feelin’ mischievous

|| Ali || “I have this terrible feeling from time to time that we might all just be human.” || Writer ||Masterlist || Requests are currently closed! ||

[starks-hero]

Stand with Palestine 🇵🇸

About me - the names Ali, she/her, Irish, bi, 21, mythology nerd, daydreamer, fanfic writer.

About the blog™ - this blog is a safe space, everybody is welcome and no bigotry will be tolerated. I'm over 18 but minors are free to follow as long as they dni with my nsfw content. My inbox is always open for anyone who needs to talk.

Just be kind to each other pls <3

My content - fanfiction, arcane, astarion, bbc sherlock, bbc ghosts, good omens, our flag means death, loki, moon knight, marvel, the hobbit, the lord of the rings, norse/greek/egyptian/celtic mythology, hozier, queen

- masterlist

- rules for requesting

- buy me a coffee <3

[sheisraging]

i'm not crying, you're crying.

[polartss]

”genetic” girl WHATEVERRRRR

[starks-hero]

Forever fighting the urge to write a corpse bride au with him <3

Give me a listen you corpses of cheer, at least those of you who still got an ear. I'll tell you a story that'll make a skeleton gloom, of our own jubiliciously lovely corpse groom.

[starks-hero]

Order up! The Jayce/Viktor fic has been baked and delivered. So, what are we feeling now

?

The full moon is in a week so I am contractually obligated to pick Moon Knight

Thorin Oakenshield Mental Health Check-In

Violating the Laws of Nature with Oscar Isaac’s Frankenstein

Bully me into writing the Corpse Bride AU I mentioned 2 years ago <3

Voting ended onSep 5, 2025

[starks-hero]

Ghosting Touch

Pairing: Jayce Talis x Reader x Viktor

Summary: Touch; verb, handle in order to interfere with, alter, or otherwise affect.

Synopsis: After weeks of being treated like he’s vulnerable, Viktor just wants to be taken apart like he’s not.

Word count: 5.5k

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors dni, sad feelings followed by comforting smut because that’s just how I roll, ftm!Viktor supremacy, oral, clit used for Viktor but otherwise ambiguous, I’m not generally a sub!Viktor believer but sometimes you just need to fuck your bf until he feels better.

a/n: for the sad horny girlies and guys

Viktor had his first cigarette when he was fourteen. 

Handed to him by the charcoal-stained, calloused fingers of some old miner who promised it would make the poisoned air of the under city taste a little sweeter. He started smoking at sixteen, indulged in the conscious effort of it all. He once rolled them himself, finding something therapeutic in the act of creation. But his hands shook too much now, his fingers too weak to curl the paper properly. So he resigned himself to pre-rolled little sticks, each one perfect and symmetrical, lined up in their box like soldiers in a row.

He only ever gave in to the old craving on nights like this, when you and Jayce were asleep and his mind continued to buzz with a noise he hoped the smoke might muffle. It was becoming an increasingly difficult feat, smoking around both of you. Since his diagnosis, since his illness became a palpable, physical thing, he could do very little without being chastised or fussed over. 

He is aware of how awful it sounds, but moments like this had become a form of respite, when he could simply be alone. On good days, the nauseous feeling of anxiety was bearable. On bad days, he couldn’t stand you looking at him, feeling that pitying gaze undress him to the bone, your sympathy turning the marrow bitter.

He’s less than halfway through his first cigarette when he hears the balcony door open. He makes no move to stop or conceal what he is doing; he doesn’t care for the chastising he’s sure is to come. Besides, he doesn’t want to waste the cigarette.

He has a few left; four, five if including the crumpled one he’d hurriedly put away after being almost caught by Jayce. He thinks they could last the rest of his life if he picks his moments. Carry him through the next few months. 

He had begun to use them as a means of measuring time. A way to count. The academy’s best doctors couldn’t give him an accurate estimate or timeline. And so he measured it in mundane things. Things he could outlive. The coffee in the kitchen, the plant on the window. A box of cigarettes. 

The scolding doesn’t come. No one grasps the cigarette and rushes to put it out against the steel of the railing, berating him through the thin wall of smoke.

“Jayce will kill you if he sees you with that,” you say instead. 

Viktor makes a quiet sound. Not a laugh, but some musing of resigned agreement. Smoke spills from the parting of his pale lips, travels up to his nose with his breathing. “Let him.” He says. 

Conflict between the three of you had become complex in the last number of months. Fights happened less frequently but with greater fallout. Like amputating a rotting limb with a butter knife, dull to begin with, but then so very messy. 

None of you wanted to taint the time you had left with disagreements, did not want to discuss the inevitable. But harbouring those thoughts only allowed them to fester and morph into something angrier, something walls of stony patience and denial couldn’t even contain. And with time, it would come crashing down in a horrid wave of reality. 

All shouting, tears, and bitter words. 

“He’s not my keeper,” Viktor says then. His tired eyes shift to you. The action is lazy, sluggish, like a marble moving along the bottom of a tin can. “Nor are you.”

He expects an argument. He's ready for it. When you don’t, he offers the cigarette.

You take it, raise it to your lips, hoping you can taste him upon the paper, draw him out from amongst the nicotine. Your intimacy and usual affection had dried up in light of his diagnosis, buried beneath rocky layers of fear and grief. 

In an admittedly sick sense, some indulgent saviourism, you see the mundane act as one of good. As though you’re protecting Viktor’s ailing lungs from the thick plumes of smoke by stealing it for yourself. Your fingers itch, the cigarette feeling heavy, a weight in your hand. You could draw a deep breath and take it all in at once, watch it turn to ash and fall away. You could pretend to drop it, one clumsily twitch of your finger sending it over the balcony as a whirling ember.

Gone and out of reach. 

But Viktor would be mad, at the very least irritated. And peaceful moments were so few and far between now. So you hand it back to him. 

He smiles, a small, amused thing that makes the guilt you feel dissolve a little. The cherry burns a dark red as he takes a pull, and part of you wishes it could always be there. A blinking red light that confirms each inhale and exhale. In, out. A reassurance he’s still breathing.

He’s tired, with dark circles rounding beneath his eyes. He looks made of clay, a shadowy specter, as though you’d need to reach out and touch him to ensure he is sentient, not simply some gorgeous thing of stone to be looked at. He holds out the cig between slender fingers, another silent offer. Doing your best to ignore the tremble of his hand, you accept. 

