#You could at the dark shadow to light coloured I used

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 15

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I became suddenly ill about three days ago and my brain is still quite mushy so I think this has been proofread but there might be some errors here and there I’ll try to iron out once I’m better!! Sorry for any scruples and I hope you enjoy!! 🧡💛

warnings: angst, general depression, violence (self-attempted)

word count: 16,175

——————————————————————————————————————————————

Azriel catches her eye from across the room, weary hazel locking with bright amber that swirls in the faelight of the living room.

His tension is more palpable than usual, the conversation from yesterday with the golden-eyed male only further contributing to the death knell gonging quietly at the back of his mind, creaking through his knees, echoing in each footstep—each breath he takes. Time seems to be dripping by faster, even more so than usual. In the cobwebbed chambers of his mind he’s able to recall a time where days were his chosen measurement, where a twenty-four hour period contained beginning, middle, and end. But as he’d grown older, those chunks had grown with him, his perception of time shifting the more of it he lived through. Soon enough weeks were his days, calculating how much could be done over the period, sleep a small break to be indulged in between work. Then it had shifted to months—twelve to fit everything into, nights morphing into short naps.

Now years feel like days once had, time no longer a steady drip of water from the roof of a dark cell ceiling where he’d been kept locked away from the light, but a steady trickle as it carves its way through stone.

Shadows conceal his absence from the laughter-filled room, removing himself from the uncomfortably bright corner to a place of familiarity, shifting into the darker hallways as he sighs, feet positioned instinctively equidistant, weight spread evenly, fearing one lapse in discipline might bring him back to those days where he knew nothing of fighting, nothing of how to defend himself. To those days where he had to learn relentlessly, practice until his body couldn’t move in desperate attempts to cover the ground he’d lost years to.

Mor enters into the darkness, coming from the yellow-orange light that’s spilling into the blue-purple hallway, heels effortlessly silent upon the floorboards as her nocturnal eyes seek him out. Her features are already serious, easily picking up on his mood despite his efforts to conceal it. The depths of it, at least.

“Az?” Mor asks quietly, expression curious but solemn.

“She’s gone,” he murmurs shortly. Mor’s eyes flash with alarm at the revelation, before her brows tuck together. “What do you mean she’s gone? Where?”

“I don’t know,” he admits grimly. “I paid a visit to one of her friends afternoon yesterday, but he refused to answer anything.”

“What do you mean, she’s gone, Az?” Mor hisses, disbelief sharpening her muffled tone. Azriel grinds his jaw, but relents—this is more important. “I mean, she isn’t at the House of Wind. She left a note saying she would be at Bas’, and would be back but she wasn’t. When I went to get her, she wasn’t there either,” he summarises, expression sombre.

“What else?” Mor asks sternly, the brightness about her having faded faster than a flame extinguished. Azriel licks his lips, bracing himself, before explaining: she has magic but it’s been giving her trouble, she’d wanted to try using it without anyone else knowing and he’d let her, Elain’s vision prophesying his death at her hand.

To Mor’s credit, her features don’t drain entirely of colour, and it takes her no more than a few seconds of heavy silence for her to muster up a response. “What magic?” Mor asks first, keeping her tone quiet but clipped, judgement clear enough she doesn’t need to voice it. And Azriel won’t address it, either. “Her hands could glow a little around the fingertips. We didn’t know what it did, though.”

“And the trouble?”

“It dried her skin out, among other things.” Mor’s lips part, eyes closing briefly as she sighs. “The gloves.” Azriel doesn’t need to provide confirmation for her to have connected the dots.

But then her eyes open, slowly sliding to his, an edge of viciousness underlying their amber cut, one he withstands reluctantly. Mor swallows, jaw tense, watching him. “How long have you known about this?” She asks, lethally softly. Not how long has she had magic, how long has he known. And not told them. “About a fortnight.”

Mor’s eyes gleam with hostility, and his features become stony, walls raising up as she watches him silently. Judgement falling heavy on his shoulders. “Why tell me now?” She asks shortly. She isn’t chewing him out, nor is she outwardly rancorous. Not good a good sign. “Bas won’t tell me where she is,” he replies neutrally, Mor’s eyes flaring as she puts it together. “You want me to ask him.” Azriel nods, despite her already knowing.

She glances at him reproachfully, another look he withstands passively, and then she’s turning sharply on her heel, making back toward the light, back toward the laughter. Silent as a shadow, Azriel catches her upper arm, having to exert surprising force to keep her still. “Where are you going?” He asks coldly.

“Where do you think?” She counters sharply.

“They have enough on their plates,” Azriel mutters. As if on queue, Nyx’s laugher giggles through the halls, a stark contrast to the gloom lurking just beyond the light’s end. Mor snatches her arm away. “You have enough on your plate,” she says lowly, eyes glinting as they cut through him, “we could have made room. You should have told us.” But Azriel stands his ground, not giving an inch. “It was the right call.”

“You have no idea where she is,” Mor counters. “No idea where she is, or what state she might be in. What makes you think that was the right call?”

“You’re questioning my judgement?”

“Yes, I’m fucking questioning your judgement,” she hisses back lowly.

“She told me she didn’t want any of you to know,” he counters coldly, “she’s reclusive anyway, suddenly outing her wouldn’t have done anything helpful.”

The wording seems to strike something in Mor, ire banking, eyes shuttering briefly, before she’s gritting her jaw again. “You should have told us.”

“She barely managed to tell me,” Azriel states, “Elain didn’t even know until the vision that her sister had magic.”

“You know you should have told us.”

“And betrayed her trust when she chose to tell me?” Azriel asks cooly. “You didn’t see how scared she was.”

“Maybe she wasn’t scared of us finding out but of speaking with you.”

Azriel blinks, the only sign of his falter he’ll allow, caught off guard by the accusation. She’s never shown any fear of him before… “She has no reason to be scared of me.” He says finally.

A look of frustration flits through Mor’s amber eyes. “She’s young. This is probably the first time she’s experiencing strong feelings toward someone else,” she says lowly, “surely you can remember what that’s like.” Azriel bristles at the pointed look, the insulting comparison between his past love for Mor and the affection being unwelcomely pushed his way. “She’s infatuated. It happens,” he replies tersely, not taking kindly to the manipulation. “And she went through the war too—she isn’t that unaware. You’re doing her a disservice.”

“The disservice here is you not affording her the care she needs—to the point she’s chosen to run away,” Mor practically spits.

Terse silence stretches between them, sour and resentful.

“We aren’t going to come to an agreement,” Azriel says at last, tone clipped, but both of them know it’s better to move on for now. They can fight it out later, once things are resolved and taken care of. “You speak to Bas first, then we can find out who she’s gone to. She could be anywhere in the Night Court, knowing him.”

“We tell Rhys and Feyre first,” Mor demands lowly. But Azriel shakes his head, “if you want to be the one to tell Feyre her sister is missing and we don’t know where she is, be my guest.”

Silence stretches further, growing tauter by the second, until Mor sighs sharply. “Fine,” she grits out. “Bas first.”

Azriel nods, making to turn around, heading for the door.

“But you are telling Feyre,” Mor hisses lowly. “Whether we find out or not. Tonight.”

Azriel pauses, jaw tightening. But gives a sharp nod.

————

Once again he slinks back to the male’s house, the bright sun lost to winter’s oncoming grip, dark clouds shielding the stars from view.

Despite the silence between them, he can feel Mor’s judgement pressing into him, but he has no time to argue or persuade. After the…discussion, with the male the other day, he’d needed time to plan, regroup his thoughts. Time. Seemingly so sparse, as of late. He could afford little more than twenty-four hours of inaction before a decision would have to be made—he hadn’t come this far by sitting around aimlessly when faced with a hard choice. It seemed the only reasonably way forward would be to acquiesce to the male’s demand, as much as Azriel despised so. It was the smarter option.

The other would have been to lay hands on him, and no matter how urgent the matter was, the male was still a civilian, and untrained for war, at that. Violence was entirely out of the question.

He knocks thrice on the door, sharp and punctuated hits to alert the male of company, before stepping back to allow space for Mor.

Gleaming golden eyes pierce out into the darkness, and Azriel knows he doesn’t miss the hint of smugness in their gilded depths as he marks the presence of another, as he’d requested. To verify his claim that there were indeed urgent matters afoot. Azriel refuses to show even a hint of irritation, keeping his face cold and passive—Bas won’t get the satisfaction of seeing him riled. He’d have to work much harder for that.

“You’re back late,” Bas drawls from the warm glow of his house, once again leaning cockily against the broad wooden frame, ankles crossed, one foot keeping the door held to—away from prying eyes. “And you’ve brought company,” he muses, glancing to Mor at his side. The female steps forward, the yellowy-orange light from inside making her glow as she offers a tight smile. “Bas, correct?” Golden eyes sweep over her analytically, before he nods, shifting slightly. “Mor,” he acknowledges, “she mentioned you, too.” No signs of surprise mar her open expression, kept sealed beneath that deceptive mask she can wear to charm at any time.

“That’s why we came to see you, actually,” Mor begins calmly, straightforward. “I’m of the understanding you know her whereabouts, but are unwilling to disclose them for various reasons.”

“That’s right,” he replies slowly, expression shifting to something more wary. His provocative nature shying away from perceived earnestness. “She doesn’t want any visitors.”

Mor nods her head gently, understanding shimmering faintly in amber eyes, threads of her hair catching the golden glow of inner light, glinting with the motion. “I can understand that, but this is very important,” she says sincerely, worry shining in her face Azriel know she doesn’t have to fake. Still the male remains cautious in the doorway. “Azriel wasn’t lying when he told you this conflicts with Court matters,” Mor begins slowly, and the shadowsinger tamps down on the urge to glance at her warily. Though he knows she won’t reveal anything, there’s no need to offer scraps. “I’m afraid there’s little I can honestly tell you due to their private nature, but nonetheless I would like to speak with you about her. She is a part of our family, and we are deeply concerned about her. I’m sure you can understand our worry.”

Quiet pauses long enough to take a deep breath, before resuming to its consistent noise.

Eventually, Bas nods his head, standing straighter. A grain of tension is released from his shoulders as the male opens his door, yielding to a conversation. He makes to step forward, but sharp golden eyes flick to him, piercing and accusing in their nature. “I’ll speak with Mor, and Mor alone,” he states clearly, an edge of provocation creeping back into his features, though the Shadowsinger doubts its sincerity.

But Mor nods her head, “that’s fine,” she answers, brushing past his side, pulling the cold night air with her, a whisper of icy breath grazing his side as she moves forward, leaving him out in the dark. “Don’t move from here until we’re done,” Mor instructs from over her shoulder once Bas has disappeared from the entrance hall. Azriel nods, understanding the implication.

Listen in from outside.

————

The room she follows Bas into is cozy, well-kept. Clearly lived in.

The pillows of the sofas are slightly worn, slightly faded in colour, waned down to more earthy tones that compliment the pale terracotta of the walls. Fire crackles from the hearth, dried rosemary hung from the ceiling beams, as well as other dried herbs and plants. On the wall are some paintings, mostly stills, but they’re watery around their edges, faded colour bleeding over fine, distinct ink lines.

Bas takes a seat that seems to fit him comfortably, likely one he usually chooses, while Mor opts for one nearby, a quilt thrown over its back, squares of purple, blue, turquoise, and magenta knitted together, and she can make out small patches in the yarn where its been run thin and had to be darned with slightly mismatched thread.

“So,” Bas starts, quieter than she had expected, sitting forward in her chair, attentive. “You’re worried about her. Why?” It’s hard to conceal her frown at such a strange question, but she doesn’t really try to. She doubts she’ll get anywhere through masking her reactions. “She’s part of our family,” Mor replies, “why wouldn’t we be worried about her.” Bas settles deeper into his chair, hands braced on arms, head tilted back into the pillow as he watches her intently. It’s not an expression she’s unfamiliar with, but not one she had expected to encounter here—something wary and deeply protective.

“She doesn’t speak much about any of you,” he hedges slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. “But it’s enough. You aren’t as close knitted as family.” Mor opens her mouth to speak, but he continues. “Even if you try to be,” he says, nodding, “she isn’t easy to get to.” Mor closes her mouth, lips pursing in a tight line. He sighs, shifting in his seat, pushing a thick loc of hair from his face, hooking it over a thoroughly pierced ear. “I believe that you’re concerned about her, and that you truly want to help,” he says heavily, attitude shifted from how he’d been outside, and Mor wonders what Bas might have been told about the Shadowsinger to warrant such ice.

“We do,” she urges sincerely, and Bas nods again, hearing her.

“What I…worry about,” he starts hesitantly, forming the words carefully, considering each one. “I worry you don’t understand her enough to make an informed call,” he settles on, and Mor bristles a little. How long has Bas known her for? Does he know her more than Mor does? “What leads you to that way of thinking?” She asks, keeping the stiffness from her tone.

“I know you don’t see her much,” he replies simply, and again Mor’s lips purse. “She doesn’t enjoy…full, settings. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, though.” He sighs, eyes briefly closing, before reopening with a fresh intensity, sitting upright in his chair, forearms braced on his thighs. “Do you know how we met? Me and her?”

Mor’s brow dips, but she answers anyway, curious where he’s going with this. “Through Nesta, right?” Bas nods, something passing through his eyes at the right answer. “Right,” he confirms, “making time to visit those stuffy inns, filled with groping hands—she hates places like that.” Bas sighs again, hand rubbing one side of his face. “I don’t even know if it helped at all, but I know she felt it was all she could do. Even if it was just company, and nothing material. Even if it might not’ve had an overall impact, that was her way of trying to help.”

Mor remains quiet, not seeing what he’s trying to say.

Bas shakes his head, as if telling her to forget about it, again rubbing a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t even know if I can speak on her behalf, and I like to think we’re fairly close with one another,” he admits, sighing heavily. “I don’t want to mislead you.”

“So you’ll let me where she’s gone?” Mor asks, concern heavy in her voice, making no effort to conceal her worry. She watches as the pads of his fingers rub over his eyes wearily, as she wonders if this is straining on him more than he’s letting on. “Try to understand her, when she talks,” he requests quietly, eyes still shut, fingers rubbing faintly. “She still confuses me sometimes, and she never shows if it bothers her, but I can’t imagine someone being okay with being misunderstood.”

“Bas,” Mor urges gently, sensing he’s on the verge of telling her whereabouts. “Please tell us where she’s gone. We don’t want her to feel alone.”

Bas doesn’t look up, face still covered by his hands, but Mor can make out the tightness of his brows, torn between his decisions. So close to cracking open.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

Mor blinks, eyes locking with gold as he looks at her through his fingers, fatigue obvious beneath his gaze, the lines more pronounced as the flame casts the shadows of his digits across his features, deepening the half circles that have appeared.

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Mor asks, biting down on shock, clearing it entirely from her voice. “She didn’t tell me,” he answers quietly.

Silence stretches, and even in the haze and confusion that’s been stirred up she has enough clarity to feel the piercing weight of a glare through a window, heavy and accusing. Tension crackles in her spine, flipping her golden hair over a shoulder, a subtle message to piss off to the shadows that are watching from outside.

She sighs heavily, meeting the golden eyes of the male opposite her, now sat back in his chair as he was before, but his back is slumped, as if containing all that worry had been stretching him taut. Relieved to no longer be the sole barer of her secrets. “Do you—…” Mor eases in a sharp breath, settling the worry and gradually increasing panic that’s tightening around her throat. She swallows, pulling herself together. Recomposing herself. “Do you have any idea where she might have gone?” She asks calmly. “Anything could help.”

But Bas shakes his head, guilt clear in his golden eyes. “She didn’t give me any hints. But she had a bag with her, so I’m guessing she had somewhere in mind and didn’t just aimlessly wander off.”

Mor nods, getting to her feet, golden eyes tracking her movements. “Thank you for telling me,” she says sincerely, before turning for the door.

“I know that leaving in the middle of the night without telling anyone where you’re going seems rash—maybe even a bit stupid,” Bas says after her, voice a little clearer to catch her attention. “But she’s smart. I’d wager it was probably something she’d had in the back of her mind for a while.”

Mor swallows thickly, the possibility not sitting well with her, but nods nonetheless.

“I’ll let you know when we find her.”

————

Azriel waits sullenly in the front garden for Mor to exit the male’s house, darkening the doorstep he’d been instructed to remain in until she was done.

He watches the door open and close, Mor stepping out into the night air, latch clicking softly as it locks behind her, and the two make their way silently at first down the garden path, back into the street before they begin communicating. “That certainly didn’t take long,” he muses lowly, glancing at her sidelong. “I take it you heard everything?” She asks quietly, tension clear in the cold bite of her usually honeyed voice. Azriel gives a brisk nod, and Mor sighs. “What now?”

“There are only so many places she could have gone to,” Azriel replies smoothly, mind already running through the possibilities. Honestly, Bas not knowing almost helps more—it has to be someone she knows. There are only two places she could have possibly run off to, though neither of them seem particularly believable. That being thought, he knows where he’ll check first.

“You have an idea?” Mor asks tightly, a bit of a bite to her question. Azriel nods grimly, “Elain mentioned a fox in her vision,” he explains, “apparently they grow close—enough to make a bargain of some sort, anyway.”

“Elain saw the bargain in her vision?” Mor questions. Azriel nods. “We don’t know if that’s symbolism or not,” she mutters, “we have no idea how accurate they are, either. Nor how soon they’ll come to pass.” Her tone softens toward the end a little, but Azriel isn’t willing to speak about that part of the prophecy yet. That he will be dying. Probably soon, going off how vivid Elain’s descriptions were—as if it were urgent. Impending.

“And you’re sure Elain doesn’t know where she’s gone?” Mor asks, keeping her gaze ahead, brows pulled together in concentration, a glint in her warrior’s eyes. “She might do,” Azriel sighs, “they are close, after all. And the fox…”

“Could be Lucien,” Mor finishes heavily. “You think she’s run to the mortal lands. Back to her home.” Azriel remains silent, keeping pace as they return silently to the River House.

Piercing amber eyes dig into the side of his skull, the intensity of her attention almost startling if he hadn’t had centuries to grow accustomed to it. He senses the question, just as she could sense he was holding something back.

Azriel doesn’t look at her as he speaks, “there’s only one other person the fox might represent.”

Even without visuals, he can hear how her pace nearly falters, then comes to a stop. He pauses with her, at last turning to face the golden haired female. Her skin is paler, even taking the silver of the moon into account. “You think she might have gone to Eris?” She asks, voice thick, but quiet. No more than a breath of wind. “I think it’s one of the two. There’s no one else it could be.”

“She’s only met him once,” Mor snaps lowly, nails digging into her palms. Azriel makes a show of shrugging his shoulders nonchalantly. “It’s one or the other,” he says calmly, “if she isn’t in the Mortal lands…”

Mor stares at him, amber eyes drained a little. “You really think there’s a chance he could have…taken her?” She practically spits, unable to keep the hiss out of her voice. Because when it comes to that long ago trauma, her only responses to fall back on are fear, or anger. He doubt she’ll allow the vulnerability of fear right now. Not with the tension between them. “I think it’s better to question Elain first to see if she knows anything. If she doesn’t, I’ll make my way down Prythian.”

Mor blinks, realising the situation. She had demanded Azriel be the one to tell Feyre, regardless of whether they find anything or not. But with the new possibility of her having somehow found herself in the Autumn Court…Mor’s throat rolls heavily. She can’t bring herself to go there. Even now, the thought alone…she pushes against the urge to settle her palm over her abdomen. “We question Elain first,” she manages quietly, and Azriel can see how she’s gathering herself back together.

Instinct is the closest it comes to, that feeling she’s somehow run off to the Autumn Court, like a tug toward the unfamiliar land. Surely Elain would have mentioned something to him about a plan for her sister to leave when she’d been telling him about the vision. It’s the option that makes the most sense, for her to have spoken with Elain, and used a tunnel to reach the border quickly. With all the books she’s read in the library…the kind of things they contain, he doesn’t doubt she’d be more than capable of figuring a way to sneak out of the Night Court. To sneak out of Prythian if she set her mind to it.

Mor nods, and Azriel redirects his attention to the street, continuing the pace. “Question Elain,” she murmurs, “then head to Autumn first. If she isn’t there, go to the Lower Lands. Be as quick as possible.” He nods, admittedly relieved he won’t have to yet face Rhys for the mess he’s inadvertently caused.

————

“Eris, I’m tired,” you sigh, hands aching, sitting dejectedly on a tree stump.

As much as you’d protested, he’d dragged you back out into the forest, where everything feels encased in a glass bubble. It’s hard to explain when you think about it, but it’s like being in another world, how easily the trees sweep away and redirect noise. Hairs prickle at the back of your neck as you remember the giant, boar-like creature that had rampaged upon you mere days ago. The sight and smell of steaming blood as skin slid from flesh, melted apart.

“You haven’t even done anything,” he mutters, watching. “Get back up.”

You sigh heavily, reluctantly getting to your feet, then blinking heavily, suddenly crouching down as you press your palms to your eyes, trying to steady yourself from the abrupt dizziness that had ballooned into your head. Lips part as you try to concentrate on your breathing, wishing away the sudden feeling of unevenness beneath your feet. Eventually it passes, a few extra moments spent crouched for good measure, before you slowly stand back up, hand pressing to the side of your head. Cutting whiskey and amber eyes are piercing into you from across the clearing. You scowl back.

“What was that?” He asks, disapprovingly, your scowl deepening at the tone.

“I told you: I’m tired,” you snap, but it lacks the bite you’d wished for, fatigue building into a slow but heavy pulse inside your head, just above and behind your brows. A yawn rises from your chest, and you cover your mouth as it stretches you open, eyes squeezing shut, watering a little before you slump back into your usual posture, no longer pulled taut by your muscles.

His sharp eyes narrow accusingly, and you bristle at the look, trying to summon up the energy to glare at him. “Did you eat breakfast this morning?” He asks sharply, and you grimace, knowing he won’t approve of the answer. But you really don’t have the energy to lie, either. “No, I didn’t,” you sigh, “I was feel sick.” Something flickers behind his eyes, but it’s gone too quickly for you to even attempt to recognise. “You were probably feeling sick from hunger,” he mutters, as if it’s obvious, arms folding over his chest, leaning back against a tree. “Using magic can take up a lot of energy, even if it doesn’t feel like it. You should have—”

“I know the difference,” you hiss, lip twitching up in the beginnings of a snarl, before once again flattening out, and you sit back on the stump, uncaring if it pisses him off. You hope it does.

“Do you?” He muses, a bladed edge to his tone that has your stomach tightening, glancing at him warily from across the clearing. You tense as he pushes off from the tree, then vanishes, and you jump as he appears on your other side, peering down at you, unimpressed. “You know how to tell when your magic is draining you? Because those are some pretty big steps to have made seemingly overnight.” Your lips purse, averting your gaze, sullenly looking away. “That’s what I thought.”

“I know the difference between hungry sickness and—” you falter, but manage to finish the sentence, “…and being unwell.”

Eris pauses, and you want to meet his gaze and glare at him, but your head just feels too heavy on your shoulders, and the general fatigue hasn’t been aided by the light sheen of sweat that’s been layering your body each morning, before you’ve wobbly stumbled to the washroom, clutching your stomach. You’ve yet to actually regurgitate anything though—your one blessing. It’s like those initial months after the Cauldron all over again.

“Look at me,” he instructs, and you glare at the ground, irritation growing in your chest. It wouldn’t hurt him to be a little more gentle with his attitude. His demeanour, in general. A curse sits, unspoken, at the tip of your tongue when he grips your jaw, angling your chin upward so he can examine you. Again your lips twitch in a slight snarl, but the energy fails quickly. Amber eyes sweep over your features, and you avert your gaze when his own settle intensely on yours. He releases you after a too-long moment, allowing you your space again, and you glare at him. “What was that for?”

“You look worse than usual,” he answers flatly.

You glare at him resentfully, unable to muster up the laugh you usually would whenever he makes a comment like that. Instead you just feel irritated. His brows narrow further, “how much have you been sleeping recently?” He pushes. You shrug, briefly glancing away.

“A normal amount. I’m fine, just let me sit down, it’s not that big of an issue if I’m not standing, right?”

“Are you coming up for your cycle?”

The bones in your hands creak, groaning with strain and you hiss as pain flares weakly beneath your gloves at your fingertips. You tuck your hands under your arms, trying to soothe their sting as you glare at him. “Do not ask me that,” you snap, legs crossing on the tree stump. You half expect his lips to quirk at the easily given reaction, but his brow dips a little. “You don’t have to give me a direct answer,” he says at last, a touch gentler than before, but still stern. “Just answer if it could be related.”

You hesitate at the tone, jaw still tight with tension, but you swallow thickly. “No,” you manage quietly, “not for another few months, at least.”

“Then as much as you disagree, it would be a good idea to eat first, then see if you improve,” he replies, back to his usual drawl, laced with distaste. Enough to almost have your lips curving a little at their edges. “So we’ll be going back to have lunch right this second,” you muse, glancing up at him, “and you aren’t going to set some stupid challenge for me to fulfil beforehand. Right? Because that would be very impractical.”

His amber eyes glint with something you’ve decided is the closest he’ll get to open amusement, brow raising slightly. “Why waste a good motive?” He counters, “looks like you’re catching on.” You force a groan, if only in attempts to lighten the mood from whatever dark grave it had settled into, and you reluctantly get to your feet, taking it slow incase your head starts swimming again. “What is it this time?” Eris nods to the tree that looks to have been recently cut down, the counterpart to the trunk you’re sat upon. “I want you to try touching the bark,” he instructs, and you look at him quizzically. Seems easy enough.

You watch him questioningly as you stand and make your way over to the tree, putting your hands down.

“Done?” You say slowly, confusion blatant in the furrow of your brows as you stare at him.

Eris stares at you blankly, before raising his palm to cover the lower portion of his features, concealing his mouth. “Using your magic,” he adds disbelievingly, mouth still covered.

You blink, then flush with embarrassment, hand covering your own mouth as laughter bubbles up from your chest. “Oh,” you manage, shoulders shaking lightly, not helped by the matching amusement reflecting in his amber eyes—amusement he’s struggling to conceal. “I thought—” you break off, a smile stretching wide behind your palm, chest stuttering with mirth. “I thought you meant I just had to touch it.” He shakes his head, seemingly beyond speech. “You want to see how the bark reacts when I touch it with my magic,” you clarify, nodding your head, still trying to tamp down the laughter that’s heating your eyes faintly. He confirms with a slight nod of his head, and you take a deep breath, trying to sober up. “I see,” you nod again, at last recovered enough to lower your hands to remove your gloves, a smile still faintly curving your lips. “I’ll give it a go.”

“Why would I ask you to touch a tree?” Eris asks from somewhere at your back, tone almost settled back to his usual drawl, dripping of disapproval. “I’m tired,” you reply, not nearly as practiced as he is at keeping your tone neutral as you glance at him over your shoulder, “you should have clarified better.” Eris shakes his head, before nodding to the tree trunk.

You take in a breath, returning to look at the bark—what would happen if you touched it?

Closing your eyes briefly, you steady out your breaths, inhaling slow and deep, feeling your shoulders lose their tension before reopening your eyes. Focusing on the bark again now that you’re settled. “What should I do?” You ask, not taking your gaze from the tree or your hands.

“Try thinking about different things, exploring how they make you feel,” he replies steadily. How helpful, you think, but leave the comment unvoiced—you’re trying to concentrate. You think about how the light had appeared before, when he’d gotten you to briefly sustain it. It had hurt at first, you’d had the chance to realise, but after the initial rush of pain, the creak of bones and your groaning carpals, it had faded more into a slight tingle, like your fingers had fallen asleep, wrapped in a vague warmth.

You swallow thickly, thinking about the flat-topped ring in your pocket, the absence of weight in your ears, how they correlate. You don’t regret the decision to sell them off, to your slight surprise. More indifferent to the change, if not slightly excited at your choice. Doing something for yourself, on your own, that nobody knew about. It’s nice, having secrets.

“Now press them to the bark,” Eris instructs, and you look down in surprise to spot the faint greenish-gold glow weaving between your fingers—almost like fish slowly weaving throughout water as they struggle upstream, but less frenetic. Slowly, keeping your breathing steady, you press your palms against the bark, palms shaking slightly as the light flickers, almost flinching slightly as it hesitantly makes contact with the new surface.

You jerk away when something lances up your wrist, stinging pain spearing beneath your skin as the tang of copper bursts in the air. The magic extinguishes in an instant, snuffed out with a single recoiling thought, and your breathing loses its pattern as you glance down at your right palm. What looks like a popped blister sits on the heel of your hand, except the liquid that gleams had a red tint to it, mixed with blood. You sigh heavily, left hand holding your right wrist lightly, thumb pressing the flesh just below the blister, watching as blood rises to the surface. The skin around it is flakier than before, a little discoloured, and you spot a mole at the knuckle of your little finger, poking meekly out from the skin, as if worried over being spotted and pulled away.

Eris walks up to your side, glancing down at the bark, the absence of any sort of change. It looks exactly the same. “I guess nothing happened,” you hedge, glancing warily down at the tree, searching for some kind of change.

Eris is quiet, and you at last turn to peer up at him, wondering what he’s thinking. His silence is waring. Amber eyes latch with your own, narrowed and slightly impatient, before the emotion is swiftly wrapped away. “I had hoped to make more progress,” he muses lowly, and you regard him with caution at the hushed tone. His eyes gleam with something you can’t figure out, wariness intensifying as he pulls something from his pocket—a small silk pouch.

You tilt your head, brows furrowed, “what is that?”

His lips sharpen at the edges, and tension coils beneath your skin—that type of expression is never good. “Open it,” he instructs simply, and you cautiously take it from his fingers, eyeing him again before carefully pulling the strings open, tipping the contents out into your palm. You blink as you take in the smooth band of metal, silver and gleaming against the flaws of your skin. “A…ring?” You ask, peering up at him questioningly. He nods, and you suppress your jolt when his fingers brush over your knuckles, plucking the band up and watching you intently as he smoothly slides it down to the base of the pointer finger on your left hand.

His demeanour has noticeably shifted, and your brows narrow further, suspicion roiling in your gut.

“It’ll help with keeping your magic calmer,” he explains lowly, secretively, and you manage a nod, confusion running rampant in your blood stream. “How so?” You ask, glancing down at the band, his fingers still wrapped around your wrist to keep you from moving. “You have a habit of straining yourself to keep the full force of your power from coming out,” he answers, thumb brushing your knuckle, and this time you glare up at him. His mouth only sharpens, amber eyes glinting with something that has the hairs raising at the nape of your neck. “I’m sure you’re familiar with how the Illyrians use siphons—so their raw type of magic doesn’t destroy everything around them?” You nod, tension lessening, again glancing down to the band. “Think of it like that—now you don’t have to waste concentration on keeping it all in check.”

He releases your hand, and you pull it closer to look at the silver, angling your head a little, understanding this must have been what that exchange had been about, when he’d gone down that dim, dark alleyway into the hidden chamber. “So it’s…a magic ring?” You ask, brows scrunched together as you look up at him. He raises a brow, “how astute of you.” You glare, lips curving faintly at the familiar intonation.

You swallow, stepping back a little, nodding your head. “I guess…” you breathe deeply, “as good a time as any.” You pull the flat-topped ring from your own pocket, and extend it toward him. “I saw this the other day in the market,” you say honestly, watching as his expression shifts, brow raising as he opens his palm. “It reminded me of you a little, and I probably won’t see you over the solstice anyway, so might as well give it to you now.”

Eris takes the ring, examining it, the small carving of the fox set in sterling silver. “A rather unique gift,” he muses, making the edges of your mouth curve.

“If you hate it, you don’t have to wear it,” you say, smiling lightly, “I just wanted to get it.” Though to your surprise, he doesn’t seem to despise it, sliding it over the thumb of his right hand—it seems to actually fit.

That viper’s smile returns to his sharpened mouth, eyes glinting again. “I don’t think your family would approve of a gift like this,” he drawls, more clearly than before, causing you to cock your head in question.

Lips fashion themselves into a razor-sharp grin, the expression more vulpine than fae.

“Isn’t that right, Shadowsinger?”

————

Eris raises his gaze to the forest, how the trees had whispered to him, calling out about the figure stalking their movements. Really, the shadowsinger should know not to hunt outside his own territory. The hulking, shadowy figure steps silently out into the clearing, with a quiet that’s been well-earned by the Spymaster of the Night Court.

Powerful wings are pulled to his body in traditional Illyrian fashion, save for the darkness wreathing the gleaming talons at their peaks, cold hazel eyes clashing with Eris’ own. Marking what the Spymaster has come for. It’s proximity to the male he hates viciously, bloodily, gruesomely.

