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nocturn-warrior · 19 days

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Kiss of seedcake• 🌧

Lotor x f!reader

Summary: building a life with Lotor on Earth after the galras were defeated, you decide to try for a child :)

Rating: fluff, smut (breeding kink)

Notes: this is set after season 8 events, in a timeline where my boy Lotor didn't die and lives happily with u on Earth. This smut has a plot.

Warnings: mentions of pregnancy and lactation, body changes mentions, mentions racism towards Lotor, my grammar because i am not a native speaker lmao

since Sendak and his army was completely defeated thanks to Voltron and their allies. And with an extra help of the space visitors, human kind quickly rebuilt its structures, combining the advanced technologies of their new colleagues with their own. Flying vessels, space travels and colonies, complex security AI systems and media were a great leap in history.

Not surprisingly, interspecies relationships emerged among the coexistence of humans and extraterrestrials, besides it was a taboo for some people, the most conservative ones, you could easily spot a human walking and a balmeran holding hands on the streets. But as expected, racism towards the space visitors was a thing, especially towards the galra people.

Being blamed for the death of so many, even not having affiliation with Sendak’s deadly army, the purple skinned people were a target to bigotry not just coming from humans but also from other extraterrestrials. With your partner Lotor, it wasn’t different. Making public appearances together, you could feel the reproved gaze of your peers, judging the nature of your relationship as disgusting, selfish. Some showed concern, fearing Lotor could harm you in any way, while others called you an enemy, a traitor for engaging yourself to an individual of a species that slaved, tortured and killed so many in the galaxy.

As the only begotten son of emperor Zarkon, so many wanted his head for what his father caused during centuries, and for reprehensible actions of his own. You were constantly reminded of Lotor’s thirst to acquire quintessence and what he did to reach his goals, the hundreds of alteans locked in tanks he utilized as cattle to harvest the substance. The United Planets Council decided he would not receive death penitence or be locked for his crimes, but he should be exiled.

“Exiled… I am used to this condition”

It was better this way; though Lotor wanted and deserved redemption, not everyone including the paladins would accept it easily. When you established you would not abandon him, they immediately intervened reminding you of what his family caused to everyone, of what your late friend princess Allura would want. You were tired of it all. You loved Lotor and wanted to keep him safe, even if it means cutting connections with your friends. You couldn’t risk having your boyfriend stabbed from behind by a vengeful self-proclaimed punisher.

Lotor understood the gravity of his actions he didn’t even tried to defend himself. But he repined every day about how quintessence drove him mad, crazy for power, and that those moments of madness showed up as nothing but foggy memories in his mind. It broke your heart to see Lotor eager to be accepted in this new multispecies society, but being doomed by his past. Deep in his core, all he wanted was that: to be accepted and to fix everything up. Even when he was still the prince of the mighty galra empire, all he did was for a bigger purpose. He knew he took the wrong route, though.

Four years ago you moved together to your family’s old farm; only you, Lotor and the desire to begin a new life. Part of the farm, including the barn and the stable were destroyed by the attacks, but luckily the house you grew up in was intact, except for the dust and spider webs covering the rooms. Nothing you couldn’t fix up. Lotor is a quick learner, his intelligence was always something you appreciated, and with a quickly explaining of how to use house devices, he became a master at it except for the vacuum cleaner.

“How can you pilot a high technological spaceship and be defeated by a vacuum cleaner, my dear?”

You would tease him, leaning against a wall while seeing your lover struggle to clean the dust of the living room. Lotor in his endeavor would blame the device instead of admitting he was having a bad time using it. You find that silly and adorable. It took some days for your house to be properly inhabited again, with Lotor’s help, everything was easy.

He would wash clothes, cook for you – that thin waist of his looked adorable in one of your late grandmother’s apron, and a few other things. But still, he missed space and missed the adrenaline. That mind of his was always hunger for knowledge and staying so much time without absorbing anything was frustrating and tedious. Lotor in fact would not complain about it, but noticing the lack of enthusiasm in your love, you gifted him with a box of the old books you used to read while graduating; psych, biology, chemistry, and others you kept a special interest about but were not exactly linked to your graduation; history and anthropology.

Besides you were a good storyteller, talking about the myths and cultures of your species along with its advances and knowledge on science, nothing compares to touch, read and learn about something from primary fonts. As you expected, Lotor was more than happy when you handled him your collection. Some of the concepts stored in the books were at least eight years outdated, but still he could have a notion of humankind’s plurality, maybe hoping he could integrate himself into society one day.

Everything was so perfect you feared something bad would happen to spoil the moment. Your days were simple and cozy in your home, and occasionally you had to leave to buy some groceries but would come back soon.

Four years ago when the invasion occurred, families found shelter in the rural areas once the galras attacked the big urban centers first. And from this, a small agriculture and livestock centered community was born. They provided food for the cities near the reagion, and living only one or two miles away, you groceries from first hand.

In this specific day, you arrived home carrying a bag full of fresh fruits, vegetables, flour and some animal products. Lotor was sitting on the couch. He wore a grey sweater that reached the mid of his wrists and black sweatpants that barely reached his ankles, snuggling on his muscular calves. Big boy problems. His starlight hair tied into a messy bun was occasionally scratched as he concentred on the book he was reading. In fact, he was so focused on the book that didn't even notice you comming.

"Im back, love!"

You said opening the door and he slightly jumped on his seat.

"Hello, dear! I indeed didn't perceive you arriving. I was quite concentrated on this book i've been reading"

He got himself together, cleaning his throat before helping you to take the groceries to the kitchen. His gaze immediatly directed towards the sway of your hips as you walked.

"Which one is this?"

You ask, placing the bags on the table and cleaning your hands. Lotor blinks for a while, being snapped out of his beholding state:

"It is about the development of agriculture and how it's linked to the appearance of religious cults. I am quite amused by the first forms of art created by your species, dear, and how the belief in gods and deities is linked to the discovering of agriculture. It is pretty interesting how such topics that don’t seem to be linked at first sight are related.”

