#Collection: Regrets & Revelations

[prythianpages]

A Light That Never Goes Out | Azriel

Azriel x Rhysand's sister (reader) | The aftermath of Azriel kissing you in front of everyone in the Court of Nightmares.

warnings: angry Rhys, angry High Lord, brief mention of Tamsand, mating bond snapping

word count: roughly 3K, around 3.5K if you read the bonus scene

a/n: This is a part two to this but can be read as a stand alone. I had fun writing this but I worry this sounded better in my head. I was tempted to turn this into a crack fic bc of this trending tiktok sound.

Azriel kisses you, consequences be damned. His hand slides from yours to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer. You kiss him back with the same intensity, years of longing and love pouring into this single moment. Your mind and thoughts tangling with his, the bond between you surging with emotion. Desire and hope. He’s still in disbelief that tonight was the first night he told you he loved you.

But in truth, Azriel had been telling you all along—in every glance, every touch, every kiss that held more than words ever could.

Azriel’s shadows recoil as the two of you pull apart, breathless. The Court of Nightmares had faded away, the two of you lost in each other. It’s just you and him, as it is meant to be…Until the distinctive footsteps of your father approaching echoes throughout the ballroom. Your eyes are wide, too many emotions swirling within their depths. 

But Azriel is relieved that regret is not one of them.

“Azriel.”

The High Lord’s voice is calm and collected but the fury flickering in his violet eyes is unmistakable. He stands no more than two feet away, the authority radiating from him as cold as it is absolute. Beside him, Rhysand watches, his expression unreadable. 

Your father lifts a hand, wisps of darkness and starlight spilling from his fingertips. The orchestra resumes under the silent command and driven by some invisible force, the guests resume dancing and drinking. As if nothing had happened. 

“Come with me,” your father says, his tone leaving no room for argument. His command is directed solely at Azriel. “I’d like to have a word.”

 You try to hold on to Azriel, to keep him close, but he slips his fingers from yours, bowing his head in quiet submission to your father. Without another word, he follows after him. And though his command had been directed solely at Azriel, the weight of the situation falls on the both of you. 

So you step forward, determined to follow after them. But just as you step outside the ballroom, Rhysand grasps your arm, forcing you to a stop.

“You stupid, foolish…,” his voice trails off in frustration. “What have you done?”

You spin on him, eyes flashing with anger as you yank your arm out of his hold. “What have I done? What about what have you done? Planning marriage alliances behind my back? Like I’m some pawn on your chessboard?”

Rhysand’s gaze softens for a brief moment. “Y/n, I–”

“No.” You interrupt sharply, starlight beginning to swirl from the fingertip you point at him. You don’t want to hear his excuse, whatever justification he thinks will make this right. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Cassian and Mor making their way toward you, slipping through the dancing couples and out of the ballroom. 

The starlight seeping from your fingertip glows brighter, ready and poised to attack. However, it’s your words you speak into his mind that make the blow instead.

“You know, if you love that runt from Spring so much, why don’t you marry him yourself?”

Rhysand’s eyes widen, his brows furrowing as the meaning of your words hit him. The revelation that you know his secret. Where he’d sneak off to some nights. Why the scent of crisp rain and earth lingered on him when he’d return. You and Azriel had pieced it together after Cassian had mentioned that his book on Illyrian training and methods suddenly went missing. Given your secret, you and Azriel had kept that information to yourselves, waiting for the moment Rhysand would feel comfortable to tell you himself. 

It takes him a moment to regain his composure, for his gaze to harden again. His lips curl into a snarl–a warning.  “Y/n.”

He leans in forward but you take a step back and winnow away, only one thing on your mind. Finding Azriel.

**

The walk to the High Lord’s private office in the Court of Nightmares is silent but the sense of foreboding is nearly deafening. Azriel is tense, his shadows quiet and burrowing into his leathers. Too many possibilities and consequences storm through his mind, each one more damning than the last.

Does he regret kissing you in front of everyone? No.

That kiss was the first honest, uninhibited thing he’d allowed himself to do in years. It was freeing, exhilarating to be able to show everyone, especially the sons of Spring and Autumn that you were his and he was yours. He could face death for this—for touching the High Lord’s daughter. For kissing you so openly, so brazenly, in front of the entire court.

But why? Why should it be so wrong for him to love you? Because of his birth? The scars of his past that marked him as unworthy? He’s served loyally. Bled for this court.Tortured for this court. 

He’s watched from the shadows as lords and sons, full of false charm, have circled you like vultures, eyeing you as nothing more than a prize to be claimed.  And yet, when he—who knows you, who cherishes you—shows his love, it is considered a crime.

It isn’t fair. But Azriel has never been afforded fairness. 

The heavy doors to the High Lord's office swing open with a wave of his hand, and Azriel steps inside. The air is thick with tension, and every muscle in his body tightens. The High Lord gestures for him to sit, but Azriel bows his head, respectfully declining. Standing feels safer. Less vulnerable. He wonders if his refusal will anger the High Lord further, but the single shadow curling at his ear reports no rising fury.

He can feel the weight of the High Lord’s gaze—it’s heavy, scrutinizing, like the cold press of a blade against his skin. He keeps his eyes forward, even though his heart pounds in his chest. If there’s punishment to be had, Azriel will accept it.

The High Lord moves to his desk, positioned beneath an oculus, where moonlight spills through and dances across his features. He gazes up at the starlit sky as if searching for answers—or perhaps, waiting.

“Normally, this is the part where people like you should be begging for forgiveness, for a way to rectify your mistake.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens. “I haven’t made a mistake.”

“No?” The High Lord’s gaze snaps back to him, piercing as if he could peel away Azriel’s very skin to lay bare his soul. Azriel wonders, for a brief moment, if your daemati powers had been inherited from your father. Could the High Lord see into his mind, his thoughts? Have kept this power to himself all these years as a secret weapon? 

“You sound so sure of yourself,” the High Lord continues, his tone sharpening. “Tell me, how long has this... affair been going on?”

“For decades.” Azriel admits, knowing that there was no use in lying. The truth was already written in the way he kissed you, in the way he looked at you as you broke away from the kiss.

“For decades?” The High Lord repeats, his expression darkening, violet eyes narrowing. “You took my daughter’s first dance tonight of all nights.”

Azriel’s silence says everything. Both of them aware that Azriel had taken more than dances, more than a kiss.

“You’ve taken her innocence. You’ve ruined her…” The High Lord continues to seethe in that cool, unnerving tone.

Azriel’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for his dagger. Not to defend himself, but because it’s his only comfort in moments like these.

But this is not a battle to be fought with daggers or swords. This is a battle of love, of politics, of status. One he’s had no training for yet one he’s willing to fight. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d fight against all odds.

“Whether she marries Spring or Autumn, she will become a lady of the highest esteem and forge a strong alliance with my court. Laden with all the riches and wonders only a High Lord can offer. What can you offer? You don’t even have a proper last name to give her, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel swallows thickly, the weight and shame of his low-born status crashing into him like the violent current of Illyria’s river. It feels like he’s sinking under it, drowning in it. He knows he can’t offer you what any son of Spring or Autumn could. He had reminded you of that—again and again. 

It’s as if you can feel his doubts creeping back in, the poison of guilt and worthlessness seeping in. Your presence—soft, warm, and steady—enters his mind. You bring forth the memory you had shared with him moments ago on the dance floor again.

“I can’t give you much,” his voice had dropped to a whisper, barely a rasp as he leaned his forehead against yours. His nose brushed against yours, his lips hovering just over your own. “But I can give you everything I have.”

“That’s all I’ll ever need,” you had replied, the words echoing now in his mind, like an antidote to the venom of doubt. That’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all—

“I asked you a question, Azriel.” The High Lord’s sharp voice cut through the memory, yanking him back to the cold, oppressive reality of the Court of Nightmares. “What can you offer in exchange for my daughter?”

Azriel’s knees buckle beneath him before he even realizes it. He drops to the floor, bowing his head low. His shadows stir, swirling around him in a frenzy, urging him to stand. To stop him.

“My life.”

“Your life,” The High Lord muses. He lets out a dark, humorless chuckle. “You love my daughter enough to give your life for her?”

“Yes,” Azriel says, his voice firm and steady, even as his shadows coil tighter around his arms, trying to pull him back from this path. But he stays rooted to the floor. His life, his soul—it all belongs to you anyway. What was it worth, if not to protect you? To be yours?

The High Lord’s eyes narrow as he studies the swirling shadows, dark and restless, wrapping themselves around Azriel’s form. Shadowsingers are rare. Their power is precious. They can see and hear things others can’t. The only known living one kneels before him now. 

Despite his low born status, the Shadowsinger had also proved himself a formidable, Illyrian warrior. A Carynthian. It’s why he appointed Azriel as the Night Court’s spymaster.  

And now this powerful and strong male is offering his life.

To have a Shadowsinger as his spymaster is rare, a gift in itself. To have Azriel’s loyalty, his strength, his skills bound by magic for life. A weapon of mass destruction, at his beck and call. No room for betrayal, no worry over him leaving his court for another.

 All in exchange for your hand in marriage? 

Now, that sounds like a deal.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, voicing his consideration. He could give Azriel a title, raise him from his bastard status. At his will, darkness begins to rise from the floor. The power of the bargain hovers in the air between them, ready to etch itself into both their skins. 

 Azriel finally lifts his head, meeting the High Lord’s eyes with no fear. Only the light of determination. He is willing to give his life to your father if that’s what it takes to be by your side. 

The cloud of darkness begins to separate, its dark tendrils moving toward him, the binding magic poised to seal his fate, to chain him to this bargain for the rest of his life.

But before it can touch his skin, before the deal can be made, a bright light erupts in the room. A sharp hiss escapes the darkness as it recoils, retreating back into the shadows where it had come from. Azriel’s own shadows seem to shudder in relief.

Both Azriel and the High Lord’s heads snap toward the source of the light. You stand at the doors, your eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears, your hands glowing with pure, raging starlight.

“No!” you cry, the word trembling on your lips as you step forward, the glow around you growing even brighter. 

Your eyes lock with Azriel’s and something tightens in his chest, crawling up his rib cage. It’s sharp and breathtaking. His hand grabs at his chest and yours does the same. 

”He will not be your slave,” you say, turning to your father with the same determination flashing in your eyes. “There has to be another way.”

The High Lord’s features morph into a scowl. “Another way? My star, he is a bastard—”

“I love him!” 

That tightening in his chest finally snaps and Azriel’s breath catches. He feels that light in your eyes, perfectly reflecting the one in his. It sears into his soul, as fierce and unrelenting as the starlight glowing from your hands.

Your father doesn’t notice the shift in the air, the change in Azriel’s posture, in his chest. Or in yours.

“You think that means anything?” 

Azriel’s shadows whisper a warning into his ears, of an oncoming raging darkness. Different but similar to the High Lord’s. He barely hears his shadows, too focused on you, on the bond thrumming between you. His mind is consumed with you. 

Mate. Mate. Mate.

“You and mother—” you begin.

“Do you think your mother and I love each other?” The High Lord interrupts sharply, his voice cold and cutting. He breaks out into a laugh.

Azriel snaps out of his trance. Anger flares within him at the shock, the devastation that takes over your features. He watches as you shrink back slightly, his instincts roaring to protect you from any harm, whether verbal or otherwise. 

Because he’s your mate. Because he loves you.

 “You think I would marry your mother, a low born seamstress by choice? What your mother and I have is different. It’s complicated. A special bond.  One that gave me Rhysand and you and–”

A sound like thunder crashes through the room, reverberating off the stone walls as darkness swells in every corner. One moment, Azriel is on his knees. The next, he’s slamming into the cold marble floor, the force of Rhysand’s power pinning him down. Tendrils of Rhysand’s darkness coil around Azriel’s form, fighting with the shadows that instinctively rise to defend him.

“How long?” Rhysand's violet eyes blaze as they burn into Azriel.

“And I am beginning to think you both are nuisances to my existence rather than gifts...” The High Lord mutters followed by an exhausted sigh.

“How long have you been fucking my sister?” His words are a snarl as he slams Azriel harder into the floor, advancing toward him with clenched fists.

“Rhysand!” You let out a cry, rushing to the two males to separate them.

Your brother whips around, his anger igniting into something fiercer at the sight of you. “Stay out of this!” he snaps, his hand raising. He’s too angry, too heated. So much that he doesn't even notice the force of darkness he aims your way.

Rhysand’s magic hits you hard, knocking the breath from your lungs. A choked gasp escapes as you stumble backward, struggling to keep your footing. A burst of bright sapphire explodes from each of Azriel’s siphons, a deep and low growl rumbling from his chest. He breaks free from Rhysand’s magic, standing to his feet. His wings flare behind him, shadows swirling like a storm.

The look in his hazel eyes is nothing short of feral, dark and ancient, a fierce and possessive glint that makes Rhysand falter and surprise flash across the High Lord’s features.

You fall to the ground with a thud, palms scraping against the stone and pain flaring in your hands. Rhysand turns toward you, the anger that had been simmering in his violet gaze immediately dissolving into guilt and regret. “Y/n, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t touch her.” Azriel growls, standing in between you and your brother, his shadows forming in an additional protective barrier. Some shadows flutter toward you, helping you stand and bringing you to Azriel’s side. Your hand instinctively seeks Azriel’s, fingers curling into his and you squeeze it, letting him know you’re alright. 

