hello angels! so i saw this absolutely genius post by @mistylakeee and i fell deeply in love, it was so freaking cute. my writing demon fully agreed with me because it demanded we write a fic. full and happy credits to mistylakee for the idea and thank you my darling for this genius! i hope y'all enjoy, and umm let's not lie to ourselves this is not edited, because when do i ever edit anything?
title is from the song "Open Arms" by PRETTYMUCH\
this is of course also on my ao3
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His eyes are the bluest he has ever seen them. Some mix of cold ocean and summer sky. There’s a glint in them too, one that only appears when he is running high on emotion. But today it is warranted and maybe necessary. He has been preparing for this day, quietly and steadily for months. If it goes well, if it truly works out the way he wants it— needs it to, he may finally after many long years take a rest.
Dorian Havillard looks at himself in the mirror as he shrugs on his royal coat, fastens the wyvern seal that clasps to his breast pocket, right over his heart. He feels the steady beat as his fingers fiddle with the pin. It is comforting in a way now that it never was… before. Before he almost died, before his kingdom nearly got destroyed, before before before he lost so much.
He hears the groan of the hinges and then the familiar squeak of his best friend’s wheelchair.
“You ready?”
“You ready?”
Chaol Westfall looks absolutely dashing. Brown hair slightly longer, wrinkles around his eyes from smiling with abandon, and a small child coddled to his chest. Yrene stands slightly behind him, eyes already roving over the room. A caretaker she has always been, and a caretaker she will always be.
“Did you not sleep last night?” She frowns, looking at his rumpled sheets, the way the curtain billows in the early morning haze.
“I slept enough,” A smile tugs at his lips. “And I'm ready.” He nods at his friend. “I did everything I could.”
“That’s all that matters.” Chaol grabs his hand, squeezes gently.
He squeezes back, and then lifts his niece from her father’s lap. Her eyes are closed but he knows deep brown pools hide there. She looks so much like her mother, but she has her father’s ways. All level-headed, a fighter, determined beyond words. She was learning to run before she could crawl. She has places to be. Even her expressions, the way she can stare at you with narrowed eyes, a small smile, reminds him of Chaol when they were younger.
It delights Yrene to no extent because she feels like she’s getting a glimpse of the child her husband used to be.
“We’ll be standing on the north facing balcony.” His friend is saying, “If you get nervous or don’t know what to say, just look at us.”
Dorian can’t stop the laughter that bubbles out of him. “And how will that help me?”
“I’m hoping if i make enough funny faces at you it’ll shock you into remembering whatever comes next.” The signature blank stare is settled on him and it just makes the king laugh harder. Yrene joins in and they’re loud enough it wakes his niece up. She doesn’t cry, she doesn’t even moan. She just blinks her beautiful eyes open and stares at them in curious wonder. He nuzzles his nose to her cheek before placing her in Yrene’s waiting arms.
“Okay,” He smiles at Chaol, “If I forget I'll find your funny face.”
He gets swatted on the thigh for the comment but there is so much affection swimming between them it feels exactly like warmth. He kisses both of them on the cheek, brushes cool fingers over the baby’s cheek and then he’s out of the room, guards flanking either side of him.
Today, he makes an announcement.
The throne room is empty, quiet enough that his shoes echo as they clack across the marbled floor. He had asked that no-one be present during this speech. They are to project it to the city but he does not want to be bombarded with people who have too many questions and not enough care to think about the answers. He knows, for however much Adarlan has grown, however far they have come, there are still people who wish for the old ways. And it is them who will be the noisiest about this new project. But he does not mind. Because he will prove them wrong. And he knows from the bottom of his heart how good this project is, how much it will help and heal, not just his people but other kingdoms too. He just wishes she was here to share this moment with him. But she has her own kingdom to run, and her own projects to implement. Although they had lettered back and forth for months, sometimes he misses her so much it feels as though his ribs are splintering. His body trying to duplicate itself so he can be in two places at once. Anything, it says, to be near her. He understands the feeling well. It has kept him company these long weeks.
The bell tower strikes the hand. It is time.
He steps up to the podium laid out in front of his throne. Magic covers the projections, and he sees himself on huge screens. He sees Adarlan spread before him in the open balcony that sits front and center. The thrones, his crackling blue and lined with gold, hers fire red and lined with silver do not face the middle of the room but rather the huge balcony, and it’s always open doors. They wanted to look out at the world they protect, and remember what they were fighting for.
“Hello my people,” He smiles. It is genuine, however full of longing he may be. “Today I bring you the announcement of a project I have been working on for the better part of my time as King. It is one I hold near to my heart and one I believe will finally bridge the last of the canyons the devastating war created between our great kingdoms.”
He pauses, takes a half second to breathe in the cool air. The seasons are changing, weather getting colder. He’s already asked the palace to start collecting and ordering blankets for the masses. He makes a note to ask Aelin when her Winter Ball will be. He misses his friends.
“This winter,” He looks at them, directly into the heart of his land, residing among his people. “Adarlan in collaboration with the Western Wastes, will start a massive rehabilitation programme that seeks to aid all those affected by—”
He hears a single wing beat. A strong wind stirs his lapels. He looks up, and there on his balcony in all their beautiful exquisite glory is His Queen and her Wyvern.
Manon Blackbeak looks ethereal. Her white hair blows over one shoulder. Even from here he can see the absolute gold of her eyes. She slides down from Abraxos back and Dorian forgets what living is, how to breathe, what tempo his heart should be beating at. He forgets what words are. In the middle of his speech.
She strolls towards him and he is a gaping fish, tasting oxygen for the first time. It burns at his lungs, between his ribs, in the middle of his chest.
She looks like a star, and he is every planet in the universe gravitating towards her.
He stumbles off the podium-stand towards her. She is gliding towards him. As if nothing around them is allowed to touch her until he does. Dorian sprints the final steps. And slams into Manon so hard they both crash to the ground.
He feels her nails pressing gently against his scalp, he feels their hearts pressing into each other, filling out the shape. He feels, and feels, and feels.
She is soft where he is tense. He is melting where she is rock. They are the boiling points of diamonds. Forging into something new. Glittering through their own existence.
“You’re here.” He says it over and over. A story teller with only one narrative. Tattooing it into the world so that it may never disappear again.
“I’m here.” She whispers softly into his neck. He feels her lip brush his skin. She smells like home. Like the sky. Like freedom.
“Dorian!” Someone is shouting from above them somewhere but he cannot be bothered. He feels Manon laughing into him.
“I think you need to get back to your speech.”
He hugs her harder. She laughs more.
“Dorian, my love.” She tugs at his hair slightly, so they’re staring at each other. He wants to make this moment stone. Immortalise them as statues. Name it “The Return”, the “Never Let Go”, “The Forever”.
She brushes her lips across his cheek. “Finish your speech. We have time.”
“Do it with me,” His eyes are pleading. He can’t bear to let her go. If he does not have her pressed against him he might go insane. And he knows something of that.
“Okay.” She smiles at him. It’s like staring at a full moon. Glowing. “Together.”
And he likes the sound of that so much he echoes it as he ends his speech.
“Together.” He smiles, as they collapse onto their thrones, hands intertwined. “At last.”
day 1: favourite trope > there was only one bed//fenrowcan
when I first started writing this I expected it to be short and full of filth but it is neither of these things (I hope you won't be too disappointed) but I adore it so much. I love exploring dynamics between new ships and this one was truly delightful because...well you'll see.
I'm hoping if I post these at 5pm my time it'll cover all the time zones so it falls in the correct days for everyone but apologies if I'm a little too late or a little too early.
to miss Cass for always being my biggest hype person I love and adore and cherish you so much my dear <3
@sjmcrackshipweek
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“Lorcan,” Rowan’s powers are a whisper past his ear, there and gone in less than a second.