He continues:

“The most interesting part, my dear, is that most of these civilizations were situated in quite green and prosper lands, therefore their deities reflected in the places they inhabited. While the people that lived in arid and desert places had vengeful and warrior gods.”

He speaks with enthusiasm, smiling like you have not seen in at least four years. His lust for you was being masked with non-stop bragging about what he learned in that day. Lotor was indeed fascinated by how some ancient human civilizations valorized fertility and reproduction, but what excited him most was to put this in practice. His cock jutted against the fabric of his sweatpants when he saw those sensual statues of Venus in the pages of that book. He wanted you. He wanted to make you his own goddess of fertility.

After drying your hands on a towel, you swiftly turn to your husband, paying attention to his words. But the look on his feline eyes told you everything. The pupils were dilated, shiny like binary stars. You smirk, and when you do so, Lotor stumbles on his own words.

“I have been always fascinated with this topic too, my dear.”

You put on an innocent facade, crossing your arms and leaning your beautiful hips against the counter. Lotor’s hands twitched, urging to squeeze them as you ride his cock gracefully like the goddess you were to him. He licks his lips and smiles:

“Nothing fairer, darling. You are a goddess yourself. But do you know what is missing?”

You obliviously shake your head to his question.

“A seed to be fertilized in this womb of yours”

Just by hearing his deep sensual voice, you feel your core flutter with excitement. The galran prince approaches you, closing the space between your bodies. All you do is to let him guide you onto his arms and give yourself to this blissful heat.

His thumb traces your lowerbelly, imagining it growing as a proof of the seed he implanted in your womb. He imagines your breasts swelling, leaking the milk that will nurture your child.

Lotor sinks his hand under your hair, softly bringing you closer to him and intensifying the kiss. Your fingers travel under his sweater, tracing his divinely sculpted abs one by one. The desire of being impregnated by him only grew stronger and stronger.

He strips you down, taking off your shirt and giving your breasts good squeezes before attaching his lips to the plump sides of them, leaving soft hickeys on your skin. You pant caressing his jaw as he does it.

Then, his long fingers skim down towards your groin. He gently slids down the waistband and kneals down in front of you. Hugging your hips, Lotor attaches his mouth onto your cut, sweetly suckling your clit as you tug onto his hair, undoing the messy bun he had.

"Lotor..."

You moan sweetly, and it sounds like the chant of Earth itself, like the sounds of raindrops falling onto soil.

His skilled tongue dances around your clit. Your legs tremble and if he wasn't holding you still by your hips, you would definitly lose your balance with so much pleasure being given.

And like a water dam being open, your fluids flow into Lotor's mouth and he delights on it like honey. He moans pulling off and looking up to see your divine glory squirm in pleasure.

Standing up, Lotor holds you on his arms in bridal style, you lean in like a dandelion seed being carried by wind and he places you onto the canopy bed, the plush cushion softly sinking with your body.

Looking up at Lotor while he takes off his own clothing, you get a sight of his purple large cock deliciouspy jutting against his pants. It wiggles tantalizing when his boxers are finally down, hard and reaching his lower belly.

With your fingers you trace his abs again, they are sculpted and perfect like a statue meticulously carved in marble by the best of the sculptors. His silver bodyhair stands on ends with your touch.

Lotor gently inserts his large cock in your entrance, being enthralled by your moans. Your cunt is tight for his size, but soon it accomodates his full length.

He moans loudly and sensually twitching his hips, you reach out to squeeze his muscular butt as it recoils and releases with his thrust. Your motion seems like an extra stimulus.

"Stars. May your womb be a fertile field where i will plant my crops. You are perfect!"

He pants, the pace increasing and your bodies sweating, your pleasured noises echoing through the wood walls.

"I am going to fill you up, dear. I am going to make you a mother; i am going to make you my own fertility deity."

That was when you orgasmed.

It feels like you two were perfcetly designed for this, like your bodies were shaped by universe to create life. You bury your hand underneath Lotor's hair, his front strands are falling and tickling your face. As his pace increases, you hold it tighter and beautiful gasps leave his mouth.

"I- i am comming..."

Soon, the river flooded the land and you felt his warm seed inside your womb. Pace slowing down, Lotor remains the last frictions with his cock still in your vagine.

He pants a chuckle cleaning his sweaty forehead with his forearm. You let out a dizzy smile, reaching out to cup his cheek as your brain process the event, beholding his how graceful he looks.

Releasing his cock, Lotor gently pushes the oozing translucid liquid to inside of you again, rubbing it onto your still sensitive cunt. His ejaculation is so voluminous it feels like every inch of your tube is filled up. The alien man leans in and kisses your cheek:

"You were so great, darling... I... wow! I have no words to describe it. You will be a good mama"

His sudden use of an earthling slang makes you chuckle. How can a man be so sensually irresistible, and seconds later make your heart melt with such an adorable, silly thing? This is a Lotor ability, you guess. He messes with your mind in the better ways possible.

Cleaning up the sweat, you snuggle onto Lotor's chest while calming down your nerves after such a moment. The seed has been implanted to your womb, and Lotor couldn't wait for it to grow.

#lotor x reader #prince lotor x reader #voltron x reader #lotor fanfiction #reader insert #vld x reader #voltron fanfic #cw breeding #cw pregnancy #cw lactation #cw body image #cw racism

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bloomingdarkgarden · 5 months

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What Bloomed in the Darkgarden

Chapter 33: Periwinkle

A very tender hurt /comfort memory of Azriel and Elain finding each other after Hybern’s war. Snippet below.

“How would you write your story?” Elain asked faintly. “What life would you choose, were you not born to be such a fearsome warrior of Night?”