“By the Cauldron…” the High Lord’s voice comes out in a low murmur, his gaze darting between you and Azriel. His eyes narrow as he finally notices the subtle shift in the air, in your scents. The scent of a bond. 

“You two are mates,” he says, tone laced with resignation. Because even he, a High Lord, is not above going against The Cauldron.

It feels like a punch to the gut for Rhysand. His best friend and his sister. Fate’s inevitable design had been right under his nose all along. “What?” Rhysand breathes in shock, chest still heaving from the exertion of his magic.

Azriel’s hand tightens around yours. His gaze softens as he turns to you, the fierce protectiveness from earlier easing into something gentler. And when your eyes meet again, it’s there—the unmistakable light of the mating bond. It shines bright and steady between you. Just like your love for each other does.

 A light that never goes out.

bonus scene

Once the shock of the bond had worn off, the High Lord excused himself, muttering about damage control. “Spring will be the hardest to deal with,” he had said.

Rhysand’s body tensed as his eyes found yours. But you’d only given him a small, reassuring smile. Though it is something you would like to talk about, his secret would remain safe with you.

Your father would soon announce the bond to the Court of Nightmares, already making plans for a grand mating ceremony. You’d much rather have something private, intimate. But a public celebration seemed like a small price to pay for the lifetime you’d get to spend beside the male you loved.

Rhysand turned his gaze back to Azriel, his expression still unreadable. “You never answered my question,” he said, voice calm but edged with something darker. “How long?”

Azriel hesitated before answering, unlike the way he had with the High Lord. This was his best friend standing in front of him. The one he grew up and trained along with, survived the brutality of the Blood Rite with. Rhysand was like a brother to him and he went behind his back for years.

 “A decade.”

“A decade?” Rhysand blinks in surprise. 

A whole decade of secrecy. Of Azriel sneaking around with his little sister. It all made sense now. Why Azriel became more reserved, more private. Why Azriel no longer indulged himself with the pleasures of the females at Rita’s or the Illyrian camps like he and Cassian did. Why you spent more time at the Moonstone palace, instead of the House of Wind, where you had grown up and been raised by a handful of Priestesses. It hadn’t been to learn about the politics of the courts but to be closer to Azriel.

And then, with no warning, Rhysand swings.

The hit lands squarely on Azriel’s jaw, so swift and unexpected that neither you nor Azriel’s shadows had seen it coming. Azriel takes the blow without protest, silently commanding his shadows to stand their ground and not fight back. 

“Rhys!” you snapped, your brows furrowing into a scowl. 

Rhysand huffs, shaking out his hand from the impact. “That’s for going behind my back,” he says. He pauses for a second and then, he lets out a low chuckle. Full of disbelief and relief.

“I’m still angry at both of you,” Rhysand admits, and Azriel lowers his head, bracing for more. “Not because it’s you—though I’ll admit, seeing you together is... strange. But because you kept it from me for so long, putting both of your lives at risk.”

Then Rhysand’s voice softens, his gaze following. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

Azriel lifts his head back up in surprise as Rhysand holds out his hand.

 “You’re a good male, Azriel. Better than most. And I know you’ll protect her. Love her in a way no one else can.”

Azriel stares at Rhysand’s outstretched hand before finally clasping it, the tension between them easing. Your chest warms at your brother’s sincerity.

The sound of footsteps, heavy and hurried, echo through the stone walls. They grow louder with each passing second and moments later, Cassian and Mor appear at the entrance of your father’s study. Cassian braces himself against the doorframe and Mor leans on him, their chests rising and falling rapidly.

It’s clear they’re winded from the endless stairs they must’ve taken to reach the floor of your father’s private study. It was located between the Court of Nightmares and Moonstone Palace, warded so that only those of his bloodline could winnow directly inside.

Their eyes dart between the three of you. 

“What did we miss?”

a/n: hope you enjoyed! here’s a little HC (idk what to call it?) of Rhys’s sis & Az if you’re curious 💙

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

fic tag: @noisyinfluencerstrawberry, @tothestarsandwhateverend, @tulipbite, @kylaisra, @stressed-reader

[emeritusemeritus]

Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]

Title: Charming Witches [Fred Weasley]

Pairing: PregnantWife!Reader x Fred Weasley, background Hermione X Ron.

Timeline: Set after canon (Fred lives!)

Summary: Ron has an embarrassing issue and unluckily for him, Fred is the only one that can help.

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy, babies, established relationships. Sexual references throughout. Fred has a bit of a breeding kink- shock. Just a silly little drabble I couldn’t get out of my mind. Fred is a bit mean and sarcastic to Ron.

Word count: 1.6k

"You're, you know... well, sort of, um."

"You'll get there eventually Ronald," Fred jokes with a straight face, half listening to his brother's whispered fumbles whilst he pours himself and his wife a drink, not bothering to offer his youngest brother one. If Fred had even bothered to look at Ron's face, he'd have seen he was as pink in the cheeks as a bottle of love potion, his blush so vivid that he looked ready to erupt with a face full of dragon pox any moment.

Ron clears his throat, trying again, as he casts a nervous glance around the Burrow's kitchen, checking no one was hearing this. He didn't know why he'd chosen Fred of all people to have this conversation with, in theory George would have been a much better choice but he didn't have the same 'qualifications' as his twin, seeing that you and Fred had been together for absolutely years.

"Well, umm," he freezes under Fred's quick but glance, silently telling him to spit it out. "Well you and y/n, you're in sync aren't you... Sexually?"

Whatever Fred was expecting to hear eventually tumble out of his brother's mouth was not even close to the reality and he can't stop his eyebrows from shooting halfway up his forehead instinctively in disbelief.

"Did my very pregnant wife give it away?" He snarks, leaning against the counter and taking a sip of the beer he'd poured, openly enjoying the discomfort his brother was radiating. "That might have been your first clue."

Ron somehow looks paler underneath all the blushing and Fred is revelling in his ability to make his brother squirm.

"Well, yeah I suppose," Ron mumbles, beginning to get defensive and deeply regretting opening up to the trickier twin.

"Calm down Ronald," Fred says, "you and Granger having bedroom troubles?"

"No!" Ron bites back a little too quickly but his resolve breaks under a few seconds of Fred's probing gaze, arms folded in an unconscious power stance. "Maybe."

He's quiet again for a few moments and Fred is uncharacteristically patient whilst he waits for Ron to collect his thoughts.

"How many times would you say is normal, like in a week?"

"Don't know if there's a 'normal' Ronniekins," Fred says with a shrug. "Most days and twice on a Sunday?"

Though he hides it this time, Fred revels in the look of utter horror Ron's eyes convey and it's like he can see the cogs in his brain working on overdrive, emitting smoke as they crumble and break. Evidently, his answer was light years away from what Ron had hoped for. He knows that his wife being ready to pop at any second only helps Ron believe his words and he mentally thanks Godric Gryffindor himself for the overly fortunate timing.

"Don't think it matters mate really; as long as you're both expecting about the same." This time, Fred actually thinks he's being reassuring.

"She just wants to read all the bloody time, even in bed! It's like I'm a bloody afterthought."

"Have you even met your girlfriend?"

This time it's Fred who pauses when he meets the icy glare of his younger brother. He sighs and a slightly awkward silence falls between the pair as they both try to think of how to fix whatever was going on in Ron's mind, hoping that two head were better than one.

"You two alright?"

Ron jumps out of his skin when he hears your slightly concerned greeting upon seeing the two brothers, Fred especially, in near silence.

"Don't tell me you forgot I was here," you joke to Ron, walking over to Fred as he holds out your waiting drink. "Been your sister in law for five years! Plus the bump makes me pretty memorable," you add with a smile.

"I'll say," Fred says with a wink, the cheeky glint in his eyes ever more sparkling as he looks at your bulging tummy, unashamedly ogling your pregnant form. You gently nudged him, silently telling him to be quiet but as you do so, you catch a slightly glare aimed at your husband from Ron.

"Am I interrupting? " You ask outright, sensing tension.

"No," says Fred almost immediately.

"A bit," Ron admits, cringing slightly before he lets out a loud yelp, having been smacked upside the back of the head by his older brother for his disrespect. He grumbles slightly under his breath, absently rubbing the back of his head where Fred's hand had connected to him and let's put a deep sigh.

"You're a girl," he says, averting his eyes anywhere except directly on your own.

Fred snickers at Ron's feeble and clumsy attempt at starting the conversation but opts to take a long swig of his beverage to avoid anymore laughter spilling out, though his delight still shines through his eyes.

"Only when it's not a full moon," you jest, trying to slice through the awkwardness Ron is emitting.

"Forget it, you're as bad as he is."

"Firstly I'm offended," you say, reaching out for his arm gently as you feel his begin to pull away, ignoring your husband's opposition. "Secondly, yes I'm a girl... go on."

"Well," he pauses, gathering courage, long ginger lashes covering his shy eyes that still raise no further than your ankles, "say Fred suddenly didn't want sex."

"Wouldn't happen."

"Fred shush."

"Well... say suddenly he wanted to read at nighttime over having sex."

"Again, wouldn't happen."

"Fred!" You hush him again, this time more firmly.

"How would you go about trying to, you know, fix it."

You were certain you'd never seen Ron this vividly pink in the cheeks before, he looked like he'd been decorated up to display in Umbridge's office.

"That's the problem? Hermione wants to read instead of sex?" You ask, not really seeing the big issue, but trying to say it gently so that you didn't spook him.

He nods, "but it's all the time," he adds, justifying his gripe.

"Well," you say, lowering yourself into Arthur's seat at the head of the kitchen table only a few feet away, unable to stand much longer. "Play her at her own game."

"Eh?" The brothers ask in sync, their faces scrunched into an almost identical confused expression. You simply shrug.

"Make yourself less available to her, pull back a bit," you say, taking a sip of your drink to wet your lips. "Start reading in bed just like she does, act like you're not interested in just sex."

"So I act like I'm not bothered even though I am?" He asks, still not following what you're saying.

"Sort of," you say, trying to find a better way of wording it.

"Reading's always been her favourite thing to do hasn't it? Join in on it. I'd bet on my life that she has a fantasy of you in bed shirtless reading beside her. Stop making advances, let her come to you."

"That's actually quite clever," he says after a few moments of consideration.

"It's been known."

"Shirtless?" He asks with a frown, seemingly fixating on that point.

You chuckle nodding, "well you have to still appeal to her, you don't want it to just be a study session do you?"

"Right, right," he says with a nod, a slight smile returning to his face before it dramatically falls away in an almost comedic move.

"I don't have a book."

"What do you mean you don't have a book?" Fred says in a flabbergasted manner, earning a slight but unconscious raise of your eyebrow. Though you didn't comment on the irony of his words considering you couldn't remember the last time you'd seen him so much as skim the daily prophet.

"I don't really have one," Ron mumbles quietly, "unless my quidditch annual counts."

"It doesn't," you say firmly.

"So I need a book," Ron says firmly, as if he was cementing the plan in his mind, nodding along with his thoughts until he finally makes eye contact. "Thanks y/n," he says with a smile and a nod of his head before he walks away, a bounce in his step.

"Think it's actually gonna work?" Fred asks as you pry yourself out of the chair and walk to stand next to him as you place your empty cup in the sink.

You let out a little chortle and shrug, "well if it doesn't, at least Hermione can read in peace."

Laughter bursts out of Fred and he pulls you close, bump nestled between you as he delights in your words, realising you had absolutely no idea if the plan would work.

Later that evening when everyone was preparing to leave the Burrow after another wonderful family dinner, Ron pulls you and Fred to one side before he left, away from the eyes and ears of everyone else.

"Thanks again for earlier," he says, clearly feeling more at ease about his issue. You smile warmly in reply, happy to help.

"No problem little brother," Fred beams, as if it was him that had offered any advice.

"Oi Ron," you call out quietly to get his attention as he turns to leave. With a smile, you reach down into the bag on your shoulder and pull out an item you'd gleefully searched for in Fred and George's old bedroom after the conversation. "Just incase my advice doesn't work."

Ron frowns reaching for the item you were handing him, a frown that only deepens as he reads the title of the book he was now holding. Fred's laughter is sudden and booming as his eyes land on the once familiar item that had him cracking up laughing, realising instantly what it was.

Twelve fail-safe ways to charm witches.

"Oh piss off."

Taglist part 1

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@autumnboo126

@kpopgirlbtssvt

[societyfolklore]

Yulefire and Shadows

Title: Yulefire and Shadows Pairing: Loki x Asgardian Female Reader (hinted established relationship)

Summary:   The Asgardian solstice tradition of lighting a great Yulefire is meant to drive away the lingering shadows of the past year. Loki, haunted by his own shadows, takes part reluctantly until the reader coaxes him into a private moment of vulnerability by the flames.

Word Count: 2.5k

Warnings:  Warnings // Explicit Content //18+, Minors DNI, Angsty, Kissing Unprotected Sex (Don’t do this!) (No Beta read)

A/N: Entry for @lokisgoodgirl  Winter Warmers collection The great hall of Asgard was alive with the warmth of the midwinter celebration. Golden light spilled from chandeliers overhead, reflecting off the polished stone floors and the ornate decorations that adorned the room. Yet, despite the laughter and the music, Loki stood on the periphery, a shadow among the revelers.

You noticed him immediately, leaning against one of the marble columns, his arms crossed over his chest and his emerald-green tunic catching the light of the massive Yulefire in the centre of the hall. The fire roared, crackling and snapping as it sent golden sparks into the air, but Loki’s gaze remained fixed on the flames, his expression unreadable.