Lorcan Salvaterre pulls a blade from his breast pocket and flings it directly into the swirling mass of debri and disgust.
A streak of starlight-white blurs past him and jumps directly into the tornado before them.
“What is he doing?” He mutters, racing along the outskirts to try and pinpoint any weakness, any area he can freely and quickly exploit. Nothing stands out to him. Even his wisps of darkness are struggling to get past the blizzardous onslaught. He’s about to follow the white wolf’s lead and simply dive into the mess when he hears a single low growl.
With a grin at Rowan both of them palm pretty glinting blades and drive them straight into the whirlwind. They are met with goo and gut and a living being. He had begun to doubt they were fighting anything more than a determined wind. But no, around his obsidian blade he can feel contorting organs, blood sizzling on his hands. That’ll be a pain to clean up later. There is a moment of bated stillness and then the beast disintegrates before them. Lorcan’s tendrils of death suffocating the body through his blades. With a swipe of his hand, Rowan lets the wind— a cool and hurried breeze— disperse the dust around the world. It is no longer their problem.
In a flash of gold, Fenrys Moonbeam stands before them, hair matted to his forehead and a gleam in his pretty black eyes.
“It tasted disgusting.” He shudders, breaking their silence as they all stare at the charred spot of earth left behind.
“Really?” Rowan raises a brow, “I thought it’d taste delightful. Like a sorbet swirl.”
“Shut up—” Fenrys is retorting, already knocking against the white-haired male in retaliation.
Lorcan blurs them out of his focus as they trail along the worn path into the village. It had been a long and arduous week, filled with petty tasks such as getting rid of village monsters and razing small forgotten cities. He’d do almost anything to be home, in his own bed, his own space. One where he doesn’t have to keep his power throttled to his ribcage. One where he can watch his dark magic explore the room like curious snakes, knocking gently into everything as it finds out what this corner holds, where this crevice widens, why this box sits there. They are almost as animated as he used to be, back when he was young, fresh-faced, arrogant beyond reason.
“Oi Salvaterre,” He is yanked back into the world with a good shove on the back.
Glaring, he turns to Fenrys. “What?” Short, snappy and full of blunt-tired. Gods he really is a wreck today.
“You good to stay here?” Looking around he realises with mild surprise that they had made it to the outskirts of the village.
“Yea sure whatever,” He nods, giving the small two storey a quick once over. The roof looks like it keeps rain out and the windows close enough to keep wind seeking refuge elsewhere. There really isn’t much to complain about.
Rowan frowns at him but he just looks away, pretending to scope out the area. Might as well do some recon while their friend gets everything sorted with the rooms. Anything really, to distract himself from the forest gaze of his ex-boyfriend. No-one had ever been able to read him the way he does. A seconds look and the white-haired male can pinpoint every single thing wrong, right, and in between about him. When they were dating it used to be charming, and now it’s everything in Lorcan’s power to keep his face stoic, his movements precise. One blink too many and the worry from the hawk comes back in full force. What do you get when you never stop loving someone? Wounded.
“Okay,” Fenrys’ cheerful call comes from the door of the house. “We’re in. But there’s no food here so we’re gonna have to go into the village for that.”
Rowan is already walking towards the building muttering something about needing to shower first.
“Where’s my room keys?” Lorcan holds out a hand.
“Uh,” And the golden-haired man is looking at him in a way he knows all too well. Mischief and muddles painted brightly across his brown skin.
“What did you do?”
Rowan stops mid stair at the tone of his voice, and turns around slowly. Their eyes pierce into the wolf, waiting less than patiently.
“So, um,” Fenrys scratches the back of his neck.
“Spit it out.” He is preparing himself for the worst, body already thrumming into new symphonies.
“They sort of only had one room left and i had to book it because this is the only inn in the entire village and I didn't know what else to do but they reassured me we have the biggest room so we shouldn’t be completely smothering each other I'm sorry.”
For a breath they all stand very still, holding time in suspense as they process the situation they’ve been handed.
It would have felt less like a sabotage if it had been the beginning of this long journey, or if they had had more than four hours sleep in the last three days or if they had known beforehand that this would be the situation. But this is a jenga tower and someone has picked out the two blocks at the very base. Everything shakes, threatens to topple, with each round.
The white-haired male simply continues walking up the stairs. Lorcan blinks at Fenrys, cocks his head, blinks again. And walks up too.
There is no point in fighting. There is nothing any of them can do. There is nothing they want to do anyway.
***
Dinner is a warm affair. Shoved into a booth in the back of a small tavern. Warm bread, steaming soup, and a pitcher of ale laid out before them. He has never turned his nose down at a feast but hearth food, like this, designed to warm you from the inside and keep you comforted through the night is where his heart truly lies. Especially surrounded by people he loves. Thoughts he will keep to himself but he will think anyway.
The matter of the room is forgotten while they doll out cards and wager anything but money. Coins, as it turns out after centuries of living, are a dull and elementary means of compensation.
Instead Fenrys must secure a date with the man at the table over. Instead Lorcan must take his weapons off his person and if there’s more than five, he has to give one away. Instead Rowan must turn into a bird and hope not to get caught and cooked by the chef roaming the tables. Instead they must laugh. Instead them must sing. Instead they must dance, and if toes get stepped on well ‘why did you make me do this?’. Instead they must practice, like hand puppets with ghost hands, living and let live again. You go out to kill a monster, keep going, and at some stage you can't decipher if that means you. So you have to bring yourself back to the earth and the people and anything except the blood on your hands that never seems to be yours despite how much you have to give.
They settle their owings with little fanfare, and leave behind them friendly hollers and discarded weapons. The walk back is not far, and while they do it in little time it seems almost too long before they’re all crowded into their room staring at the bed before them.
Now that food sits warm in their bellies, and liquor warm in their veins it doesn’t seem so brutal. This sharing business. One bed. Three of them. They are the monkeys who won’t roll over. If they do, they'll be caught before they hit their heads. There’s always a corded arm, strong fingers there to catch them.
“I sleep on the end,” Rowan says, pointing to the side nearest the window. There isn’t a force in the world that could stop the smile tugging on Lorcan’s face. The whole world could rearrange itself and still fundamentals like Rowan needing the night air would not change.
“I sleep on the other end.” He raises a brow as he collapses on the side nearest the door.
“Wait wait wait,” Fenrys looks at them in alarm, beautiful glittering eyes blinking rapidly. “I love being the little spoon as much as the next person but I don't know if I want to be in between your broody ex-boyfriend asses.” His look of horror is enough to make Lorcan laugh, which sets off Rowan, as it’s always done, which makes Fenrys more horrified. They’re in a circle and it is becoming a sphere by the sheer force of joy bubbling between them.
“It’s worse when you laugh,” The golden-haired male is looking at them. “I would rather sleep on the roof.” He takes one step, two towards the window, before Rowan wraps a hand around his arm and pulls them both down to the bed. Laughter still courses through his throat, flipping against his tongue. He feels like the bread they’d eaten for dinner. Soft and fluffy and warm.
“You guys are plain evil.” Fenrys is grumbling.
“Sleep Fen,” He pokes at ribs, shoulders, legs. ‘We promise not to bite… unless you ask.”
“I’m not worried if you bite me!” Their friend is still full of comical horror, “I’m worried you’re gonna bite each other over me.”
“We would never be so rude.” He can hear Rowan’s grin in the dark. Voice like gravel instead of water.
“Shut up.” Is his finally mutter before they all settle into the surprisingly comfortable mattress and close their exhausted eyes.