The next hit of nicotine hits you fast, your mind lulling and vision hazing. It’s a pleasant buzz, all things considered. But Viktor’s following question makes you think he’d offered it to you purposely before asking just to take the edge off. 

“How long?” You know what he is referring to, but he enlightens you anyway. “How long do you think I have?” 

It hits you square in the chest, and the smoke on your tongue suddenly tastes sour. 

Just like that, the temporary haven is shattered, reality flooding back in. You close your eyes. 

You had begun to bear the brunt of these conversations, become the wall Viktor ricocheted his thoughts off.  He did not often talk about his mortality, but when he did, and it manifested as stormy bouts of rage at the unfairness of it all, you weathered them. Jayce couldn’t do so. The thought of the inevitable, of one day losing Viktor, made Jayce nauseous. You couldn’t recall the last time he held down breakfast. 

Opening your eyes, you peer over the edge at the long drop down. 

Viktor feels awful for asking something so horrible of you. He knows it’s selfish. But that’s what he is, he thinks. Selfish.

“You already know the answer,” you admit then, glancing at him sideways. “You just want to see if we both agree.”

The truth invites a heavy silence. Viktor is a brilliant man, all equations and calculations. He knows his own rough estimation, if not born of his hypothesis then of the brittle feeling in his bones. 

But he needs to hear you say it simply so he knows he is not alone with the knowledge of that awful fact. “I do,” he says, voice hoarse, breaking around the word. He puts it down to the clinging taste of nicotine in the back of his throat. 

“A year, maybe.” The words feel like a horrible incantation that, by speaking, you give viability to. But this is all far too real to pretend it is not. “But I can’t. I can’t put a count down on-” 

Your voice hitches, and Victor does not pry you to continue. He takes a sharp drag from the ailing cigarette, hoping to smother his rising panic. Half of the ashen butt falls away as he does, and a plume of smoke rises from the ember given new rejuvenation. He’s glad for the sting it brings to his eyes. It excuses the sudden glassy look to them. 

“I thought so.” He says it so simply, as though describing the weather or the outcome of some equation written in chalk. There one minute, gone with the wipe of a sleeve the next. 

When he hands you the cigarette again in some display of camaraderie, you do not hesitate to press the burning end into the railing, twisting until the bright orange goes dull and ashen.

Victor quirks a brow, but he says nothing. 

You hate it, how he has begun to treat things with greater nonchalance. You wished he’d get mad at times, impassioned even if in anger. You hated the idea that he had simply given up.

“Come on,” you say quietly, waiting for him in the doorway. “It’s late.” 

He follows, an admirable attempt to hide his worsening limp discredited by the way he winces and leans to one side. You offer your arm, and he simply brushes past you. It’s not meant to be malicious. You know that. But the strike to his independence sets a deeper ache in his chest than his failing lungs. 

Viktor stumbles into the bedroom and immediately sets eyes on Jayce.

He is sat up against the pillows, broad shoulders against the headboard, and a hazy look to him, as though he wants you and Viktor to think him more tired than he is, as though he had been asleep and woken. As though he hadn’t been waiting for you both. 

He says nothing as Viktor changes, but when you appear in the doorway, his gaze becomes questioning, almost pensive. Is he alright? Is tonight going to be a bad one? 

As Viktor draws closer, Jayce can smell the smoke and how it clings to his clothes, his hair, and skin. Like some invisible disease. His resulting glare is scrutinising but not quite scolding. 

It gets his message across; Viktor is sick and you should know better.

You simply lower your head and sigh. As Viktor sits on the edge of the bed, you kneel at his feet and reach for his brace. It is a common facet of your routine. There’s a gentle intimacy to it. So when he bats your hand away, you can’t help the subtle hurt that flashes in your gaze. You swallow and stand, busying yourself with shedding your clothes in an attempt to avoid watching how much Viktor is struggling to remove the metal from around his leg. 

Jayce winces from where he watches.

“Viktor-”

But Viktor simply holds up his hand, his expression stern. The effect it has on Jayce is palpable; his tanned chest deflating and his features now wounded, dejected.

Viktor curses beneath his breath, words neither you nor Jayce catch or understand. He curls up, looking so defeated, as though he’ll fossilise beneath the blanket if he lies still enough. The look that passes between you and Jayce is one of mutual heartache.

Neither of you know how to reach him, how to pull him back from the distant void he has sunk into. 

“Viktor-”

“Don’t,” he warns, and for a moment it feels as though the cold has followed you in from outside, manifesting in a chilling bite from Viktor’s words. “Just don’t, I can’t stand it.”

Jayce props himself up, his expression earnest despite his nauseating fear of where this conversation may lead.

“What?” 

For a long moment, you think Viktor will back down, sigh and turn over. But he doesn’t, and when he speaks, it’s the most impassioned you’ve heard him in weeks. 

“The coddling, the damn pity,” He spits, accent growing thicker as his temper heightens. “Treating me like I’m something delicate, something damaged.”

“You’re not-”

“Then stop touching me like I am!” 

The silence that follows is one of sympathetic realisation. It doesn’t take a word for you and Jayce to realise the extent of your fuck-up.

In your extensive and obsessive pursuit to ensure that Viktor was alright and comfortable, you were depriving him of the very thing he needed to feel okay.

It wasn’t necessarily the lack of sex that was causing him upset. It was the shift in intimacy, the altering of how you both touched him. He hated it. He couldn’t stand it. The two people who never doubted him or saw him as less or partial, suddenly not allowing him to walk the length of his own kitchen alone. That sat outside the bathroom when he bathed, that looked at him with sympathy and pity instead of love, joy and desire- 

He felt miles away, like his body was wrapped in gauze and your touch never met his skin anymore, instead staying where it was safe, clean and sanitary. 

Viktor swallows back tears. He’s not upset, he tells himself. He’s not. He’s fucking frustrated.

You say his name. You can still hear his words ringing in your ears. He shakes his head and wipes at his eyes and you’re sure you’ve never felt like a greater tit than right this moment. The feeling is evidently mutual as Jayce looks like he is single-handedly trying to find a way to fix this whole mess. 

“Viktor, we- we didn’t realise- We weren’t thinking.”

“No, you weren’t,” he agrees, and he doesn’t sound mad. Just incredibly defeated. 

Jayce, on the other hand, the tender soul of empathic emotion he is, seems close to genuine tears. “We’re here, we’re listening. Talk to us now. Tell us how to fix it.”

It takes a moment before Viktor decides to speak, and when he does, you feel your body grow heavier with each word, weighed down by guilt and remorse. 