“Not in a festive mood?” you asked, approaching him carefully. You held a goblet of spiced mead in your hand, offering it to him with a small smile.

Loki’s sharp blue eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to the fire. “Festivities are for those without burdens,” he replied, his tone clipped. “I’ll not pretend to revel when I have no cause to.”

You sighed but didn’t press him. You knew better than to challenge Loki directly when he was in one of his moods. Instead, you stepped closer, glancing toward the massive bonfire that served as the heart of the solstice celebration. Asgardians gathered around it, tossing small tokens into the flames—pieces of parchment, scraps of cloth, even bits of broken weapons. Each offering represented something they wished to leave behind: regrets, pain, grudges.

“It’s supposed to be cleansing, you know,” you said, gesturing toward the fire. “A way to start fresh.”

Loki’s lip curled into a faint sneer. “Do you truly believe a bit of fire can burn away one’s regrets?”

“Maybe not entirely,” you admitted. “But it’s symbolic. A way of saying, ‘I’m letting this go.’ It helps, even if just a little.”

He didn’t respond, his gaze still fixed on the fire. You studied him for a moment, noting the tension in his jaw and the way his hands clenched at his sides. Loki often wore his pain like armor, hiding it beneath layers of wit and sarcasm. But tonight, the cracks were showing.

“Come on,” you said gently, tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s give it a try.”

Loki arched a dark brow at you. “You expect me to partake in this asinine tradition?”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “And you’re not getting out of it.”

To your surprise, he didn’t argue further. Instead, he allowed you to lead him toward the fire, though his steps were reluctant. The heat of the flames washed over you as you approached, and you pulled a small piece of parchment from your pocket.

“What’s that?” Loki asked, his tone laced with curiosity.

“Something I’ve been holding onto for too long,” you said. You didn’t elaborate, and Loki didn’t press you. Instead, he watched as you folded the parchment carefully and tossed it into the fire. The flames consumed it instantly, the edges curling and blackening before it disappeared entirely.

You turned to him, offering a small smile. “Your turn.”

Loki hesitated, his gaze flicking between you and the fire. “I have nothing to burn,” he said finally.

“Everyone has something,” you countered, looking over at the raven haired man. “Even you.”

For a long moment, he stood there, silent and still, sometimes he was stone. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he conjured a small token—a delicate silver chain, tarnished and broken in places. You recognized it immediately as one of his childhood trinkets, something he’d once treasured but had long since discarded.

“This is meaningless,” he said, holding it up. But there was a tremor in his voice, one you doubted anyone else would have noticed.

“Then it should be easy to let go,” you said softly.

Loki’s fingers tightened around the chain, his jaw clenching. For a moment, you thought he might refuse. But then he stepped forward and cast the chain into the fire. The flames leapt up, consuming it in a flash of brilliant light.

When he stepped back, his expression was unreadable, but there was a faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture. The tension in his shoulders eased, and his gaze softened as he turned back to you.

“There,” he said quietly. “Satisfied?”

You smiled. “It’s a start.”

As the hours passed and the celebration wound down, the great hall began to empty. The laughter and music faded into the background as guests retired to their chambers or ventured outside to enjoy the solstice night. You wandered through the now-quiet hall, searching for Loki, only to find him seated near the dying embers of the Yulefire.

The golden glow illuminated his features, casting shadows across his sharp cheekbones and the faint crease between his brows. He sat with his elbows on his knees, staring into the fading flames with an intensity that made your chest ache. The glow of the fire seemed to burn in his eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked, settling down beside him on the cool stone floor.

“Something like that,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the embers.

You were quiet for a moment, the two of you sitting in companionable silence. The air was still and heavy with the scent of wood smoke, and the warmth of the fire lingered, though it was fading fast. Finally, Loki broke the silence, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you think it’s possible to truly let go of the past?”

The question caught you off guard, and you turned to look at him. His expression was unreadable, but there was a vulnerability in his tone that you rarely heard.

“I think it takes time,” you said honestly, your own voice getting a little heavy. “And effort. But yes, I think it’s possible.”

He nodded slowly, his gaze distant. “Perhaps.”

Reaching out, you placed a hand on his, the warmth of your skin grounding you both. “You don’t have to do it all at once,” you said gently. “But you’re not alone, Loki. Not anymore.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. Then, slowly, he turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with yours. The gesture was small but significant, and it sent a warmth through you that had nothing to do with the fire.

“Darling,” he said softly, his voice almost breaking.

The two of you sat there for a while longer, watching as the last embers of the Yulefire faded into ash. The hall was quiet now, the echoes of the celebration long gone, but the silence was comforting rather than oppressive.

Eventually, Loki spoke again, his voice steadier this time. “You’ve always been annoyingly persistent, you know.”

You smiled, leaning your shoulder against his. “Suppose that’s better than you calling me stubborn. We balance each other out.”

A faint chuckle escaped him, and the sound was so rare that it made your heart swell, it was velvet sound.

“Perhaps we do,” he said quietly.

The moment lingered, and you felt the pull between you shift. Loki’s eyes flicked to yours, searching for something, and you didn’t look away. The shadows of doubt and pain that so often clouded his gaze seemed to soften, leaving only raw vulnerability.

“I’m still haunted by them,” he admitted, his voice breaking the quiet. “No amount of fire or tradition will chase them away.”

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek, the touch light but grounding. “Then let me help,” you said softly.

Loki’s breath hitched, and his hand came up to cover yours. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine as his sharp features softened, his barriers lowering. Slowly, he leaned in, his lips brushing yours with an unexpected tenderness that melted into something deeper, hungrier, as the kiss deepened.

The dying glow of the fire cast flickering shadows across the hall as Loki shifted, his hands finding your waist and pulling you closer. Your back pressed against the cool stone floor as his weight settled over you, his lips never leaving yours. His kiss was a mix of desperation and need, as if trying to silence the ghosts that haunted him with every touch.

“Darling,” he murmured against your lips, his voice low and filled with longing. “Let me lose myself in you.”

You nodded, your fingers threading through his raven hair, holding him to you as your breaths mingled. Loki’s hands roamed over you, his touch reverent yet possessive, as though he feared you might slip away. The heat between you built steadily, eclipsing the dying embers of the fire as he poured every unspoken word, every buried emotion, into his actions.

His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a path of searing kisses that made you arch beneath him. His voice was a rasp against your skin, a broken prayer that sent shivers through your body. “You’re my light,” he murmured, his words raw and unguarded. “My only light.”

Your breath caught at his confession, the raw honesty in his voice sending a tremor through your chest. “Loki…” you whispered, unsure of how to respond to the weight of his words.

His eyes met yours—stormy blue, filled with turmoil and yearning. For a moment, you saw the bare truth of him, stripped of his bravado and sharp edges. The God of Mischief was not a god here, but a man aching for something real, something to hold onto.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he muttered, though his voice held no bite. His forehead fell to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in a fragile pause. “You’ll ruin me.”

“Perhaps you need to be ruined,” you replied softly, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips as your hands traced the line of his jaw. “And perhaps I do too.”

Loki groaned softly, a sound of surrender as he tilted his head to kiss you again—this time slower, as though memorizing the feel of you. His hands wandered with a gentleness that belied his desperation, caressing your sides before sliding up to cradle your face. The weight of him grounded you, and the fire between you burned hotter than any embers in the dying hearth.

“I need you,” he whispered between kisses, his voice a husky plea that made your pulse quicken. “Let me forget.”

You nodded, your chest rising and falling with unsteady breaths as you pulled him closer. “forget together.”

His lips curved into the faintest smile—brief, fleeting—before he dipped down again. His kisses trailed lower, his movements deliberate, reverent, as though committing every inch of you to memory. Your body responded to his touch instinctively, arching into him as soft sighs and whispered words filled the empty hall. The cool stone floor was forgotten as Loki's warmth surrounded you, his every caress chasing away the chill as His hand started bringing up the fabric of your gown. His face buried in your neck as his weight shifted on top of you on hand working between your legs, teasing though aching wetness while he freed himself from the leathers holding him. “Norms I need you pet.”

His voice demanding you make it better, make him better. It was all the warning you got as he bit down on you neck at lanced himself into you his hand over your mouth the moment you cried out. Muffling the noise before you nipped his fingers.

“Shhh darling..” He purred before slowly pulling his hips back moaning into your ear, your eyes going back as you felt every ridge of him pull along your slick walls. “got to be quiet..” His own voice shaking in whisper, his hand bringing your thigh up higher, letting him sink further as your hands gripped tightly to his shoulders. To be full of him was all you wanted. You walls holding him as your own body responded to his.

The shadows on the walls flickered like living things, dancing in time with the rise and fall of your bodies. Loki’s name slipped from your lips like a prayer, and he shuddered against you, his hands tightening on your skin.

“Say it again,” he pleaded softly, his voice trembling as he kissed the hollow of your throat. “Say my name.” AS she push into you again.

“Loki…” you whispered, threading your fingers through his raven hair and holding him close.

His response was a broken sound—one you couldn’t decipher, though it clung to you like a promise. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his body moulding to yours as though you could banish every ghost that haunted him. His movements long and fluid as his hips rocked back in forth, taking his time.

Hours seemed to pass as the two of you moved in tandem, unspoken words conveyed through every kiss, every touch, building heat and need that seemed to rope through both of your so tight it seemed ready to break. “Loki…” You couldn’t hold it anymore, your body thrummed now. As you whispered his name again, Loki's body tensed, his hips freezing for a moment before he began to move with a newfound urgency. His strokes were deeper, harder, and more insistent, as if he was trying to claim you, to mark you as his own.

Your body responded in kind, your walls clenching around him, holding him tight as you felt the tension build to a crescendo. The shadows on the walls seemed to grow longer, darker, as if they were feeding off the energy between you.

Loki's hands were everywhere, touching, caressing, and claiming. His mouth was on your skin, kissing, biting, and sucking. You felt like you were being consumed, devoured by his passion, his need.

And then, in an instant, it was too much. Your body shattered, breaking apart into a thousand pieces as you came. The sound that escaped your lips was raw, primal, and unbridled, a scream of pleasure that was muffled only by Loki's hand over your mouth.

He followed you, his body jerking, convulsing, as he emptied himself into you, his breathing tight and strangled.

 And when the embers in the hearth finally gave way to darkness, the two of you lay tangled together, the stillness broken only by the sound of your breathing.

Loki’s hand found yours, his long fingers weaving between yours as though anchoring himself to you. He said nothing, but when you glanced at him, his gaze held a softness that spoke volumes. He looked at you like you were the answer to a question he’d been too afraid to ask, the balm to a wound too deep to heal.

You reached up, brushing your knuckles against his cheek once more. “You mine to carry..” you said quietly.

Loki’s lips twitched into a faint smile, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yours,” he murmured, pulling you closer until his forehead pressed against yours. “Mine.”

For tonight, at least, the ghosts that seemed to haunt his eyes were chased way.

[radioapplerevue]

Lucifer and Alastor becoming the guardian of each other's secrets.

Not intentionally, not at first. It starts with Lucifer, as he sees things that Alastor would really, really rather he not -- the angelic tint in his wound, the shackle around his neck. Some things you can't hide from the King of Hell, not if he bothers to truly look.

And unfortunately for Alastor, he's incapable of not drawing attention to himself. Perhaps more fortunately, Lucifer doesn't tell anyone. Alastor knows better than to think it's altruism. Surely, he's just keeping that knowledge to use against him later. It's what he would do. Blackmail, collateral.

The truth is, Alastor doesn't know quite as much as he thinks he does.

Alastor tries to claw back some sort of advantage. Lucifer is like his daughter -- powerful but softhearted, weak to a kind word or hint of praise. They clash, loudly and frequently, but over time the clashes become less vicious and turn more into a sort of game. A rivalry, a competition that is more tinged with "friendly" than not. How thrilling, to have someone who can match you word for word, blow for blow.

And sure enough, Lucifer begins to open up. And once he starts, it's hard for him to stop -- allowing Alastor windows into his soul, into his guilt and his sorrow and his regrets. Into the thoughts that drove him into solitude, surrounded by nothing but the empty gazes of thousands of rubber ducks. Alastor revels in this, this knowledge, this view into such weakness. Finally, he is balancing the scales, collecting the chinks in Lucifer's armor for the day in which he may need to slip a proverbial dagger into the gaps.

He doesn't realize, at first, that he's giving away more of himself. Hints into his own behavior, his own past, his own fears. Much as he may pretend, even to himself, that he doesn't have them... Lucifer's older than sin. He knows, more than anyone, that everybody is afraid of something. Alastor is no exception.

Alastor, who is convinced that he's cradling Lucifer's secrets close to his chest because he is saving them for the moment when they would do the most damage. Not acknowledging that such a moment could have come and gone many times already. Not listening to the small voice in the back of his mind whispering that he won't ever share these secrets, because no one else is worthy of them. No one else holds them.

The king's wounds belong to Alastor, and no one else. He isn't keen on sharing.

And Lucifer, for his part, guards Alastor's skeletons just as closely. Not because he intends to use them, no. He has no interest in such control. Instead if someone asks about them, he laughs, demurs, scoffs. Pretends ignorance.

After all, he understands pride.

[lowkeyerror]

The Family Business Ch.13

WandaNat x Reader

Word Count: 1.2k

Ch. Notes: short

Summary: Fisk gains a new unexpected ally that deeply affects a member of the family.

