#Multi-part series

[almostgenerallyalways]

Suddenly you groan, and it startles him enough that he drops his book. “Spencer. I’m never going to get this. I might as well go back to Texas right now.”

He scoots over, using his hands, to examine the chapter of Forensic DNA Typing: Biology and Technology Behind STR Markers you’re currently faceplanting on. “What, this? This is easy.”

You raise your head at him, your expression miserable. “Thanks, Doctor Three-PhD’s-at-twenty-one. Some of us mere mortals got C’s in biology in high school.”

He chuckles. “No, I mean, I can help you with this. I read this book last year.” He plucks at a few blades of grass. “I should be the one panicking. Tomorrow is our first firearms training, remember? You were with the Border Patrol for two years, you’ve got actual experience. I’m not sure I can even lift a gun, let alone shoot one.”

You gasp and roll over onto your back, looking up at him. “Spencer, that’s it.”

He freezes, momentarily distracted by the way you look, lying down, eyes shining up at him as you bite your lip to keep from grinning. “What?”

You prop yourself up, leaning back on your elbows planted in the grass. “I help you with your marksmanship training, the physical requirements, whatever you need. You help me through the forensic science. We can get through this together.”

Spencer nods slowly, mulling it over. It’s not a bad plan. “Together?”

You break into a smile and hold your right hand out to him. “Together. I will do everything in my power to make sure we both see this thing through to the end. Pinky swear.”

He feels a matching grin begin to break out across his face. “I’m not sure FBI agents pinky swear.”

You hook your finger around his, and the small skin-to-skin contact makes the back of his neck tingle. “Good thing we’re only recruits then.”

[andysmuse]

A village under the stars, chapter six: sunrise bay.

A village under the stars, chapter six: sunrise bay. A village under the stars, chapter six: sunrise bay. There’s not only water under the bridge anymore, cause a village was not enough for Zandr to make the picture look even more exiting. He’d been looking to the other side of the bay a lot, and had crossed the bridge many times over the past few weeks. It felt Amazing every time he went over…

[readingthinkingsaying]

Fanfic review #1

Title: No Intention

Author: KeelieThompson1

Fandom: Sherlock

Ship: no ship

Rating: T

Date completed: 25/2/2013

Summary:

Sherlock Holmes had his first experience of sex when he was sixteen years old, with a girl who was the daughter of his father's business partner, helped along with a stolen bottle of scotch and a rather ancient looking condom stolen from the wallet of an obnoxious party guest.

Somehow, eleven years and three months later, he's faced with ten year old John Watson.

My review: I decided to start with something that I re-read at least once a year.

There's a lot of amazing fanfic in the Sherlock fandom, and I happened to be into it back in 2013/2014. So it means I was there for some AMAZING stuff.

No Intentions is honestly so clever, and heart warming, and witty. It's well written, well paced, and it's the best sort of family drama - rich, intense, but underneath it all, everyone cares about each other. Even if they don't know how to show it. Does this surprise you, regarding the Holmes'?

In this fic, we have Sherlock discovering that he is a father, and how that affects not only him, but his family. And John too. John is so endearing here, and Mycroft is all sorts of amazing - it's fair to say I have a soft spot for Mycroft anyway, but he truly shines here. I love him!

There are currently three parts to the series, spanning a fairly wide time period, and while the story itself is incomplete, this part is whole and absolutely wonderful.

So: witty, engaging, heart wrenching, has character growth and character regression, it explores a dysfunctional family and how we can heal. I love this story, and I definitely encourage you to give it a go.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 301

Ellie, during one of her stints of what do I do with my life right now, decides to, with the help of her Original Dad-Person (Look he’s aging and she’s not and it gets less questions the older he gets if he says daughter instead of sister with how the Fentons are getting older too) creates a Boo-Tube channel. No, not a Youtube channel, those are stuck to a single dimension.

Bootube on the other hand? Due to being through the Realms (and wow is Tucker getting so much income from creating it) is interdimensional. Which is so cool honestly. And she doesn’t know what to do at first, and honestly there’s already so many travel blogs that she kind of just… decided to do something that she wished someone had done for her and her brothers and Danny when she was new to the world. 

So she creates the channel CAAW: Clone Awareness, Accommodations, and Welfare. They had to learn things through trial and error, but maybe she can help someone out there learn how to find their own selves, or even help someone not melt. 

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate you — Part 21

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: please forgive spelling errors, I’m still coming out of my illness. I’d also wanted to write more but I suppose it’ll help to have a solid starting point for the next chapter! I can’t believe it’s been a year since the first part of cbmthy went up.

warnings: likely spelling errors; Deliah; reader’s miserable life

word count: 5,738

-Part 20- -Part 22-

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

“I know it’s difficult, but I urge you to tell your family as soon as you are able.”

Madja’s round, soft brown eyes are imploring as she looks into you, and you dip your head.

“I will,” you mumble, frowning into your lap. “I just want time to process it. Besides, you don’t know that for sure—it’s just a theory.”

“A theory that I wouldn’t tell you unless I thought there was a high or definite chance of it happening,” Madja counters, passing you the glass of water. You drink reluctantly. “I know it’s a lot, and it’s sudden… How are you coping?”

You set the glass down when you’ve had enough. “Silver lining, right?”

————

Madja’s earlier question has been echoing through the chambers of your mind all morning. Nagging for an answer until you’ve no choice but to pause, and think. A bench sits overlooking the Sidra, and you take it, choosing to seat yourself for the duration of the thoughts.

How are you coping?

Because you weren’t a while ago. That’s what got Azriel bedridden, although he seems to be on the mend. So, how are you coping now? You can barely feel the gloves around your hands, even when your curl them to scrape the fabric against your skin. There’s nothing more than a slight pressure.

To have no solution for the pain, that you’re permanently damaged… Permanently imperfect, even as a fae. You could have had something. Could have been like Nesta, wielding her Cauldron-Made magic. How stupid of you.

————

His door looms before you, the windows empty and the front garden still. Taking a deep breath you raise your hand to a fist, delivering three muffled knocks to the wood panelling, gloves softening the thuds. You take a step back, and wait. Glance about the small entry, the vines crawling up either side the door, the glass lantern hanging above your head.

The garden is dying, life slowly receding, pulling back in on itself to protect from the descent of winter. Another two weeks and the transition will be clear. Already frost is often crisping leaves and slicking cobbles, ice gleaming over the lip of windowsills and thick rolls of fog floating up from he sidra, basking the city streets in a deep cloud-cover. Sometimes it’s so thick you can’t tell where the edge of the canal lies, and you make a point to offer a generous margin of error. You’re not sure you’d have the will to fight the terrible shock of icy water or the wit to navigate, blind, through the thick mists back to a lowered platform.

You’ll stick behind the guard rails, for now.

Metal scrapes, a latch clicks, the door creaks open. A heavy, golden eye peers out from the relative darkness.

You push a smile to your mouth, weighted, subdued, tentative. “Hi, Bas.”

Golden eyes pause, taking you in from an almost passive standing point. His lips don’t shift like you’d become accustomed to, no half-amused smile curving his familiar mouth and no sweep of warmth across his face. Rather, his lips tighten, as if regretting having made acquaintance with a creature with needle sharp teeth that hook into skin and cling to flesh as it feeds. You’ll stay out of his life if he wants you gone.

You can manage to give him six months of space.

Bas sighs, his broad chest briefly deflating as his shoulders slope and the ice lessens to frost. The door opens wider and an ember of mild warmth begins to glow faintly somewhere in your chest. You take care not to show the visible relief—he hasn’t forgiven you, he’s just opening up for conversation. Maybe now he’ll tell you to stay away, maybe now he’ll tell you not to disappear again, maybe now he’ll tell you you’re forgiven, maybe now he’ll forgive you but he doesn’t want around.

