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mmvalentine · 2 years

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Pomegranate pt 9 | Feysand

Hades/ Persephone inspired AU. Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8

Epilogue. I'm sorry it took so long, my life got a bit messy.

It's four months later and Rhys is more surprised than anyone that he hasn't turned up in the Spring Court, invite or no.

This is not to say he has stayed away entirely; on numerous occassions he has prowled the borderline like a fox, sniffing the edges and huffing at wildflowers that blow over the line. But Feyre told him not to visit and Rhys is well aware that he would obey this woman's command into death and beyond.

And so he stays away, ruling the Night Court with cold efficiency by day and climbing the walls of his suddenly empty bedroom by night. By the time she is due to return, Rhys is pacing the throne room with claws that refuse to retract.

He is not the only one.

Although Feyre was not in the Night Court for a long time, it is not only his personal affection that moves him to share his throne. She has thrived in his court better than he could have hoped for, and others have missed her, too. News of the High Lady's anticipated return has spread, and the hall is full of tittering courtiers. Although her title has not been made official, Azriel says there are many who are certain they can win Feyre over to their court now that it has been at least offered.

When Feyre walks through the doors, Rhys can barely see her for the way the crowd swallows her up.

But he can hear her mind, floating above the hum of her audience's, and while he would not hurry her while she touches the hands of the fae who adore her, he does make sure she can hear him, too.

Hello Feyre darling, he says. At first she is distracted by the thickness of the throng. But the deep, rolling growl that slides through the mass and laps at her feet is hard to ignore. It tugs her forward, and although she can't see him, she can feel his eyes. You have been away... far too long.

Rhys tries to keep the thought light, but somehow the clench of his jaw is audible even though it never leaves his lips.

A single season, that's all, Feyre replies mildly. But he can hear her heartbeat falter as his shadows, able to drift through the tightly packed bodies the way he isn't, curl around her ankles and weave themselves between her fingers.

A Winter, Rhys muses.

A Spring, Feyre counters. But the growl gets louder, and begins to drown out the voices around her.

Come here, Rhys snarls, so I can remove that word from your mouth myself.

Spring is in my soul, Rhys, Feyre tells him. She is now only steps away from the dais. As the Night is in yours.

Open me up, Rhys says. In mine there is only you.

She is now searching for him in earnest, abandoning attempts to smile at the fae who have come to greet her in her growing desparation to see the High Lord.

I might just, Feyre says. If only I could find you.

I've always been right here, Rhys murmurs. Beckoning-distance, wherever you are.

Then appear, lover.

I'll ask a kiss in return.

And you shall get one.

And just as she's turned to the left and is in the process of turning to the right, Feyre finds Rhys standing right in front of her. He does not appear to have moved but she has to stop short, suddenly pulling up so she doesn't smack her forehead into his chest.

"Oh," she says, and when she looks up all she can see is violet.

"I'll take that kiss now," Rhys mumbles, and before she can think to respond his hands are cupping her face and his fingers are gentle but his mouth is hard. He is not careful, lets his teeth clash against hers and his tongue get rough in its devouring. Feyre makes a small whimper, and Rhys's hands tighten about her, one cradling her skull and the other spreading over the small of her back. Feyre's knees buckle slightly, but she doesn't go anywhere because Rhys is holding her so tightly to him.

There's a slight sigh that whispers below Feyre's ear, and then Rhys steps her back and instead of bodies Feyre hits the edge of their bed. The sudden slience of their room rushes in to fill the space where the courtiers' voices used to be, and she does not consider what they might think of their High Lord and Lady's sudden winnowing. Does not think of much at all, save for the journey of Rhys's hands from her ankles to her calves, from her calves to the undersides of her thighs, from her thighs around to the front of her hips. His fingers make quick work of the lacing on her dress, though hers shake on his buttons and by the time she is naked he has only dropped his jacket on the floor. Feyre mewls in frustration and in a flash of a talon, shreds the front of his shirt. Rhys laughs in his throat, and lifts her arms above her head.

He lets his weight press her into the mattress, and the feeling of his naked chest on hers is like being whole.

"Don't ever leave me again," Rhys groans, moving his lips down the column of her throat.

"I can't promise you that," Feyre gasps. "You know I can't."

"Then lie to me."

"Don't make me."

"Then kiss me."

Rhys moves back up and catches her lips with his.

Feyre pushes at his trousers and this time he helps her. Discards the remains of his shirt and hitches her calf to his hip. Her legs hug him into her and suddenly her skin is fire. She burns him everywhere and it's divine. She arches her back up toward him, seeking more contact where their bare torsos kiss and wanting to climb inside his skin. His stomach is velvet. His hips are sublime.