“Shouldn’t you know not to sneak around in the shadows by now?” Eris drawls, hands settling around its shoulders, feeling stone-tight tension beneath his palms. Its magic fading, unable to winnow two people away, so left trapped in the clearing as the male prowls closer.

“Eris,” the Spymaster greets coldly, darkness unspooling upon the ground he treads, coming to a stop at the edge of the clearing. Not close enough for hand-to-hand combat, but too nearby for a proper display of magic. At least he’s smart enough to recognise he’s at a disadvantage in a foreign court—uninvited, at that. “Shouldn’t you know the consequences of displacing a member of Rhys’ court?” The Spymaster questions, lethally quiet.

Tremors flutter beneath Eris’ hands, still gripping her shoulders to keep her in place, and he glances down, only to find her already watching him. If it weren’t for the tremors, she would be as still as death. Her brows lifted and slightly curved, mouth pointed down at the edges. Betrayal stark in her normally bright eyes.

“You’re clearly uninformed,” Eris muses, pulling away from her scared eyes to meet cutting hazel. “This is a perfectly amicable meeting, isn’t it, cygnet?”

The Spymaster’s canines flash at the pet-name, the blatant taunt, the insinuation he’s made that she would choose himself over the Spymaster. That well-concealed wrath suffers a blow when she raises her hands to grip his wrists, nothing demanding about the touch—it’s a weak hold. As if asking for attention.

“Amicable or not,” the Spymaster says, expression stony, “you’ll return her. Unless you want Rhys to know about this abduction?” Eris shrugs, amusement sharpening his mouth as he selects his words carefully, “I’m not her keeper. She will return when she likes.” By the looks of it, the arrow lands, pupils constricting as the Spymaster takes a menacing step closer.

————

Your ears have hollowed out, stomach swallowing your heart. A quiet kind of panic tightening through your chest, pulse spiking. Dread sluicing through the rope holding you taut.

You’re staring up at him, holding on with as much strength as you can manage as a strange emotion rushes through your blood, softening your muscles until you’re struggling to stand, pushing every pleading word you’ve ever read into your eyes, silently begging for him to do something. To keep you from facing him on your own.

You know how easy it is for him to shatter you.

Amber eyes lower to yours, walls risen against Azriel’s presence, and your fingers stutter over the cuffs of his tunic, before the last of your strength drains. They’re glinting again with that challenge, and in the very back of your mind you can understand he’s using this as just another training exercise, but it’s hard to focus on through the ringing in your ears, that strange quiet that’s so loud it drowns out every other thought, like a thousand whispers hissing instructions too swiftly, too viciously for you to make them out, coming together in a swirling spiral that’s pulling you under.

Eris’ mouth is moving, eyes peering at something behind you, but you’re fine not hearing. Would prefer to fade from the world, to slip away quietly, unnoticed and un-missed. But then amber again returns to you, and with it sound comes crashing in too. “Pack up,” Eris orders, and you blink, his hands tightening on your shoulders as he feels the slight sway of your body.

“She’ll take a while,” Eris drawls, glancing back at the Shadowsinger—your stomach lurches—who remains a heavy presence at your back. “You may be unwelcome, but let’s not waste this opportunity. Using your General’s absence as an excuse not to meet has lost its worth. You will suffice.”

————

You feel half-awake as you pack your things, watching from some far away place as you fold clothes meticulously, with much more care than you usually would, taking your time gathering the few items you brought.

Clothes, an empty blue box, the thickly bound volume. A thin wooden box about the length of your arm, a note attached atop.

Use it wisely.

You pack the box in your bag, recognising the elegant script.

————

Azriel had followed silently, concealed within Eris’s shadow as he’d strode through the stretching hallways, leading the way to his own chambers, where they will be able to speak freely and most importantly, privately. Tension had simmered beneath his war-roughened skin the entire time, disliking even having to blend his shadows with the heirling’s, but it’s an intimacy he’s forced to yield.

The room Eris takes him to is big, to say the least, and open, with a large bed against a wall, a wooden chest at its foot, his desk adjacent so natural light fills the cavernous room—one that’s above ground. It’s here he emerges from shadow, filling space just beside the large wooden chest, an unlit fire quite a way to his left. Eris takes his time walking around the desk, sitting down comfortably, having the nerve to look relaxed—prick.

“So,” Eris begins, and Azriel bites against the urge to grind his teeth at the smug tone. “She ran away from you. Took her long enough.”

“How long have you been planning this?” Azriel asks coldly, completing a triple check of the room, making sure there’s no one else around. “You act like it was my idea,” the autumn heir drawls, successfully snaring his attention, something foul rising at the back of his throat at the implication. Likely the confirmation he needs that she had indeed left of her own volition. A muscle ticks in his jaw.

“You want me to believe she came all this way on a hope that you’d provide temporary asylum?” Azriel asks, rooting deeper. “She has a smart head on her shoulders,” Eris drawls, amusement glinting in sharp, amber eyes, “she knows how to bargain.”

His blood ices over, skin turning cold at the wording, demeanour plunging as his shadows deepen. “You made a bargain with her?” Azriel growls, pulse spiking. If a bargain has already been made… But Eris waves his hand, enough of a light dismissal for Azriel to figure she hasn’t mentioned Elain’s vision to him. One small ray of light amongst the storming thunder clouds she’s already brought upon herself.

“Do you find it so unbelievable that she might be capable of making arrangements on her own? Why do you assume I had any hand in it?” Eris drawls, making that glittering rage sharpen into razor-tipped icicles, poised to carve and slice. “You’re a conniving bastard,” Azriel says lowly, violence glinting in his hazel eyes, “she wouldn’t have come to you without some prompting.”

“You think I tricked her?” Eris muses, a trace of humour in his tone, Azriel’s brows narrowing with detestation. “What would I get out of that, unless she was complicit? I have no way of forcing her magic out of her, she has to want that on her own—as much as that might irritate Rhys.”

Loathing simmers in Azriel’s chest, but he remains quiet, allowing Eris to talk so he can gather as much information as he can from both sides. So he can compare her side with his later.

“I’m sure after Nesta Archeron, Rhys would be eager to find out what other weapons he might have at his disposal.”

“She isn’t a weapon,” Azriel snarls lowly, fury held back by straining iron manacles.

“But she could become one,” Eris counters, tone shifting to something more serious, and Azriel stiffens. “The timing’s a bit strange, don’t you think? Her magic only now coming through? After two years?”

“That’s not for you to speculate on.”

“Even without an alliance, it is a matter of concern,” Eris growls, brows narrowing as ire blazes in his eyes, glowing like freshly forged steel. “Why doesn’t she know anything?”

Azriel growls in warning, violence itching at his fingers, fists aching to slam down. Sparks crackle in the air, his own intentions seemingly reflected in the male before him. “You don’t have the luxury to ignore this pathway,” Eris growls lowly, “choosing to turn a blind eye would be damning.”

“She has her own problems to deal with,” Azriel snarls lowly, “you do not get to make that call.”

“I will make the call if Rhys doesn’t,” Eris snarls back, canines flashing viciously, “she could use some toughening up.”

“You don’t know enough to make an informed choice,” Azriel mutters coldly.

“Then Rhys had better hurry up. It’s not as though he’s unaccustomed to having to make decisions like this. What’s taking him so long?”

Azriel keeps still, features neutral, refusing to let even a hint of emotion appear in his blank expression.

Eris’ eyes narrow, sensing he’s being denied information. Vulpine senses picking up on a weak spot. Unnervingly keen. Then he blinks, leaning back in his chair, torso losing tension. “You haven’t told him.” Despite the utter neutrality, Azriel knows he’s figured it out. The heirling nods, a cynical curve to his sharpened mouth. “She didn’t give the impression she’d willingly display her failures to you.”

“They aren’t failures,” Azriel mutters, ice burning in his eyes as he watches Eris with a glacial look.

“No? Because the control over her magic was pretty pathetic to me,” Eris replies lowly.

Azriel snarls, low and threatening, shadows concentrating into a darkness worthy of the Night Court’s Spymaster, deep and deadly as they writhe in warning. “I didn’t realise she had you so tightly wrapped around her flaky little finger,” Eris croons, and darkness rears back, preparing to strike, when three quiet taps are landed to the door, meagre and unimposing.

————

You peek your head into his chambers, bag slung over your shoulder as you pause on the threshold.

Tension is blatant in Azriel’s shoulders, wings slightly flared, an icy emotion tucked between the stern set of his brows, shadows darker—more frenetic—than they usually are. Looking over to Eris, you can see how he’s leaned back in his chair, that taunting glint in his naturally piercing gaze, and you can guess fairly easily the conversation they were having was not a friendly one—even without the aid of body language.

Maybe they were discussing Court matters.

“I—…Should I wait out—”

“Come in,” Eris orders, cutting you off, and your brows narrow a little at the tone, before softening out again, remembering who else is present. You shut the door behind yourself, turning your back to them to make sure it clicks shut quietly, then walking further into the room, stood a little distance from Azriel, not wanting to encroach on his space while he’s surely furious with you. At the very least immensely disappointed.

“Took you long enough,” Eris drawls, bringing your attention away from Azriel to meet his cutting gaze. Well, your eyes meet his. It’s practically impossible to not focus on the male at your right. You’re not sure if you're imagining the displeasure rippling from him, but you can only hope Eris hasn’t intentionally stirred things up. You know you won’t be able to protect yourself against whatever words he has for you after your abrupt departure.

“You haven’t left any tatters behind?” Eris asks, and a slight scowl dips your brows.

“I have everything,” you reply, readjusting the strap of the bag on your shoulder.

“Excellent. Then you can leave.”

You blink at the abrupt dismissal, glancing at him warily. “Weren’t you discussing something?” You ask Eris hesitantly, cautious about prodding where you aren’t welcome. “We were,” Eris replies, a viper’s smile on his sharp lips, amber eyes cutting to the male at your right. “But it appears your Spymaster doesn’t think you’re trustworthy enough.” It’s obviously a manipulation of truth, but that doesn’t make it easy to hear, heart hollowing out, spine losing a bit of rigidity.

“And who could blame him,” Eris continues, “you haven’t exactly been particularly honest with him, have you, cygnet?”

Your lips purse, averting your eyes from both of them, peering at the floorboards to your left, shame tightening around your throat. “Seems logical enough,” you say quietly, managing to keep your voice steady. You’d rather vanish right then and there, wiped clean from memory and existence than allow a tremor into your voice.

You’ve gotten yourself into this situation. Self-pity won’t fix anything.

“Then that is that,” Eris muses, pulling you from your thoughts. Azriel shifts, not saying another word to either of you as he makes for the door, and you glance at Eris a little longer, searching for a way back. He quirks a taunting brow, resting his jaw on his right hand, the flat-topped band of sterling silver catching the light with the motion. Your thumb brushes the ring on your own finger, before you turn, making for the door where Azriel’s waiting to take you back.

Back to the Night Court.

Back to Velaris.

Back to your family.

Back to be judged.

————

It was unnerving how alone you’d felt on the way out of the palace. Even knowing he was present, slipping through shadows, you couldn’t sense a single thing, and on more than one occasion had glanced around, worriedly trying to find him—but nothing.

It wasn’t until you passed the walls, heading out into the forest again that he emerged—silent and looming—unable to hear his footsteps even when he was right beside you. Unnervingly ghost-like.

You wait for him to speak, to say whatever it is that’ll inevitably bring tears to your skin, but he’s completely silent, leading the way. Knowing you’ll follow behind. Knowing you won’t speak to him until he initiates.

You’d been brought here by winnowing, but he makes no move to wrap either of you in his shadows, and a small part of you whispers that he wouldn’t want you to contaminate them. You try to ignore that part, but even the quietest voice will be heard over silence. Instead the tales spin deeper, that he hadn’t even wanted to retrieve you, content to have you out of the way, out of the Night Court, away from his home. At least that way there’d be no chance of his prophesied death coming to pass.

He’d be safe, and you wouldn’t be bothering him.

Wouldn’t be bothering any of them.

He walks deeper into the forest, silent and steadfast, while you watch as his boots tread through the fallen leaves, not daring to look any higher in case it disgusts him further. You have no concept of how long you follow after him for—long enough your feet begin to ache lightly, but you push through it—silently waiting for the conversation to start. For the first question to be asked. For the first blow to be landed.

Azriel doesn’t stop when you try to shift your bag to the other shoulder, your right one aching, and something in your stomach drops when your pace slows but his remains constant, so you hurriedly finish the switch, and make an effort to catch up, careful not to trip. Hunger gnaws at your bones, but you keep quiet, not wanting to interrupt his pace. It’s not until your stomach audibly protests that he comes to a pause, glancing over his shoulder to you, and you swiftly duck your head, averting your eyes from his painfully familiar hazel set. Breaths deepening as you come to a stop with him.

“When did you eat last?” He asks. The first words he’s said to you.

“Yesterday,” you answer quietly, pressure tight across your chest as you try to keep your breaths quiet but even. “Do you have food on you?” He asks. You nod. You’d wrapped up a pastry from breakfast, it being the only thing you’d be able to savour. Even years later, the habit of not wasting food still remains prominent.

His boots shift, turning to face forward as he begins walking again. You follow silently, seeing no point in nodding or replying. It’s not like you’re going to do anything else. “There’s a clearing up here. You can eat there.”

Azriel pauses beside a particularly large oak tree, and you swallow, and you habitually consider where the least offensive place to sit would be. So you’re nicely out of his way. The ground is muddy, so you’re forced to follow beside his footsteps to the oak, setting as silently as you can on one large branch that’s gnarled and shoved through the earth to curl into a large seat.

Your pulse spikes, wondering if this will be where you have the one-sided discussion, perching the bag on your legs, searching through for the little pastry. It’s made harder by your bare hands, how every piece of fabric seems to bite at your skin with each brush, piercing painfully as you search, until you spot the orange scarf, pulling it out to find the pastry wrapped in a napkin.

He doesn’t say anything, but you feel like you’re wasting time.

You peer at the pastry in your hands, not particularly keen on eating it. You’re close enough to nausea as is, and don’t want to tempt fate with giving your stomach something to regurgitate. But it would be weird to put it away now, so you’ll just have to take small bites. Hope that you can stomach it. A few minutes pass, but you’ve hardly made a noticeable dent in the food, guilt weighing on your bones, pausing between each mouthful to peer around the clearing dully.

Your fingers fumble a little when Azriel moves, settling on the root beside you, your muscles stitching themselves taut, and you hastily shift yourself tighter so he has his space. Almost dropping the pastry in your stuttering movements.

He’s quiet for a bit, and you swallow thickly, attempting to focus on the food before you so as not to stare, but internally you can feel the beats passing, heart ticking tighter…tighter…

“Why did you leave?” He asks quietly.

You still, able to feel the narrow wooden box digging into your thighs. Pausing as the tension abates a little, like how you imagine it would feel to watch an arrow loose from a bow, watching it arc in the sky, then slowly plummet down, seeking out its target. The breath that would breathe out in relief once it embedded itself in flesh, those few, stretching moments at last having come to an end, and one can relax into the clarity of the pain. The certainty of the wound.

“I wanted to get out,” you mumble thickly, keeping the shake from your voice.

“So you went to him?” Azriel asks. You head lowers a little in sorrow.

Where else were you supposed to go?

“You could have asked to be taken somewhere,” he says quietly, and guilt tightens itself around your throat. Is there any way to explain to him why you’d left when you hardly understand it yourself? It had been a crescendo of nerves, of bottled up worries tightening with pressure, like air being blown into a brown paper bag until it burst. Is there any way to tell him you’d like to be able to ask things of him, but in truth you’d rather be slowly pulled apart by pressure than worry him with pointless tasks that only serve your benefit? How can you ever hope to speak with him honestly, when your very heart seems to be the thing warning you away—that same heart that wants to press into him, to beg and cry for forgiveness and reassurance.

“At least have the decency to answer,” he says quietly when you don’t respond, and you feel the small tremor that shudders up your throat, fearing the oncoming disaster. “I wanted to go on my own,” you get out, words softer than a whisper.

He’s quiet, and you wonder if that’s the end of the discussion for now.

But, “did you think at all about what the consequences would be from going to him?” He asks, gaze ahead, but attention pressing down on you. “Or did you forget you have people around you, that your actions impact.”

Your grip loosens on the pastry, choosing to wrap it back up in the napkin, fingers shaking slightly. A lump rising in your throat.

“Answer,” he murmurs, promptingly.

“I just wanted to go,” you whisper hoarsely, fingers wringing together. “I thought—… I thought it would be better if I was fur—… If I was gone.”

“Are you going to tell Mor where you went?” He questions softly. “Or did you not think about that part either?”

“I made progress,” you try, raising your gaze to his. “I can summon it, if I concentrate.”

His lips remain unmoving, but his eyes…gods, his eyes. You betrayed her, you know. All of them.

Breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away. Unable to face him. It. Any of it.

“Why is it so bad?” You ask quietly. “All I did was leave for a little under a week. I was trying to get better.”

“Stop. Lying,” he mutters lowly, blood freezing in your veins, fingers wringing together. Silence ticks by, and you wonder if he can hear the humiliatingly loud pulse of your heart, erratic and stumbling as it usually does around him. You don’t think he’s ever so obviously shown what he’s thinking, how he’s feeling.

Why is this the first way you see it?

Why is this the first time he allows it?

“Just tell me what you want,” you ask quietly, voice faltering as you stare at him helplessly. “You’re never happy with anything I do,” you manage, trembling with growing turmoil, “so please, just tell me what you want, and put me out of my misery.”

He exhales harshly, leaning back into the trunk, lips tugged down at the corners, reproach tucked between his brows, so rarely softened by charm anymore. At least not while you’re around. Almost never when you’re around.

“I don’t feel I should have to tell you how you fucked up here,” he replies lowly, and you push back on the flinch at the crude wording. “You made a bad choice.”

“Imagine how much worse the others were,” you reply lowly, a hint of resentment—not directed at him—present in your tone. He stiffens at your side, then his gaze slides slowly over to you, lethal and condemning, but it’s like you can’t look away. You physically can’t duck your head, or shy away. “You’re really joking at a time like this?”

You meet his eyes fully, presently, taking him in against the darkening sky, winter sun already on the way out for the day, the chill more than prominent, but you don’t dare reach for the scarf in your bag. “Tell me what you want,” you repeat softly, no louder than a last breath on dying lips.

“I want you to be honest,” he replies, brows narrowing, “for once, apparently.”

“About what?”

“Why you went to him.” He nearly spits, unable to entirely keep his ire at bay, something passing behind his eyes.

You’re quiet. Silent.

Then you lean back into the trunk of the tree, head tilting back into the rough bark, hands settling numbly in your lap. Shoulders slope, and you peer up into the grey sky, gloomy and heavy with unshed tears. Thick and thunderous. Fitting for the storm that’s on its way.

“Please don’t be angry,” you whisper, hardly a breath from your lips, a prayer whisked away by the static air. He’s silent, and your throat closes up. “Azriel,” your murmur, swallowing thickly. “Please.”

Moments tick by, stretching and warping as your heart thumps heavily in your chest, utterly bewitched, utterly at his mercy. It’s exhausting.

He sighs, and you try not to stiffen as he glances over to you, feeling that familiar prickle of skin as lovely hazel settles on you. A few warm rays making it through the dim clouds before being frozen off by the icy breeze. Winter’s most definitely on its way.

“I won’t be angry,” he murmurs softly. “Just…talk to me. Like you used to.”

Your arms fold over your chest, closing in on yourself, feet pressing together as you hunch over the bag in your lap, peering at the muddy ground. The smell of parchment rises from your memories, dusty and familiar, but lacking the warmth of nostalgia. Like the bitterness of a tea left to steep for too long, so it dries out your throat, eyes watering from its ticklish bite.

“I couldn’t do it on my own,” you admit quietly. Fingers brushing your knuckles. Raw and flaky.

The thoughts swirl in the back of your mind, ready to roar and rage, becoming so loud they’re deafening, suddenly cutting quiet so fast you have no desire to understand what it means when the waters draw back. What it means when the sea itself shrinks away, leaving a barren and washed-up beach.

“But, the idea of trying in front of you…any of you…and then falling flat at such a small hurdle…” You look to your left, away from him, pulling tighter into yourself. Can anything good come of this kind of honestly? With him?

“I don’t have much anymore, Azriel,” you breathe lowly, struggling silently with the humiliating vulnerability. How bare you are, just waiting for steel to pierce your skin. Like tossing yourself over a cliff and hoping the jagged rocks far below will soften your fall.

“I just wanted to keep my dignity. The scraps left of it after…what happened…”

Your toes curl in your shoes, feet crossed, feeling as though your heart is trying to cave in on itself, swallowed by a vacuum suctioning you back down with the force of a flooded spring river.

“So it was better to fail in front of Eris?”

“But I don’t owe him success,” you argue uselessly, eyes squeezing shut in attempts to keep the tears at bay as your head falls into your hands. “I don’t—…I don’t owe him anything.”

“You don’t owe us anything either,” he replies.

“I owe my entire life to you,” you nearly hiss, spine curving in as your brows cramp together, jaw wound so tight you feel like a tooth might crack beneath the intense pressure, nails pressing into the soft skin of your brow.

“Feyre was the one who saved the three of you,” he reminds quietly, slowly, but you’re shaking your head. Staring down into your lap, tension rippling so clearly from your bunched up form Azriel considers laying a hand on your trembling shoulder as if to pull you from a trance. “No. I know, but…” Your fingers press into your eyes, unable to articulate what you can feel in your stomach. “If she hadn’t gone to Night,” you breathe heavily, shakily, “if she hadn’t gone here, we’d still be back there, entirely human, and I—… I wasn’t going to last much longer there.”

Azriel pauses at your side, taking on the information silently. “You were ill?” He asks softly—he’d had no idea about that. Your shoulders shake, and he can’t tell if it’s with laughter or muffled sobs. Maybe a little of both.

“Maybe,” you whisper, “I don’t know enough about medicine to say, but I…” You shake your head again, and he’s able to sense that’s as much as he’ll get. It’s been over two years, and this is the first he’s hearing of it even in vague detail—he knows this isn’t something he can press.

“It doesn’t matter now,” you say with rueful conviction, palms pushing wetness from your cheeks, spine straightening before collapsing back against the trunk. Tired and exhausted. “We’re out. I don’t need to do anything now.”

Azriel’s brow furrows. “You’re content to stay in your room and rot away?”

You rest your head in your hands, leaning over the bag, staring down into its contents. What else is there?

“You could spend time with your family, for starters,” he replies and you aren’t sure if you imagine the note of impatience in his voice. “Your sisters worry about you a lot. It’s not good for you to be up in that room all the time.”

“Well it seems every time I come out of that room I somehow end up getting in your way.”

“Is that what this is about?” He asks abruptly, and your lips press together, lower one curving over. “I thought we sorted that out,” he says quietly, calming the sharpness of his tone, hearing it even in his own ears, glancing over your hunched figure. “We did,” you reply, muffled by your arms, voice turning watery as you ease in a short breath. “We did.”

A beat passes, then tension stutters in your chest as he gently lays his palm over your shoulder. “Please just talk to me,” he says softly, and you struggle to keep your breaths even as your lungs shudder beneath that touch. After spending so long wanting it…craving it…convinced feeling how gentle his touch could be over and against your skin would fix everything…even temporarily… You try to swallow the lump in your throat. “If not me, then Elain, or Feyre, or Nesta,” he pauses, “…Bas.”

You aren’t paying much attention, though, thankful for the way your mind melts beneath the warmth of his palm. How heat is sinking into your skin, slowly spreading through your shoulder as your muscles thaw. Pressure is lessened, and the tension that had been stitching the tendon taut loosens, allowing breath the ease in and out of your lungs with tiring relief. You could deflate with fatigue. Just turn limp and boneless, better for absorbing impact than having it crack against you.

“Just talk with us some more so this doesn’t happen again,” he urges quietly. “Come down to the river house—you know Feyre keeps your room open—or join us for dinner. At least try. If that doesn’t work, we can find something else.”

You don’t reply. Just remain tucked away from the world. Content to remain within your small shell as long as you can keep that warmth on your shoulder.

The pressure lightens, and your heart hides away as his hand slips from your shoulder, leaving your skin starkly cold with the absence of his presence.

“I’m sorry for what I…for how things transpired. Between…us,” Azriel murmurs, unsure how much to say, to not bring up past pains, especially if they aren’t as healed as you’ve led him to believe. He’s starting to become unsure what to believe about you—he hadn’t ever considered you might run from them. How bad things might have become to force you into that position. Are things that bad?

“I’m sorry, too,” you mumble, voice a little hoarse, and Azriel listens attentively. “I shouldn’t have told you how I felt, in the library. I shouldn’t have made my feelings your problem.”

“They aren’t,” he says softly, but you shake your head as if you haven’t heard him.

“I’m sorry.”

————

He tries speaking twice more on the way back, but the conversations lead nowhere, no longer flourishing as they had, once upon a time. So long in the past they feel coloured by age. Turned stiff and yellow at the edges.

He tries slowing his pace so she’ll walk at his side, but she just drops further back, silently pressing between his footsteps as she trails, head kept down to remain focused on taking one step at a time. The shadow that is cast across her face from the down-tilted angle of her head is deeper than he would have expected.

When he hears her shifting the bag across her shoulders for the third time, he quietly plies the straps from her hands, relieving her of the physical weight. She makes no obvious protest, aside from the stiffening of her body at his approach, but he can spot the relief when he takes the bag. Moving it to his own shoulder, he can make out what feels like a wooden box, the kind made to keep a weapon from being damaged. The thought gives rise to instinctive alarm.

Why might she have a weapon in her bag?

His shadows subtly shift at his back, rising secretively to examine her. Questions begin rising to his mind: unkind, unfair questions that are habitual in his line of work. He tries to shake them off, but they remain firmly rooted in his mind, burrowing deeper with each stride that has the narrow box digging into his side, as if already trying to burrow into his flesh.

How did she know Eris would take her in? How could she possibly guarantee making the trek across Prythian over night would pay off? It’s an absurd risk to take, regardless of circumstance. He can think of answers to those questions, but they don’t sit well with him. An answer to why she might be so familiar with Eris supposing they’ve spoken less than a handful of times. A certainty she must have possessed to take the risk that isn’t one she would have from that little contact. And if she’s hiding how much contact she might’ve had with him…

She was already hiding her magic from them…then there’s the prophecy too. Bas, and the illness. Why were these things she hadn’t mentioned? He can understand the recent silence, but why not before…? Regardless of immediate relevance, it shows she’s prone to secret-keeping.

Azriel eases in a steadying breath, descending into a calm, cold mental state. Sinking into indifferent objectivity.

She isn’t stupid. Far from it, having spent so much time in the library, where there’s all kinds of information just ripe for the picking. And Eris isn’t stupid, either. If he saw a weak spot, he’d go for it. And if Eris went for her, would she be able to resist something she was unable to see for what it truly was?

Azriel’s skin goes a little cold, reminded of the prophecy.

He will die, and it will be by her hand.

He supposes he can only control how much impact it will have on those around him. If Eris has managed to wrap her up in some slow-moving scheme…but that’s just speculation. Still, his instincts are telling him something is wrong with the narrow wooden box, one that must have come from Eris. A box fashioned like those to hold weapons. From Eris. To the female who will kill him.

He should ask her what it is.

Azriel would’ve shaken his head if those habits hadn’t been crushed out of him centuries ago. He can’t just ask her if she’s planning to kill him.

But it would allow a chance for her to explain what’s in the weapon case.

But it would alert her to his knowing about the blade inside her bag. She’d wanted to hide her magic from the start, and earlier she’d mentioned she’d gotten further…how much further? If it’s magic any similar to Nesta’s, it would be unwise to have a confrontation here, alone. Still within Autumn Court territory.

But it would be more dangerous to bring her back to Velaris. To bring her back into the beating heart of the Night Court where her detonation would be fatal.

Azriel blinks, and returns back into the waning light of day—it’ll soon be night.

What can he do, really? If he’s destined to die….who is he to try and get in the way of the Mother? Would he kill her to save his own life? Is that what he would do in order to live a little longer, before a new threat looms to end him? He wants to kill her no more than he desires his own death.

But if it came down to it…what would he choose?

His shadows observe her silently, as they had been throughout his internal struggle. He focuses on what he can see, discarding the lens of suspicion that’s been embedded in him as Spymaster, centuries of limited trust having an impact on his mind.

All he sees is a young woman walking through a dark forest, following him off the pathway.

Internally, he sighs—there always seems to be a constant flow of problems as of late, and peace seems to be persistently remaining just out of reach. A few more years, and then there will be peace; a few more political aggressions to navigate, and then they can rest; just one more person to heal, and then they can be happy. When will the peace truly arrive, though? Is it all wishful thinking? An imagined utopia that will make every sin he’s committed acceptable? Is it just his mind finding more excuses to justify the things he’s done in the name of protecting his family and court?

She’s just one more disturbance, keeping peace from settling.

Azriel swallows, thinking heavily. Even if she was out of the way, there would still be everything else to deal with. Will this problem be the last one, or will a new threat fall in to fill the space of the old one? Hasn’t it been long enough, by now? Hasn’t he done enough?

Shadows check on her again, her head hanging silently, those once bright eyes dull and dark as they follow numbly in his footsteps. The female with whom he’d spent so many afternoons with discussing things in the library…where is she? Is he at fault for her disappearance?

Closing his eyes briefly to relieve the ache that’s been slowly building just below his brows, he allows himself to ponder.

Is it pointless to try and salvage their relationship?

Would it be better if she did kill him?

————

The storm clouds have gathered, full and swollen with rain and thunder. No lightening though. Lightening would suggest some kind of magnificence, and there’s nothing magnificent about the cool temperature of your blood, nor the dull buzz in the back of your mind. The overwhelming grey of your surroundings as you emerge from the tunnel.

The air is drier in the Night Court, you vaguely realise. No dampness nor humidity that you’d grown subconsciously accustomed to from less than a week’s stay in Autumn. A small break of sunshine between the dismay grey you’d all grown so accustomed to for the first few months of the year, back when you were human. Weak, fallible humans, but simpler. Quiet and peaceful, even if that silence was from the constant prowl of starvation. It had been easier to bear.

You don’t wait to see if Azriel will try to speak again once he’s flown the both of you back up to the House of Wind, silently turning your back to trace the familiar halls of the House, moving without awareness, muscle memory guiding you down the corridors, past the tables littered with napkins and cutlery, past the shelves displaying pale crockery and silver chalices, past the chest with a few discarded daggers atop, arrowheads littered haphazardly across the surface as if someone had cast them down carelessly.

The room is greyer than you remember, too tidy to be a lived in space, but it has those reminders—the gifts you were given, and you absently touch your earlobe, squeezing it between your finger and thumb.

Azriel pauses at the threshold, taking the bag off his shoulder. Does he know you sold the earrings? Those pretty, pretty earrings? Probably some of the nicest things you could have believed to be your own.

They must be getting tired by now. All of them.

Blonde hair and sparkling eyes pass dully through your mind, and your heart dies a little more, understanding how you’ve ruined the small blessing. There’s no coming back from what you’ve done—not without significant work, at least, and you’re so tired. In your bones, in your eyes, in your mind. You’ve lived through a lot, but thanks to immortality, you have no choice but to live through more. A body being dragged through the mud, carried towards a grave that was never dug.

Azriel’s mouth is moving, has been moving since he removed the bag from his shoulder, but you haven’t been hearing. Mind too tired and numb to manage focus, grasping only basic colours and lines.

He’s looking at you, and you’re looking back, but not into his eyes. His words pass through your mind meaninglessly, and you wonder if you’re real. A strange pressure is wrapping its tingling fingers around your skull, squeezing like you’re wearing a hat that’s a little too tight. It will take a lot of work to fix what you’ve done. A lot of work you can’t manage. A debt that deepens faster than you can repay it. A sink draining faster than you can fill it. Blood cooling faster than you can stop it.

Maybe it would be better to let it cool, for a while.

————

Azriel doesn’t feel comfortable leaving her in the House alone, with that dull look in her eyes.

He had planned to fly back down to the River House, to let Rhys and Feyre know she was back, and she was safe, to give her some space maybe for an hour or so to let her get her bearings again. Not too long alone, though. That look hadn’t been bright. Instead he ends up slumping into one of the boney, wooden chairs in the kitchen, the House already brewing two cups of tea. He reaches out for Rhys, mentally feeling for the hidden bridge kept open. He finds it almost immediately, and an icy wind slams into him in greeting. Cold, swift, and perfectly telling to his brother’s current temperament.

You’re back.

Azriel bites back on the cringe at the ice in his High Lord’s voice—belying fury. He should have put together Rhys would be furious for Feyre, too, for stirring up this kind of stress for his mate.

She’s with me. How is Feyre?

More furious than I am, though I doubt she’ll show you.