An: Short filler Ch. but with a warning. Sorry for the mistakes, just wanted to get something out for yall. Also fear not, we will be getting the very essential "date" chapter soon, but first some world building yknow.

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

With the way life had been treating you lately, the ups and downs, you felt as though this should be harder. You felt like there was a funk or depression that should be settling into your mind, but there wasn’t. There should’ve been anxiety building up, but all you felt was calm.

After the beating you suffered you thought you’d be more on edge. However as your body healed itself, you found yourself at ease. There was something smug about your survival. Perhaps it had to do with the blossoming relationship that you had been reveling in.

Throughout the years you had prided yourself on changing and morphing into someone with a tough exterior and an even stronger interior. While you never regretted becoming that way, you admit that in it you lost some of your personality.

You were so much more than a victim of the abuse you had suffered at the hands of your mother. As you grew, after separating yourself from her you were set on not ever being a victim again that you hid everything that you thought made you vulnerable.

Your likes and leisurely activities all of sudden seemed like weak points. The only one who was able to make you let your guard down was Pietro.

Now however, having Wanda and Natasha by your side, you find yourself on a path of rediscovery. You feel like you’re coming into yourself again. The women are the perfect models of work life balance and you think it’s everything you’ve been missing.

The can go into the office work diligently and complete their jobs, but also clock out and relax. The enjoy themselves and they enjoy you.

Wanda personally loves seeing you open up a bit more, after seeing how much of yourself you pushed down. Natasha finds herself collecting bits and pieces of information about you that she plans to commit to memory.

In the very back of your mind you think about how quiet the streets have been. You expected Fisk to brag about your beating just like he did with Dragos. However there had been no commotion, and the intel that you were getting didn’t indicate any attacks soon.

It was eerie and you would've dwelled on it in the past, but Natasha and Wanda reassured you that everything was under control. Natasha constantly let you go over her team strategies to show you she was utilizing the soldiers given to her.

They tried to keep you out of the office for your recovery, but you just found yourself working from home until your ankle was healed. As soon as you were able, you stepped back into the office.

While you had made nearly a full recovery, you could not say the same for Dragos. It pained you hear that doctors have reported a stagnation in his progress. Flora relied that certain doctors were starting to suggest pulling the plug as a feasible option. The entire family was adamant to oppose any talk of such actions.

“Baby?”

Your eyes leave your compute to see Wanda and Natasha entering your office.

“To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Natasha speaks, “We were wondering if you wanted to grab dinner tonight?”

You nod, “For sure.”

Wanda clarifies a bit, “Like a date, Y/n.”

Your eyes widen a bit, but you nod excitedly at the prospect, “Even better, of course.

“We’ll go home, get ready and go from there?” Nat suggests.

“Can’t wait,” a small smile plays on your lips.

Everything about this has felt casual and you love that, but that doesn’t mean you didn’t want to have the typical romantic experiences. This would amongst the first few dates you three had gone on.

Pietro storms into the office breaking up the relaxed atmosphere they had been sitting in. The man looks like he is complete emotional distress.

“I need to talk to Y/n.”

His sister wants to question him, but with one shake of your head she pulls her wife out of the office.

“What’s wrong, Piet?”

He doesn’t hold it together much longer as he signals he needs a hug. You stand up quickly and wrap your arms around him. You feel his tears hit his shoulder and admittedly, your worry multiplies.

“Monica,” he says in his broken tone.

You rub his back soothingly, “What about her?”

He pulls away, “ Two months we lasted, Y/n. I had asked her to be official she said yes, but she’s ended things with me.”

“Oh Piet.”

He shakes his head, “It’s worse than that. She indebted to Fisk, Y/n. She owes him money and favors, she never told me because he’s never come to collect. But now, he’s cashing in.”

You frown deeply, “So she’s protecting you.”

“I need to be protecting her,” he grits his teeth.

You feel for your friend, you don’t believe you have the right words to bring him comfort, “ But you don’t know how.”

Pietro has a new fire in his eyes, “With a bullet in his skull. He’s tried to take everything from me. Papa, you, and now the love of my life.”

You knew the man could be hotheaded at times, and for once you knew he had every right to be. Yet, you couldn’t justify him doing something irrational.

“When the time comes, he will be dealt with,” you say.

Pietro shakes his head, “Nothings happened since your attack, everything is settling. This war will drag on and on if we let it."

“We can’t tear apart the city for no reason, Piet. It’s a bad look from us,” you try to reason with him.

“I know that, but it’s not what I want to hear.”

He slumps down on your office couch with his head in his hands. You sit next to him and rub his shoulder.

“How about we do something tonight, like old times? Something so that we can feel normal for once,” you suggest.

“I can’t even text her because what if she becomes a pawn in this scheme,” he sighs.

“ We’re hanging out tonight. To take your mind off of this, even if it’s only for a moment,” you speak sincerely to him.

He nods slowly in agreement, “Fine, but only because I don’t want to be alone and maybe I’ve missed you. Wanda too, I miss when timed were simpler.”

You get a little excited, “Tonight, me, you, Wanda, Natasha we can do something together. It’ll be reminiscent of old times.”

Pietro agrees and you let him stay in the office as you work. You texted Wanda and Natasha filling them on the details. They were understanding about having to cancel your plans. Natasha also took note of Monica as one of Fisk’s new allies.

The three of you brainstorm to come up with some plans to help your friend for the time being. The night still had promise and none of you wanted to waste it.

Unfortunately for you all, the air was about become ten times more suffocating and no one would see it coming.

Fisk knew you all would become complacent sooner or later, drop you guards prematurely. He was watching unfold and getting ready to strike again, however this time, he planned for the kill shot.

Taglist: @natashaswife4125 @autorasexy @alexawynters @blkmxrvel @toouncreativeforausername @likemick @sgm616 @bstvst @dorabledewdroop @sapphic-simp4015 @natty-taffy @justarandomreaderxoxo @mmmmokdok @tarathia @bgwlsmahf25 @lezzylover @og-kxsh-420 @vanessashands @untoldreader @sxlfishbrokenheart @marvelgirlx @elle161989

[rafemotherfuckingcameron]

YOU LITERALLY SAVED MY LIFE

Word Count: 1.6k

Pairing(s): Dark!JJ x Reader, Sarah x Reader, Rafe x Reader

Warnings: domestic abuse, physical abuse, strangling, gaslighting, alcohol, mentions of blood, toxic relationship, controlling behavior, trauma, rape, 18+

Summary: Y/n trusted JJ, who initially seemed to be the love of her life, but ultimately became the source of her deepest fears.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Part 5 - Saved Me

After your surgery, despite feeling weak, you musters the strength to recount the harrowing details of the past few months to the female police officers. With Rafe by your side for support, you begins to explain what happened, starting from the night you had the Pogues over for drinks.

-

"We were all having drinks, and I remember feeling dizzy. Next thing I knew, I was falling down the stairs," you recounts, your voice trembling slightly. "At first, I thought it was just an accident, but now I realize he pushed me."

The officers listen attentively, jotting down notes as you continues, you recounting filled with pauses and deep breaths to steady yourself.

Then, on the night of Kiara's birthday," Jess continues, her voice gaining strength as she recalls the chilling events.

"I was in the kitchen, preparing dinner. JJ came in, and he was already angry about something trivial, like the thickness of the chicken. But it escalated quickly... he grabbed the knife out of my hand and showed me how to do it properly.” tears welling up in your eyes. 

“When he went to put the knife down he cut my arm and there was blood everywhere, he then yelled and said that was my fault. I yelled back at him and then he pushed me against the fridge and strangled me, then threw me in our room and locked the door”. You choke out, Rafe reaches out and gently squeezes your hand.

The officers take notes, their questions gentle yet probing, ensuring they capture every detail for the investigation. Through tears and trembling breaths, you reveal the worst part,

“It happened again on the poker night," you add, your voice quieter now, but no less filled with pain. “JJ invited some people over for a game and he made me wear this costume that barely covered my body, I received multiple comments and actions that were unwanted.

After the game, jj couldn’t pay what he lost, so he said they could have me. Which they did.” 

The officers' expressions darken with shock and concern. They exchange glances, their professional demeanor momentarily faltering at the gravity of your revelation.

One officer hesitates before carefully asking for more details, her voice edged with disbelief and sympathy. “They Raped me, and then after JJ did too.”

After recounting the painful details of the abuse you endured, your voice falters, your composure crumbling as emotions overwhelm you. Tears stream down your cheeks unchecked, your hands trembling in Rafe's reassuring grip.

"I... I just couldn't take it anymore," you whisper, your words choked with sorrow and fear. "I tried to ask Sarah for help, but she didn't believe me."

The weight of Sarah's disbelief adds to your anguish, intensifying the sense of betrayal and isolation you've felt. Rafe holds you tighter, his presence a comforting anchor amidst the storm of emotions.

"I'm so sorry you had to go through this alone," Rafe murmurs, his voice filled with empathy and regret.

The police officers listen intently, their expressions reflecting a mix of sadness and resolve. They offer you tissues and a moment to collect yourself, understanding the immense courage it took to speak out despite the disbelief you faced.

"We believe you, and we're here to help," one of the officers assures you gently, her voice a reassuring presence. "You're not alone anymore."

-

Rafe draped a warm blanket over you before starting the car, ensuring you weren't cold during the drive. His thoughtful gesture brought a brief moment of comfort as he navigated through the quiet streets, his expression grave with concern.

Upon arriving at his house, Rafe walked around to your side and gently asked, "Do you need help getting out?" You nodded silently, feeling a wave of exhaustion and relief wash over you. Leaning on him for support, you stepped out, grateful for his steadying presence.

Inside the warmth of his home, Rafe guided you to a cozy spare room where he prepared a bed with care. "You can stay here," he offered kindly, his voice a reassuring anchor in the midst of your turmoil.

You hesitated, uncertainty clouding your thoughts. "I... I don't want to be alone," you admitted softly, vulnerability tingeing your voice.

Understanding flickered in Rafe's eyes, his expression gentle yet resolute. "Alright," he replied, his voice steady. "You can stay with me."

Rafe escorted you to his bedroom, where he carefully tucked you in, ensuring you were comfortable under the soft covers. The storm outside intensified, the wind howling like a vengeful spirit against the windows. Exhaustion weighed heavily on your eyelids, and soon, sleep claimed you.

In the dead of night, a sudden crash of thunder shattered the fragile peace. Startled awake, you bolted upright, heart pounding in your chest. Panic gripped you as you scanned the room, disoriented and terrified. In the dim light, a figure moved towards you, and you screamed in terror, believing it to be JJ.

Unbeknownst to Rafe, you had been sleepwalking, caught in a nightmare that blurred the lines between dream and reality. His heart clenched at your scream, rushing to your side with urgency etched into his features.

It's me, Rafe," he called out firmly, his voice cutting through the darkness. He reached for you, his touch gentle yet firm, as you recoiled in fear.

"Stay back!" you pleaded, voice strained with panic, mistaking his presence for another's malevolent shadow.

Rafe froze, hurt flickering briefly in his eyes before resolve hardened his features. With steady steps, he approached you, his voice a soothing melody in the storm.

"It's okay," he murmured softly, his hands carefully grasping yours. "You're safe with me."

Trembling, you searched his eyes, "I'm scared." Rafe's expression softened with empathy, his arms wrapping around you protectively.

"I know," he murmured, his voice a comforting rumble against your ear. "But you're not alone anymore. I'm here."

——

Throughout the days, Rafe support anchored you through the lingering aftershocks of your ordeal. Whether it was sharing quiet meals together or simply sitting in companionable silence, his presence was a steady comfort.

One evening, as the sun dipped low over the horizon, the doorbell rang, shattering the quiet sanctuary of Rafe's home. Startled, you glanced at Rafe, a flicker of unease crossing your features. "I... I don't like being left alone," you admitted softly, a tremor in your voice.

Rafe nodded reassuringly, “Come with me,” he offered gently, his hand finding yours in a reassuring grip. Rafe reached for the door handle, his movements steady yet deliberate.

With a deep breath, he swung the door open, revealing JJ standing on the threshold.

"I heard you were here," JJ's voice was unhinged, your heart skipped a beat at the sight of JJ, fear clawing at the edges of your composure. Instinctively, you moved closer to Rafe.

"Y/n, baby, let's talk outside, away from this kook," he shouted. JJ moved to step inside, but Rafe blocked him with a firm push against his chest.

"You don't get to talk to her or even look at her. Now, get off my property," Rafe's voice cut through the tense air as he stood firm, his gaze unwavering.

JJ reached out again, attempting to grab your arm, but Rafe swiftly swung, his fist connecting with JJ's face. The blow sent JJ stumbling backward, his balance faltering.

"I thought I told you to leave, Pogue!" Rafe yelled, his grip on your hand tightening as he stood defiantly. JJ yelled defiantly, "Show me what you got, country club!"

Rafe turned to you urgently, his voice steady despite the tension. "Call the police and tell them JJ violated the AVO.” He released your hand as you hurried to grab the phone.

When you returned, chaos had erupted on the lawn. Rafe and JJ were locked in a fierce struggle, JJ’s punches were flying but none finding their mark. 

Moments later, sirens wailed in the distance, drawing closer with each passing second. Blue and red lights bathed the scene as officers swarmed in. JJ's resistance was futile as they swiftly restrained him, leading him away in handcuffs.

As you stood there, shaken but relieved, one of the officers approached you with a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "He won't bother you again. He's going away for a long time."