You shake off the thoughts like a sparrow shaking off raindrops from her narrow, nimble wings, fluttering her feathers to rid the dampness from her warm body.

Inside the fire is lit, crackling in the hearth. Dried rosemary and herbs still hang in bunches from the thick wooden beams of the ceiling, patchwork quilts still hang over the back of plush armchairs, small, plump pillows still tucked into either end of the sofa and you sit yourself near one arm, knowing Bas usually takes the armchair to the left of the fireplace. Not directly in the way of the radiating heat but close enough to be warmed by the rolling waves as they spill out into the low-ceilinged living room. You meet his golden eyes. “How’ve you been?”

“Good.” Bas nods his head. “Been doing some thinking. Sure you have too, yeah?” He takes his seat but doesn’t lean back into the cushioning. Instead he braces his forearms on his knees, feet shoulder-width apart and the fire reflects in his strong, golden eyes.

You lick your lips, placing your gloved hands in your lap. “I’m sorry for using you like that.”

Bas cocks a brow. “Just jumping straight into it, huh. No preamble.”

“I understand if you’re angry with me. If you’re upset with me. I feel that you’ve been there for me a lot…more that I can say. Through a lot of stuff I haven’t been brave enough to talk about, too.” Your eyes are hot on their surface, burning from the heat of the crackling fire but you blink away the heat, swallowing. “I was in a bad space, when I left. And I wasn’t thinking right.”

Bas snorts. “You weren’t thinking at all.”

He pushes off from his knees, settling himself at last back into the armchair. Long legs stretch out over the thick, patterned rug, arms crossing behind his head and legs crossing at the ankle.

“I’m sorry, Bas.” You tell him, firmly. Looking into his fierce gaze. He’s always been more straightforward. You’ve managed to be more straightforward with him, too, and it’s been a perk of your…friendship. “Will you… Can you forgive me?”

Silence hangs in the air, his features unmoving, eyes holding that fierce glint in their golden irises. Seconds tick by and neither of you say anything. The room grows hotter, denser, and you shift in your seat. It’s sweltering. It’s been a minute.

Your eyes lower and you nod your head. “Okay.”

You rise from your seat, straightening out your skirts, unsure whether your cheeks are burning from humiliation or the fire. “Thank you for hearing me out,” you tell him, nodding your head once before finding your own way out.

“You aren’t going to ask for my side?” Bas calls from his seat, bringing you to a halt. You turn, looking at the outline of the back of his head, the muscles in his arms are tense and his fingers are pushing into his skin. You keep to the entryway, unsure whether he’s being sincere or whether he’s waiting for an argument. You’ve never known him to be manipulative, but he’s always been ready for a brawl in the past. Bas turns his head, and piercing golden eyes bore into you.

“What’s your side?” You ask, softly.

Bas snorts and makes a sharp gesture with his hand, telling you to sit. Your lips purse but you follow, returning to the seat but this time discarding an outer layer leaving you in a top and skirts. You’re here for a conversation—not a brief exchange where nothing’s said.

“Did you even listen to me, last time you were here?” Bas asks. “Where did you go? Who did you meet? Why did you think it was a good idea to just—” He bites off the ending, his frustration and anger bleeding out. His arms brace themselves back on his knees, body hunching over as his brows narrow, exhaling in a harsh hurry. “Talk to me. You got to talk to me instead of just vomiting up a bland fuckin’ apology like that. ‘I’m sorry for using you like that’? ‘I was in a bad place’?” He stares at you, hard. “Are you kidding me?”

“I- What do you want me to say, Bas? I’m sorry for upsetting you. I’m sorry for making you angry. I’m sorry for not telling you where I was going-”

“‘I’m sorry for making you feel like shit, Bas'. ‘I’m sorry for not only leaving and not telling you anything, but also then coming back and not telling you anything either, Bas’. ‘I’m sorry for creating something private and safe and then letting everyone in to tear it to shreds, Bas’.” Golden eyes gleam with heat, boring into you. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Those would have been a good fuckin’ start.”

You lick your lips, trying to buy yourself time to comprehend the words he’s spat out. Beats pass, but you have no idea what to say. You’re sorry. You regret the way things happened. They won’t unfold like that again. It all feels so insufficient when his eyes are so fierce on their surface but the tears are making them glassy. “You were my fuckin’ treasure,” he rasps. “And you fuckin' walked out without a word.”

“Bas I’m sorry,” you whisper. Heat prickles your eyes, “I just needed to get out.”

Bas laughs a wet laugh, “Fuck off with that.” His thumb and middle finger span across his eyes, bracing his temples. “You know I stopped seeing other people?”

Silence hangs in the air. Blood cooling in your veins.

Bas laughs. “Stopped drinking after you showed up, stopped sleeping around as much, started getting to bed on time. Started talking with ma again. Started to get better after pa-” He chokes off, a wet droplet breaking on the rug far below. He rubs his eyes shaking his head. Golden eyes gleam in the firelight. “You were good,” he whispers, “a good thing.”

Sorry doesn’t even begin to cover it. You know what it’s like to feel you aren’t good enough to be trusted. You know how it hurts.

You stand quietly from the sofa, gathering your cloak and scarf. Pause when you pass him—he doesn’t look up, keeping his head cast down, staring at the rug. Your palm settles over his shoulder and you squeeze once, firmly. I’m sorry.

You’re in the doorway, the salty citrusy coastal air mixing with the warm rosemary of his interior when he calls for you once more.

“We’ll be moving to Winter soon,” Bas says through his raw throat. He swallows, hard jaw working. “Ma thinks it’ll be good for us—to visit pa’s Court. Reconnect with the magic there.” In one movement that exudes far too much boyish embarrassment for you to bear, he dries his eyes, rolling his shoulders and standing straighter. “Thought I’d let you know.”

“You’re leaving?” You can hardly hear your voice. Bas shrugs but the edges of the gesture are too sharp to be natural. “Guess Night Court isn’t working for us.” He licks his lips. Nods his head. “I wish you well, from here.”

————

The sunlight is watery, offering an edge of warmth but you’re in a daze. You’re not even sure you know where you are in the city. Just started walking and didn’t stop, feet moving mindlessly over the cobbles, carrying you through streets and alleys, down roads and narrow tracks between shops. With the smell of food you’d guess you’re near a restaurant zone, but…

He’s moving. All the way south to the Winter Court.

Will you be able to visit? Will he even want you to visit? You can admit you’re not the most well-versed on Court politics, nor the most caught up on current affairs, but it doesn’t take much to know the Night Court isn’t a Prythian favourite after the fifty years the High Queen ruled with Rhysand at her side.

You look around Velaris, the street you’re on. Did it look like this during her reign? Before? Did it change during the attack that took so many lives, Bas’ father among them?

Inside your chest your heart is flittering too fast, fluttering against your ribcage, pulsing in your throat sporadically. Where are you? None of it looks familiar. A breeze blows and you catch the scent of the Sidra, somewhat salty, somewhat briny, but crisp. Dampness dredged up from an open-mouthed estuary far from here. It’s only a few streets away, and a trail of cold relief slithers down your spine as you recognise the canal. If you follow the water upstream you’ll probably find your way back to a spot you know—you’ve been heading mostly downhill, after all.

————

Rita’s

That’s a name you recognise. You’re nearby, back in a familiar area at least. Although being lost had been a temporary relief from the tempest tipping and turning inside of your, raging emotion crashing on your banks and you’re unsure what to do with all of it. Even having lost a lot of feeling in your hands you can tell they’re numb. More numb than usual anyway, and the cold is spreading to the rest of your body. You seem to remember the others having spoken about it in a way to suggest its busiest hours would be after dark but you wonder if they might be open during midday—just a familiar place to step into and warm up for a bit.