There’s a pause, and Azriel steadies himself.

How is she?

It would be good for her to have company. Preferably in the River House, but if not, then having people up here. This time Azriel pauses, before adding, I think the ward on her room should be removed. So she’ll be able to hear that people are around, should she need them.

He’s met with silence, and Azriel wonders if Rhys is repeating the message back to Feyre, or if he’s simply that furious. A small part of him feels resentment at the constant speculation, that if the matter had been left between him and her then it wouldn’t have gotten so blown out of proportion.

We’ll be up in ten minutes, comes the clipped reply, before the mental bridge is severed. Leaving Azriel no choice but to wait in silence. It will likely be Rhys and Feyre coming up then—knowing she isn’t ready to see all of them so suddenly, though they’ve yet to learn where she’s been.

Feyre will go and speak to her sister.

And Rhys will be the one to speak to him.

What a mess.

The tea has a few minutes left of brewing, and he wonders if the House will demand he be the one to take the mug to her, or if it will be delivered on its own. He’s not sure she would appreciate being disturbed right now.

As if his thoughts summoned her however, he hears quiet footsteps out in one of the hallways, reaching his sharp ears even through the closed doors and secure walls. He listens carefully, but she seems to just be pacing around, not coming toward him, or even really going in any particular direction. They pause, the silence heavy, and Azriel pays full attention. Another minute passes, then another, and another, but he couldn’t have missed those familiar footfalls.

After a fourth minute, he hears them again, ever so slightly heavier than before, and then they cut off abruptly. Sound sliced in two as she closes the door to her room.

Azriel glances over to the brewing tea, then blinks when he realises the House has set it on the table within reach. Just one cup, made with milk and sugar—not the way he likes it.

Looking over to the countertop, his mug remains steeping, steam trailing up from the hot liquid. The House seems to be demanding he take her the tea now.

Azriel shifts in his chair. It isn’t a good idea to disturb her again. He’s trying to give her at least these few minutes to herself, before Feyre arrives with Rhys—and that’s a conversation that might very well stretch hours. There’s a lot to discuss, after all. She’ll need her energy, and he’s probably the last person she wants to—

The mug slams down on the table before him, hot liquid spilling over with the force that it was dropped onto the surface.

He stiffens, watching the mug tensely as if the House might spill it onto his lap. The liquid ripples in the mug, splashing from side to side for longer than it should, before reluctantly calming.

Blowing out a breath, Azriel wraps his hand around the mug’s handle, reluctantly standing from the kitchen table.

If the House is being so adamant about giving her the cup, then he supposes he’ll just have to follow.

He still finds it a little strange, how the House came alive after Nesta lived inside it.

————

Silence hums in your ears, so quiet.

You’ve caused them so much trouble. Irreparably ruined your ties to the people you hadn’t wanted to hinder.

Silently, quietly, you move the bag to your bed, able to even hear the stretch of fabric as you raise it from the unnaturally clean floorboards. Opening it, you begin pulling the first thing you see out—the orange scarf form Autumn that has some small crumbs tucked between its folds, smelling faintly of pastry and something damp. One piece at a time, you make the slow trek to and form the wardrobe, feet unfeeling as they tread numbly across the smooth grain of the wood, mindlessly repeating the to and fro, the mechanical movements of unaware motion, folding fabric and hiding it away.

Your fingers bump the box, surprised by the hard collision, having expected to find more fabric, but are instead confronted by the narrow, wooden box. Use it wisely, written on the note in a neat and elegant script. Raising it from the bag, you sit down, hands resting over the surface before slipping your fingers into the indentations for ease of opening, cracking it open to find what’s inside. Eyes ease across the narrow length of wood tucked inside, the softly flared end for it to whistle through the sky.

The world disappears around you as you fall into thought, suctioned inwards by a gentle riptide as you dissolve into your mind. Imagining the blank look in Mor’s eyes when she finds out what you’ve done to her, the wall that will rise up as she sections you off from her life, rightly so, brings a quiet kind of sadness into your chest. A longing that has been numbed and dulled, desaturated by hopelessness. Imagining the dinners, voices chatting merrily around you but never at you, the way she won’t look at you. They are all immortal, and their disgust will reflect their lifespan.

You’ll be stuck. Endlessly dragging you feet after them in attempts to make amends. Stumbling and fumbling carelessly trying to make reparations, but smashing more pieces in your frantic hurry to clean the mess you’ve made. Gazing up from the pit of a well as the icy water slowly drains in, the small pin-prick of daylight so far above there’s no hope even trying to scale the wall. It would be more honourable to drown.

To wipe yourself from memory.

It would be better, you understand. To snuff out your own dwindling light, than force the trouble on them of bearing your sputtering flame.

You walk out into the hallway, quietly, silently. Passing the table with napkins and cutlery set, past the shelves with crockery and cups, past the chest with dull steel and blunt arrowheads. Passing further along, until you pause before the large mirror that’s mounted on the wall. You peer dully into the reflection, deciding to look upon and assign shape to name for what’s been causing all these problems. To see what they think of when burdens are mentioned, to understand where the impatience is directed.

You peer higher, the reflection skewed as you meet your own eyes in the blade’s polished steel, held above the mirror’s frame.

Time warps, and you look through the drawers. A few daggers, some unused sketchbooks, a piece of yellow wool, a ball of string. You check the second draw. Some folded napkins, more arrowheads, a shard of porcelain, a thimble, a discarded marble. You check the third draw. Some salts, spices, dried leaves, matching Illyrian blades, pots of ink, a copper coin. You check the fourth draw. Crisp bedsheets, off-white pillowcases, a dented metal mug, a small container of some kind, one arrowhead, a crossbow.

You return to your room with the ball of string and the empty crossbow.

Swallowed in the silence of the bedroom, hidden behind the wards.

The snare is easy to set up, directions still vivid in your mind and for a few short moments, you allow yourself to settle into the certainty of following through with those instructions. Encountering a bit of trouble with how to keep the tension of the string with no earth, but your mind works quickly, weighing the string taut with the one book from your shelf, and a square box containing a mechanical universe. Making sure the string is just tight enough so the faintest touch will snap the tension loose.

You glance at the string on the floor, eyes catching on the small painting on your desk.

You slot the arrow into the crossbow with a satisfying click.

The ash stings your fingertips.

You stand with your back to the door, facing the crossbow head on. Your heart bleeds a little, tears at last dripping slowly down your cheeks, but it will be better this way. Easing in a deep breath, you relax into that feeling deep in your chest that’s telling you this is the right thing to do. It was always going to happen, there was never a path you could have taken that wouldn’t have lead you to this one way or another. It’s a feeling almost like relief: there’s finally a way out.

One perfect, swift, execution. An ash arrow to your heart, splitting the muscle and ending its relentless beat. Your breathing increases to a stuttering pulse before calming, and you swallow, glancing to the windows. You know you’ll cause a mess.

Fingers open the latch to the window, fresh air gently rolling in, and your breathing stutters again. You’ll be irrevocably gone.

Peering about the bedroom, one you hadn’t felt was truly your own, but had stayed long enough to begin putting down roots—the bookmark laying beneath the pendant on the desk beside the painting, the jigsaw still wrapped in a bow beneath the bed, the sealed nail polish and briefly used lip tint within the cupboard. Sobs shudder through your chest strangely.

A part of you doesn’t want to leave yet.

A small, human part, that still fears solitude despite your chosen loneliness.

You step toward the book, body caving in, heart collapsing in on itself, the emotive feeling similar to the convulsions you’ve experienced after vomiting. A vacuum hidden inside of your chest, finally imploding. You should end it now.

The door creaks behind you, and you flinch from terror at someone witnessing your vulnerability.

Hazel eyes meet your own, at once scanning the room out of habit, and those lovely eyes widen as you recoil on instinct, foot knocking into the book.

————

Given the pleasure of time, he had been allowed to ponder the impossible question: to choose between his death and her own, each equally impossible. How is anyone to make a choice like that?

But, caught in between precious moments, there’s no time for thought or debate. It’s easy to declare gallantry, to flippantly comfort a companion with those easy words—I’d take an arrow for you.—but it’s an entirely different matter when the arrow is whistling straight toward them.

And yet before the mug has even hit the floor, he feels the familiar, burning pain as the arrow pierces through his flesh, slicing him open as the wrongness bleeds into him, swiftly poisoning his blood, draining the inherent magic from his body.

————

You stare up into wide hazel eyes, agony etched across his delicate features, the very tip of the arrow lightly piercing your skin from where it’s shot straight through him, caught in his flesh.

He groans lowly, his weight falling more heavily on your shoulders where his hands had grabbed you to switch your positions, and you’re helpless as his knees give out from pain, dragging you down with him as he collides with the ground.

Horror pounds through your body, heart beating a thousand times a second until it’s risen into your throat, hands shaking violently as you try to hold him steady, stinging with the burning heat of blood from his side.

Mother murder you.

“Az,” you stammer hoarsely, staring at his twisted features, brow furrowed deeply, breathing ragged as it puffs against your skin. The familiar scent of blood filtrates through your system, undiluted and metallic, and he’s dying he’s dying he’s dying—

His hand weakly grasps the back of your neck, grabbing your attention as your hands fumble, trembling with uncertainty and despair, fingertips beginning to sizzle as panic floods your veins, tossed into the rapids, utterly out of control as your mind unravels, regret stabbing through your heart.

His lips are moving but your ears are ringing, itches burning at your skin, a streaking noise piercing through your head like the screaming from those bloody fields. He’s speaking and you try to read his lips, but your eyes aren’t focusing, tears blurring your vision as sobs heave in and out of your chest, burning at your throat and lungs. You had tried to stop it! You were so close to preventing it!

Your hand settles on his cheek, already feeling cool beneath your burning, burning, glowing—

Feyre and Rhys, his lips form, and you shake. Eyes scanning his features frenetically. His own flick to the door, and you understand them to be here? You stare at him helplessly, hopelessly—it won’t matter how you scream or cry for them, not even if you bled your throat raw. The ward against noise that you’d been so thankful for, that Feyre had given in attempts to help, to remedy a wrong.

Something so small, yet so immoveable. Impossible to defeat. Felled by your own, stupid need—

He’s going to die.

Neither you nor Azriel have a second to prepare as the power wells up inside of you with the force of a damn broken loose, that internal wall shattering entirely, blown to bits as you feel the staggering pressure swallow your brain, crushing in intensity at the rapid division of cells, splitting atoms colliding as the explosion blows you apart.

Brilliant green light detonates, silence settling for a second before the noise crushes back down, the room blown to pieces.

The ground shakes beneath you, floorboards cracking and splintering as a hole is torn through the side of the House, tearing through the wards as the noise thunders above the city, sweeping across Prythian with the force of the Cauldron that had torn down the Wall.

One final surge of magic before the life is taken from his body.

Pain lacerates through your figure as something fundamental cracks open inside of you, all at once draining the agony that had beens steadily building up, all of it gushing out, skin resplendent with a sickening golden-green light, radiating your flesh.

Then you collapse, falling into the pool of steadily cooling blood surrounding Azriel’s body.

The prophecy having come to fulfilment.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

general taglist: @myheartfollower @tcris2020 @mali22 @slut4acotar @sfhsgrad-blog @needylilgal022 @hannzoaks @hnyclover @skyesayshi @nyotamalfoy @decomposing-writer @soph1644 @lilah-asteria

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#azriel x reader #azriel x you #azriel angst #azriel fic #cbmthy #can’t bring myself to hate you

[hanashiz]

Monkey D. Luffy

#one piece #monkey d. luffy #straw hat luffy #strawhat pirates #I tried a new colouring style! #digital art #original character #digital drawing #artwork #digital illustration #Hana fanartz #The new colouring style is time consuming but satisfying #I dont hate making it but it needed patient #Tho this one is a bit scaredy of me cuz its the first lolol #You could at the dark shadow to light coloured I used

[the-scythes-pen]

Bleeding Pastels (Kabukimono x Reader)

The puppet's life is colourful; while tainted and stained with a dark smudge in the middle- originating from his creation- at least it won't discolour the world he lives in...

right?

Yandere!Scaramouche x Reader

Kabukimono era

Canon-divergent. Some abuse briefly described later on. Symbolism-heavy. Read between the rainbow to find the shadows that the light casts.

-------------------------

I. Pink

The day that the boy first saw you, he almost mistook you for a god.

You sat alone underneath wispy sunlight that broke through the gaps in the bright pink petals above you. Gently fluttering down around you, picking up with the occasional spring breeze; sakura petals adorned your atmosphere and lay like a bed around your form.

The shade of pink that dusted the boy's cheeks was only somewhat darker then the beautiful pale pink of the sakura and it's flowers.

The boy could only stare in awe, lost in his own world of reverence and admiration- that was until a beautiful, soft voice pulled him out of his head.

"And who might you be?"

The puppet blinks. Your bright, vivid irises held him captive among the falling blossoms; his pale pink lips open and close without a sound- the boy unable to find a response.

You laugh. Gods, that sound makes something within him stir. It steals his artificial breath and replaces it with something so soft and light that he does not dare to look too deep into.

"Well? There's room for both of us here, if you want." You say with a smile, palm patting the soft grass beside you.

It takes a moment for the puppet to register your words, but as soon as he does it's like a string has been pulled taut- and he longs to loosen the tension that has formed. He makes his way over to you, his knees folded underneath him as he merely stares at you silently.

"You're that boy that guy brought with him a couple days ago, right? What's your name?"

For once, the puppet speaks.

"I... Don't know." His voice is soft, light, and almost somewhat childish. He sounds so innocent and boyish.

Your eyes wander down his face and trail down his arms. He doesn't say anything, but he can see you stop and stare at the joints in the middle of his arms; the ones attached with a ball and some hinges.

"Hey, you're not human, are you?" You say with curiosity in your tone, as you pull yourself onto your knees to take a closer look. Your hands are soft as they take ahold of his wrist and hand, pulling it out to a stretch as you stare in wonder at his unblemished skin and the way his arm connects to the rest of his body.

The puppet watches as a bright pink petal flutters down against the untainted sky and lands delicately in your hair.

"I hope you forgive me for oogling you; I've just never met someone like you before..."

Your eyes flicker up to meet his wide-eyed stare; and you offer him a smile as bright as the sunlight above.

"Your skin is so soft, and the way your elbows are designed is so cool! Are your knees like this too?"

The puppet doesn't say anything; instead unable to find an appropriate response as all he can do is nod his head.

"Really? That's so cool!" You say with wonder to match his own.

"I'm (Y/N). I-"

Your mouth hangs open, but no words escape you as you watch the puppet's hand slowly move atop your head. Delicate fingers pluck what his eyes are so intensely trained on from your hair, before bringing it down infront of the both of you to see.

"This... was on you."

You blank at the pink petal between his fingers, and for a moment the puppet's mind whirs to life with questions of whether he had done something wrong, but you soon snap out of your trance with a laugh. The boy sits still, confused about your reaction.

"Thank you. You don't have to show it to me though." You say before snatching the soft object from him and swiftly placing it atop his own head.

You laugh at the expression on his face from your actions, and the puppet finds the wonderful sound brings a smile to his face. He doesn't quite understand why you did that, or why you're laughing, but he finds your joy infectious all the same.

II. Purple

Over time, the people of Tatarasuna as well as the puppet himself learned how he differed and how he was similar to the humans around him.

He felt pain and bled just like they did. Yet, he didn't seem to have a heart. He didn't need to eat or drink either, but he claimed that he could and that he wanted to do so to 'become more human'.

The puppet- now called Kabukimono by his peers- also didn't quite understand social ques and what was wrong or right. After finding out that humans would often disrobe and bathe when they became dirty, the puppet had tried to do the same in the nearby stream of village. That little event had a few people swiftly ushering him to put his clothes back on while laughing awkwardly; as if he was a child who didn't truly know what he was doing.

Which, in all honestly, was pretty much what he was. A child who knew nothing about the world or people around him. But he was learning.

The pastel purple clothing that he was so often seen in flowed freely in the breeze; the smell of lavender was picked up by the summer wind off his freshly washed robes and filled his nostrils with the calming scent. It was the smell that adorned him whenever you were the one responsible for washing his clothes (as you often took turns among the other villagers to look after him).

He had grown to love that scent.

"Just... like... this." You said as you dragged the teeth of the comb through his wet hair; letting the Kabukimono watch your actions through the mirror.

"Think you got it?" He nods at your question, and you hand him the comb.

His hand is steady as he mimics your previous movements; dragging the teeth of the light purple comb through the strands of dark indigo atop his head. After a few strokes, he pulls the comb away; a deep violet staining the teeth as if to remind him that he wasn't like you.

You smile at him. "Perfect! Just like that. Now you're all set to wash yourself next time you need to."

The Kabukimono stares down at the comb in his hands; staring down at the violet that taints the pastel shade. You had gotten him this comb, it was one of the first objects he had ever owned. And now, because of him, it was stained a dark purple from the dye that was used for his colour- that still coated his hair.

And yet, the same dark stain that now marred his gift from you had dyed your palms a similar shade to that of the comb- a bright, pastel purple. Originally, he had panicked and apologized profusely for staining you, for tainting you, but you merely had laughed and said you didn't mind. That it would go away eventually.

And while others wore gloves when taking care of him and his hair, you didn't. You let your fingertips run through the dark locks and dance across the top of his forehead; you let him feel the warmth and softness of your touch as you scrubbed the dirt and dust that had accumulated in his hair. You let his colour stain you; and somehow, you managed to make the dark purple such a bright and beautiful shade of lavender once it touched your skin.

"My... arms hurt. Can you do this for me?" He says quietly, turning towards you and holding the comb back up to you with a pleading look in his eyes. You smile, the corners of your eyes crinkling in adoration at the Kabukimono's barely-concealed lie.

You had done a lot to take care of him and teach him about various things; he knew that lying was 'bad' and that he shouldn't do it. But even so, on rare occasion- like right now- he would say something small that didn't match what you already knew. And it would always end up with you taking a little extra care of him then you otherwise would have.

You knew you shouldn't let him keeping lying, but he was so bad at telling them, and it was adorable how he yearned for attention... so you couldn't make yourself scold him for his behaviour. You let this lie slide like all the others.

"Alright, alright. Come on then, turn around."

You can see the corners of his mouth tip upward in a smile, however subtle, as he did as he was told and let you run both the comb and your fingers through his hair.

The Kabukimono couldn't help but watch your hands. To seek glimpses of the bright purple staining on your palms that could only have been from him. He always loved when the other humans would point out your coloured hands and comment on how you practically took sole care of him with how often your hands took on the familiar shade.

Even when he wasn't by your side like a loyal puppy, it was like a part of him was still with you. Even if at first he saw the colour as a stain upon your otherwise perfect skin, you had assured him that it was harmless, told him you liked the colour, even.

You had taught him that being 'selfish' is one of the 'bad' things, and he shouldn't be 'selfish'. But if it was so 'bad', then why did it feel good? Why did it feel good to leave a piece of him with you, as if to claim you as his own human?

The teeth of the comb grew ever darker as they sorted through his indigo hair.

III. Yellow

For a being that was supposedly crafted by the hands of the god of thunder, the Kabukimono couldn't help but jump at each loud roar of lightning that dared to light up the dark night.

"Oh, Kabuki..."

The puppet was shaking; his arms wrapped around his knees as he sat staring at the floor, trying to ignore each jolt of thunder only to be hyper aware of every crash of it outside the window.

The pity in your voice somehow comforted the puppet, even more so when you kneeled beside him to pull him into a hug.

"It's ok, you're not in any danger. The Electro Archon would never hurt us."

The Kabukimono still shook. Sure, she may never hurt you, but to him- every bolt that struck the earth was searching for him; the fruit of the anger and hatred he knew his mother held for him.

Each flash of lightning lit the inside of your warm home a bright yellow. A stark contrast to the usual deep purple of the electro element he knew so well.

Your hand smoothed over his back, the other wrapped around his shoulders as you held him close. Another flash had him jump once again; burying his face into your shoulder as if to try to hide from the storm.

"Oh, hey, hey... It's ok..." You tried to soothe him, your voice gentle and low as his arms wrapped around you to hold tightly to your clothes.

Your arms wrapped around him were warm, firm, secure, as if you were the one shielding him from the tumultuous rain and deafening thunder.

"Ok, c'mon, lets go to bed."

The boy in your arms sniffled as you pushed him away from you, guiding him towards your plush bed.

"B-But... My bed..." He mumbled out, his eyes falling onto a small mat off to the side that you had done your best to make comfortable. And as shabby as it was, the Kabukimono loved it. You had made it for him, after all.

"You won't be able to sleep if you're over there, will you? This storm doesn't look like it's going to stop anytime soon, so... Why don't you stay with me? That way, I can protect you."

The deep purples of his eyes were wide and glossy with tears at your proposal; but he swiftly nodded and climbed onto the bed with you following suit.

The two of you got settled underneath the blankets, and the Kabukimono couldn't tell if your bed was just more comfortable then his, or if he really liked being beside you that much more then being alone. He watched as you shifted around; moving the pillow you normally slept on to rest underneath his head as you lay flat on the mattress next to him.

You smiled at him, a smile that made his chest tighten and something within his artificial body malfunction. His breath caught in his throat at the feeling of your fingers brushing along the side of his face, pushing his bangs out of the way of his eyes.

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep? I'll be right here if you need me."

The rain was loud on the old glass of your home; a flash of lightning bringing attention to the lack of purple that the Kabukimono had so loved to see on your hands.

But the fear of the thunder triumphed over his sadness that his hair no longer stained your palms; and he couldn't help but jump at the noise that shook him to his core once again.

Trembling hands grabbed your soft, steady one and brought it up to his cheek. The Kabukimono rested your palm against his flesh, nuzzling into it even as he shook in fear. You couldn't help but pity him, the pad of your thumb brushing over his cheekbone as you indulged him.

"You won't leave me, right?" He says quietly, warily, as if he's afraid the storm will hear his weakness and aim straight for his non existent heart.

The smile you give him almost looks sad. But it remains as sweet as it always does nonetheless.

"Never."

"You promise?"

Another crash of thunder has him jump once again, but with your hand against his cheek, he's quick to recover.

"I promise."

He peers at you and sees no trace of malice; no trace of annoyance or deception or betrayal. All he sees is you; your beautiful smile and crinkled eyes, glistening even in the darkest of nights.

The next flash of yellow lightning that illuminates the two of you only proves to show that even against the Electro Archon herself; your light is so much brighter then anything the god could conjure to harm him.

He doesn't jump at the sudden thunder. Instead, he lets out a shaky breath and pulls you forward- bringing your head onto the pillow that you had given him before he buries his head right underneath your chin; pushing himself into your body as if he wished to become one with you.

You can't help but smile at his unintended affection. Your hands move to embrace him; to smooth over his back and run your fingers through his hair.

"It's... bad to break a promise." He mumbled into your chest. "You won't break your promise, right?"

You let out a soft chuckle, tightening your embrace as you let the boy cling to you for life.

"Of course I won't. I love you too much to hurt you like that."

Your words were accentuated with another jolt of thunder. Another flash of yellow. And then a second bolt of lightning- this time, right through the cavity where his heart would have been.

I love you.

The words repeated in his head like a prayer; and he nestled himself deeper into your embrace in an attempt to muffle his thoughts and hide the pink on his cheeks.

The innocent, pure little Kabukimono had heard the words before. Humans who were close, who kissed and slept in beds together would say it to one another. Humans who were bound for life by little bands of metal on their fingers would whisper it to eachother whenever they pleased.

His tongue burned- yearned to repeat the words back to you, but something inside of him refused. Rejected the idea of feeling the intimacy of human love... of the idea that he could be with you just like all the other humans who loved eachother.

That night, when the puppet and his human had fallen asleep, the Kabukimono found himself without a single dream.

IV. Blue

Even when the Kabukimono wasn't under your care for that day, he still hovered near to where you were.

The old woman who was tasked to care for him that day was a vile creature. One who refused to acknowledge the puppet as anything close to human; instead treating him as merely an object, a plaything, something that could do whatever she wanted of him without complaint.

Because the poor Kabukimono didn't know how.

The puppet watched from where he sat by a large bucket. His hands were filthy; red and sore from scrubbing away at the clothing that he was forced to wash by his current caretaker.

He watched as you bid farewell to your fellow villagers; a basket hung off your arm as you walked into the nearby woods.

Oh, how he longed to follow you. To see where you were off to, to accompany you and watch every move you made.

He looked down at the water in the bucket, browned with dirt and dust. Surely, the water flowing through the stream in the forest would be nice and clean, right?

He's quick to set everything aside; emptying the water into the nearby crops like he was instructed, and then following you into the forest.

It was like your presence had merely teased him; he stumbled blindly through the brush hoping that you would be found in this direction. That he could, at the very least, be able to lay his gaze upon you once more and lighten this heavy feeling in his chest.

What the Kabukimono hadn't thought about, though, was just what you may be doing out here in the forest. And what he saw when he finally approached the familiar babbling brook stole his artificial breath away- the feeling all to familiar to that time had first laid eyes upon you.

The water was a beautiful crystal blue; your clothing lay next to the stream, a telltale sign of what he had stumbled across.

You looked divine. Beautiful. The way the water ran by your bare form and dripped so deliciously from your skin had the puppet star-struck. Pink was quick to dust his pale cheeks.

Then, like an all-too-familiar flash of sickeningly-yellow thunder, a thought occurred to him.

He shouldn't be seeing this.

Sudden panic washed over him, a fear he had felt so many times before now baring it's fangs at him once more.

If you caught him, you would leave him too.

He bolted.

The trees rushed by him in a blur of green; sticks cracking beneath his feet as he retraced his path out of the forest. Birds flew and squirrels panicked as he went by them like the roaring wind; and finally he reemerged from the trees to the sight of the village before him.

He felt warm. He couldn't get the image of you out of his head. The picture of you bathing in such beautiful blue waters was ethereal. He felt his chest tighten even further at the memory.

"You damn puppet! Where have you been!?"

The Kabukimono's face paled instantly at the shrill sound.

"You thought you could just go for a stroll through the forest, huh?! You didn't even finish your chores!! And where's my water pail!?"

The voice boomed. It's origin angrily stomping up to him before grabbing his wrist so harshly, he was sure it would have bruised if he were human.

If he were human.

"You damned-... Can't you do anything right!?" The old woman shouted, dragging the shrinking boy along behind her and towards her old, decrepit house.

"I'm sorry-" He tried to speak, tried to make himself heard over the pounding in his ears.

The woman was like a constant flash of thunder; waiting for the perfect moment to strike the puppet where he stood. And this time, it looked like he was all alone in this storm.

The woman tossed open her front door before dragging the Kabukimono inside, harshly slamming the door shut before she turned to him with a wild look in her eye. The puppet looked absolutely pathetic as tears welled in the corners of his violet eyes.

She shouted at him. Cursed at him. Pushed, pulled, hit him in whatever way she felt fit to.

The Kabukimono shut his eyes, and recalled the divine scene he had stumbled across just a little while prior. He pictured you, standing within the crystal blue water of the stream, and he pictured himself standing infront of you. The sky such a rich, pale blue above the two of you as you found comfort in one another's embrace.

"Are you listening to me!?"

The puppet opened his eyes, and all he saw was blue. The world was blue, he was blue, the old woman was blue, and the constant patter of liquid splashing onto wood from his cheek was blue as well.

A sad, soulless, cold blue. The blue of loneliness and pain.

He remembered how beautiful you looked underneath the cherry blossoms that day he first met you. The shade of pale pink that so beautifully complimented the darker pink on his cheeks that day.

He remembered how tightly you held him under the flashes of yellow that threatened to consume him whole. How you told him you loved him- how you promised you would never leave him.

And he remembered the blue of the water running by your hips. The blue of the sky above, the blue of the cotton of your clothing.

The pounding in his ears was overwhelmingly loud.

A blue hand raised itself before him.

Before it could hit it's target, the pounding stopped.

Everything stopped.

V. Red

The world's colours had returned. But they were so much darker then before. As if drenched in thick shadows that clung even to the most well-lit areas.

And it was like the Kabukimono was just seeing the real world for the first time.

The green of the foliage outside had turned from a beautiful bright shade to a deep, forest colour. And even darker still were the greens inside; where moss and mildew grew along the corners of the old house, and the various stains from archons-know-what seemingly having appeared from nowhere now dotting the surroundings with the deepest shade of black.

The puppet had seen black before. But this was different. Darker. And it was like the entire world had been tainted by those stains of black.

Even the deep brown of the rotting wood below almost seemingly started turning black as a dark red seeped into it's pores.

Such a deep shade of red it was. The colour akin to the same that flowed freely from his cheek; although his was so much brighter then the vile woman who stained the floorboards.

No- if he wasn't a human, then she wasn't either. She was merely a creature, a worm- that now lie pathetically limp at his feet.

Her words, despite his attempt to drown them out, had seeped into his head regardless.

You will never be human.

You will never be wanted.

You will never be needed.

Perhaps she had been correct.

After all, she had only been repeating what he had been telling himself already.

But, if she was correct, then what did that make of the words that the other villagers had said? What, pray tell, did that make the humans themselves?

Liars. All of them. Filthy, red-stained liars.

They had never once truly cared about him. Merely tossing him scraps, at best; demanding that he do things for them and barely leaving him to fend for himself.

Barely giving him space in their village, barely caring to try and be 'polite' with him- even when they demanded that he be polite around everyone he interacted with.

At first, he just accepted it. Of course he did. The world was bright, colourful, beautiful- but now, he's seen it for what it truly is. He's seen the suffering, the pain, the lies; the shadows etched into every crevice of this forsaken world.

He knows that they had lied to him when they said they considered him a fellow human.

And you had taught him, the saint that you are, that liars are bad.

Oh, you... how beautiful you are. How wonderful and amazing and kind you are. Out of everyone in this damned, pathetic village, you had been the one to treat him like an equal. To treat him like a human.

To love him like a human.

His chest tightened at the memory of your voice above his head that night; "I love you" falling so effortlessly from your lips as you held him close.

Archons, you loved him. You promised him you would never leave him. And you had never broken your promises before.

You loved him.

Deep purple eyes fell to the human shaped insect on the floor. And a laugh bubbled up from within him.

He did something bad. Terrible. He had made the woman who hurt him stop moving.

But it felt good.

And if it felt so good, then... why stop?

He was already stained a deep, dark black. He could never go back to being as pure as you had seen him. Perhaps, he had always been this way- perhaps that's why his so called 'mother' and her fox-pet had decided to seal away what was rightfully his. The power that she had inlaid within him.

The power that now pounded so freely through him. And it seemed like the only way to silence it was to let it go.

As the puppet exited the house, a trail of red followed behind him. Electro crackled at his fingertips as he walked towards the center of the village, and he revelled in the hushed and desperate whispers of the humans he passed by.

The pounding in his ears- in his head- only grew stronger with each passing second. The crackling electro a disgusting shade of darkened, tainted yellow as it emanated from him.

And like a bolt of thunder that once had scared him so; flashes of yellow now flew through the open air and showed no mercy to the humans he was surrounded by.

Screams filled the air, filled his ears- and all he could do was laugh. Such pathetic insects, all scrambling to seek shelter from his divine wrath. It was chaotic, beautiful, as red stained the ground and painted the houses in it's corruption.

A gentle breeze kissed the cheek that had rapidly healed it's wound. With it, it brought delicate pale pink petals from the sakura trees that were so abundant in this land.

The village fell still. Nothing but the blossoms that danced on the wind dared to move; to catch the eye of the puppet-murderer.

"K-Kabuki...?"

A voice so small called out to him, stirring him from his thoughtless-thoughts.

He turned to you, and it was like your very presence made the surrounding area brighten to how it was before. Suddenly the world was perfect again; bright and happy and welcoming and loving.

Your eyes, so beautiful and vibrant, were wide and tinged with fear. Your hair was still wet- evidence of your bath, but all it served was to remind the puppet of what he had seen. Of the divinity he had been so blessed to witness.

You didn't move as he walked up to you. You couldn't. Shock had it's tight grasp on your body and mind, and you were unable to even speak at the bloody scene around you.

The puppet smiled so sweetly at you. And despite being the same smile as he had always given you, it no longer looked so innocent.

"I love you." He said, voice proud and unwavering.

Your eyes darted to meet his. He looked so...

dark.

"What...?" You couldn't even process what he said.

"You said you loved me that night, and I never said it back. I love you, (Y/N)."

"What-... what did you do..?" Your voice trailed off into a pathetic whisper, and it made the puppet smirk as his hand moved up to cup your cheek- much like how yours had once done for him.

"They were... bad. All of them. They could have hurt you, like they did to me..." The pad of his thumb spread a deep red over your skin as it rubbed your cheek. "But you love me. You promised you would never leave me. And I know you would never hurt me like they did..."