Despite it all, the soft praise of her words coiled into a particularly male corner of his heart.

“An exceptionally boring one. I’d imagine I’d need to earn a living somewhere… normal,” he considered quietly. “Work as a smith. Maybe in a kitchen.”

Elain stared at him for a long, long moment.

And then she laughed.

Well and truly laughed, deep in her belly. The sound ringing liquid gold throughout the chamber. She laughed so hard it had his own mouth curling upwards, his shadows peeking towards her curiously.

She laughed until it leaked away from her, and then asked with total sincerity-

“Would you work in my kitchen?”

“Absolutely.”

No hesitation.

She laughed again, and Azriel’s shadows skitted back with delight at the melody of the sound.

Elain needed this, he realized. So did he, in truth. The distraction from ruined lives and the horrors of war. It was a different sort of medicine.

“Maybe we ought to run away,” she sighed, staring up at the ceiling, tiredness lacing her gaunt features. “Open a bakery somewhere.”

“I can be ready within the hour.”

A weak grin grew across her lovely face and it was a song of desperate, lost impossibilities.

“With great wide windows and wooden tables for tea.”

Azriel smiled, too, at the thought.

“Blue walls,” she whispered, “Will you paint the walls blue? I’m not sure I can reach.”

He’d steal every star from the night sky if she asked him to.

Azriel nodded. “Which blue would the lady prefer?”

Elain sighed again. “Pale, I should think.” Her eyes sparkled, adrift. “Paler than the moon. Like a goodbye. Like a memory.”

He had never, in all these long weeks, heard her speak this way.

He was going to fall in love with her if she kept speaking this way.

“Periwinkle,” he murmured.

“Periwinkle,” she repeated, with that same smile, blooming of lost hope. “We’ll serve everything on old plates from the market, none of them matching.”

“None of them?”

“Not a single one,” she chuckled. “There's something I’ve always loved about a cupboard full of dishes that don’t match. It’s rather a comfort, don’t you think?

Azriel watched her speak like she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Fresh flowers for the tables,” she murmured distantly.

“You could grow them out back,” his voice was quiet.

“What sort do you think?”

Azriel considered for a long moment.

“Periwinkle,” he paused, “to match.”

She smiled then. “You know flowers, Azriel,”

He would die a thousand deaths to hear his name on her lips again.

“A few.”

She quirked an eyebrow upwards. “Vincas are difficult plants. They’re monstrously hard to keep from drying out.”

“My faith in you is unwavering.”

“Too-right,” her smile grew wide again.

“I’ll put you to work, you know. In the garden too. But we mustn't work one day a week. We must have a day to ourselves. To laze about and eat sweets.”

“Laze… about,” he murmured cautiously.

“You mustn't work every day, Azriel.”

A foreign notion to him.

She nudged his shoulder with her own over the bath’s edge.

“I’ll make sure you don’t anyway. Lure you to laze with me in the garden with those cherry scones you love so much.”

He glanced sidelong at her. She shrugged nonchalantly.

“I notice,” she murmured. “All the things you finish first. Spiced quail eggs in the morning. Rosemary lamb at supper. Nuala’s winter stew. Seedcake. Cherry scones.”

Azriel swallowed, color staining his cheeks. “I was never permitted such things as a boy.”

“I know,” she murmured softly, “I know.”

The light was leaving her eyes again and he hated himself for being responsible for it. He wanted- needed to hear her keep speaking of beautiful, impossible things.

Which is why the shadowsinger parted his lips and said something he never in a thousand years would have said otherwise.

“Honeyed carrots.”

Elain glanced up to him. “Honeyed carrots?”

“Honeyed carrots. I have a weakness for them, just as you have a weakness for those sweet cheeses late into the night.”

“I do love cheese, really.”

“I know.”

She studied him with a tired smile. “How do you know?”

Because it was the first thing I watched you eat after months of wasting away, and I felt like I could breathe again.

He looked at her softly.

“How do you know I prefer cherry?”

The sorrow in her features was dissipating like fog into the night.

“We’ll eat it all.” Elain closed her eyes. “We’ll eat whatever we like whenever we please and grow old and fat and wiser than we’ve ever been.”

Azriel quirked an eyebrow at the prospect.

“I’ll need a day to train each week if I’m to be of any use on a battlefield ever again.”

“Nonsense,” she muttered. “I killed the king of Hybern and I’ve never trained a day in my life.”

Azriel laughed then. Warm and rich and honest. Because it was so impossible. Because it was so true.

Elain laughed with him, a golden melody, until the sound ebbed away from them both.

“Anyway the pies will be good,” she wheezed. “So good we’ll become famous for them.”

“The family will come looking for us.”

“Busybodies,” she waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll draw the shades. Bolt the doors. I can’t have Cassian stealing away my kitchen boy.”

Azriel would murder Cassian with his bare hands before allowing himself to be robbed of becoming Elain's kitchen boy.

“I expect the work will be demanding?”

“I’ll have you carving fruit and pastry from dawn to dusk.” She nodded to Truth-Teller, bloodied and bound to his waist. “I hear you are good with one of those.”

Azriel huffed a dry laugh because he was actually falling in love with her now.

“I hear the same of you.”

Elain grinned, scooping up a handful of bath foam. “It will be marvelous advertising for the shop, anyway.” She huffed a breath and softly blew the foam towards a nearby shadow, which writhed with delight.

“Knife wielders of the Night Court making pastries and all.”

This female, speaking of runaway dreams and bakeries like she hadn’t just slayed Prythian’s most ancient and formidable enemy.

Blowing fucking bath bubbles at his shadows.

He was undone.

“As my lady commands.”

She grinned wide then and sank slightly deeper into the water.

“I might frighten away all of your customers,” he muttered a moment later. Not untrue.