Well, it’s not exactly familiar. Come to think of it, you’ve only really heard Mor speak of it as someone who’s been inside. It didn’t seem to be a frequent spot for the others.

You squeeze your eyes shut and pray she isn’t inside.

As soon as you step foot within the establishment you feel the warmth on your face, washing over the frozen tip of your nose and the nipped-at skin of your cheeks, lips probably chapped and dry from the cold. The lights are on—strung up around the ceiling, hanging from wall to wall so they look like hundreds of yellow-bottomed fireflies. Paintings hang from the walls, stacked closely together and rimmed in what looks like gold, carefully crafted to carve into swirls at the corners. Pictures of flowers and bouquets, horses and riders with neat hair and long legs, dappled shade on a pair of shoes. Parted lips painted a dusty rose.

There are a few fae about the place—there seems to be a part of the large interior sectioned off for games and socialising, pool tables set up with a piano in the corner and a violin laying on its top, a guitar against the piano stool. Plush settees are dotted about the place, mauve and maroon leather with a healthy sheen beneath the glowing lights.

You make your way over to a counter that looks like a bar, nervously approaching the female behind the stand. “I’m sorry—is it fine for me to stay inside for a little bit? I got lost and-” But she’s already nodding understandingly and you’re struck dumb by her beauty. Dark brown hair that snarls about her round face, healthy and rich, full lips stretching into a welcoming smile as she clops to your side of the bar, ushering you over to take a seat on one of the sofas.

“What can I get you? Hot water? Tea? Whiskey?” Her eyes are full and dark, round and pretty as they watch you. “You’re such a small thing! What were you doing out in the cold all on your own?”

“I- sorry. I don’t have any money on me at the moment… I’m after some warmth is all. Sorry,” you say, holding your hands up and shaking them gently as though metaphorically pushing her away. But her smile doesn’t falter for a second, leaning her weight to one hip and folding her arms over her slim chest, “And I asked what can I get you? You’re half-frozen, I should dip you in candle wax!”

“Oh, I-” You swallow thickly. “Then, could I have some tea? If it’s not a bother?”

“Stay right there and don’t wander,” she smiles, nodding her head, “I’ll be back in a moment. Hang tight and don’t freeze.” Then she’s clopping away, heeled feet clicking over the polished wooden floors, thuds muffling when she passes over a rug.

You blink away your surprise, adjusting yourself to Rita’s interior. It’s nice: warm and welcoming. You lay your hand in your lap, peering at the dark green fabric of your gloves, self-consciously fiddling with the fingers. Maybe if they become frost-bitten they’ll turn stiff and fall off. At least you wouldn’t have to deal with their ugliness anymore, but it’d still be all up your arms.

It’s not long before the server is returning, a pinkish ceramic mug cupped in her palm, taking care not to spill anything as she passes it over to you. “Careful not to burn your tongue, it’s piping hot,” she warns with a smile, “unless you’re frozen stiff. Then drink away!”

You manage a grateful smile, murmuring thank-you after thank-you until she’s trotted back to her place behind the counter, a new couple of fae having also come in from the cold. You wait impatiently for it to cool, gently blowing on it from time to time but it’s difficult to hold through your gloves and you have to be careful not to spill any on yourself, or worse, any on the lovely rugs. Raising the mug to your lips, you take a small sip but it’s still scalding. How did she even make a cup of tea this hot? You’ve waited for it to cool.

Sighing to yourself, you shift on the sofa, making to lean back against the cushioning then thinking better of it when you remember your layers. It would be nice to remove them, but you won’t be stopping for long—just waiting to warm up. Until you’re certain blood has returned to your fingers and toes. You try the tea again but only succeed in scorching your upper lip. You’re so preoccupied with willing your tea to cool that you fail to notice the fae approaching from the far end of the room.

A body fills the space beside you and you’re pulled from your thoughts. The female’s lips are a bright slash of blood red, white teeth glittering inside her mouth as she offers a smile. You give a polite smile in return, thinking nothing of it as you return to gently blowing on the steaming liquid.

“You’re new here…”

You blink, then turn back to the female. Her eyes are so dark they’re almost black. Not a suctioning void of darkness, but more like a peaceful midnight or experiencing a restful sleep. They’re enlivening, not draining. “Yes…I heard someone speaking about this place so when I recognised it I thought I might come in to warm up,” you reply, shifting in the seat so you’re facing her a little more.

Black silk trousers cover her lower half, a sheer, silky band hugging her slim waist before flaring into wide, sweeping hips. On her top is a sleeveless, rouge, lace-covered shirt that hugs her full breasts, exposing a sharp but surprisingly deep V of moon-pale skin. Around her collar bones sit pretty pearls, matching the ones pinned to her ears, and you wonder if she’s the kind who’s always so finely dressed or whether you’ve accidentally stumbled in during a special occasion. Blood red nails delicately clasp a stout, crystal glassful of amber liquid and from the smell of it you can guess the contents.

“You’ll warm up faster if you let the heat touch your skin,” she muses, reclining into the far arm of the seat, her crossed legs pointing in your general direction. A stray curl of rich, chestnut hair escapes over her shoulder, flaring outward in a neat curve. “Oh, I don’t think I’ll be here for long…” you laugh, gently shifting the mug in your hands.

“Why not?” The female muses, swirling her glass in deft fingers. “We won’t be getting busy until at least six; it’s not even three yet.” She sips from her glass slowly, savouring the flavour. A pink tongue swipes at her lips, collecting the remaining taste. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It’s what we’re here for.”

“I’m sorry—you work here?”

“I’m the owner.”

Your brows raise. “You’re Rita?”

The woman laughs through her lips, eyes twinkling faintly. “No. Rita was a friend.” She winks as she says it, like it’s some funny secret she’s decided to share between you. “And we’re all friends here, so you don’t have to worry about a thing. Stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you.” You flush at her warmth. How welcoming she is.

“Who told you about Rita’s?” The female asks, drawing you again from thought. You pause, unsure how to label your relationship with Mor. Instead you simply settle for giving her name. “Mor,” you answer, shifting in your seat before offering an unsure smile, “she’s a…friend.”

The female nods like she’s understanding part of a larger puzzle. You suppose it makes sense though—you’ve gotten the impression Mor is somewhat a regular, of course the owner would be familiar with her. Anxiety begins to crawl up your spine, bone by bone, piece by piece. What if she knows who you are—what you’ve done to upset Mor. But instead the female’s eyes twinkle, sparked by something.

“A friend of Morrigan’s,” she drawls, elegantly settling deeper into the cushioning, finishing off the knuckle’s-depth of her whiskey, knocking it back like it’s nothing. “Well then, you can call me Deliah.”

————

It wasn’t until the clock had struck five that you’d realised how long you’d been speaking with her. She’s a master of conversation, and you were swiftly swept up and away, almost forgetting your tea entirely, warmed beneath her attentive gaze. When you’d finally gotten up to leave, she’d wrapped you in a warm embrace, like you’d been friends for much longer than a few hours, and had pressed a departing kiss to your neck before you’d wrapped yourself in a scarf and headed back out into the much colder outdoors.

But still, the icy winds bite at your throat and nip at your cheeks, and you hug your cloak tighter to your body.

————

Night has fallen by the time you reach the River House, carefully hanging your cloak upon one of the iron hooks and removing your shoes. A surge of voices sound from your left—coming from the living room with windows overlooking the front lawn—and you quickly slip past into the kitchen searching for something to eat before tiptoeing up the stair to bed.