It was like his eyes had become gateways to the abyss itself; dark, devoid of life- of the boy you had once loved. Black stained his beautiful purple irises; tainted the beautiful colour with darkness and something sinister. Just like the blood that now stained your cheek.

The puppet-murderer intently watched your face drain of colour; intently watched as your pupils shrunk into pinpricks- and made note of your body starting to tremble.

He knew the signs of fear- he himself had expressed the same many times before. He knew you were scared. His chest felt like it tightened around a non-existent heart... he didn't want to see you scared. Not of him.

"...They were going to hurt you. I-I heard them. T-They were waiting for you to come back, a-and they would have... I-I couldn't let them do that. I couldn't let them be bad. I-I wanted to protect you..."

You still continued to tremble. It was like you had barely heard the lie he had told- but you didn't push him away when he pulled you into a cold, blood-stained embrace. And that was enough for him.

"I will... protect you. Stay with you. I will... be good for you."

...another lie. He was no longer good- he could never be good again. His soul- his hands- were now permanently stained red... a red that would be drained of colour as soon as you left his side- and he refused to be seen with that vile black ick. He refused to let you go.

It was almost sickening how swiftly he was able to return to how he was just hours ago... innocent, sweet, gentle. Even as the vibrant crimson stained his once-white flesh. Tainted him. Changed him.

As you gazed at him with a slacked-jaw expression, you could see the surrounding area- the massacred village- devoid of colour... of life. As if the puppet-murderer had drained the pinks and purples and blues and reds and it all congregated into a swirling black in the center of his beautiful indigo irises.

Was your beautiful, sweet little puppet-boy always so... heartless?

The way he pressed his lips to yours was robotic. Stiff and almost forced- but you knew that this was just his way of doing things, until he got used to it.

Until he got used to kissing you. Loving you. Tainting you.

A colourless tear cascaded down your cheek, your eyes closed as the puppet continued to kiss you as sweetly and gently as he could.

When he pulled away, he gently took your hands into his own, and looked down to see you trembling in his grasp. He noticed just how pretty your hands were covered in red.

And his violet eyes flicked up to your face, your hair- his red-stained fingers reaching up to pluck a crimson petal from your hair.

The pretty pink looked good on you, he once thought.

But he thinks you look so much better covered in red.

#reader insert #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #scaramouche x reader #kabukimono x reader #wanderer x reader #yandere scaramouche #yandere #yandere genshin impact #yandere x you #yandere wanderer

[loveindefinitely]

༊*·˚ FOREVER WINTER (IF YOU GO) — task force 141 x reader

12 — IN SOME SAD WAY, I ALREADY KNOW

featuring. simon 'ghost' riley + johnny 'soap' mactavish + kyle 'gaz' garrick + john 'bravo six' price + (non-endgame phillip graves)

warnings. nsfw, fem!reader, fmmmm, enemies to lovers, slow burn, polyamory, ghostsoap, pricegaz, alerudy, heavy angst, requited unrequited love, graphic violence

series masterlist. read on ao3. read on wattpad. fanfic playlist.

<- previous part | next part ->

“A written statement from the General himself.”

You mindlessly nod, eyes unfocused and ears ringing as you sit at the conference table, Laswell at the head with the paper in hand. Her brows are furrowed, and one of her hands rests at her hip as she reads over the paper’s contents once more.

Everything feels numb. Like your entire body’s been reset, and nothing makes sense – as if your very existence has been muffled.

Price and Ghost sit at the table, too, sharing looks with each other. The Sergeants are out training rookies – and a small, minute part of you is grateful. You don’t want them to see you so…

Whatever you are. Numb, cold, unfeeling. Any adjective that fits.

“Shepherd traded her,” Price seethes, knuckles whitening on the tight grip he has around his pack of cigars. 

“But why?” Laswell asks, exasperated, pacing at the front of the conference room. The overhead beams have been left off, so the frosted window is the only source of light. It allows a soft, gentle glow from the moon to fill the room, and it helps with your racing mind.

“We need to find him,” Ghost demands, voice gruff and icy. Thinly veiled anger – you recognise the tone all too well. 

“This gives us evidence to push the search further,” Laswell cuts in, her footfalls pausing as she searches the scrawled handwriting for something. “And it opens up a new trail. Why did Graves want you? And what did Shepherd deem worthy of trading his star soldier?”

Your leg’s bouncing, the soft tap tap tap of your foot against the linoleum floor sounding more like a ticking time bomb than anything.

When you look up from the table, your eyes instantly clash with a pair of dark brown. Ghost.

He’s watching you – something hidden behind his gaze that you can’t unpack. Not now, at least, with your mind racing at a million thoughts per hour. With your body feeling as sensitive as a live wire. Every breath feels manual, a feat in and of itself.

You break your eye contact with him suddenly, weary, looking to the window instead. The moon isn’t so complicated; doesn’t hold so many layers of darkness, both in colour and soul.

There’s nothing like the feeling of moonlight against your skin, the brush of nightly breezes against your chilled skin.

“Sweetheart –” Your attention instantly goes to Price, whose hands are clasped on the table, gaze heavy where it sits on you, “Do you know anything at all that could help us. Any leads.”

You go to open your mouth, but everything feels wrong, your stomach sinking and hands trembling and vision going blurry.

Without any thought, or reason, you abruptly stand, slightly shaky on your feet. You swallow, once, a difficult movement against your barren throat. Scratchy and harsh.

“I – I’m sorry, I need a moment,” you manage to mutter out, taking a step back in a shadow of defence.

Brows furrow, a question’s asked – you don’t hear, don’t see, because all you can do is turn and bolt out of the room, shouldering the door open and heading down the hospital light-white corridor, the white burning your vision.

Your eyes sting with unshed tears, your chest heaving, the echoing sound of your boots against the floor a distant soundtrack.

“Fuck,” you mutter, palms coming up to rub harshly at your face as you slow, unsure. You just need space, a moment to yourself, a place to break apart with no one as your witness.

A slightly ajar closet to your left seems like your best bet.

Heading for it, you push in, the stale scent of cleaning products hitting your nose. It’s difficult to find any part of you that cares in the slightest.

The door closes, and you just stand, for a moment, your head resting against the wood. Every breath rattles your bones, like your core is falling apart at its seams. Another breath. Two more.

Except it’s getting harder, with every breath, to fill your lungs. They come out harried, shallow and not unlike slices of a knife against your windpipe. They tear from your mouth like coughs.

Your back hits the wall, and you slide down, until you’re sat on the floor, head sat between your bent knees as the first tears finally fall down your cheeks. Hiccups leave your chapped lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut as your shoulders shake.

You haven’t allowed yourself to break down like this in... Gods, you can’t even remember. All you know is that it hurts, at your very core, but it’s also kind of freeing.

It’s as if your world is closing in around you; your breaths doing nothing to quell that intense sense of suffocation, cruel in the grasp your fear has around your throat. Nothing makes sense – everything hurts, your tears leave lines of heat down your cheeks –

The door creaks open.

Heart stuttering in your chest, you look up from your balled up frame with blurry vision, to see who your intruder is. Did Gaz or Soap leave the rookies early? Did Price or Laswell get worried and come check on you?

“Sweetheart.”

The tall, threatening frame of the man fills out the small crack of the door in a way that has your breath catching for a whole other reason.

“Ghost?” You find yourself asking, your voice threatening a whine with the state you’re in. 

He steps in, the scent of blood and some cologne filling the space as he does. You wipe at your bloodshot eyes, curling in closer.

“If you want to kill me, this is probably your best bet,” you bite, posturing, an attempt of goading so your image isn’t completely ruined. The idea isn’t completely unfound, either – he very well could pull out his gun and shoot you clean through the head.

He shakes his head, closing the door – allowing pitch black to envelop you both.

“You’re too cheeky for your own good,” he mutters, and despite all of your notions of the man, he slides into a sitting position next to you.

If you could stabilise your breaths, you would, if for no other fact than your own embarrassment. Your body still trembles, and small hiccups still leave your lips with every shaky breath.

His presence is warm against yours, and when he moves, the fabric of his uniform brushes against your own.

“Why are you here?” You find yourself asking, a whisper under your breath. Just loud enough for him to hear, for him to hear the fragile undertone. The risk you’re taking, sitting beside him in this state. 

He looses a breath – easy, soft. Unlike everything you know about the hulking man. “I understand.”

You can’t help the uneasy chuckle that leaves your lips. “You understand? Mister been-conspiring-against-me-since-day-one?”

“I understand what it’s like to have the weight of the world on your shoulders, with no one you trust there to hold you, too.”

You look to him, but in the darkness, it’s more of an instinctual act than anything. 

“Didn’t realise you were a poet, Lieutenant,” you chide, voice breaking slightly around the syllables. He doesn’t comment; a small mercy.

He shrugs, brushing against you as he does. “Not a poet. Just a soldier.”

“And an asshole,” you hum, and you can’t help the breathless laugh that escapes you when he elbows you in the dip of your waist. You elbow him back, unthinkingly, freely.

Silence fills in the gaps, except for the background noise of your shaky, tight breathing, and the bounce of your knees.

That is, until the man beside you breaks it.

“I asked my dog what two minus two is,” Ghost says, easily. You loosen your posture, just slightly, brows furrowed when you turn your head towards him once more.

“What are you on about?” You ask, incredulous. He shrugs. Nods.

“I asked my dog what two minus two is,” he continues, despite the confusion that is surely emanating off of you. “She said nothing.”

You let out a shocked, lost bark of a laugh at that, turning your body around so you’re facing him in the enclosed space. “Was that a dad joke?”

“I found out why my dog’s such a bad dancer,” Ghost starts once more, continuing despite your elongated groan. Seems to relish in your dismay.

“And why’s that?” You entertain him, despite the anxiety in your gut, the words left unsaid burning your tongue.

“She’s got two left feet.”

You heave a sigh, shaking your head – but the corners of your lips pull into a cheesy grin, and your breaths are lighter. Easier, natural, less harsh against your dry throat. “Do you even have a dog?” You ask.

“Her name’s Riley. She’s my family,” he says, earnestly, and your heart shatters just a bit more.

“What breed is she?”

“German Shepherd. Used to work in the military, till a mission gone wrong left her too scared to work in the field. Saved ‘er from the pound.”

How can this man be the same one who threatened your life? Who – who had made it very clear how little he trusted you, and was generally such a jerk? A complete asshole, of whom you had no qualms hating?

“She’d like you,” he adds, and you blink, “Always did like girls more than guys. Strong ones, at that.”

“You think I’m strong?”

You can tell he rolls his eyes, even without being able to see it. “I’ll bring ‘er in, when this is all said and done.”

“When this is all said and done, we’ll probably never see each other again. Small mercies, hey?” Your tone takes on a joking lilt.

He doesn’t laugh.

And it hits you, then. How fragile this very situation is. How unimportant, in the real scheme of things, your relationship with the 141 is. When Graves and Shepherd have been dealt with, where do you fit in? What purpose will you have?

You don’t, can’t, truly fit in with them. They’re already so interconnected, memories spent together that you’ll never understand, connections you have no place in joining.

Oh, what a stab in the gut that is.

“I can get Johnny or Kyle if you want,” Ghost offers, but you find yourself answering just this side of too soon.

“No.”

You realise, as you sit here beside him, that he is all you need. Soap and Gaz would’ve tried to ramble or make a move on you, Price would’ve tried to embrace you. Ghost just sits, and waits, his presence speaking a thousand words. He’s your anchor, right now.

“What does a bee use to brush its hair?” Ghost breaks the quiet, once more, his words steady and grating with the low timbre of his voice.

You exhale, but go along with it anyways. “I haven’t a clue.”

“A honeycomb.”

You scoff, but the smile on your face doesn’t waver – your cheeks hurting from the way it tugs on the muscles of your tired face. “That was awful, Lt.”

“Johnny laughed at that one,” he replies, head tilted to rest his skull against the wall. His arms rest on the bends of his knees.

“That’s cause he feels bad for you,” you hum, satisfaction weighing on your words.

Ghost elbows you once more, a bit too hard, but you find the movement grounding more than harmful. Like a way for your body to come back to itself, and register the world around you. No need for self-destruction or derealisation.

“They really like you, y’know,” he murmurs, and your breath pauses in your chest. “The Sergeants. Won’t shut up about you when you’re gone.”

“Well, if you’re gonna hate me, some support is nice,” you retort, and he huffs a low breath. Pauses, like he’s thinking something over. Weighing the risk and reward of his next statement.

“I don’t,” he rolls his tongue in his mouth, “I don’t hate you.”

“You’ve had me fooled,” you retort, the cool wall against your cheek a steady reminder of the world. “The whole threatening to kill me thing, and all.”

“If it means protecting Johnny, Kyle – even Price, I’d do it. Still will,” he says, the last statement bordering on a warning. “If you’ve somehow fooled us all, then I won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

You swallow. Scratch at the skin of your wrist.

“I just need to figure this shit out,” you admit, looking to the roof for answers. “Once Shadow Company’s been taken down, and Shepherd’s dealt with, everything can go back to normal. This’ll just be a blip in time.”

“The Sergeants aren’t going to let you go,” Ghost warns, an edge to his words. “What are you gonna do, anyways? Live in the countryside?”

“I don’t know,” you confess, picking at your fingernails. “I’ll figure it out when it comes to it. We’ve got bigger things on our plate.”

With his shoulder pressed against your own, you let your body relax, your breaths finally even. No tears on the verge of falling down your cheeks – and no fear lacing your veins with a thick coat of adrenaline.

However, that short-lived relief is quickly replaced with the all too familiar crash.

Your head pounds, and your limbs suddenly feel heavy. Your eyelids threaten to close, even though you don’t feel the need to sleep.

“Tired?” Ghost asks, low and soft, careful not to startle you. So at odds with the idea you had of him.

Without meaning to, you lean further against him, using his frame to hold your own up. He doesn’t comment on it. “I’m – just need a minute,” you murmur.

His hand moves to rest at the side of your head, pulling you in so your temple rests against his shoulder. It’s warm, comforting – a parallel to the man of which you thought you hated.

Rest comes easy, at the side of one of the men who wants to kill you.

*

When you come to, it’s with the feeling of fingers brushing through your hair, and the scent of cajun.

The gentle mid-morning light filters into the room, casting light through your closed eyes, the faraway sound of bullets being fired an odd comfort. Soft sizzling, too, can be heard, as well as the chopping of a knife against a board.

“That smells bloody divine, Si,” a familiar, Scottish voice calls, quietened by what you can only suspect is due to your ‘sleeping’. “Ya’d be a bonnie housewife.”

“Watch it, Johnny,” Ghost replies, stern, even with the undercurrent of humour in his voice. 

The fingers in your hair continue to card through your strands, pausing to massage at your scalp every now and then. The movements have you melting further into Soap’s lap.

“Ken the other two are goin’ at it?” Johnny chides, and even without vision, you can see the goading smile on his face.

“I ken you should shut your face,” Ghost retorts, the sound of chopping finally coming to a pause. “And, no, you’re a bloody idiot.”

“Rude.”

Fluttering your eyes open, you let out a small huff of air, stretching your tense muscles. They feel sore with lethargy, and stiff from the position you fell asleep in.

“Mornin’, Sweetheart,” Johnny smirks, looking down at where your head sits in his lap.

When you look towards the kitchen, it's to find Ghost, flipper in hand as he stands by the stove, a glass bowl filled with salad to his side. One thing in particular has you looking twice.

“A bit promiscuous, don't you think, Lieutenant?”

Ghost's eyes narrow, but Soap lets out a pleased chuckle. “Like a lad seein’ an ankle, aye?”

Instead of gloves, the pale skin of his hands is shown for the first time, patterns of ink decorating the back of his hands. The small hint of a sleeve has you desperate to see the full thing.

“You're both fuckin’ ridiculous,” Ghost scoffs, starting to swap the contents of the pan into the salad bowl.

As you move to sit up, Soap’s hands fall to your waist, pulling you so your back presses against his chest. His thumbs trace circles into the skin where your shirt rides up, but it’s more out of instinct than anything else.

“What’d you make us?” You ask, rubbing at your weary, sleepy eyes as you deflate against Soap.

“Cajun chicken ‘nd salad,” Ghost quips, serving up a plate for each of you. It smells nothing short of delicious, and you sit up straighter against the Sergeant.

“Lt and Gaz are our personal chefs,” Soap chimes, squeezing you tighter against him. “Bloody perfect at it.”

Ghost rolls his eyes, but comes over with two plates, setting them on the coffee table in front of both you and Soap. It’s a small space, next to the personal kitchen, but it’s nice. Intimate.

The first mouthful of salad is like heaven on your tongue, and you look up at Ghost with wide eyes as you swallow. “This is amazing.”

“You’d better eat it all then,” he jerks his chin towards your plate, grabbing his own before sitting on the chair to your left. Soap, still with his chest to your back, shovels his food into his mouth like a man starved.

It’s quiet, for a few moments, just the three of you enjoying your food.

“What’s the next step?” Johnny asks, around a mouthful. You elbow him in the side, and he feigns hurt. He swallows, before continuing, “Aye mean, what’re we gonna do? What lead do we follow?”

“I think,” you work your jaw around the words, thinking, “I think if we get to the root, we can bring down the whole tree.”

You scan the two men, and it’s Ghost who understands your words first.

“Shepherd. You think we should take him out first,” Ghost leans back in his seat, studying you with calculating, chocolate brown eyes. They shine in the midday light.

Nodding, you swallow around some lettuce, before continuing, looking between the two. 

“If we can find Shepherd, and learn why everything’s happened the way it has,” you rub at your face, “Then we can bring it all crumbling down. Like dominoes.”

“He’s MIA,” Soap furrows his brows, placing his empty plate on the coffee table. “We’ve tried finding the twat – he’s gone.”

You shrug, a plan forming in your mind like the final pieces of a puzzle connecting. A small, pleased smile spreads on your lips, before you’re moving off of the couch, ready to head to Price’s office.

“Where’s you going?” Ghost queries, leaning forward, elbows resting on his spread knees.

You tilt your head.

“Power in numbers, right?” Heading for the corridor, you open the door, before turning back to look at the two men one more time.

“I know two soldiers who’ve been waiting for a call.”

taglist. @lilpothoscuttings @jng-yuan @iruzias @insatiablekittie @1wh4re1nova @kaoyamamegami @supernaturalstilinski @inthemiddle0feverywhere @msecho19 @nogood-boyo @alfa-jor @lalashhyl @letmeapologise @honeybeeznutz @1mawh0re @lalashhyl @someonepleasedateme @letmeapologise @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @inarabee @simp-sentral @littlecellist @clear-your-mind-and-dream @browtfyoudoing @oreo-cream @fanngirl19 @infpt-zylith @marispunk @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago @xvintageghostx @thigh-o-saur

#🤍 : forever winter #⌨️ : love's writing #cod mw2 #ghost cod #cod x reader #ghost mw2 #john soap mactavish #mw2 #soap cod #tf141 #tf141 x reader #john price #kyle gaz garrick #captain price #price x reader #gaz x reader #soap x reader #ghost x reader #gaz garrick #cod #kyle garrick #gaz mw2 #gaz cod #soap x ghost #soapghost #call of duty x reader #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #cod smut #simon riley x reader

[breadbrioche]

fit for a princess

luke castellan x reader

➳summary: a quick fluffy thing because admin eagerly wishes summer can come sooner and is purposely ignoring the ending of the pjo series :D

➳warnings: not proof read, written during multiple fits of delusion, established relationship

➳word count: 1.1k

➳a/n: IM BACK!! Sorry to any who were expecting a TUC fic but the pjo has been my latest obsession so I had to write it

At Camp Half-Blood, the weather is always perfect but, somehow, its even better than most days. The sun is shining at its brightest yet the cool breeze blowing made it so that it wasn’t uncomfortably hot. As one of many campers taking advantage of the great weather, Luke leans his back against a tree with his eyes closed and enjoying the warmth and listening to the calm sounds of the nature around him.

He winces when a suddenly shadow obstructs the light and peaks his eyes open slightly to see what caused it. Though through blurry eyes as he blinks to adjust to the brightness, he spots your figure looming over him and a smile instantly forms on Luke’s face.

“Can I help you?” He drawls out teasingly. You pout playfully before seating yourself next to him, fingers easily tangling with his like routine.

“You should be thankful I’m even here! Seriously, it took forever to track you down.”

“It’s not like this place is a particularly hard place to find.” Luke argues back but you roll your eyes and lean your head on his shoulder.

“Yeah but I’d never thought you’d be here of all places” You point out as it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“What, can’t a guy just enjoy some peace and quiet?”

At that, you bark out a laugh, not believing him. “Not if you’re called Luke Castellan.” You chastise. “You’re always training as if you aren’t already the best swordsman in the camp”

“Did you come here to nag at me or do you have an actual reason?”

“Oh right!” You reach into your bag and place something atop Luke’s hair faster than he could see what it was. Immediately raising his hands to his head, he gingerly felt around blindly to see what it was. His fingertips brushes against something soft yet so thin he could tell it was delicate but also a more rough and rigid material.

As he carefully removes the item of his head to inspect it, Luke amusedly huffs upon realising what it was.

“You made me a flower crown?” He asks as he admires your craftsmanship - various summer flowers were woven together intricately, intertwining to create a colourful circlet. Leaves were bent precisely to frame each flower, some of which Luke could recognise being sunflowers and marigolds.

“I saw some Demeter kids making them and I wanted to try too.” You explained. “Do you like it? I know it’s not perfect but I think I did a pretty good job with it!”

“I love it.” He confirmed and using his free arm to pull you in for a hug to show his gratitude. “It’s almost as pretty as the person who made it.”

Groaning at his cheesy line, you lightly shoved him off you before taking the crown back into your hands to nestle it on top of his dark curls once again.

“Well I think you look way prettier than I ever could; it really suits you, y’know” you tease with a sly grin. “You’re giving serious fairy princess vibes”

“Are you being for real?” He sighed, looking away embarrassed but making no move to remove the flower crown. You giggled at his actions, cooing as you poked his reddening cheeks. Luke catches your offending wrist before using it to pull you into his lap, his arms wrapping around you and nestling his face into your neck.

“I thought I was supposed to be a hero” he complains against your skin.

As you wrap your arms around his neck, you huff endearingly, feeling how warm his face is.

“Ayy now don’t sell yourself short; you can still be a hero while being a fairy princess. I’m sure there’s a myth about that.”

“I don’t think there is, love” Luke retorts which makes you scrunch your face disappointedly. Though, you don’t dwell on it for long as you gently grab his face and remove it from the crook of your neck. Luke’s face morphs into a confused expression, eyebrows furrowed and dark eyes assessing you to find the meaning behind your antics, but you paid him no mind as you grinned happily.

You don’t understand how the boy before you doesn’t know how beautiful he is - and hell, you’d even say that Luke is way more attractive than any of the Aphrodite boys - especially in this current moment with how the sun made his eyes twinkle and his ruddy skin look like it was glowing.

But unfortunately, your thoughts are interrupted with the way Luke drums his fingers at your side, an unspoken request for an explanation. Stubbornly, you deny him the satisfaction in favour of admiring him more.

However, his drumming becomes more insistent then turns into pokes and before you know it, he’s attacking you relentlessly with tickles. This forces you to release your hold on Luke’s face to wrestle his hands off you. You shriek when he resists your attempts and puts his weight forward which pushes your back to the ground.

“Stop-!! Let go!!” You demand between fits of laughter while you writhe on the grass from the way your stomach cramps, you kick your feet and claw at his hands but Luke is, as always, relentless, finding how the whole situation has turned incredibly amusing.

“What…the fuck was that- “ you pant out when Luke eventually stops tickling you. As you heave, you glare up at Luke - the damn flower crown still perched on his head even after all that - who has a shit eating grin on his face.

“Maybe you aren’t a fairy princess hero after all.” You say accusingly. Luke raises an eyebrow inquisitively before rolling onto the ground next to you, his shoulders bumping into yours in the process.

“What am I then?”

“Probably a monster. A mean,ugly monster who disguised himself as an insufferably pretty boy who’s sole mission is to make my life a living hell.”

After you air out your complaints, it's his turn to laugh; the deep sound almost makes it hard for you to keep scowling at him.

“It still beats being a fairy princess hero, for sure! That job sounds right up my alley.” Luke exclaims, urging you to shove him with a roll of your eyes but he’s not at all unfazed. Rather, he shimmies closer to you so his mouth is at the same level as your ear.

“Y’know what being a ‘pretty monster who’s sole mission is to annoy you’ would mean right?” He asks you, and it’s like you can hear his smirk.

“What.” You reply, not bothering to correct his misquote.

“It means that I would get to be with you all the time.”

#percy jackson and the olympians #luke castellan #luke castellan x reader #percy jackson and the lightning thief #percy jackson fanfiction #fanfic #writing #percy series #own works #will probably regret posting this in the morning but thats not my problem rn #me writing this is so funny bc all the other stuff I have drafted for luke is ANGST

[writingsbychlo]

WHAT HAPPENS IN VELARIS | azriel

summary; what happens in vegas? what happens in velaris. or, what happens the morning after two blind-in-love best friends get married while black-out drunk at a starfall party?

word count; 6733

notes; okay, I know starfall week is technically over, but the end of my week got real busy unexpectedly, so there are another few fics to come which we'll technically count. shhh.

You awoke with a startle, the familiar feeling of a shadow stroking over your cheek, but unfamiliar for the morning. Your eyes snapped open, sunlight pouring in and burning your eyes at the brightness, a hoarse groan leaving you. As you dragged yourself up in bed, darkness exploded around you, a dizzying kaleidoscope of shadows whipping around the room in a flurry that made your stomach twist. 

“Az, make it stop.” You groaned, and he stirred a little, groaning himself. At your words, though, whether you or him, the shadows began to calm, gracefully blocking out the light coming from the window and setting the room back into peaceful semi-darkness. Propping yourself up a little further, the man snoozing at your side huffed, wings tucking in a little tighter as he began to rise. 

“Why are you in my bed?” He groaned, twisting to grab a pillow and slam it over his face, and you rubbed at your eyes, before turning to face him properly. 

“You’re in my bed.” Scanning your eyes greedily along his bare arms, a thing you could later blame on this raging hangover if you were caught, your breath stuttered when you properly took him in. Not just bare arms, but bare chest. Rippling muscles peeking out from here the covers had slid down to his waist, swirling tattoos and dark chest hair. Your gaze roamed a little further, a squeak leaving your lips before your hand slammed over your eyes. Bare legs, one hanging out from the edge of the covers now, draped over the side of the bed like his wings. “You’re in my bed naked! Why are you in my bed naked?”

“I’m what?” That caught his attention, the man sitting up almost ramrod straight, back stiff and crumpled, lazy wings flaring a little too late to catch himself in the sudden movement. His hand flew out, both of you taking a loud gasp when that hand, sliding under the covers to grasp at anything, connecting with your thigh, gripping tightly for balance. A look of sickness crossed over his face as his head presumably spun, much like yours, in an equally awful hangover. “That’s your thigh. Naked thigh. Bare skin. Please tell me you have clothes on?”

His voice rose higher and higher in pitch, eyes fixed determinedly forwards as you glanced down at yourself, lifting the covers to check. “Yes…” His shoulders sagged a little, head daring to turn to you. “Sort of?”

“Sort of, what-” His jaw dropped, eyes visibly widening a little as he stared at your chest, and you smacked his shoulder. His cheeks reddened, but he didn’t look away. His voice was much raspier when he spoke next; “Cute bra.”

“Azriel!” You yanked the covers up, covering yourself from the neck down, and that blush spread to his ears as he finally met your gaze. He only shrugged. Reaching a hand under the covers himself towards his crotch, you were ready to chew his head off, before he was letting out a relieved sigh. 

“I have my boxers on still.”

“Oh, okay. So, we didn’t…” You waggled a finger between your bodies, and that blush that had started to fade gained colour on his cheeks again. You were sure your own face was just as warm. 

“No, I mean, surely we’d remember if we did… that.”

“It’d be pretty hard to forget,” You mumbled, hangover clouding your brain enough that you didn’t quite realise your eyes were roaming down his chest again until he cleared his throat, the muscles of his chest flexing a little as he did. You’d pretend until your dying breath that the sight didn’t make your mouth dry a little. 

It didn’t change the fact, however, that you could get used to waking up like this. Sure, you’d seen Azriel shirtless before, many times. Just like he’d seen you in bikinis in Summer, or scandalous dresses that arguably revealed more than this when you visited Hewn City, but that didn’t make it any less domestic. This wasn’t causal beachwear, or training, or a mission. This was home, this was comfy mornings when he should be smiling and kissing your forehead and asking what you want for breakfast. It all made your throat pinch a little.

Azriel’s lips were moving, he’d been saying something and you’d trailed off into daydreams. Snapping away the small smile from your lips, your attention moved to him. “What?”

“I said, maybe we should get dressed, and I can try to sneak out before anyone notices us in the halls.” Normally, this wouldn't be such a challenge, because you only had Nesta and Cassian to deal with, and they’d likely sleep in late today. The problem, was that following last night’s Starfall party, Rhys and Feyre were here with Nyx, Mor and Emerie, Elain and Lucien, Amren and Varian, and probably a couple of party-goers just now rousing themselves enough to leave. So many people to hide from, and your head pounded at the mere thought.

“Good idea.” You rubbed at your temples, even the sound of the sheets rustling around him was grating on your eardrums. But, you couldn't pass up the opportunity for just one more look at him, before he was gone, and would doubtless avoid you for days to come as the awkwardness settled. As he stood, he flexed his arms up and over his head, wings fluttering in a loose stretch, and your eyes widened. The garbled sound, something between a gasp and laugh, that fell from your lips was beyond your control. “Your wings!”

“What? What about them?” From the tone of your voice, he tried to look over his shoulder, unable to see what you were seeing. You discarded the blanket, crawling on your hands and knees over the mattress until you could kneel up behind him, one hand cupped over your mouth. The shock had effectively eliminated any remaining headache or sensitivity, his wide eyes finding yours. “What?”

“Flare them all the way out.” He did as told, the white paint smeared across the leathery membrane was clear words to you now, and you let out a shaky breath, tracing one letter with the pads of your fingers. 

“Please don’t do that unless you want me to embarrass myself further.” His words came on a groan as you touched the flesh, and you snatched your hand back, cheeks burning hot now as you realised what you’d done. Squeaking out an apology, you stood, guiding him over to the large mirror in your bedroom and turning him around so he could see what was written there.

Painted in thick capitals across his wings in white paste, were the stark words ‘just married’. A little chipped, somewhat faded as you were sure you’d find paint in your bed for weeks now, but there was no mistaking it. “Oh my God, Az…”

He looked down at his left hand, finding a beautiful silver band there, adorning his finger and catching in the rays of sun that occasionally flickered in from between his shadows at the window. As he glanced at you, the thought lingered in the back of your mind that you were still in only your underwear, as was he, and perhaps you should care about that, but the fact he was married was pinging around the inside of your head like a pebble.

“Who the hell did you marry?” You forced a laugh out, like everything in your body hadn't gone numb at the idea.

He only cleared his throat, picking up your left hand, and lifting it up to show off the matching silver band there. “You, apparently.”

You took a moment to admire the ring on your hand, the worry inside of you at having gotten married quashed momentarily by both relief and the sheer beauty of the gem on your finger. It was a blue colour, the same as his siphons, ridiculously cheesy but somehow perfect, and exactly what you’d have picked while drunk. Dotted around it were bands of silver leaves from metal, making it look like a flower nestled amongst nature, wrapped delicately around your finger. 

The silence dragged on between you both, each of you taking a second to come to terms with what had happened. 

“Okay, I mean, this is fine. It's fine, right?” His focus snapped back to you, lowering his hand, and furrowed brows raised a little. “This is totally casual. Let’s just act normal and get some breakfast. I bet nobody knows.”

“Okay, good call…” He cleared his throat, shoulders rolling back the way he did when calculating his next move in a sparring match against Cassian, or a battle of wits with Nesta. “We eat, get rid of these hangovers, and figure out a plan later.”

“Yes!” Your voice was a little too loud, both of you wincing. “Yes. Good.”

Darting around the room, you left him there, gathering some clothes from your drawers and tugging on a pair of simple leggings and a hoodie, feet shoved into a pair of comfortable slippers, the most causal outfit you could think of for the day after a Starfall rager. He only stood, idling in the room and alternating between staring at the ring on his finger, the words in the mirror, and you.

“What?”

“I… only have that. It’s a little walk-of-shame-y, don’t you think?” He pointed to his suit, still lying in a crumpled heap on the floor near your dress, and your cheeks flooded with heat once again. 

“Right… you should go get some clothes. Do your little shadow-hop thingy.” Your hands settled on your hips, waiting.

