to make your way back?”

Dwalin nodded. “Aye.”

Bard rose and held out a hand. “Good luck with the baby, Thorin. And tell the queen it will pass faster than she thinks. Trust me.”

“I don’t think it would be wise for me to tell her than right now.” Thorin moved toward the door. “I will have my head handed to me for my trouble.”

“Well, it will. Remember that. I will see you tomorrow.”

Thorin bobbed his head and he and Dwalin headed out. As they made their way along Dale’s main street, Dwalin said, “Baby not sleeping, eh?”

“It’s been the longest four weeks of my life,” Thorin admitted softly, rubbing his face with both hands once more.

“Whyn’t we stop and grab a pint before heading back? Ye look as if ye could use one.”

Thorin hesitated. On one hand, Arielle had been in Erebor all day with the baby, and he had no way of knowing if she sough out Dis and her wisdom. On the other, one pint certainly wouldn’t kill him and he hadn’t told her when he’d be back.

And truth be told, he wasn’t quite ready to deal with a screaming infant just yet.

Guilt flashed through him. He adored his daughter and would step in front of a blade or arrow for her, but he was also tired, and the peace and quiet he’d always craved were in short supply ever since Tiriana’s birth.

He nodded. “A fine idea.”

They ducked into Miller’s Pub, and he smiled, remembering the night of the fair, when he practically carried a completely foxed Arielle back to her chambers, and spent the night with her cuddled up against him. She should only know how he’d watched her sleep that night, wishing he could take her in his arms and kiss her awake. Of course, he did kiss her later that next morning, and it was the beginning of the adventure that led them to where they were now, and led to the beautiful little girl who drove them both mad with her refusal to sleep at night.

“Ye look beat, Thorin. Worn out. Ye remind me of when we first came here, and the dragon sickness got hold of you.”

Thorin sank onto a stool and smiled at the barmaid who came over to them. “I felt better then, truth be told.”

“What’ll ye have, loves?”

They each ordered a tankard of ale and as the barmaid bounced off, Dwalin’s eyes narrowed. “How’s Arielle coping?”

“She’s dead on her feet half the time. Do you know how unreasonable an infant is?”

“Can’t say I do, no.”

“She refuses to sleep unless one of us walks the floor with her.”

“And by one of you, you mean—”

“Arielle, of course. She doesn’t wake me if I don’t wake on my own and when I offer to get up, she tells me no. Most of the time, the baby is just hungry, and she’s right, I’m less than useless in that case.”

The barmaid brought them their drinks. “Enjoy, loves!”

“Thorin?”

His back stiffened at the familiar purr of Belle Caisys’ voice, and he turned to see her approaching from the doorway. “Miss Caisys? What brings you to Dale? I thought you’d returned to Ered Luin?”

“I did, for a while, but then I met someone and he lives here, so…”

As she neared them, he couldn’t help but stare. Her nose was crooked, thanks to Arielle’s well-placed punch. It also looked a little flatter as well. His wife threw an impressive punch, apparently. “Well, it’s nice to see you and good luck.”

He turned back to Dwalin, who offered up a narrowed-eye stare to Miss Caisys. “Ye can go now, lassie.”

“I beg your pardon?” She turned her phony smile to him. “But I am not speaking to you, am I? I am talking to your king.”

Thorin sighed. “What do you want, Miss Caisys? It’s late, and we were just on our way out in a few minutes.”

“I wanted to catch up with an old friend, is all.” She dragged over another high-backed stool and climbed into it. Then, covering his hand with hers, she said, “So, how have you been?”

“He’s been married,” Dwalin broke in. “And his wife just had a beautiful little girl not quite a month ago.”

Thorin tightened his hold on his tankard as she turned back to him. “You married your valet, then? The half-breed?”

His fingers went white about the tankard’s handle. “If you are referring to Queen Arielle, I would remind you what I said the last time you thought to insult her this way.”

“But… I thought that was all just a wild rumor…” She stared up at him. “You truly married her?”

“Nearly six months ago, yes. And we had our first child not quite a month ago.”

Miss Caisys blanched. “A—a child?”

“Yes. Arielle and I have a little girl.”

“Do—do you have a picture of her?”

He nodded. “I do, actually. Ori drew it.” He reached into the pocket of his tunic and withdrew the compact he carried with him. Flipping it open, he gazed down. On one side, was a drawing Ori had done of Arielle, sitting in the courtyard behind Erebor. On the other side, was the drawing of Tiriana in her mother’s arms. Both drawings were almost life-like in their realism, their subjects looking as if they could step out from the parchment at any given moment.

He turned the folio toward Miss Caisys, whose eyes went wide and whose jaw dropped ever so slightly. “She is beautiful, Thorin. She looks just like you.”

“I think she looks more like Arielle, but thank you.” He folded it and slipped it back into his pocket. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’d rather go home now.”

With that, he eased from his stool, dropped a handful of coins on the table and said, “I will see you later, Dwalin.”

“No, you’ll see me now.” He also threw coins on the table, bobbed his head at Miss Caisys and said, “Excuse us.”

Thorin didn’t bother with farewells, but strode from the pub out int the fading sunlight, and as Dwalin caught up with him, he said, “Why the hurry to leave so suddenly?”

Thorin glanced over at him. “Arielle has been with the baby all day. The least I can do is get home to give her some help. Did you not hear me when I said she’s half-dead on her feet. I should be there, not in some pub.”

“Perhaps ye need a nanny.”

“I suggested it and Arielle was less than thrilled about the notion. Narnerra has said Tiri should start sleeping through the night sometimes in the next month or so, but there is no guarantee of that, either.”

“Oy. Yer in for a long few weeks then, aren’t ye?”

“Don’t remind me.”

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #AUJ #Thorin Fic #Everybody Lives AU #Is it hot in here? #Woman in Disguise

[vivilove-jonsa]

Chapter 21- Mine...

It’s his bedroom but he still knocks.

“Come in.”

She’s standing in the middle of the room when he enters, her hands clasped together, but he can see she’s brought a few of her personal items in with her for the night, including a nightrail he hopes to convince her to forgo for a few hours.

“I’m sorry I’m not ready for you,” she say tremulously when she realizes it’s him.  “I rang for Kyra but she hasn’t-”

For all her teasing earlier at table, she’s nervous.  He’s expected that.  He means to calm her as best he can.  “I know.  I told Kyra I would see to your needs.  I had hoped you’d allow me to play lady’s maid tonight, wife.”

She smiles at him naming her ‘wife’ and blushes at his suggestion.  "You may attend me, sir.”  She starts to turn but then frowns.  “But do you know what to do?”

He smirks, lifts an eyebrow and gives her a look.  “To what precisely are you referring, Mrs. Targaryen?”

#jonsa fanfic #jonsa #vivilove-jonsa fic #regency au

[taradiddled]

Hanne, the first four months of her marriage: Although King Elliott shares my bed from time to time, I hold little esteem for him as my husband.

Hanne, at the same time: *spends an hour on her hair and makeup, puts on earrings, changes her nightrail five times, rearranges the pillows on the bed for the sixth time...*

*Elliott arrives*

Hanne, posed on the bed, immaculate, perfection, giving her husband a bored look, as if she didn't just spend ten minutes trying out different poses: Oh. It's you.

#hanne and elliott #helsa #genderbend

[majorarc]

When Gwyn woke that morning, it was to find that Catrin had once again worked her way between Gwyn and Cedrych sometime during the night. At least she was lying with her arms tucked in, allowing Gwyn the pleasant occurrence of not waking to find a bony elbow digging into her gut.