Rhys takes her hands, fingers tangled in his, and places them around his neck. She tightens her grip while his own arms slide under her shoulders, hugging her to him. He's so hard it almost hurts.

"I missed you," Rhys whispers, breath in the shell of her ear. He flexes his hips and they both shudder at the realisation of how wet she is already.

"I'm home now," she tells him. He shifts down just slightly and then he's pushing into her. She's so tight after all these months. But her heels dig into his backside, pulling him in more, and more, and more. Rhys breathes hard against her neck, and groans low and long as he reaches his hilt.

"And now I am," he murmurs hoarsely, and Feyre can't reply because he's started to move inside her.

There's very little said the rest of the evening.

In the weeks and months to come, Feyre will spend time with the Night Court fae, both with and without Rhys. There will be a ceremony when she officially becomes High Lady, where absolutely everyone is invited and the crowd spills out into the streets of Velaris and the music plays into the early hours of the morning. There will be a wedding that is the opposite, with the inner circle standing in a solemn line in the snow, witnessing vows for their ears only. There will be raucous days where Feyre shrieks as she runs and Rhys roars as he chases her, and Feyre will think that she has never felt so free as when she is screaming full pelt through the mountainside. She will stop so suddenly that Rhys crashes into her, and she laughs and laughs as she is bowled over by her warm, golden, snarling lover. And there will be days where they sit side by side on twin thrones, and knees bow before them.

But for now, there is only skin to skin, and mind to mind, and heart to heart. There is only blood rushing through veins just beneath the surface of their limbs, and the weight of Rhys between Feyre's legs, and the pulse of Feyre's throat between Rhys's teeth. There is only climb, climax, breathing, and climb again. There is only the two of them in the whole world and for now, that is all they need know.

****

The End.

Thank you to everyone who has stuck it out for this one, after part 8 all this shit was happening and I haven't felt like writing at all. But I am not one to leave things unfinished, so I hope you like this little ending. I miss you guys.

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @whythefuckdoiexist @inejsarrow @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @philosophorumaurum02 @story-scribbler @allthecolorsneverseen @asteria-of-mars @fandomstalker27 @realbookloverproblems @dealfea @s-tormwitch @cretaceous-therapod @whenyadoesntcutit @scatterbrainedgirl @tanvee1231 @endlessdaydream @rhysandslove

#feysand #feysand fic #acotar #mine

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kitmon · 4 years

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Keys Are Under the Mat {1/?}

Llewyn Davis x OC

Summary: Struggling singer/songwriter, Llewyn Davis, has faced the rough and tumble world of the music industry as well as the callous hand of life. When an up-and-coming folk singer makes a trip back home and finds herself at the hands of the battered down couch-surfer, her first thought is to offer him a bit of compassion.

Warnings: Cursing, mentions of sexual activity

“Hold me, while I cry into your coat

Tie the rope round my throat, why don't ya?

Did you even read the note I wrote ya?

Boy, you're my antido-o-o-o-ote

Baby, it's only you I dote"

Her delicate fingers danced along the strings of her amaranth-colored acoustic. It was a fairly new guitar, given to her by a rather close colleague. She used to play at the Gaslight Café exclusively in the late fifties, not because she particularly liked that venue, more so because they were the only ones who gave a fraction of a fuck about her shitty guitar with a few broken strings and a makeshift capo that was made in the bathroom 10 minutes before a show using a sharpie and a rubber band. The crowd was always friendly; never hostile or awkward, just... supportive which was always appreciated on her part. Having people enjoy or at least pretend to enjoy her music was comforting at the time. As of right now, she was only visiting for old times sake, nostalgia purposes.

The new guitar was a testament to the amount of shit she'd been through. I mean signing a record deal is a pretty big deal, right? Having people know your name and buy your album. I mean, she was no Bob Dylan but she'd get stopped in the street from time to time which was unquestionably a step up from the loogies and cat-calls sent her way. Even now, her appearance at the usually humdrum populated café has drawn more attention than anticipated. The seats were all taken and the rather small building held far more people than the fire marshal recommended, but what a turn-out it was.

The audience hummed the chorus, cautious to not tune out her newfangled voice as it continued, nonchalant as ever as if there were only a few unamused patrons sitting in the crowd, but there wasn't. The populace of Greenwich Village loved her. She made a shit-hole like Greenwich something for people to keep their eyes on. And she didn't disappoint.