“I can’t Rhys hasn’t removed the protection wards from the party yet.” He shifted, face that of pure concentration, and the shadows in the room pulled just slightly towards him, but quickly sputtered back to their own devices. Stupid protection wards against snooping guests. “You’ll have to go get some.”

“You want me to sneak across the palace, into your bedroom, and rifle through your draws to find your clothes?” His scowl formed.

“Yes, I want you to go across the hall, into my bedroom, a place you’ve been before, and go into my first dresser, top two drawers, and bring me some fresh clothes.”

“Snarky.” You muttered, making your way across the room. He stuck his tongue out at you childishly, before turning his attention back to the mirror. On the other side of your bedroom door, as it clicked shut behind you, the air was colder. Refreshing, clearing your head. The smell of food was already wafting through the halls, chatter in every direction but none too close, if you were quick. 

Sneaking along, around two corners and one small set of stairs - across the hall, snarky bastard - you found his room. The door was mercifully unlocked for you, and you were quick to close it behind you. It was calmer than your own, the curtains open and golden light spilling in far softer than your own as his bedroom faced away from the rising sun. It smelled like him, that perfect mix that you always found so enticing, and the pathetic hope that it lingered in your sheets for a while made your eyes roll to only yourself. 

First dresser, top two drawers. Pulling out the first, rows and rows of neatly folded sweatpants were presented to you, and you tugged out a pair of muted green ones, unsure you’d be able to handle seeing him swagger around in those sinful grey ones today. The second drawer was t-shirts, a black one to match, and you tucked them under one arm, before backing away.

The journey back to your room was just as quick and stressful, barely taking a breath until you were sealed inside of your just-married bubble with Azriel once again. 

“See? You survived the big scary trip and my big scary room. I’m so proud.” You only scoffed, launching the clothes at him. 

“You know, it’s adorable that you colour-organise your sweatpants.” His laughter stopped abruptly, scowl shot in your direction. As you gained the upper-hand once again, you took a look at him. He had a sponge in one hand, still standing by the mirror and trying to reach around himself. Water was dotted along the carpet, some of the paste smeared into grey on his back now, but he could barely reach it. You softened upon looking at him, holding out your hand. “C’mere. Come sit on the bed.”

He did as told, after tugging on his sweatpants, and yesterday’s socks with a grimace, settling on the edge of the bed. Kneeling behind him once again, he flexed out his wings, bowing his head forwards for you to start work. Carefully, you wiped down his wings, giving extra caution to the paces that made him shiver or his breath catch, until the words were gone entirely. 

You weren’t sure what possessed you, when you leaned forwards, pressing a kiss to the back of his head. “All done.”

He only turned, his face close to yours as he looked over his shoulder, and he bumped his forehead against yours once. “Thank you.” His whisper was as low as your own, and your smile only grew. Letting yourself bask for only a second longer, you peeled away, headed to the bathroom to discard of the sponge and at least give your face a cursory wash, a splash of cold water to wake you up. 

When you returned, Azriel was just buttoning his shirt up behind himself, both of you looking far fresher and feeling much more composed than you had twenty minutes ago. 

“Ready to go deal with this?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be, husband.” He grinned a little, opening the door and peering out into the corridor. Nobody was present to see him slipping out of your room, and so he turned back to you. 

“Now or never, wife.”

“I’d prefer never, to be honest.” Your stomach rumbled in disagreement as you stepped up beside him, both of you leaving your room behind, and his shadows darted along behind, swirling around you both like a cloak as you began your walk toward the voices you could already hear and the tempting smell of food.

Nerves were eating you alive, Azriel’s presence beside you doing little to calm the erratic racing of your heart or the beading of sweat along your spine, and so you found yourself twisting anxiously at the ring on your finger, spinning it around and around and around-

It went utterly silent as the two of you stepped into the doorway, all eyes moving to you both, scanning every footstep and breath as you moved across the room to take the only two seats still available. Pulling out the chair beside Mor, Azriel motioned for you to sit down, and you offered the best smile you could muster in response as you sank into the seat. He took the one next to you, Lucien on his other side buttering a piece of toast, and the only sound in the room was the loud crunch it made as he bit into it. 

Nobody spoke, until Cassian did; “So, how’s life as a married couple going so far?”

“So you all know?”  

“Well, you invited us all to watch,” Rhys smirked, a loud groan left you, your head falling down to burying your hands, and as laughter broke out around the table, you wanted to curl up into a ball. Better yet, you wanted to disappear entirely. Jokes quickly followed the laughter, only spurring on everyone’s amusement, and the burning of your blush was so high you were sure you were going to catch fire at any moment. You couldn't bare to even look up. 

That was, until a finger was tapping under your chin lightly. The rough feel of a scarred- fingertip telling you exactly who it was, who was guiding your face back up from the sanctity of your palms. Before you, was a plate of all your favourites that he’d gathered, and he placed a tall glass of orange juice down to match it, giving a sweet smile when your stare shifted thankfully to him. 

He nodded in acknowledgement, his smile lingering as he began to gather his food, but the moment was ruined by Feyre’s cooing as she elbowed her mate. “Oh, look, such a good husband you make, Az.”

“Yeah, yeah. Get it all out.” He sighed, fixing his usual terrifying stare around the guests at the table. “This is your chance to make jokes, while I’m distracted with food and a hangover.”

“Fuck that, I want to know the story,” Cassian spoke right over the top of any jokes that were coming, ignoring Feyre’s stare for his curse in front of her son, various sounds of shock and agreement sounding out. Once again it was quiet, all attention still hanging on your both, expectantly. 

“What story?” You raised your brows, shovelling some of the food into your mouth, hoping it would quell the rising nausea within you at the spotlight that had been thrust onto you now. 

“The story. How in the name of the Mother did you two end up getting married last night? That story.” The warrior clarified, and your jaw tightened as you tried to think. All that came up was a blur, half the night was clear and half of it was gone, right up until this morning. Unfortunately, the half you needed was the blurry part. 

Azriel, though, stiffened beside you, pausing with food halfway to his mouth. It was only a minute stutter, picking up action again hardly a second later, but you weren’t the only one to notice. Rhysand’s smile widened. “Az, looks like you might remember something. Care to share?”

He looked like he absolutely didn’t want to share, not even a speck of it, until his eyes moved to you. You wanted to know, and you were sure your face conveyed that, because he slumped a little in defeat.

“I had plans to tell you something last night.” He paused, leaving everyone at the table, including yourself, in suspense, as he poked at some of the food on his plate, and ate a little more. “I was nervous.”

“You, nervous? Must have been something important.” The look on Nesta’s face was like that of a predator hunting its prey, she was delighting in this, and Cassian chuckled by her side. You shot them both a glare, but Az never looked away from you. He looked nervous now as your attention moved back to him, the look on his face sparking something in your memory, and it was like a part of that blur uncocked just a little bit to release a memory. 

“Well, don’t you just look dashing tonight, shadowsinger?” You smirked a little, raising your glass to tip towards his as he chuckled, smoothing one hand down the front of his suit. He’d really gone all out tonight, a dark grey button-up shirt under a smart black waistcoat, tight suit pants and his best pair of boots, all shined up and ready for the party. He looked practically edible, with his hair styled for once, a single curl flicked down across his forehead. He was all but glowing under the lights, like glitter was painting along his skin, a glow in those golden eyes. 

“Well, I had to make sure I’d look alright standing next to you.” He was bold, this line you’d been dancing along in these last few months was still exhilarating, new enough that your breath rushed from your lungs in a sudden burst when he raked his gaze along you, purposefully slowly. “You look… there are no words for how you look tonight. I could list a few; stunning, beautiful, breathtaking, but I don’t think any of them do you justice.”

Your blush was so warm you wanted to press your glass against your skin just to cool it down, a smile stretching your lips as you stared up at him, even in heels. You stepped a fraction closer, his hand coming out gently, to find your one, fingers brushing your free palm lightly enough that you shuddered. Then, his smile was gone, he was nervous, a look you rarely ever saw in him. 

“I wanted to talk to you tonight. I have to tell you something.”

“Well, you have my full attention.” You hoped your tone was soft enough to melt away that panic, linking your fingers with his firmly, and his gaze dropped for a second to your joined hands. A smile flickered on his lips, his thumb smoothing over your knuckles. 

A new song played on the drums, the live band filled the room with music, and so many loud voices cheered and sang along, faelights flashing in all different colours to mimic the fall of the stars outside that would start soon. You could all but feel it like a temperature drop in the room when Azriel’s fear got the best of him. He locked up, body going rigid, eyes hard and smile turning sour.

“Maybe some liquid courage, first, hm?”

He let out a relieved breath, nodding his head, body loosening once again as he took the lead, guiding you away towards the bar.

“I remember that. You were nervous, you said we had something to talk about. I suggested we get some liquid courage.”

Azriel’s eyes glazed over a little, as though he was remembering too, reliving the moment the way you had. His jaw dropped a little, a puffed-out laugh leaving it on a breath. “Yeah… well, I think we might’ve had enough liquid courage for an entire army the night before battle.” 

Your laugh was the first one this morning that felt truly genuine, a light sparking in Azriel’s eyes at the sound. He stared, watching you giggle over the entire situation, and you’d feel self-conscious about it in front of everyone, if it didn’t make you feel so adored. That was the thing about Azriel, one of the many things that had made you fall for him so hard all those years ago, only getting worse since. 

The way he gave you his attention, the way he could make you feel like the only person in the room with a single look, the way he could make you feel special. It warmed your heart like nothing else ever had. His attention, his devotion, it was something you dreamed about, and longed for at night when you lay in bed alone, knowing he was only a few doors away. 

“So, you drank, a lot.” Feyre interrupted, Nyx giggling loudly at the way his mother had cupped her hands over his ears, as though he understood any of it. “Then what happened?”

“Another?” The bartend offered, you and Azriel already a giggling mess. You were leaning against one another, a row of sticky shot glasses lined up in front of yourselves, surrounded by bitten lime slices and split salt. The feel of his hand on your waist was like a brand through your dress, one you loved enough to place a hand over his, squeezing to keep it there. 

He didn’t, only sliding it further around your waist to yank you into his body, and your laughter stopped for a second in shock, staring up at him as he stared down, awaiting your reaction. You both melted into laughter once again. 

You could feel each deep breath he took, the brush of his chest against yours, and that laughter slowly fizzled out the closer he leaned. The bartend was long gone, the atmosphere around you both melting away into nothing more than a haze. His nose was bumping your own, dragging over your cheek, kisses without ever kissing as you shared space, shared breath. 

“We should- we should go sit down. Before I fall over in these heels.” You mumbled, and he hummed in acknowledgement. 

“I’d catch you.”

That only brought more giggles. “I think we both know, that’s not possible anymore. We’d both more likely end up sprawled out on the floor.”

He laughed too, head raising again and arm tightening at your waist. “Fine, sitting it is, but only because the floor is so dirty. Where’s our table again?”

You were mortified, fingers tracing over the tip of your nose in a feather-light touch, nothing like the way it had felt to be so close to him, to be touched by him, and the new wash of colour on his face suggested he was thinking the same thing. 

“We had some drinks, and then we came over to the table with you all.”

“Some drinks? You two drank the rest of us under the table.” Nesta scoffed, everyone laughing in agreement. Your body was already regretting everything after that first shot. “It was impressive!”

“But, also kinda’ nice.” Elain chipped in, the first thing she’d said this whole time, and she was now tucked happily under Lucien’s arm, grinning at the pair of you. “Seeing Az let go, loosen up like that. It was funny, but also sweet. I mean, I’d never seen him like that before, you bring out that side of him.”

You ducked from her stare, poking at the remnants of your food on your plate. “Pretty sure that was the tequila.”

“No, it was you,” Azriel muttered, shocking you enough that your head snapped towards him, but he was just staring at his plate, a soft upwards-twist of his lips showing his feelings.

“You challenged me to an arm wrestling competition.” Cassian cut in, a smirk on his face as you turned to look at him. 

“Did I win?”

He almost instantly regretted that question, because his smirk dropped, shifting to Nesta’s face instead as she sipped her tea. “Yeah, you did. Made all us Valkyries real proud, you can boast about it at the next training session.”

“You only won because Azriel cheated and helped you.” The General grumbled, crossing his arms and slumping in his chair. The male beside you shrugged, leaning back in his own with a cocky expression, and the two began bickering. 

A phantom feeling raced along your back as you tried to remember it. Flashes of the night, your hand clasped in Cassian’s, pushing with everything you had, another hand sitting over your own. Heat at your back as Azriel pressed himself up behind you, one arm around your waist, the other hand wrapped with yours as you both pushed at Cassian’s. His hand slammed into the table, the two of you celebrating as Cass took his loss like a sore loser.

“You also did a lot of dancing,” Mor chipped in next to your ear, practically a whisper as the men all now fought over what constituted cheating in ‘arm wrestling’. Images behind your eyes again, you and Azriel twirling across the dance floor, chest to chest again, so close you could practically taste him, laughing and giggling your way all around the room in laps for what felt like hours, until your legs were shaking and feet aching, both of you panting. “And then, the two of you were sneaking off between the pillars, laughing so much. It was adorable, you were never apart.”

Hands on your waist, pulling you away from the dance floor, like you wouldn't have followed him just about anywhere. If Azriel had asked you to, you’d have walked straight into one of the lakes in Oorid, just to see that smile on his face. He dragged you away, your back pressing against the cold stone of one of the pillars. It was a relief, your whole body hot and flushed, the cold stone cooling you a little.

It was quieter here, darker, and so much more peaceful as you were hidden away from the rest of the party. He leaned in, enough that his forehead was sat on your own, eyes closed as you both giggled hysterically. 

“Wait- what were we laughing at?” Your mind had emptied as he invaded your space, the smell of him emptying your thoughts out like scattered sand. 

“I don’t know.” More laughter took over, his body all but falling against your own as he sagged, shadows leaping in happy twirls and jumps like they were laughing too, pretty shapes around you that your eyes followed. “You know what would be funny, though? If someone spilt red wine on Eris’ suit. Who wears all white to a party?”

Azriel’s words draw loud laughter from you, bounding off of the walls between gasping breaths as you pictured it. 

“Or, if someone pranked Cassian like last year.”

You could barely breathe, arms wrapped around Azriel, clinging to him just to stay stood, and he twisted around, arms looped at your waist until it was his back pressed to the column, wings drooping either side, and you were slumped against his chest. “No, wait, I have the best one.” You pushed yourself up, one hand on his chest so you could meet his eye. “It would be so funny if Helion actually managed to convince Feyre and Rhys into that threesome.”

“What about when Mor found out, and that Helion was just moving his way through the family?”

“If they did fuck, would Lucien have to start calling Rhys ‘daddy’? Or is that only if they got married?” That seemed to be it, the two o you laughing so hard you slid down to the pillar, collapsing into a heap on the floor. You were half strewn across Azriel’s lap, face buried into his neck, his head tipped back to let the sounds of amusement flow free. 

His hair was messy now, yours the same, his cheeks pink and lips shining and he’d never looked better than he did at that moment. He lifted a hand, smoothing it across your cheek, one thumb running over your smile gently, “You know what would be the funniest, though…”

Your hand slapped over your mouth, darting to Azriel who dropped his fork, mouth dropping in shock and cheeks going the darkest shade of red yet. 

“Then, suddenly, the two of you are inviting us all down to one of the temples, and telling us you’re getting married!” Mor had no idea the moment she’d chosen to speak on, the key memory flashing through your mind of what had led to it all. “Poor Gwyn’s face, when you bombarded her with questions, asking her if priestesses held a high enough status to marry someone, and whether she’d do it right there, right now!”

“Gwyn married us?” Was all Azriel was finally able to choke out, still steadfastly ignoring your burning stare, and refusing to even let his eyes move sideways in your direction. 

“Yep.”

“Would you like to see your spectacular wedding?” Rhys offered, and it was enough to finally pull your focus from Az, moving to watch the High Lord tap at his temple in offer. He wasn’t looking at you, though, his eyes shifting to the middle distance, a look Azriel had too, upon closer inspection, and they were obviously talking. A conversation the rest of you weren’t a part of. Rhys’ brows rose, a silent question, and Azriel sighed. 

His face moved from shock, to embarrassment, to resignation, shrugging a little as his eyes came back into focus. Finally, he turned to look at you. He was nervous again. 

Taking his hand from the table, you squeezed it in both of yours, and he squeezed back, letting you settle your joint hands in your lap, never breaking eye contact. “S’okay, Rhys. Might as well get everything out in the open at once. I can’t get any more embarrassed, anyway.”

You squeezed his hand again.

There was a tapping at your mental shields, polite as ever, Rhysand made his presence known, first, A request, never a demand. You were proud of yourself for even still having them up, actually, dropping them for him to enter your mind. He grabbed onto your consciousness, dragging you into his head, to show you the scene playing through his eyes.

The giggles you’d been encased in had long since stopped, but that didn’t make the two of you any less clingy. Instead of holding hands, Rhys watched his friends cling to one another, foreheads pressed together and smiles on their faces. They looked a mess, wind ruffled from the flight here, as they all did, and eyes bright. Gwyn, slightly tipsy and utterly elated, was chanting her way through a text passage from the tome in her hands. 

Nyx was bored, tugging on his lapels as Feyre tickled at his stomach, trying to keep him quiet as they watched from the front row of the pews. He couldn't tear his eyes away, couldn't bear to leave, not when he was finally watching his brother smile like that. Not when he was finally watching his best friend get the girl he was always meant to have. Centuries of sadness and pain and suffering, and finally, they’d all get to be truly happy. 

“Azriel, uh, I don’t suppose you have any vows?” Gwyn offered, the book making a mighty slam as it snapped closed, a cloud of dust leaving it and she gripped it to her chest, teal eyes bouncing happily between the two at the altar. 

“Sure, yeah. I have… something.” The speech, Rhys felt excitement bubble within himself at the speech he’d heard Azriel practising for days to tell her. “I have been trying to tell you this all night. All month. For years, actually, so, I’m glad I can finally say it.”

Chuckles sounded around him, and Cassian hooted in encouragement somewhere to his left. “Get her, Az!”

“I’m in love with you. Plain and simple. I’m so fucking in love with you, that I can’t think straight. I can’t act right. I can barely breathe when you smile at me, and when you look at me, it makes me feel worth it. Like everything I had to endure to get to this point was nothing, because you make it all right. Everything, from the scars on my heart to the ones on my hands, you make it all feel okay. You’re beautiful, you’re special, and I hope you feel even a tiny bit of what I feel for you, because if you’ll let me, I’ll spend the rest of my life loving you with everything that I have to give. And when we die one day, my soul will forever be bound to yours, following you across the winds, to wherever you want to go. Life or death, sickness or health, happiness or sadness, I’m yours.”

It was so much more than the speech they’d had planned, something truly poured from his heart, and he rubbed a hand over his chest as he watched. He watched you cry, watched tears stream slowly down your face as you gaped, and watched Azriel wipe them away patiently. 

You were overwhelmed, clearly so, and yet you reached up, cupping Azriel’s cheeks in both of your hands. 

“Some spymaster you are, huh? How did you not know I love you too? So much, Az, for years. There are so many things about you, everything about you, I just-” You cut yourself off with a sniff, lip wobbling as you stared at him, and with your confession too, Azriel was grinning. 

“It’s okay, don’t cry, my love.”

“When I stop crying, I’ll give you a real good speech too, I promise.” That drew laughter from them all, and he could feel Feyre practically buzzing with excitement against his side, could feel the overwhelm of both Cassian and Azriel’s emotions from their bond. 

“Are you sure you want to-”

He didn’t get a chance to finish that tickle of doubt, before you were pulling his face down, body flush to his as you leaned into the kiss. Your lips melded together, Azriel wasted no time in responding, and Rhysand let out his own loud cheer of approval to join everyone else’s as the deal was all but sealed. 

“Well, kiss your bride… I guess?” Gwyn teased, stepping down from the altar as the two remained locked in their tear-filled, happy embrace. With a wink of magic, Rhys was holding out his hand, a set of pretty bands sat in the centre. With another flick, the pair was sitting snugly around each finger, and at the sudden coldness, the pair snapped apart. 

Glancing down at your hands, you were busy admiring yours while Azriel’s head turned to Rhys, mouthing his thanks, before taking your hand and throwing them up in the air. 

“I got the girl! I got the girl, Cass!”

“Yeah, you did, buddy!” His friend hollered, all of them making their way up to the altar now in a stream to offer their congratulations. 

The memory fizzled out, you felt yourself being slowly deposited back into your own body, until you were blinking your eyes and taking a gasping breath. The room was silent, waiting for any kind of response, and Azriel was pushing the last of his foot around his plate aimlessly, an anxious frown sitting on his lips. Your hands squeezed, coming up empty, and finding his hand was now sitting on his lap, clenched into a tight fist so hard his knuckles were white.

“I had imagined something better for our first kiss. Preferably, something I’d consciously remember.” He still wasn’t looking at you, even as he spoke. Out of everything about this situation that made it crazy, somehow, marrying Azriel, it all seemed to make sense. Nothing about it felt wrong, or crazy, and you only wished you’d remember the beautiful moment through your own eyes instead of someone else. It was your turn to direct his attention now. 

“Yeah?” Your hand settled behind his head, sitting on the nape of his neck and rubbing lightly, until he looked up at you. Hope. Hope shone in those pretty eyes. “Something more like this?”

The moment your lips met his, gasps sounded and cutlery dropped to hit plates sharply. But, you didn’t care. Moving slowly, Azriel barely paused, before letting out a quiet moan against your lips, relief and love mixed into the sound, as he kissed back. One hand found your cheek, the other spreading along the back of your chair until his arm wrapped around you to tug you in closer. His lips were shy against your own, growing in confidence with every drag, your noses bumping, promises and affection and need shining through. 

He pulled back, for a quick breath, your lungs burning in a heady way that made you dizzy, before he was stealing more, prolonging the kiss. Vaguely, you could hear Cassian cheering, Feyre aww-ing, and Lucien chuckling. Nyx was clapping his little hands excitedly, obviously picking up on the joy in the atmosphere. Azriel’s thumb swiped over your cheek as he pulled back, a final kiss left on your still-puckered lips. 

His pupils were blown wide as he licked over his own. You smiled, hoping to maintain at least a little of your dignity and all of your innocence, before you jumped your new husband right at the table now that all of the confusion was cleared. His nose was still bumping your own lightly, lips barely brushing, and he placed another chaste kiss on your lips, need burning hot between you both. “Yeah, just like that.”

Finally, he pulled away, sparing you both any embarrassment if he’d stayed longer and you’d lost all your self-control. He was grinning stupidly as everyone stared at you both, his arm still spread along the back of your chair, fingers brushing your shoulder in aimless patterns. 

“So, what are you going to do now?” Lucien raised a good question, you hadn't really thought that far. And yet, still, as you glanced from your wedding band to your husband, you felt nothing but bliss. 

“Well, I think Azriel should take his wife on their first date, for starters.”

Azriel only nodded, turning to look at you and you swore hearts were visible in his eyes as he did. He leaned in, lips brushing your own again, a tease of a kiss that had you leaning forwards for more, and before he gave in, he simply whispered, “I’ll pick you up at six, my love.”

#azriel x reader #azriel/reader #azriel x you #azriel/you #acotar x reader #acotar/reader #acotar x you #acotar/you #azriel shadowsinger #azriel #a court of thorns and roses #acotar

[fanaticsnail]

You Kissed the Clown? Part 1

(Notes: Hello new friends! I have found myself fallen under the spell of the flashy fool himself and felt compelled to create something for him.)

(EDIT: This was my first ever fic on Tumblr. It was only ever meant to be a one-shot and it turned into a 15 part series 🤦‍♀️. I have so appreciated each and every one of you liking, commenting and inboxing me about this series and others. Thank you so so much 🥹)

(S1:E2 OPLA timeline)

Upon waking, you found yourself in an unfamiliar environment. Stuffed into a small crate with your three travelling companions, your dark haired friend referred to as a “crew”, your senses were still groggy from the crimson powder exploded above your small rigging.

After your “Captain”, Luffy, disclosed to the group he had consumed the map to the grand line to “keep it in a safe place”, the crate opened to reveal a darkened space. Applause rang throughout the area and your eyes were drawn to a spotlight being placed on a man dressed as a white lion. Several circus-type performers littered the room and directed the large crowd to respond with prompts written on large white panels held by several members. You noticed the features of the crowd were bearing terrified expressions, crying streaks littering their cheeks and some crusted over wounds adorning their faces and bodies.

Through the small opening of the red and white tent, a displeased figure appeared out of the shadows. You were immediately mesmerised by the figure, brightly coloured facial paint adorning his cartoonish features, a large brim hat with blue tassels hung over the folded edge and a collection of mismatched stripes, spots, fur and feather upon his physique. He had a dangerous air around him, full of malice, ill-temperament and a small amount of desperation amongst his features.

The blue haired man immediately berated his companions, yelling at them for the wrong timing, the queue being off, the lighting contrasting over a lion-like man instead of his own features. You looked to your green-haired swordsman companion, making brief eye contact with him and quirking up your brow in question. He shook his head at you and nodded back to bring your attention to the scene playing before you.

You had no idea how you were among this ragtag trio of misfits, especially as piracy was never an occupation you fancied for yourself. You and those within your family line were skilled jewellers; antiquity restoration, appraisal and fine gold and silver smithery was your trade. You and your father were requested to appear before Captain Morgan and add a new gem encrusted embellishment to his recently acquired new head for his Axe-Hand.

You witnessed the fight that was brought out with Helmeppo and several other marines at the skilled hands of Roronoa Zoro. At that point, your father decided he was no longer going to be working with Captain Morgan; no payment was enough to continue working for a man that allowed his child to bully those lesser than him. You were given a choice then to find your own way in the world and bring attention to your own skilled crafts or to sail home with your father to return to work in the shop as a finery smith. Opting for the former of the two, you bid farewell to your father and found yourself upon the small rigging with three companions of whom you had grown fond of.

Bringing you away from your thoughts and tuning back into the conversation, your gaze fell to your orange-haired friend, Nami, as she attempted to bribe the blue-haired clown with a new crew member with untold abilities. Before you could stop her, she threw Luffy’s straw hat into the air and bolted for the opening of the large tent. Two members of the circus crew managed to drag her back to the group which she then berated the jester before you for destroying the town the tent was situated in. The conviction she held in her voice sounded quite intimidating, but the clown just laughed in response. He used a small knife to cut a piece of apple and place it into his mouth, while nonchalantly saying he didn’t destroy everything in the town – he allowed the townspeople to keep their hands to applaud his act.

You inhaled through your nose deeply and widened your eyes at his comment, breathing out slowly through your mouth while fixating your gaze onto his relaxed form. He continued to look over the four of you with a twinkling smile as he consumed his crisp apple before his gaze fell over you.

“You,” he began, pointing at you with the small knife in his hand, “you have been awfully quiet.” He gestured to the rest of the crew with the same knife, “that one threatened me,” he said pointing at Zoro, “that one attempted to bribe me,” he pointed the knife at Nami while sauntering over to the spot you were situated, next to Luffi and Zoro.

“Your Captain lays claim to what’s rightfully mine,” he continued while stalking your form. Your eyes leave his form to look to your companions.

“Don’t you look away from me!” he yelled suddenly at you, causing you to flinch in response. Your body began to tremble slightly at his demands, not used to threats of great violence being thrown at you at a whim. He almost danced over to your place on the ground, bringing his body within an uncomfortable proximity to your own. He made no effort to hide his gaze raking over your body from the hair on your head to the shoes adorning your feet.

Although he had a large nose that immediately drew your attention to it, you couldn’t help but to notice the hue of his irises hidden amongst white, red and blue paint. The intensity of his gaze was drawing you in like a moth to a flame. The hue was akin to several fine gemstones you worked with in your family’s smithery. Jade, sapphire, tourmaline and emerald being the first stones that sprung to your mind while gazing at the angry and menacing clown before you.

“And what would you do, hm?” he condescendingly smirked at you, “you’re no fighter, by the looks of you.”

You held his gaze, staring deeply into his mischievous teal eyes while searching your mind for a response to his pointed question. He placed the small knife into his breast-pocket within his long fur coat and stalked slowly over to you like an animal prowling over to their meal. You trailed your eyes over his form slowly, raking and sizing him up with a small amount of unbridled suggestion held behind your eyelids.

Unsure if what came over you was bravery, stupidity or something else entirely, you reached your right hand forward and swiftly grasped the mustard coloured cravat hanging tightly from his neck and pulled him into you with all of your strength and successfully closed the distance between your bodies.

He was right of course, you were no fighter. Your skills lay in appraising fine metals, gemstones and hand whittled crafts. You read books filled with fairytales, poetry and refrains whispered between lovers. With your occupation, an aura of charisma would often aid in sales; whether you were doing the buying or the selling. You were known far and wide in your homeland as someone with a small amount of flirtatious charm, which was why you were asked to aid your father in his journey to the “tight-pocket” Captain Morgan. You were to charm him as you did many others, swindling them out of their apprehensions and bringing more berry to the till of your family’s business.

A shocked whimper left the lips of the Genius Jester as you tenderly placed your own lips against his, bringing your left hand to his side and using it to bring his body flush against your own, cradling him into a tender embrace. Your eyes were closed as you deepened the kiss shared between you. You began using your lips to open his and caressing them slightly with your tongue.

You slowly felt him relax into your embrace as he placed one hand to the back of your head and the other hand wove itself around you, placing it to the small of your back. He almost gently laced his gloved hand into your hair and held you tightly against him. He released a stifled gasp into your mouth as the hand on your lower back squeezed slightly, pressing your bodies closer together. You released your right hand and moved it tenderly from his cravat to his jaw, feeling the slightly prickled skin beneath his painted face.

Not a word was uttered, silence engulfing the space. In this instance, nothing existed to either of you apart from the moment you were sharing with one another. The map? Gone from both of your minds as you held each other tenderly. You arched your back, pressing your chest further into him as you began lacing your fingers into the hair peaking out from the bottom of his broad hat. You snaked your left hand around his waist, beneath his fur coat and raked your fingertips over his skin, causing him to moan into your mouth and cradle you further into him.

You utilized your head to nudge his own head upward for you to deepen the kiss further. Trailing your hand from the hair under his hat down towards his neck and exploring his pectorals, you massaged down his body while holding him tightly and skillfully in this heated embrace. Your fingers began to explore the flesh of his back, lifting the material slightly to expose his flesh to your administrations.

He did not withhold any sounds from escaping his lips, as small groans released from his lips between kisses alerted you to how much he was truly enjoying your touch. You even allowed some gasps to escape your own lips as you continued to caress, massage and cradle him to yourself as he held you.

You were not foreign to the romantic touch of others by any means, but this kiss felt unlike anything you had experienced prior. You could almost feel his desire for affection as he hungrily held your body against him. Waves of loneliness escaped from his form and onto you as he began to be filled instead with your freely given affection, unlike the painted women he would pay berry for their time.

He groaned slightly and furrowed his brows together at the thought, releasing your lips from his own and holding you to him. His eyes bore into your own as your lips parted from one another, almost gazing into your very soul with the intensity he held.

Without warning, he pushed you from his body and swatted your hands from their position on his back. He turned to face away from you and brought his gaze to your captain before monologuing.

“Ok, here end the theatrics,” he began as the spot lights filter onto the four of you.

“I know one of you have my map, and I’m gonna get it back,” he said with malicious intent.

“What was it you said, rubber boy? That it was ‘in a safe place’?” he mocked with a small glint in his eye. Luffy looked to you in confusion.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised. I have eyes and ears everywhere,” he laughed. You trailed your eyes over his features, noticing the paint over his lips appeared more smudged than it had been moments prior. You then began to imagine how your face may appear after you shared the kiss with him moments prior.

“So,” he clapped his hands together and looked to his gang of circus members, “please make our guests uncomfortable in the green room.”

You felt hands clasp your wrists. You looked around to see a large man in a leotard grasping your form before you looked back to the clown. Your eyes met briefly once more, an unfamiliar emotion that could almost be described as a combination apprehension, longing and desire located in his eyes as your body was dragged to another location, this time without your captain amongst you.

You held little resistance as your body was escorted away. You looked to Luffy once more and attempted to reassure him with a nod as you walked briskly to be caged with your friends.

Nami was placed in a small cage suspended above the ground, whereas Zoro was bound to a large spinning wheel. As they were placed into these positions, their movements protesting and making it difficult for your captors to place them in these restricting positions; you held no such apprehension.

An aura of calm was coming from your form, confusing the large leotard-clad man. You placed your wrists together and held them out in front of you with a shrug and almost taunted him with how easy you were making this for him. His brows knit together in a puzzled fashion as he began to bind your hands in rope and tie you to a post away from your companions.

