+ It’s dark when she opens her eyes. Not the dark of late evening, when the stars have begun to twinkle in the sky—when the only sound to be heard is the choral chirping of insects, the darkening of doorways. No, it’s a darkness that knows it will have to fade eventually, a grey dawn that casts their bedroom in a hazy, dreamlike glow.
A nippy, quiet breeze smelling suspiciously of rain tiptoes through the open window and she catches the scent of him on the air. It’s a spicy mixture of cologne and sweat, a warm, enticing blend that clashes wonderfully with the fresh, tingling wetness of an impending storm. She can feel his rough, weathered fingers against the bare flesh of her waist. The tap, tap, tapping of his thumb against her belly. The smooth, hard metal of his ring against her stomach not unlike the steady ringing of a church bell, a far off song, a call to his side.
Summary: “In some cases, these close binary systems can exchange mass, which may bring their evolution to stages that single stars cannot attain.”
You and Jaebum have been dating forever when Mark Tuan shows up in your classroom. You’ve always been against change - a bit debilitating, being a writer - but for some reason this new kid has you thinking there might be an upside to chaos.
concept; you and i, two fawns in a safe meadow lit grey by dawn. there is a cool breeze, the only sound that can be heard being the beat of our own hearts and the soft swish of the tall grass blanketing us. everything is okay and will continue to be.
So, with all these spoilers flooding in and getting everyone in a sensitive mood, I thought I’d finally put forth my ingenious solution to the Tamlin problem. I hope those with ARCs can confirm that SJM listened to my proposal. A fic promised for @my-name-is-fireheart (You’d better have written me that Sex In The City AU :P)
Came In Like a Wrecking Ball
Pairings: Feysand, Lucien x Freedom, Tamlin x A sort of happy ending??
“I don’t…” Feyre began, slumped in the back of the carriage as they rode across the courts back to Night in the dark. “I don’t understand. How did this happen? He’s just letting me go?”
“Feyre,” Lucien said, his eyes glazed and distant as he stared out of the windows. “Just. Just don’t ask.”
Twelve hours earlier…
Scrutinising himself in the mirror, Tamlin smirked. He’d finally proven he was capable of taking what he wanted. After everyone – Rhysand, Amarantha, his father – had all pushed him around and left him feeling powerless and useless, he’d finally shown them all that he was the one in charge of the chessboard, so to speak. They could all play their games and treat him like a child, but in the end he was the one with the brute force to knock it all to pieces. The situation wasn’t ideal, but it was his. And that was something he would always cling onto.
Fastening his wedding attire, he checked himself over once more. With Feyre finally back in the Spring Court, where he belonged, they could marry. She would be his, and he could finally stop worrying about how everything could go wrong. Once they were married, everything would be back to normal.
“My Lord!” Lucien came charging through his door just as he finished adjusting his collar. He was flushed and pale, clutching his chest and panting. “My Lord- The guards just captured an Illyrian. They managed to sneak over the borders somehow and- well, we can barely just contain them. They demand to speak with you.” Straightening, Lucien composed himself. “Rhys sent them.”
Before, this would have ignited a furious panic in Tamlin, but now he just leered. Foolish Bat, scrambling to try and get back in a game he’d already lost. “Take me to them,” Tamlin ordered, pulling on his boots. “Let’s see what fun we can have with them. Perhaps I’ll turn them into a ring cushion. Or perhaps they’d be better suited to serving as a pew.”
Calmer now, Lucien led him as instructed out through the gardens to the forest. The day had dawned grey and cloudy, not at all fitting for Spring, but as they walked sunlight began to pierce the clouds above. They approached three figures, two guards blocking the third from sight. As their lord approached they parted, and so the other turned and-
It was like a kick to the face. A sledgehammer to his stomach. An electric current through every muscle he possessed. The force of it was so strong that for a long, long minute, Tamlin had no idea what it was. Hell, the idea of it alone was so bizarre that he refused to believe- he couldn’t-
Standing before him was a beast of an Illyrian, strapped with muscles, their luscious long locks tangled in a flowing mane of dark hair. Their eyes were dark, mysterious orbs of shadow and their smile was a lighting slash of charm. And oh, those muscles, bulging like an overgrown infant from a tired womb. Their armour was skin-tight, decorated with a bajillion siphons, their wings so big that Tamlin could only wonder at what sort of a monster lay downstairs…
“…Tam?” Lucien said, looking at him. The ginger bastard didn’t matter any more though, Tamlin only had eyes for this majestic deity of a creature.