Cedrych was, miraculously, still asleep, curled around his daughter and his wife, one arm stretched across Catrin’s side to reach Gwyn’s hip. Gwyn could feel the warm brush of her husband’s fingertips through the thin fabric of her nightrail, and it brought a happy tingling sensation down in her belly.

#Gwyn & Cedrych

[jomiddlemarch]

Writing Pattern Game

Thank you so much for tagging me, @tortoisesshells

Rules: Share the first line of your last ten published works or as many as you are able and see if there are any patterns!

“I beg your forgiveness, but you aren’t supposed to be here, milord,” you said, making sure to use the most formal inflection in your address, as if you were properly attired for court instead of wearing a heavy wool mantel belted over your nightrail, your uncovered hair loosely secured in a single long plait instead of woven into the coronet currently in vogue. ("arms that carry answers for me")

Alina was fairly certain that kindergarten pickup was actually a level of Hell. ("Alina and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day")

The ballroom was grand, lit with a vast quantity of candles so that it shone bright as a summer’s noon, but the two women spoke as if they were concealed by a moonless midnight’s shadows. ("The Duchess and the Diamond")

33 hours, 2009 miles, 27 Chicken McNuggets, 2 mint Oreo Blizzards, one ill-fated round of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall. ("let's call this a win-win")

“And this is Captain Miller,” Mary said, keeping her voice low. ("the better part of valor")

“Your mother loved you,” Joel said. ("They do become more real")

“So, you never take it off? Like never never?” Barbie said. ("When two great forces oppose each other")

“You know, there was a time I was never sad,” Barbie said. "(that power looks so good on you")

If either she or Joel had been more than a mediocre cook at best, it might have been a sacrifice to let Ted have full command of their kitchen. ("but simply an irrevocable condition")

From experience, Grace knew they had Ellie for about twenty solid minutes. ("there are shadows because there are hills")

Patterns

I don't think there are very strong patterns here but 50% of the time, I start with someone talking and the majority of the time, I open with the main character POV. Every once in a while, I begin with a hugely long sentence, replete with clauses, though this is usually either to evoke a 19th century novel vibe OR for humorous effect.

Tagging @aquitainequeen @nervousladytraveler @amarguerite @trulybetty @ladamedusoif @kivrin @oldshrewsburyian and anyone else who feels like perusing their back catalog. I have purposely not tagged anyone who's posted recently about writer's block or concerns about productivity/feeling stuck, but if you feel like this could help unstuck you, have at it!

#writing #first sentences #fanfic writers

[lilibetts]

for Tricks and Treats of Riverdale Theme # whichever freaking one involves spooky shit like possession or whatever.

“So, what are you going to be for Halloween, Jughead?”

It was the question Jughead dreaded the most, especially coming from Betty. 

He had just gotten an afterschool job at the Twilight Drive-In and he’d been working as many hours as he possibly could on top of school and babysitting Jellybean to afford costumes for both of them. But then it turned out they were behind on the phone bill, so he spent most of his money to make sure it was paid up through the next month.

“Uh, it’s a surprise. What about you, Betty? Are you going as Nancy Drew again this year?”

She bit her lip and looked down at her shoes. “No, I decided to change things up now that we’re in high school. So I’m going as a medieval princess, kind of like Game of Thrones but not character-specific.”

Jughead was sure her choice had absolutely nothing to do with how last month Archie had announced he was going as a medieval knight. Then their indecisive friend had changed his mind and picked Spider-Man after Veronica Lodge wouldn’t stop waxing poetic about how yummy Tom Holland was.

“Cool. I guess I’ll see you later tonight?”

“You’d better!” Betty chirped, pontytail swishing violently as she skipped away. She didn’t mean that as anything more than her usual staunch commitment to kindness and friendship. And Betty was friendly with virtually everyone. Jughead sighed miserably as he watched her turn off towards her home.

Ah, the pangs of unrequited love.

He had been living with his crush on Betty Cooper for the better part of four months, which was an eternity in the timespan of a fourteen-slash-fifteen year old boy. And he’d keep living with his crush until it granted him mercy and faded. Or he died of old age. 

Whichever came first.

******************************

Betty stood before her bed, staring down at the costume she’d bought when she thought she would complement Archie’s own, and felt monumentally stupid. What if Archie hadn’t changed his mind and she showed up in this medieval princess gown? She’d look obvious. Everyone would be snickering behind her back about Betty Cooper and her pathetic crush on Archie Andrews.

There was no way she could do this.

Pulling down the ladder, Betty headed up into the attic and started going through the boxes, looking for something radically different that she could pull together at the last minute. It was in an old trunk of her mom’s that she found it: a black leather jacket. It was the last thing she expected her mom to have ever owned but her curiosity was dashed by the figurative lightbulb going off above her head. 

“Yes!” 

Back there, on the clothes rack, there’d been...yes, Polly’s Homecoming dress from last year! It was long, just a shade off-white, and perfect.

Crushes made teenage girls do stupid things, that was true, but that only made moments of determined defiance like this all the more sweeter.

**********************************

“That...is not a medieval princess.”

Jughead took in her outfit with raised eyebrows.

“Well spotted, Jughead.” She smiled even as she rolled her eyes at him. “For your information I am Buffy the Vampire Slayer. It’s actually perfect because her name is Buffy Anne and Buffy is a variation of Elizabeth and—”

“—and your middle name is Ann.”

“I didn’t think you remembered my middle name, Juggie.”

“Well I do. Not much escapes this steel trap here.” He rapped his knuckles against his forehead. “Interesting prop you have there, Buffy Cooper.”

She held the wooden stake aloft. “I didn’t have a crossbow lying around, but I did find enough in the garage to fashion myself a stake.” Then she looked him up and down. “You do look rather dashing, Sir Juggie.”

She didn’t mention that his costume had been Archie’s first, one of the many acts of charity from the Andrews family. He was mostly grateful that Betty had changed hers, so that he didn’t seem obviously, pathetically in love with her by matching. 

They were two years too young for couples costumes.

And y’know...not actually together.

************************************

Betty wasn’t entirely aware of it happening. One moment, she was laughing and crossing the street with Jughead, Archie, and Veronica, surrounded by dozens of other trick-or-treaters, the next she was holding her stake at the ready and keeping a careful eye on the four year-old vampire hissing as he ran at a shrieking fairy. 

She managed to fly away and the baby vamp’s mother grabbed ahold of him. “I VANT TO SUCK YOUR BLOOD! I VANT! I VANT!” He screeched as he kicked and struggled in vain to free himself.

A woman stood in the middle of the street, hysterically crying as she cradled a giant halved avocado. 

Demons, small skeletons, and ghouls of all sorts were running after confused and terrified adults, only for their attacks to be thwarted by a legion of mini superheros. A tiny Captain America with a star-spangled tutu flung her shield at a troll and knocked it out cold.

A bear wearing a blue-and-gold letterman jacket charged down the street and the strange boy crouched next to her...who was apparently Spider-Man...leaped away, slinging webs at the houses as he went. The bear continued to chase him and so Buffy shrugged and turned her attention to the zombies lumbering at a group of scared parents.

No sooner had she slammed one down into the concrete than a dashing knight with a black and gold cape and a sword came to her rescue and dispatched the second zombie. The third found himself floating in the air helplessly while a raven-haired girl with glasses, some kind of private-school uniform, and a purple/black tie pointed a wand at it.

