Once upon a time, there was a Tumblr post stipulating a Christmas movie plot in which lawyers were the good guys. It featured a woman driving to a Christmas tree farm in September, to get a tree for a family member dying of cancer.
And of course, I saw this and thought "what if this, but Bering and Wells?", as I so often do. And then I turned to @lavendelhummel with a few medical/cancer-related questions, and wouldn't you know it, suddenly we were writing this story together.
This story features a Christina who is going through chemo and other forms of therapy for a specific form of leukemia. If that isn't your thing, by all means steer clear - no worries at all.
Also: this story will have a happy ending. Promise. On all counts.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Fic Summary: Every day, Rhysand wakes up next to Amarantha in her bed Under the Mountain. A prisoner, a weapon, a High Lord on a leash. He's been down there so long, it's starting to feel like time doesn't matter.
Until one day, it doesn't. Feyre's death sends Rhysand back in time, waking up on the same day - over and over. Now, Rhysand must discover how to break the time loop, save his mate, and keep his sanity intact.
AN: Bet you didn’t expect to see me here, but I somehow managed to weasel my way in with the cool kids. So here I am, an official member of the brilliant @feysand-hivemind! I'm so honored to be writing beside the absolute icons on this project.
Thank you @sajirah, @popjunkie42, and @tunaababee for the beta reading!
Chapter XIV: Traitors Never Win (Loop 57)
Chapter Summary: Rhys manipulates this loop to once again try to convince Feyre he's an ally, only for it to fall apart when they are caught conspiring Under the Mountain.
CW: Temporary character death, Implied dubious consent
Rhys sensed Feyre breach his wards the moment she stumbled over the threshold to his rooms, his magic caught between tension and satisfaction that his mate was in his space. Still, it took far too long to disengage from his frankly gruesome obligation to return to his rooms—pretend he needed to investigate the how and why she’d been escorted from her cell to his chambers. He’d been painstakingly cautious navigating this loop to make it this far. Raising suspicions just to speak with Feyre wasn’t a mistake he could afford to make. Not after how they’d been discovered in the loop Feyre was conscious of. Between what that Feyre had shown him and the vision the Suriel had shared, he was done using the loop as a crutch to lean on.
He’d tested each reset carefully. Hoped there was another chance to hold the woman who knew and came to love him through her own series of trial and error, but that blessing was short-lived, and maybe they were better off for it. Maybe he wouldn’t have to see his mate turn a knife on herself again.
Play the game, keep her riled enough she didn’t break, earn her trust while showing the wretched court she was nothing more than a human plaything. And painful as it was to never feel that glorious possessiveness from his huntress, don’t let things slip far enough they risk exposing the bond. There was no timeline where Her Majesty would be willing to share the toy she got her claws into.
Winnowing directly to the bed, Rhys watched his mate—coated in grime by now—sifting through old ash to fish out the lentils planted there for her.
“As wonderful as it is to see you, Feyre, darling,” he purred, reclining on the mattress to repeat their increasingly familiar song and dance, “do I want to know why you’re digging through my fireplace?”
She’d already whipped around to face him, ash shaken loose from her sleeves to dust the stone beneath her feet. Her face was pinched slightly, her chin high. “This wasn’t your idea then?” He raised a brow and she scoffed. “One of your mistress’ household chores, I suppose. Clean the lentils from the ash or have my skin peeled off in strips.”
Whatever missteps Rhys may take, one thing never changed. His mate certainly had a mouth on her. So he was left to complement it. Objective two: keep her riled. “Interesting. A bit messy for my taste, but effective. Tell me, darling, how far did you get?”
Feyre scowled, gripping the poker she held just a hair tighter, chin still jutting out stubbornly, refusing to seem cowed in the presence of a predator. Good girl. “I don’t care for your games, Rhysand. Since you don’t intend to skin me, I’d like to return to my cell.”
Rhys cocked his head. “Don’t feel like playing, darling? Pity.” He sighed, smoothly rising to his feet before taking a few steps closer. “I find your little quips quite entertaining. Very well. If you won’t indulge me, we can get straight to business. We don’t have long before the guards return, after all. You need an ally down here and neither your beloved or his emissary seem keen to step up to the plate.”
“And you think I trust you enough to call you an ally?”
He chuckled. “Oh, I would dare wish it, darling. Lady Luck abandoned me centuries ago and you’re too smart to not suspect my motives. This time, though, I simply ask you respect that everyone Under the Mountain has an independent agenda and mine rarely aligns with the witch.”
Feyre’s eyes narrowed. “You’re plotting to move against her.”
“In a sense.” He dared another step, close enough to pry the poker from her hands and toss it behind him. “One day she’ll fall. But in the end, I won’t be the one to ensure it.”