***
Lorcan feels a hand on his thigh. It is warm, distinctly male. A thumb brushes against the fabric clad to him and he shudders softly. He knows this gesture. It’s one he’s felt a thousand times before. One he never thought he’d feel again. With struggle he opens his eyes, blinking in rapid succession to try adjust to the little light. The night is still fresh, ripe in the sky. The moon shows off her size and her glow, hanging in perfect balance against the inky blackness. It is her light he uses to make out the shapes and figures around him. He sits up a little, leaning on his elbow to try wake himself up. He had been in one of those deep sleeps, where nothing and no-one could have brought him to reality. Except this. Always this. He had often wondered if his body would forget the things that made it sing, with time, and distance. Well he has gotten his answer. Not even a century of years, and sprinkled decades of distance could make an amnesia out of him.
“You up?” A lighthouse in this sea of darkness. “I can’t believe that still wakes you.”
“Me neither.” He sighs, no strength to filter his thoughts, no strength to push the hand away. “Why did you wake me?”
“Look.’ He sees a silhouette nod towards the middle of their bed.
And gods what a sight it is. Gold hair fanning against stark white pillows. Brown skin shimmering in the pale moonlight. A face carved from the best artists in the universe. Perfection born, bred, laid here between them.
“Should he have been worried about us?” The hawk asks.
The question surprises Lorcan, enough that he looks up from the bed, searches for green eyes in this endless night. “I don’t know, maybe?”
It is quiet for a beat, two, three. “Does it matter?”
“Does what?” Because there are so many answers depending on the context. Did they matter? They were the only thing that ever did. Did their friend’s worry matter? Nothing would have happened without him knowing.
“You know everyone used to say ‘right person, wrong time’ when i told them about us.” Rowan’s voice is still soft, gentle in a way he reserves for the fire and the night.
“There is no such thing as a wrong time when we are immortal.” He replies, matching softness, but unable to match calmness. He is bitter to the core about the way the world weaved them. Unfinished tapestries left to rot under spider silk and dust. “When time doesn’t end, how do you tell what parts are right and what aren’t?”
Fenrys moves between them, curling into Lorcan’s back, grabbing ahold of Rowan’s shirt. His brow furrows briefly before smoothing out once more. It’s everything in Lorcan not to groan and bury his face in that supple neck.
“I guess you don’t.”
“We didn’t.”
“We couldn’t Lor.” Nickname that takes him a thousand years behind him, three seconds in front of him, chains him to this bed.
“We stopped trying.” He falls back onto the bed, arm giving out under him. Heart gave out moons ago. “That’s where we went wrong. We just stopped trying.”
Another bout of silence, suffocating only to his lungs. His body draws it in, lets it crash down his throat, sit against his stomach undigested.
“And now?” The question to end it all, the question that becomes the moment, and then the memory, and then the epitaph.
He looks to his side, sees Fenrys not even a nuzzle-distance away from him. Moves his gaze up to that ever-green tree. “Not without him. I can’t go back.”
“Who said it would be?”
Fenrys spreads his hand across Rowan’s chest in that moment and Rowan places his over it. “I would not be able to give him up.”
“Is he ours to give and take?”
“Well I am his,” Rowan brushes golden hair out of the wolf’s face, looks up at him. “And I am yours.”
“So we are each others?” The idea forms in his heart, changes the course of his veins, becomes a new and integral part of his organs.
“Yes.” The hawk looks at him, into him, with him.
“Yes we are.” A voice, embroidered with sleep adds to their discussion.
And the words that wrap around him start to feel like the first tendrils of a new galaxy. They are stars barrelling between every pocket of darkness. His power protecting the room almost shimmers with this new found knowledge.
“You are mine? Both of you?” He wants to hear these words in this air, in this room, in this lifetime.
“And we are yours,” Fenrys whispers gently.
Rowan takes his hand. “And we are each others.”
The village bell tower clangs as if to mark the moment out loud. With the reverberating sound they are surging towards each other. Lips on skin and hands on heart and heart laid bare and skin presented the same. Over and over, encased by sounds they will hear a thousand times more, by sights they will paint again on a thousand different canvases. Motions that resemble the sea, push and pull and give and take, and love and be loved.
Their final dance ends with a single note, symphony coming to its grand crescendo. In this room they accidentally shared on a mission they didn’t want to do in a time when restlessness thrummed amongst them as well as lightning does a storm.
I got very obsessed with maelin and went on a tumbles binge. While the content is INCREDIBLE there just wasn't enough so I'm adding to the pile with *gestures to whatever this is*. Please enjoy! Let's not pretend this was edited lmaooo
to Jana (@flamingveritas): for the compliments and falling down the maelin rabbit hole with me
i highly recommend listening to rosier/punk2 by brakence while reading this. if i could i would have just copy pasted the song and made that the fic.
I left home now I'm fucked up
Realized how much I loved you
Whole goddamn life, been a suck-up
Now I'm just tryna get my luck up
All the pain went when you kissed me
—rosier/punk2, brakence
Manon has indulged, feverently and with vicious delight, in all manner of debauchery and sin over her many years. She has sipped the blood of men like fine whiskey, and kissed women like morning dew clinging to rosy petals. Most especially, she has never denied herself a pleasure.
Once her gold eyes lock on a target it's as good as hers, already weaving into her present and past. It is no longer a thing of the future to her. No because that would imply she still needed to get it, that it was not hers yet. It is something she simply refuses to accept.
Which is why, blood boiling, iron nails glinting viciously in the midday sun, she snarls at the blonde haired, blue eyed queen. The most beautiful being she has ever seen and by far the most infuriating. Manon has never wanted to lick someone's lips while simultaneously driving a dagger through their heart so godsdamn much in her life.
"Get your ass back here, Queen." She can barely keep the growl out of her voice. She feels half beast.
"Fuck you Witch," Aelin sneers, "You don't get to tell me what to do. Not anymore."
Manon is in front of her before the wind can catch in her snow white hair. With another grumble clawing through her throat, she plants her feet in front of the blonde. It takes everything in her not to melt at the fierce beauty she is met with. Gold spun hair, rivaling her own eyes, and sun smattered freckles and arched eyebrows. There's a look in the queen's eye that makes Manon want to pull them too close for decency and see how much of the pretty gold ring swallows that blue gaze.
"You owe me." She says instead. There is no gentleness in her voice. They have never been gentle with each other.
"I owe you nothing." Aelin spits. "I stopped having anything to do with you the day you left me."
"I didn't leave you." She explodes. She cannot go on like this. She can't bear it.
"Oh," The queen's voice takes on that high pitched tone, as if she's attempting to be snappy but her emotion is betraying her. She carries on despite it all. "Well, sorry for thinking that coming home to a note that says 'I'll be gone for a some time' and then not having a wife for ten years doesn't count to you."
There are tears running down that beautiful face and it makes every part of Manon wither away. She is made of iron but it takes one look at Aelin's crumpling composure to reduce her to rust and ruin.
"If I was gone for three hundred years I would still be your wife. No matter how long, or how far." Her voice is disturbed dust on a locked chest.
"Please leave." The queen shakes her head, stumbling backwards, away from her, from them. "I can't do this. I won't."
"I'm not going anywhere Aelin." Her voice cracks and she wants to curse herself for sounding so weak. But this is not a matter of blood and teeth and enemy. This is a matter of heart and she would always be weak when it came to the person who owned hers.
"That's what you said every day before you left for a decade." It is so quiet, so unbelievably quiet it feels almost as if the world hushed to hear that statement.
Her chest feels like it's been struck by lightning. She cannot imagine anything else would make her heart beat so fast while killing her so slowly.
"I didn't have a choice." She shakes her head. The words are coming out wrong. Will they ever be right?
"You had the choice to tell me."
At this her mouth curls into a snarl, gold eyes flashing with rage. "I would never have put your life in danger like that."
"We could have faced it together." Aelin bites her quivering lower lip. "Like we always have."
"I will never risk you, I will never put you in harms way if I can handle it myself."