Once successfully restrained, the circus people left you with your thoughts as cries of laughter were echoing to the chamber that sounded like it was being pulled from the mouth of your captain.

“You kissed the clown?” uttered your green-haired, tri-sword wielding companion in a low accusatory tone, “why did you kiss the clown?”

You laughed slightly at the question, looking down at your bonds as you wiggled your hands against the tightly clasped rope, testing it for any sort of weakness amongst the restraint.

“I honestly can say I have no idea,” you smiled while pressing your knee against the post you were bound to with a small shove to assess its strength.

“It was incredibly stupid,” Nami commented from her enclosure, “if you were that touch-starved, I’m sure Zoro or Luffy wouldn’t have minded if you wanted to give them a little smooch.”

You turned your gaze over to Nami momentarily before rolling your eyes.

“Oh please,” you replied, “Zoro, I’m sure you are a wonderful kisser but unfortunately you don’t quite have what I’m looking for.”

He scoffed slightly at the comment while you moved your hands down to the hilt of your belt and began searching the folds of your skirts with your wrists.

“And if you don’t mind me asking, what does the dangerous clown-man have that Zoro doesn’t?” Nami asked with a teasing tone. Your wrists find the object within your belt and you smiled broadly, gripping it and bringing it to the light.

“Right now?” you said with a small twinkle in your eyes as you held the small object up to your new friends, "a knife."

For the first time in a while, the three of you shared a laugh before you all began to attempt an escape from the bonds of the green room.

Part 2

#buggy x you #buggy the clown x reader #one piece #one piece live action #opla #buggy #captain buggy #kiss #creative writing #you #buggy x reader #buggy x y/n #unnamed reader #y/n no name #original character #buggy x female reader #buggy x kiss #x reader

[soraphic]

i haven't proofread this one yall be kind:(

the night air was stickily humid,the kind of weather that warranted open windows and skimpy night dresses. the kind that lured a certain spider back into your home,breaking many personal vows to just leave you alone. you had kept the room empty,dark,only dimly lit by the reflective light of the moon casting shadows through the lace curtains you'd left open - an invitation to his presence. it was a way of making him comfortable,even with the colourful chrome shielding his identity,the darkness just made him feel that bit more safe.

your thin sheets had been thrown to the side,only barely tickling your ankles as you watched him. your dark hair strewn over your shoulder,lipstick smudged and the spaghetti straps of your teasingly thin,black nightdress falling over your shoulders.

he breathed deeply,lips parting against the mesh of his suit as you ghosted yours over his. you were used to the retroreflective eyes of his suit,you almost felt as if you could see through them now. like you could see into him,past his physical appearance underneath the mask.

you ran a finger teasingly under the edge of the mask,bunching it around your fingers as you lifted it slightly. his breathing was steady,fingers gripping at your plush hips as you straddled him,giving you unadulterated control over him. you left it to rest just over his nose,revealing his almost paper-thin lips to you,pouted and swollen. you ran a thumb over the dip of his cupids bow,unusually defined. you rubbed gently at the almost lack of stubble decorating his top lip,biting back a smile at how new york city's spider-man was a boyish youth who could barely grow facial hair. your fingers were curled around his jaw,the deep red of your nails mixing with the ghostly pale of his skin,a perfect match to his costume. "what do you look like?" it was almost a whisper,your eyes trained on the big,white of his suit as if you could make contact with him that way.

he breathed deeply,"you know i can't,it wouldn't be--"

"no," you cut him off,leaning to press a wet kiss to the piece of fabric just above his cheekbone,"i don't want you to show me. just tell me."

he was dumbfounded for a moment,wetting his lips as he stared at you. what difference would a description make? after-all,you still wouldn't actually know.

"tell me,spider." you cooed,running your lips along his cheek,"what is it? big,brown eyes?" you moved to press a kiss to the tip of his nose,"a piercing blue?",another kiss to his eyebrow,"green?" you made contact with his eyes,pulling back slightly as if to ask him to answer you.

"brown,the first one."

you hummed at this,continuing to trail your lips toward his ear,wrapping them around the shell over his mask. "my favourite."

your declaration had him almost hopeful. "what about your hair?"

"it's also brown," he started,moving his head to try and chase your lips again,growing bored of you suckling at his clothed ear. "i guess you could say curly."

you pressed a chaste kiss to his lips,just to satiate him for the moment. "just my type,bug."

he let a breathy chuckle pass,one that had your ears pricking and your eyes flicking up to his face,not that you could really see his expression,anyway.

"you got any freaky birthmarks?"

"no." he sounded almost offended at the question.

"scars?"

"not any that you haven't already seen."

you hooked a leg around his waist,teasingly slow as you curled inwards,pulling him toward you. you leaned back on your elbows,making a complete show of the movement and showcasing your accentuated cleavage to him,the straps of your thin nightgown dangerously low.

"easy." he warns,conscious of the blaring city that needed to be patrolled just outside your window.

"what? afraid you might overstay your welcome?" the smirk you wore was sickly,it rattled peter so much he felt like his bones were overheating,pushing any kind of feelings beyond pure,animalistic attraction down before he even had chance to indulge.

"'thought i was always welcome,baby." he said it like a statement,leaning down to slot his body above yours. his right palm was flat beside your head,the dip in the bed causing your body to lay slightly lop-sided,your hip popping just enough to brush perfectly into the palm of his left hand,giving the flesh a soft squeeze.

you dodged his kisses,leaving him to press wet dots to your jawline as he whined beneath you. "don't you have a neighbourhood to be saving?"

"-not when i have a beautiful lady right here who needs my help." he was quick,running a clothed finger through your slick to emphasise his point.

#peter parker blurb #peter parker smut #peter parker #spiderman #spiderman smut #tasm peter parker #tasm!peter x reader #tasm!peter parker #marvel mcu #tom holland #tom holland smut #frat!peter #frat!peter parker #𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐦𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐬!₊‧°𐐪♡𐑂°‧₊ #not too sure abt this one

[thenyoumightaswellwrestleangels]

Like a lamb led to slaughter (my heart held in your hands)

carry me slowly, my sunlight (these colours, they fade for you only) - series masterlist here

pairing: damian wayne x reader (gender neutral)

length: 1.7k

genre: fluff? angst? kinda hurt/comfort?

warnings: this is the enemies part of the enemies to lovers so they're kinda mean and hateful, reader pulls a knife on damian at the beginning but it's pretty chill, also angsty ending in this but future parts where they're together and in love are already up and in my masterlist <3

a/n: enjoy xoxo

Damian pauses, holding his breath as the knife that's been suddenly pressed against his throat gets pressed a little harder. The wind blows the sand around his feet gently and he listens, straining for a hint as to who his attacker is.

"Damian Al Ghul, caught by surprise… you're getting slow," your voice makes him relax - much to his annoyance, his jaw clenching as he exhales slowly. You pull the knife away from him, ignoring the small trickle of blood that runs down his neck as you stand in front of him. 

"You shouldn't be here," he snaps harshly.

"Neither should you," you quip back.

"This is my -"

"For now," you interrupt, your grin wicked. "This war of ours isn't over yet, Al Ghul. I wouldn't claim the winning prize for yourself just yet - not when you're the one who's been caught off guard." Damian's fists clench, his eyes hard as he stares at you through the darkness of night, the stars dripping pinpricks of light onto the two of you.

"This is League territory. You are outcast. You're not welcome here, and neither are any of the others who follow you," he says viciously. You smile.

"So sure I won't beat you still," you say, a mocking edge in your voice that makes him huff. "So sure it'll be you leading the League one day, and not me."

Damian doesn't bite back, though. He opens his mouth to, but then seems to think better of it, opting instead to step away from you and plant himself on the sandy ground while the clouds part, the moon shining through. You think you hear him muttering, "why don't you just kill me and get it over with, then?"

You blink at his behaviour, following him cautiously and standing in front of him, blocking the light of the moon and shrouding him in darkness where he's sitting, knees pulled up to his chest.

"What's wrong with you?" You ask, toeing at his side with your shoe, jostling him slightly. He just clenches his fists tighter.

"You're blocking out the sky," he says bitterly. "And you stabbed me." You arch a brow.

"You're stargazing now? How novel. And I didn't stab you - don't be dramatic. It was just a little cut… you've given me worse," you point out.

"You deserve worse," he snaps. You straighten back and away from him, moving to let the light of the moon shine down on him as you sit next to him.

"You know I'd never kill you on a night like this," you say, a softness in your voice that makes you both queasy. You feel the weight of the knife in its sheath against your leg and press your hand to it. You could try to kill him - you probably should. God knows there are enough people waiting for you to.

"Not enough of an audience?" Damian says dryly. You kick a pile of sand near your foot.

"Why didn't you fight back? You could just as easily try to kill me tonight. But you wouldn't because we've been at this far too long to let it end in private… just the two of us." The end of your sentence is murmured, your eyes trained on his face while he stares up at the night sky. It takes him longer than you'd like for him to tear his gaze away from the full moon and look back at you, the light shining on one half of his face while the other now sits in shadow. You imagine you look much the same, half bathed in light, half shrouded. 

"What do you think will happen?" His question finally cuts through the silence. "When one of us finally kills the other." You pull your hand away from your knife like it's burned you. 

"When I kill you?" You say haughtily. "The League will be mine."

"And when I kill you?" Damian snaps back. You seem to mull over your answer for a moment too long, Damian huffing and turning back up to the sky.

"Then you win," you say quietly. "And you're rid of me." Something in your heart twinges at that and you grit your teeth.

"What would I do?" He says it so softly you're sure you wouldn't hear him if you hadn't spent so many years learning him. You fix him with a hard look, but he keeps his eyes pointedly on the stars and not at you. "What would I do without you?"

"What would I do without you?" Your response is so wavering and hushed that you think he must have missed it. It must have simply been caught in the wind and carried away to somewhere where the two of you could be anything other than what you are now. The way Damian turns to look at you, eyes wide and vulnerable and hurting, tells you he heard you just fine. 

"I don't want to kill you," he says it like kindness is a crime.

"You have to," you respond, like a lamb led to slaughter. "It's what we're made for, you and me. To be each other's end - each other's undoing. Only one of us is making it out of this alive." There's a weight in your words that goes unsaid. A part of me will die with you. Neither one of us will make it out of this and stay whole. A part of me belongs to you.

Damian stands suddenly, sand flying at where you sit as he shoots to his feet. You brush it off of you with a sigh and crane your neck to look up at him where he's standing tall, fists clenched and shoulders back, his feet planted firmly and holding him steady. You assume there's a determination in his eyes that you're intimately familiar with to go with his stance. He's blocked out the moon with his figure, leaving the two of you in shadow with a blinding halo around his silhouette, but you don't need to see his face to know what look he's wearing - you haven't needed to for a long time.

"There's a way around this, I'm sure," he says. You sigh and a breeze floats by, ruffling through him and into you. Your nose burns when you pick up the faintest whiff of his scent and you wonder, just for a moment, if he can detect the same from you… if he knows you the way you know him.

"You don't want that," you say flatly.

"Don't tell me what I want," he snaps back, voice hard. "You don't get to decide how this ends." You shoot up at his words, standing chest to chest with him, so close that you bump into each other.

"I decide just as much as you do." Your voice mimics the steel in his own. "This is about us, not you, and… and," whatever you were saying dies out as you look at Damian, his eyes staring back at you intensely. You hadn't really realized, in your anger and haste, how close to him you'd shoved yourself, but you can feel his breath on your skin and see the flecks of colour in his deep brown eyes.

"And… what?" He prompts, scowl still on his face. He seems to take no notice of the way his nose brushes against yours. That is, until your eyes flick down to his lips for a split second too long.

He lurches away from you, stepping back to create distance and holding a hand out in surrender, as if the close proximity to you just then had been more threatening than all the times you'd pointed a sword to his chest. The way your heart thumps behind your ribs and your breath catches, you're inclined to agree.

"I'm going to fix this," he says breathlessly.

"Fix what? There's nothing to fix, Damian." His name burns your tongue, like it's an intimacy you shouldn't indulge in. "There's nothing to fix. This is the way it's supposed to go."

"I won't kill you," he's all but yelling at you now. "And I won't let you kill me." You make the mistake of closing your eyes, hanging your head slightly and sighing as you prepare yourself for another fight. It's a moment of weakness that you would never allow in front of any enemy other than him - a moment of vulnerability that could cost you your life. But you hear it, ever so slightly, the whisper of him moving with a stealth that only the two of you know. By the time you open your eyes, he's gone.

You realize, in the days following the incident, that you'd never gone so long without seeing Damian before. At first, you were shoved against each other by your respective sides in never-ending fights to see who would triumph. Then, as time passed and the two of you grew, your skills matched and fights ending in draws over and over, you started seeking each other out on your own. To know your enemy, you'd always told yourself. You're sure he'd always tried to convince himself of the same. 

But now? Now days have gone by without a whisper, without a flickering shadow or a hushed breath. Eventually, you go looking, silent and hidden and so desperately hopeful. But that's when you hear it - the rumours.

Damian Al Ghul is gone - gone to live with his father and train with him. He'll be back, you promise yourself. He'll come back to me. 

But he doesn't. Time passes and he remains gone, the rumours spreading.

Damian Al Ghul has found a home beyond this war, beyond you. You're sure that only makes you so nauseous because now you'll never get the chance to kill him.

Damian Al Ghul has no interest in fighting a war that isn't his anymore, you hear. Damian Al Ghul has no need for a vicious prophecy or a never-ending rivalry.  Damian Al Ghul has found a home, apparently, and it's somewhere far… far away from you.

#smsn.writes #damian wayne #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne fluff #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne x y/n #damian wayne x you #damian wayne fanfiction #damian wayne imagine #robin #robin x reader #robin imagine #robin x you

[erinawritesheadcanons2]

Could I ask for either a poly or love triangle with the DreamTale twins? They’re my comfort characters and I’m not doing too well emotionally recently. Love what I’ve read of your work! Have a good day! <3

Nightmare Sans and Dream Sans Love Triangle Headcanons, Ink and Error Love Triangle, Underfell Sans and Underswap Sans Love Triangle

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A/N: Hello there @artsyfangirl! I hope you do not mind that I am adding Fell and Blueberry as well as Ink and Error. Just take it as a bonus for you since you don't really have a good day!

Warning: Cursing from Fell

Gender: Neutral

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Nightmare Sans and Dream Sans

Almost impossible because the two of them are different and we cannot forget that Dream Sans and Nightmare Sans would always fight with each other as Nightmare is the leader of Bad Sanses and Dream Sans is the leader of Star Sanses.

It is like a war because the two of them are going to end up fighting with each other despite the war between the Bad Sanses and the Star Sanses ended many years ago but it's not as aggressive between Ink and Error Sans

Dream Sans going to steal your attention by trying to make you laugh with his silly antics or his stupid but funny jokes as he would talk with you.

He would also try to steal your attention by giving small but meaningful gifts, something like little trinkets, keychains, or maybe a hand-made sweet ( I headcanon that Dream can bake).

And he would also always listen to you talking about anything even though he does not understand. He would try to understand them and give the response that you want but sometimes....it fails.

Unlike Dream, Nightmare is much less obvious when he tries to steal your attention away from Dream Sans. He would secretly tell you about all the bad things Dream did.

When Dream is not around, he keeps you in his room and not letting you go out but keeps you around as his tentacles would hold you. Sometimes, his words could make you turn red because he would whisper those 'You look dazzling my dear in this outfit but you look even more amazing if you don't wear them.' (AYO- WHAT THE FUCK)

Trying to impress you by showing you what Dream might not have but he has it (For example, if you love the library. He would allow you to read the books in there and he would be your tutor).

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The stars sparkle under the darkness of the sky and two creatures stand together to see all of the stars since the stars shine the brightest at twelve at midnight. A skeleton with a golden cape and light blue jacket standing close next to his crush. They/he/she has (H/C) hair colour with (H/L) hair length with a pair of mesmerizing (E/C) eye colours and (S/C) skin colour.

Using his powers and the staff he always brought around, he created a portal into the Outertale Universe, a place where the stars were brighter than ever, and dreams seemed to come to life. (Y/N) was completely captivated by the mesmerizing beauty of the Outertale Universe. The stars twinkled with an enchanting light, and the whole place exuded a sense of peace.

On the other realm were a pair of cyan eyes seeing the sight from the crystal ball. A skeleton with tentacles and goopy slime all over him watched his brother being romantic to (Y/N) from the shadows, jealousy brewing within him as he saw Dream Sans and (Y/N) together in the Outertale Universe.

It did not take much time for a dark and swirling portal to appear far away from where Dream Sans and (Y/N) stood together to enjoy the sight of the stars, and ominous black tentacles emerged. They snaked towards you, reaching out like a rubber band and wrapping around (Y/N).

The cold sensation around the waist made (Y/N) (L/N) gasps in aghast, horror, and surprise. It was tight enough so you could not escape from the grip but it was not hard enough to hurt you in any way since he did not want you to get hurt. Nightmare Sans, who had been lurking in the shadows, had seized this opportunity to snatch you away from Dream Sans

Dream Sans was taken aback, a mixture of shock and horror painted across his usually cheerful face. In the blink of an eye, the person with (H/C) hair colour and (S/C) skin colour was taken away from Dream Sans and Outertale, leaving him in a stupor. "Oh no! I should go to Nightmare's castle!" He pulled out the staff from his belt.

On the other side of the world, (Y/N) crosses her/his/their arms together and stares at the goopy skeleton with a black stare. You are clearly not amused by his little stunt. "What are you looking at, don't give me that look," Nightmare Sans rolls his pinpricks. "Really? Suddenly kidnapping me out of nowhere when I was hangout with Dream?" (Y/N) squints her/his/their eyes. "Ughh, what so great about Outertale? I can bring you there every day if you want. I could even bring you to a better place," Nightmare scoffs.

The battle between the two brothers raged on, neither willing to back down as they wanted your attention and no one else could have it. . As this pattern continued, (Y/N) grew increasingly not amused with Dream Sans and Nightmare Sans constantly kidnapping her/him/them out of nowhere.

The constant fighting between the two skeleton brothers had become more of a burden than a romantic pursuit, and they/she/he wished for a way to break free from this never-ending cycle. "You two really acting like five years old. I'm even more impressed nowadays kids seem to be more mature than you two," (Y/N) mutters.

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Ink Sans and Error Sans

If the love triangle between Nightmare and Dream Sans is already bad. Ink Sans and Error Sand would be much worse than those two because they would constantly FIGHT for your attention.

It is so bad that sometimes it feels like you could just take a chair and popcorn just to watch the drama between these two because they would fight for anything, not just your attention.

Ink Sans when trying to get your attention is by bringing you to the portal and showing you all of the beautiful Alternate Universes to impress you since he is the protector of Aus.

He would also just steal you away when you have free time to draw together with him. Sometimes, he would throw bits of compliments on your drawing, even if it was bad. He just likes your creativity.

He would also try to create something out of his paintbrush, small gifts maybe something adorable such as plushies and giving it to you to make you happy.

Error Sans is not as romantic as Ink Sans sadly so he had difficulty stealing your attention but I can see that he would bring you to some beautiful AUS despite him being an AU's destroyer, to watch the star.

Protects you from the other skeletons surprisingly and not letting anyone touch you, especially Ink Sans as he glares at the protector of AU's since he knows Ink also has a crush on you.

Also, he's a bit of a bully. To get your attention, he would make fun of you and give you tons or ridiculous nicknames just to piss you off and he's always amused each time you react to him.

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On the small beanbag inside of the living room, a person with (H/C) hair colour with (H/L) hair length and a pair of (E/C) eye colour as well as (S/C) skin colour sitting on it with books sprawled around the small chair. (Y/N) had been enjoying a peaceful afternoon, nestled comfortably in the bean bag. Their/her/his eyes scan every word of the book.

The room was bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, the perfect ambience for your novel. You had just begun to immerse yourself in the world of words when, out of nowhere, a mysterious portal appeared in the corner of the room. The portal was glowing with the colour of the rainbow decorating it.

Startled by the sudden appearance of the portal, (Y/N) dropped their book, their heart racing. From the portal emerged the skeleton with a spot of ink on his cheek, a giant paintbrush on his back and a giant brown cape draped on his back. The protector of the multiverse as he would protect the universes from certain skeletons.

"Hey (Y/N)!" Ink said cheerfully, a wide smile on his face. "What are you doing?" "I was just reading, Ink. What's going on?" Still, a bit bewildered by the unexpected visit, (Y/N) stammered to Ink Sans. "Well, I had this idea for some collaborative drawing, and I thought, who better to join me than you? We could create something amazing together!" Ink's pinpricks twinkled in excitement.

(Y/N) was initially hesitant because the books that you had been reading had not finished and it was in the chapter where the main character faced their rival. But the idea of spending time drawing and the thought about the possibility of creating art together with Ink sounded fun too. "Sure, why not? Let's go," (Y/N) agreed with a smile.

With a bright smile, Ink Sans gestured for (Y/N) to follow him back through the portal and leave behind the book that (Y/N) still had not finished. But all of that excitement was gone as (Y/N) and Ink went inside the portal. Unsurprisingly, there is another guest who was not invited by Ink. "Oh no....you gotta be kidding me," Ink sighs.

The skeleton stepped off from the strings once he saw Ink and (Y/N) on the ground. The familiar black skeleton with a black coat, blue hood and black slippers strutted up to both Ink Sans and (Y/N). "iT HaS BeEn SuCh a LonG Time Isn'T it? bUddY?" A smug smile spread across his face. "Error, Leave us alone. You had already spent time with (Y/N) yesterday. Today is my turn," Ink Sans rolls his pinpricks. "NaAh. I Don't ThiNK sO," Another portal appears behind him.

Ink Sans quickly took the giant paintbrush from his back so he could create a shield for you but he was too late because the strings were wrapped on every one of your limbs. Error Sans created another portal of his own and, with (Y/N) wrapped on his strings, stepped into it, disappearing from Ink's realm.

You couldn't help but let out a sigh of frustration. Turning to Error Sans, he was smirking and holding you as if you were his captive. "Error, you know we spent time together yesterday. You could have given Ink a chance. This isn't fair to him," you scold him,your irritation was evident in your tone.

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Underfell Sans and Underswap Sans

A love triangle between Underfell Sans, You, and Underswap Sans might be a little ridiculous because it feels like you are taking care of a skeleton that acts like a golden retriever and also some kind of skeleton that acts like an emo with anger issues.

The other one is going to bully you just to get your attention and just to see your reaction and the other one is trying to hog all of your attention and will follow you everywhere.

Underswap Sans can be a little bit of an attention seeker because he would try to make tacos ( and end up burning all of them or using the wrong condiment and creating something inedible).

If you are busy, would give you that sad look on you before begging you to hang out with him and when Underfell was too late to ask you, he would secretly smirk.

He actually knows that he does look innocent and cute despite he hate of getting called cute but when Fell was angry at him and you saw him. He will use his cuteness to get you on his side.

Underfell Sans can be a bully just like Error Sans but a little bit worse because he won't just be calling you ridiculous names. He would make you dress up for a deal, make you watch a scary movie, and be a menace.

Not surprisingly he would bring you to Grillby's bar to hang out with you and surprisingly he asked Grilly to help him out. Even though, he would end up having more tabs. He would pay for your meals and drinks as he wants you to taste the monster food too.

Underfell Sans also steals your attention by playing games together with you. I believe he knows many great games and he always invites you to play a multiplayer game with him.

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The temperature of the kitchen is rising as the sun goes up in the middle of the day, a person with luscious (H/C) hair and striking (E/C) eyes sat in the kitchen, typing away on your computer. The soft glow of her screencast a warm, amber hue across your face, illuminating the (E/C) eye colours.

It had been a long day, and they/she/he was racing against the clock to finish the mountain of files that had been assigned to her/him/them by the old-bladed head manager. But it won't stop nature from doing its job as (Y/N)'s stomach chooses this inopportune moment to growl with hunger.

You could not help but let out a quiet sigh, torn between your desire for food or the commitment to completing the tasks that had piled up. (Y/N) knew that they/she/he couldn't afford to lose any more time, but the rumbling stomach seemed to have other plans. With a heavy heart, (Y/N) decided to take a brief break.

She/he/they stood up from the chair and stretched their/her/his tired limbs and (Y/N) knew a hungry tummy would only distract the process of working and finishing the papers. In the fridge, you found some leftover chicken and colourful bell peppers. It was the perfect opportunity to whip up something quick and satisfying.

Before (Y/N) could make something, you could hear someone scream, "Mwehehehee! The magnificent blue is here!" Startled, (Y/N) turns around to see Underswap Sans. "Oh, hey Blue. Do you need anything?" (Y/N) tilts their/her/his head a little bit in curiosity. "Human! I heard your stomach grumbling! It was quite loud, human! how 'bout I whip up some tasty tacos for you??" The skeleton asks.

(Y/N) couldn't help but glance up at the ceiling, remembering that the Jolly Skeleton wasn't the best cook. His previous attempt at making tacos had been a disaster, he managed to burn them, and then, in a whimsical attempt to salvage the situation, he had sprinkled glitter on the charred mess. (Y/N) had tried to be polite and take a bite, but it had been quite a horrible mistake.

As (Y/N) hesitated, contemplating whether to accept his offer or not, the door to the kitchen from the living room was suddenly slammed open, causing both Underswap Sans and (Y/N) to jump in surprise. Standing in the doorway was Underfell Sans. "Oi, loser, You said you're hungry? Why don't we get some grillby on the corner? The dumb baby tacos aren't edible for your intestine," Underfell Sans grumbled as he glanced at Underswap Sans.

(Y/N) felt relieved as Underfell Sans gave a solution or an easy way out of the situation. You didn't want to hurt Underswap Sans's feelings, but you also didn't want to endure another round of eating burnt glittery tacos. (Y/N) turned to Underswap Sans and gave him a grateful smile. "Thanks for the offer, Sans, but I think I'll go with Underfell Sans this time. I'm craving for French fries," You told him. "B-but those are unhealthy! They have so much grease!" Underswap Sans said.

Underswap Sans couldn't hide the disappointment that washed over him when (Y/N) rejected his offer. He let out a resigned sigh and watched as Underfell Sans escorted (Y/N) out of the kitchen. There was a pang of sadness in his eye sockets before his eyes shifted to Underfell Sans who silently glared at him, puffing his cheeks altogether.

He turned to look at Underfell, who was secretly smirking at him. Underfell was well aware that he had managed to steal (Y/N)'s attention away, and the competitive edge between the two skeletons continued to burn.

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#undertale au #undertale alternate universe #undertale headcanons #undertale imagines #undertale scenarios #underswap sans #underswap sans x reader #blue sans #blueberry sans #underfell sans #underfell sans x reader #fell sans #ink sans #ink sans x reader #error sans x reader #error sans #nightmare sans #nightmare sans x reader #dream sans #dream sans x reader #underswap #underfell #dreamtale

[https-furina]

— i love you endlessly ! ★ | edition: siblings, version 1.0

ft. lyney + lynette, kaeya + diluc, aether + lumine & albedo + klee. content. heavy angst, all family/platonic love, character death, mentions of blood, injury, light cursing. references to lyney’s vision story + lyney and lynette's story, hints at kaeya + lyney with ptsd & lyney with separation anxiety. aether + lumine is purely headcanon and is not representative of the future of genshin.

notes. my first time writing anything ever with klee and this is how it’s going… i’m so sorry klee omfg. this actually used to have ayato+ayaka and jean+barbara in it !! but i cut them out so i could post it since it’s been in my drafts for a LONG time and they weren’t finished yet. i’ll do a part two with them. taglist — open. @ryuryuryuyurboat @soleillunne @rainswept

✉️ mail received! sender: lyney & lynette

lyney lacks to admit the pure fear that sends shocks and shivers down his body when lynette is not within immediate sight of him. she likes to chime that he says some weird things; perhaps he does on late nights when lynette is accompanying freminet without him - father had assigned him to a different mission and he'd finished much earlier than her. thoughts rush through his mind quicker than he can process them, his aching legs pacing the floor of his bedroom.

are they okay? did something go wrong? lyney's mind is restless at all times, he needs to know lynette is safe. in a few moments of silence, he'll see a younger lynette in the dark, her ears flattened to her head and tail tucked in antagonising fear - the night that father had saved her life, mere moments from the potential loss of her life. lyney's throat will always tighten, breathing rapidly until his lungs burn.

he knows exactly how he got his vision, in the twilight of a cold night, surrounded by danger. he knows that he had begged father so recklessly for a delusion simply to fill the gap that the lack of a vision had given him but he didn't care, he wanted to accompany his sister. he couldn't let her out of his sight again.

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there's a painful silence that's filling the orphanage. on most days, it would be bustling - after all, father had acquired many orphans in light of their dire situations being unable to refuse such kind help as she offers. lyney catches himself frowning, feet pacing the worn floorboards of his bedroom floor. if lynette was here, she'd have already quipped about how the floor will 'disappear beneath him if he keeps pacing.'

the reminder of his twin sister should make him smile. it should draw a crack of a smile to his face and curl the corners of his lips upwards but it doesn't. she still hasn't returned from her mission and while lyney refuses to admit that he's been counting the hours since he was separated from lynette, he most definitely has.

an oil lamp burns by his bedside, painting the room in an orange hue as it glows and yet casting shadows across the walls. lyney can't help but catch sight of the shadows that night, painted on the walls in the glow of roaring flames that crackled from where they burned. he's painfully reminded of the fragile young girl lynette was, vulnerable and almost caught in a life threatening situation. he contemplates what would have happened to her if father hadn't interrupted in time but he's quick to shake his head. he's seen many what if scenarios in his nightmares, waking him as his body trembles and his lungs burn for oxygen.

the pained reminders stain his mind, torturing him when there's a burst of noise from the orphanage's entry hall; multiple voices screaming his name repeatedly, he can hear them calling for him and begging to know where he is. lyney whips his head towards his bedroom door, storming forth as he hurriedly opens it. he catches eyes with one of the orphans who'd been calling his name so painfully. they're wide, fearful and their face is void of colour.

"lyney! it's lynette-" need they say more? the boy rushes forward, skipping steps as he runs down the spiral staircases dressed in lavish red carpets that father had installed for a sense of aesthetic - she had claimed she couldn't work nor focus in a place so bland. - there's a sense of dread that fuels every inch of lyney's body, tearing him apart when he bursts into the entry hall.

beneath a dazzling chandelier with a warm amber glow, arlecchino herself has nestled beside the form of someone on the checker tiled floor, surrounded by orphans that she's trying desperately to shoo away, demanding for space in all of her authority. she's seem awry, not her typical self and lyney's lilac eyes fall to the familiar shoes of his twin sister, poking from the crowd.

his heart sinks, colour leaving his face as he hesitantly approaches; she's just injured, he convinces himself when he sees the stain of red on her usually pristine white shirt, something she was devoted to keeping that way for their shows. the orphans part at the sight of him, the dark eyes of arlecchino raising to him before she trails back down to lynette.

the girl is propped onto her lap, head rested against arlecchino's thighs. lynette has always been a pale girl, lyney knows this well enough whenever he glimpses his own shade of skin colour but she's even paler than usual, her eyelashes fluttered shut. the silence between himself and father is almost deafening.

"she's alright, isn't she?" he barely manages to croak out, seeing how arlecchino has pressed a lanky hand to where lynette's blood has seeped from. she almost grimaces, it's the most emotion lyney has seen from her for a while.

"she's already gone, lyney," was that a crack in her voice? lyney doesn't have the time to ponder it when his vision goes dark, he's dizzy and there's static in the corners of his eyes when he struggles to get air into his lungs, "freminet is in the infirmary."

the infirmary, yes - that means he's getting medical help but the same can't be said for his twin, who he had lacked to part with since they were born. the twin he would tell everything to, who he trusted with every fibre of his being as much as she did with him too.

there's a stinging in his eyes when tears prick at them, threatening to spill the longer he stares at lynette's body. he falls to his knees, not caring for the pain it causes when the floor is less than comfortable, pressing his face into lynette's clothing. she smells the same as she always does, the faint smell of the sugary desserts he'd reprimand her for, lumidouce bells and the ocean.

he lets out a cry into the fabric of her clothing, his hands gripping at it until his knuckles turn white. his cheek presses to her neck, she's cold to the touch already and arlecchino can't help but turn her head away at the sight of her most useful child reduced to a sobbing, shaking mess on the entry hall floor, gripping his dead sister for dear life.

✉️ mail received! sender: kaeya & diluc

despite going down two very different paths of life and perhaps saying things they shouldn’t have, they cannot deny the invisible ties of brotherly love. no matter how much diluc may throw sharp words at the cryo vision, they see their younger selves sometimes like reflections of the past in a shattered mirror’s shards.

on dreary nights where the rain storms against glass windows, when one brother remains consumed by a sweet yet bitter liquid on his tongue and the other brandishes a claymore in the night, they recognise their indifferences. they recognise the unshakeable bond that their pasts have tested to its limit. those around them too acknowledge that the past cannot truly deter emotions.

kaeya frequents the dawn winery much at the expense of his brother, who grumbles and snatches bottles of (almost stolen) wine from his tanned hands. it could be a misfortune he carries to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and this scene… feels so familiar to him.