The Suriel had made that clear enough upon its capture. He needed Feyre on his side, one way or another. He wouldn’t make it through this hell cycle without her.
“What would you expect of me, then? Why would you think I have the means to help you succeed? Killing the worm was a challenge, but hardly on par with—”
He cut her a hard glare before easing into her mind with a tenderness even beyond what he’d granted her in Spring, now so well acquainted with the fragility of her human mind. “Even the walls have ears, Feyre. Enough has been said aloud as is.”
There was a sharp knock on the door, two guards waiting beyond it. “Tomorrow night I will send the wraiths for you. You will not argue. They will be acting under my orders. We’ll see where things go from there.”
If Amarantha doesn’t sniff out his plot once again.
He sighed, moving towards the door. “Wait,” she said. His hand stilled over the knob. “The riddle… Do you know the answer?”
“Yes. And no, I cannot reveal it to you. No soul Under the Mountain can, so don’t be a fool and seek out the fox, either. We’ve all been ordered to keep quiet—not to help you solve it. Even if Lucien could speak of it, he’s far too closely watched after that stunt he pulled, helping you in the wyrm’s lair.”
Watching her face fall, Rhys’ chest tightened with guilt. Still, he made himself maintain his mask and opened the door to let the two guards into the room, each of them closing a single hand over Feyre’s biceps.
Something hot and vicious coiled inside him, flaring when he saw her try to hide her flinch. It took so little effort to claim their minds in a mental talon-tipped fist.
“You’ll remove your hands from the lady, now.” They obeyed. “These meaningless tasks—the chores—are to come to an end. Each morning and evening you will provide her with a hot meal. No more molded bread and water. If you speak of these orders, defy them, or harm her…” His lips tilted up in a cruel grin, “…you’re to slit your own throats. Get out of my sight.”
Free of their hold, Feyre held herself back long enough she would trail behind them, rather than be caught between them. “Until we meet again, Feyre darling.”
It was hardly the first time Rhys had had his mate in his lap, but he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the the tenuous balance of guilt and need it brought, granting her one glass of wine after the next as she writhed in his lap, teasing the hard line of his erection with each pass of her hips.
Still, he mastered himself even as the paint gracing her waist and hips was smudged beyond recognition night after night. As for the path of his mouth, every word of his tongue was a tangle of praise and mockery, honey sweet and sharp as a blade. His mental coos became the tiny pieces to a grand plot, carefully placed to linger when she woke in the morning.
It started with little keys to lead her to the riddle’s solution. Hints to make sure she stayed on course through the second trial. The more risky bits of information he saved for the evenings, trusting she was back in her right mind. The roles he would have to play, the lines he would walk—that he wouldn’t risk sharing. The more Feyre knew, he’d discovered, the more likely one of them was to slip up. And the more likely Amarantha was to discover his disloyalty. Suffering this wretched cycle again and again, he’d seen enough of his mate’s torture to haunt him for a lifetime.
A soft breath at his ear drew him back to the present. “What’s wrong tonight?” Feyre whispered, voice just barely audible under the music, conversation, and entertainment of the solstice revelry. It was a rare show of empathy and he clung to it the moment it was presented, even if that softness was nothing more than a drunken falter in her disgust with him.
He sighed, thumb curving along her thigh as he slipped into her mind. “Other than the fact I just killed a male acting on his High Lord’s orders to secure their freedom? To put it simply, darling, it’s been an excruciating forty-nine years. I’m also considering the risk of your second trial. Whatever it is,” he suggested, playing dumb, “your success with the wyrm will not be forgotten. The second challenge will be an entirely different test.”
He’d been more careful about her wine intake this time around, considering the trial she’d face tomorrow, even if he’d have to help her through the grasshopper riddle. But her eyes were still glazed and Rhys doubted she heard the warning in his voice. She dipped her chin all the same, shivering when the next sweep of his thumb dragged across the smooth skin closer to her center before he spread his legs enough she straddled one thigh. She ground down almost immediately and it was an effort not to clench his jaw. “Enough talking, pet.”
She tipped forward, her forehead falling to his collarbone. “I need…” He glanced down, watching her loose a ragged breath. “I don’t know what I need anymore. A distraction. Not another drink or dance or… Just a distraction.”
Rhys leaned down, mouth grazing her ear. “Well then, allow me the pleasure of distracting you, darling.”
It had been a risk to the loop, of course, taking Feyre to his bed again. But he couldn’t bring himself to regret it. Not when she was still wrapped around him in the early hours of the morning, one leg thrown over his hip as if it was the most natural thing to fall asleep and wake together.
Cauldron, he needed to be free of this hellscape.
He reached to stroke her hair out of her face, intending to savor the few moments before dawn, when he would have to wake her to return to her cell before her trial. When she would gather her senses and realize what they had done. What she had done after spending the past months navigating her dangerous bargain with Amarantha for her lover.