Her eyes remained lowered as she rather curled into herself and let the song end with a guttural reverberation. There was a silence as her eyelids lifted marginally, letting out a few pants of air to recover. Then an uproar, a surge in applause! She glanced up and flashed a charming smile, one that only showed the top row of teeth and caused her childish eyes to crinkle as she let out a giggle, concealing her laughter from the large array of eyes with her dainty hands. She adjusted herself and lifted a hand to reach the microphone.

"Thank you, you guys are a lovely audience, much nicer than Queens," the crowd let out a dispersed chuckle at her humor and she smiled again at their enthusiasm. She loved this, the feeling of having immense support. It made her feel... alive, to say the least.

"Okay, I'll be back in 20, take it easy while I'm gone." She waved off the crowd, unfurling herself from her guitar strap and handed the instrument to the stagehand, thanking the man afterward. She smoothed out any puckers or creases found in her dress as she stepped down from the stage, heading towards Pappi and another bystander, one who looked as if he'd been sleeping on the floor for days. Poor sucker looked as if he didn't even own a winter coat.

Pappi's arms extended out towards her, inviting her into his embrace. "You did great, kid," her eyes brightened at the compliment as she wrapped her arms around his torso and pressed her rosy cheek flush against his chest. The action should have been far more intimate than the two adults interpreted it, and most others would have perceived it that way as well. In fact, most familiars thought Pappi was fucking her most of the time.

Which he wasn't and neither one had ever considered it. Just business partners with an intimate brother-sister bond. Nothing more, Nothing less. The taller man, gripped her by her upper arms to gaze at her, with a gentleness, "Really, gave em a show."

"Aw thanks, Pappi, but I've got to admit that I'd still be singing songs on my back porch if it weren't for this dump." She jested, her hands hanging from her hips. Pappi let out a deep chuckle which was softened by her one-off laugh that wasn't exactly delicate or poised but was attractive in an unorthodox sense. The banter played out until somebody approached Pappi and tugged at the sleeve of his button-up to get his attention. She looked with furrowed brows and a curious expression as the man whispered in Pappi's ear with what appeared to be urgency. Pappi muttered a quick swear under his breath, and looked up at her with an apologetic frown and the same knitted brows she once wore.

"Sorry, kid. There's a few thugs out back making a mess," he patted her on the arm and told her he'd be right back after taking care of the 'mess'. Her head bobbed in understanding as her eyes watched as Pappi followed the man outback and into the fray. Her stare lingered on the door, but it was the serendipitous turn of her head that allowed her to acknowledge the ragged man sitting at the bar. His eyes fixated on the golden hue of the whiskey in his glass. She was almost certain he hadn't moved an inch since she came over, only stayed staring at the same glass of whiskey for at least five minutes. God, he looked like hell. His coat was hanging on by a thread, quite literally. Holes in miscellaneous places, unruly hair that looked like it hasn't been combed in days, shoes that looked soaked by the snow just outdoors and a runny nose that looked like the result of an oncoming cold. His wardrobe fitting flawlessly against the backdrop of the monochromatic greys and tans that made up the scene of New York in the Sixties. He looked familiar, she was sure of that. It was likely he'd played a few gigs at the Gaslight, same as her. Then again there were dozens of scruffy looking musicians who sidled into the Gaslight to perform, this one was hardly any different.

She sucked in a breath through her nose and ambled towards him, "So, you a friend of Pappi's?" Her elbows supported her weight against the hardwood bar, her fingers interlaced with each other as she peered down into the swirling rings of the once tall-standing oak. It took him a bit longer to register that she was speaking to him, "Oh, um, yeah, I guess..." His hand slipping up towards his face to rub at the skin, waking him up. His hooded eyes look over to her and away from that untouched glass of whiskey. Her laugh startled him, unexpected as it was. Her giggle was an unfamiliar sound. It shattered through the blaring car horns outside, the chatter of the audience, even threw the bullshit that spewed out of the radio sitting on the counter across from them. He just stared at her, unaware of just how ignorant someone would have to be to notice all the shit that's taking place everywhere around them and still have something to laugh about. It was selfish, but who wasn't these days. Everyone wanted others to be as devoid of joy as they were. Of course, there were a few stragglers who managed to keep a pep in their step and a smile on their faces. Those are the ones who get broken. They break down so quickly in a place that loses hope quicker than a bucket with gunshots loses water. But, she wasn't ignorant, and he knew this. She just decided to not take anybody's shit. And when nobody gives a fuck whether your dreams are accomplished or not, you learn to say fuck off right back. I guess that's what separates the losers from the winners. Her demeanor and the way she carried herself, with the balloon-sleeves and ruffled collar of her dress shirt, the way it was neatly tucked into her pinafore, it gave the impression that she was... incapable. But she was ten times more capable than almost everyone in that Café.