“I feel so alone, isolated in my own skin. I want you to touch me like you used to. I don’t want you to apologise every time you make me gasp. I want you both, I just want you to make me forget-”

His words land, and the fallout is almost immediate. There’s a saddened weight upon your chest, but the sudden stirring of warmth in your lower stomach is equally undeniable. And a single glance is all it takes to confirm it’s a sentiment shared by Jayce. 

His hand, used to the forge, made to hold and create, settles against Viktor’s waist. It runs up his side in a manner that is deliberate in its slow motion. He is testing the waters, seeing just how hard he can press before the glass gives way. If it can bear his weight. 

“If this is what you want, Vi, we’ll give it to you.”

You settle behind Viktor, your own hand caressing where Jayce’s had just been, and you can almost feel the warm imprint his palm had left against Viktor’s cool skin. 

“Just say the word. Tell us, love,” you encourage, lips near brushing the shell of his ear. 

You’re standing on a precipice, waiting for the decision to be called; a moment away from wrapping your arms around him and holding him as he falls asleep, or fucking him until his voice is hoarse. 

Whatever he wants, and you’d be content with either. You just want to be close to him. You want him to be okay.

For Viktor, it feels like gravity has kicked in for the first time in weeks, and he is finally falling back to earth. He’s laid between you both, your presence so much more palpable and charged than what he’s known recently. He feels the tension, feels the buzz against his skin and it makes him feel alive, present. 

“Please,” His voice is breathy. “I need both of you.”

You swear Jayce’s eyes almost change colour at the plea. He knows what the request truly symbolises, beyond the obvious. It’s not just simple desire; it’s about reassurance, comfort, connection. It’s a physical manifestation of the love you both still hold for him, the light you see him in despite the horrid thoughts of self-doubt that jeer him at night when you both sleep beside him. It’s a reminder, and Jayce completely gets it.

“You have us. We’re right here.” There’s a notable change in Jayce’s tone. It’s grown softer, each word ending with a slight husk. His palm travels up the swell of Viktor’s shoulder. “Just relax, baby. Let us do all the work. Let us love on you for a little bit.” 

Viktor’s breath hitches, and he already feels dizzy at the sensation of not being petted, not caressed, but touched.

“We’ll make you feel good, love. We’ll make it all okay.” You mouth at his shoulder, lips following the pattern of his moles like an astronomer mapping out the stars. A cosmic tapestry unique to Viktor alone. 

You trace them over his neck to the sharpness of his jaw as your hand upon his waist ventures, fingers snagging in his waistband. Viktor gasps. 

“Just tell us if it’s too much?” 

Jayce hums from where he’d begun to kiss down Viktor’s throat. “He will, won’t you, Vi?” His voice is dripping with sweetness. “You’ll be good for us?” 

Viktor, deprived of this for weeks, is already trembling, and the task of answering isn’t made any easier when Jayce begins to tug up his shirt and kiss down his chest. “Yes, I-I promise. Just don’t stop.”

You and Jayce have always worked well together, but your synchronisation reaches new heights when it comes to Viktor. The movement of one hand annunciating the touch of the other. Each gentle nip of teeth makes the press of lips feel softer. 

And as Jayce tugs Viktor’s shirt up, baring more and more alabaster skin until the cloth is removed completely, you seize the chance to slip your hand beneath the waistband of his pants. The hitch in his breath would have already been reward enough, but then Viktor turns his head to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes are like liquid mercury and for a moment, you’re struck by the sight of him. By just how gorgeous he is.

He whimpers at the slight scrape of Jayce’s teeth over his sternum, and the noise makes you a little dizzy. How could he have ever thought you didn’t want this? That you and Jayce did not absolutely worship him. 

Your fingers dip down, and a lazy grin that's somewhere between amused and amazed tugs at the corner of your mouth. “God, you’re so wet already.” The words aren’t demeaning. They’re not meant to tease. They’re sweet, sympathetic. “Is this for us?”

Viktor, head currently thrown back against your shoulder as Jayce works a prominent mark into the side of his neck, doesn’t answer. But Jayce does, chuckling against the other man’s throat. “Thoughtful.”

Viktor is panting softly now, quiet mewls and whimpers scattered here and there amongst the laboured coming and going of his breath. But this is what he asked for. 

Your fingers find that sweet spot and begin to draw slow, methodical circles, and Viktor jolts. His eyes widen and his hand shoots up to find purchase on Jayce’s forearm. That feeling, the pressure of your fingers against his clit has him feeling pleasure he hasn’t felt in weeks. It’s like a Roman candle has been lit, and he squirms in anticipation of what’s to come. 

“Easy, easy, we’re just going to take our time,” Jayce muses, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his jaw. 

“That’s it,” you add, and there’s an edge to your voice now as you begin to work two fingers into him, prodding gently until you can press into his warmth. “Nice and slow.” 

If he wasn’t so worked up, he’d throw some snide comment your way, curse you for making this so deliberately drawn out. But he doesn’t care, not now. He needs this, every second of it. 

“Please,” His cheeks are burning, the flushed skin of his neck and ears such a gorgeous contrast to his pale complexion. “Lásko, more please?”

There’s an initial gentleness to how you touch him, a growing insistence as you curl your fingers into him, all the way to the knuckle,  finding a rhythm that he can’t help but rock his hips into. You don’t scold him for it. Jayce doesn’t reach to hold him still. You simply let him have it. He knows you won't be deliberately reserved or cruel. He knows you won’t treat him like he can’t take it, like he’ll break. And he’s never been more grateful for that fact.

Jayce shifts where he lies, his knee near brushing yours. The movement has Viktor almost completely cradled by your bodies, almost consumed. 

Jayce’s hand against Viktor’s side is almost erotic due to proportion alone. He can feel the ripple and ridges of Viktor’s ribs beneath his palm, and there is something primal about the sensation. The notion of loving Viktor, bones and all. He is thinner than he should be, despite your best attempts to ensure he eats. But none of that is supposed to matter right now, and you push the thought aside.

“You’re doing so well, so well for the both of us,” you mouth against his ear before beginning to work your body down the mattress. You don’t pull your fingers from him until you physically have to, moving them to grasp the swell of his thigh and pry them further apart. The sudden absence of familiar fullness leaves Viktor feeling almost hollow, and he huffs. You can’t help but smirk against the supple flesh of his calf. Such attitude, even whilst you’re in the process of taking him apart. 