Elain scoffed. “You won’t frighten away the customers. If you just lessen your brooding and offer up one of those divine smiles every few weeks, people will line up around the block.”

A scowl formed on her face. “The females anyway.”

Azriel said nothing, a golden blush crawling up his cheek.

Elain’s chestnut eyes lingered on TruthTeller at his side before drifting to him again, her voice was barely a whisper.

“If you’re frightening, I’m frightening.”

The truth laid bare between them.

He wanted to wrap her in his arms.

“Yes you are.”

He spoke the words as if she were holy.

Because she was.

“You’ve killed dozens of people,” Elain whispered.

“Hundreds,” he corrected.

“I’ve only killed one,” she murmured, “but I made sure it counted.”

He would damn every star in the great night sky to kiss her now.

“Yes you did.”

“People will think I’m strange now, I suppose.”

His throat bobbed.

“Strange and beautiful. So much so, it might be difficult to look away.”

He did not look away. He meant every word, body and soul.

Something in Elain’s gaze glimmered as she beheld him. Something hidden deep beneath the devastation and loss.

And then Azriel heard it.

The quietest whisper of the song she usually emanated, lost in the dark, now reaching- reaching for the light.

“Promise you’ll paint the walls blue?” she whispered softly.

Tired and drunk on the ashes of war. He told himself they’d forget it all by the morning.

But just for tonight, stars above, let her be mine.

“I’ll paint the walls blue,” Azriel whispered back.

Read the rest on AO3

#elriel #acotar fanfiction #hurt x comfort #azriel #elain archeron #elriel fanfiction

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thomas--bombadil · 1 year

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Greedily, he devours a seedcake, needing the energy to stay warm in such cold weather.

Tidiness is not a concern... :)

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goforth-ladymidnight · 4 months

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A Second Chance

Pairing: Tamlin x Lucien

Rating: M for mature themes and strong language

Ch. 1/5(?)

Word Count: 3.9k

Summary: There is a reason that Tamlin disappeared from Lucien's life seven years ago. Lucien just doesn't know what it is. They were more than college roommates; they were best friends. Now, a chance encounter in a bookstore leaves both of them wondering if they can pick up where they left off. A new year is right around the corner, but there is no wiping Tamlin's slate clean. Featuring Jurian and Vassa in supporting roles, this is not a story of redemption, but of finding love—and forgiveness—in the most unlikely of places. A Modern ACOTAR Holiday AU.

✨✨✨For @praetorqueenreyna ✨✨✨

It's here! It's here! It's finally here! (Emphasis on finally.) Even though this took a lot longer than I intended, it's also a lot longer, too. This is the first chapter out of five (I think), and I hope to have the rest done by New Year's. Featuring your OTP Tamcien, as requested, as well as a little bit of Jassa because, as you'll soon see, they needed to be in this story. :) I hope you like it! I had an absolute blast writing it.

@acotargiftexchange

Read on AO3 as part of the 2023 Gift Exchange Collection or read on below the cut:

“Rudolph, the red-nosed reindeer,” crooned a male voice in the sound system above their heads, a slower, mellower version of the jolly holiday song that matched the easygoing vibe in The Reading Nook Bookstore.

Lucien absentmindedly hummed along as he browsed the themed display tables, passing over the fantasy and romance books in favor of something more to his mother’s taste. As he read the synopsis of the latest Poppy Seedcake Mystery, a cozy murder mystery series themed around baked goods, he couldn’t help but smirk.

“What do you think of this,” he asked Vassa, who was perusing the political thriller section nearby. When she glanced up, he held up the cover and continued jokingly, “Should I get this for my mom? It’s all about murdering your husband and how to get away with it.”

Vassa’s bright blue eyes flicked to the cover. “Rat poison,” she said simply, before returning her attention to the thick novel in her hands.

Lucien’s brows furrowed as he turned the cover over. He traced the title with his finger as he read to her, “No, it says: A Raisin to Kill… Wait. What do you mean: ‘Rat Poison’?”

“How to murder your husband and get away with it,” she repeated in her richly lyrical Scythian accent. “Rat poison. In coffee. Tea is too weak to disguise the taste.”

Lucien swore and ducked his shoulders as a couple of curious shoppers glanced up from their magazines nearby. Redfaced, he set the mystery book down and remarked, “I forgot how literal you are sometimes.”

Vassa looked at him quizzically. “Is that not what you wanted to give your mother for Christmas?”

“Not if it can used as evidence in a murder trial,” he quipped, then shook off the chill rippling down his arms. “Maybe I’ll just buy her a fruit basket.”

“Rat poison works well in the juices of fruit, too,” she said brightly.

Lucien chuckled nervously and ran a hand over his long red hair. “I’ll take your word for it.” He wanted his bastard father dead just as much as the rest of his brothers, but he wasn’t keen on being considered a suspect in Beron Vanserra’s death. “Where did you learn about that, um—” he cleared his throat, “—advice, anyway?”

“My mother. It is said my grandfather was a—how you say—good-for-nothing rat bastard.” Lucien’s eyebrows shot up as she continued, “So, my grandmother, she takes care of him. Rat poison.”

He realized his mouth had fallen open, so he closed it. Loosening the knot of the wool scarf around his neck, he remarked, “Scythian housewives don’t mess around, do they?”

Vassa smiled sweetly and added her book to a steadily growing pile with a heavy, meaningful thump. “Rat poison makes no mess. Not like stab wounds.”

Lucien let out a nervous chuckle. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“I will,” she trilled, then her smile vanished as she caught sight of something behind him. “Do you know a man with light hair in dark clothes?” she asked in a low voice. “He is—how you say—checking me out.”

Lucien chuckled. “Lucky you,” he quipped, returning his gaze to the Murder Mystery display, then he froze. “Wait.” Had one of the customers overheard them and called the police? Shit. Wait. Don’t panic. “What does he look like?”