"Maybe you could have handled it Manon," Her wife sighs, tears still rippling down her golden cheeks. They carve rivers over her freckles, making them stones on the riverbed. "Or maybe we could have done it together and it would have taken five years instead of ten. Or maybe you could have gone alone and I would have kissed you goodbye and said come back soon."
"That is—"
"Instead," The blonde interrupts, sadness, true grief, covering her face like a veil. "Instead I woke up to an empty bed one morning and it just never ended. Everyday I wondered if you had left because you no longer loved me, or if you had been dragged away, or if you went on a mission and had not survived it. Every day I thought of your white hair and your gold eyes and the smile you have when the wind dances across your skin and I didn't understand why I could no longer see it, see you."
Tears, hot and salty, stream down Manon's face. It is violent and full of agony. She isn't going to survive this. How could she?
"But I'm back now." She gutters.
"For how long?" The question is laced with exhaustion as if it had been asked to the point of meaningless.
How long will she be gone? How long can I live like this? How long should I wait before I try to find her? How long before I realize she doesn't want to be found? How long has she stopped loving me? She sees the questions reflected in those blue-jeweled eyes. It snaps the chords of her heart, like broken piano strings.
"Forever."
"That tells me nothing."
She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know how to make this right. She would do anything. She would suffer through hell if it meant making this okay again. If it meant standing by her wife's side once more, instead of loving her from so far away.
"Please Aelin," She breaks, cracks so hard her jaw snaps. "How do I make this better? How do I fix us?"
"I don't know," Blonde hair glitters in the sun as she shakes her head. It catches like a halo. "I don't know and it hurts so much and I can't—" She is hyperventilating.
Manon wants to go to her, wants to wrap her arms around the queen and hold her until they've both stitched themselves back together. But she knows she will be shoved away, so far and so fast she will not be able to recover.
"I love you Aelin." She says. Her voice is quiet but her words are clear as Terassen waters. "And I will love you through every season to come, and every sunset we witness while on the back of abraxos, and every morning I catch you with chocolate cake before breakfast, and every evening that you read a book to me, and every moment I find your lips perfectly slanted over mine. I will love you through this life."
They had never placed their love in the past. Manon had never said "I have loved you since", she always says, "I will love you through..."
"And I will love you through the next."
The sobs that wrack the queen's body make the witch's hands shake. She cannot believe she has hurt her love so much, so carelessly, so destructively.
"I don't need you to love me through the next. I needed you to love me through this one."
"I do!" She cries. "I do, I do, I do. How could I not?" There is distance between them that no bridge can cross, but she can reach out a hand and brush her fingers across a tear-streaked cheek. So close in body, so far in heart.
"I will not survive if you leave me again." Her queen sobs. Manon sobs with her.
"I cannot survive leaving you."
Hands, smaller than hers, infinitely more warm, find her own. "I love you through the darkness."
"Until it claims us." She finishes softly.
And ever so gently, intertwined only by their fingers, they begin to stitch together. The future is theirs, and it is the only guarantee.
day 2: alternate universe > Percy Jackson// braelin
you know I considered putting them into a million different universes but ultimately decided combining my first love (pjo) and my forever love (tog) id have the best outcome. so I hope you enjoy some braelin in the Percy Jackson universe (well the Roman version anyway)
@sjmcrackshipweek
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Her bunk bed groans as she turns to her side, groans again as she turns back, and again as she flips over entirely.
“Would you stop moving!” A tired, annoyed voice whispers from underneath her.
Aelin stills immediately, muzzling the urge to scream into her pillow. No matter how hard she tries she cannot get comfortable.
The events from the night are racing through her mind, competing in olympics to win her gold medal of distress. Her getting claimed by Venus. A rare and honoured outcome. And Bryce. Bryce fucking Quinlan. Being claimed by Vulcan. Ugh she could tear her hair out at the very thought of it.
Aelin how should i do my eyeliner for the claiming? In a way that says ‘im cut-throat queen’ —more like cutthroat bitch— or in a more subtle ‘i’m coming for you legacy?’ sort of way?
Aelin what do you think would look better with this shade of ‘winning our bet?’ the black or the red? Nevermind i’ll wear the gold so you know i’ve beaten you.
Aelin do you think it’s better to go all out for my claiming ceremony or just have something small with a select group of friends?
She didn’t even know why Bryce had asked her the last one. She would never be a part of that “select group” anyway. Probably just to rub that fact in her face.
Ever since Bryce Quinlan had gotten to Camp Jupiter she had been after everything Aelin had built. Right off the bat she had shown enough godly power to be placed into the First Cohort and had immediately taken to the stupid elitist idea that they make every other cohort’s life completely miserable. To make matters worse, Bryce had specifically chosen Aelin as her little pet project of disaster.
Every quest, Bryce volunteered, and then spent the entire time riling her up or ignoring her. Every game was a competition even if they were on the same team. Every meal time was a chance to pester Aelin. It was never ending. Bryce was always in her face. Behind each corner. Under all her quiet moments.
It wasn’t to say she didn't fight back. Where Bryce had claws, Aelin had fangs. They were constantly tearing at each other. But it became exhausting. Like carrying a spear for too long. Always ready to attack, but muscles flexing so hard they shake.
Their little feud is legendary at camp. Spreading across dining halls and between dormitories. They’ve had witnesses to their slaughter on more than one occasion.
And now with their claiming confirmed and celebrated it’s going to be nothing short of a disaster. The Goddess of Love and Her Scorned Husband. It’s disgustingly poetic how this is all turning out to be.
“Aelin,” A whispered shout comes from below, ‘I swear to the gods if you move even one more time i’m going to staple you to your mattress.”
“Sorry Elena,” She mumbles, before sliding off the bed and falling less than gracefully to her feet on the cool wood floors. She hadn't even realized she was tossing and turning again.
“I’m just going to—” She waves her hand, already trailing off as she attempts to gather what she thinks she’ll need for her late night trip to her favourite spot.
“Whatever,” Elena is already turning away to go back to sleep. “Don’t let the ghosts see you. They’re the biggest tattle tales.”
Before she can even mutter a thanks her bunk-mate is asleep, breathing evened out into a quiet lull. Aelin would be jealous if she didn’t know it was as rare as any good night sleep she gets.
With the nightmares, and the constant night-challenges and quests, it’s almost unheard of that any of them get more than one or two proper sleeps in any given week. Just a couple nights previous, Elena and a few of the younger campers were out clearing the Little River Tiber of the oil spills that had washed in from the mortal world and polluting the naiads' home. They only finished the task yesterday afternoon.
With a quick glance at the immediate vicinity, and any potential threats, Aelin takes a deep breath and sprints for the forest.
If she cannot go to the city of New Rome and eat her weight in fresh pastries and sweet bread then she might as well take her hike to the top of Saturn’s Hill and stare at the moon. It is full tonight and provides ample light for her journey.
She catches the blue glow of their camp’s ghosts every now and then but there are enough hiding spots between her dorm and the forest that she makes herself invisible easily.
The dark hood over her golden blonde hair— her most discernible feature from far away— does a fairly good job of keeping her face concealed. She is mostly cloaked in shadows and comforting darkness. Although her favourite time of day is early morning, when the sun is just gilding the world, there is something so peaceful about the dead of the night. Noise is a foriegn concept. It almost feels as if it’s just her, the thrumming ground, and the brilliant stars. She is the center of the universe and the universe itself.
The forest comes into view and before she can stop herself she is sprinting the final distance, wind against her cheeks and sweet air filling her lungs.
Part of being a child of Venus is learning how things fit into their place in the world. People often overlook the idea of beauty and aesthetics, believe something is either pretty or not, in that regard. But that’s not really how it is.