You don’t want to touch what Bas had told you—that he’s leaving. What if you hadn’t visited? What if you had put it off? What if he had decided not to tell you? What ultimately persuaded him to let you know? After all, he’d only mentioned it when you’d been leaving…perhaps he hadn’t intended to tell you, but something good in him had known the kind of emptiness you’d feel if you went to him one day to find the house packed up and empty? With no trace of him to be found?

The thought alone has a pit opening up in your stomach, eyes pressing together hard to keep tears at bay. He wouldn’t have done something like that, surely. Had you hurt him so badly?

For someone you had thought close to leave so abruptly without any notice…no reasons, no goodbye…just gone. How many methods of torture the mind could create with that. How the unknowing would surely swallow you whole. Regret feeding off every second, wishing to have a second chance.

Guilt weighs in your stomach.

“You’re back.”

You snap back to reality, ice flooding your veins as you spot Mor stood the other side of the kitchen counter, poised to pop open another bottle of wine. Your throat closes up but you nod, walking further into the room—it would too childish and obvious to exit as soon as you’d seen her. Her caramel eyes drop back to the cork, skewering the nail through the stopped and twisting. “Looking for something?”

“Just a bite to eat,” you manage, eyeing an apple in the fruit basket. Buttered bread with something on top would have been nice, but an apple will be great, too. Cool, and crisp. Hopefully not too tart.

“There’s food next door,” Mor tells you, neither of you really looking at the other, and you pluck the apple from the basket. “Olives, bread, cheese, grapes, wine.” She lifts the bottle, gesturing to the second one she has on the table beside her. “Probably apple slices and raisins too-”

Silence beats between you, and then fabric is rustling. You look up to find her almost upon you.

You jump when her hands rip the scarf from your shoulders, staring wide-eyed in…shock?

“Mor?” You ask, slightly defensively as you take a step back. “What-”

She grips your arms tight, pain flickering up through your flesh and your stomach clenches. “Stay away from her,” Mor hisses, her nails digging in through the fabric of your gloves. A low moan of discomfort escapes your mouth and her eyes again widen, inhaling sharply as she drops your arms. Mor recovers quickly, a mask sliding into place that’s cold and icy, not even a fragment of the previous hurt you’d seen to be found. “I don’t know how you met her, how you ran into her, and I don’t care. Just stay away from her.”

You’re breathing heavily, a light sweat on your skin but the light pain’s vanished as quick as it appeared, leaving you feeling cold and tingly all over. Flesh once again fading to numbness. “I don’t…Who?”

A small beauty mirror materialises out of thin air and she flips it open, showing the dark red imprint on your throat, a stamp of a woman’s lips. Deliah’s lipstick must have been pressed into your skin. A flush of regret rises up from your stomach and you slap your palm over the skin, hoping to conceal the blazing proof that you’d visited Rita’s. She’s never claimed it as her space, but it’s Mor’s domain.

“I’m sorry,” you splutter, trying to explain. “I was just cold, and I got lost, I didn’t mean to intrude, I swear I won’t go there again, I just needed somewhere to-”

“I don’t care where you go,” Mor hisses, a tissue appearing out of thin air, tipping your jaw to one side. “Stay in Rita’s all day if you like it. But don’t get involved with her. Does she know you know me?”

You nod your head, shame warming your cheeks. Mor sighs, rubbing harshly at your neck to remove the stain. It doesn’t take intelligence to tell she’s frustrated.

After a while Mor pulls away, the tissue a dark rouge colour, blood dried and faded to black. “I’ll talk to her. Tell her to stay away from you.” She turns, tossing the tissue in the bin. She shoots you a hard look over her shoulder, “Don’t go near her. Do you understand?”

You nod again.

Mor sighs, and you can hear her lips purse. “I’m serious. She’s a bloodsucker.”

“I won’t go near her,” you say, reaching for the apple and shifting it between you palms. “I promise I won’t this time.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you think you feel the tension disperse. She nods, once. “I believe you.”

Your lips press together, and you peer at the apple, turning it around in your hand to shift your awareness from the weight of Mor’s gaze. At last it lessens, and you look up to see her walking away, heading out of the kitchen and probably for the living room, where it sounds like the others are. She pauses on the threshold. Looks over her shoulder. “You can join these ones too you know. It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.”

You look at one another quietly, but before you can reply she’s vanished off into the hallway, the voices rising a few seconds later when she reaches the living room.

You can join these ones too, you know.

The waxy red of the apple shines beneath the faelights.

It’s not just the dinners people spend time together.

————

You pause in the doorway. One foot in the room with all of them, the other out in the hallway, already poised to depart. You feel it as attention openly shifts to you, not coming in, but not leaving either. For the first time, you’re openly wanting of their focus.

Your skin prickles as you feel the room quiet, but you’ve already taken the first step which you know from having heard so many people say is the hardest. It’s a lie. You know from experience it’s never the first step that’s the most difficult, but the one you have to make in the present. The present is always the worst.

You meet the blue-grey eyes of your youngest sister, Nyx held to her front, Rhysand at her side. “Will you sit down, for this?”

Feyre stiffens, and you can feel the room itself grow stagnant. The air that had previously been alive and bubbling growing colder. Even the warm lighting, the fae-lights and the candles seem to have dulled. A nervous laugh rattles her shoulders, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look so serious.” Your features remain solemn, and the little mirth she had left in her eyes winks out. Feyre settles on the arm of one of the big, cushy armchairs, Rhysand sliding in beside her.

You swallow thickly, fierce, lionlike eyes passing through your head. Your head bows. “Madja believes she knows what’s wrong with me.” You clear your throat, and correct yourself, “With my magic.”

Silence hangs in the air, and you have to force yourself to continue, fingers leafing together. “It is a little serious,” you say, glancing briefly to Feyre with a tired, guilty smile, “so I’ll try to be as cohesive as possible.” Feyre nods her head, and you last a small breath before starting.

You lift your chin to dress the room.

“I only found out I had magic about two months ago. It caused me a lot of pain, and still does when I try to use it, though not as much as those initial attempts.” Your gloved fingers wring together. “After some poor experiences, the side-effects of my magic became apparent. You might have noticed I’ve been wearing gloves a lot lately—it’s not a new fashion craze.” A half-smile appears on Elain’s mouth and you could kiss her cheek for it. “Rather, it began to damage my body physically, externally. My hands became dry, and…there were some other things I’ll leave out, but there was obviously something wrong with them.”

You try to keep your voice steady, try to keep your hands from shaking as you pinch one tip of a finger and begin pulling the glove from your skin. The patchy, discoloured flesh of your arm appears, scabbed and flaky, skin ashen where it’s begun to peel. You remove the other, and fold them over your hands, clasped together at your front.

“After I…After the House Of Wind happened, the dryness spread further to my shoulders. I’ve lost almost all sense of touch in my hands, and most of my arms are numb, but they still hurt a lot if I knock into something.” Are you taking too long? Is this stupid? You try to imagine finding Bas’ house empty. “Madja’s been very attentive, an absolute blessing, and she’s figured that my magic wasn’t existing externally, because it was festering internally.” You pause, lips trembling, but swallow past the lump in your throat. Your voice is hoarse when you add, “For two years.”

The room itself shifts—Feyre sitting straighter; Nesta leaning forward, Cassian squeezing her hand tighter; even Mor’s shifted in her corner, no longer slouching against the wall; only Elain is frozen still.

“What does that mean?” Feyre asks, her voice like a finger dragging through sun-softened butter.

“Madja says she can’t reverse the damage; what’s happened to me. That two years is too long for her to even attempt to undo.”

“So…what?” Feyre’s voice is quiet, softer than you’ve ever heard it. “It’s going to keep spreading? There’s no way to remove the pain?”

“Kind of.” You nod, shifting on your feet. You can’t help wanting to look into a hazel set of eyes in the far corner of the room. You wonder what he’s making of this big speech. Whether it’s all stuff he already knows, and he’s waiting for it to be over already. Old news.