"If you don't mind me asking," she lifted her hand to wave down a bartender, not making eye contact with him until she knew someone was coming to attend to her request. "Got a name?" Her bright brown eyes locked with the gray and muddied irises of his own and it ignited a raft in his brain, making him adjust his position in self-consciousness.

"Um, yeah. Llewyn,"

Llewyn, Llewyn... she's heard that name before. She takes a sip from her glass of red wine the bartender had passed to her not to long ago. She takes a sip and contemplates why that name sounds so familiar.

"... Llewyn... Davis?"

It had slipped from her lips before she could even register it. And it surprised him, far more that she knew who he was. He couldn't remember meeting her or introducing himself to her before but then again, he was a performer. Not a very popular or reputable one mind you, but a performer none the less. She'd probably seen him at the Gaslight once before or something.

"Uh..., yeah... Hey, how'd you, um?"

"Oh, um I think I might own one of your albums. Inside Llewyn Davis, right?" The mention of his less than successful solo artist debut was a bit upsetting but he just dismissed it and looked away. "Yup... that's the one." His voice sounded disappointed and beaten but who could blame him. Chasing a dream so far that it only leads you to a dead-end can be frustrating.

"You know, I really enjoyed it," she mused, much to his disbelief but it must have only been out of politeness. "That makes one of us," he mutters, his frown dropping a millimeter or so. She couldn't decipher what he was referring to, but she could tell that whatever it was, it had sucked the rest of his joy and drive out of him. The business will do that to you, take a starry-eyed kid and promise them a dream only to drop them on their ass and tell them they'll never be more than a stand-in gig for a bunch of nobodies.

"I really loved the song— oh, how'd it go?" She pondered, the way her thick eyebrows scrunched up in concentration giving her the wonders of a child. The same way her determination to prove the potential the album had was childish. But it was the truth, she did enjoy the album and even recommended it to a few friends back when she bought it, now it just sits in a blue milk crate next to her record player, collecting dust. He gazed at her expectantly waiting to hear her utter at least a single lyric from his album.

"Oh!" She snaps her fingers in triumph, startling Llewyn once more. "It goes," and she readied her voice with a clearing of her throat and sang what she could remember. "Hang me, oh hang me, I'll be dead and gone," his eyes widened a bit at the surprise of her actually acknowledging his music, and the fact that she enjoyed it, no less. "Hang me, oh hang me, I'll be dead and gone," the lilt in her voice echoed through the Café and a few patrons stopped their chatter to cherish her sweet voice. The silence stuck around for a beat and her eyes fluttered open after her display.

"Yeah, that's it!" Her outburst wasn't expected and nearly knocked Llewyn out of his seat for about the fifth time.

"Yeah," he muttered, letting his eyes linger on her form a moment longer than he'd like to admit, brows furrowed in thinking. "Whad'ya say your name was again?" He questioned, curiosity getting the better of him. And there was that damn giggle again, opening his eyes to a whole new world of possibilities where you can giggle and laugh about things without having to feel sorry about the lack of a difference it makes. She answers and it's just nothing special but at the same time it feels like... a novelty. "Dorothy.”

#inside llewyn davis #llewyn davis x reader #llewyn davis #poe #poe dameron #dameron #oscar isaac #fanfic #fanfiction #writing #llewyn davis x oc #oc #original character

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kaylichun · 5 years

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Since why my other submission hasn't been able to be featured here another Odasaku. You get to become the bride for PM! Kay. Since she’ll never be seen with a true future with him..

You are a hard worker with the heritage strength of your past father. Passing his life lessons as a widowing peasant, his past task of gathering wood for fires in the next winter arriving soon. He left the world leaving his trusty aging ax and joined the followings of afterlife with your mother. You had given few offering for his passage, just the way you sent your mother forgo. The cold bearings and bare trees, leaving you with better time cutting them.

After the sun became dawning, it was time to head back. Threading carefully through the woods.

Your eyes wander through, as your eyes targeted a crane through the dead bramble. The crane flustered it’s pure white feathers, it’s size could tell you it was a male. A bird of his kind would be gone from the winter, yet he was still ensnared and forgotten by a local trapper.

You sigh, pitying the poor creature. As you crept closer to the majestic creature. You started to noticed more, supernatural details upon the crane. His feathers weren’t just pure white, but glowing in a beautiful hue of the blue. The skies of freedom in the clear day and his eyes were reflective into my soul. Weighing self judgement and wavering hesitation when he finally saw me in sight. He was still trying badly to remove it as blood dribbled in budded rate. Knowing such little time I could spare, I quicken my approach. Bending down in removing the trap. The crane watched diligently, it didn’t refuse you in it’s struggle.