The sky is just the sky until you’ve been staring at the ground so long you’ve forgotten what the colour blue looks like. Food is just food until your friend offers you the last bite of their chocolate cake and then it is a Moment and a Memory. A face is just face until you catch eyes in the sunlight, and cheeks in a blush, and lips in a kiss, and jaw in a caress, and frown in concentration. Beauty does not simply exist; it is created and then found and then appreciated. At least that’s how Aelin has always looked at the world, and how so many of her— well siblings now, she supposes, have seen it too. A million tiny components creating big artworks.
She is almost to the top of the hill when she finally pulls herself back into the world and its present. The air is cooler here, less crowded by warm campfires and free laughter, but no less refreshing. And the trees sway gently, as if dancing their final waltz before retiring from the ball for the evening.
She almost wants to stop and dance with them. Her feet already moving in time to a beat only they and she can hear.
But then a distinct human rustle sounds to her right, and before the trees can sway back her sword is in her hand and the hood of her cloak is pushed off off off.
Her blue eyes gleam as they narrow to the space the sounds came from.
“Come out or i come in.” She says low, controlled.
There’s a heavy familiar sigh and then long, brown legs step out from behind a stilled tree trunk. And there in all her fire-bright glory is Bryce Quinlan.
“What are you doing here?” She growls, tucking the sword away and crossing her arms in annoyance.
“I wanted to know where our little prodigy runs off to in the middle of the night.” She smiles so sweetly and it makes Aelin want to give up sugar.
“It was actually none of your business Quinlan.” She clenches her jaw, counting down from one hundred in her head. The starting number increases or decreases depending on how much she needs to calm herself down. It’s never been below one hundred when it comes to Bryce. “Go away.”
“How are you feeling after the claiming?” As usual Aelin is ignored. “Everyone has been congratulating me. I’m almost sick of the words ‘Wow Bryce you’re—’”
“STOP!” The shout bounces off the wind, crashing through the space between them like demolition. “I don’t want to hear it, Quinlan. I don’t care. Do you hear me?” She glares, knows her eyes are almost gold with how bright they glisten. “I. Do. Not. Care.”
There’s a single suspended second of silence, something disturbingly close to hurt flashing across Bryce’s face, and then a sneer graces her beautiful features.
“What the hell is your problem?”
Aelin splutters, brain buffering in 120p. Her problem? HER problem?
“All i was doing was asking how you were and you just go and lash out at me?” She is carrying on, oblivious to the inner turmoil the Daughter of Venus is going through. ‘You know you always do this?” She’s snapping. “I try to ask how you are? What happened? Where you’re going? And you just bite at me. It’s been like that since day one.”
“Don’t act like you care.” Aelin has found her words and they are poisonous. “Don’t act like you’ve ever actually cared about the answers. You just use them as fuel to annoy and insult me.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You have never been kind to me. And every kindness i have tried to show you has been met with ridicule and scorn.”
Bryce scoffs, amber eyes turning all sorts of fire shades in her disbelief, her anger. “You being kind to me?”
“Yes Quinlan.” Her voice is hard. Truth galvanizing it into an intricate iron sculpture. “I have tried to be nice to you. I even tried to just leave you alone when that didn’t work. But you are always hounding me. Pulling at my hair like five years olds in the sandpit.”
“You tried your best not to pay attention to me.” The Daughter of Vulcan stares at her. Harsh voice now shaking. “For so long i tried to be your friend and you just kept ignoring me. Eventually i found people who did actually want to spend time with me.”
“Be my friend?” Aelin feels almost hysterical. “What? You thought adding dish soap to my water and changing my spear heads for sponges was being my friend? Dipping my hair into the fire wall and adding crickets to my morning oats? Claiming my victories on quests and asking people to sign a petition to have piano playing removed from the dining hall when i was the only one that ever played? All of that was you trying to be my friend?”
“I was trying to get your precious attention!” Bryce yells.
It makes her stumble back, hard enough that her back hits the boulder she hadn’t remembered was behind her.
The silence that engulfs them is burning. An inferno of unchecked emotion. Bonfire out of control.
“I was trying to get you to notice me.” Quiet, so quiet the wind can barely carry it. “You were so calm and cool and collected. You knew everything about this world. And i was this little kid with too much blood on her hands and not enough soap in the world to get them clean. I wanted to be like you.” She takes a shuddering breath, and somehow Aelin feels it in her own rattling lungs. “And that changed to wanting to be with you but by then you hated me and i couldn’t stand that fact so i hated you too.”
“You could have just asked.” Five simple words, that could change an entire past, will rewrite an entire future, suspends the fragile present. “Not once did you ask to be my friend.”
“I couldn’t bear the idea of you saying no.”
They both fall to the ground hard, unable to process the weight of these heavy years on their feet.
“We ended up like our parents didn't we?” Bryce whispers softly. “Not giving each other a chance before saying no.”
“Do you think that’s how it always is?” Aelin frowns up at her, tears spilling over her cheeks. “Every demigod just keeps rewriting their parents’ stories?”
“Gods i hope not.” The red-haired girl casts her gaze to the sky, moonlight streaking her wine strands to make scarlett. “I hope we can be better than them.”
“What if we can’t?” Blue eyes have dried, but fear of recreating the past in every future rings through her voice. “Look what happened to us. Without even realising it we became the characters in the story of Aphrodite and Hephaestus”
“We have to try. And keep trying. Especially when we fail.”
The quiet, piercing and loud, but full of resolve weaves between them once more. They are as far apart as they were when they sat down but something about the distance no longer seems so cold and frightening, so….. distant.
“No more fighting?” Aelin looks up tentatively. Amber eyes are already on her.
“No more.” Bryce Quinlan nods and it is full of finality.
A small hopeful smile tugs at their lips. The wind changes direction. The moon shines a little brighter.
Here, the past starts to mend itself. Here, in this cool forest on Saturn Hill, the future rewrites one word at a time. Here, at Camp Jupiter, the Daughter of Venus and the Daughter of Vulcan change their present.
Cass and i had a truly delicious conversation about Fenrys and Hunt over the weekend and it led to this mess. please accept it as the smut it so rightfully is. they’re like kind of hot i’m not gonna lie? (this is also on ao3)
to Cass: my love, you are the beginning and end of my sjm fanfic career. thank you for the spice and the support. we (the writing demon and i) would be lost in a void without you. i hope you enjoy! (@terrible-and-proud)
CW: smut [this contains explicit sexual content and is not intended for persons under the age of 18. discretion is advised]; derogatory name calling
Fenrys is having a stressful day. The kind of day that makes him want to rip his beautiful golden hair out or punch a sand-bag till it explodes, better yet punch someone who will punch back. His reflection in the bathroom mirror looks haggard, days of little sleep and nights of long work. Even his brown skin, free of marks, smooth as glass, is paled. There are bags under his eyes he’s sure Aelin would pay money to use. Basically, fundamentally, he looks like shit. And there would be no relief. They were still trying to close out this report, still trying to play nice with the investors breathing down their necks like angry dragons.
He splashes cold water on his face. Some drips into his shirt, past the stiff crimson tie and the hidden silver chain. He shivers, but doesn't bother to stop its path; let the drops wake him up. Maybe he’ll survive this.
“What are you doing?” A voice, smooth as gun metal, hard as marble, mocks from behind him. “You look like you’re three seconds away from crying.”
Fenrys closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to deal with this, with him.
“Leave me alone Athalar.” He bites, “Don’t you have more pressing matters to attend to than stalking me?”
Because he’s at least sixty percent sure Hunt Athalar is stalking him. They had run into each other four times today. Normal if they worked on the same floor, or had the same project. But Hunt worked in Asset Management and Fenrys worked in fucking Public Relations. There was hardly ever a reason for them to interact. But here they were, knocking shoulders like they’d shared lunch every day for three years.
“What?” Hunt’s dark eyebrow is raised, neatly disappearing into the strands of hair over his forehead. “I can’t use the bathroom at the same time as you?”