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a crack of lightning decorates the dark sky looming over mondstadt. it’s been like this for a few hours now, trapping the two brothers in an awkward silence as they linger around the manor. diluc has made the effort to avoid his brother and yet tresses of blue hair keep getting in his peripheral vision.

“there’s been fatui sightings not far north from the winery,” kaeya’s icy gaze flickers towards the office door that isn’t completely shut, “perhaps we should tell master kaeya—”

“he doesn’t need to know, i’ll deal with it personally.” the deep voice of diluc booms, full of authority and the slightest attitude at the mention of his brother that makes kaeya click his tongue, pocketing the small, circular mora he’d been tossing with his thumb as diluc emerges from the office, the winery worker not far behind.

the brothers exchange a look, perhaps this scenario is all too familiar for them both to let it play out. diluc bites his tongue when he prepares for those words he knows kaeya will say.

“he doesn’t need to know?” kaeya mocks lowkey, a coy smile on his face as he dusts his hands together and approaches the redhead, “i’ll be accompanying you.”

and somehow the fiery red male cannot argue back, his eyes narrowing at his brother in distaste when he accepts his fate - it is raining after all, maybe kaeya’s vision could come in more useful than the cavalry captain typically tends to be, his breath laced with wine.

the brothers set off immediately, heads hanging low as they follow the muddy paths out of the winery; ones they’d followed many times before. something about this reminds them of how accustomed to each other’s presence they are. the reports from various workers at the winery are indeed correct and whilst diluc storms into the fight, vision ablaze with an anger that cannot be sated at the cost of a few mere fatui deaths, kaeya cannot help but ponder if there’s too many of them to take on by themselves.

rain impairs his vision, trickling down his face and soaking his hair to his skin. brandishing a blade in his hand, the young man can't help but think he's seen this before. another crack of lightning brightens the sky as a weapon is plunged into diluc's abdomen, his face pales as ruby eyes meet kaeya's panicked gaze.

the realisation hits when suddenly kaeya sees crepus' face over his brother's. he sees that evening when he arrived a little too late, the air struggling to get to his lungs no matter how he gasps for breath, clouds of breath quick to disperse in front of cold lips. kaeya is quick to finish the remaining enemies off before he's forced to look at diluc's slumped body in the mud.

"diluc?" he whispers, kneeling beside the bleeding man. diluc's gloved hands are pressed to his wound, a grimace on his face, "brother?"

"i heard you the first time," he grumbles, not wanting to admit the warmth that consumes his adrenaline filled heart at the sentiment behind hearing kaeya say brother once again, "..say it again."

kaeya takes a moment, his shaking hands dropping his faithful sword as he presses them over diluc's. he no longer feels the warmth emitting from his brother's pyro vision, his eyes stinging painfully - he blames the rain, of course, it's getting in his eyes.

"brother," it falls from his mouth hurriedly, followed by a quiet curse under his breath, "now isn't the time for this! w-we'll get you to adelinde..."

for the first time in years, a glimpse of a grin crosses the redhead's stoic face. in between shallow breaths and blurry sight, he gazes over the familiarity of his brother's face; blood or not. a final breath escapes his chapped lips in the cold of the night, his last thought going over how he wishes he had fixed things with kaeya sooner.

the cryo vision yells out into the night, quick to pull diluc against his chest as the rain continues to ruthlessly batter down on them. it happened again, he curses, squeezing his eyes shut as the tears blend with the raindrops on his cheeks. it won't happen again.

✉️ mail received! sender: aether & lumine

bound by blood, they have always been as thick as thieves together. no ends of time could stop them, no ends of trials and challenges that cross their paths on the journey to find each other. their determination is honourable across teyvat, seeking each other out as if there is no other person in the universe.

without each other they do not know what to do. after all, what do you do when the person you've travelled long and far with disappears without a trace and you're left with nothing but your wit to find them again?

one attachment added!

"brother!" her voice calls out, excitement coursing through her veins as she hurriedly drops the dull blade she'd sported her whole journey these past few years, traversing nations and fighting gods and others alike in search for her brother. aether does not budge, slumped against a rock overlooking the devastation left of khaerni'ah.

lumine's eyes trail to it, the smoke that rises in shades of grey and black, revealing that the flames still burnt at buildings and civilisation. the ashes still smoulder, hot to the touch as the embers glow and flicker through the air. this is not the khaenri'ah she remembers nor is it most likely the khaenri'ah that dainsleif remembers too - dainsleif.. where is he?

the blonde whips her head around in confusion at the sudden disappearance of the male who'd assisted her journey against the abyss order, solemnly appearing out of nowhere with new information to support her journey. a frown decorates her face before she turns her attention back to aether, her smile replacing her former expression.

"aether?" lumine calls out when her brother is unresponsive - was he mad at her for taking so long? why wasn't he sharing the same excitement as her? she stumbles over, breaking into a sprint towards the boulder her twin brother sat beside her. finally, after all this time, she could hold her brother again. her arms envelope the shoulders of her brother, breathing in that familiar scent mixed with the cursed remnants of smoke and ash that fill the air.

but aether doesn't respond to the hug nor the death tight grip lumine is succumbing him to in all of her excitement. slowly, she raises her head. aether's golden eyes are glazed over, his pupils gone and replaced with white. lumine's smile begins to fade, pulling away from the hug when she realises her brother's warm skin that she craved to touch is instead cold and pale.

the blood that has trickled from the corner of his mouth and seeps from his neck has darkened as it oxidises, speckled with the black ash from the flames that have torched khaenri'ah. the breath hitches in lumine's throat and it's suddenly harder to breathe than it was a few moments ago.

a wail escapes her, screaming into the eerie silence left in the aftermath of death and destruction. there's no one to comfort her, to answer her cries. was it all for nothing? had she journeyed this whole time, endlessly fulfilling everyone else's requests just for a snippet of information attaining to her brother, just to be too late?

✉️ mail received! sender: albedo & klee

klee is too young to remember where albedo comes from or even possibly his master, at least this is what he tells himself. klee merely does not care for the trivial matters revolving around where people come from or where they go - despite missing her mother alice dearly sometimes. no, instead the small girl cares for every face surrounding her in light of her mother’s absence; this is particularly albedo.

the people of mondstadt recognise that potentially the small girl is attached to him, referring to him as her big brother as if rhinedottir had made him specifically for her. and on cold nights atop dragonspine’s summit, dressed from head to toe for warmth, the chalk prince considers it.

with a bubbly personality and bright smile that sends everyone into gasps of awe, klee tends to get what she wants and albedo, as her designated big brother, is also victim to these schemes.

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“klee, don’t stray too far,” albedo chimes, concerned for her safety when sky blue eyes follow the brightly coloured girl’s attire through the bleak backdrop of snow, “it’s not safe.”

stars twinkle endlessly above the pair, shining like gold now that the snowstorm had cleared up and dark grey clouds had rolled away to reveal the night sky. klee stares in awe, the stars seem much clearer out here.

“big brother! look at that star!” klee points a gloved finger up at a particular star and whilst albedo gazes upon it, he’s reminded of the very diamond engraved to his throat. his breath hitches and he pulls his gaze away from the stars, approaching the small girl as to stop her leaving his side for too long.

he’d fell so hopelessly for that innocent grin and sparkling eyes when she begged him to let her stay the night with him on dragonspine - he knows he shouldn’t fear for her life entirely, there was a reason acting grand master jean kept klee tucked away in solitary confinement so much but he still couldn’t help the tense of his muscles when he watches her tread through thick layers of snow.

the silence on dragonspine after snowfall was usually albedo’s favourite thing about being stationed up here alone with his experiments but he found himself holding his breath, gloved hands ready to reach for the small girl every time she steps an inch too far. something seemed off but he denoted it down to him being anxious about klee’s presence on dragonspine.

amidst silence there’s a whistle, almost resembling that of an arrow soaring through air. in confusion, the blond whips his head around - nobody dares to step foot on dragonspine so recklessly, not without confiding in himself and the adventurer’s guild first, so where was that whistling coming from? that’s when klee lets out a piercing squeal into the night.

albedo is quick to turn his head back in klee’s direction, had he been so careless to take his attention from her for mere seconds only for her to end up injured? yet as his lips part to call her name, he catches sight of the young girl pierced in the neck but none other than an arrow.

the chilling air of dragonspine hitches in his throat, burning his lungs when he can’t seem to get oxygen into his body, his eyes burning holes into the sight before him when he falls to his knees beside her. she’s terrified, rasping for breath so heavily that the small clouds of warm breath dispersing at her lips are consistently appearing with sharp intakes.

the usual sparkle of ruby red eyes has been demoted to a glitter of wet liquid spilling from the corners of her eyes, her eyes set on the face of her faithful big brother she adored so heavily. she wants to speak, to call his name despite him being right in front of her but it hurts so much, why isn’t he doing something about it?

albedo only has himself to blame, he thinks when he notices the hillichurls disappearing from the cliffside when they think the threat has dissipated - the exact reason his attire was the colour scheme it was, to blend him in so effortlessly. a scowl crosses his face, tears threatening to spill but he remains strong; he has to for klee’s sake.

“i-i’m sorry,” he croaks out, filled to the brim with a guilt he wishes klee could understand when she lets out a strangled whimper, “i’m so sorry klee.”

he pleads that celestia is kind enough to give him the time to take her to the base of dragonspine, across the river to mondstadt so he can get her help. her blood stains the whites and greys of his clothes, blonde hair spilled over his shoulder as he carries her like she’s shattered porcelain.

by the time he makes it to the adventurer’s guild’s camp, out of the sheer cold that turns his limbs numb in an oddly comforting manner now, klee’s breath has ceased to exist despite all the panicked screams around her lifeless body.

he refuses to leave her body’s side, buried neck deep in a suffocating guilt that none of these people will understand. he blames himself for the death of his own little sister, one of the only people he had after his master left.

© https-furina 2023.

#( sealed letters ) #・ nouveau livre ˎˊ˗ #https-furina #genshin #genshin impact #genshin angst #genshin impact angst #lyney angst #lynette angst #kaeya angst #diluc angst #aether angst #lumine angst #albedo angst #klee angst #genshin x reader

[marvelmusing]

Dark Depths

Part Two

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x Fem!Reader (mermaid au)

Summary: After growing somewhat accustomed to your new life under the sea with Aleksander, the time to hunt the stag for your coat arrives, meaning you must make your return to land.

Warnings [18+]: smut, oral (fem receiving), mermaid to human transformation, mentions of injury and blood, Aleksander keeps the reader in the dark about a lot of things, unestablished dom/sub dynamic, some angsty vibes

My Masterlist • Part One

It doesn’t take long for Aleksander to find you, sitting in your usual spot on a rocky crag not far from the shore. The tail Aleksander had given you is a dull gold colour, the kind that changes depending on the lighting. Under the sea it shimmers like a treasure chest stuffed to the brim, but as you sit perched above the waterline your scales look muddy in the cold daylight.

Ever since you were a small child you’ve longed for the sea, and now your heart belongs to Aleksander, to the open ocean and all its wondrous creatures. But being born on land means that a fracture of your soul lingers there, a dull ache in your chest that refuses to be rid of so easily by Aleksander’s magic.

He settles beside you smoothly, wrapping his arms around your waist to console you. He kisses the salt streams on your cheeks, brushing his nose against your face affectionately.

“I know it hurts,” he murmurs.

A sob catches in your chest and you shake your head. There is no way he can know how deep your pain runs. Desperate for something to alleviate the discomfort, you begin to itch over your collarbones.

Aleksander curls his fingers around your wrist, halting your self-destructive actions. Unused to having such sharp nails, you hadn’t realised the scratches you had been leaving over your skin. He places his hand over your chest, smoothing soothingly over the irritated skin there.

“When I was born, Grisha lived on land,” he admits quietly.

Tears glistening in your eyes, you turn to face him.

“Like me?”

He nods slowly.

“My mother was an incredibly powerful witch with impossibly high standards for her children. In the time I spent with her, she abandoned five children.” He pauses, staring out towards the shore with a sombre expression. “I remember each of them.”

There’s a despondent glimmer in his dark eyes and you reach for his hand. He glances back at you, offering a brief smile that fades all too quickly.

“When I didn’t live up to her expectations, she cast me aside as well.”

“How old were you?”

He swallows hard.

“Thirteen.”

“Aleksander,” you whisper softly, squeezing his hand.

“I went searching for my sister after that.”

“Your sister?”

“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories of the sea witch that lives further north.” You nod. “Ulla took me in for a little while. She helped me with my tail.”

Considering this new information, you begin to fidget with the crystal on your necklace.

“The other Grisha call you a witch.”

He laughs softly.

“They do.”

“Why?”

“Grisha use their power through song. Their voices manipulate their specific sphere of power - whether that be fire or metal or blood. Those who don’t rely wholly on their song are considered witches.”

Aleksander has used his magic around you on several occasions. A simple flick of his fingers can summon tendrils of shadows - something he seems to do unknowingly when he’s lost in thought. Alina had sung to you when the two of you were children, making the sunlight dance with her enchanting melody.

“I’ve never heard you sing.”

Aleksander is quiet for a moment, his gaze lowered to the rock beneath you.

“Most Grisha sing in pairs with someone whose power complements their own. Harmony is important to us.”

“Complements?”

He nods slowly, leaving you guessing at what he means. Light would complement darkness; but you’ve only ever known one sun summoner - Alina. But surely he could have taken her for himself when she had made a deal with him for human legs. Instead, he had used her power to give you a tail with seemingly no benefits for himself.

The expression on your face must appear pained due to your confusion, as Aleksander kisses your forehead, tucking your head against his chest.

“It will get easier, once you have your coat. I promise.”

At the mention of your coat, you perk up a little.

“When will we start looking for the stag?”

“Soon.”

“But when is soon?”

He breathes out a small laugh at your enthusiasm.

“When the first flakes of snow fall over the land.” You nod. Aleksander’s touch is delicate as he strokes your cheek, keeping your attention on him instead of the shoreline. “How are you feeling today?” he asks softly.

A small crease appears between your brows.

“Better. My tail doesn’t hurt anymore. But…” Heat blossoms over your cheeks as you trace your fingers over your abdomen. “There’s a strange ache here.”

He hums absently.

“Swimming in your ocean form will require your muscles to stretch in an unfamiliar manner. You will grow accustomed to it.”

Unconvinced by his explanation, you bite down on your lower lip, dragging it between your teeth. There are plenty of other places on your body that feel sensitive as of late.

“Are there muscles here as well?” you ask shyly, gesturing to your chest.

Aleksander’s gaze sharpens, examining you intently.

“May I take a look?”

Nervously, you glance around at the open sea and the nearby shoreline, searching for anyone who could see you in such an exposing position.

“Here?”

“No one can see us.”

Hesitantly, you reach for the coarse piece of string holding the fabric together over your chest. Aleksander had fashioned it for you, though he had also explained that most merfolk only wear jewellery and their coats. Aleksander himself always wears a belt, with his pouch and knife attached to his hip and a small scrap of cloth covering a portion of his pelvis.

The fabric covering your top half is still damp from your time in the sea and it clings to your body. Aleksander removes it slowly, revealing your bare body to him. Instantly, your nipples harden from the cold, salty air. As always, his hands are warm and you shudder when he cups your tender breasts.

He gives you a gentle squeeze, drawing a weak sound from the back of your throat. He then begins to roll your nipples between the pads of his fingertips, alleviating some of the pressure beneath your skin. A soft moan escapes your lips and your eyes flutter closed momentarily.

Aleksander glances down, a smirk tugging at his lips. When you follow his gaze, you find your lap glossy with a thick wetness, though you struggle to find where it has come from.

“There is nothing you need to worry about,” he assures you. “Merfolk reach maturity at around your current human age; your body is simply preparing for your mate.”

There’s a haze clouding over your mind, his words wading through fog and your thoughts scramble for comprehension. Slowly, you blink at him, staring at the lean muscle of his stomach and tail, the thick hair over his jawline, his pink nipples, and strong hands. He’s so beautiful, it makes you ache.

“How do merfolk mate?” you manage to ask him.

He smiles widely, cradling your face between his hands and for a moment you think he’s going to drag you back down to his cave and show you. Instead, he kisses your forehead gently.

“Not yet, darling. I’ll show you, in time.”

»»---------------------►

When the snow begins to fall on land, Aleksander instructs you to wait in the shallows for him. Nervously, you bob your head above the waterline, eyes scouring over the shore for any sight of him. Being parted from him makes you uneasy. It isn’t long before you see a strong black horse galloping over the sand with Aleksander sat astride.

He looks like a king. The thick black fur of his coat is piled up over his shoulders, the adjoined cloak billowing behind him in the wind. He’s attained human clothes: polished black riding boots, dark trousers, and a fine woollen jacket. The image of him makes your stomach flip and you swim closer to the shore, eager to join him.

Aleksander dismounts smoothly, striding towards the water as you flail with your tail, struggling to change into your human form as quickly as you’ve seen him do it. He wades into the shallows, scattering sea spray as he scoops you up easily and carries you out onto the sand. He kisses your temple as he lowers you to the ground.

“I’m going to take your necklace,” he tells you.

Instantly, your hand closes protectively around the gem hanging between your breasts, clutching it tightly.

“Why?”

“The power in the crystal is what gave you your tail. While wearing it, you won’t be able to change back into your human form.”

Aleksander had given you this necklace when you were still human. The power inside had belonged to your childhood friend Alina, traded to Aleksander so that she could become human. It feels wrong to give it up, even temporarily. He notices your hesitation, curling his fingers gently around your wrist.

“I’ll take good care of it. I promise.”

When you nod, he unclasps the back of the chain, removing it from around your neck. He places it on himself, the shimmering yellow gem nestling perfectly at the hollow of his throat. Aleksander watches you intently and you frown, eyes wide with confusion as you search his expression for any clue on what is supposed to happen.

Then it happens.

It feels as if someone has sliced through your tail, carving a sharp blade deep into the muscle and bone that are now shifting back into legs that you can’t bear to look at. The sight of them, thighs and calves and toes, so sickeningly human, makes you cry against Aleksander. You don’t want them. You want your tail back. Hot tears spill down your cheeks, the salty droplets a poor imitation of the sea that is now your home. It hurts.

Aleksander’s voice is a near whisper, but it somehow manages to cut through your anguish.

“Let’s clean you up a little.”

The wounds have closed, but the blood remains sticky on your legs. As Aleksander moves you over to the water, the sand grates against your sensitive skin. Everything is too much all at once. The muscles in your legs twitch painfully, protesting against their existence. A weak sob shakes your body as Aleksander scoops up a handful of water, pouring it carefully over your legs to clear away the blood.

“Just focus on one thing at a time,” he suggests in a low murmur. “The water’s cold, isn’t it?” A small hum of agreement catches in the back of your throat, as you bury your face further into his chest. “How does the sand feel?”

“Itchy,” you mumble petulantly.

He breathes out a soft laugh.

“And how do I feel?”

“Warm. Safe.”

He kisses the crown of your head.

“I’ll always keep you safe, my little starfish.”

That draws a weak laugh from you.

“Starfish?”

He hums in agreement, offering you a small smile.

“A delicate little thing, but very hard to break.”

Emotion sticks in your throat at the sincerity of his words.

Walking is awful. Each step feels like a knife is piercing through the sole of your foot. Every breath is accompanied by a sob. Aleksander keeps his arm around your waist, holding you tightly beside him as your teeth chatter. When your tears turn pitiful, he hooks his arm beneath your knees, opting to carry you to his horse.

“It will get better,” he assures you, pressing a faint kiss to your hairline before he lifts you up into the saddle.

»»---------------------►

Aleksander wakes before you, slipping out of the small bedroom he had rented at a local tavern. He returns with a tray full of breakfast, rousing you from your slumber as he removes his boots.

He slips his arm around your waist, draping his body over yours as he pulls your back against his chest. His palms are warm and firm as they run over your bare body. He leaves a trail of slow, lingering kisses along the length of your neck before murmuring against your ear,

“The men downstairs are whispering. They think the mysterious traveller has caught himself a mermaid.”

“They aren’t wrong,” you mumble into your pillow.

Aleksander smiles against your skin.

“But you weren’t a mermaid when I caught you, were you?”

Unable to fight your smile, you squeeze your pillow, nestling yourself further under the sheets.

“No.”

His smile widens. There’s a pause as the two of you soak up this moment, soft sunlight filtering its way through the thin curtains as you stretch lightly, reaching for your pillow and tucking it against your chest. Aleksander presses a tender kiss to the space between your shoulder blades.

“How are you feeling?” he asks.

His question brings your attention back to your body, the aches and pains and the terrible sense of loss that hums inside you.

“Like someone’s hollowed out my heart.”

He kisses your temple softly, sliding his hand beneath you to place his hand over your chest.

“Your heart is right here. Even I can’t take that from you.”

Aleksander gives your body one final affectionate squeeze, before he sits up.

“I think you could,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he reaches for the tray of food, breaking up a crust of bread to feed to you in small portions. The action makes your stomach flip, reminding you of your first few days under the sea, when Aleksander had fed you by hand because you were too weak to do it yourself.

Settling yourself back against the rickety headboard, you bunch up the covers, drawing them up to your chest to shield yourself from the morning chill. Aleksander holds a piece of bread up to your lips, ignoring the heat burning over your face.

“I can feed myself,” you protest quietly. The words come out softer than you intended, weakened mostly by the indulgent smile quirking at the corner of his lips.

“It’s my duty to provide for you.” He pinches your chin lightly between his fingers, a darkness glimmering in his eyes. “Humour me.”

When you take the bread into your mouth, his smile widens and your body is molten hot, your breathing deep and heavy as he looks at you, gaze unwavering. He feeds you the entire slice, piece by piece, praising you the entire time.

Once you’ve finished, he brushes his knuckles over your cheek, thumb smoothing over your cheekbone.

“You seem warm, milaya.”

He tugs the covers back, revealing your naked body to him. Instantly, you clasp your legs together tightly and he chuckles.

“Shall we check that the change was successful?” he asks, mischief dancing in his eyes as he curls his fingers around one ankle. With the attention of the room being brought onto your legs, embarrassment crawls over your skin.

“Don’t,” you say quickly, before adding in a small whimper, “Please.”

Aleksander stares up at you, his dark eyes flickering over every inch of your expression and you feel frightfully vulnerable, as if he can see every thought rushing through your mind. He pushes at your ankle slowly, bending your limb so that your foot is placed flat on the bed.

“I know you don’t think much of your human form,” he says in a low voice. “But tail or legs, you are beautiful.” He presses the barest hint of a kiss to your calf and you shudder. “Can I show you?”

He continues his kisses, mapping a path slowly upwards from your ankle. Breathlessly, you squirm beneath him.

“It isn’t mating season yet,” you state.

He grins.

“No it isn’t. But that doesn’t mean I can’t kiss every inch of your body, does it?”

His lips are warm and firm as he kisses over your calves, parting your legs with ease. His fingers rub soothing circles over your tense muscles, doing everything he can to alleviate the aches and pains that linger after your transformation. Emotion catches in your throat, tears gathering in your eyes as his mouth reaches your knees.

“Aleksander,” you cry. “Please.”

The rough scrape of his beard is delightful against the soft skin of your thighs and you whine as he spreads your legs even further apart. His teeth drag lightly over the flesh of your inner thigh in a playful bite and you tip your head backwards against the headboard.

He hums quietly. His nose brushes against your mound and you whimper. He tilts his head, clicking his tongue at the sight of the mess between your thighs. A jolt of pleasure jitters down your spine. Arching your back away from the mattress, you throw one hand back to gasp at the headboard. The other hand sinks into Aleksander’s dark locks, fisting the hair tightly as you cling to him.

He glances up at you, his lips parted, and you feel as though you might come undone just by looking at him, imagining his lips against your cunt. His gaze is deliberate as it moves down your body, so weighty you can almost feel it over your skin like a caress. When his eyes lock onto your cunt, you squirm lightly, heat burning across your cheeks in an inferno.

“May I kiss you here?” he asks in a whisper.

You nod fervently and he grins darkly.

“Come now, little starfish. I would like a proper answer.”

“Yes, please. Please kiss me there.”

His lips are so gentle, the barest hint of a kiss as his mouth brushes against the soaked folds of your cunt. A breathy whimper escapes you as the tip of his tongue parts your folds, revealing your weeping cunt to him fully.

Neither one of you want to break this moment, barely able to raise your voices to anything above a low whisper.

“Aleksander,” you say, voice cracking.

“Both hands on the headboard,” he orders in a murmur.

Just the action of obeying him, settling both of your hands on the headboard above you, bearing your body to him in total submission, has you teetering on the edge of what you think might be your climax. It’s been so long since you’ve touched yourself - even longer since someone else has touched you - the idea of an orgasm feels elusive. Yet something violently pleasurable is creeping its way closer.

The motion of his tongue is addictive, a dizzying circle that traces around your sensitive clit. The little bud is swollen and throbbing, every pulse makes you more and more desperate for him.

A tear slips down your cheek as you say his name. His tongue strokes leisurely against your cunt, lapping up the arousal that has gathered from teasing your clit. The moan that rumbles in the back of his throat makes you quiver. It’s mortifying, being so affected by the sound of him.

“I’m close,” you admit.

A weak sob of pleasure and shame threatens to choke you at the thought of being so wanton. Aleksander places his palm over your stomach, a warm and comforting pressure that soaks into your skin even as he pins you down. His tongue licks over your cunt for several beats before he lifts his head from between your thighs. Arousal glosses over his lips and you clench around nothing, breathless at the sight.

“Relax, darling.” He slips his hands beneath you, kneading your ass cheeks purposefully. A sharp groan is dragged out of you as he grasps at the tender flesh. “You’ve been holding all of this inside you for far too long. Now it’s time to let go.”

There’s a roaring in your ears, drowning out every sensation that isn’t the clenching of your cunt as Aleksander suckles greedily on your sensitive clit, his bottom lip grazing against your quivering entrance. The rush of your release smears over his mouth and chin, making a thorough mess of him. Pleasure has stars sparkling over your vision, your limbs tingling with a heady bliss.

Time slips away from you, passing by unnoticed with each heavy breath you take. The world is small, narrowed down to the satisfied weight of your limbs against the mattress. It takes you quite some time to realise you’ve been staring up at the ceiling.

Shakily, you turn onto your side, wide eyes searching frantically for Aleksander. Once you find him beside you, dark eyes warm and safe, the tension in your chest snaps and you burst into tears. Instantly, he pulls you onto him, allowing you to cry against his bare chest.

“It’s alright, darling,” he assures you in a low voice. The sound vibrates in his chest, buzzing against your ear. “I’m so proud of you; you did so well.” He strokes his fingers along your spine, drawing shapes on his way down. “You’ve been such a good girl for me. My brave little starfish.”

He kisses your forehead, nuzzling his nose affectionately against your hairline as his words warm in your chest.

“You should find walking a lot easier now.”

You blink at him, a tear slipping down your cheek as you start to realise something that makes your heart twist.

“Is that why we did this… to make it easier for me to walk?”

He takes a hold of your chin firmly, keeping your eyes locked on his.

“We did this because you are mine, and I refuse to condone you feeling bad about any part of yourself.”

Unable to stop yourself, you climb up his body, straddling his waist as you press your lips against his. He responds instantly, cupping your face with both hands to deepen the kiss. As you grip onto his hair, Aleksander leans forwards to meet you, lowering his hands to squeeze at your calves.

This time, there’s no sense of unease as he touches your legs and you smile into the kiss as his hands wander up your thighs to grasp at your waist, pulling you flush against him. Aleksander smiles as well, tracing his touches up your body.

“We should be heading on our way.” A pout puckers at your lips and he chuckles. “The sooner we find the stag, the sooner we can go home.”

Home with Aleksander. That makes you smile.

»»---------------------►

marvelmusing Tag List: @dreamlandcreations @blanchedelioncourt @idaofinfinity @slytherheign @ellooo0ooo @vixenofcourse @dumb-fawkin-bitch @jane-arthur @ilikefictionmen @budugu @watersquirtpewpewboomm @mysweetlittledesire

S&B Tag List: @motheroffae @daddymaster21

Aleksander M Tag List: @nyctophiliiiiaaa @jazmin2211 @wooya1224 @seronsalk

BB Characters Tag List: @rachlovesactors @noortsshift @aikeia @weallhaveadestiny @two-unbeatable-beaters @idohknow

#aleksander morozova x reader #aleksander morozova #the darkling x reader #the darkling au #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone au

[usiel21]

There will come a day where the stalker or someone will kidnap Enid in order to use her against Wednesday. He or she will be filled with such confidence about their plan, but Enid will hold a smug sadness, saying that Wednesday won't come for her, Wednesday won't fall for such an obvious trap even if she was worth saving which she isn't. Enid, having come to terms with the fact she was in love with her best friend, that she came to terms with the fact that Wednesday would never feel the same, that she would pine and worship Wednesday from within the shadows for the rest of her life. Enid, believing that no-one would come for her, not Wednesday, not her family, because she thinks she's not worth it. But she's glad because Wednesday would stay safe even if it meant it cost her life once her usefulness was null and void. Until the ground started to shake and a rumbling seems to engulf the cabin. Enid looks up as the darkness seems to create a shockwave that consistently shakes the walls and the very foundations of the cabin "What in the fuck" He mumbles to himself, Enid hears the something being slapped into something else, a clicking sound and snap, Enid realises that the man has just loaded a weapon and primed it. The windows start to rattle as specks of black start to black out the windows, the mass seeming to sift and creep and Enid realises what she's looking at. Bees.

Millions upon millions of Bees. Suddenly the door to the cabin shakes in the frame as something rattles it. Something heavy. SLAM. SLAM. SLAM. The man unloads several rounds into the door. Each shot causing Enid to flinch and shake, smoke pours from the end of the barrel, the last shell casing having clattered to the floor. There was sudden silence. Save for the buzzing of the bee's surrounding the cabin. The door is suddenly blown apart causing Enid to shriek and turn her head away as splinters of wood fly in all directions. Smoke dances and prances in the dim light until a shadow steps through, her face aflame with an icy fury. "You dare to take what belongs to me. I will make you beg for mercy in death" Wednesday says coldly, except Enid gapes at her, Wednesday is adorned from head to toe in black armour, a sword clasped in her right hand, a small dagger in the left.

But there upon one of the pauldron's is a small insignia, the head of a howling wolf. White in colour, except for two streaks of blue and pink atop the wolf's head. "Wends..." Enid whimpers softly.

"You think I didn't come prepared Addams?" The Man hissed. "You people are stupidly impervious to damage, except for this" The Man says pressing the barrel of the gun to the side of Enid's head. "I heard that the pain of losing the love of your life is enough to make you Addams' die from a broken heart." The man grins maliciously. "I'm curious to find out!"

Wednesday raises the sword and points it at the man. "Enid's life is the only thing stopping me from ripping you apart. The pain of losing the woman I love will destroy me, but I'll have enough will left to avenge her upon your corpse" Wednesday threatened darkly. "Wends..." Enid whispers almost silently "...you love me?" Her eyes pleading, desperate, shimmering with tears. "You overtook my soul with yours Enid, you conquered every corner of darkness with the light you bring, how... how could i not?"

Enid let the tears fall, because Wednesday was here for her. Wednesday had really come for her but as her assailant and Wednesday stared each other down more shadows moved behind her, Wednesday stepped to the side to clear her view and she saw the entirety of Wednesday's family behind her, their faces thunderous, Yoko, Divina, Ajax, Eugene, and half of Nevermore seemed to be outside.

And she realised that she was loved and cherished, so much so that Wednesday call in every favour she ever had to mobilize a small army. Gomez Addams stepped up behind his daughter, his own sabre raised, as he backed up his eldest, the look upon his face sent genuine fear down Enid's spine, his face dark, monstrous. "You stole our wolf from the Addams clan" Gomez uttered darkly, As Morticia gracefully came up to her husbands side. "And for that there shall be no mercy for you for she has our little stormcloud's heart, ensnaring all our hearts with her colourfully sharp claws!" "She is family" Morticia said proudly "And we protect our family." She said as her eyes turned black. Sweat began to pour from the man's forehead, his composure gone and doubt began to gnaw at him, the gun came away from Enid's temple to point directly at Wednesday who darted forwards, her sword flashing, and his arm, still clutching the pistol, hit the floor with a thud.