Rafe returned to your side, pulling you into a tight embrace. His arms around you were both comforting and protective, his voice filled with genuine concern.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry for leaving you alone. I just had to give him what he deserved."

You leaned into his embrace, feeling the warmth of his presence and the weight of the ordeal slowly lifting off your shoulders.

"I'm okay," you whispered, grateful for his support.

-

Six months later, Rafe surprised you with a beach date, the waves crashing against the shore as the sun painted the sky in shades of gold and crimson.

As you walked hand in hand along the water's edge, the weight of past events lingered in the air. Finally, Rafe stopped, turning to face you with a mix of nervousness and determination in his eyes. His voice was steady but filled with emotion as he spoke,

“Y/n, I... I love you."

Your heart skipped a beat, emotions swelling inside you as you looked into his eyes, seeing the sincerity and vulnerability etched on his face.

Tears welled up in your eyes as you realized the depth of his feelings and the journey you had shared.

"You don't have to say it back right now," Rafe continued softly, his hand reaching to gently brush a tear from your cheek. "After everything you’ve been through, I just needed you to know."

Overwhelmed with gratitude and love, you took a deep breath, your voice trembling slightly but filled with certainty,

"Rafe, I love you too." Rafe gently cupped your face in his hands. Without another word, he leaned in, pressing his lips softly against yours. 

"I want to thank you for everything. You literally saved my life that day," you whispered, your voice choked with emotion as tears streamed down your cheeks.

Rafe's eyes glistened with tears as he held you close.

...The End...

[chxrrysangel]

Week Two

Treat | Nanami Kento - brat taming

A/n | I feel like I lowkey made him a little too mean. But idk…I kinda don’t wanna change it 🤔 also this was like 450 words longer than it should’ve been. Oops

Kinktober 2024 Masterlist

You could feel Kento’s sharp gaze drilling a hole into the side of your head as you chatted with other guests. You were being naughty, something you reveled in as he struggled to keep his composure.

Events with his colleagues like banquets or fundraisers bored you half to death; pretending to like snobbish people who threw away their money was a hard task to accomplish.

But your husband always made it up to you after hours of roleplaying as his arm candy. Whether that be gifts or mind-blowing sex, there was always a reward at the end. But tonight you were more impatient than usual.

It started off innocent enough, just light touches as you moved across the ballroom. Every now and then you looked at him with a certain hunger in your eyes, each time being met with a “not now, my love.”

Kento was a gentleman through and through, holding open doors for people and helping old ladies across the street. Kindness was imbedded in his DNA.

Unfortunately for him, you wanted to play.

As slyly as possible, you slipped off one of your heels and grazed your foot along his. He looked across the table at you, issuing a silent warning. You smiled coyly, uncaring about potential consequences.

Your heel rubbed softly against his leg, innocent enough that you could get away with it for a little longer. But then you climbed higher, watching his jaw tick in your periphery as you continued conversing with the woman next to you.

Finally, you reached exactly where you wanted to. It was a dance between the two of you, clear warnings as you slowly pushed the boundaries and Kento’s patience.

He was rock hard under the span of your foot, not that he showed it on his face. The first graze against his tip surprised him, trying to cover it up with a cough. You dared not look across the table, pretending to know nothing of it. He grabbed your ankle, a mistake on his part. Your foot was in the perfect position to rub directly against his length, feeling his cock twitch in his trousers.

As quietly as he could manage, you could feel his hips circle against you, yearning for more friction. So you stopped. You smiled at the people you were deep in conversation with, lips twitching as you reveled in having the upper hand.

This went on for some time, casually bringing him to the edge only to stop when it felt convenient. He was pissed, you could tell. You almost pitied the man he was speaking to, trying so hard to have an intelligent conversation while Kento was on the verge of cumming over and over again.

By the time the plates from the third course had been collected, Kento was already saying goodbye to his colleagues and just short of dragging you out the room. He was polite enough, shaking hands and kissing cheeks like some candidate running for office. But he refused small talk, grabbing your coats and rushing the two of you out to your car.

You were in trouble and it felt so exciting to realize.

The drive home was unbearably silent. Your adrenaline rush during dinner settled into nervous anticipation for what would happen when you got home. Regret slowly lodged itself in your abdomen.

You were absolutely fucked.

“Kento, I’m—,” you tried to apologize while you had the chance. He put his hand up, silencing you immediately.

You watched nervously as he crossed the foyer, wringing your hands and biting your lips raw.

“You had one responsibility. Just one.”

He lodges his fingers in your hair, a firm grip as he pulls you closer. You yelp in surprise, but say nothing in protest. You knew better than that.

“Yet there you were, acting out like a fucking brat and trying to make me cum under the table.” He clicked his tongue in disapproval.

He tightened his grip on your hair to the point of pain, too blinded by sexual frustration to stay gentle. He guided you down to your knees before letting go. You watched as he undid his tie, slowly undressing as you were forced to only watch.

He sat on the edge of the couch, tapping his thigh in a very familiar motion. It made your heart drop. You quickly crawled over to him, begging for forgiveness and promising to be good from now on.

“You had the chance to be good. But you wanted to be a brat. So, this is your punishment.” He was stern and cold, so different from his usual self. You really did it this time.

Begrudgingly, you leaned over his legs to make it go as quick as possible.

“We’re doing ten. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

“Good girl.”

He didn’t count down like you expected, instead immediately slapping the globe of your ass. His rings singed your skin, increasing the pain triple fold.

“What do you say?”

“One.” You tried your best not to moan, knowing he might start over.

“That’s my girl.” His large hands smooth over your skin before delivering a second smack, harder than the first.

“Two.”

By the sixth hit, you were trembling and wet beyond belief. Your cunt shined with arousal in the dimly lit room, making Kento grin.

“Look at you, getting turned on by a punishment. You just can’t help but be a whore, can you?” he remarked condescendingly.

His fingertips brushed against your slit, pushing inwards upon reaching your clit. You knew it was a bad idea, but you couldn’t help but lean into his touch for a shred of relief from the ache between your legs.

His tongue clicked in disapproval, you were basically begging for more punishment.

“You just don’t know when to quit do you?”

You were afraid to answer, which you quickly realized was the wrong choice. He smacked your ass again, the pain causing tears to pool in your eyes.

“No sir, I don’t.”

“Well that just won’t do.”

Much to your surprise, Kento switched tactics. His fingers continued to rub against your slit before pushing two fingers into your pussy. He curled his fingers just the way you liked, and you couldn’t fight the whimper that escaped your lips.

“New game. You don’t cum before I say so. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir.”

You would probably fail, he knew that was more than likely. But the desire to be fucked into the mattress tonight mattered more to you than breaking the rules.

[dreamingofnoreality]

I think the part I hate the most in Mockingjay Part 1 is how after the District 13 bombing, when theyre trying to film the propo, Katniss is like, "He's gonna kill Peeta if I keep being the Mockingjay!" because in the book, she breaks down for literally, and I mean LITERALLY, the exact opposite reason.

“Try the line again,” says Cressida. “ ‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’ ”

I take a deep breath, trying to force air down into my diaphragm. “Thirteen’s alive and so —” No, that’s wrong.

I swear I can still smell those roses.

“Katniss, just this one line and you’re done today. I promise,” says Cressida. “ ‘Thirteen’s alive and well and so am I.’ ”

I swing my arms to loosen myself up. Place my fists on my hips. Then drop them to my sides. Saliva’s filling my mouth at a ridiculous rate and I feel vomit at the back of my throat. I swallow hard and open my lips so I can get the stupid line out and go hide in the woods and — that’s when I start crying.

It’s impossible to be the Mockingjay. Impossible to complete even this one sentence. Because now I know that everything I say will be directly taken out on Peeta. Result in his torture. But not his death, no, nothing so merciful as that. Snow will ensure that his life is much worse than death.

Up until then, Katniss had been terrified that Snow was going to kill Peeta. It's during the bombing that she finally realizes that Snow would lose his leverage against her if he took Peeta out of the picture.

It’s on the third night, during our game, that I answer the question eating away at me. Crazy Cat becomes a metaphor for my situation. I am Buttercup. Peeta, the thing I want so badly to secure, is the light. As long as Buttercup feels he has the chance of catching the elusive light under his paws, he’s bristling with aggression. (That’s how I’ve been since I left the arena, with Peeta alive.) When the light goes out completely, Buttercup’s temporarily distraught and confused, but he recovers and moves on to other things. (That’s what would happen if Peeta died.) But the one thing that sends Buttercup into a tailspin is when I leave the light on but put it hopelessly out of his reach, high on the wall, beyond even his jumping skills. He paces below the wall, wails, and can’t be comforted or distracted. He’s useless until I shut the light off. (That’s what Snow is trying to do to me now, only I don’t know what form his game takes.)

Maybe this realization on my part is all Snow needs. Thinking that Peeta was in his possession and being tortured for rebel information was bad. But thinking that he’s being tortured specifically to incapacitate me is unendurable. And it’s under the weight of this revelation that I truly begin to break.

Peeta's death would mean she had nothing left to lose. But the idea that her actions as the Mockingjay would result in Peeta being tortured? THAT is what makes her fall apart, which is what the Rebels were afraid of happening and is what motivated them to finally arrange the rescue mission. They were very much aware that Peeta was intentionally being kept alive and tortured to punish Katniss and, aside from Finnick, they were all actively trying to keep Katniss from figuring that out.

“Cut,” I hear Cressida say quietly.

"What’s wrong with her?” Plutarch says under his breath.

“She’s figured out how Snow’s using Peeta,” says Finnick.

There’s something like a collective sigh of regret from the semicircle of people spread out before me. Because I know this now. Because there will never be a way for me to not know this again. Because, beyond the military disadvantage losing a Mockingjay entails, I am broken.

The movie just completely ruined it by having Katniss think Snow was warning her that he was going to kill Peeta. The whole point was that she realized Snow was NEVER going to kill Peeta. Death would have been a mercy, and Snow was not merciful. He was going to keep Peeta alive to torture him in response for everything Katniss did for the rebellion then stick him on TV to show her.

[livwritesstuff]

Oh!! Follow up to the last one, what’s the most memorable vacation story for each of the family members? Or do they all collectively share one? Also hi! It’s been a min!! You’re doing great!!!

<3 <3 <3

I feel like Eddie’s favorite memories from vacations are from when the girls are little – like, babies little.

He remembers the first time they brought Moe to the beach. She had just passed the ten-month mark, and planning their trip to Maine was one of the first things they’d done when her adoption was finalized a few weeks earlier.

Their first morning in Maine, they woke up early and made the trek down to the little beach nearby. The sky was still hazy, the sand smooth and unmarred from the night’s high tide. Eddie remembers that Moe was dressed in an adorable yellow swimsuit and Steve had valiantly stuck a pink sunhat on her head even though she was pretty much guaranteed to yank it off as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and he remembers that Steve had walked with Moe down to the water, pointing out the seagulls and the shells and the lighthouse all the way down the coastline barely visible through the early morning ocean mist.

Steve put her down right at the edge of the tide, and she’s not quite walking yet so Steve’s still got his hands under her arms as he crouched down to watch Moe's reactions to the waves rolling in. She tried to pick her little feet up above the water at first, but after a moment or two she was squishing her toes in the sand and looking out onto the water with her face looking all inquisitive.

After a couple moments, Steve looked up at Eddie with a soft smile on his face and Eddie’s heart gave a panging throb in the best way because, fuck, his entire world rests within these two people, and he's so damn grateful that he gets to spend his life with Steve, watching their daughter explore the world.

He has that same kind of moment only a few years later with Robbie (who had goddamn hated the beach and there's a special delight in that kind of baby-indignation, as Eddie now knows) and again a few years after that with Hazel.

For Steve, his favorite vacation moments are the opposite – from the later years, when the girls are older, because he’d loved raising babies but the most exciting part of parenthood to him was watching the people his daughters were becoming.

They were hiking a fairly easy trail in Yosemite (because neither Steve nor Eddie’s knees could handle the tougher ones anymore, and even if they wanted to try, Robbie and Hazel’s whining would make it not worth the effort). The girls are a good few paces ahead of them, Hazel and Moe walking hand-in-hand while Robbie argues with them over what kind of bird they’d heard calling a few hundred yards behind them. They’re wearing swimsuits and shorts because Moe swears they’re gonna pass a lake at some point during their hike, and Robbie's got her old Converse on despite the entire family telling her she’d regret it immediately (and Steve’s pretty sure she does regret it at this point, even if she’s not letting on).

Steve didn’t know it, but he was having the same revelation that Eddie’d had seventeen years earlier – disbelief, in a way, at how wonderful his life is and how the vague notion of family that he'd had in his brain at eighteen years old is the life he's actually living now.