The whole thing seems equally amusing to Jayce, as he reaches down and draws Viktor’s legs further apart. 

“Ah, ah, impatient?” He teases, and Viktor has the nerve to actually glare at him. He does his best to keep that fiery gaze, focusing so hard he swears he can pick out each fleck of gold in Jayce’s hazel eyes. Even as your lips press to his ankle and make him believe in every old myth and fable that associates the limb with weakness. 

His defiance begins to fissure as you mouth up his leg, and by the time you reach his knee, he’s broken his gaze with Jayce in favour of tilting his head back against the other man’s shoulder. The fever of your action slows as you kiss his knee, each press of your lips to the aching muscle reverent and slow, as though you can draw the pain out with the sheer deliberateness of your affection. You guide his leg over your shoulder then, taking the weight from it, bearing it yourself. You know how badly it cramps whilst bent too long. 

It becomes a steady descent from there, the sweet salt of his skin on your lips as you kiss and nip your way down to the warmth between his legs. Viktor’s breaths are coming shallow and fast, and there is a desperately earnest look in his eyes as he glances down at you. His skin is beginning to buzz from the anticipation alone. Jayce wraps an arm around Viktor’s middle and holds him flush against his chest. It’s partly teasing, mostly loving. Viktor is just glad to be held. Squeezed like he’s made of pliant flesh and not brittle glass.

You take a moment to enjoy the view. The gorgeous comparison between Jayce’s tanned, muscular forearm; sculpted from sun-kissed sandstone, warm to the touch, against the cool marble of Viktor’s lean stomach. 

Your attention is promptly diverted to a far prettier sight. 

With his free hand, Jayce reaches down, fingers brushing over the sensitive skin of Viktor’s midriff in a delicate, purposeful dance. He traces down then back up, following the track of his happy trail, again and again until he has made Viktor so impatiently restless he’s begun to squirm. He relents, thick fingers dipping into Viktor’s heat , spreading him open.

He’s almost embarrassingly desperate for this, for both of you to take him apart and put him back together again. He’s usually far more demure, more teasing and stubborn. All chuckles in between gasps and taunting words, even whilst beneath you. But in light of it all, he just doesn’t have the strength to care. He wants to whimper and whine and be made to feel so good by you both that his self-doubt doesn’t dare speak when your hands are on him. 

You look up at him, teeth catching slightly at your bottom lip. Anything to draw it all out without being needlessly cruel. Viktor knows what you’re doing, of course. He’s nothing if not observant. And not above begging right now.

“Please, just-” He swallows back what is undeniably some chide demand to just hurry up, and releases it as a whining exhale instead. Jayce is wearing that lazy, dopey grin as he noses at Viktor’s neck. 

“Easy,” He drawls out. “We’ve got you, remember?” 

“Please,” Viktor whines again. “Now.” 

That familiar stubbornness sharpens his words. Usually, the little defiant spark would cause you to pull back, watch with a cocky grin as Jayce offers him nothing but his thigh to find some relief upon. But not tonight. His eyes meet yours again, pleading for you to just put your mouth where he needs you. 

And you do, delving into him like you’ve been starved, and Viktor chokes on a sobbed moan of utter relief. Your nose is pressed flush to his skin, breathing him in. His scent is a heady thing that causes your mind to grow hazed and blurry around the edges. You groan against him and begin to think that you need this just as much as he does. The words that spill from Viktor are gorgeous in their incoherence, wanton babbling. He’s grasping Jayce’s forearm like a lifeline, and when your mouth finds his clit, his nails dig in so harshly that Jayce marvels at the crescent moons they leave there. A stunning little constellation of Viktors making. Branded by the pleasure you’re giving him. 

Viktor’s ramblings are near intelligible, spluttered out through gasps and moans. But one thing that remains clear is his begging; for you, for Jayce, promising to be so good for you both, to be a good boy-

It only encourages you, going straight to your head as you lift your gaze to see the fruits of your labour as they bloom. Viktor, flushed, begging and needy in Jayce’s arms. Your magnum opus. 

Your mouth moves with practiced skill, knowing each spot to reach, just where to press and push your tongue. As you begin to work your way back to the sensitive little bundle of nerves that you know just how to touch, Jayce seems to have beaten you to the prized mark. Two calloused digits have dipped down and found it first.

You want to simply watch; to sit back with the taste of Viktor still on your tongue and just take in the sight of Jayce touching him, marvel at the gorgeous contrast between his sensitivity and Jayce’s fingers, how he looks so delicate beneath the expanse of Jayce’s palm. But you don’t. There’s still a job to be done, and you’re nothing if not incredibly committed to your craft. As well as so addictively good at it.

The combined effort nearly has Viktor in tears. He watches through already hazy vision as Jayce hooks his chin over the slender slope of his shoulder and looks down at you. And when you raise your gaze to catch his, he watches the silent, almost telepathic conversation that seems to pass between you both. The sight alone has his lower stomach pooling with heat from anticipation. The pleasure is everywhere now, crawling down his legs and climbing up his spine like burning ivy, leaving scorching pleasure in its wake. After so much pain, chronic and constant, haunting his muscles every waking moment and making his bones feel brittle as dead wood, having it suddenly burned away with pleasurable fire feels almost righteous.

Your devious little plan is put into action as Jayce speeds up, his wrist moving with ease and flexibility. You press your tongue in, and when you meet Jayce’s eye over Viktor’s trembling body, the silent challenge rings clear; Whose little gesture can get him squirming the most? 

You smirk against his heat and shift your hand from where it had settled against his knee, gently kneading out any cramps before they could settle, all whilst you eat him out with the hopes he’ll see stars. You press two fingers into him again and all the attention has him so weeping and ready that they’re almost immediately  swallowed into the knuckle. You curse softly, curl your fingers and continue to kiss wherever you can without intruding on Jayce’s own work.

The combined efforts have Viktor beyond overwhelmed, silently thanking whatever deity saw fit to enshrine both you and Jayce with such stubborn competitiveness. It’s all almost unbearably sensitive. But he trusts you both so explicitly that he cannot even pretend to care. He trusts you to drive him to madness and re-instill his sanity when you’re both done. 

When both your movements coordinate just a little too well, Viktor barely withholds a noise that would be downright embarrassing if made in front of anyone else. His head lolls to the side, and his pleading gaze finds Jayce. “Please…” He nearly sobs. 