Buffy spun her stake with her fingers and addressed the dark-haired knight wearing, of all things, a gray crown beanie. “Thanks. I’m not usually the damsel type, even if I’m frequently distressed. But if knights in shining armor look like you, then feel free to rescue me anytime.”

“You wouldn’t need to ask, my lady.” The knight bowed low. “If I may ask, what are you called?”

“Me? I’m Buffy Summers.”

“I wouldn’t dare be so familiar. I shall call you Lady Elizabeth.”

Buffy shrugged. “I don’t think anyone’s ever called me a lady, but sure, let’s go with that. And what do they call you, Mr. Tall, Dark, and Delicious?”

“Prince Forsythe Pendleton Jones, the third.”

She whistled. “Sounds like a mouthful.”

He sheathed his sword and gave her a wink and a charming smile. Butterflies erupted in Buffy’s stomach, and for once, it wasn’t monster-related cramps.

********************

Prince Forsythe could hardly tear his eyes away from the strange woman who looked like a princess and yet fought the droves of warped creatures at his side like a warrior. She was clever and very forward. 

“You know,” she said after sending a werewolf flying into some nearby bushes. “It’s kind of a thing around these parts for two warriors to share a kiss after emerging victorious in battle.”

Very forward.

After growing up around the palace and the constraints upon behavior between men and women, Forsythe found Buf- Lady Elizabeth refreshing. “That could be arranged, my lady.”

He tapped the pommel of his sword against the mangled gray skull of...hell, he didn’t have the faintest clue what that being was. But small as it was, it kept growling and trying to eat someone’s pet dog.

The witch with the indecent dress length stuck her finger in the air. “Merlin’s Beard, I’ve got it! I know who the Dark Lord is that’s casted a spell on all of us! You two, hold them off while I duel with Mr. Honey. You! Ginger girl with the candelabra? Keep on running across the lawns, lead the rest of them away!” 

Forsythe twisted around and spotted the lady with flowing red locks and an elaborate nightrail, rushing across the green holding a three-pronged candlestick aloft. 

Lady Elizabeth turned back to him. “FYI, I better be the only one you’re My Lady-ing, because I’m definitely a one-prince woman.” She executed a peculiar spinning kick that was all lethal grace and a sinister red-horned devil became entangled in an enormous spider’s web.

“Of course!” He shot back, insulted that she would think so low of him. “I’m no scoundrel!”

When Lady Elizabeth smiled at him then, it was as if the dark clouds that always followed him had parted, and there shone the sun.

They dispatched the last of the hostile creatures, with the assistance of other tiny, brightly colored warriors, and one very small princess with no qualms about using her scepter as a hammer.

The battle finished, Forsythe drove his sword into the ground and curled his arms around his Lady Buffy, dipping her backwards in a hard and exuberant kiss.

*****************************

Buffy curled her arms around her prince in gray beanie and kissed him back just as enthusiastically. Had she ever had a kiss like this before? Maybe it’d just been so long because of the pressures of being a Slayer. It was hard to have a normal dating life when you had to vanquish the forces of evil every other week, and then pass pop quizzes. 

His lips were so soft against hers, and she felt the tingling all the way down to her toes. Betty gasped against Jughead’s lips, her head feeling strangely fuzzy all of the sudden.

She froze.

Jughead’s lips?

Her eyes flew open, only to see equally startled blue ones staring back at her.

They sprang apart, gaping at each other as they tried to make sense of what had just happened. Betty wasn’t sure how to feel about this development—maybe she was still half in love with Archie, but right now she didn’t exactly feel horrified that she’d kissed Jughead Jones and liked it. A lot.

Jughead didn’t look grossed out either.

They were still staring at each other when Veronica came storming out of a yellow craftsman house down the street, fuming. “Honestly, if you’re going to go around calling yourself ‘Mr. Honey’ that’s pretty much a giant advertisement that the one thing that’ll defeat you is summoning a spray of vinegar!”

Archie limped over to them, mask in hand and his costume torn in several spots. An embarrassed Moose Mason, shirtless save for his ripped jeans and letterman jacket, was a few paces behind.

**********************************

Jughead was doing his best to not be too hopeful about the shy smiles Betty was shooting his way even as they were joined by their friends. Even Cheryl, who glared at them as she stomped past.

“Oh, Bettykins,” Veronica murmured, hugging her best friend. “I’ll never make fun of you and your love of sleuthing ever again.”

“Vindication!” Betty playfully hissed out.

Archie groaned. “I don’t know about you guys, but I think I’ve had enough of tricks. Let’s go back to mine and treat ourselves to more greasy pizza and fizzy pop.”

Everyone else readily agreed and they started the trek back to the Andrewses. Jughead fished his cell phone out of his pocket and called his mom to check in on her and Jellybean. Both were fine, but his mom was exhausted from chasing ‘Jelly-cat’ all over the Southside.

One block away from Elm street, Betty dropped behind the other three and linked arms with him. Something fluttered in his chest when she grinned over at him.

“So, Prince Forsythe, any regrets about your choice of costume?”

“You know, all things considered, I have to say none at all, Lady Buffy. And you?”

“I don’t know, I have a feeling I’d still have kicked ass as Princess Elizabeth of House Cooper,” she mused.

“No question about it. Shall we, my badass lady? I’ll share a cheese pizza with you.”

“Have more romantic words ever been spoken?” Betty giggled, her arm tightening in his. “Lead on, my brave prince.” 

All in all, it wasn’t that bad of a Halloween. Everyone was mad at the Daeneryses who had ordered their tiny dragons to burn a bunch of the candy (and some houses). The mayor blamed the incident on hallucinogenic drugs being leaked into the water system. Veronica did not handle the lack of recognition for her efforts well. Archie and Moose winced whenever the word ‘bear’ were so much as mentioned. 

And Betty? Starting the following Monday at school, she started waiting at the corner of Dillon and Main for him, so they could walk the rest of the way together. 

Maybe hope wasn’t just for fools after all, even ones named Jughead Jones.

#bughead fanfiction #bughead #riverdaleevents #avarosier writes

[sabraeal]

Age of Reason, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki AU Bingo 2021 Supernatural AU

The looming wrought-iron glares down at him; even choked with briars, it stands as proud as any guard, denying him entrance with a glance. She’d gotten in, she said, and out again even quicker. It’s possible. He just has to find the way.

His shoulders twitch, unimpressed.There’s a reason he wears gloves.

One hand wraps around a twisted bar, and a briar pierces through the leather like it’s paper. He recoils with a hiss, and to his extreme displeasure, the needle comes with him, broken right off near the glove.

He’s had worse splinters-- hell, he’s had worse stabs, but the thing’s hard to find even with the moonlight behind him. His head and shoulders keep falling into the worst angle, casting shadows shadows no matter which way he turns, leaving him to work half blind as he tries to pull it out. It makes it worse of course, each movement of his muscles sends the thing dancing around his palm, probing deeper into his flesh until he tears it out.

These damned gloves are supposed to protect him, but blood coats them still, shimmering black in the moonlight. He gives them a real contemplative look, some real consideration, and then cusses a streak so blue fire would be jealous. Damn that woman. If she’d gotten in, she owes him the professional courtesy of telling him how. He has half a mind to stomp right back to that tavern and shake her till she spills her secrets.

He takes a breath, holds it. It’s fine. This is far from the worst job he’s ever done.