“Not when you’re five floors up.” Fenrys glares at him.
“I’m working in this department to help get the reports done.” That smirk is still there, full of bright red arrogance. And the dimple it produces should offset the whole look but it just makes his colleague frustratingly… hot.
Fenrys is more sleep deprived than he thought.
“Please just— stay out of my way, Athalar.” He sighs. Scrubs a hand down his face, makes his way to the door.
“Can’t promise anything.” The reply is bright, choking green. Fenrys wants to expel his stress on this two meter, beautifully dark-skinned, glittering eyed punching bag.
He doesn’t bother with a reply. There are files awaiting his scattered attention, and coffee calling his tired brain.
The day drags by in stuck moments, knitting yarn unravelling and knotting every few inches. He wants to take scissors to time and cut off all the tangles. Shorten it to manageable, to length he can bear, to anything less than this.
With each completed offering, someone brings a new problem. The sky goes quiet, spilling colour almost accidentally before settling down. He barely sees the golden of sunset, or the purple of dusk, or the branding blue of night. He barely takes note of his own body. He is a vessel for work and it is killing him.
“Goodbye Fen,” Someone calls. He registers the pleasantness of their tone, and the exhaustion in their words.
He about mutters a greeting back before burying his head in another ink-filled page. Slowly people trickle out. Just a few more he thinks, staring at his paper mountain.
“Go home Fenrys!” One of his coworker’s laugh, clapping him on the back as they walk out. He turns his head to see long dark hair tied in a knot at the base of their neck, and a worn leather jacket stretching over large shoulders.
“Bye Lorcan” He calls, mind already focusing on the task at hand.
The stack gets smaller, small enough that he believes he’ll leave the office before midnight. If he just keeps working diligently. If he just gets it done.
A hand presses against his back. It is warm, and large, and he wants to sink into it. And then the owner of the hand speaks.
“Still being the obedient little puppy, Fenrys?”
“What do you want, Athalar?” He grits out, pressing his chest into his desk to escape the addictive warmth of that hand.
“Just making sure you’re not working yourself to haggards.” He can hear the teasing, the mocking grin in that voice. He wonders if he’ll hit crown jewels should he elbow backwards. “Wouldn’t want your pretty face to be all washed out, now would we?”
“Fuck off.” He will not punch his coworker. He will not punch his coworker. He will not punch his cowork—
The man doesn’t listen, he’s not sure if he even heard. “What are you working so hard on?”
And then Hunt Athalar is leaning over his shoulder, and Fenrys is surrounded by him. His beautiful intoxicating smell— sharp rose and soft fern; and the heat of his body— so much body; and the dark purple tie brushing his face— it’s soft enough to sleep on. Hands lean against his desk, fingers long and bony, so pretty. If he looks up there’s a high possibility his eyelashes will brush a sculpted jaw. He stares straight ahead. He will not move an inch. He will not let the feel of this man affect him. He will not be a carrier to the Hunt Hypnosis. A real and deadly thing in this company.
“Oh,” He senses trouble. “There’s a spelling mistake here.”
Fenrys is an over-boiling pot, spitting and hissing as water splashes the stove. He is done. He is tired. He is exploding.
With a growl, an actual rumble in his throat, he turns his head and hisses, “Fuck you Athatlar.” His coworker is so close his lips brush against that hot skin. He doesn’t care. “Fuck. You.”
Hunt looks down slowly, until there’s barely enough space to breathe between them. “I wish you would.”
He chokes on blue air, stutters in the shade orange, colours himself rose pink. “What— what?”
“I wish you would fuck me.” He says it again, so plainly, so starkly, hospital white.
“Why?” It’s all Fenrys can think to say. He isn’t actually thinking. He doesn’t quite know what he’s doing. He feels electrocuted.
“I’ve been trying to get your attention for weeks.” Hunt is so painfully close, rock brown eyes darkening as his pupils eat up the colour. “But you’re so,” He waves his hand around the desk, out towards the office, lip curling, “dedicated to your work it’s almost impossible to get you to think about anything else.”
“So you though the best way to go about this was to annoy me into fucking you?” Fenrys has found his voice and it is a tether stretching bubblegum pretty between them.
“Yes.” The man says simply.
He reaches a hand up, takes a fistful of dark hair and yanks ever so slightly. “Brat.” He spits.
There’s a gurgle in Hunt’s throat that makes them both fire blue. Pure, uncharted lust strikes him. He pulls the soft hair in his hand harder, exposing more of that supple neck.
“On your knees, pretty boy.”
His coworker goes down without a fight, eyes bright enough to rival diamonds.
“You wanna be mouthy with me,” He brushes their noses together, lets their lips meet, pulls away. “Better make it worth my time.”
Hunt groans, throat bobbing as he swallows the words. The sound goes straight to Fenrys’ cock. He is so hard the zipper at his jeans is making indentations in his skin.
He loosens his grip ever so slightly, lets himself feel the strands of hair between his fingers, and then he tugs them together and finally kisses his cocky little brat.
He doesn’t expect it, but he should have. The softness of Hunt’s lips, the taste of him as sweet as wild berries. He feels as if he’s entered a buffet dedicated to desserts. He won’t leave until he’s had his fill. They explore each other eagerly, roughly. He strokes his tongue along the seam of those pillow lips and groans as they part on a breathy moan. It’s not a battle of dominance but a battle of tension, and air. Who gasps first? Who’s desperate enough to die like this? He’s not sure it isn’t him.
Hunt whimpers when he bites his lip, and that’s enough to have them drawing back. The black-haired man is a vision, sitting before him, knees spread, lips red and swollen, eyes glassy.
“Such a pretty little thing,” He tilts his head, taking in the sight. “You ready to be good for me?”
He nods, black hair falling across his cheeks, into his eyes. It’s not enough.
“Words baby,” Fenrys caresses his jaw, lets a warm finger trail the sensitive column of his neck.
“Yes,” He sighs, eyes pleading sweet and fuckable.
With a little maneuvering he manages to undo his belt and unzip his pants while getting Hunt more comfortable between his legs. He can’t imagine the carpet burn is fun but he also kind of doesn’t care, kind of wants to see the streaks of abraded skin, kind of wants this pretty little slut to feel him in every way tomorrow.
Hands, dark and exploring, come up to his thighs, start tracing circles against the linen of his pants. He feels the heat of those fingers, watches with hungry eyes as they trail along him. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t so much as blink. The man before him is entranced in the task, focused solely on the path his fingers are making as they get closer and closer to—
“Did I say you could touch me, sweetheart?”
Hands freeze, fingers twitch. “No,” The reply is breathy, a little bashful but those eyes say mischief to the tenth degree.
“Think we better do something about those wandering digits.” And then Fenrys is tugging off his tie, and with expert skill he places Hunt’s hands behind his back and binds his wrists together. The deep red of the tie looks magical, sinful, against that rich brown skin, and it takes everything in his will to stop from groaning.
He leans back, tilts his coworker’s head up with the nudge of his finger against a sharp chin. “You okay baby?”
“Yes.”
“Good, you’re using your words.” A kiss, two, languid strokes, nips of teeth, lack of oxygen, soft full lips. Reward. They’re plum purple with readiness.
They break apart and Fenrys wants to protest. They don’t need air, he needs to get closer. Gods Hunt is beautiful like this, a masterpiece in heaving motion.
“Please Fen,” He whines.
“Please what, pretty slut?” He smirks, lets his foot trail along the inside of the man’s thighs. He can feel the muscle underneath his arch. It makes his spine shiver. Powerful. A vision of his lips between them goes through his brain and suddenly the world is orange fire bright.
“Please let me suck you.” Dark eyelashes flutter and neither of them can hold in a moan as the words settle thickly in the air.
“Gods you’re beautiful when you beg.” He mumbles before removing the last layer of cloth between them.