A whine hitches in Jayce’s throat, the desperation in Viktor's voice a far greater award than any degree of pleasure. “So good,” He gasps, eyes still trained on Viktor, how his muscles shift beneath alabaster skin, how he writhes and arches and looks so very alive. “Doing so well, Vitya.”

You hum in agreement, low, long, and purposeful, and Viktor’s fingers are suddenly in your hair. They’re insistent, desperate and grasping, anything but gentle. There’s a delicious itch along your scalp when he tugs just a little too hard. And it only makes you want to push him further. “You taste so good, Viktor, you’re almost there. I know you are.”

His fingers tighten, almost yanking as his hips buck forward in an involuntary jolt. You smirk victoriously against him. His free hand shoots up to grasp Jayce’s shoulder, almost clawing at the swell of muscle, searching for purchase, trying to anchor himself. He’s so close, so very close that just the sight makes you feel you’re going to lose your mind right alongside him. 

“Please, please, Miláček, ah-!”

“Come on, you’re there, come for us, Vitya.” Jayce is practically begging, as though he needs this just as much as Viktor, as though the pleasure is just as palpable. “That’s a good boy.”

It’s the final nudge he needs, the last drop of pleasure in an overflowing cup. And the effect is immediate; water flooding over parched land. Viktor’s breathing becomes hurried, all ‘oh’s and gasps. His hip jerks forward into your mouth as he arches back into Jayce, and then he’s coming. It’s a divine sight, his body straining with gratification, practically buzzing. 

He’s absolutely gorgeous.

As he falls from the height of pleasure, both you and Jayce rush to catch him. You shift his leg from your shoulder, cradling the tender limb as you guide it to the mattress. Jayce holds him steady as the tremors subside, his touch soothing and his loving words spoken between the kisses he presses to his shoulder and head.

You don’t move from where you lie, damn near mesmerised by him. Your fingers work deftly over his knee, kneading up as far as his thigh and fending off any pains before they can take root. 

With his body spent, Viktor cannot find it in him to say much, not with words at least. His head lolls back against Jayce’s shoulder, who continues his loving assault wherever he can reach. 

“You did so well, Vitya,” You praise, pressing a lingering kiss to his knee. Jayce gathers him up, cradles him as though he weighs nothing and settles him down amongst the pillows. You both take your place either side of him, a protective barrier from the outside world, from the reality it heralds. You reach to brush his hair back, and your fingers hesitate against his temple. You want to commit him to memory. As he is right this moment; flushed, panting, and alive. He tilts his head into the subtle touch and a quiet breath leaves him. It’s his first painless one in so long. 

Jayce kisses his wrist, his mouth pressed to his pulse as he focuses on the steady and rhythmic ba dum, ba dum. He could get lost in it, let the soothing sound help him drift off. He meets your own gaze, tired though satisfied, and he knows you share the same thought, that it resonates as you both lie there at his side. 

He’s still here. He’s safe. And now, he’s okay, too.

[starks-hero]

Lads! I'm back and about, even if I'm a little quiet about it. I'm trying to get back into the writing groove so let me see what you guys are hungry for.

?

The Thorin Oakenshield Saga continues

Give us Moon Boys or give us Death

Oscar Isaac's Frankenstein being a Freak™

Did someone say Jayce and Viktor?

Voting ended onAug 17, 2025

If I'm shooting off the mark or you have thoughts then shout them at me in the comments, my loves.

[maggotmuncher0]

Study

[kosmogrl]

[starks-hero]

Iron Chains and Other Precious Metals

Pairing: Thorin Oakenshield x Reader

Summary: Erebor has been reclaimed. But a dark, sinister curse lays over the riches of the mountain, a curse that Thorin succumbs to all too quickly. As the dragon sickness takes its toll, you try desperately to keep the peace.

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: dragon sickness!thorin and absolutely everything that comes with it

“It is in these halls. I know it.”

“Thorin, we have searched and searched.” Dwalin was the first to speak.

“Not well enough. Have them scout the west halls, send them to the mines if you have to.”

“Thorin, they have been searching for days–”

“And yet it is still not found!” The ferocity in his words left you feeling hollow, bouncing off the stone walls and rattling in your chest. “The Arkenstone lies within this mountain and I will see it returned. It is the king's jewel. Am I not the king?!”

Balin, the hardened warrior that he was, seemed to be the only one amongst the few of you brave enough to respond to his words. “Do you doubt the loyalty of anyone here?” He asked.

Thorin fell back on his heel like a scorned child. His gaze, deathly and accusing, lost a fraction of its malice as it turned on you and Bilbo. You both stood behind the dwarf, Bilbo to his right and you to his left with the shadow of the broken throne at your backs. His eyes swept over you quickly before turning once again to his fellow dwarves before him. “Know this, if someone should find it and keep it from me they will know vengeance beyond that of dragon fire.”

Each of you bowed your heads as he left, less as a mark of respect and more so to avoid catching his eye. The moment he was gone, air seemed to return to the room. Dwalin made an irritated, rough sound deep in his throat and Bilbo shuffled his feet, feeling awfully small where he stood. Balin caught your eye and the heaviness in his stare caused a weight of unease to settle within your lungs.

“I’ll go speak to him,” you decided, voice thin as your breaths came late.

“I’m not sure it will do any good,” Balin said. “Thorin is his father’s son, once fire is stoked in him it's near impossible to put out.”

Silence took the room again and remained until you left.

The gentle crush of frost beneath your boots announced you as you ascended the rampart steps. Winter was coming, its icy beginnings painting themselves across the ancient stone of the mountain. Your eyes fell on the burning embers of Laketown in the distance, a kindling ruin against the darkened sky. You wondered for the very briefest of moments if an end by dragon fire would have been kinder than the harsh months that lay ahead of the townspeople.

Thorin stood off to your right, in the very centre of the battlements.

“We've come all this way, and for what?” He didn't look to you as he spoke and so you didn't answer. “The line of Durin, my kin has had claim of the stone since the first days of Erebor, without it I am no more than the dwarf that laboured in the villages of men. A vagabond–”

“You are king, Thorin.” The words came to you easy. “With or without the Arkenstone. Just as you were king before we had the mountain. To me and each dwarf that has followed you all this way.”

Something shifted behind Thorin’s eyes and for a moment you hoped he’d seen sense. Then his jaw set. “The stone–”

“–will be found. Have patience.” The realisation that you’d given an order, and rather offhandedly so, to a monarch caught up to you slowly but the anger that plagued Thorin back in the throne room seemed to have dissolved into something far more timid. And he smiled at your words.