The thing slides across the packed dirt, sand and scree skittering beneath its bare skin. It’s a woman in shape, diaphanous nightrail clinging so scandalously to its curves that wives clap hands over wandering eyes. She would have been a pretty girl in life, but in her undeath, she makes more than a convincing monster.

He stands in the holy circle of the Heavenly Maiden, salt staining his hands, and it hisses at him, back arched like a cat’s. Red stains its front, dribbling from full lips down to soak her gown.

“Kurei!” The name catches on the wind, already torn away. The mayor clutches at his door, lifting a hand to point through his wards. “It’s her-- the demon--”

“I know.” It’s an effort to lift the words out of a deadpan. “She’s no match for me.”

The spirit cocks its head; he knows that angle too well, the one that says, oh you think so? He lifts his shoulders, a subtle shrug. No hard feelings.

Her claws clench in the dirt. Ah, he’ll pay for that little line later. Already he’s at a disadvantage-- a full moon might have shone through, but with a chunk shaved from one side he’s stuck waiting for the wind to hurry it all along while he stands here, stalling.

His breath mists in the night air. Just one of the hazards of the job.

“You’re trapped in here with me, spirit.” In the dark, its hair is coarse, thick and black, rippling with each breath. The perfect hand-hold, should it dare tread close enough. “Your fight is with me!”

He grins as it growls, edging around his circle of salt. It follows, mimicking his movements, it on all fours and him on the balls of his feet. Already his cheek stings-- its limbs are long and strong but he didn’t expect the elbow to be so sharp-- but he doesn’t lift a hand to rub at it. Each moment here is the space between victory and condemnation, and he has none of them to spare.

Finally, the clouds part.

“I have you, beast!” Around him, the circle flares to life, the pure light of the heavens infusing it, glowing with an intensity would blind to those outside it. “Tempus fugit! Sapere aude! Ad meliora!”

For a moment its body leaps into the air, lunging for him, trying to tear his throat, but in the next it’s thrown to the ground, as if grabbed by heaven’s hand itself. With his last words still echoing in the square, the spirit spasms, voice railing to an unholy keen.

“Erat ergo sum! Quid pro quo!” He calls out, shaking holy water over it, black and red spotting her as he washes away its monstrous desires. “Non ducor duco!”

It gives a single, great heave of its body, and suddenly she’s limp, no longer a vengeful spirit but a girl once more. A mere husk that once held life. Mist rises from the circle as he lifts her body, curling coolly around his fingers.

“Caveat.” The night carrying his voice further than any earthy words should-- “Emptor.”

The villagers all peer out their windows, the more daring of them peeking out doors. Now that the danger’s over, everyone wants to see the monster hunter and his prey. He’s heard plenty talk about the noble nature of man, but none of them know the truth-- when fear strips away all else, it’s only cowardice and curiosity that remain.

“Kurei,” creaks the mayor. “What--?”

“It’s over,” he announces. “I must bring the corpse away from here, and bury it.” With a dark look, he adds, “Alone.”

He turns his back on them, letting the moon burn away the mist he leaves behind.

The barmaid here is all curves, coarse tawny hair tumbling down her back, meant to draw the eye straight to her swinging hips. A tempting morsel; at least by the way the men here follow her with their gaze, hungry for more than ale. The barman must have tripled his profits having a girl like her on; there’s no limit to drink a man can have while he’s thirsting with his eyes.

But not Shuuka. His stare is fixed right across the table, brows drawn tight in thought. “That’s some story, mister.”

“And all true.” He waits until the man takes a good, long draught from his cup to add, “I earn my keep traveling, finding spirits to soothe and monsters to cull. Or maidens to save, when the situation demands it.”

“Just maidens?” The barmaid sidles up to him, a frothing mug in hand, and already his mouth is watering. “Or are you looking to expand your repertoire?”

He lets his lips lilt into a leer. “I’m willing to help with any problem that needs solving, maiden or--” he lets his gaze rake up her-- “otherwise. Provided I’m welcome.”

Her own mouth is a mirror of his own. “You seem the sort to always be finding doors open, if you don’t mind me saying, mister.”

“Ah.” He hums, leaning close. The other men in the pub lean in too, faces ripe with envy. “That’s the trick of it-- I wait to be asked.”

Amusement flickers through her eyes, as amber as his own. She sets the mug in front of him, its thick head sloshing over the rim. “Here you are, on the house.”

The maid casts one last, linger look over at him, all hooded. The sort that says he could find more than a drink on the house if he played his cards right. And here’s him, a man who never lost a hand.

“So that’s what brings you here?” Shuuka says, voice tight. Nerves, he thinks, the sort a rational man might have in the face of the unknown. “Sh-- the prince’s mistress?”

Ah, or maybe that’s guilt, he’s hearing. “So it’s true, then? There’s a girl sleeping in that manor house?”

Shuuka’s fingers clench, knuckles white where they lay on the table. “If it was...?”

He doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just waits.

Dark eyes lift, glimmering as they meet his. “You could do something about it?”

He lets his mouth ease, swallowing down the victory in his throat. “I can’t do anything that would hurt.”

For a long moment, Shuuka sits still. Not the sort that comes from fear or hope but indecision. A man on a precipice.

And oh, how easy it is to see when they jump. “What’s your name? What do they...” He hesitates, swallowing. “What do they call you?”

“Lots of things. Jack of all trades, for one,” he hums, settling back in his seat. “Monster Hunter. Miracle Man. Savior.”

Shuuka’s brow draws tight. “You’re some kind of...priest?”

“Oh, no.” He lets his eyes linger when the barmaid bends at the waist, leaning over the counter to talk to the barman. “Not that. But you can call me...Nanaki.”

There’s a tree.

He surveys the old gnarled grandfather, its thinning leaves rustling in the wind, a single branch hunched over the briars. He should have guessed; it wasn’t like she was going to get her hands dirty and bleeding to take a look at a dead girl.

His hands flex, the leather around them creaking. His palm aches when he presses it to the trunk-- that’ll teach him to get impatient-- but he knows how to climb without relying on his grip. It’s nothing to shimmy right up, soles planted solid on grandfather’s inquisitive arm. He’d call this sloppy-- nobles often were, thinking that guards and dogs and a lady’s scream could keep them safe-- but...

Ten years. Plenty of time for even a well-trimmed tree to insinuate an elbow where it didn’t belong. Especially one that looked as nosy as this old grandfather did.

He edges out, the branch solid beneath his feet. Each step is inquisitive; impatient he may be, but enough tumbles from too high had taught him the value of respecting nature’s limit. The last thing he needs is for this to break over one of those fleur-tipped spears. Career limiting, his old master used to tell him, followed by one of those hideous braying laughs.

Dead was his preference. He might make his money putting on a show, but it didn’t serve to forget that some finales were final.

The branch bows beneath his feet, those iron-tips scraping at its bottom. Looks like he’s ridden this particular pony as far as it’ll go. With a breath and a wish, he leapt from the tree, tumbling down, down--

His feet catch, hard earth beneath them. No, stone, since his foot slips, nearly spilling him straight into a knot of brambles. Pretty ones, at least, dripping with roses as bright as an apple’s skin.

He whistles, plucking a petal off one. “Well now,” he breathes, letting it flutter away in the wind. “Isn’t that lucky.”

Cat calls and wolf whistles cleave through the din when the barmaid wraps her fingers around his wrist, leading him away from the table. There’s glares too, envy making eyes dark as he passes. There will be men who hate him in the morning for no other reason than he had what they couldn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly won’t be the last.