She shrugged with her mouth. “Big. Strong.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. With a wincing smile, he looked over his shoulder, trying to think of a way to explain that he and his foreign friend were only joking, when he realized he recognized the man. He straightened and turned to face the man directly. “Tam?”

With a shy chuckle, Tamlin stepped closer, tucking a book under his arm as he said, “Hey, Lu. I thought that was you.”

Lucien shook his head and let out an amazed laugh, then spread his arms wide and drew Tamlin into a sudden hug. It was as brief as it was awkward, but he couldn’t help himself. After a congenial back thump, Lucien released him and stepped back. “How long has it been, man?”

“Long time,” Tamlin replied with a tight smile, his cheeks slightly flushed. “At least…”

“Seven years,” they said in unison.

“Seven years,” Tamlin repeated, nodding slowly. “What have you been, um—” He glanced at Vassa, then shoved his hands in his pockets and amended, “How have you been?”

“Good,” Lucien said quickly. “Really good. Um.” He cleared his throat and gestured to the redhead at his side. “Before I forget. Tam, this is my friend, Vassa. Vassa, this is Tamlin.”

She twiddled her fingers in a polite wave.

He looked to Tamlin and continued, “She and I met when I traveled to Scythia for that foreign exchange program back in college. Remember?”

“Oh… right,” Tamlin said, nodding slowly, then gestured at her with his pocketed hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Vassa smiled and repeated a similar greeting in Scythian.

“She’s just visiting,” Lucien explained, “but she’s thinking of moving here after the holidays.”

“Congratulations,” Tamlin said politely, and Vassa dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“What about you, man?” Lucien asked him, thumping him on the shoulder. “Where have you been hiding yourself? I haven’t seen you since junior year.”

Tamlin shrugged dismissively. “Oh, you know. Around.”

When it was clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, Lucien turned to Vassa and remarked, “Tam has the greenest thumb of anyone I know. Someone left a dying, um, plant in our dorm, and Tam nursed it back to health.”

At Vassa’s blank look, Tamlin explained, “He means weed.”

Lucien added jokingly, “The whole floor called us the High Lords.”

Tamlin turned red and chuckled. “Oh, god. The High Lords. I had forgotten about that.”

Lucien grinned. “Yeah. Weren’t there six of us? You, me, Kallias, Tarquin, Rhys—”

Tamlin’s easy smile stiffened. “Oh. Yeah.”

Lucien was about to ask what that look meant, when he noticed Vassa’s confused frown. “Oh, sorry,” he told her. “I meant to explain: Weed is something you smoke to get high. Um, feel good. We were in Room 420… You know. Dumb kid stuff.”

Vassa continued to frown. “He has green thumb?”

Both Tamlin and Lucien let out embarrassed chuckles.

Before Lucien could think of a better Scythian translation, Tamlin pulled his hand out of his pocket and gave her a thumbs-up. “He just means I’m good with my hands,” he said with a smile.

“You should have heard him play in the orchestra,” Lucien added eagerly. “He could make a grown man cry with his violin.” Vassa smiled at that. Music was something she appreciated, and understood; no translation necessary. He asked Tamlin, “Do you still play?”

Tamlin winced and rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, no. Not really.”

“Oh.”

Before he could think of a better question, Tamlin cleared his throat and said, “Well, it was good seeing you again. I don’t often run into anyone from the old days, so—”

“Oh, yeah?” Lucien said, trying to keep him a little longer. “Maybe we can have lunch some time. I don’t want to keep you from your Christmas shopping.” He nodded at the book tucked under his old friend’s arm. It had a bright yellow spine that contrasted nicely with the dark hunter green of his jacket, so it was difficult to ignore. It was difficult to think of what else to say.

“Job hunting for…” Vassa said slowly, tilting her head as she read the spine, and Lucien suddenly realized why Tamlin had been hiding the book under his arm.

“For a friend,” Tamlin said hastily, his face turning as red as Lucien’s felt. He jerked his thumb at the checkout line and said, “I’m on my lunch break, so…”

Not wanting to end their chance meeting on a sour note, Lucien asked him, “So, when do you get off work? Five?”

Tamlin’s throat bobbed. “Something like that.”

Lucien nodded at Vassa and said, “We’re having dinner at eight o’clock tonight, and we’d love for you to join us.”

“After, we have tickets to Swan Lake,” Vassa added.

“Vassa’s never been, so…” Lucien tried to explain, but Tamlin winced and held up his hand.

“I don’t want to intrude.”

“Not at all,” Lucien insisted. “We’ll just get another ticket.”

Tamlin looked skeptical. “To Swan Lake? In December?”

“You know the Vanserras are big patrons of the arts. I’ll name-drop.”

“I don’t know,” Tamlin said slowly. “Two’s company, three’s a crowd…”

“You can be bringing someone else, too, yes?” Vassa offered.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Lucien asked.

Tamlin’s brows furrowed. “You mean… like a date?”

“Yeah,” Lucien squeaked, then cleared his throat. “Um, yeah, a date.” He gestured between them. “You can bring someone, I’ll bring Vassa, and then nobody will feel left out. What do you say?”

Tamlin quirked his mouth to one side, thinking it over. After a long pause, he sighed. “I do have a friend…”

“Perfect.” Lucien jumped at the chance. “Let’s meet up for drinks at The Sour Lemon Bar at seven, then we’ll have dinner and go to the theater afterwards.”

When Tamlin still hesitated, Lucien added, “My treat.”

Tamlin winced. “I can’t let you do that—”

“Sure you can!” Lucien insisted, thumping him on the arm. “It’s all going on the Vanserra expense account, anyway. A very merry Fuck You to my father, just in time for Christmas.”

Tamlin dropped his gaze to the ground, chuckling deeply. When he looked up again, the tight lines in his face had eased, and his smile finally reached his eyes. “You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”

Lucien grinned. “Does that mean you’ll come?”