It took awhile, finally being able to release the crane. The wound was bleeding out, leaving you to your own mind of using your handkerchief and tying it around the crane’s wound. This was the best you could have done, if your mother was still alive she could have taught you the ways of herbalist.

You couldn��t help feeling the torn sorrow and reminisce, as you watch the crane spreads his wings and fly. Your handkerchief keeping the cast of death to the bird on his way to find his flock again. Someday you’ll be free from your internalized suffering and reunite with your parents.

You returned home, ate dinner the best you could and finishing bundling firewood to prepare your next day at the market place. A knock on your door echoed in your home. Standing up from your cushion, you walked to the door. It was a lot colder now as the snow covered the ground claiming territory. You were met with a man in a beautiful kimono, aging wisdom for eyes and his hair claiming the childhood fall of leaves red. You were left in awe and embarrassment as a chuckle emitted from his adam apple throat. You couldn’t bear to see him with the flustering look coloring your face clearly. Losing your words to speak, uttering nothing to the man leaving a awkward tension. His tall figure nearly scared you, until he charmed you with his voice, leading you to fully look up at him.

“I’m sorry to bother you Miss.”

“I am Oda Sakunosuke, a man looking for shelter.”

“I was wondering if it were possible for you to let me live here.”

“I would pay you, if you were worried about surviving the cruel winters.” He showed his currency to her as poof, enforcing that he was truthful throughout the conversation.

“Ah, Of course.”

“I’m sorry, please come inside!” You bowed, as you scattered out to set up the room.

Years had past you had been successfully swayed by the strange and beautiful man. He was so warm, comforting and helpful in your life. He was more of housewife, handling the cooking and cleaning. You however couldn’t have been able to having no mother figure to bless you. You couldn’t help but adore the gods more with such fate of blessing you a husband like he was. The married life was blissful to the both of you. The moments of bittersweet love, the shared between the two was memorable. He had dreams to write swaying stories, but expenses have not been expressed the same way he had lulled you in ease in his arms.

“I truly am eternalized, Oda.”

“I love the voice that’s bringing me to peace.”

“Your touch is soothing.” Taking his hand into their own, as they plushed a small kiss upon his knuckles.

“Thank you.” He softly smiles.

“I am surely happy for you to be with me.” Using his free hand to brush their hair way to press a soft kiss onto their forehead before falling to sleep in the same futon.

You were falling, you were noticing so much when you were around him. You your chest burn, coughing your lungs and heart out. Blood. Blood. Blood, your hands shake, as Oda held you in his arms. He was anguished in worry, you could almost cry. He wasn’t going to let you suffer and he wasn’t ready to let you go..

After he tucked you in, he spared no extent but to sell his words onto scrolls and selling them in the market place in hopes to find medicine and treatment. He had used his feather to write and enchant his luck in words. It worked to extent, gathering many fans buying many copies of his work. He was happy to the extent it was getting money, but it wasn’t enough to soothe you from the brink of death.

His hands were rough and blistering, his mind was blocked from originality it had breathed. He felt like crying seeking that he could not reach.

“Would you still love me if I could not be able to speak to you sweetly, as before?” His voice drained, rough and sore from breathing life into his stories.

You did not hesitate to take his hands in their own, cold and paling hands.

“But of course.” You smiled weaken by the illness that struck you months ago, before coughing blood again. You were the muse that kept him going as he kept writing and selling them to see you alive once more.

“Would you still love me if I wasn’t truly human?” That was the seed of doubt in his core, he wasn’t the human you loved and married for eternity. It was supposed to be another man, the man who trapped him there and sullied to death. He was the crane who was sent to die in solitude, until you found him after few years being condemned to mourn for dead children who died under his wings. You saved him, but with no home to turn way he went you. You let him live.

You let him breath the same space enclosed with him. You made him fall deeper in love and guilt. The guilt that he could not join you, the purity you had to be so free to be himself.

Here he was crying, his hands broke out in pain as you hugged him from behind.

“Of course I would love you wings and all.”

“I remember you as the crane who flew so beautifully into the sky.”

You whispered softly, as they both cried and bared their hearts.

“I’m sorry.”

#bungou stray dogs #bsd #bungou stray dogs oc #alternate universe #au #odasaku sakunosuke #insert #oc mentioned in author’s note #reader #readerinsert #so #crane #husband #spinoff for anyone who reads it i hope you enjoy it

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