Fine by him, anyway. Angry men are easy to predict-- they only want to do what will cause the most pain. It’s the ones that cheer him on that are dangerous; they need to be courted, molded.

Shuuka is neither. Curious.

“Hey, hero,” the barmaid purrs, pressing her body against his. “Keep your eyes where they belong.”

By the swing of her hips, she means on her. Well, it’s certainly not a bad view.

She sashays up those last few steps, shoving him into a room--

Torou’s smile is gone the moment the latch catches. “You are on your own with this one. I am out.”

Leaving Oberwald takes an extra day; the villagers keep him plied with ale until he tumbles into bed. When he wakes while the sky’s still moonless and dark, two sets of hands rubbing down his chest. Who is he to deny himself a reward so justly earned?

Still, waiting makes the spirits restless.

“Serves you right,” he grouses, rubbing at the new lump dulling the sharp edge of his cheekbone. “You’re supposed to make it look good, not actually hit me!”

The spirit folds her arms across her chest-- or under it, rather, framing their best asset when it comes to fooling these bumpkins. A barmaid with big tits never fails to turn heads, and should someone get suspicious of the girl who disappears when the evil spirit does, well-- no one can pick her face from a crowd.

“Oh, complain, complain.” The huff she lets out doesn’t even have a hint of remorse. “I’m sure you got those village girls to kiss it all better.”

He can’t help his grin. “Two of ‘em.”

“Ugh.” Her eyes roll, the kohl still clinging to the corner of them. It’s the most stubborn part of the makeup, but Torou makes do; by the next town she’ll have wings drawn on so sharp they could cut a man’s throat. “How is it you get to bed down with every miss looking for a good time, but I can only look at all those strapping young farm boys?”

“Pitchforks. Torches,” he reminds her. “Us, running away in the middle of the night...”

No one remembers the barmaid, except for an angry wife. And they know how to drum up some bloody-minded friends once night falls. That’s another thing that makes the spirits angry, but well, that’s not his problem. Maybe if they were more circumspect, they could tumble a few village boys-- or girls-- if they liked.

“Fine,” she mutters, itching at her neck. Some red flakes off, falling to the dirt below, lost beneath the tread of their boots. “Where to next?”

He’d thought he’d been mulling it over still, but the second she asks, it’s the answer at the tip of his tongue. The only one.

“Nowhere that needs a drowned girl!” Torou warns him, pitch raising to one that would make dogs howl. “My ears still don’t feel right after the last one...”

“Clarines.”

She scuffs to a halt. “Clarines? The ‘realm of reason?’ That Clarines?”

He doesn’t stop, just shortens his stride as he puts a jaunty skip in his step. “The very same.”

Her steps start again, hurrying to keep pace with his. “Why? I thought they were enlightened out there. Above all this folk talk.”

“No one is, if we play them well enough.” He slides her a sly smile. “And we will.”

“Best of the best,” she agrees. “So what’s the score?”

His grin pulls wide. “I hope you have your kissing lips ready. We have a princess to awaken.”

His hands fly up between them, trying to ward off her waggling finger. She’s carrying five knives at minimum, but of all the weapons on her body, that finger scares him the most. “Torou, come on--”

“Don’t you ‘come on’ me, Nanaki.” She doesn’t need a steel when her tone’s already so pointed. “I’m not going back there, not even if you beg me. Not even if you drag me. I’ll gnaw off my own leg if you try.”

“Torou, what--?” She shifts, just enough for him to see the wide stretch of her eyes, pupils blown and white all around the rim. “Are you...scared?”

“Scared? Scared?” Torou laughs, wild. “I’m terrified. We’ve played a lot of games, but this, this-- this curse thing, it’s real.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he huffs, leaning against a bedpost. “You know that’s not true. We’ve been running this grift for how long now, and the only supernatural thing out there is how easily everyone will believe it.”

“Listen, that’s what I thought. That’s what I always thought, you know that.” Her voice trembles, shoulders hunching around her chest. “But I went there. I went right into that manor to case the joint-- I knew there’d be stuff in there, stuff we could sell and get out of this rat race.”

His jaw slackens. They’d never talked about that, about what could lie at the end of a real good grift, of what they would do if they had enough coin to stop. He hadn’t even known she’d wanted to, let alone that she--

“I went in there,” she murmurs, rounding into herself. “And someone-- someone screamed.”

He licks his lips, brain jittering with the thought of this ending, or having somewhere to stop. “Screamed?”

“Don’t laugh.” Torou’s voice barely wavers above a whisper. “Someone screamed, and I-- I went to find them. Maybe some kid got in there and broke a leg. I could get some credit you know, really get those bumpkins eating out of my palm. But I walked in and--” she chokes, fingers clawing at her throat-- “there was blood, so much blood, just covering the floor, and then--”

Her breath fills his ears, so harsh, so pained. He’s only heard her like this once, back before, and his blood runs cold.

“And then.” Her hand comes out to grip his wrist, drawing him into her terrified gaze. “It sounded like someone was dying.”

#obiyukibingo21 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #supernatural au #sleeping beauty au #my fic #age of reason #ans #OKAY SO I GUESS THERE IS AT LEAST ONE MORE CHAPTER #for the set up at least #but perhaps you are all seeing the shape this fic is gonna take... #perhaps if you have read the folk versions of the fairy tale >:3c #also i don't know how i've ended up with so many stories with torou this time around #but here we are #this is the life i'm living this bingo

[maros130]

#evening #eveningcolors #nightrails #railway #colors #silouettes #budapest #bpcity #keleti

[starksinthenorth]

Be My Flame in this Dark, Cold Place

Pairing: Jon/Sansa Rating: T Part: 1/1 Words: 1713

Read it on AO3.

Summary:

She had not hoped for love from the brooding prince they made her lord husband, but she had at least hoped to love his children.

Excerpt:

The sharp pain in her lower abdomen does not wake Sansa this time, but the press of the warm, wet blood sticking her nightrail to her legs. Sansa barely contains the shivering sob that escapes her lips. Again. It’s happened again.

A force pulled her awake from her dreams, ripping her away from the visions of dark-haired children running and shouting in the courtyard, and throwing her into this dark, terrible reality where there are no suckling babes or toddling infants.

Why? Sansa tries to muffle the noises bubbling in her throat, tries to keep in the tears that pour from her eyes, but it’s no use. The Stranger has claimed his prize. Oh my sweet little ones…

#jonsaff #jonsa fam #actuallyjonsa #jonxsansa #actually jonsa #my fic #old fic

[shelby-love]

ALL THINGS REGENCY

Welcome lords and ladies! Welcome to my humble abode. Though not literally an abode, more so a simple Tumblr post. But let’s pretend... This was all started by a simple ask (x) from a dear follower and I must say just how much I agree with them! Regency writing can be difficult to write about, even fanfiction can be a problem if you do not know what you are writing about! For me, a summary like this one is not needed because I sucked in everything I could about regency and its rules due to the extensive research I did, but for a reader who is looking to simply visualize works without meaning to do so much research like I did, my work might be confusing to read. Like for example: what in the world is the difference between a chaise and a coach? Why not simply use a carriage?! That’s why here you will be able to find definitions for words that are highlighted in my one shots! I’ll go as far as to always link this post to the words; all with the meaning to make things easier for you so you do not have to switch between Tumblr and Google all the time. Feel free to reblog this post if some words can be found in your stories too. Most of these definitions were found on many regency websites during my ventures into regency itself! For more specific knowledge of regency, check out my #bridgerton archive tag. If you have any questions in regards to social customs among many other things, my ask box is always open for you to jump in and ask!