Tamlin sighed again, but he nodded. “It’s a date.” He blushed. “I-I mean, with you a-and Vassa.” He cleared his throat. “Seven, you said?”

Lucien’s scarf felt strangely tight as he agreed, “At The Sour Lemon Bar. Do you need an address?”

“No, I’m sure I’ll find it,” Tamlin said, edging toward the checkout stand. “See you, Lu. Nice to meet you, um, Vassa.”

Vassa nodded, and Lucien raised his hand in farewell as he watched his long-lost friend make his way to the front of the store.

“He seems nice,” Vassa remarked.

“Yeah,” Lucien murmured, watching as Tamlin took out a worn-looking leather wallet from the back of his belted jeans. The hunter green bomber jacket looked warm enough, but it was December, and they were expecting snow later. He wasn’t even wearing a hat, but his sunlight blond hair reached his shoulders and covered his ears, so maybe he didn’t need one. Tamlin’s hair had been much shorter back in the day, just curling under his ears and tickling the back of his neck when the two of them were in school, an act of defiance against his military father, Tamlin had said.

The long hair suited him, but unlike Lucien’s own shoulder-length strands, it seemed less like a stylistic choice and more like he hadn’t seen a barber in a while. It was like he hadn’t seen anyone in a while.

As Tamlin left the store without looking back, the bell above the door jingled, and a new song began to play: “Sleigh bells ring, are you listenin’…”

It was almost funny, but Lucien could only sigh. Something had happened to his old friend, but he couldn’t begin to guess what it was. With a start, he realized he hadn’t given Tamlin his contact information. He could only hope that his old friend would show up like he promised, and then he could find out what had happened to break his spirit.

* * *

Tamlin slid into the front seat of his friend’s black SUV with a heavy sigh. The soiled interior smelled like an ashtray and stale french fries, but at least it was warm.

Jurian, sitting in the driver’s seat with his mini-binoculars glued to the front of his face, asked, “Find anything good?”

Tamlin sighed again and rubbed his hands against the vent’s steady flow of welcome heat. “Yeah.”

Jurian lowered the binoculars at last and looked at him. “And?”

“And she was in there, all right? She was Christmas shopping, like normal people do at this time of year.”

Jurian smirked. “Oh, like you?” He glanced down at the paper bag resting on the middle seat. “What’s that?”

“It’s nothing—Hey!”

Jurian had the bag torn open before he could snatch it back, and he scoffed. “Job Hunting for Dummies?” He snorted. “Looking for another job, dummy?”

Face burning, Tamlin snatched the book and the bag back. “Shut up. I had to buy something, all right? It was the first thing I grabbed. She saw me.”

“Shit. She saw you?” Jurian grimaced and ran a hand over his salt-and-pepper stubble. “Did she mark you?”

“No,” Tamlin muttered, wrapping the torn brown paper edges over the top of the book before shoving it under his seat.

“Good. The last thing we need is to lose our payday. Christmas is coming up, and the fat man is bringing a big fat check if we play this right.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tamlin muttered, shoving his hands under his armpits.

Jurian snorted. “Don’t sound so excited. It’s not every day that a job like this drops in our laps. Cheating spouses is our bread and butter, but runaway princesses?” He put his fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Filet mignon.”

Tamlin let out a resigned sigh. “If you like filet mignon.”

Jurian smirked. “I don’t mind second helpings.” Tamlin shot him a look, but Jurian suddenly straightened up and snapped his fingers at something outside. “Hey-hey-hey. There she is. Grab the camera.”

As Tamlin reluctantly reached into the backseat, Jurian lifted the binoculars and squinted through them.

“Huh. Koschei didn’t mention she had a brother.”

Tamlin straightened up in the passenger seat as he slung the camera strap around his neck. “She doesn’t.”

Jurian lowered the binoculars with a confused squint. “Then who’s the twink?”

“He’s not a twink—” Tamlin bit back a growl as Jurian raised his dark, bushy brows at him. He took a deep breath and calmly explained, “His name is Lucien Vanserra. You’ve probably heard of his family.”

“Vanserra? As in Daddy is the head of the entire Autumn Corporation?” When Tamlin nodded, Jurian let out a low, appreciative whistle and resumed his binocular view. “That explains the nice threads. No wonder Princess is hanging around him.”

Tamlin’s cheeks flushed with a muttered, “Yeah,” then lifted the camera and looked down the telescopic lens. The two redheads were chatting amiably outside the bookstore, blissfully unaware that they were being watched by some sleazy private eye and his equally sleazy but unwilling cameraman. At least it paid the rent. Some of the time.

It was just a few lousy pictures. Proof that Vassa was living in Prythian. That was all. But still, as Tamlin zoomed in on Lucien’s smiling face, as he laughed at something Vassa said, his perfect teeth bright against the tawny beige of his skin, his finger hovered—and hesitated—over the shutter button.

“Problem?” Jurian asked.

“Smudge on the lens,” Tamlin muttered, lowering the camera. As he dug around in the camera case for a cleaning cloth, Jurian swore.

“You didn’t think to check it before we left?”

“It’s this damn vehicle,” Tamlin snapped. “Maybe if you cleaned it once in a while—”

“Hey. Don’t blame me for your screw-up—”

“I didn’t want to take this job in the first place!”

“Oh, now you tell me. Anything else you want to confess, or should I find a priest for that?!”

They were still arguing when Tamlin saw red.

“Shit.” He ducked down in the passenger seat as Lucien stepped off the sidewalk and crossed the street in front of the SUV, alone.

Jurian sat back in his seat and barked a laugh when Tamlin finally lifted his head to peek over the dashboard. “Hey, dumbass. Tinted windows, remember?”