“…Is he alright?” One of the guards asked.
“I think he’s having a stroke.”
“Tam? Do you recognise them?” Lucien asked, trying to ignore the guards.
When Tamlin failed to respond, too busy gazing into the eyes of the Illyrian, Lucien sighed. “Go and fetch Feyre. Maybe she can snap him out of it.”
“No,” Tamlin rasped. Urgh. Feyre. “No. Have her sent away, far away. I don’t care where.” The winged beast stared back at him and spoke,
“I don’t believe it.”
Tamlin nodded. “You’re my mate.”
“Wait,” Feyre said, unable to quite believe her ears. “An Illyrian was his mate?”
“Apparently,” Lucien said, and then shivered. “You should have heard his thoughts. The utter crap his brain was spewing. It was like love poetry born out of a lavatory.”
“I don’t understand,” Feyre mumbled to herself. “I didn’t think any Illyrian women were allowed to be trained until now, let alone given siphons.”
Lucien looked over at her. He kept looking. She looked back. “…No.” He nodded. “No! No, surely not?”
“I couldn’t make this stuff up even if I tried.”
Feyre sat stunned, staring at him, before breaking into hysterics. He had to endure it the whole rest of the ride back.
“No- You’re staying here, and I’m going out!”
“Are you kidding me, you flimsy fae bastard! Your fragile body can’t survive the perils of the outdoors. You’re not a trained warrior like me, you wouldn’t stand a chance with the war going on. I’m going out, you’re staying at home!”
“Flimsy? I can transform into a motherfucking lion, thank you very much!”
“Bah, a big kitty cat! I have wings. Do you have wings? No. So if Hybern flooded the place, you’d drown.”
“I can transform to have wings! Where’s you argument now, huh?”
More crashing. More throwing of furniture.
It was a very, very good thing that the courtiers of the Spring Court had learned to avoid going to the upper floors, where Tamlin and his mate now argued.
“If you think I’m going to let you go wandering off, unprotected-”
“-I take better care of my mate than that, I’ll have you know. You-”
“-just need to listen to me! It’s for your own-”
“-your own good!”
They’d been at it for two months now, and neither one of them had let the other leave the house. Gabriel, Tamlin’s new, rather unexpected mate, had proved to be just as over protective and powerful as he was, for as they both claimed, they were clearly both horrific victims of those pesky powerful male hormones, and it had ended in a rather bizarre stalemate. Still. At least it kept them out of the war and Rhysand’s life. Feyre had been forgotten completely.
“You ignorant aristocrat! Your sheltered existence isn’t fit for the harsh reality out of those doors!”
“You may have the wings of a bat, but you’ve the brain of a pigeon!”
“I will not-”
“-Allow you to leave!”
Well. They do say mates are equals. And thus Tamlin and his Gabriel lived sort of happily ever after.
Summary: After what appeared to be a failed experiment, you stay low and compliant. You’ve always done what you were told; it’s what kept you alive all these years. That is, until you get caught and your secret is revealed.
Warnings: Light mention of physical and maybe verbal abuse?
Notes: For the birthday girl, AJ (@mattymattymerduck). I know you enjoy villain!reader, so here this is :D I’ve had this idea for a while, but wasn’t sure how to go about with it. Until now. Enjoy ~
Useless. Absolutely, unforgivingly useless. That’s all you are, and ever will be. You were born a mistake; proof being that your own mother traded you in for cash, once she deemed you were old enough. Could you really blame her though? Your father fell off the face of the planet one day, and was never heard from again. But he was seen again, on the news actually. Living the life as a politician now, somewhere in New York. Watching him appear on the television, making speeches about equality and creating a better world… You were his only child, and all she ever saw in you was the reminder of the man who walked out on her. A splitting image of him. She just never realized that she wasn’t the only one he abandoned.