But Enid paid no heed to this, only when Wednesday flew to her side, her hands more gentle that she thought possible as Wednesday checked over her carefully, face laced with concern. Her hands became loose and Enid's first act was to launch forwards, ensnaring Wednesday in her arms, her scent a comfort, her touch a relief, her love a salvation.

Enid, inconsolable with both sadness and elation, with the knowledge she was now truly loved, that she had a family, that she had Wednesday, who held her tight lest she slip from her fingers again.

Enid, finally felt loved.

#wenclair

[emsvertigo]

Reckless Serenade

image not mine, found on pinterest

summary & genre — fluff & nsfw. you & holland meet in a rundown bar when you order the same drink. when you find yourselves alone, your attraction towards each other becomes apparent.

warnings — sexual references, smoking, alcohol use, emily tries to write comedy (probably fails), one use of strong language.

character & pairings — holland march x fem!reader (the nice guys. 2016)

word count — 2.2k

a/n — i fucking hate writing dialogue but you need it AHHH. anyway i rewatched the nice guys and it sparked me to write this cause holy shit holland is my dream man. i’m so glad the ‘barbie’ film has opened people’s eyes to how hot ryan gosling is lmaoo. thank you so much for all the love on my seb fic since ‘barbie’ released. anyways, i have literally never been to l.a in my life, so please excuse the bad descriptions of its environment. hope you guys enjoy!

find my old fics here! ✿

You note his hands first. The way they slide up and down the bar, in a sense of nervousness that buzzes through the air. How his fingertips bounce against the wood, creating calm in his mind. The dimples and blemishes littered over his hands, creating pools of imperfections and bruises, highlighting age where his dimmed face could not. The whiteness of his knuckles when he downed a shot, the silver liquid coating his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed. His wrist adorned a cast, bloodstained and browning from wear. You notice the way his nimble fingers balanced cigarettes between creases. The smell of smoke his figure expelled, thick yet pleasantly alluring. The same smoke combed his hair and left an addictive taste on his lips. His hair fell from its perfectly gelled structure, placed into a cascading loop of colours and strands, framing his face.

You didn't know him, but you didn’t have to. The way he had strutted into the bar with the confidence of an emperor, only to have him sit far from you and cower like a terrified mouse, had given you a strong impression. He had ordered something strong to start, blending into your assumptions of him. His sunglasses slid down his long nose, giving you a glance at his eyes which were blazing with apprehension. You knew the man was broken, and he didn’t know how to hide it, no matter how hard he tried. The dim bar lights above bled onto his figure, creating fast shadows around his fitted suit. The side of his face was left in a mist of gloom, keeping his identity hidden.

First interactions came suddenly as his hand extended into the air, raising two fingers towards the barmaid. He slurred his order into her ear, the syllables dripping off his tongue. Your eyes glanced at him as he spoke, a hint of recognition on your features.

“That’s what I drink.” You smiled towards the stranger, a hint of humour in your voice. He smirked in response, holding the glass to his lips and dripping the liquid into his mouth. Your eyes again moved to his hands, the silver rings on his fingers absentmindedly gliding over his thick moustache.

Silence blanketed you both in a cloud of drunken thoughts. The taste of your drink, which he had copied, stuck to your teeth with saccharine fuzz. Your own hands drummed the tabletop in rhythmic focus, tearing yourself away from the stranger. Sounds from the jukebox swam through your mind as you attempted to think of something else to say. But he spoke first.

“My wife used to drink them.” The statement was directed towards himself, but you couldn't help but overhear. You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, shifting your body closer to his. The man turned to you and his features were truly shown.

The sunglasses obstructing your view from his eyes slid further down his face, cornering you with seafoam colour. His eyes were decorated with dark marks which drooped into exhaustion. He was incredibly gorgeous, though something pathetic hung around his aura.

“Oh!” You said in surprise, “You’re married?”

A solitary sob left his lips, closely followed by a sigh. His head hung for a moment before he drunkenly picked it back up with a forceful swing. The motion toppled him backwards, almost crashing to the floor in a heap, but he caught himself clumsily on the bar.

“Not anymore…” He finally spoke, rubbing his fingers over his long nose, and pushing his sunglasses up his face.

“I’m sorry.” You begin, a hole forming in your heart, pushing your emotions into a tidal wave. He feebly smiled, not wanting you to persist.

“Don’t be, I shouldn't have brought it up.” He spoke, returning the awkward stillness which created hyper-awareness of your situation. You cleared your throat, bringing a hand up into the air to summon the barmaid, delivering a warm grin her way as you ordered your drink.

The sizzling air between you both didn't cease when you returned to your drink, mindlessly observing the ornate walls. Your fingers glided across the tall decorated glass, condensation cool against your fingertips. You could feel his soft eyes on you, but the intent he wished was not one of violence, it was one of comfort and care. In the electric air, you almost felt a chill travel across your spine. As you felt his eyes drifting over your face, around your body and down your legs, you couldn't help but dream of his hands doing the same. The texture of his palms, the tickle of his fingertips gliding across your frame until they reached your sensitive points.

You gasped quietly to yourself, brushing away the dirty fantasies your brain had designed. You dipped your head back and downed the rest of your drink, the liquid burning its way down your throat. You coughed at the sensation, holding your hand up, keeping your decency in front of the stranger. The scraping of a seat beside you caused your attention to divert. Boots thudded against the floor, patting loudly against the wooden surface below. You glanced up from your drink and made eye contact with the barmaid, who was wiping the bartop with a wine-stained cloth.

“Sorry, but I think you should go too, I’m about to close up.” She spoke, wiping the bar of any grease that clung to its wood. You shook away her comment in realisation, turning to each side to notice that the seats situated behind you were empty. The house lights blinded the room in white colour, contrasting with the cosy environment from earlier. Wooden chairs had been placed on tables, and another girl was sweeping up the mess made by previous customers.

“Oh shit, my bad.” You quickly apologised, fumbling around in your bag for a bill, which you placed on the bar next to your empty drink.

You strung your bag around your shoulder, letting the material ruffle your dress in the rush. Your heels clicked against the floor as you clambered off the bar stool, and staggered towards the exit. The amount of alcohol you had drunk now flooded your thoughts, and the ground started to spin slightly. Waving goodbye to the workers inside the bar you stepped outside, your face immediately hit with the humid L.A air.

The moon hung bright in the sky, illuminating the alleyway, along with large neon lights advertising different clubs which sat across the seafront. The alleyway, though small, was safe and protective from harm, the main street only being a few moments away. Puddles from an earlier rainstorm littered the ground, answering your question as to why the air was so humid. The noises of car horns and splashing puddles echoed from the distance, and the buzz from the neon signs droned lowly behind you. A large overflowing dumpster nestled in the corner created an overwhelming stench, flowing into your nostrils and out of your mouth. Leaving a horrible taste on your tongue, vomit almost rising to your throat. You reached up and pegged your nose with your fingers, any attempt to crush the smell.

“I can’t smell that.” A voice next to you whispered. You jumped, almost dropping your bag from your shoulder in surprise. The figure next to you let out a squeak, muttering the Lords name into the night, frightening himself with your reaction.

As you turned, you recognised his eyes from earlier, although now they weren’t adorned by dark glasses. The piercing blue was reflected by the purple neon lights, painting him in an oceanic glow. You noted quietly how his cheekbones dipped and sunk in the shadowing light, the stubble crowding his jaw and creating depth on his young face. You smiled with recognition, not paying any attention when your bag slipped from your shoulder to the ground.

“You startled me!” You whispered, moving your face closer to his in order to be heard. Your noses almost touching for a moment, breaths mingling until you pulled away. He giggled, alcohol buzzing off his body with heat and hysterical energy, a personality which he did not express back inside the bar.

“I’m sorry for bringing up my wife earlier.” He spoke, a flash of sadness painted across his perfect features, his hair was messier now and strands were flying out of place every which way. You held your hand out, placing it on his chest. The fabric of his tie underneath your palm, making your heart beat faster. Letting your fingertips drift absentmindedly.

“It's okay, I’m sorry for reminding you of your wife.” You smiled sympathetically at him, his cheeks red from drink and closeness. You could feel his heart beneath his clothes, fighting for its life as it thumpped twice as fast.

“That’s why I like you.” He whispered, swaying slightly from side to side. He reached one of his hands to rest behind your head, onto the wall, trapping you against the building. If you couldn't feel his heartbeat, you would think he was a natural at this.

His breath fanned onto your cheeks, the smell of scotch and beer pouring from his mouth into your nose. His scent was overpowering, cigarette smoke bloomed throughout his build, grasping onto your senses with a firm fist. You looked up into his eyes, his eyelids heavy and hooded, his lips turned into a smile.

“Is that so?” You breathed, placing your other hand onto his chest, running your palms along his body, his blue suit slightly out of place. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, exposing his tanned skin for you to see, sweaty from the humidity. A gold chain hung from his neck, adding to his charm.

He hummed in response, looking over his shoulder for a moment. His side profile flashed before you, jawline sharp and your hands reached up to grab the sides of his face, pulling him back into reality and your deep stare.

“What’s your name?” You whispered, the buzz of the neon lights behind you both creating the only sound in the alleyway. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, heat rising to your cheeks as he looked down at you, pulling his lip between his teeth.

“Holland.” He spoke, bringing his casted hand up to rest on the wall instead, while his other hand moved to cup your jaw.

“Like the country?” You smiled, continuing to move your hands up and down his front. He chuckled in response. Out of the corner of your eye, you notice his thick cast, a doodle of a goose now apparent on the strong material in the purple light.

“How’d you break your arm?” You breathe, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.

His eye contact dropped before returning, a flash of light in his eyes.

“Minor workplace accident.” He replied, his fingers running their way across your jawline, keeping your face focused on him.

“Oh really?” You smiled, the intoxication evident in your voice, liquor dripping from your tongue into the air.

“Yeah. It gets tough out there.” He sighed, acting as calm as he possibly could with his body so close to yours. It was humourous, the way he shrugged off statements like they were nothing, when his body language told a different story.

“What do you work as?”

“I'm a P.I”

“Sexy.” You breathed, your eyelids heavy as you looked up at him through long lashes.

The single word dripped from your mouth, causing him to lean in even further, his breath pushing into your mouth with every exhale.

“Can I kiss you?” He asked, causing you to nod, mouthing ‘yes’ without any further questions. From the moment he had walked into that bar, you had wanted to feel his lips on your skin.

Slowly he closed the gap between you both, his fingers finding their way into the back of your hair. Your lips locked with his, cementing their place together. The taste of cigarettes overwhelmed your mouth, addicted to the flavour and the sensation. Your hands wandered up his neck, delving into his hair and pushing him closer towards you, your noses meeting on each other's cheek.

You moaned as he parted your lips, gasping like he was drowning in your touch. He opened his mouth to speak but the words didn't form, you crashed your lips into his once again sighing as you felt his hands leave your face and wrap around your frame. Your heartbeats were so close, almost as one as your chests flushed against each other. You heard him moan as he slipped his tongue through your teeth, licking its way into your mouth in an attempt to become closer to you. You had only met this man, but from the way he kissed you, it felt like something you could get addicted to.

“Holland.” You breathed as his lips retracted from yours again to begin kissing at your neck, the sensitive skin now on fire. His breath was hot against you, filling your mind with lustful desires, clouding your thoughts with his name over and over. The tickle of his moustache made you even more interested in him, wanting to feel the irritation everywhere.

He paused for a minute to examine your eyes, feelings and diminutive reactions to him. When he saw your drooping eyes, surveying him in the same manner, he kissed you again. This time breathing in your scent as he did so, his smoke-flavoured tongue licking your lips carefully.

When you pulled away breathless and head spinning, he let his hands wander over the small of your back.

“What's your name?” He whispered, kissing your forehead with an intimate peck.

“Give me your number and maybe you'll find out.” You groaned, leaning yourself forward into his touch as he pushed you against the wall.

#holland march #holland march x reader #holland march fanfic #the nice guys #the nice guys fanfic #ryan gosling #ryan gosling fanfic #ryan gosling x reader #ryan gosling fanfiction #fanfiction #imagine #x reader #hioreh fanfictions

[svtcrus]

Better without you || geto suguru x gn!reader

ANGST | hurt with no comfort

a/n : another 2am drabble , this one is angsty folks

notes : mentions of death , reader dies , includes some manga spoilers read at your own risk , angsty geto . lowkey just a sad drabble

synopsis : would geto sacrifice you for his perfect world?

"don't do this suguru.." you softly spoke, trying to hide your fear and pain in your voice. yet your words still quivered.

here you were in your formerly shared bedroom with the man you thought loved you as much as you did him.

however that very man had his technique out in the pit of the moonlight that felt brighter than ever. as if the heavens above were welcoming your death already.

here you stood. lips trembling. while geto suguru stood at the doorway with no emotion on his face. the man you've been dreading to see ever since he disappeared after going on that one mission. no excitement nor joy was found within you at all.

while your lips trembled, his lips that looked more dry rather than soft as before, let out a cold chuckle.

"you know I love you y/n. yeah?" it didn't feel like he did.

eyes that were once full with so much colour only bore deep into your fragile soul, darkness is all that engulfs geto suguru.

"but you don't love me enough to stop this?" you unconsciously mutter, a sad smile forming as you look at him. suguru remained silent

when you heard the news of sugurus rampage, killing his own parents, eradicating an entire village. all due to his ever growing dislike of non-sorcerers. that of which was also you, you were a non-sorcerer. every night you slept to the thought of, "does he still love me?", and "am I next?". it took him 5 years to finally answer.

at this point your future was set. you couldn't run away from one of the strongest, former sorcerers of your time. not when you aren't one yourself. so all you did was walk closer to him under the dim light emitting from your bedroom window. the wooden floor creaking from your gentle steps, and next thing you knew you were face to face for the first time in 5 years.

"it's okay. I know why you're here, just do it suguru." you mumble, as tears begun to flow out of your eyes. eyes that used to provide him with so much comfort. so much life. so much love. that's the thing, they used to. now those very same eyes looked at him with nothing but hurt.

'this was all so I could complete my goal' he told himself.

his disgust for non sorcerers was like a drug to him. the addictiveness and glory he felt killing these people he called monkeys. for they gave him an ick, a feeling he couldn't rid himself of if he doesn't rid them first. and he could slowly feel his nerves cringing as you stood face to face with one another.

"it's for the better of the world."

"better without me?"

"yes." was all he said before you felt the piercing of his curse technique going straight through your already broken heart.

"better without you.." he whispered beneath the shadows of his bangs that covered his face. he looked down, now witnessing his last salvation dead before him. yet he didn't feel any guilt nor remorse.

that day geto suguru turned around not sparing another glance to your lifeless form. disappearing once more in the dark.

━━━┅━━━━*✧·̩͙♧︎🫐♧︎·̩͙✧*━━━━┅━━

@svtcrus || 07.27.2023

all rights reserved. do not copy/plagiarize.

#geto suguru x reader #geto x reader #jjk suguru #suguru x reader #jjk geto suguru #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #getou x reader #getou suguru #geto suguru #geto angst #jjk angst #getou angst #i miss getou

[thesunloveschips]

Eye of the Storm - Chapter 10: An Unfamiliar World

Summary: Nyra is one of the older Archeron sisters. Twin to Nesta. Plagued by a mysterious illness that her mortal body cannot endure for too long. And yet, it seems her curse is to see her family suffer. When the youngest of her sisters is whisked away into the land of fae, immortality soon follows for the rest of them. And as an immortal, there is more to her that she has yet to know. 

Chapter Summary: Nyra tries to recall her memories from the Cauldron which includes the silhouettes of unfamiliar people. Rhys's sister makes an appearance. Nyra confronts Nesta. Shadows are supportive little darlings.

A/N: I am immensely thankful to @stormhearty. Your friendship is something precious for the real me who is a slightly crazy woman who loves food and fictional men. Thank you for helping me with this chapter. I will continue to fangirl over characters from books and manhwa with you.

Click here to access the Masterlist of the Eye of the Storm

****

Nyra's POV

Approximately an hour was left for dinner. I was still sitting by the window in Elain's bedroom. Nesta was sitting on the armchair across me and the occupant of the room was still unconscious.

None of us were talking but I could hear the Cauldron cry as if it was in the same room. Its cries and pleas which I did not want to hear. Not after what it did to my sisters. I closed my eyes and remembered it.

It was cold and lonely in this place. The sensation on my body made it seem like I was floating. And then there was a rip. Pain shot through me. Pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. I could not move. Could not open my eyes to see what was going on. It started from my head, from between the eyes. And then it was there, on my chest. I felt like something was being taken from me and that my body was desperately clinging on to it.

It was exhausting. I don’t even know if I was crying. And then pain vanished. I was someplace warm now. I opened my eyes and saw the darkness around me. I was a silhouette of light. Underneath me, a body floated. My body. My weak, mortal body. I was still connected to it. A single glowing string continued to connect me.

And then there were whispers behind me. I turned around and saw other silhouettes. There were many. Each of them were standing at a different distances from me. All of them with glowing eyes. They were different in appearance—different heights, build, sex, skin colour, hair colour, clothing and so much and yet, the only thing that was common was the glowing eyes. I noticed that only one of them did not have glowing eyes. In fact, her eyes were closed. She was the one standing closest to me. A young girl with large bat-like wings.

My entire being felt a pull. I looked around trying to identify the source. It was that string connecting me to my body that floated in the abyss. I looked behind at the figures and found them facing me. Even the young girl with closed eyes. Everyone except the girl lifted their hands and a string flowed out from their palms towards me. With a bundle of strings in my hands, I let them go. The strings floated around me. I waved my hands and with knowledge I did not know I possessed, I manipulated the strings.

They weaved themselves under my guidance into something. A string from my own palm emerged and joined the creation. Whatever that was finally created, came to rest in my arms and I held it. I looked at the body below me and dropped the thing on it.

I had created a body which was merging with the mortal one that floated. The golden body and my own body were merging. I felt more strings from those behind me and I pushed them towards the merging bodies. Something happened. It seemed to help with the merger. And the final product was complete. I looked behind at the figures and they were looking at me, not with glowing eyes but with their own eyes. Approval, happiness, determination, pride—many emotions floated in their eyes. All of them giving me the nod to do something.

I looked at the girl whose eyes were still closed but this time, her lips were parted. And her young voice spoke. “You were poisoned.” I froze.

Another voice from behind her spoke. “You fought well.” It was a woman—tall and larger than women. Easily six feet.

The girl spoke again, her voice pained. “He has been waiting for so long.” And her hand darted forward to push me towards the new body that had been created.

Something stopped me from reaching my body. Some creatures. Many creatures of different shapes and sizes. They were blocking my path. I had to go. The pull was getting stronger. I closed my eyes and the next thing I knew, I was moving—fighting. Like a warrior with practised ease and strength, I was destroying the demons surrounding me.

A familiar presence was nearby. I looked around and felt the gaze of a predator. A familiar presence. I walked closer and identified that to be the one whom I shared a womb in this life. A sibling. What was their name? Was it a girl or a boy? Either way, they shouldn’t be in this place. I raised my hand when I got close enough and pushed them away. Their presence completely vanished and I was left alone with the figures around me.

My fight continued. I won. I walked over to the body waiting for me like a vessel to fill it. A pained cry caught my attention.

“Please.” It begged. And some stupid part of me walked over and helped it. It was wounded and I healed it. “I am forever in your debt.” We talked a lot and then I walked back and felt my essence enter the body.

Once I had entered the body, I looked around. There was no light, no screams, nothing. Just pure darkness. I lifted my hands and checked them. I was glowing. Energy crackled around me. Something glowed from above me. I looked up and saw a bright thread, the only source of light in this darkness. An identical thread sprouted from my chest and ascended to meet it. I watched as the two thread merge into one, as though they were never separated. And then something grabbed my wrists. It coiled around them like a rope and pulled me upwards.

The next thing I knew, I was exiting the Cauldron. People around me were screaming my name. What was it? I could not even see anything clearly. Wisps of darkness and water blurred my vision to the maximum. Something cool and comfortable was all over me. Some energy. It helped me walk and led me to the source of the shining thread. And then they laid me down and I fell a wave of comfort and relief. And I fell asleep.

There was much more to all of this than what I could comprehend right now. That girl and all the figures lined up behind her. This silence in Elain’s bedroom was too loud. I wanted to scream and run and vomit and do so much, all at the same time. The beast within me was my own self. My real self. My power. At present, she was tame; like a cat curled up for a nap. But the cat was starting to get irritated. It was on the verge of transforming into another feline creature of greater size and power should it be provoked for too long. The only thing calming my inner self was the night sky. The stars were a calming sight.

But why did I feel like this? Like a part of me was absent. And the emptiness was seeping into the rest of me. A desperate feeling of yearning was there. For what? For who? Why? To be yearning so much to the point where it was starting to frustrate me—whose absence was affecting me so? I knew it wasn't father. I did not interact with the man who had been so absent from our lives. During our childhood when we were wealthy, it was a physical absence. During our teenage years when we were poor, it was an emotional absence. When Feyre was taken and we mysteriously became rich, the physical and emotional absence became far too much that I did not bother. We talked only when it was required. With him entrusting the keys of the house to me because he was too afraid to face Nesta, who was the healthier twin.

Was it for Feyre, who had been taken from us only to return as a completely different person? I did not even recognise the girl who came back the first time. A girl with life breathed into her only to tell us about the man she fell in love with. She left to save him. And then she returned as a fae. A broken shell of the woman she had become previously. Her subsequent visits showed improvement but I did not recognise her even then. She was no longer the woman who was our sister. She was free and powerful and independent and that was good for her but my sister had died and a new woman had taken her place. Feyre was no longer our sister in many aspects. And yet she was. But I had this powerful feeling that she would not have come to us after becoming fae if it weren't for the mortal queens and the Book of Breathings.

From what Nesta told me, Elain had begged not to be drowned in the Cauldron and yet she had been the first one to be Made. The woman who went in crying and the woman who returned were two different beings. And now, she was lifeless. The only semblance of who she was could be found in the open curtains. I looked at the sleeping sister. She was pale and thin and the bones of her hand, cheek and neck were too prominent.

Nesta, who had kicked and screamed, before being thrown into the Cauldron. How did she emerge? She hadn’t told me anything. But the woman who was sitting in front of me was withdrawn. She was no longer the panther who waited in the dark before striking. She was a cat who had retired to sleep. Nesta’s claws were no longer sharp.

Then for whom was I feeling so much? This burning sensation. I think I would've cried if I hadn't averted my eyes to look at the sea. Even in the darkness, I could identify where it was after having looked at for so long during the day. So much love, it made me feel like I was bundled up in a velvety blanket. But the other emotions made me feel like the blanket would be ripped away from my body and I would have to wake up to a horrible world.

Nesta's movement began to distract me from my own inner turmoil. She had stood up, walked towards the door, opened it and peeped outside to see if anyone was there and then closed it again. She came back but did not sit down. "We ought to get ready for dinner."

"I suppose we should." I stood up and then looked at Elain. We did not speak because we did not know what to speak of. We walked over to the door connecting Elain's room with Nesta's and entered and closed the door behind us.

"Your room is ahead." Nesta pointed towards the door straight ahead.

"What do you feel about all of this?" I turned to the window. I knew that Nesta required space before she could answer difficult questions. Not looking at her meant that she would feel less pressurised and that she would have more clarity of thought.

Nesta looked outside the window. "We are in an unfamiliar world. I do not mind it much. I do not have a marriage waiting for me. But…"

"You worry for father?" I wanted to know what she felt for him. She did not despise him as much as she tried to pretend. And she would always leave the room whenever I tried to confront her about it, knowing my sick body couldn't follow her. But now I could. And it seemed like she was realising that bit too.

Nesta scoffed. "The man could barely pick himself up even when Feyre went out to hunt. You were sick. We needed the money for your medicines."

"What about you and Elain? What were the two of you doing?" This was it. This was everything. Our lives had revolved around this for so long. Feyre had continuously begged me not to confront Nesta or Elain about this and I truly found her foolish for that. Her kindness had been extended to undeserving people.

"We could never send Elain out. She…"

"Then what about you?" I asked softly. I did not have the patience to shout at her and she was no longer poised to strike. So would she answer me? "Feyre was just a child."

"I know you would've gone out." Nesta's voice was a mere whisper. "You would've done anything and everything for all of us. You're like Feyre in that aspect."

"I think I would have." I spoke. The salty scent of her tears spread around the room. "Do not try to deflect, Nesta."

I knew how much Nesta hated that cottage. That bed where mother had birthed us and died. Everything around us was a reminder of the weakness we carried within ourselves.

"And that trait of yours made you push me out of the Cauldron." Nesta looked at me, vision blurred by tears.

"What were you doing, Nesta?" I had to be more firm with her. I was rarely firm with any of them. That had costed us too much. And whenever I was, I snapped too badly.

"I was scared!" Nesta's voice rose.

"Scared of the world and in that house, only our father knew how to navigate through it." I added and hummed. "He disappointed you, didn't he? When he did not go out to find work and instead remained… hopelessly hopeful for a miracle." I moved towards the door Nesta had pointed at, the one that would lead to me bedroom and stood by the door. The door knob was a beautiful piece of wood, simple and shaped. "Our mother's lessons never included any survival skills but our father's travels did."

I remembered how Feyre had snuck into our father's office to see the maps and the trinkets he brought back from his travels. How father sat her on his lap and told her stories of the world outside. Nesta was staunchly against that. I simply smiled and encouraged Feyre to listen to father's stories. He would tell her about the different people, cultures, cuisines and adventures he had. And eventually those stories shaped Feyre into becoming the one to step outside their home to be the breadwinner.

"And even now, you love him."

"That's ridiculous." Nesta sneered.

"Why?"

"Because I am my mother's daughter."

"All of us are."

"I am more of her than any of you ever was."

"And what are we?"

"Not hers." Nesta did not say anything more but I understood that this was a partition that would remain in her mind. That Nesta would forever see herself as someone apart from her sisters.

"Is that why you never stepped out? Because our mother would've deemed it beneath her to toil for the family? And you're her daughter?" The words escaped me before I could filter them. I saw Nesta flinch. I knew I had struck well when she reacted and I did not like this. I did not like this conversation. Did not like that she was like this. Nesta would've done anything and everything for Elain and I but for Feyre, what was it?

I remembered all the times when we were young and Feyre used to look up to us. I spun my history lessons into stories and told my own version of it to put the younger ones to sleep while Nesta silently watched even though she pretended to be uninterested. Stories of kings and queens, princes and princesses and adventurers and treasure hoarders. Mythologies were the easiest to tell her.

Feyre learned words easily as she listened to my stories and Nesta's advanced speaking. Maybe that's why mother never realised she did not know how to write and read. And for a long time, I did not. Not until mother had passed. Feyre was friends with Elain in a way she never was with me. Friends who would run around the house together, paint together, garden together. To her I was an older sister, but Elain was a friend more than a sister. But Nesta?

For so long, I'd seen her hopefully look at Nesta for the love and companionship she received from us. She did pick up the fierceness from her but she never knew how to wield it. She learned it all on her own and while I was proud of her for being able to do everything on her own, why was she? Why was she the only one providing for us in a house with two more healthy women? Why was she the only one who could do anything and be useful in a house with two capable women?

I'd fed her false hopes during our childhood that Nesta would come around but I believed them to be true. I'd seen how Feyre, fascinated with the first set of paints, had created something and gift it to Nesta. The first of her creations was a gift to someone who simply took it, said her thanks and retired to her room impassively. Feyre did not know what it was called but she saw Nesta using something to mark the book from where she paused; a bookmark.

I saw Nesta keep that bookmark for years, not even allowing me to touch it. Elain did not know where that bookmark was from. The same went for her drawings. Every little scribble, Nesta kept them guarded in her drawers and never told Feyre. She never scolded Feyre for continuing to draw even when we had limited paper after losing our riches. She simply kept them when Feyre thought they were being burned to feed the fire in the cottage. Nesta was a woman of actions and words so why did she not act?

"We are our own person before we were her daughters." I twisted the doorknob to open the door to my room. The luxurious space greeted me with nothing but unfamiliarity. This was not home. "And you are no longer hers. No longer her daughter. I hope you come to accept it someday." I took a step but my other leg remained where it was. "You must apologise to Feyre for not stepping up. The both of you need to move past that."

I let the door slam behind me and began pacing the room. The fact remained that Nesta and Elain did nothing while father and I were physically incapable of going out. Feyre was the only one who did it. And I did not know why I kept defending both of them in my head. I removed the hair tie and enjoyed the feeling of my hair being free.

What did it mean to be an elder sibling? To step in for the younger ones? If that was the case, Nesta and I had done that many times before mother died. Things changed after that. Even then, I'd seen Nesta actively step in for Elain and in my sickness, for me but Feyre was someone she left behind.

I opened the closet wondering whether I needed to dress for the dinner or whether this gown would be appropriate enough. A silk gown of midnight blue grabbed my attention. I took it from where it hung and admired how it was more soft than the one I currently wore. I closed the door of the wardrobe and took the dress with me to the bathing chamber.

The bathtub sat there like the king in his kingdom. I looked away from it and stared at the mirror in front of me. A woman with incomparable beauty stared back but she was so confused. What good was flawless hair and skin and body when I could no longer identify myself? The woman in the mirror was an unfamiliar face. I was never this beautiful, never this healthy. This was definitely someone else.

This is not home. I wanted to cry at that.

The Cauldron had demanded far too much from me. It had exhausted me before I could leave its clutches. I felt it all over my body and I knew I was close to hyperventilating. I'll never return home. And all that pain. I would have died and yet, here I was.

What was the point of snapping at Nesta? We were here, no longer human. We could never return. And what was there for us in the land of the fae? There is nothing. This is not home. My home with my sisters and father. And when I inadvertently looked in the direction of the bathtub, I saw the Cauldron—black and cruel. I screamed in my head at myself to run away. But my legs, why weren't they moving? The Cauldron seemed to nearing me and I wanted to vanish into the shadows.

And as if my prayers were answered, the shadows emerged from behind like the waves of an ocean. I saw their reflection in the mirror and I crumbled as they embraced me and took me away. It was cold and calm. Only the wind remained for me to hear. I could not process anything but my own cries and tears. Where's my home? I screamed into the shadows and wailed. Tears had blurred my vision but I could see enough to identify that I was someplace dark. I sat down on the cold floor with my knees to my chest.

Home was Nesta's stubbornness, my father's hopes for tomorrow, Elain's smiles and Feyre's wildness. But I was somewhere where I could recognise none of my sisters. My stubborn sister had left everything to the youngest, who in turn lost a part of herself. My happy sister no longer smiled. And what was I?

I don’t know how long I was crying but a hand grabbed my shoulder. It was the only source of warmth. It was a large hand and I looked back. There was no one. I could not see the hand on my shoulder but I could definitely feel it. It was still there. And the shadows retreated and I was on the bathroom floor with a worried Nesta in front of me. She saw me and was saying something. She hugged me and rocked me and I closed my eyes. It was when I could hear my surroundings that I dared to open my eyes. Nesta was crying as she held me.

I moved my hand, took her elbow and tried to remove it away from me. It was a heavy arm and my movement made her release me from my embrace to look at me. Her tears were flowing and she looked so worried. “Are you alright?” She grabbed my cheeks and inspected me. “Did something happen? Talk to me, dear.”

Nesta was never affectionate unless she was worried. And that she definitely was at the moment. “I’m fine.” I whispered.

I escaped her embrace and stood up. I had yet to wash my face and I did just that. I kept on gathering cold water in my hands and splashing it on my face until I felt content. I looked up at the mirror and saw someone who I was starting to recognise. Me. The broken me. I took the towel hanging nearby and dabbed my face with it. I had to change clothes. As I was removing my clothes, I heard her call my name.

"Come to me after you've spoken to Feyre." Nesta knew what I was talking about. I wore the midnight blue gown which exposed my neckline and clung loosely to my figure. My hair was in a bun but with a few stray curls escaping here and there. We stared at each other until I made the move to leave for dinner even though I did not know where it was going to.

I walked ahead. I could hear Nesta behind me but I descended the stairs and heard the noise coming from one of the floors. I followed the voices and halted. I was suddenly reminded of the fact that I will be dining with strangers. Even though I'd met a few of them and dined with the brothers before, that was back in my own home. I saw Feyre and her family and I felt like something was attacking me. Meeting her in-laws was not how I ever expected it to be but when I saw Feyre walking towards me, I realised that I did not recognise her at all. Where the hell was my sister and who was this woman?

****

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#a court of thorns and roses #acotar #azriel x oc #azriel x original character #a court of silver flames #acofas #azriel shadowsinger #acosf #acomaf #acowar #azriel spymaster #azriel #rhysand #feyre archeron #feysand #nesta archeron #nessian #cassian #elain archeron #lucien #lucien vanserra #night court #a court of mist and fury #a court of wings and ruin #azriel x reader