“I fear it is a virtue I do not possess.”

“I'm inclined to agree.” You rested your arms over the stone, shoulder brushing against the king and as you looked out upon the night it felt as though you were back on the road, sleeping under great oaks and finding rest in the sheltered caverns the blue mountains would offer. It was odd, you thought, that you felt far richer then than you did now. “Have faith in us, Thorin. Faith in your company.”

You understood Thorin’s wrath and his fear. It came from wounds that had decades to heal and had not yet begun to scab. Wounds left by broken spears, shattered shields and dragon fire. A prince without a kingdom and a son without a father, Thorin’s pain was palpable and if it manifested in stormy bouts of anger and accusation then you’d learn to weather them.

The fires in the distance clawed against the night, reaching up into the dark and showing no sign of resignation. Somewhere on the outskirts of the settlement, a burning townhouse crumbled into the water.

“Balin and Fili have begun preparations, we should be ready to send them aid by tomorrow morn,” you said. “Everything we can spare.”

“You will do no such thing.” the unforgiving edge had returned to Thorin’s voice. “What lies within these halls are the birthrights of my people.”

“Thorin.” With uneasy appallment, you turned to him. “They've lost everything.”

“Do not speak to me of loss. They do not know the meaning of the word.” His words were harsh and left no room for you to argue. “Nothing leaves this mountain. I will not see our wealth squandered on the likes of them.”

A deep cavern opened up beneath your ribs and you felt hallowed by the orders you’d been given. Erebor held a sea of riches, just a portion of its gold would be enough to rebuild the settlement of Lake Town ten times over, to refill its streets with merriment and ensure its people lived with bountiful meals and warm beds. Even the old fabrics and clothes that sat untouched in the belly of the mountain would be worth their weight in gold to the townsfolk now.

But Throin’s orders and the unwavering harshness with which he gave them rang ceaselessly in your mind like clanging bells.

You met with Balin in secrecy. Even in the cavernous halls and unending tunnels of the mountain, it was a difficult task. There was always the fear Thorin would stumble upon you both, he stalked the halls so ceaseless in his determination to find the arkenstone it was a fair concern. You worried he no longer slept.

“Dragon sickness.” The words hang heavily as Balin speaks them, as stale and difficult to breathe as the air of the crypt you stand in. “A terrible illness, a desperate need for gold. It is a fierce and jealous love that burns above all else. It took his grandfather, I fear it will take him too.”

The genuine anguish upon the dwarf's features, the most steadfast of the company, causes you to falter. Balin is wise beyond his many years, he'd seen the same ailment take hold of Thror and if he believes that Thorin will succumb to the same faith, you find yourself fearing the worst.

“The Arkenstone–” you try to reason but Balin shakes his head, his beard almost brushing the floor.

“Will only solidify such greed. That stone is the summit of the mountain's great wealth. A dragon protects its hoard. And the more precious it's plunder,” Balin shakes his head. “The more aggressive the beast.”

You heed Balin's words. How can you not in such a time of uncertainty? And as predicted, Thorin only grows more volatile. His virtue diminishes with each new day, his noble ways crumbling like worn stone in his hunt for more gold. Few of you are spared from the ferocity of his outbursts. One of which stands to show just how far the king had fallen.

During another meeting that had become all too common in Thorin's haste to find the Arkenstone, Kili's criticism, intended for his uncle, stirs the king instead. Fili, who'd always tried to make the best peace, stepped in and the scuffle that followed nearly sent the young Dwarven prince over the edge of the throne room floor.

The harrowing moment invites a deathly silence. But when you catch sight of Bilbo, who never had any kind of stomach for confrontation, flee the room, you follow after him.

A hobbit's ability to disappear and go unseen proves to be true as you twist and turn through the stone warren that is Erebor as you follow after the halfling with no sign of him. Each call of his name bounces off the stone, and after a dizzying few minutes of navigating the many interlinking halls, you find Bilbo sat alone, his small form hunched against the stone.

“Bilbo, I–” Your reassuring words fall flat as your eyes fall upon the slight glow that emits from his hands, something the halfling rushes to hide as he looks up at you. His eyes are wide, frantic and frightened and your face pales with realisation. It's not an assumption, it couldn't possibly be anything else. You've been searching for it for weeks, since first reclaiming the mountain. You knew exactly what sat in the hobbit's hands.

“How...”

“I mean to give it to him, I do!” Bilbo rushes to explain. “I was not keeping it for myself, you must believe me!”

You sink to your knees, evening out the height between you both in an attempt to reassure him. Your hands settle against his thin, trembling arms. “I don't doubt you, Bilbo, not for a moment.” Your voice is as steady as you can keep it, eyes shifting to where his hand remains in his pocket. “May I...”

He follows through before you can finish the request, pulling the stone from his tattered coat and holding it before you. Suddenly, for the briefest of moments, Thorin's lust for the gem seems justified. It shines like a star fallen to earth, sitting in Bilbo's palm like a shard of divinity, a rightful giver of a divine right to rule. You can almost feel the promise of power, the stone's alluring pull. How easy it would be to take it from a creature as small as the halfling–

It's Bilbo's words that draw you back to reality. “We can give it to him right now. This very moment. End this madness–”

“No!” You rush, the halfling starting slightly at your words. You cannot afford for the gem to fall into Thorin's hands. Not now when doing so would forsake him entirely. “No.”

You rake your brain. You could take it, destroy it, toss it into the cavernous mouth of the mines... But could you truly trust yourself to let it go when its call is so great? You could give it to Balin. But dwarves, with their natural love for all things shining and bright, could a dwarf, even one as steadfast as Balin, remain immune to dragon sickness?

You swallow then, hand shifting to close Bilbo's fingers around the stone. “You need to keep it.”

The hobbit visibly panics, eyes widening as his body goes stiff. “No, no, no, no, I can't! I won't! If Thorin finds out–”

“If he finds out the stone has been found it will corrupt him beyond recognition.” Your hands squeeze gently around Bilbo's hands, tightening his hold on the gem. Your breathing grows slightly frantic as you think. The stone must stay hidden and you've come to realise that it's already in the safest hands it can be. “Bilbo, you need to keep it hidden, keep itout of sight. Don't breathe a word to anyone, not even the company.”

The request evidently weighs heavily on his shoulders, his small stature shrinking further at your words. Your hand shifts to cradle his head, curls against your palm. The desperation in your eyes stresses the severity of it all.