“Shut up,” Tamlin muttered, straightening up, then winced as he examined the lens, which had been bumped loose from the lens mount. He hoped it wasn’t broken. Repairs like that weren’t cheap.

Jurian sat up in the driver’s seat and squinted, then smacked his hand against the steering wheel. “Dammit. She’s gone.”

He shifted the SUV into gear, then floored the gas and pulled into the street. As they drove, scanning the slushy streets, Jurian ran a hand through his already unruly dark hair. “Fuck. Where are we supposed to look for her now?”

As Tamlin lowered the two pieces of the camera to his lap, he cleared his throat. “Funny you should mention that…”

Jurian cocked an eyebrow as Tamlin explained what had happened inside the bookstore. “A date?” He could barely keep his eyes on the road. “Are you fucking serious?”

“It’s not a date,” Tamlin retorted. “We’re just old friends catching up, that’s all.”

“You and pretty boy, maybe, but what am I supposed to do? I’m supposed to be undercover. We’re supposed to be undercover, dipshit.”

“I’m not going to blow our cover,” Tamlin growled through gritted teeth. “And you don’t have to come.”

Jurian huffed in frustration and slammed on the brakes, narrowly missing the car in front of him as it idled at a stoplight. “Great,” he huffed again, smacking the steering wheel. “This is just great.” He grumbled something about this being the worst time to give up smoking—even though it had been three years—then he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Look. I’m sorry, kid. I know this isn’t your dream job. I wouldn’t ask you to do this if I wasn’t desperate. My vision isn’t what it used to be, and Mr. Hybern is breathing down my neck, and…”

Tamlin’s fingers traced the edges of the busted lens mount, and he sighed. “I know.”

“I’ll make it up to you. We’ll skip the filet mignon and get one of those—” He snapped his fingers. “—what do you call ‘em—hide-a-beds. God knows we need a new couch anyway.”

Tamlin thought of the way the sorry sofa sagged under his weight and the way it was six inches too short no matter which way he laid on it.

“You know what? I’ll even pretend to be whatever you want on this date—not-a-date,” he amended when Tamlin shot him a warning look, “if you’ll help me with this last job. Deal?”

It still meant lying to Lucien, but was leaving out the worst part of the last seven years even a lie in the first place? The traffic light ahead of them turned green, but the SUV continued to idle.

“Well?”

Tamlin sighed again. “Deal.”

“Atta boy,” Jurian said warmly, then flipped off the cars honking behind him. “I know it’s green, you morons.”

Tamlin sank back against the passenger seat as the SUV sped up to join the thick of downtown traffic, strangely calm while Jurian swore at all the holiday shoppers during the most fuckin’ wonderful time of the year.

Even though Tamlin would have preferred to leave Jurian—and Vassa—out of it, he was almost looking forward to that evening. It had been so long since he had looked forward to anything… It wasn’t even about the food and the entertainment. God only knew how long it had been since he had had enjoyed anything half that nice. The Sour Lemon Bar alone was on the ritzier side of town, after all… It was about the company.

A slight smile touched his mouth as he thought back to that chance meeting with his old friend and former roommate. Jurian was decent enough to give him a place to stay when the whole world went to hell, but… From the first day they met at college, he and Lucien just clicked. They could talk about everything and nothing. It was more than being best friends. They were true kindred spirits.

They were each the youngest in their respective families, with strict, overbearing fathers who couldn’t be bothered to show up for important things like recitals or graduation, but who were also obsessed with image and obedience.

Tamlin still didn’t know how Lucien’s mom put up with it, but his own mother had passed away when he was sixteen. She had been there for every school concert, every violin recital, smiling proudly despite undergoing brutal cancer treatments. All the while his own father couldn’t be bothered to show up.

“Only queers and sissies play the fiddle,” his father had sneered.

Real men play football. Real men win wrestling tournaments. Real men take one for the team, the way his brothers did. They called him selfish for making their mother go to his concerts when she should have been home resting. They ignored her insistence that she really wanted to go, but at least they didn’t stop her.

Even at her weakest, she continued to show up, holding a single rose to throw on the stage after each performance, ‘the way they did it in the movies’. He used to be embarrassed about it, but he secretly dried them out and kept every single one… At least until his father found the box after her death and threw them all out.

Tamlin then chose to honor her memory by working his ass off and getting a music scholarship to one of the most prestigious universities in Prythian instead of going into the military like his father wanted. He had paid for it, too, in more ways than one. He hadn’t spoken to his father and two older brothers for ten years, and he didn’t plan on starting now. Jurian’s foul mouth and fouler apartment were preferable to the abuse and neglect he had endured at the hands of his so-called family. And then to run into Lucien again after all this time…

Maybe this was finally the end of some terrible bad luck streak. Some god-awful curse. Seven years bad luck, and all that. It seemed pointless to hope, and yet… Lucien had actually been happy to see him. He had hugged him. Tamlin finally understood what it meant to be touch-starved, and he realized he was ravenous. As much as he had protested, how could he say no to another taste?

Since the camera needed repairs anyway, there was no reason he couldn’t sit back and enjoy himself for a single evening. Jurian could keep an eye on Vassa while he and Lucien reminisced about the good ol’ days…

As the nicer buildings of downtown gave way to small, old-fashioned houses and even older apartment buildings on the edge of town where he and Jurian lived, Tamlin let out a disgruntled sigh. Who was he kidding?

There was no fooling Lucien. His friend had always had the uncanny ability to see right through him. If he somehow managed to bullshit his way through the evening and pretend that everything was sunshine and roses, there was no getting around the fact that he still had a job to do. Some shadowy figure called Mr. Koschei wanted those photos of Vassa by Christmas.

Tamlin wanted to believe that the pictures meant nothing more than a paycheck, but three months’ worth of rent was a lot to ask for a few lousy headshots, no matter how badly they needed it. He certainly didn’t want to see her get hurt, or Lucien, either, for that matter, but he didn’t see any way around it.