[mudandmire]

Contrasts

Azris Week - Day One: Contrasts

~~~ Hello hello! I found the Azris ship and the community this year and have absolutely been consumed by it. I love this idea, I love these two characters, and I love that there's so much potential between them and for them to feed and inspire such a wonderful community. I've never participated in the acotar fandom apart from this, and I'm so excited! Thank you so much to @azrisweek for putting together this event, I have had so much fun letting my brain run free like a dog off a leash with these prompts :D ~~~

Tell me

Azriel calls him tatlım, and Eris doesn’t know what it means.

It’s a secret, he supposes he can accept it—relate to it. Nooks and hidden corners itch and snarl with the weight of his own. An enchanted drawer he keeps in the washroom holds his greatest wonder and his greatest shame.

The journal weighs heavy in Eris’s mind. He traces back the parchment pages with intangible fingers during lulls in his father’s council meetings. The drone of bees, lazy and fat in the afternoon sun becomes the hushed whisper of a canyon gale through dried grass. The lines he inks, stroke by stroke, Azriel matches in full, thrumming strides. Words next to his are clean, unbroken, while Azriel’s remain thick, written in charcoal with smudges at the corners from where his fist has run over the line.

When it’s dark, a time when even shadows cannot creep and loom larger, Eris presses his own fingertips to those words. The smears of charcoal because Azriel had told him early on in their budding friendship when they were young that he can’t use quills.

“They're too thin, my hands shake too much.” A smaller version of Azriel speaks the memory into his mind. The whorls and pockmarks on his hands hidden between the gap of his thighs.

Eris had taken it as a challenge—and now he revels in it. Azriel is messy with his charcoal pencil, too free with his mistakes and smudges and it leaves Eris half a country away and entirely breathless.

‘Tell me what bothers you, tatlım.’ Azriel had written him earlier, the familiar scrawl of his heavy hand appearing stroke by stroke in the filled pages of Eris’s enchanted journal.

Two were made, Eris gave one away. He could not bring himself to regret it even if his life were on the line.

‘Tatlım?’ Eris had asked, his letters looped and coiled together in the way they get when he rushes, when he needs answers.

There was no sound save for Eris’s own steady pulse, the whistle of air through his nose as he waited for a response. And yet he could’ve swore he heard Azriel’s laugh, the breathy one, brush against the point of his ear.

The words appear in the space between one breath and the next: ‘Maybe one day, gach’lilit, I will tell you. For now, stop avoiding my prying.’

Eris places a hand on the rise of his chest. Holding in something that seems to be rising from his stomach to his throat and lands gently on his tongue like the orange and black patterned butterflies in the garden.

‘Tell me now,’ he begs, ‘and I will tell you whatever you wish, Azriel.’

‘Come back to visit me, sweetheart. That’s all I ask.’

It had formed a pause in their effortless back and forth. Eris wanted to—Azriel knew that. No, the issue wasn’t in Azriel’s plea, he knew just how much Eris longed for the little village in the Illyrian steppes. The stable in the field and the small, knobby kneed, black lamb that follows Azriel around like ducklings in the Forest House pond in spring. He misses the creeping, ruby red moss and the yellow and sage aspens that crop up from out of the golden plains like the jagged teeth of a cliff.

Most of all, most desperately of all, he misses Azriel. There is not one inch of his soul that doesn’t.

The inked tip of his quill hangs over the page, a knife poised for the final push. Through skin, muscle, bone, to the heart of everything—the rot that waits, festering under the floorboards of his adamant desire to run. It is one thing; it is also a collection of things Eris has stored like the most gruesome of trinkets, the most harrowing of trophies.

Because Azriel calls him sweetheart. He writes in his tongue letters of longing and punctuates them with words like tatlım, and gach’lilit. As much as Eris wants to stitch those given titles to his chest, he already has one.

Eris Vanserra. Heir of Fire. Son of Autumn.

Sweetheart. Tatlım. Gach’lilit.

He cannot have both. The heir who wears the crown, who feels it’s golden spiked thorns pierce the thin skin of his head knows this. Eris Vanserra was not born with room on his chest for titles other than this: his father’s son.

When his quill meets the page, a heaviness in his hand that wasn’t previously there, he knows Azriel already knows what he will write.

‘Soon,’ he lies, ‘when the festival of the summer sun comes, I’ll visit.' Eris Vanserra cannot flaunt about the wilds of the Night Court without purpose or reason. Even less if the hint of the reason is his desire to see an Illyrian male—but he can set out on inter-court business to strengthen alliances, break down information, and gather intel. Eris Vanserra cannot winnow straight from the quilts of his bed into the hay-strewn floor of Azriel’s stable.

No matter how much he wants to.

His chest pinches, a sharp point digging into the sensitive skin between his ribs when Azriel takes a minute longer to reply. The page remaining horribly empty with their spare words, their delicate dance.

‘Then I will just have to hold onto these words a little longer, besheirt. I wish for you to hear them in person, for they are as sacred to me as you are.’

Something cracks, folds then splinters and out pours a smile like evening sunlight through the painted colors of autumn leaves in the canopy. The tension building in his shoulders leaks down and pools around his feet, an unwanted puddle he completely forgets about. Eris may be an heir, a son of autumn, and child of a loveless, forced marriage; but he is also sacred. Something holy and divine by only the rights of Azriel, and Azriel alone.

Eris has his titles. The stitched corners of his heart taken up piece by piece, but he will forever play the game of keeping himself in between the two if it will let him keep Azriel.

He has his own titles to give him.

~~///~~///~~///~~

(Key for words:)

Tatlım - ‘Sweetheart’

Gach’lilit - ‘Firefly’

Besheirt - ‘Notion of a soul mate, but mostly means Intended in terms of spouse’

aH. Alright okay cool I'm so normal about them. This is a short little thing, and it doesn't follow canon lore lol sorry about that. I really loved the idea of contrasts because for me it's what first drew me to this pairing. At first it seemed like there were too many contrasts for them to even be compatible, and then through softening my perspective of both of these characters and their flaws (and no small amount of delusion in which we merely squint from afar at SJMs portrayal of these characters) I found that maybe these contrasts actually enhance their chemistry. what crazy imagine that.

[bonefall]

i was wondering, how different are BB!Windstar, BB!Riverstar, and BB!Shadowstar in Modern Starclan than they were alive? Esp compared to BB!Skystar and BB!Thunderstar.

Windstar is waaaaaaaaaaay different. Modern cats have completely forgotten that she was kind of a bitch. Of all the founders, I'd actually say that she's the most different. They de-girlbossified her.

Her revelation from Gray Wing the Wise was that she had a taste of battle and choked on it; ergo, she should expand her horizons. She spent the later half of her leadership doing just that, encouraging her cats to trade, forming alliances, and collaborating heavily with Shadowstar on technological advances. She was so loved that ShadowClan constructed a cairn at her burial-- a mound of stones around her body.

In life, she never lost her intensity. Though she took the revelation to heart, she often held grudges, took part in skirmishes against the others, and displayed a lot of bias within her heavily-hierarchical Clan. She could even be cruel and unfair in her judgements. Moth Flight personally experienced this in life, as The Wind Runner held her parentage against her before she'd proven herself useful.

In BB, Moth Flight is the daughter of Cloud Flight and Wind's terrible ex-mate, Branch. Windstar's kittens are Morning Awakener and Dustiest Muzzle.

(note: Names still might change. Park cat names are titles, three words at most, which are collected over their lives. Traditionally, a king bestows these titles, but in WindCo it's their parent. I feel like it fits her to have three kits called Big One, Middle One, and Little One tbh, lmao)

In death, these less savory aspects have been filed down by the sands of time. She's remembered as intelligent and jovial, loud and singsong. Her real build was lanky and wiry, but she's imagined to be as fat as a rabbit thanks to her trading and innovation. She gets associated with the matriarch doe that runs a warren.

(Gorselike Fur is depicted as harelike.)

The stories give her a king-like air to her. Most of the post-battle WindClan tales open up with her being approached in her camp, describing the kittens that took over after her death as 'heirs,' because the Wind Coalition didn't have deputies until Riverstar's death and a succession crisis.

In contrast, Shadowstar is actually the least changed founder. Her revelation was that she had failed to break her own legacy (remembered through history as failed to be compassionate, as her "legacy" of being the descendant of Broken Shadow is forgotten) and someone else would be broken for her. That turned out to be her nephew, Sun Shadow.

After winning a staring contest with One Eye, Sun Shadow won the right to become the God of the Sun. It is said that if someone else wins a staring contest with him, THEY will become the next god, so Sun Shadow defends his position viciously.

At night, he must rest, and his aunt is there to shelter him. This is why there is day and night-- as Shadowstar allows him to sleep in her embrace.

(Post-Lake there are actually arguments between River and Shadow "philosophers," who fight over if Sun Shadow is actually laying down to rest in Riverstar's embrace instead. Blood has been spilled. Average college professor discussion.)

So, as a patron, she's associated with shelter, safety, rest. Sanctuary. It's something that ShadowClan heavily values about itself at various points through history. So Shadowstar is seen as gentle, protective, and pragmatic. Someone who deeply regrets how she lost sight of the value of life, and will now fight to defend the cats under her charge.

Not all too different from who she was in life.

[isalisewrites]

ive been reading terrible but great since 2021 ive been reading tomarry since i was like 12 reading fates favorite. i dont rly interact bc my main fandom and presence is so far apart that my little circle deeefinitely doesnt gaf abt tomarry or hp and wld in fact be scandalized . so i was really regretting that i dont have anyone to cry to about how spectacular and lifechanging that was and then i guessed i cld jst anon u since thats a thing.

ur a hero. just the exact, perfect, seriously right amount of lead up because if there was more i really wld snap under the pressure of tom being too thick because then it wld just piss me off instead i was spellbound. u provided a genuine .. i swear masterpiece u were providing like a parent oh wow ..... like how people want sweet treats every now and then i never had to go searching. its 1 am for me and ive had sadly late nights this last few weeks since winter break began and it happened the other day that it was 5 am and i had two beautiful long chapters of terrible but great waiting for me when i woke up. and when i tell u oooooooooooh god i sobbed like a fucking baby last night reading that. harrys heartbreak my god. my goodness. this kind of emotional turmoil probably doesnt exist so far at this extent in any other tomarry im following. that doesnt matter i wont need it because wow. truly incredible.

hes finally a bit. understanding of himself. he knows hes in love now. wow . i am a small puddle

oh and how i cried for voldemorts passing. u have no clue like i had snot all down my throat i was under my blanket like i was twelve again or something. seriously i cried because not only did u craft that so excellently but i was as attached to him as harry is . because i care so much for every little thing in this story because ive practically grown a bit with it . wow its 2025 now you know. 47 minutes since the clock went 12. so its been four years of your writing this piece anyway and ive been blessed. so thankyou i cant share my overwhelmed incandescent happiness with anyone else in the world at all sadly tragically its my own fault anyways for not tomarrying right. but its personal for me so i dont mind that im only sharing it with u. thankyou so so much.

and my favorite thing ever in this fic besides their bitchfight and toms revelation that harry is his own personal dr who is probably fleamont potter god bless him may he marry euphemia and harry officiates or at least flowerboys for him. praise the lord and isalise for this fleamont and euphemia.......... they bring me SOOOOO MUCH FUCKING JOY wow. im gonna go reread all the fleamont moments. and then im probably gonna reread the last chapter. and then im Prrooobably gonna get it tattoed on my chest. have a good one isalise u absolute unit

FATE’S FAVOURITE NAME DROP.

Fate’s Favourite and Past’s Player are some of my foundational Tom/Harry stories, even though they’re platonic in this series. There’s a fight in Past’s Player that was the spark of my desire for a huge duel to the death, aka The Twink Fight, for Terrible, But Great. I love the fight in Past’s Player, how Tom drugs Harry for information and the two of them have a feral fight. But my story, I wanted something immense.

After all these years, I still remember my favorite line from Fate’s Favourite.

“You have very pretty eyes… They’d look good in my collection.”

Zevi Prince was the reason I wanted Quintus Prince to exist.

you belong to me (i belong to you) sparked the idea of a more complex relationship between Harry and Death in Terrible, But Great. I adore Harry in this fic so very much.

So many others were foundational fics for me. 

DMAY

Of Your Making

A Dangerous Game

No Glory

A Dangerous Game and No Glory were trigger fics, as were Fate’s Favourite and Past’s Player. What I mean by that is they were a catalyst in pushing me to write Terrible, But Great. Let me be EXCEPTIONALLY clear: they are all beautifully written and exactly what they need to be in terms of the story they’re trying to tell. They are S Tier stories and truly beloved.

But they weren’t what I was looking for exactly in a Tomarry story.

They scratched a few itches, but not all of them. (I actually have another idea for a Harry/Voldemort fic that was triggered/inspired by If Paths Diverge, but I'm not writing that idea at this time.) I needed something else. Honestly, these kinds of fics are the best because they’re always the source of creating something else. These types of fics are so vital to fandom life in all other fandoms, too.

I wanted a Harry who was equal to Tom, who challenged him. I wanted a Harry who stood up to Tom. I wanted a Harry who was still a Gryffindor, who was still self sacrificing, but also gave into his shadow side for Tom. As Harry grows a little darker, Tom grows a little lighter. (One of my favorite shounen ai manga does this. No.6)  I’d read so many fics where Harry was always giving something up for Tom/Voldemort, while Tom/Voldemort never did. Harry was always sacrificing something and Tom was always taking. The inequality grew to hurt too much. I wanted to see a Tom/Voldemort so very smitten, so very much in love that he would do anything for his Harry.

I got a comment on chapter 52 complaining about TBG Harry losing his spine and conviction, that the two of them didn’t feel like equals anymore.