“Madja says she can’t erase the pain. It’s always going to be there because it’s been able to sink too deep.”

Feyre’s hand is covering her mouth; Nesta’s expression is focussed but her knuckles are white where she’s gripping Cassian’s hand; Elain’s eyes are wide, and her skin is sickly pale.

You bite your lip, shifting once again in the doorway. Shifting to stand just over the threshold, teetering on the edge of the living room and the dark, empty corridor.

“She’s given me about six months to live.”

If you didn’t know better, you’d think someone, somewhere, had plucked the final string of the harp and frozen time. It’s unnerving—being in a room filled with living statues.

You almost flinch when Mor pushes off from the wall. It’s not a sudden movement by any means, if anything it’s more subdued than you’ve ever seen her, but with a swift look around the room, locking gazes with four pairs of eyes, she takes her drink with her and makes to pass you, exiting the room. Cassian glances at Nesta, squeezing her hand tight before standing; Rhysand remains still, his and the High Lady’s eyes glazing before he’s pushing a kiss to her temple, scooping up Nyx and following after Azriel and Amren.

You almost crumble now it’s only you and your sisters.

It’s too much for you to bear.

You’d thought you were okay with your silver lining.

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

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

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[b38rman]

THROUGH THE MOTIONS [pt. 1] ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ Ollie Bearman

series tags - ollie bearman x afab!reader, enemies to lovers, slight angst, slight sickfic moment, eventual smut

synopsis - Between you getting an international driving permit and a rental car or having to spend time carpooling with the Ferrari Driver Academy co-driver you despised the most, you just had to choose the more difficult option. (Spoiler alert: it didn’t have anything to do with getting the permit or a rental car.)

parts - 1 | ?

rating - part 1 - teen and up readers

warnings - ollie being awkward and a little mean , a really bad flu

a/n - comments and feedback are very much appreciated! 💞

The dawn October breeze in Maranello had a certain bite to it. Still, even if you couldn’t figure out if you loved it or hated it, you knew you’d never get tired of it. 

The ever-cooling air stung your nostrils as you took a breath in. Despite the unpleasant bodily sensations, you had to stand outside, dressed in firetruck red, because Ollie told you to.

“—Or else I’m not picking you up.” The snark commanded. 

Ever since you signed with the Ferrari Driver Academy, shifting gears to work with Prema in your upcoming season, you’d put off getting a rental car and a driver’s permit like any sensible person would have done. Instead, you chose to rely on overpriced modes of transportation to get you places on time. 

Rene brought up the idea first in passing during a dinner you were having, Ollie and you comically sitting as far apart as possible. The latter kept his head down, infuriatingly emotionless at the topic. 

The arrangement was cemented though when Jock had one-too-much of you being barely on time. Ollie, who initially grinned and rolled his eyes at your predicament, fell eerily silent. However, if you two were anything besides enemies, you were people pleasers. 

You watched as the familiar black Volkswagon pulled into the front of your host family’s house. A pool of anxiety flooded your stomach, but you fought it and entered the car.

It was warm inside. It smelled like him.

You didn’t dare make eye contact with him, even though you felt his gaze on you as you set your bag down and put your seatbelt on.

“You good?” Ollie asked, and you were surprised with how soft his voice sounded. You felt your guard rising as you knew he could use any interaction against you.

“Yes.” Your tone stayed flat—neutral.

The car ride was silent and a tinge awkward, just like how every early interaction you had with Ollie was. The thing is, you got along with everyone just fine; in fact, every other FDA driver felt like family already, if only Ollie didn’t stick out like a sore thumb. 

It was in the little things—like how Ollie would be telling a story to everyone else and he’d go quiet the moment you walked in the room, or how Dino or Rafa would ask if you were coming to a hangout you weren’t invited to in the first place. It was pathetic to feel like you were left out, but honestly you couldn’t help it.

That initial awkwardness turned into slight bitterness. The passive-aggressive nature of your interactions bled into everything you did. You figured that two could play this game.

No matter how hard you resisted, you felt your body begin to slip into the early morning fatigue. The warmth, the rumble of the car beneath you, and the wear and tear of the past weeks were definitely getting to you.

You hadn’t realized you’d fallen asleep until you felt hands tugging on your jacket. 

“We’re here.” Ollie stated blankly, pulling on the handbrake and turning the engine off. 

“Right, yeah.” You rushed out of the car before the embarassment could set in.

Your routine was repetitive enough to be sickening, and you’d endure car rides to and from the factory for days on end as long as it wasn’t a race week that Ollie had to be in.

Both of you barely said anything about it though, which was surprising given that things often turned into wars of who could have the final say between the two of you. To be fair, once, you fought about which Mario Kart set up was the best for Heaven’s sake. Let’s just say it didn’t end well and the other drivers had to intervene.

Today, though, you’d come off a week of late nights at the simulator to help with the team’s data. Ollie was conveniently away, leading you to be more resourceful than efficient about getting home. It involved a lot more walking, waiting, biking or a combination of the three. 

As a result, the cold had finally decided to seep into your bones and you were down with a flu so bad you were sure you were having visions. 

You could barely sit up and eat, much less check your phone. A half-eaten, day-old bowl of soup was getting cold on your bedside table, and you honestly felt more helpless than anything.

The days were lost on you, and once Monday rolled around, who could ble you for forgetting to tell Ollie about any of this.

You tossed and turned in your bed as the sun crept through your blinds. More voices were present in the hallway, which was unusual but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel anything but pure exhaustion to the point of apathy. 

Due to this, your eyes or brain didn’t have time to process Ollie opening your bedroom door and stomping right in.

“I told you I wouldn’t pick you up if you weren’t outside.” His attempt to tell you off didn’t sound all that convincing. 

You just hummed in response, but the weird feeling in your stomach began to grow as he shut the door behind him. You closed your eyes, like that would do anything to stop how your body was responding. 

You weren’t sure why or if you were imagining it, but Ollie made his way to sit on the side of your bed you weren’t curled into. It felt like a flu-induced hallucination, but you could feel his warmth and his scent emanating from near you. 

Maybe you were just really sick. Maybe he smelled like mint and citrus and you wanted nothing else but to bury yourself in the smell. You were so tired. 

You felt a warm, calloused hand reluctantly lay itself on your temple, You prayed he didn’t feel your pulse racing.

“You’ve got temperature.” He muttered under his breath. 

“I’m freezing though.” You answered back, not missing a beat but with an evident lump in your throat. You finally made yourself look at him, and he looked back at you with something that looked almost like worry. 

Ollie began shedding his coat, one you’d seen him wear a dozen times to the factory. You were honestly confused about what was happening until he pulled your comforter down and began helping you into it. Afterwards, it probably looked like you were about to head to work in pajamas and a uniform far too big for you. 

His warmth and scent enveloped you to the point that you weren’t sure if you were breathing at all. You were still really cold though. 

“I’ll make you some tea.” He said, getting up and doing just that right as he did. 

You weren’t sure where this kindness was coming from, but it definitely did feel like a white flag being waved upon the wars you were having. Even if it was just for now. 

He returned not too long after, persuading you to drink the cup of ginger tea all at once. It was the first thing you consumed in a really long time.

“You’re much less scary like this.” Ollie said sheepishly as you drank the rest of the tea. 

“Yeah? What’s that supposed to mean?” You tried to add some bite into the words. Your bodily weakness wouldn’t let that happen. 

Ollie didn’t respond. Instead, he just looked at you. You wanted to curl up and hide under his gaze, all because you couldn’t figure out if it felt better or worse than being scrutinized by him. Right now, he looked at you with a wonder you weren’t sure was genuine. 