He wasn’t sure he was prepared to face the regret and anger that waited for him. He could only hope it wouldn’t affect her when it came to the riddle. If her resentment played any sort of aide, she might manage to raise a mental shield to block him out before he could help her.
Realizing his mate was beginning to wake, he carefully eased her leg down from his hip. “Good morning, Feyre darling.”
“What—” Her eyes darted around the room, first raking in the scattered clothing, then her own bare figure, paint smears and all. She clutched the sheet to her chest, face twisting with her horror. “Oh, gods. Tamlin. I didn’t—”
Feyre scrambled from the bed, her disgust with the whole situation laid bare. “You were hardly an unwilling participant last night,” he told her, his smugness not entirely for show. They’d been so damn lucky the bond hadn’t snapped. The way she’d felt around him—clung to him with each slow thrust… Lucky didn’t begin to cover it.
“I was drunk,” she hissed back. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“You asked for a distraction, sitting so pretty on my lap. So, I gave you the one distraction I could manage. I don’t see your beloved offering such an escape.”
She jerked back as if he’d physically struck her, a fresh fire in her eyes. Good. She couldn’t afford to show weakness today.
Rhys stood from the bed, donned his usual pants and jacket before cleaning her of any evidence with a bit of lesser magic and dressing her too. “If you’re ready to face your cell again, darling.”
His summoning was an aberration. One that sent his pulse thrumming double time. “My queen, how may I serve you?” he asked, paranoid now that Feyre’s scent had lingered on his skin. Or his had been found when she was taken from her cell for the second trial.
“You were so careful to tell your little pet to mind her mouth. What is it that you keep telling her at my little parties?” Amarantha mused, brushing her cheeks with rouge, a saccharine smile curling her lips. ‘The walls have eyes and ears, darling’?"
He stilled, almost letting his mask slip. “My queen, what would the warning matter, when her mind is so open to me? If she were plotting against you—”
“And if you were plotting against me, Rhysand?” Dread settled heavy in his stomach. He’d get another chance, yes, but it didn’t make the defeat any easier to swallow. “Don’t get any ideas about helping her with the riddle I trusted you with. It’s long since changed. You’d best hope the little human can think quickly.”
Less than an hour later, Rhys found himself forced to his knees with a blindfold tied behind his head. A roaring crowd was their only preparation before the scalding heat began to make its descent. “I’m sorry, darling. I tried.”
His mate’s panicked pleas were still ringing in his ears when he woke beside the wicked queen once again.
(we know you have at least 40 of those open right now, but make room for one more, would you?)
A collaborative fanfiction between @eybefioro and yours truly. A no-pressure, no-dealine, no-plot commitment that we already failed to respect (plot fits on a napkin, but it exists).
Undercover
After Aziraphale becomes the Supreme Archangel, Crowley is appointed as Prince of Hell. Some may think they aren't talking, but that's only true when they're busy with more pressing activities.
(A collection of sexy times between our favorite angel and demon, trapped in a office hell/heaven scape, where the second coming that matters is not the Jesus one)
What can I say... I have a very good imagination and my mind is still very much on the BridgertonS3 hyperfixation. So, picture this... I was feeling sad about my daily thread being finished, and then I remembered I can make another line of threads. So, this will be irregularly, I don't want to commit to a precise schedule (yet) but the idea is that I start with a prompt and then whoever wants can join and continue the story. Potentially for how long we want to.
It will also be fun to see how the prompt gets explored on my two different platform (here and on Threads), and after a couple of days I post a new prompt and it start all over again. So, let's start! I'll post right after the prompt, and then it will up to you to respond.
A few rules: Polin, of course, as explicit as you can, I'm staying in canon bur you don't have to. I'd say to stay within the 100 words but if you write more or less it's no problem at all.
Are you ready?
The prompt:
The morning after their reconciliation, Pen woke up feeling happy. She also felt hungry for him again, even if they have passed the night with each other. Colin had just brought her breakfast in bed, smiling like the sun.
He sat near her, kissing her deeply. The trail with the breakfast on the table, but breakfast would have to wait...
"Colin... Can you teach me something?"
His eyes darkened, he knew what she was up to something.
@ohjohnnysblog and myself filled this prompt from @beatleskinkmeme:
Paul, in the middle of having sex with John, gets an idea for a song and wants to pause to jot it down/ flesh it out. This greatly annoys John, who convinces him to stay where he’s at and work on the song from there.
preferably bottom paul, cockwarming is always an option!!
Hi! This is just a little side blog run by @starfall-spirit and @thelovelymadone for the collaborative fics we plan. First post will hopefully be for Feysand Week, so we'll see you then!