Chapter 53 completely shows otherwise. Tom is willing to do anything for Harry in return. Tom is willing to sacrifice one of his greatest desires, finding out his heritage in the Chamber of Secrets, for Harry. They are equals. Terrible, But Great is a story of sacrifice, but from both of them.

The emotions of Harry realizing he’d do anything for Tom, even stay at his side while he spirals downward is a scary, sobering realization to have. It’s terrifying. He’d have to watch Tom lose himself. Though he’d stay at Tom’s side, he would inevitably watch Tom spiritually die right before his very eyes.

I was crying a ton while editing chapter 52, especially when I added the sections of Tom’s dialogue from previous chapters. UGH, MY HEART. I’m so glad those emotions carried across to you. That’s truly what I wanted. I wanted heartbreak in the most perfect way, one where it was okay in the end.

Thank you so very much for sharing your love of Terrible, But Great with me. It fills my heart so much. I can’t wait to continue on with Arc Three and beyond, to have you all share in more powerful emotions with me. Those boys still have a lot to learn.  And don’t worry, we’ll get to see more of Monty and Effie soon. You can look forward to a lot of growth for Harry and Tom in Arc Three and, yes, in Arc Four as well. 

Isa

[tinytinyblogs]

Is it hate or love?

Hate or love? Their mixed signals are driving you crazy.

(Ot8 skz reaction, non-idol, lil angst)

Hyung line Maknae line

💬I genuinely enjoy this one; it brings a smile to my face as I write. However, I must admit my mind is currently devoid of any ideas. If you have any requests, feel free to suggest, whether it's a one-shot or a reaction.

Stray kids masterlist here

Your insights and reactions make these posts come alive. Love reblogs, comments, and all the good vibes welcome ✨

Chan

The fluorescent lights buzzed like angry hornets, each flicker echoing the storm brewing within you. Another mountain of paperwork, another impossible deadline, another unwanted gift from Chan, the CEO who seemed to thrive on your suffering. He was an enigma, admired by the masses, yet your tormentor in disguise. You were done. Done with the endless demands, the relentless pressure, the suffocating feeling of being his personal pack mule. It was always you, drowning in work while others sat idle, their days filled with gossip and coffee breaks. Sleep was a luxury you barely remembered, your nights consumed by spreadsheets and reports. Enough. With a growl that surprised even yourself, you rose from your desk, sanity taking flight. His office, usually a sterile haven of power, became your target. No meek knock, no announcement. You barged in, the door slamming shut with a finality that mirrored the one building inside you. Chan, caught mid-keystroke, his gaze flew up, meeting yours. You held his stare, your emotions a tightly packed bomb, ready to detonate. "Shouldn't you knock?" His voice was a smooth, practiced drawl, but the surprise in his eyes was genuine.

But a voice, surprisingly gentle, stopped you in your tracks. "No," it said, and you whirled around to find Chan still seated, his gaze fixed on you. He seemed unperturbed by your outburst, his body radiating an unexpected stillness. "I wouldn't find another employee," he continued, his words a quiet counterpoint to the storm raging within you. Your questioning look, a blend of disbelief and lingering anger, seemed to crack his facade just a bit. "You're not quitting," he said, his voice losing its usual edge. "Take a week. Rest. Come back." You scoffed, frustration twisting your gut. "Chan, I'm done. All of it. What do you even want from me?" He leaned back in his chair, his gaze unwavering. "Attention," he admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "Yours." The revelation hit you like a punch to the solar plexus. Attention? him, the man who seemed to thrive on stoicism and distance? "Wanted the attention you give everyone," he elaborated, his voice laced with a vulnerability you'd never heard before. "But no matter what I did, your eyes were always elsewhere." He glanced at his watch, a flicker of something akin to regret crossing his face. "Go home, rest. I'll visit you after I finish my work today. We can…talk about it."

You slammed the door shut, the sound echoing in the tense silence. Your legs took two determined steps forward, each one a declaration of your rebellion. "Yeah, I should," you spat, your voice raw with pent-up frustration. "But I'm done with formalities, Chan. Done with playing your game." He pushed his chair back, his full attention on you now. "The file, I presume?" You scoffed. "You know me too well, don't you? Always up to your neck in demands, yet blind to the idleness around you. I work myself to the bone, barely see the sun, while others twiddle their thumbs and collect paychecks." Your voice, once a whisper of resentment, now roared with righteous anger. You ripped the employee ID card from your neck, a tangible symbol of your servitude. "I'm done, Chan," you declared, flinging the card to the floor, its plastic clatter a punctuation mark on your declaration of freedom. "Done being your slave. Done with this charade. This isn't work, it's a prison, and I refuse to be your inmate any longer." The ID card's clatter echoed in the room, a final punctuation mark on your fiery declaration. "Find someone else to do your dirty work with a smile," you hissed, turning on your heel, ready to escape the suffocating confines of his office.

Minho

As the creak of the nursery door echoed through the silent house, your eyes adjusted to the dim light, revealing Minho slumped on the bed. A fresh gash marred his usually stoic face, sending a wave of concern and exasperation washing over you. You tossed your untied hair back with a frustrated sigh, the loose strands framing your worried expression. "Are you out of your mind?" your voice was sharp, laced with disbelief as you approached him. Minho remained silent, his gaze distant, refusing to meet yours. It was oddly endearing, this uncharacteristic vulnerability, but the anger at his recklessness still burned inside you. "It's kinda fun to hear you fight because of me, isn't it, Minho?" you quipped, your eyes scanning the room for a first-aid kit. It stood sentinel beside him, a silent witness to his recent skirmish. "Since when do you care if anyone mocks me?" you challenged, stepping closer, your voice dropping to a whisper. "Weren't you the one who started it all?" Your words hung heavy in the air, accusation mingled with confusion. As you leaned in, gently tending to his injury, the air crackled with unspoken emotions. Minho, once an impenetrable fortress, seemed to soften under your touch, his eyes holding a depth you'd never witnessed before.

"I never start anything," he finally rasped, his voice rough with unspoken apologies. "I never made fun of you in front of anyone. I wouldn't." His denial hung in the air, tinged with desperation. You looked up, meeting his gaze, his eyes seeking yours with an intensity that made your breath hitch. "Aren't they your friends?" you asked, your voice barely above a breath. "Didn't they just repeat the gossip you started?" Minho let out a heavy sigh, his hand reaching out to grasp yours, stopping your ministrations. His touch sent a jolt through you, and you instinctively looked up, drawn into the maelstrom of emotions swirling in his eyes. This simple gesture, this unexpected vulnerability, opened a crack in the facade he'd carefully constructed. And in that small opening, you glimpsed a truth that threatened to rewrite everything you thought you knew about Minho. What lay beneath the surface? Regret? Guilt? Something more? The tension in the room hummed like a live wire, charged with unspoken words and the weight of shared secrets. The air, thick with anticipation, waited for the next move, the next truth to break through the silence.

The air between you and Minho crackled with tension, as thick as the silence. His grip on your hand was like a vise, holding you captive in this charged space. "They're my classmates," he finally spoke, his voice low and tight, "but that doesn't mean they blindly follow my every word. Don't paint me as some villain, spewing lies and manipulating them. Stop assuming the worst." You yearned to pull away, to break free from his hold, but the intensity in his eyes pinned you in place. "Because you always act like one, Minho!" you countered, your voice rising in frustration. "This hostility, this constant antagonism toward me – why? Why do you harbor such animosity?" His gaze, once defiant, softened, a flash of pain flickered across his face. "Who said I hate you?" His voice echoed in the quiet room, bouncing off the walls, almost drowning out the distant school bell. "If I truly hated you, wouldn't these wounds be scars on someone else's face? Wouldn't I be far away from you, causing trouble elsewhere?" He looked at you, his eyes raw and searching. "No one," he continued, his voice dropping back to a whisper, "ever told me those things about you. Open your eyes, Y/N," he gestured to his injury, "see past the persona you've built for me. I'm not the monster you think I am."

Changbin

The lunch bell clanged through the bustling cafeteria, a jarring contrast to the turmoil brewing within you. The midday sun, streaming through the glass walls, felt like an unwelcomed spotlight on your skin, highlighting the insecurities the toxic whispers had planted. Your fingers trembled as you checked your watch, the numbers mocking your empty stomach. Lunch should be a joyous break, a chance to refuel and recharge, but the thought of food tasted like ash in your mouth. Every bite felt like a betrayal against the chorus of taunts echoing in your head, the unsolicited advice on your weight a constant weight on your chest. "What's with you?" a voice cut through your misery. Changbin, your perpetual shadow, loomed over you, his presence as unwelcome as the stale cafeteria air. "Forgot your lunch money? Or just another dramatic attempt at starvation?" His words were laced with a familiar bite, designed to prick at the raw nerve endings of your insecurities. You clenched your fists, the urge to lash back crackling in your veins. But you knew the futility of engaging, of feeding the flames of his negativity. "Go away," you muttered, your voice a mere whisper against the cacophony of laughter and chatter.

You turned your gaze towards the window, seeking solace in the blur of the bustling city below. The endless stream of people, each with their own stories, offered a strange comfort, a reminder that you weren't alone in this struggle. Changbin, however, remained a persistent fly in your ointment. "Eat something, you idiot," he rasped, his voice a touch softer than usual. "I don't want to lug your unconscious body to the nurse again." A frustrated sigh escaped your lips as you met his gaze, his untouched lunch sitting accusingly between you. "Don't tell me you're on a diet, Y/N?" his voice was laced with concern, but it grated on your already frayed nerves. "Yeah, well, they keep reminding me how fat and ugly I am," you spat, bitterness clinging to your words like smoke. "Satisfied now? Go eat your lunch somewhere else." He didn't move, his stillness a stark contrast to your turmoil. Instead, he rose from his chair, his gaze unwavering. To your surprise, he didn't leave. Instead, he returned moments later with another lunch set, placing it gently in front of you. "Sometimes, you can be unbelievable," he muttered, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Just eat whatever you want and be happy. Why let their words dictate your joy?" His words hung in the air, a gentle challenge to the self-imposed prison you'd built around your insecurities.

You looked at the food, the vibrant colors and inviting aromas a stark contrast to the darkness in your mind. The tension in the air had softened, replaced by something unexpected - a fragile truce. He sat across from you, his lunch forgotten as he focused on yours. "Beside," he mumbled, eyes glued to the colourful mountain of food on your plate, "you totally look fine in my eyes." His words hung in the air, a stark contrast to the usual barbs and banter that defined your dynamic. You, the prickly defender, and him, the relentless challenger, had somehow stumbled into an unfamiliar territory - one where kindness was laced with gruffness, and concern masked by playful threats. It felt surreal, like waking up in a parallel universe where the sun rose in the west and Changbin, of all people, was complimenting your looks. "Beautiful as always," he added, his gaze meeting yours, a flicker of something... new... dancing in his eyes. It was a look devoid of mockery, devoid of the usual cynicism, and it made your stomach do a strange somersault. He waited, a silent encouragement for you to dig in. You hesitated, the familiar spoon feeling heavy in your hand. "If you skip a meal again, I'm not kidding, I'll make sure you eat something myself."

Hyunjin

The morning light, usually a welcome friend, felt like a harsh spotlight on your throbbing head. The ache in your body was a symphony of protests, each muscle groaning its disapproval at the mere thought of movement. A groggy groan escaped your lips as you tumbled out of bed, the world tilting precariously before righting itself. The fridge, however, refused to cooperate. Its barren shelves mocked your rumbling stomach, a cruel reminder of your impending grocery trip. You winced, the effort of just standing feeling like a Herculean feat. Then, like a bad penny, he materialized. Hwang Hyunjin, your resident thorn in the side, stood there, a smirk playing on his lips. "You look dead," he chirped, his voice somehow grating on your already frayed nerves. Ignoring him, you focused on putting one foot in front of the other, each step a battle against the leaden weight of your body. Hyunjin, however, wasn't done. A hand, surprisingly cool against your burning forehead, stopped you in your tracks.

"Street walking with a fever? Not your brightest move, dumbass," he drawled, his voice laced with a sardonic concern that only he could pull off. You swatted his hand away, a weak attempt at defiance. "Not claiming any awards for genius today," you mumbled, your voice thick with fatigue. "But starving is worse." Hyunjin's smirk softened. He could be infuriating, that was for sure, but even through the haze of your illness, you couldn't help but notice a flicker of something else in his eyes - maybe concern, maybe something more. Every step felt like a betrayal, your body screaming its protest with each groan. Yet, you pushed on, fuelled by a desperate need for the cool embrace of sheets and the sweet oblivion of sleep. Then, amidst the symphony of aches, a hand materialized, grabbing the very item you craved from the shelf. Another hand, warm and surprisingly gentle, nudged you closer to the checkout. You whirled around, expecting the worst, but instead, you found Hwang Hyunjin, the familiar scent of Hyunjin's cologne a sudden anchor in your sea of dizziness.

"You really gonna make a scene by collapsing in public?" he muttered, his voice surprisingly gentle. He pulled you closer, his arm a surprisingly strong shield against the encroaching crowd. His body heat, a stark contrast to your feverish chills, radiated comfort you couldn't deny. You stumbled a little, your vision swimming, but his presence, a steady anchor in the storm, kept you upright. "You don't need to care," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the supermarket din. You looked up at him, his face etched with a concern that made your heart skip a beat. He hummed, a low rumble that somehow soothed the storm raging within you. "I think so," he confessed, his eyes meeting yours with a vulnerability you hadn't seen before. "But you always make me worried, and care." He squeezed your arm gently, the gesture both firm and reassuring. His gaze meeting yours for a fleeting moment. His eyes, usually filled with mischief, held a depth you hadn't seen before. "Hurry up, I'll cook the meal. You should get your medicine, thank me later after you feel better."