He hated himself even more now for getting involved, and for agreeing to Jurian’s proposal. But Jurian couldn’t do it without his help, or his camera.

The most wonderful time of the year, indeed.

#to be continued #you probably already guessed it was me #but #ta da #i've been so nervous about posting this #since it's not finished yet #and it doesn't really get happy until the end #but since you said you like angst #and new year's fics #and latkes #i really hope you like it #acotar gift exchange #acotar gift exchange 2023 #tamcien #tamlin x lucien

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mywingsareonwheels · 1 year

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Various people, to Morse, in series 9: “You should leave Oxford, I mean all your people are leaving, what do you have to stick around for?”

Max: ... I AM RIGHT HERE OMG.

(I’m glad Thursday isn’t one of those who says that. Which is presumably partly because Thursday is trying not to worry about Morse or fret about how much he himself will miss the lad because when he starts he’s incapable of stopping and he doesn’t trust the powers that be in Oxford to be decent to Morse. But it’s also because I think he’s fully aware that Max and Morse are good friends and Morse will not ever actually be alone. And now I need a fic in which Thursday manages to just ask Max to look after Morse for him, and Max gently says he’d be doing that anyway and doesn’t need to be asked, but also is a sweetheart and gives Thursday some seedcake.)

#itv endeavour #endeavour morse #max debryn #inspector morse #the hobbit pathologist #fred thursday

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calllynx · 5 months

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sometimes love and friendship is huddling together in a dark corner on a cold night to eat a strange and wonderful little seedcake split five ways

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tanoraqui · 3 months

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For the character ask game: Celechwes and accidentally causing a fire!

[ask meme]

Celechwes considered herself something of an expert of the many waybreads of Beleriand - on eating them, at least. She'd been sent on her way with the many rich breads of Ossiriand, as varied as the nut flours each Laegrim tribe boasted as the best base, all perfectly suited to long, happy wandering. She'd ridden night and day on strength of the fluffy but fulfilling wafers of the eastern field-lands, the ever-enduring hard seedcakes of the northwestern mountains, and the surprisingly homogenous loafs of the squabbling Noldor (though she could always tell a baker who'd crossed the Helcaraxë from one who hadn't. They were, quite simply, more sustaining.) On a few occasions, she'd even been gifted one of the small, round loafs which Melian made with her own hands for those Marchwardens who guarded the Girdle along the edge of Nan Dungortheb, each bite of which seemed to make the whole world brighter.

And of course there was the waybread of home, including from her mother's own oven. Peroldhaleth was no great journey-leader, sustaining all her people with her craft. But elves had been baking petty waybread for kith and kin for longer than they'd been elevating lords and ladies for the skill. Celechwes had long-since given up trying to explain that Perolhaleth's recipe really needed the many long days at sea, gently absorbing ambient salt and dampness, in order to be really "done", and it just wasn't made for in-land journeys. Now, she just gratefully accepted the bundles of bread and made sure to dunk them in streams every time she camped.

Good waybread couldn't be made on the move. It needed at least a camp with real intent to stay a while, to rest, recuperate, and prepare for the journey ahead. Even so, Celechwes had made her own waybread from time to time - in her mother's oven, or with kitchen time borrowed in one village or another, or even over a cookfire of her own if she found a particularly nice patch of land and decided to rest for a while. She habitually picked up odds and ends of trail-cooking supplies; she could make a good, true-sustaining oatcake or nutbread if she put in the effort. Good enough for herself, at least, and browned just the way she liked it!

She'd all but stopped that after the Enemy returned to the north. First, every place that used to be as safe as the wild ever were was suddenly under strange and terrifying threat. Then she'd been busy, criss-crossing the continent with urgent messages for the war. Even as peace stretched south of the Leaguer, gone was the lackadaisical I'll end up on that side of the forest sometime this year; I'd be happy to bring your letter to your cousin post of the Years of Starlight, and with it, spontaneous idle camping and baking.

Beside, every Noldorin fortress of note had a lady leading a team of bakers dedicated exclusively to waybread and other field provisions. Celechwes's bread was suitable for herself, stubborn and just enough willful hope to sustain a lone rider through the night, a little saltier and damper than most inlanders liked it. It was nothing on the mass quantities of waybread needed to sustain an army, each slice replete with the determination, joy, fire, and everything else required to carry a warrior through patrols, marching, cold northern nights and pitched battle, and they didn't stint the couriers their share.

She watched through the glass oven door (only Noldor!) as her third attempt in a row caught flame, and she burst into tears.

Lady Maedhinest, Loaf-Ward of Barad Eithel, rested a hand on her shoulder. Though capable, Celechwes knew, of kneading a five-pound pile of dough on her own, her touch was gentle.

"This may just not be the task for you," she said kindly. "There are countless other--"

"What?" Celechwes cried. "I cannot take up arms, I cannot heal the wounded, I cannot ride out--"

For the whole of the north still burned, the air tasted of fetid smoke even here in the heart of Barad Eithel; the siege had broken but that just meant the vast army of orcs and smoke-ghosts and dragons that spit flame swifter than the fastest courier could ride was now broken up and roaming free, their movements unpredictable but always savage. The only person to get out unhindered of late had been Fingolfin, and--

"There there, my lady," Maedhinwest murmured, warm arms encircling her. She sensed, perhaps, that calling Celechwes your majesty right now would make her fall apart completely. As much of a failure as her stupid burning waybread, burning helplessly like everything else.

Celechwes let herself be guided to a chair, and blew her nose on the proffered handkerchief. At least they'd long-since shooed all the under-bakers from the room, so maybe Celechwe wouldn't devastate morale with rumors of her general incompetence at the position she'd so boldly stepped up for, and never thought she'd actually be in.

#theghostinthemargins #celechwes au #my fic #ask meme #the silmarillion

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