“Do you understand?” You stress, voice straining.

Bilbo's features twist with notable anxiety, nose twitching and eyes widening. He nods feebly then, lips pulled in a tight line. You hate that you've forced him into such a position, but you truly don't know what else to do.

If Thorin were to gain the stone now, you can't help but fear you'll lose far more than just him, that his corruption will seep into far greater schemes, like rotting roots into the earth.

You walk timidly around Thorin after that, far more timidly than before, as though one wrong footing would snap a twig and set the vicious manifestations of his paranoia upon you like dogs on a deer.

He grows far more hostile, speaking less but with greater anger when he does, a burning rage that gains more kindling with each passing day.

He hadn't left the Great Hall in near a week. He didn't eat nor sleep, simply stood there, nearly blinded by the gold's mighty glow.

“Look at it,” he breathes as you approach him one night, steps quiet against the marble stone. His hand reaches out, hovering before him as if to touch the gold that fills the hall before him. “Beautiful.”

Your gaze shifts from the amassed wealth to Thorin, even such a small action carried out with caution in his presence.

“Thorin.” His eyes don't leave the hoard of precious metal, it's dim glow painting his features golden. You say his name again.

When his gaze meets yours it's almost crazed, wild with a hunger, a lust.

“Is it not?” A ghost of a smile reaches his lips and it's unnatural, almost uncomfortable. It's the first time you've seen him smile in weeks. “Beautiful.”

“It is a sight,” you answer, entirely unsure of what else to say. To argue would be to invite his rage and you couldn't bear it. Not when he's smiling.

He laughs at that, a quiet breathless sound and you shiver.

“And it is ours. Ours alone.”

The word hangs in the air, the weight of it slowing time. He seems to mistake your disbelief for something else. His hand shifts and curls around something in the pocket of his regal furs. It's a deep blue, the necklace he produces, gems darker than the great sea strung together by little white jewels that shimmer like stardust in the light.

“A gift.” He raises the jewellery and in your speechless shock, you bow your head so that he can slip it on. His fingers ghost over where the jewels rest upon your chest, precious stones looking all the more fragile beneath the density of his hand. “A mark of honesty.”

You feel a little ill, guilt and a sense of helplessness knawing away at you. Thorin, in his haze, mistakes it for humbleness.

“Don't you see? You are the only one I can trust,” he says, voice breathy and faint. His gaze falters. “The only one...”

It feels like an opening, a sliver of sunlight pouring through a crack in a grimy window. It's almost a faint glimpse of the old him shining through the dirt. “Thorin, we have the mountain. Erebor is reclaimed. Isn't... isn't that enough?”

Your hand shifts to brush Thorin's as you speak, but he pulls away from the touch. He seems almost wounded by your words and when he speaks again, his tone seems to beg for your understanding.

“Have you not heard their mutterings?” He asks frantically. “They conspire, they mean to take it all for themselves. The stone has been found, I know it. But they keep it from me–”

“Thorin,” you try, and in your desperation, your hand brushes his shoulder. “Do you truly doubt us? After everything? All we've persevered together, what would possess us to leave you now?” You hope it's not evident how close you'd come to saying 'me' instead of 'us.'

But the words, desperate as they were, seem to work magic as Thorin's expression begins to crumble, softening slowly at first until his very eyes lighten.

You sigh a trembling breath. “Thorin, I–”

“Thorin!” Dwalin's commanding voice cuts you short. “Survivors from Lake Town, they're streaming towards the mountain in the hundreds. The elf is with them.”

You watch as the brief softness in the dwarf's expression dissolves, a bitter and vindictive shadow taking its place.

“Call everyone to the gate. Now!” He brushes past you so harshly it almost throws you off balance. “They are fools to think Erebor will be desecrated so easily.”

The bitter wind bites at you, winter sunlight catching upon your armour as you join the company. They stand as some inverted visage of the last number of months, jovial group turned stoic. Before you is an army of elves, so great in number they blend into one great golden adversary. You find your place beside Thorin and catch sight of Gandalf other side of the wall, your armour begins to feel heavy, fusing you to the stone beneath you, a soldier upon a chess board, the pieces neither black nor white but a horribly muddled grey.

“We have come with good tidings,” Thranduil speaks. “For your debt to our people has been paid, and handsomely so.”

Thorin bristles at the words from the decorated forest king, bares his teeth in antagonised warning.

“I have given you nothing. You will not see a single shred of what belongs to my kin.”

Thranduil shares a glance with the bowman and your fingers twitch, overcome with the same itching desire you feel at the beginning of a battle that longs for you to grab your sword. Bard’s hand slips beneath his furs and what he produces is far more deadly than any weapon. The Arkenstone.

You see the change in Thorin, feel it from where you stand by his side. In your mind's eye, his skin turns to scales, fingers sharpening into talons and his head splits with the growth of a twisted horned crown. “Liars,” he hisses, as though molten fire burns in his throat. “Thieves!”

You stand on the precipice of war, neither the dwarves nor elves before you see the carnage they threaten with these foolish shows of power. A battle for the stone and its sickly blue glow. You seek out Gandalf, hoping to catch his eye, to implore him to bring about some semblance of sanity.

“They’re not thieves, it wasn’t stolen.”

You freeze, a cavern opening beneath your lungs. Bilbo moves between the company until he stands before Thorin andyou feel you’ve just watched a lamb willingly lay before the butcher. He doesn’t realise the goodness of his actions will not purify him and you shake your head, eyes already glossy, imploring and pleading with him for it to not be true. To not say it if it is.

“I gave it to them, as my share of the quest,” he says. You feel sick. Thorin’s rage is silent, silent in the same way a predator is silent.

“You, you would steal from me?” He growls, and his own kin falter. Bilbo panics, seeming to fully grasp the danger he is now in for the first time. He frantically meets your eye before looking back to the king.

“I stole nothing. I- you are changed, Thorin. The mere idea of the stone has already driven you to madness!”

“Thorin-” you attempt to intervene, reaching for his shoulder, and he shrugs you off so aggressively you stumble. The company mutters, some shifting to steady you on your feet, others watching wearily as the king sizes up the hobbit.

“Petulant, little rat,” he spits. He grabs Bilbo’s arm in such a vice grip you fear it will snap. Bofur and Kili rush to free him but Thorin yanks the halfling away so harshly his feet leave the floor. “Retrieve the stone, do what you must,” he barks at Balin and Fili as he drags Bilbo along, back towards the steps, descending back into the mountain like a drake with its sacrificial lamb. “I have a more pressing matter to see to.”