©Tinytinyblogs

[bluenerdtastemaker]

The Backless Revelation

We Miss You sequel (2)

--

Esteban Ocon x Pierre Gasly x Charles Leclerc | 1.3K

--

Esteban wasn’t sure what had possessed him to agree to this. Maybe it was the earnest sparkle in Erina’s eyes when she’d asked him to model for her fashion design project. Or maybe it was the fact that he’d known her for years—she was his neighbor’s daughter, a sweet, determined fashion student with a dream of making it big in haute couture.

“Please, Esteban,” Erina had begged, clutching her sketchpad like it was her lifeline. “I just need one male model for my final collection. It’s bold and unconventional, but I think it’s perfect for you. You have the frame, the poise... and you’d look stunning.”

He’d laughed nervously at her passionate pitch, unsure of what he was signing up for. But Esteban was nothing if not a people-pleaser, and he didn’t have the heart to say no.

Now, standing in front of the camera in Erina’s tiny makeshift studio, he was starting to regret his decision.

“Trust me, Esteban,” Erina chirped as she adjusted the fabric of the suit, her fingers deftly arranging the black material over his shoulders. “You’re going to look amazing. This backless design is the centerpiece of my collection—it’s daring, elegant, and androgynous. It’s meant to break stereotypes.”

Esteban glanced over his shoulder at the mirror, taking in the plunging backline of the suit that left most of his spine exposed. A temporary tattoo—a delicate butterfly and rose motif—sat perfectly at the center of his back. It was bold, yes, but undeniably beautiful.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked, fidgeting slightly. “I mean, it’s... a bit much.”

Erina gave him an encouraging smile, her warm brown eyes filled with gratitude. “You’re perfect, Esteban. Just trust me, okay? And thank you so much for doing this—I owe you big time.”

Her sincerity melted his nerves a little, and he sighed, nodding. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

The photographer, a fellow student with a talent for capturing raw emotion, guided Esteban through the poses. Erina fussed over every detail, ensuring the suit draped just right and that the tattoo caught the light beautifully.

“Lift your chin a little,” the photographer directed. “Now turn your head slightly to the left... perfect. Hold that.”

Click. Click. Click.

As the shoot went on, Esteban found himself relaxing. The initial awkwardness faded, replaced by a quiet confidence he didn’t know he had. Erina’s energy was contagious—she radiated pride and excitement every time she looked at the shots on the camera screen.

“You’re killing it!” she exclaimed after a particularly striking shot. “You’re going to make my collection stand out at the showcase.”

By the end of the session, Esteban was actually smiling. Erina handed him a bottle of water and beamed up at him like he’d just won her an award.

“You were amazing,” she said, practically bouncing on her toes. “This is going to be the highlight of my portfolio. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure you get credit when it goes public.”

Esteban chuckled, ruffling her hair affectionately. “You’re the real star here, Erina. I just stood where you told me to.”

She shook her head fiercely. “No way. You brought my design to life. I’ll send you a copy of the magazine when it’s published, okay? Thank you again, Esteban. You’re the best.”

As he left the studio that evening, Esteban felt a strange mix of pride and trepidation. He couldn’t deny that the experience had been fun, but he also couldn’t shake the thought of how Pierre and Charles would react when they saw him in that backless suit.

Little did he know, their reactions would be far more dramatic than he anticipated; The morning started like any other in their home—a comfortable quiet broken only by the sound of birds outside and the faint hum of the coffee machine. Pierre was the first to stir, padding barefoot into the kitchen with his hair sticking up in every direction. Charles followed not long after, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he joined Pierre at the counter. As for Esteban, he was still asleep due to overtime at work, it seems the new project Alpine in seems to take more time than he expected.

Their peaceful routine was abruptly interrupted when Pierre’s gaze landed on something new resting on their coffee table. A glossy magazine sat there, slightly out of place among their usual stack of car and sports publications. The cover featured models in bold, modern designs, but what caught Pierre’s attention wasn’t the magazine itself—it was the image tucked inside.

“Charles,” Pierre called, voice sharp with intrigue. “Come look at this.”

Charles leaned over Pierre’s shoulder as he flipped open to a page bookmarked by chance. And there he was. Esteban. Their Esteban. In a sleek, black backless suit that hugged his slim frame perfectly. His back was exposed, highlighting the delicate arch of his posture, while a temporary tattoo—a striking design of a butterfly and rose—decorated the center of his spine.

The suit was bold, unconventional, and effortlessly elegant. His face was soft yet captivating, lips slightly parted, as though daring anyone to look away.

“Mon dieu…” Charles murmured, jaw dropping slightly. “That’s… our Esteban?”

Pierre couldn’t help but laugh, though it came out more breathless than amused. “Why didn’t he tell us he did this? Look at him! He’s a work of art.”

Esteban, of course, was still asleep upstairs, blissfully unaware of the effect his photo shoot had on his boyfriends. Charles immediately grabbed the magazine and started flipping through it for more pictures. Sure enough, there were a few pages dedicated to him—poses that showed off his lanky yet graceful frame, the elegance of his hands, and the soft tilt of his head.

They didn’t even bother finishing their coffee. Instead, they marched upstairs, the magazine in hand. Pierre was the first to push open the bedroom door, revealing Esteban still curled under the blankets, his hair a messy halo on the pillow.

“Esteban,” Charles called gently, his voice filled with a mixture of amusement and adoration. “Wake up.”

Esteban stirred, blinking up at them groggily. “What’s going on?” His voice was still thick with sleep, making him look even softer in their eyes.

“Oh, nothing,” Pierre said, smirking as he sat on the edge of the bed. He held up the magazine, flipping to the now-infamous page. “Care to explain this?”

It took a moment for Esteban’s sleep-addled brain to catch up. When his eyes focused on the image, his face turned scarlet. “Oh my god,” he groaned, burying his face in his hands, mumbling. “I forgot I put the magazine at the coffee table.”

Charles slid into the bed on the other side of him, pulling Esteban’s hands away from his face. “Forgot? How could you forget something like this? You’re stunning. Breathtaking. Look at you.”

Pierre leaned closer, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “You should’ve warned us, though. How are we supposed to focus on anything now?”

Esteban couldn’t find a way to defend himself. His heart was racing as Pierre and Charles took turns teasing him, flipping through the magazine to point out their favorite shots.

“You’re wearing our shirts for the next week,” Pierre finally declared, his hands tracing a path up Esteban’s arm. “No one else deserves to see you like this.”

Charles nodded, pressing a kiss to Esteban’s temple. “Agreed. We’re keeping you all to ourselves.”

They started showering him with kisses, soft and lingering, trailing from his cheeks to his forehead, and down to his lips. Esteban was quickly overwhelmed, his protests dissolving into quiet, breathless laughter as they cornered him in the bed.

“You’re ridiculous,” he finally managed to gasp, though the fondness in his tone was unmistakable.

Pierre grinned, his hand brushing a strand of hair away from Esteban’s forehead. “And you’re ours.”

As Esteban sank back into the pillows, utterly spoiled and glowing from their attention, he couldn’t help but think that he didn’t mind being their doll after all.

[monstersinthecosmos]

Ok, but

What about Armand and Santino?

Do you think Santino loved Armand, was he attached to him?

Gosh the thing is like, we don’t know shit from fuck about Santino at the end of the day?????

But we do have this little bit from when Armand is eavesdropping on Marius and Santino collecting the forensic vampire evidence: 

"I don't understand you," Santino confessed gently. "But if you think I never loved him, you are very very wrong."

I can tell you that I believe Santino loved him, and I’ll tell you why, but ultimately this is a blank space in canon so there’s not one answer.

It just feels to me that like, you can use what we know about Armand’s indoctrination into the cult to wonder if Santino went through something similar. And we have to ask like, how much of Santino’s warmth and kindness is sincere, how much of his faith is sincere, or how much is purely manipulation and trauma. 

But I think the structure of VC lends itself to assuming the best in people, and assuming love where it’s possible, so like. Yes I do believe Santino is sincere. I believe his faith is sincere. I believe he thinks he’s doing the right thing in the way he breaks Armand because maybe he went through the same. 

It's important to remember that purely evil characters are very rare in VC. People behave in ways they think are correct. Santino thinks he's doing the right thing.

And it’s a great sacrifice to send Armand away so quickly, trusting him that much. It’s like he’s denied himself the companionship of someone who might really truly understand him because so much of their belief relies on asceticism. Even if he didn't feel sentimental about Armand on a personal level, I have to wonder if he just admired him as a little prodigy.

Something else we know about Santino is that he had the hots for Pandora and was willing to throw it all away for her and she kinda shamed him for attacking Marius, and it makes me wonder how much it plays into why he came with her to rescue Marius from the ice. If it’s for a sense of atonement I have to ask like, does he mean personally for Marius for that one time, or for everything. 

Armand is similarly ashamed of his years in the cult and it’s like the biggest phase of his life that he barely talks about in his book because it’s too dark and painful. 

So I think there’s a sense that they both entered and exited the cult in the same way, and I get the sense that they already came with their own religious trauma as baggage which made them susceptible to staying in the first place. 

Armand says about Santino We keep a gentlemanly distance from one another and like, you can read into this however you want, but fuck if my brain doesn’t light up like a Christmas tree thinking about how it must be so painful to be around each other, how there must be such a deep level of mutual regret and empathy. Maybe Armand knows that whatever Santino did to him was repeating a cycle, and maybe it’s because Armand continued that cycle. Maybe he knows he’s hurt people as badly as Santino hurt him.

And they’re such a unique pair—how many more coven leaders are out there? And how many others have this direct link to either of them? It’s not some abstract concept of some other guy who also put time in—it’s that Santino directly shaped this for him. 

So yeah I mean.

"But if you think I never loved him, you are very very wrong."

There’s a lot here to think about and in the way Armand tends to deeply love everyone in his life who’s wronged him and doesn’t seem to give up on people, I just know they must love each other. And Santino must love him back. How do you not. Everyone falls in love with Armand. The night Santino found him must have been a revelation. 

[cityzenshark]

Family | Chapter 24 - Hearts and Sparks

Homepage | Book One: Family | Book Two: Unity | Book Three: Belonging

Synopsis: The townspeople of Witwicky help the Maltos in return for saving their town.

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Robby is transferred to the ICU as his conditions worsens. The doctor finds his symptoms to be a combination of sepsis and something that seems to be energon poisoning but isn’t. After he leaves, Robby tearfully confesses to Dot how terrible he had been since moving to their new home and apologizes for putting the Terrans in danger and for lashing out at her. Dorothy hugs her son, crying herself, and forgives him. Robby wishes the cybersleeve to come off. Later, his old friends come to visit him, including Stevie. What Robby said to Stevie still hurts but Stevie hates to see him deathly ill even more. Robby apologizes to him, and the two old friends made up.

       At the town’s capitol building, Alex and Mo is invited by the town Elders to discuss if the town’s old legends are related to the Core, the Emberstone, and the cybersleeves so they might be able to help solve the family’s issues. Mo hesitates to tell, then the shaman reassures her by telling her about Witwicky’s Mountain Spirit and Her stonemen offspring. If the ‘stonemen’ had been previous Terrans, they are records of something similar to cybersleeves on their ancestors who had lived with them. Later, Alex and Mo exit the capitol building to find Mo’s friends and their families waiting for them with charity they had collected for the Malto’s.

“It’s the least we can do after you saved us from Grimlock. Besides, it’s not like we haven’t seen the Terrans before that evening.”

“...You’ve seen them before?”

“Yep! Since your first day of school here, actually.”

“What... Why didn’t any of you say anything?”

“You seem scared for them, Mo. We didn’t want to stress you out, so we decided to wait for you, Robby or Mr and Mrs Malto to say something.”

“The revelation could’ve been better...”

“Hey, Mo, it’s over and done. You and your family saved this town and now it’s time for us to help you.”

       Back home, the Terrans have separated counselling sessions with therapists.

Hashtag has hers by the waterfall. She talks about her trauma and worries how humanity would welcome after what she did in Philly city because – mind controlled or not — she’s still responsible for the damages. Nightshade has theirs at the edge of the cow paddock. They express how ashamed they feel from their lack of understanding to their siblings’ feelings even when the cyberlink was still intact yet hates it so much. Jawbreaker has his at Mrs Belle’s silo. He feels embarrassed to be afraid of his older Terran siblings and shares his guilt for triggering Grimlock’s PTSD. Thrash has his in the bunker. He expresses the burden he feels for not just being the big brother but also being the first of his kind in a world hurt by the senior Transformers-kind; how he wishes the Terrans to never be involved in fixing the Cybertronians’ mistakes.

Meanwhile Twitch has hers in the woods where she and Robby went Wak-Wak hunting. Twitch refuses to admit her wrongs as she tries to convince her therapist how her actions were right, while the latter is wrong and bad for disagreeing her. Her therapist shares his personal story where he let his anger get the better of him. His actions got an innocent bystander killed. While he was in the right that time, the bystander is a victim, and he will forever be responsible for their death. Twitch’s decision to help Bumblebee and Brawl herself was indeed right, but the price was not worth the city’s destruction or it being the world’s first impression on the Terrans. Worst, Hashtag’s innocence is now unbelievable for an unforeseeable future.

Realisation finally dawned on Twitch, followed by immense regret. She wails loudly. Alarmed by her cries, her Terran siblings rush to her. Twitch hugs Hashtag by her neck and sob “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry, little sister!!” Though confused, Hashtag hugs her back and their brothers join in. The therapists give them some privacy, feeling relieved and glad for them.

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