“I’m—um—done with the tea.” You stammered out, handing him the cup as a way to get both of you out of the conversational grid lock. 

He moved to set the tea cup right beside the bowl of soup on your bedside table. 

You weren’t entirely sure what happened next. All you remember was you drifting off with Ollie on his phone still by your side. 

You woke up in a cold sweat at one point, trying to get up but a warm, comfortably weight was wrapped around you. You decided to go back to sleep.

The next time you woke up, it was dark. Ollie was nowhere to be seen.

And all you had left of him was his jacket. 

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

YES! JOIN ME IN THE DELCIOUS DUNGEONS!

[gothamite-rambler]

"I don't mess with the spirits," Duke said, leaving the haunted house.

Duke and Tim stood in a disheveled, spacious old house in their civilian clothes. Duke looked around nervously, feeling an intense chill in the house.

Duke (nervously): Um, why are we here again?

Tim: Bernard's grandma died, his parents got this house in the will, but they swear it's haunted.

Duke (insistent): It better not be, I do not fuck with ghosts!

Tim: Duke, chill, it's probably a crazy homeless person.

Ghost: GET OUT!

The house shook furiously, silencing Tim's doubts. Duke, on the other hand, was resolute on leaving.

Duke (clapping): Whew! That'll do it! You don't have to tell me, you do not have to tell me twice. I will be on my way.

Ghost (surprised): You're actually leaving?

Duke (nodding, looking at the ceiling): I don't mess with the spirits. Can't punch you, don't want to learn how. Not doing it. Headed out and I'm taking my friend slash brother with me.

Ghost: Huh... you're free to leave.

Duke: Come on, Tim.

Tim (challenging): You're just going to let the ghost win?

Duke: Yes, because it's a bodiless vengeful spirit and I don't fight that. Neither will you. We can call Batman and he'll get the magic woman or the blonde guy to cleanse this haunted house, then your boyfriend's parents can have the house. We ain't dying today!

With that, Duke gripped Tim's shirt collar and walked out of the house with him.

Ghost (thankful): Thanks, man.

Duke: No prob.

Tim (frustrated): You are no fun!

[blue--ingenue]

Autistic!Scorpius Headcanons [Part 1]

He’s highly sensitive to touch. Doesn’t enjoy being surrounded by strangers in large crowds, and certainly hates being jostled/prodded by people he doesn’t know. He’s highly tactile with those he trusts, but even then he can still get overstimulated by too much hugging, cuddling, etc.

Tactile stimming! I love that Adam Wadsworth’s Scorpius constantly stims by running his hands along the fabric of his robes, fiddling with whatever he’s holding, and feeling out the textures on the closest set piece. I imagine Albus introduces him to muggle stim devices like spinners, fidget cubes, squishy toys, and spinner rings. If he doesn’t feel like using a stim object, he’ll tap out repetitive rhythms by drumming his fingers along his thighs or fiddle with his wand.

Some of his special interests include dinosaurs, A History Of Magic, and magical creatures. Since he was little Draco indulged him by taking the family on weekend trips to the magical zoo. Astoria insisted on visiting muggle zoos and museums, which is where he fell in love with dinosaurs. He loves that dinosaurs are one of the few subjects that both muggles and wizards have yet to fully understand. He loves reading about them, and adores how similar they look to some of his favorite dragon species.

Has extremely high emotional intelligence, which fuels his empathy. He has a deep understanding of his loved ones’ thought patterns, emotions, and feelings. It pains him to see the people he cares about in pain, so he is often the first person to lend a listening ear or a shoulder to cry on. 

Despite his emotional intelligence, he has trouble picking up on social cues, especially from people his age

Very easily loses track of time while focussing on his special interests. He could spend hours in the library if the book he finds is interesting enough. Albus only takes issue with this when Scorpius forgets to drink water and accidentally misses meals. (Eventually Al tucks a few sandwiches and biscuits into his cloak to drop off at the library. He doesn’t want to interrupt the time Scorp sets aside for his special interests, but wants to make sure someone looks out for his health on the days that he forgets to.)

 His sensory processing issues make him hyper-aware of his own emotions and sensations. Even too much of a good feeling can send him closer to sensory overload. We see this a lot in the Year 5 Broadway cast. Erik Christopher Peterson’s Scorpius becomes overwhelmed and begins to hyperventilate during intense situations: Albus pressuring him to climb onto the roof of the Hogwarts Express (negative experience), when the boys get trapped in the past and Scorpius realizes he’s outside of Bathilda Bagshot’s home (positive experience). Both times, Albus holds onto him and guides him through a brief breathing exercise. (These interactions only last a few seconds on stage, but they’re so significant.)

[sh4wty18]

Hello I LOVE YOUR WORK AND EVERYTHING<33333

I was wondering if you could do like hockey player! Chris sturniolo x figure skater!reader i don't care what about just PLZZ

girl of your dreams - chapter one.

one. | two. | three.

pairing: hockeyplayer!chris x figureskater!reader

summary: you find out you're going to have to share your rink with chris's hockey team during your final college figure skating season.

cw: rivals to lovers, angst, first person POV, language

word count: 1.4k + edited

tags: @kokes73 @joeshiestyslover @chrissbluehat @h3arts4harry (if you want to be tagged, comment!)

dividers from @plutism

---

Y/n’s POV

“So, as you all know, you’ve been called here for an emergency team meeting. You’re probably not expecting to see the other team here too,” Coach Beck chuckles, but her smile doesn’t meet her eyes. 

The entire University Figure Skating team is gathered in our rink for a supposed “emergency meeting”. I knew something was up as soon as I sat down on the bleachers and saw the University Ice Hockey team already waiting for us. Coach Beck is our figure skating coach, and she’s great. Beck is kind, smart, funny, and strict, but she makes practices fun. She’s so encouraging during our competitions against other universities, that even if we don’t win, she’s still proud of us. Not to make it seem like I don’t win. Of course, I win every competition I’m in. Figure skating is my passion, it always has been. I wanted to go pro after I graduate, but I doubt that will happen. That’s why I work my ass off to get straight As and put hundreds of hospital volunteer hours in each semester– I’m pre-med. If I can’t become a famous skater, I might as well get a job in a field I’m good at. 

Next to Coach Beck stands Coach Carter. He is the University Ice Hockey team’s coach. From what I’ve seen, he’s way more serious and scary than Beck. In the few times the men have had to use our rink for practice, he’s always screaming. He crosses his arms and glares down his nose at each and every one of us.

“Well, Coach Carter and I wanted to let both teams know that the Men’s Ice Hockey rink is being rented out to the local community this semester for K-12 hockey lessons and practices. That being said…”

“You’re going to be sharing the rink this season,” Coach Carter finishes.

A few of my teammates gasp, and I hear some of the men on the ice hockey side of the bleachers groan. I raise my hand patiently, waiting for Beck to see me.

“Yes, Y/n,” she points at me.

“Yes, hi. Um, so how will we be doing this? Because I know I’m not the only person thinking it, but the men need the entire rink to practice scoring and stuff, right? So where will we be?”

“Always worrying about yourself, huh, Y/n/LN?” I snap my head around and shoot Chris a deadly glare, which only makes him laugh under his breath. 