WRONGLY COURTED | A. BRIDGERTON

- Diamond of the season, The Season, Duke/Duchess, Marquess/Marchioness, Baron/Baroness, Dancing two/three times, Chaperone, Curtsy, A rake, A fortnight

A FAIR MATCH | A. BRIDGERTON

- nightrail or night dress, dressing gown, to fret, vexing, butler, Lady’s maid, Earl/Countess, Viscount/Viscountess, haste, tradition of sending flowers, visiting, grotesque, knee breeches, London’s milieu, Janeite, reticule, bonnet, Gretna Green

RIGHTLY HIS | A. BRIDGERTON   

- pelisse, modiste, parasol, coachman, footmen, the ton, chemise, stays/corset

BEHIND THE BUSHES | B. BRIDGERTON

- embroidering lessons, Green Park, tailcoat, trousers, suspenders,   paperboy, Spinster(s), solicitor

PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE | A. BRIDGERTON

- groom, sidesaddle

LET GO | S. BASSET

- physician, consumption, The Royal College of Physicians

A BALL TO REMEMBER | A. BRIDGERTON 

- polishing, the artist, White’s, iced punch, Dowager, dance card

INTRODUCE ME | A. BRIDGERTON

- cravat, Regency introductions, dressing room

A SUDDEN ARRIVAL | A. BRIDGERTON

- watercolors, confinement room, forceps.

TO BE CONTINUED...

// MY MASTERLIST // AO3 //

#bridgerton #bridgerton archive #regency #regency era #regency writing #regency romance #historical romance #regency guide

[middleearthpixie]

Someone to Watch Over Me ~ Chapter 10

Summary: Seren and Thorin give into their desire and everything is just perfect. For now…

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield/Seren (female OC, formerly of Dale)

Characters: Thorin, Seren,

Rating: M

Warnings: Unprotected sex M/F

Word Count: 4,076

Tag List: @tschrist1 @i-did-not-mean-to @lathalea @bitter-sweet-farmgirl @linasofia @fizzyxcustard @legolasbadass @xxbyimm @ocfairygodmother @exhausted-humxn-being @shalinizhara @rachel1959 @laurfilijames @sketch-and-write-lover

Previous chapters can be found here and AO3

They fell together, and she welcomed the weight of him against her. He pressed her down into the featherbed, kissing his way down along her throat, his beard scratchy and soft at the same time as she let her head fall back, her neck arching to meet each smoking caress. He kissed back up, along her jawline, whispering, “Seren,” before tracing the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue.

Her eyes closed as she let the sensations wash over her. A gentle flick of his tongue against her skin followed each brush of his lips, and with every one, she felt more and more languid, her bones going to mush, her thoughts refusing to form. She didn’t want to think. She only wanted to feel. Only wanted to savor each and every one of his kisses. He moved back, and when his lips found hers again, she thought she might simply melt right into the feathers.

His hand slid down, along the slope of her waist, his fingers snagged in the skirt of her nightrail to tug. Muslin skimmed along her calf, along her thigh, as much a caress the hand that followed in its wake. His fingertips were gentle, if rough against her skin, but she didn’t care. Each touch sent heat billowing through her, created knots deep within her that tightened with every stroke. His fingers danced along her outer thigh, down the back of it toward her knee, swept up and under to graze skin far more sensitive than she’d ever thought. She shivered against him, the caress tingling its way through to the center of her being.

Thorin continued to tug on the muslin, sent it skimming along her hip, bunching at her waist. He caught her in his arms and carefully rolled to bring her atop him, and then, he whisked the nightdress up and over her head, letting it flutter into the darkness somewhere on the far side of the bed.

He drew back then and smiled up at her, his hands grazing along her back, making her shiver against him. It was a bit odd at first, being naked against him when he was fully clothed, but she didn’t care as she shifted slightly to straddle his hips and rocked back.

“Are you sure about this?” she murmured, catching a handful of her hair to toss out of her face.

“Oh, amrâlimê…” His hands came to rest on her thighs, his thumbs brushing from inner to outer thigh, “I have never been more sure about something.” His eyes glittered in glow of the low torch burning in the far corner.

She had no idea what amrâlimê meant, but word sounded like an endearment and so that was how she took, smiling as she reached for the cord lacing his tunic shut and pulled. He carefully sat up without dislodging her, and helped her tug it over his head. It joined her nightdress somewhere in the dark on the floor and she reached down to touch him.

He was in superb physical condition, his chest and stomach well-defined beneath a shadowing of dark hair, his shoulders and arms wrapped with thick bands of muscle. She drank in the sight of him, muscled and beautiful, and her hands fairly itched to roam over him, to slip her fingers thorough the dark hair swirled across his chest and down his belly.

But before she could, he tugged her back to meet his kiss, and as her breasts pressed into his chest, they sighed in union. That crisp hair teased her nipples, made them tighten and ache, and that ache slowly spread through her entire body. The knots tightened further, sending ribbons of fire unfurling through her. His arms tightened about her waist, his hands sweeping along her back, flat and hot and gentle. She lost herself in his fiery kisses, in the way he caressed her lips with his, nibbled at them, traced them with the tip of his tongue before slipping it between her lips to meet hers in a long, silken stroke.

The muscles along his shoulders bunched as he held her tighter still, as if he feared she might try to get away from him, and he actually shivered against her when she trailed her fingernails along those muscles and down his back.

He shifted again, coming up to lift her, to move her onto her back once more, her head at the foot of the bed now, as he eased his hips between her thighs. The pressure against her was subtle at first, softened by the fabric of his trousers, but then he arched against her, and that subtle pressure grew and it was her turn to shiver. Feeling his arousal, knowing he wanted her, sent a heady rush tingling through her. One that had her aching to reach between them, to pop the fastenings on his trousers, and see what magnificence lay beneath the fabric.

But before she could, he broke their kiss to move down along her throat once more, and into the valley between her breasts. He swept a hot kiss along the inner curve of her right breast, over the rise, and when his lips closed about her nipple, her back bowed sharply, her fingernails sinking into his shoulders at the fire erupting within her. His tongue swirled about the nipple slowly, teasingly, until she was convinced she’d be reduced to a smoldering pile of ash at any moment. Nothing could prepare her for the pleasure he sent streaking through her—hot and sweet and more delicious than anything she’d ever felt. He left her head spinning, her lungs struggling to work, and her skin begging for more of his touch.

The muscles in her belly quivered as he brushed a kiss down toward her navel. He moved lower still, and her eyes widened as he pressed a kiss into her left inner thigh.

Then he moved slightly to the right.

“Thorin!” His name erupted as a muffled cry as she sank one hand into his hair, the other scrabbling to grab the pillow beneath her head. The last thing she wanted was Amara thinking she was in trouble, so she bit down hard on her bottom lip at the first stroke of his tongue where no man had ever touched her before. Her body hummed with a pleasure that built like a wave, rushing hard and fast toward the shore, gaining speed with each slow, teasing pass. Her hips rocked to meet him, those damned knots so tight, she’d go mad if they didn’t burst.

Her fingers twisted of their own in his soft hair, and when he caressed a particularly sensitive spot, she held him there and he obliged, moving faster as she fought to breathe.

“Oh!” The knots burst, brilliant bursts of white lights exploding before her eyes in a fiery flash that engulfed her, flooded her, brought her to the brink of madness and shoved her into the abyss.