Hunt licks his lips, eyes laser focused on the cock that springs free from its fabric confines. There is already precome beading the tip, and the blue veins that bulge slightly only throb harder. He feels everything like pinprick pleasure. Everywhere, overwhelming, so full of it he could turn it into infinity. He is blush-pink with it.
“Please,” His coworker mutters, halfway to incoherent, slurring on his own anticipation.
With a deep breath, a final kiss, a brush against a sharp cheek, he guides Hunt’s head forward and over his lap.
The first lick nearly kills him.
Heat envelops his sensitive cock, takes over until he’s squeezing his desire enough to suffocate it. Fenrys will not explode, he will melt.
Hunt takes the head into his mouth, and the air becomes unbreathable. He feels a tongue swirl over his slit but before he can react to it he is taken almost to the hilt. The cry he lets loose could make wolves bow.
“Fuck baby,” The tears in his eyes are products of his engulfing pleasure. As crimson beautiful as the tie binding wandering hands. His grip in that dark hair tightens, loosens, cards through as he is taken again and again.
Hunt moans when Fenrys snaps his hips up, a moment of control lost. The vibrations are his near undoing, but he needs to be in this hot wet mouth a little longer. He looks down to see the impression of his cock in the overworked throat and he cannot help but drag his fingers over the column. Another moan travels straight up his spine.
Hunt pulls back and the obscene sight of spit connecting his dick to those plump lips makes Fenrys want to scream. He bites down on his bottom lip instead.
“What’s wrong, my pretty?”
“Please Fen,” The man is breathless, “Please untie my hands. I want to—”
He smiles, waits patiently for the words he knows are coming. He can feel the deny on his tongue, sticky and sweet.
“I want to touch you.”
“Maybe you should have thought of that before you decided to get bold.”
“Please,” The begging is almost too much. He won't last much longer; he’s surprised he’s lasted even this long.
“No.” He smiles. And then he pulls Hunt down and those lips wrap around him once more, and he is drowning in the ecstasy, the heat.
This time Fenrys is not gentle. He thrusts upwards, chasing his own pleasure. That tortuous mouth is a sleeve and his cock is happy to fill it.
His coworker kneels there, tears rolling down his cheeks as his face is fucked. Moans vibrate between them, making him curse, making him snap harder. The pornographic sounds of his balls hitting Hunt’s chin, of the wet noises as he pulls back, pushes in, is his ultimate undoing. He sees brown eyes looking up at him and he lets go.
Hunt milks him for everything he’s worth. Sucking and slurping every drop, swallowing like he is born for it. Even after, when there is nothing left, that tongue is still lapping. Around his cock, on the head, tonguing at his slit, over his balls. He wants to push him away, sensitive beyond what he can bear. He doesn’t have the energy. He is sage green sated.
“You like my cock, little slut?”
The man nods around him, looking unwilling to server any part of their connection just yet. It gives him an idea, one Hunt gleans from his eyes because he moans filthily and all the spent nerves in Fenrys’ body relight, spark tenfold.
“Want to be my cockwarmer, baby?” He bends down; the movement pushes him further into that wet mouth.
Hunt whimpers, gurgles around the intrusion.
“Can you tap once for yes, two for no or stop?” He murmurs, lips brushing the man’s ear as he undoes the tie.
As soon as his wrists are free, Hunt lays his hands on Fenrys thighs, taps once.
“Well done, pretty boy.” He mindlessly rubs soothing circles over the red marks on that brown skin, trying to ease the sting of bound hands. The sight before him is almost dreamlike. A very wet, very faraway dream.
“If you’re a good little cocksleeve, i’ll fuck you right here on this desk after i’ve finished working.” His words have a visceral reaction on the man, who shifts before him, hips grinding forward as if to find the relief he so desperately needs. “Would you like that, baby?”
A single tap on his leg.
Fenrys’ cock is only half hard as it sits on Hunt’s tongue. He can feel the mind-numbing heat, the eagerness of a throat swallowing again, again, again. He knows he could ask his coworker to suck him into painful hardness again, but he likes the picture they make. The cock and his sleeve. Michaelangelo would be proud.
With a gentle kiss to a sweaty forehead Fenrys picks up his report, rests his foot against the pulsing erection below him, and gets back to work. He is ocean blue content.
He was wrong about his bothersome co-worker. Hunt Athalar, as it turns out, is a well behaved slut indeed. In unrelated news: he needs a new desk.
Manon wakes up to darkness. She can feel a soft body, breathing gently, at her back and the itchy scrape of grass on her legs. They must have fallen asleep after their midday meal. Rubbing the late afternoon grogginess out of her eyes, she attempts to wake her beast up by gently stroking his belly. Abraxos purrs, snuggling deeper into himself and wrapping the protective wing around her tighter.
"Oh you big baby," She grumbles, and then pokes him in the side with a sharp iron nail. It's not enough to hurt, just to startle.
He wakes up with a yelp, growling at her. His own claws pierce the ground, as if to say 'I've also got some and I'm not afraid to use it'.
"I did try to wake you up gently," She raises a brow, "Don't look at me all betrayed."
He responds by huffing and unfurling his wing.
The world is bright, brighter than she would have expected at this time. The realization that summer is fast approaching the continent is not a welcome one. She prefers the cool nights and snowed terrain. But nonetheless the setting sun is beautiful, a tapestry of gold and red and purple. Her heart clenches ever so slightly at the thought that Asterin would have loved it, would have probably made them stop training or whatever they were doing and appreciate the glowing world.
She doesn't have time to think on it any further because Abraxos let's out a low growl, one she can feel through the ground. He's on guard. Someone's here.
Immediately her iron nails flick out, her teeth slicing at her gums as they protrude. Her wyvern bristles his wings, spikes catching broken shards of light, and stares unmoving at the cluster of trees before them.
She slips into a predators state, as lethal and terrifying as the beast beside her.
"Come out, come out, wherever you are?" Her voice is all witch, all killer.
There's a rustling, she takes a step closer. A branch cracks, Abraxos snarls. A string of curse words bounce around the forest, she frowns. And then a girl, as small as Elide, stumbles out, hopping on one foot, her bow tucked over her shoulder haphazardly.
There is a strange smell coming from her, like human... mostly. But under it, power. So much power. And it is ever changing. Like a river’s course. Abraxos smells it too because he sniffs curiously and starts padding towards the stranger.
They don't notice, too busy attending to their injured foot, which seems to be bleeding if the gods-awful stench of exposed blood is anything to go by.
The wyvern is right by their head, and he takes a long sniff, as if burying his nose in his precious flowers.
The girl screeches, falling onto the ground with a painful thud. The beast takes the chance to pounce, shoving his admittedly large, obviously lethal maw toward her much smaller, much softer body.
Manon can see the fear in her eyes.
"Can you call your monster off?" They stammer.
Abraxos takes the opportunity to open his mouth, as if to eat her whole. She watches the theatrics in amusement.
The girl, braver now, attempts to wriggle her way out, already reaching for her bow, which had been flung to the side when she fell.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Manon attempts to hide the feral grin threatening her lips.
"Then what exactly do you suggest I do?" The girl snaps.
She shrugs, as if she couldn't care less what the outcome of this little kerfuffle is, "Either your worst or your best."
The girl opens her mouth, blue eyes flaring with anger.
Manon releases her smile, "Although I suggest not doing your worst. He has very sharp teeth."
"Well I wasn't going to do that." She growls, "But thanks for the advice." She starts wiggling again, trying and failing, to remove herself from under a wyvern the size of a small village.
Abraxos pays no mind as he continues to explore this strange new person and their even stranger scent.
"What are you?"
"Excuse me?" The disbelief in their voice makes Manon laugh— an unusual rusty sound, but welcome all the same.