Chris Sturniolo. He’s been my biggest rival since we were freshmen, and both brand new to college level athletics. Now he’s the king of the hockey team and the president of the Alpha Delta Phi chapter at our university. Everyone on campus knows him, either for being the guy who led the hockey team to victory in the U.S. Collegiate Championship three years in a row, or the guy who throws the best parties out of all the frats and sororities at our school combined. Everyone loves him, but not me. I know him as the guy who’s had it out for me since day one. He’s pre-med too. I don’t know how, to be quite honest. He’s a chronic lecture-skipper, and has shown up to Saturday practices hungover so many times it’s hard to keep track. Not that I’m keeping tabs on him, he makes it known. He’s always bragging about how great his parties are and how wasted he got. He’s been trying to get me to come to one of his parties since sophomore year, when I let it slip that I’d never been drunk. We’ve had so many classes together since freshman year, and we’re always on opposite ends of class debates. Sometimes I think he does it on purpose, just to piss me off. Despite all his bad behavior outside the classroom, he still manages to maintain a decent GPA, he has to. It’s a requirement to be involved in athletics. All athletes must maintain a GPA of 3.5 or higher to participate in their sport. That’s another reason he makes me angry, he barely tries, and still manages to get good grades, and the professors like him. He’s so charming and smooth-talking he can win over even the strictest of professors. It’s infuriating. 

But the most infuriating thing about him is how attractive he is. He has shaggy brown hair and blue eyes. His limbs are long and slender, yet toned. But not too buff. And he’s tall, well, taller than me. He has good style and he’s confident, which makes him even hotter. It’s so hard to hate him when he constantly looks like that. I mean, I guess I don’t hate him. He’s just my rival, and I don’t like that– having a rival, I mean. I like to be the best all the time. In academics, in my sport, even in my hobbies (thankfully, I don’t think Chris has an interest in crocheting, so we won’t be rivals in that field any time soon). Chris likes to be the best too, and that’s why we don’t get along.

Now, our senior season is just about to start. Chris and I are both captains of our respective sports teams, we’re both captains in the Model UN (often leading to some very heated debates that leave the other club members silent), and we’re in the same senior seminar for our Biology major. On top of all that, we’re now expected to share a rink? I call bullshit.

Coach Carter speaks up before Coach Beck can respond to my question, “We’re just going to divide the rink in half and practice in a smaller space. We’re trying to be as fair as possible here. We’re also going to get the full rink on Saturday mornings, and the figure skating team will no longer have Saturday practice.” 

“What?!” I shout, “How is that fair?! Coach Beck, we need Saturday!” This earns another smartass laugh from Chris and I scowl at him again.

“Clearly she agreed to it, Y/n. I’m sure you can book extra individual hours after we’re done practicing. We all know you love to work overtime,” Chris says with an eye roll, and a few of his teammates snicker. 

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I ask, and Chris just shrugs in my direction with a grin. God, he is insufferable.

“Okayyy,” Coach Beck says in an attempt to diffuse the obvious tension between me and Chris, “Y/n, unfortunately, this is just the way it has to be.”

“But it’s not fair. This is a lot of our senior seasons. I’m sure all of us seniors want this season to be our best.” 

“We can miss out on Saturday practice this year, and share the rink, and still have the best season of your four years,” Coach Beck says. She’s trying to be encouraging, but I can tell she’s a little pissed off too.

“Life isn’t fair sweetheart,” Coach Carter adds. I blush in embarrassment and lower my gaze. 

–

Later that night, after our first shared practice, I’m collecting my things to make the trek back to my apartment when I see Chris approaching next to me. 

He taps me on the shoulder and I turn to face him. “Hey,” he says.

“Hi?”

“I just came to see how you were feeling. You know, now that we’re gonna see each other multiple times a day, almost every day. Class, Model UN, and now sharing the rink with me? You must be thrilled!” He quips, and I just want to wipe that smug grin off his face.

“Yup. I’m ecstatic!” I say, rolling my eyes. “Just more time to show everyone how easily I can wipe the floor with you.” 

“Wipe the floor with me?” he asks, “How will you be able to do that here? We’re on different teams. Maybe seeing me in action will finally show you that I’m just as talented as you are.”

I stay quiet, not really knowing how to respond. He’s right, but there’s no way in hell I’m about to admit it to him. It doesn’t matter that I don’t say anything though, because he sees right through me. He always has.

“Aw, Y/n,” he smiles, “Life isn’t fair, remember?” He slowly backs up, giving me a two-finger salute before walking away. When I turn back around, I’m alone in the rink.

---

chapter one in the books. i lowkey love it ngl. i can't wait to write more. let me know what you think!

[lemonfreshlysqueezed]

Biting is a love language!

- Part 3

Cuz we’re still not done :)

Link to part 1 and 2

Kiseki: dear to me!

Bai Zong Yi x Fan Ze Rui (episode 8)

Gifs by @tachineko

Chen yi x Ai de

Gif by @my-rose-tinted-glasses

Gif by @zhaozi

Kissable lips

Kim Jun Ho x Choi Min Hyun

Gifs by @smittenskitten

Hidden Agenda

Zo x Joke (Episode 8)

Gifs by @khaotungsfirst

Moonlight Chicken

Jim x Wen (Episode 1 and 8)

Gifs by @maxescheibechlinichacheli

[sonicexelle-junkary]

Have you ever decided to start making something and you soon realize you put yourself way over your head?

Think I just did that to myself…

[uslv]

Fix Me

Tommy Shelby × Female OC

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs: 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛𝑡 𝑓𝑜𝑙𝑙𝑜𝑤 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑎𝑘𝑦 𝑏𝑙𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑝𝑙𝑜𝑡, 𝑚𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡

A/N: Mini series ! Not sure how many parts yet tho. Like my last post this is also an old work of mine that never saw the light of day. So finally here it is (⁠｡⁠•̀⁠ᴗ⁠-⁠)⁠✧

1550 words

Part One

The boat swayed as I felt more sea sick by the second.

"Evelyn! We're approaching the land, there will be men who want to go home, be ready!" My father warned as he steared the boat.

I got up leaving my yarn on my bed as I went to prepare all the life jackets. I placed some water to boil if the men wanted some tea.

"Evelyn!" My father yelled out

"Coming father!" I said as I quickly got out.

I took the rope as we reached closer too the dock. There was no one there to catch the rope. I wanted to ask my dad what to do next, but he was old, and i didn't want to bother him. I got on the edge of the boat as I took the jump on the dock, rope in hand. I tied the rope around the stone fence.

"All good!" I yelled out as I tried to get back up on the boat. I slightly struggled but I managed to get back on.

"There aren't any men father." I said as I came closer to him.

"I'm sorry darling what did you say?" My dad asked. "

There aren't any men." I repeated.

"Oh, well, we can wait, maybe someone will come along." My father said as he sat down lost in his own thought.

"Are you sure? It's pretty dangerous, this is war zone." I said tilting my head.

"We won't be long, go rest, you deserve it." He weakly smiled.

I smile back as I headed my way back to my room. I close the door behind me as I just flopped on the bed.

I take my yarn and hook as I continued with crocheting. I lost myself into my own thought as I continued to crochet.

My eye lids feeling heavier after each blink. Each blink becoming longer than the previous one. Soon, I closed my eyes for good.

❜

"Evelyn, it's time for us to go." My dad spoke as he entered my small room.

I slowly blinked as I streached out.

"Coming father." I jawnd as I got up cracking my neck.

I walked out of my room and headed towards the bathroom. I turned on the faucet as drops of water exited. I collected a few drops splashing them on my face. I wet my toothbrush as I quickly brushed my teeth.

I exited the bathroom as I brushed my hair with my hands. I straightened my clothes to look somewhat presentable. I exited seeing my father standing looking at the sea Infront.

"Can you just get the rope off the fence?" My father asked.

"Yes father." I said as I went  to the side of the boat, taking the jump yet again to untie the rope.

I hopped back on the boat walking towards my father.

"All done." I smiled as I sat down.

"Great..." he said under his breath.

He turned the engine on as the boat started moving. I watched the sea splash beneath us getting distracted.

"Evelyn can you prepare some tea for the man." My father spoke.

My head shot up looking at the sea, seeing a man on a destroyed u-boat. I rush to the kitchen putting some water to boil. I take out some dried out thyme putting it in with the water.