Summary: What do a mini-Irish invasion, a murdered leprechaun, and an old flame have in common? Joker’s not amused by any of them.
~~~
Fandom: Mass Effect
Rating: Teen and Up
Relationships: Male Shepard & Kaidan Alenko, Male Shepard & Abby Williams, Male Shepard/Kaidan Alenko, EDI/Jeff "Joker" Moreau, Steven Hackett/Karin Chakwas, Steve Cortez/James Vega, Jack|Subject Zero/Samantha Traynor
Characters: Caleb Shepard (O'Connell - OC), Tadhg Shepard (O'Connell - OC), Niamh Shepard (O'Connell - OC), Kaidan Alenko, Karin Chakwas, Steven Hackett, Samantha Traynor, Jeff "Joker" Moreau, John Shepard, EDI, Ashley Williams, Zaeed Massani, Steve Cortez, James Vega, Garrus Vakarian, Urdnot Bakara - Eve, Urdnot Grunt, Urdnot Wrex, Kasumi Goto, The Illusive Man - Jack Harper, Jacob Taylor, Kelly Chambers, Rahna, Brigit O'Halloran (OC), Jack|Subject Zero
Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hallmark Movie AU, St. Patrick's Day, Past Relationship(s), Green Beer, bartending, Fluff and Angst, Humor, Shenanigans
Series: The Town of Norman
Chapter 7: Day 3 - Afternoon
Excerpt:
“I was headed that way,” Zaeed said, and it was convincing if it was a lie. “Mind if I walk with you three?”
Stephen pointely dropped his attention to Tadhg, who was giving Zaeed a considering look. Not unlike the looks Jackie Harper gave new people. “I…suppose.”
Zaeed waited until they’d caught up, keeping to his spot by the lamppost. When he saw Tadhg looking, he held out his arm for closer inspection. “They’re just tattoos, lad.”
Tadhg nodded. “Daidí has some, but not as many.”
“Caleb’s got tattoos?” Zaeed asked, raising an approving eyebrow. “I like the man already.” Another giggle, which finally drew the big man’s attention to the little girl. “Hello, there.”
Niamh plastered herself to Stephen’s leg, squishing the moose between them. “Hello.”
Before Tadhg could move, Zaeed chuckled. “Don’t be afraid of a troll like me, princess. I don’t bite kids.” And he winked.
Tadhg gave him a curious look. “You don’t bite kids?”
Zaeed nodded. “Biscuits, on the other hand, are rarely safe around me.”
The boy grinned, and Stephen swallowed his sigh of relief. If Caleb was going to be staying with them for a while, then Zaeed was someone the kids would see again. And while the gruff man would stay away if Karin asked him to, it would hurt both his friend and his wife to do so. A lifetime of friendship meant Zaeed rarely called before dropping by, and it would be a wall they hadn’t had since her days in medical school, when Karin had buried herself so deeply in her books, no one dared drop by unannounced.
It was how they’d learned that Stephen and Zaeed made terrible roommates.
“You know…” Zaeed gave the end of the block a considering look. “There might be some biscuits up amid that ruckus.”
“Aye?” Tadhg asked.
Zaeed nodded. “Only, they call them ‘cookies’ here.” He shot Stephen a playful grin. “Bloody Americans.”
“Independence means the right to rename things,” Stephen intoned, and winked when Tadhg looked back at him.
~~~
Read Full Chapter || Read from the Beginning || Read Series
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What started as an offer to lend out my Irish Shepard, Caleb, for some St. Patrick's Day shenanigans has turned into a full blown collaborative effort with @happychica, and I couldn't be more delighted! Thank you, my friend, for allowing Caleb, Tadhg, and Niamh into your sandbox to play! This has turned into such an amazing adventure, and we've only just gotten started! And huge thanks to @screwyouflightlieutenant for the fabulous commercial breaks! (I love these soooooooooo much!)
to anybody who watched Il Padre d’Italia and Hartenstraat and also thought 👀 single dads, how does approx. 16k of that sound? 😅
de Vader van Italië chapter 1/4 is up now, new ones dropping daily.
Summary: ten years after the events of Il Padre d'Italia, a new carpenter takes on the project of fixing up the shop next-door to Daan's on Hartenstraat.
Tags: Kid Fic, Fluff, Romantic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, First Meetings, Bi-Curiosity, bisexual awakening, Multilingual Character, Awkward Flirting, flirting with food, First Kiss, First Time, Alcohol, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Humor, Quick Burn, Single Parents
the fact that the first fic I’m posting after getting pulled down the Old Guard rabbithole is crossover crackfic of two of Marwan and Luca’s other characters getting together, treated seriously... well that just goes to show how far down the rabbithole @blithesea and I are, doesn’t it?