"You do not smell fully human," She frowns, moving slightly closer, "That is why he is sniffing you."
"I was born human but got turned fae when I died." She says it as if it's a question she's answered a million times. "Will you tell him to get off!" There is no patience in her expression. "My leg hurts and I need to make sure I'm not going to bleed out."
The witch makes a show of surveying her. "You're not."
And just when the girl looks like she's about to explode, eyes blazing, cheeks red as blood rubies, Manon strokes a hand down Abraxos' wing and mutters a command in his ear.
With a final whiff he shakes out his body and takes off to the skies.
"If it was that easy why didn't you do it in the first place?" She sits up, huffing.
"Since I no longer kill men for entertainment I've needed to find it elsewhere."
The glare she is given is enough to melt the Terassen snow. But a wince follows the heated expression and it tugs at something in Manon she hasn't felt in decades.
Crouching down she takes the girls leg in her arms and surveys the damage.
"What do you think you're doing?" She attempts to pull it back but the witch looks up, gold eyes narrowing.
Manon knows she didn't bring any supplies, this intending to be an afternoon trip only, so she resigns to tearing off strips of her undergarments hidden under her riding leathers to keep out the stubborn cold.
"What is your name?"
The girl is quiet for a beat, and Manon thinks she'd going to be stubborn about this too. But then she looks up and there's a curious look in those blue eyes.
"Feyre."
"Manon." She rips the linen. "Do you have water? Or better yet ale?"
The frown is back, and it is effort to stifle her laugh. "I was out hunting, I don't drink." She dumps some water over her leg, watching rivulets of blood flow down the skin and onto the ground.
"What were you hunting for?"
"Information."
Manon hums, tying the cloth around the cut. "Did you find it?"
The girl's— Feyre's skin is smooth, and cold to the touch.
"I found you," She says it as if she hasn't quite decided if that's worth something or not, "And your beast." She shudders.
"He is a wyvern."
"He is nosy."
The witch laughs at that, and it surprises her enough that she laughs harder. And when she looks to Feyre, expecting to see a scowl, she is pleasantly surprised with a soft, half smile. It makes her look so completely different. It makes her look beautiful.
A screech from above ricochets them back to reality, and they are stumbling to their feet, awkwardness and curiosity and embarrassment already pulling them to opposite sides of the clearing.
Abraxos lands with a soft thud, and proceeds to hunch down, as if waiting for Manon to get on.
"My stead demands we're off." She rolls her eyes.
"Thank you," Feyre gestures to her leg.
"I hope you find what you're looking for." She climbs on the wyvern.
Those blue eyes chase something untamable, as she picks up her bow and stares directly at her. "I think I already have."
Feyre disappears into the forest. And all Manon can think is maybe she’s found what she was looking for too.
Okay since it's exactly a week till the first fic will go up I can finally announce the little valentines challenge I've been planning all secretly and stuff!
Things to note:
Each fic was based around a dialogue prompt I found on this post (thank you to @nishlicious-01 for choosing random numbers and to OP for the prompts!)
The characters are from all three of SJM's series so please be aware of spoilers for Throne Of Glass, ACOTAR, and Crescent City. I'll try to put a spoiler tag if I think it's especially spoiler-y.
There will be content and/or trigger warnings at the start of each fic should they apply. Please heed them.
Some will be canon-compliant (and by this I just mean in the canon world, what happens in canon isn't necessarily applicable) and some wont be.
This series will be posted to my Tumblr as well as my AO3.
There will be one fic posted everyday from the 4th to the 14th of February
This has honestly been so much fun and I hope you guys love it as much as I do!
If you want to be added to the tag list let me know. All my channels of communication are open.
I don't expect this challenge to gain much attention or traction since it's only crackships and the SJM Fandom aren't big on that but if you do happen to stumble upon it and enjoy please leave a comment! It makes me eternally happy.
Ships featured in order of day (I took this list directly from the crackship post I made a while back):
Day 2: “Because I know when I open my eyes this will all turn out to be a dream and I’ll lose you again.”
masterlist; my links
non descript
CW: grief
They say you can always figure out if you're dreaming or not by looking for certain signs. 1. you can't read. 2. Faces are usually blurry or distorted or unlike their own in some way. 3. You may have trouble counting or telling time.
Rowan Whitethorn is not dreaming. But he wants to be. Gods, he needs to be. Maybe then seeing the face of his fiancé wouldn't hurt so much. But he can see the clock flashing 03:09 and he can make out all the beautiful, intricate features of Ruhn Danaan's face and he can read the poster above their bed that says "never on time, but I'm always there when you call." A gift, and a promise to each other. One they had kept for seven years, and one he had hoped to keep for seventy more.
"Baby I need you to say something," That soft, rasping voice pierces all the darkened corners of his heart.
He continues to look at the scene before him, unmoving, unblinking, as if his body is not his own.
Ruhn reaches out, blue eyes shining with unshed tears, and cups his cheek. The gesture is so familiar Rowan can't help but whimper, leaning into that warmth like it is the only tether keeping him to this world.
The male before him let's out a tangled breath, relief floating on the wings of the early morning.
"Please my love," Ruhn tries again, "Say something. Say anything."
His eyes shift to the black hair, still as silky and choppy as it was three months ago. "It's gotten longer." His fingers reach up to play with the strands, weaving through it.
"I—" His fiancé chokes, pain like drowning sirens flashing behind his eyes. "I didn't have a chance to cut it. Even my undercut has grown too long."
Rowan sits further up in bed, losing the gentle warmth of the hand on his face, but gaining the advantage of seeing everything a little more clearly. The curtains billow softly, leaking in the last dregs of moonlight. The trees outside the window scrape against the wooden paneling of the house, and it is a comfort to hear such a familiar sound. It is almost a substitute for the rushing river they'd once lived by. One he may still live by if he weren't such a coward, if he hadn't run away.
"Why are you not at home?"
"This is my home."
A sharp inhale sounds like a gunshot in his ears. "Why did you leave?"
He turns his attention away from the window and pins his green gaze directly on that heartbroken face.
"I couldn't stay, I couldn't bear to. Not without you."
Ruhn collapses onto the bed, head falling into his hands, sobs wracking his shoulders.
"I'm sorry. I'm—I'm sorry."
Rowan looks away, torn between wanting to go to him and wanting to curl into a ball and wish away the pain hurtling in his chest.
"I told you I'd come back for you. No matter what." The voice is small, but it is full of conviction. "I told you I'd be there when you called."
"I didn't realize you could come back from the dead to honour your promise."
"I'd come back from hell to honour us."
"Why are you saying these things?" It is an explosion, a tornado of anger and pain and endless heartache.
"Because they are true!" They are volatile in their anguish. "Because we did not die and die and die again just to leave each other." Blue eyes fracture like weak ice.
"Why do you not believe me?"
“Because I know when I open my eyes this will all turn out to be a dream and I’ll lose you again.”
His fiancé bows over as the words strike every chord in his crippling heart.
"Come here." He holds his arms open. If they only have this time, he would rather spend it holding the male that carried his body across a battle field, and carried his heart across time itself.
Ruhn crawls into his arms, head resting in the crook of his neck. Their heartbeats match and something inside Rowan crumples.
"I love you." His fiancé whispers.
Rowan Whitethorn runs a fading hand through that beautiful black hair and whispers the words back, over and over again. Like a beating drum. Like an echo. Like the start of forever.
And then he closes his eyes, and sleeps at last.
***
Ruhn Danaan wakes up to an empty bed and sheets wrapping around his legs, like a noose. He looks at the poster above him.
never on time but I'm always there when you call.
A stray tear dares to escape. He swipes it away with enough burning anger to start a fire, and stands up. His feet feel the cool tiles of the bedroom floor.
With a deep breath, smelling of pine and snow, he starts another day without Rowan Whitethorn.