You always did your best to do things right. God knew that you’ve made your fair share of mistakes over the years, but never on purpose. The good grades, finished chores, and obedient nod were never enough. There was always a grade not high enough, a chore done too slow and a right response given at the wrong time.
On the weekend of your birthday, a man showed up at your door. According to your mother, he was a distant relative. When you spotted the duffel bag on the table, you knew it wasn’t packed with your things. For the past month, you heard the phone calls in the late night. Something something, useless… Mumble mumble, exchange.. Whisper whisper…. Deal. What confirmed your suspicions was when your mother suddenly showed an interest in your well being. She began checking your body for any disfigurations, or markings. She would ask how you were feeling, touching your forehead to check for a fever, looking for any kind of change in you. It was a cruel joke to you, making you believe that she might actually be turning a new leaf.
She grabbed the duffel bag, unzipped it and nodded with contentment at the sight of bundled cash. You turned towards the so-called relative, and he held out his hand. You glanced back to your mother, but she was already turning away with the duffel bag in hand. It stung watching her walk away, not even hesitantly turning around for one more look. After years of getting that cold shoulder from her, you’d think that you would’ve been used to it.
The man took your hand and led you outside, where you were greeted by a small black, two seater car with windows deeply tinted. Huh. Usually there’s a fine for people who get window tints too dark. He opened the door for you, and without hesitation you got in. You watched as he strolled around the front of the car and into the driver’s seat. He started the car, and took off. The sight of what used to be home shrunk in the wing mirror until it was out of view.
You leaned your head against the chilled window. “What about my things” you spoke out, watching the fog from your breath slowly disappear from the glass. The tone in your voice wasn’t demanding or curious. It was more of an attempt to rid the silence.
“You won’t need them.” He kept his left hand steady on the wheel, as his right traveled slowly towards you. Before he could make another move, you quickly grabbed ahold of his last three fingers, fiercely pulling them backwards. Within a split second, you flew forward and hit the dashboard hard, releasing the grip you held on his digits. You let out a pained groan as you pushed yourself back into the seat.
“I wasn’t going to touch you” he spoke nonchalantly, “I was going to close your air vents.” The car started forward again, the momentum pushing you into your seat as you put your seatbelt on this time. You shifted your position as the car filled with silence once again.
“It would be wise to ask all the questions you have now” he announces, “when we get to our destination, you won’t be able to talk. Not much, at least.”
You sighed, “alrighty then, I guess we can start with the basics.” He raised his index finger, “No personal questions.”
“Just the basics remember? Like…. are you really family? What’s with the slight accent? And what’s your name? Or can I call you mysterious Uncle baldy?” you smirked, appreciating your little joke. He made a sharp right turn making you hit your head on the window. Karma is always close behind. “First off,” he began, “I am not bald. I keep it short, less hassle. My name is not important right now, but Baron will do.” You rubbed the side of your head, already feeling a small bump forming. “And family wise?” you looked towards him. He glanced at you, raising an eyebrow. “Your father, you remember him, yes?” he noticed your jaw clenched and smirked. “Well, he is my brother, actually.”
Flashbacks of your father’s face appearing on the television filled your mind. He didn’t change much, from what you remember him as a child. He looked exactly the same, but aged. His hair dawning strands of grey and white hairs, wrinkles becoming deeper. Even his voice sounded the same.
“He never said he had any siblings. Not to mention, any kind of accent” you scoffed, crossing your arms.
“We are half brothers. He grew up in the states, while I, Germany.” His tone faltered. You guessed it wasn’t a happy relationship between then, if there was any. “Why did you grow up in Ger-” he raised his hand up, stopping you from finishing your sentence. “I said, no personal questions.” Without thinking, you gently swatted his hand out of your way not even thinking of the possible consequences. Rather than giving you a slap to the face, he chuckled and shook his head. “You remind me of myself. Always acting without thinking” he stated, “it’ll get you in trouble one day.”