He brought her gently back, and as she was able to loosen her grip on his hair, he came back up to cover her, his lips greedy as they devoured hers once more. She reached for him, slid her hand between them, to the fastening on his trousers. A flick of her wrist, and they gave and with a deep breathe, she eased her hand in.

She found him, hot and sleek and smooth and as she curled her fingers about him, the breath left his body in a mighty rush and it was his turn to grit, “Seren,” as she caressed him without fear, without hesitation. He was thick and hard, and her body already ached to have him inside her.

His head fell into the curve of her neck, his breath hot and ragged against her skin. He arched to meet her, his hand sliding down along her waist, over her hip, dipping between her thighs. Her head spun wildly, her breath so much more difficult to catch as those rough, yet surprisingly gentle fingers, slid along her inner thighs, into the fluff of blonde hair at their apex. Bright dots danced before her eyes as he slid a single finger inside her and growled, “Seren…” as he did something magical with it.

"Thorin..." His name rose as a breathless whisper, she released him, her hands finding their way into his thick dark hair, twisting as tight knots twisted deep inside her. As he rose and seized her lips with his, his finger moving faster now, bringing her to the edge of something sweet and hot and every bit as magical as anything she'd ever known.

Everything inside her tensed and tightened, twisted and threaded to smother her as the pleasure built. Like a powerful wave, it rushed toward her, more powerful by the minute. She tugged at his hair as her hips arched toward him, desperate for him give her the relief she so desperately sought.

Those knots tightened further, the agony as sweet as any wine, and she bit down hard on her bottom lip as her entire body tensed, as her toes actually curled and her fingernails bit into his shoulders once more. With each stroke, the fire within her burned brighter, made her ache for him even harder. Her hips moved of their own with him, those sweet knots that she thought had gone returned, tightening once more.

He teased her with that finger, brought her to the edge of madness, only to hold her back, and with each stroke, his tongue thrust against hers in the same rhythm and she met his caresses with her own, pleasure for pleasure. She ached to wrap herself all around him, to feel that sensual madness consume her again, only this time, joined with him.

Thorin eased his finger from her, and then rocked back to break her hold on him. She was about to protest, but then he stood, shed his trousers, and she got her first good look at him. Beyond impressive, her dwarf was, and when he loomed over her once more, she didn’t hesitate to ease her arms about his middle and pull him to her.

He slid easily between her thighs, and bent to capture her lips once more. As he did, he eased a hand between them and then…

The pop was unexpected, accompanied by a sharp twist of her innards, but then he slid deep and she forgot about any discomfort as he offered up a slow, almost lazy thrust. He rose onto his forearms and smiled down at her as he thrust again.

“You’re staring, Thorin,” she whispered.

He offered up another slow, delicious thrust. “I cannot help myself. You’re beautiful.”

She didn’t know how to respond. No one ever told her she was beautiful before. Only Mama and that hardly counted. She smiled softly, reaching up to thread her fingers through his hair and drew it back behind his right ear. “Thank you.”

He dipped toward her, his lips brushing hers as he murmured, “Thanking me? For speaking the truth?”

Another thrust. They were easy and delicious, and offered up sensations she never knew existed. The pleasure was sweeter than an honey and headier than any wine, and it built slowly, steadily, with each thrust sweeter than the last. Her thighs pressed against his sides of their own accord, her hips rose to meet him, and as they did, he let out a low moan, his eyes squeezing shut as he moved faster now.

“Oh… Seren…” Her name was a low growl on his lips and the long, slow, lazy thrusts were gone, his hips moving faster with each one. The fullness inside her grew, the sparks rippling through her becoming sharper and hotter. He surged deep, his breath rough and ragged and scorched about the edges, his thrusts swifter and far more powerful now.

His fingers twisted in the linens and fire filled her as he drove them both to the edge of the cliff, and with a sharp, deep thrust and a breathless, “Seren!” he sent them both out into the abyss.

He tensed against her, crushed her to him, and she shivered as her climax joined his to burn them both and threatened to sweep her out to sea, away from everything that was real and she didn’t care. She wrapped herself about him, clung to him, her fingernails digging into his back, his name a breathless whisper on her lips. Nothing could have prepared her for this moment, when everything inside her seemed to burst in the most delicious way possible and left her languid and drowsy, and perfectly content to simply lay there with him, their bodies one, for the rest of her days.

Thorin sank against her, his head coming to rest in the curve of her shoulder, his breath soft and warm against her skin as he fought to catch it. When his lips skimmed along her neck, she actually shivered against him, whispering, “Thorin,” as her eyes slid shut on their own.

He shifted, and that fullness inside her dissipated, then he eased off her to stretch out beside her. Without thinking, she snuggled up against him, smiling as his arm came down around her shoulders and he pressed a gentle kiss into the top off her head. Her eyes closed of their own, a delicious drowsiness unlike any other she’d ever felt settling about her.

They lay there in peaceful, comfortable silence for some time. His thumb moved lightly along her upper arm, sweeping up and down. Every now and again, he’d press another kiss into the top of her head. Then his hand moved and he stroked her hair as he murmured, “Are you asleep?”

“Mmmm…”

“Is that a yes?” A hint of laughter wove through his voice.

She lifted her head to gaze down at him. “It’s a perhaps.”

He smiled. “I think it’s more a yes than a perhaps.” His eyes were tender and heavy-lidded. “If you wish to sleep, do so.”

“I don’t wish to. I rather wish this night would never end,” she confessed softly, her cheeks growing warm.

The sheets rustled as he rolled over to pin her beneath him once more, drawing the top sheet over them. “It would be nice,” he admitted, holding her gaze. “But time stops for no Man. Or dwarf.”

“Why did you come?” she whispered, reaching up to trace along the whiskers just beneath his bottom lip. “What made you change your mind?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replied, his eyes closing as she continued stroking his beard. “All I could think about was what a mistake I’d made in pushing you away in the courtyard. I didn’t want to keep pushing you away.”

“I couldn’t sleep, either,” she told him with a smile. He opened his eyes then, and didn’t reply, but bent to kiss her ever so gently on the lips. She slid her arms about his waist, her hands flat against his back, and when he broke the kiss, she added, “I think it’s because I’m not accustomed to sleeping in a bed, though.”

A low chuckle rose to his lips. “Is that the reason?”

She nodded. “I think so, yes. What else could it be?”

He grabbed her then, and rolled to tug her atop him, twisting the sheet about them so she couldn’t get away if she tried, not that she was about to do anything of the sort. “What else, indeed,” he growled.

Footsteps sounded just outside the Healing Room, and she clapped her hand over his mouth as she whispered, “I do not want Amara coming rushing in here. Elrond will think you’re ravishing me.”

“I will be, in but a moment or so, though,” came his muffled response.

She shivered at the promise in his voice. Drawing her hand away, she whispered, “Well, perhaps I could be the one doing the ravishing instead?”

His eyes glinted and a slow smile curved his lips. “I rather like how that sounds, lady.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.”

She returned his smile, then leaned closer, her lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “Are you certain?”

His fingers trailed lightly along her back. “I am, love.”

“Very well…” She swept a kiss along the side of his neck, down into the slope of his shoulder. His breath hitched. His fingers pressed into her back. She ignored both as she kissed her way down, over his chest, pausing to swirl the tip of her tongue about his nipple, smiling as his breath caught again. Just as he’d done to her, she teased him, alternating flicks of her tongue with slow, sensuous swirls.

