#rhysian

day 6: song association

it's no surprise that I use music a lot when I'm writing. especially when im writing violence or smut so allocating songs to different ships was not a difficult task. there would be more if tumblr didn't have an audio clip limit of 10. but I hope y'all enjoy what is essentially a mini playlist

@sjmcrackshipweek

[image has alt text]

Manon x Aelin: genghis khan by miike snow

Fenrys x Hunt: there's no way by lauv and julia michaels

Bryce x Aelin: as you need by alex aiono

Rowan x Lorcan: chicken tendies by clinton kane

Fenrys x Lorcan x Rowan: love back (piano version) by gabrielle aplin

Fenrys x Asterin: breathless by shayne ward

Aedion x Azriel: if I could by brynn cartelli

Rhysand x Dorian: serotonin by santino le saint and cruz cafuné

Rhysand x Rowan: secondhand heart by ben haenow and kelly clarkson

Rowan x Dorian: wild by john legend and gary clark jr.

for Cass (@firebirdofscythia): to crackships

listen to "Serotonin" by Santino Le Saint and Cruz Cafuné for full vibes (highly recommend)

CW: smut

This contains explicit sexual content and is not intended for persons under the age of 18. Discretion is advised.

"Dorian baby please," Rhysand breathes, shatters, begs.

"Are you giving up, my love?" That beautiful grin is so deadly. Rhysand feels his heart stop, start, change rhythm.

"Please," His head thrashers, silk catching on either side of him. Lips brush his skin, they're everywhere, they're on him like angel dust. Soaking into his body, lighting him on fire. "Please." His face is wet. It's tears, it's prayer, it's sin, it's "Please baby, please."

"But you look so pretty like this," Dorian sighs softly. There is so much hunger buried in that throat. Fingers, cool and gentle graze his ribs, his hip, his cock. He wants to scream. He whimpers.

"Look at you," It's the voice of a lover, but a king all the same.

Rhysand turns his head towards the mirror, gilded and larger than he has the vision to take in. His dark skin is glowing against the satin white of the sheets underneath him. His hands, veined and bunched in the fabric, act as the anchor to his undoing. His hair, inkier than his soul spills across his face, longer than he usually likes it. And there, lying on his right, casual hands, ghost and real, trailing over his skin is his king. Dorian looks ethereal, Dorian looks ungodly. Pale skin, hair blacker than his, and eyes blue enough to turn water into ice. They are violent in their beauty.

"What do you see, my love?" Fingers wrap around his cock, stroke up, down, so slowly its almost painful.

His vision blurs, becomes soft shapes and uneven colour. He can't see anything, he wants to say. The words are smothered by a moan.

"Do you see how beautiful you are? How you spread before me? So compliant—" Two long fingers find their way into his mouth. He sucks hard, he sucks filthy. "So ready to be devoured." And with that Dorian opens his mouth, and takes the whole of Rhysand down his pretty throat.

masterlist; my links

canon-compliant

CW: blood, torture

Rhysand lands on the roof of the apartment building, tucking his wings in behind him. The city is dying down, midnight stars peeking through the sky, and making the world glitter. His favourite time of the night, and to think once he gets his butt moving he'll be seeing his favourite person. With a final glance he descends the stairs and to his apartment. The hallways are quiet, not unusual for this time of the night, but something about the silence pierces at his senses.

He stops outside the door, the number 892 steely in the cold light of the corridor.

Something is wrong.

His skin grows tight, power already welling in a tidal wave of anger, fear.

Something is wrong.

The battle is coming, it shakes in the ground.

Our hopes and ambitions, soon will be drowned

By the blood that will spill on snow laden ground

If a child screams in silence, is there a sound?

Please, we’re not fighters,

And we’re not heroes.

Carve out your heart, carve out your lungs

The trumpet has blasted, the song is sung

The pure of soul are all on the run

The age of peace is over and done

But we are the fighters

And we are the heroes

Give up your soul, give up your mind

For battle is coming, and now is the time

We’ve lost our voice, the world’s a mime

We wish we could say we’re biding our time

So God save the fighters

Maybe someday I’ll finish some of these WiPs.

Rhysian at whatever counts for 30!

— trixalla

 One. Two. Three. The blunted blade made a dull thud every time it contacted the worn, thick padding of the dummy. One. Two. Three. Sweat poured down his face, his neck, shoulders, back. One. Two. Three. Muscles protested. Eyes stung. One. His heart hammered. Two. His lungs burned. Three. His arms hurt.

 "That's enough!" Metal on metal. Taken off guard, his sword spun from his sweaty grip. The ex-sailor turned on her, and for a brief moment, there was malice in his gaze.

 "Ain' fuckin' never fuckin' 'nough!" He shot back, hands fisting at his sides, gaze defiant. "Fuckin' ain't n'fuckin' thin' I can e're fuckin' do that feels like it's fuckin' enough. I can't do it, Rhea. I can't fuckin' do it. Y'were ri'fuckin'WRON' 'bout me. Ain't SHIT I can fuckin' do. Ain't SHIT I'm worth."

A dark brow lofted and the magistrix lifted her blade, the dull tip pressed to his throat. "You're wrong. Pick it up."A tense moment passed before the redhead stepped past her to his blade, lifting it from the ground. "You are strong." She struck for him the moment he had the blade lifted. He parried. "You are capable." She swung again, and he met her.

"'n 'm three times older'n th'rest've th'damn class!" Their weapons clashed.

 "So you've got a late start! We're long-lived enough, and you're powerful enough. All it takes is time-" thrust, "patience," -parry " and dedication!" She managed to twist the blade from his hand, the point of her practice sword again touching his throat, a clean 'kill'.

 They stared at each other, down that blade. "'n jus' what'm I s'pose' t'do now?" He demanded, at a loss. The pain and self doubt were written all over his face. She lowered the blade, instead touching his unshaved cheek with her palm.

 "Marry me," she whispered softly.