You huffed in your seat, rolling your eyes. There was nothing you wanted to say to that, especially since you know it was true. Of course you were a very obedient child, always doing what you were told but that was to avoid a beating. The lashings were a hell of a way to discipline you. But the moment you left that house, you left the memories behind as well. Even if you weren’t free person, you were at least free to be yourself. And who you really were, has yet to be revealed. Years of bottling incompatible emotions don’t always pour out smoothly.
“Can I at least know where we’re going? You’ve been driving for like two hours now” you exaggerated. He let out a slightly annoyed sigh before answering, “It’s only been one hour, and we are going to Sokovia.” You shot him a questioning glance, only to be met with his hand raised again. “No more questions. Take a nap or stare out the window, do something quiet until we reach the airport. We have a long way to go.”
Fic: Every Minute and Every Hour (I Miss you More) (1/?)
Fandom: The 100
Word Count: 2223
(A/N: I decided to write a missing radio conversation fic, which turned into 2 conversations, which then turned into: “well, if they insist on keeping them apart, I’ll just write more as they come to me.” It turns out that it was quite hard to slot them in, what with everything happening at break neck speed, but they obviously have exchanged information (in the very least) offscreen. Maybe if there are conversations you guys would like to read, or you think happened, I could take a shot at them? Anyway, I hope you enjoy.)
She can’t reach him on the radio.
Abby is trying desperately to stem the tide of panic that’s threatening to well up. She’s been trying throughout the evening, since they’d arrived and settled at Becca’s lab, after a brief exploration that was no where near thorough enough to satisfy her scientific curiosity. But that interest fades the longer Marcus doesn’t respond to her calls.
She tells herself that any number of reasonable things could be keeping him busy. If the King needs him, if there’s another sensitive political situation like the one with Trishanakru, Marcus would be focusing all his energies into solving the problem. It’s just that they’d taken to keeping their radios on them at all times. Abby has already developed a habit of brushing her fingers over it where it’s attached to her belt, taking what little strength and comfort she can in that link to him; even clutching it close to her chest after speaking to him, as if she could somehow channel her love, overflowing with longing, into radio waves.
There are any number of reasons, but this excuse gets weaker and weaker the longer the evening stretches on with nothing but static on the other end of the line.
She does not sleep that night, throwing herself into her work instead, and probably drawing too much blood from Luna in one go when the younger woman begins to look pale and Jackson ushers her off to bed, shooting a disapproving look at Abby. She stays glued to her microscope until her vision starts to blur and her back aches, the radio resting on the countertop within arms reach.
In the grey dawn light, she finds herself staring blankly at it, barely even seeing it anymore, exhaustion weighing her down, unable to reign in her emotions anymore. There is an ever present tightness in her chest that refuses to go away. Abby steels herself and tries again, and her heart leaps into her throat when there is an answering crackle.
In the midst of doubt and fear, together we must be strong. Such strides were made and will be held steadfast by those who fight for them. Despite the grim appearance of the world at large, tomorrow a new day dawns.
Summary: His tongue was cruel in more ways than one.
Notes: This was inspired by a very NSFW sketch that appeared on my dash. It is also DO-era filth, which means it is incredibly sad. So be aware going into this, it’s probably the darkest thing I have written or will write. Thanks to the bae, @abbadons-little-witch! Also tagging @captainwiley, by request. xo Also on Ao3, as always.
I have lost myself in the sea many times with my ear full of freshly cut flowers, with my tongue full of love and agony. – Federico García Lorca
+ He surrenders in an unknowable moment between her thighs; but he won’t realize he’s lost until it’s too late, the strange, salty taste of her an intimate, uncanny premonition of the blood in his mouth.
“I knew,” she’ll whisper days, weeks, months later, their skin warm and damp in the light of a grey, early dawn, “I knew.”