Then she moved down, over his firm belly, along his hip. As she moved, his hands skimmed along her back, into her hair, twisting into it as she playfully nipped the inside of his right thigh. He sucked in a sharp breath, and a low growl rent the air as she shifted and her lips closed about him.

“Seren…” Her name rose into the darkness like a breathless mist and his fingers tightened in her hair. She was in no hurry, but took her time to see which sensations made him growl, made his hands tighten in her hair. She teased him with long, silken strokes, swirled along his length, smiling as he tugged on her hair, as he growled something in a language she didn’t understand.

He arched toward her, those whispered words still bubbling to his lips. His body tensed beneath her, his fingers tightened in her hair to tug it harder still, but she didn’t mind. There was something so heady about knowing she was responsible for his teetering on the brink of losing control.

Then, he let go of her hair to catch her beneath the arms, and dragged her up to meet his furious, fiery kiss. He tried to roll, tried to maneuver her beneath him, but she wouldn’t cede her control just yet. She reached for him, moved down, and —

“Oh….” His low moan rent the air as she sheathed him in one fluid motion and rocked back to brace her hands on his chest. His eyes glittered in the semi-darkness, his hands came to rest on her hips, and he inhaled sharply with the first slow roll of her hips.

His hands tightened on her, but when he tried to move her, she shook her head and whispered, “Not this time, Thorin Oakenshield. I’m in charge now.”

A seductive smile lifted his lips and he moved his hands, let them flop onto the pillow on either side of his head. “As you wish, love. Do your worst,” he managed to whisper.

The sheet pooled about her hips as she rode him slowly, up and down, back and forth. The fullness inside her screamed at her to move faster, but the pleasure was too sweet to rush. She wanted to savor it, to let it swirl through her as it built off itself and threatened to drive them both into madness.

He watched her, his eyes heavy-lidded, that sensual smile hovering on his lips. A muscle bulged along his jaw—testament to the power of his control. His hips rose to meet her, his thrusts gentle but powerful.

The fire built slowly, steadily, billowing through her as the wave rolled toward the shore. Her body tingled from head to toe, the knots returning once more to twist her insides with a delicious ache that urged her to move faster against him.

She leaned toward him, capturing his lips in a fiery kiss as the damn burst and she was powerless to stop the flood. This time, when he caught her hips and rocked her hard against him, she didn’t fight him. It was pointless. The delicious end bore down on them both and as he arched hard, she broke the kiss, throwing her head back as those knots burst and smoking pleasure tore through her with the force of an earthquake.

“Thorin!”

He gripped her tight, held her still as her release triggered his, and when he came, the only word she could understand passing his lips was her name. The rest was all foreign to her, but it didn’t matter as she sank against him, fighting to breathe, and he wrapped his arms about her.

Her eyes closed as her head came to rest against his chest, his heartbeat thundering beneath her ear. She actually felt dizzy, the room spinning whether her eyes remained closed or not, and she shivered as his fingertips grazed her back and he murmured, “Mesmel.”

Her hand trembled as she traced a circle through the dark hair swirled across his chest. “What does that mean?”

“It means I am exactly where I wish to be at the moment,” came his airy whisper. Little by little, his breathing slowed and his heart didn’t beat quite so hard against his ribs. His fingers continued their lazy sweep along her upper arms.

“Are you, now?” She lifted her head to gaze down at him.

“I am.”

“Me, too,” she whispered, smiling down at him. “Is that dwarvish?”

“Khuzdul. My language.”

“I only know the Common Speech, although I did manage to learn a smattering of Sindarin.”

“When did you live with the elves?”

“I have lived everywhere.” She eased off him, stretching out on her side to prop her head on her fist. “Haven’t you realized that by now? Like your people, I had no home. I wandered from place to place and counted on the kindness and sympathy of strangers when I was younger, and worked odd jobs for my keep when I was older.”

“As did I. And along the way, I became a very competent blacksmith.”

“I can see that about you.” She smiled as he rolled onto his side as well, facing her. His dark hair, longer than her own, puddled against the pillow and tumbled over his chest in a fall of loose waves. The rune braided into his hair glinted in the soft light. She cupped it in her palm to bring it closer. “What does it say?”

“It says, bâha and irak’adad, which translates into friend and uncle.”

“You’ve had it a long time?”

He nodded. “I have, yes. Those boys are like my own sons.”

She smiled. “I thought Kili was your son. He looks very much like you.”

“I have no children, but his mother and I strongly resemble one another.”

“And Fili is blond. Was his father blond?”

“I haven’t a clue. Dis would never say who either boy’s father was and I know far better than to ask.” He smiled. “She would fight me like a man if I did.”

“Where is she?”

“The Blue Mountains. We found our way there after Smaug claimed Erebor, and that’s where she remains today.”

“Does she know her sons are off to fight a dragon?”

He shook his head. “No. They wouldn’t tell her, but she might have figured it out. She thinks her sons are reckless.”

“Are they?”

“No more than any other young dwarves are, I suppose.”

She snuggled down into her pillow with a sigh. “You should probably return to your chambers. Someone is bound to have noticed your absence.”

“I’m not worried about that. They think you’re a boy, so no one will even think I’ve been here.”

“They might think you’ve gone soft for a she-elf.”

He snorted. “I’d rather remain celibate the rest of my days.”

“The she-elves are beautiful, though.”

“Only on the outside. They cannot be trusted, nor do they believe in loyalty or honor.” The sheets rustled softly as he moved over her once more. “And I far prefer what I have in my bed at the moment to any she-elf in Rivendell.”

“In your bed? Correct me if I’m wrong, dwarf, but isn’t this my bed? And I think I’m going to have to boot you from it before morning comes.”

“Not yet, love,” he growled, dipping close enough that his lips just brushed hers. “We still have a bit of night and I am not quite finished with you.”

She smiled up at him. “You’ve quite an impressive amount of stamina.”

He didn’t reply, but caught her lips in a soft kiss and moments later, he showed her just how much stamina he truly did possess.

#The Hobbit #Thorin Oakenshield #Hobbit Fic #Hobbit Fanfic #Fan fiction #The Hobbit fan fiction #Thorin x OC #AU #AUJ #Thorin Fic #Everybody Lives AU #Is it hot in here? #Woman in Disguise

[inquisition-dragonborn]

Repercussions Noun: the consequences or aftereffects of a significant event or action, particularly an unpleasant one

When Eluned woke next, the early morning sun was just rising extending its first fingers of light sending a spectrum of colours through the stained-glass windows. In the dim light she could make out the shadowed form of Bull as he moved around the room silently getting dressed. He bent down and retrieved something from the floor; the pale light illuminated the nightrail she had been wearing the previous evening, now crushed into a ball in his hands. She could see his chest expand as he pressed the fabric to his face and inhaled deeply. She shivered at the memory of those hands in her hair and on her skin. She must have inadvertently made a sound as the silhouetted form moved, turning the broad sweep of horns in her direction.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed. There was a loud crack, followed by a squeal as the bed listed to the side before collapsing on the floor with a thump. He chuckled at her startled expression and rolled over top of her pinning her down by the bed sheets, “mission accomplished, Inquisitor.”

Continue reading on Ao3 (copy & paste URL): archiveofourown.org/works/14672019/chapters/46756348

or start at the beginning: archiveofourown.org/works/14672019/chapters/33896955

#Embrace Your Purpose #Helygen Writes #MGIT #Qun #Dragon Age #Ao3fic #Fic Update #reblogs are life