You follow as though their shadow, racing down the stone. You catch them just as they enter the great hall. Thorin recoils his arm like a whip, sending Bilbo to the ground, his words as searing as dragon fire.

“Thorin, enough!” Your voice bellows and he turns on you.

“You,” he accuses. “you stay in our halls, our home,” he raises an accusatory finger. “Know your place. ” He spits out the final words.

“Leave him be,” you warn, and when the king remains silent and unmoving, you glance at Bilbo, where his small body lays crumpled against the stone and nod. He gasps as he gets onto his feet, and steadies himself before attempting to rush to your side. He’s cut short by the press of sharpened iron to his middle.

Thorin is crazed, his sword blocking the halfling's way, the weapon looking so much more formidable against such a powerless foe. Bilbo’s breaths come short and fast and you speak the king’s name with more contempt and warning than your mind had ever associated with him. “I said leave him.”

Thorin tilts his head in a way that leaves you incredibly uneasy. “Thorin, you have no quarrel with him, he is your friend-”

“Friend? He is a lying shire rat forced upon this company, a thief, liar!”

He roars, and then metal meets metal. Your sword crosses his and somewhere deep within the depths of his clouded iris, the old Thorin stirs, regarding you with shock. “He did not lie to you,” You gasp, fingers clenched around the hilt of your weapon. “I did. I knew of the stone, I counselled him to keep it hidden. To keep it from you.” Another roar tears from him as he raises his sword. You block the attempt, teeth bared as your weapons clash. Bilbo makes it to the steps behind you, Bofur and Balin there to retrieve him, they both have the good sense to leave. At the very least to get the halfling somewhere safe before they return.

You regard your current position with a nauseous familiarity; locked in battle, the mighty gold hoard your backdrop. Thorin’s enraged roars grow more animalistic each time his weapon meets yours. His eyes have sunken into darkened coals, his breaths ragged and growling. You feel locked in some ancient tapestry, a knight made up of silver threads facing off against a fire drake.

“You are changed, Thorin!” You yell, having just dodged an assault of his blade. “You’ve forsaken your loyalty, your honour, your own kin!”

“Silence!” His movements are groggy, lazy, hunched over and heavy. He is no longer a warrior, made slothful by greed. “I will not be counselled by you, an honourless child of man that crawls the lowlands, made a leper by your own people. You have spewed poison in my ear, corrupted my mind, tried to set in me a mercy for the likes of them!”

“The likes of them?” You ask, made breathless by the audacity of his words. “The likes without homes? The likes that run from dragonfire? You forget who you are.”

He roars again, his blade near kissing your cheek. But the corruption of his mind has made him slow, his movements languish and he topples, sword clattering onto the stone. You kick it away from his grasp. It’s a pitiful sight, seeing how far the king has fallen, how the dwarf you would have once followed anywhere has become so devoid of all honour.

“Look at what you have become,” your eyes cloud at the sight of the tragedy before you. “You’re no king, not anymore.” You drop your own sword, surrendering to the illness that has claimed him, the shadowed serpent that clings to him. “Have your gold, keep your treasure. I will not stay and watch you rot any longer.”

You turn with an aching chest. It kills you, the thought of walking away. But you can sit and watch him orchestra his own destruction no longer. With your back to the king, you ignore his desperate shouts for you to turn back, pick up your weapon and fight. When they dissolve into pleas for your help, for your forgiveness, you still do not turn.

You miss the shadow on the stone wall, the drag of sharpened iron against stone as a weapon is lifted from its place on the ground. It’s too late before you feel it, a sudden blow to your head, dull and heavy. The world spins and your vision blackens as you meet the harsh coolness of the stone beneath you.

You wake to cool iron around your wrists, the shine of jewels catching your eyes as you groggily blink them open. The carved stone wall of the cell is coloured a warm yellow by the reflection of the gold that pools around you, the small room having been filled with it. Your skin feels warm and heavy, weighed down by the silver that now decorates your limbs. The necklace is stained slightly red from where the wound upon your head had bled. You can almost make him out before you, frame made obscure by your blurred vision.

“What is this?” Your voice is hoarse. “Thorin, what is this madness?”

He lights his pipe, embers painting his features gold, the shadows cast by the burning leaves hardening his features. “I did not understand, why you of all of them would turn against me,” he begins, voice low. He sounds dangerously calm, as though sobered by the knowledge that your distrust in him had run so deep you drew your sword against him. “But I see now.”

He draws closer until you can smell the smoke upon his breath, taste it in the back of your throat. His fingers brush your chin and you twist away from the touch. But he does not relent, caressing up past your temple, brushing wishfully against your hair. “It was never meant to be like this, to come to such bleak detrimentality. But you are blinded by virtue-” His fingers ghost over your eyes. His voice is almost mournful, weighted by self-appointed duty. “-honour, foolish sentimentalities. But you will see in time, just as I have come to see.”

He pulls back, retreating like a shadow. “Once I have the stone it will show you. You will understand.”

Realisation greets you, chilling in its arrival. “Thorin-”

The sound of the metal bars meeting the stone doorway as it closes makes your bones ache, and your heart drop.

“You will understand,” He repeats. He no longer sounds like himself. He does not answer your desperate shouts, does not so much as react to them. He continues as he walks away, disappearing back into the mountains depths of darkness and gold. “One way or another, you will.”

thank you for reading <3

[auntierayeraye]

Fuck you, Neil Gaiman.

[starks-hero]

Crawls my way out from under the soil, rye in my hair, body rotting, covered in blood, arms spread like a theatrical omen.

Well lads, who missed me?

[floridakilo]

idgaf about career development im using the rest of my 20s to build my lore

[midnightcrisisstuff]

actually no, we're not "dating". we're bound together for infinity. like the stars. so, fuck you, actually.

[meloneta]

[id: a screencap of crowley from good omens while being questioned by nina about his and aziraphale's relationship. a speech bubble has been edited to make it seem as though he is saying the post above. end id]

[uhlexuhhh]

a canon event for every oldest daughter is being told “you would be a good lawyer”

[atdawn]

MERLIN | 4.12 The Sword in the Stone Pt. 1

[starks-hero]

How would ye feel if I started posting some original stories?

I'd read them like the morning paper

Sure I might give them a go

I don't mind/you do you girl

stick to the fanfic babes x

Voting ended onDec 30, 2023