I waited for it to warm up, every now and then looking at the sea to see how close we are to the man. I went to my room taking a blanket and heading outside with my dad.

My dad started to slow down as we reached the broken up U-boat. I grab the rope and threw it to the man.

He grabbed onto it as he slowly moved closer to us. He reached the boat as I helped him hop on.

I grab the blanket as he sat down, I coverd him woth the blanket as I hurried to the kitchen to take the tea.

I poured it into a tea cup as I quickly got to the man sitting on our boat. He gladly takes it, his eyes locked on the floor.

"Whos are you?" My father asked.

"Father leave him alone for a bit, let him recollect himself." I told him. I sat down on the opposite side of the man as I looked out in the sea.

"Where are we going?" The man spoke. My dad glanced at me before answering.

"Home soldier, home." My dad answered.

The man nodded as he looked down at his feet, he was shivering. My dad saw the condition he was in, s pout plastered on his face.

"Evelyn, show him to your room. He needs to rest." My dad mumbled. "

Yes father." I smiled as I turned my look to the man.

"Come with me." I politely said. He looked up at me.

Just now I noticed how beautiful his features were. He had icy blue eyes, just as they looked back at me I felt warmth spread over my stomach. He had strong cheekbones with scars on them, and a hard jawline where you could see he clenched his teeth.

I melted into his gaze as he stared back at me. It felt like an eternity. He moved in his seat making me break the eye contact. I helped him get taking the drinked cup of tea out of his hands

I place the tea cup on the kitchen counter as I led him to my room.

I opened the door as he just flops on the bed. I stood there looking at him, trying to figure out a way to help him. I noticed his boots and trousers were drenched, wetting the bed underneath.

"Can I take your boots off? So you don't catch a cold." I asked him placing my hands on his boots.

He weakly nodded as I softly smiled. I untied his boots, loosening them up a bit before pulling them off his feet.

He had thin gray socks on, with holes in the guaranteed to get him sick.

"Your socks are all teared up. I'll crochet you a nice thick pair, these are too thin for this winter." I chuckled trying to lighten the mood. He stayed quiet.

"I'll put your boots to dry, you can rest here a bit." I smiled as I went to exit the room, his boots in hand.

"Oh, if you want more tea just yell out." I smiled just before I closed the door.

He didn't even look at me, I don't think he even heard a thing I said. Poor guy. Imagine what he went thru.

I took one of his boots measuring the sole with my hand. I took the exact mesurments of the boots, its better for the socks to be too big than too small.

I took my yarn and crochet hook, immediately starting on with crocheting his pair of socks. I lost myself in my own thought as I continued to crochet. I knew the pattern pretty well so I didn't need to think much about it. It was getting late, and we were all hungry for dinner.

I placed down my yarn as I headed towards the small kitchen to prepare the dinner. I had some potatoes which I mashed, along with the cooked lamb meat we brought.

I heated everything up and placed the food on three plates. I gave a part of my portion to the third plate, he needed it more even tho I was starving. I placed the food along with the utensils on the table

"Evelyn, I don't think he'll be willing to eat with us. Bring the food to him." My dad suggested.

I slightly pouted but he was right. I grabed his plate along with a slice of bread and his utensils. I knocked on his door with my elbow, waiting for him to answer.

"Dinners ready." I spoke. Still no answer. I quietly opened the door to see if he's sleeping. He wasn't. He didn't even move since the last time I saw him. He was just blankly looking at the ceiling.

"I've got dinner, if you want you can eat with us." I softly spoke. He slowly blinked, not answering my question.

"Well here you go, we'll probably be home tomorrow night. Just so you know." I spoke as I placed the food on the bedside table.

"Sleep well." I spoke as I exited his room. I sighed, I felt so bad for him. I walked towards the table where my dad was already feasting.

"How is he?" My dada asked his mouth full.

"He doesn't want to talk. I feel really bad about him." I gently spoke looking down at my food. I had no appetite.

"That's just how war is." My dad spoke.

I sighed as I took my fork and took a small piece of the mashed potatoes, putting it in my mouth.

My thoughts cricled as I ate. I didn't finish my food, I placed it in the freezer for tomorrow. I just too my yarn and started crocheting the pair of socks for him. It's the least I could do.

[winterfireice]

Trauma candy salads have taken over my TikTok and I can’t stop thinking about how the naturals characters would have so much content

[creative-caramel-coffee]

The Bear || Chapter 1

Pairings: Wanda x R || avengers (platonic) x R

Word count: 3.3K

TW: alcohol, underaged drinking (mentioned)

Summary: You join your uncle tony in the avengers, it wasn’t your original plan but you never planned for your powers either so here you are. Now your at the avengers tower and falling for the girl of your dreams. With a haunting past and interesting abilities can you navigate your way through the challenges of being a hero? After a mission gone wrong and a cruel twist of fate the team starts digging for answers. Can tony keep them from finding out the truth?

A/n Whats this a series??? Insane right??? Also this is my longest posted fic yet :)

PART 1 || PART 2 || PART 3 || PART 4 || PART 5 || PART 6 || PART 7

“Uncle Tony do we have to do this? I mean I’m not even that special.” You grumbled from the backseat.

“Yeah sure L/n because everyone can shapeshift and teleport”

“Yeah but that doesn’t mean I can fight.” You shot back

“You can turn into a literal bear if you want of we both know you can fight. With the right training.” He rolled his eyes.

“Are you sure. I mean I can take myself back right now.”

“No we’re five minutes away now just sit tight and look out the window or something.”

“Whatever” you grumbled pulling out your phone and mindlessly scrolling through instagram. After what felt more like five seconds happy pulled up and stopped the car opening the door for tony as you opened your own door and got out muttering something about being too rich for door handles. You stretched and popped your back making tony wince at the sound he hated.

“Let’s go glow stick enough trying to light up by breaking your back. I’ll take you to your room before I have you meet the team.” You dragged your feet as you followed him into the foyer of the avengers tower and watched as he pressed the button for the right floor.

“You Wanda and Natasha will be sharing a floor.”

“That’s the black widow and scarlet witch right?” You asked not being one to follow the news much.

“Yep. The redheads.” He winked knowing you were gay. You hid a blush and shoved him.

“Shut up uncle tones” you grinned. The lift pinged and tony began walking you down the hall. “This rooms Natasha this one’s Wanda’s” he said gesturing loosely at the closed doors. “And this one’s yours. I trust you can-“

“Get my own bags? sure pops.” You winked and with a small pop you vanished. Tony groaned hating when you did that.

He slumped slightly in the hall. “Jarvis please keep me updated on her position in the tower and alert me if she goes anywhere near the lab.” He grumbled. Nat’s door opened and she poked her head out frowning at tony.

“Tony what are you doing? Who are you talking to?”

“I was- never-mind I’ll explain at the meeting.” He said waving a hand and going back to the lift. Nat shrugged retreating back into her room.

With a pop you arrived back at the car and opened the boot pulling out your backpack and two suitcases before holding them all and teleporting you and your things back to your new room.

With a sigh you began unpacking knowing no matter how much you may avoid to you had to go back across the country to get the rest of your things. You stood, taking a deep breath and preparing for the long jump before disappearing with a pop.

Your head spun as you reappeared in your bedroom back home, hundred of miles away from the tower. You stumbled grabbing your box of art supplies you didn’t want to risk damaging on the long car trip. Sucking in another deep breath you teleported back. The dizziness was much worse now. Two big jumps without rest in close succession wasn’t good for you. Before you could fall over you set down the box on the floor and passed out onto the bed with a loud crash.

A few moments later Natasha entered the room looking at your unconscious form and bags around the room and frowning.

“What the hell” she muttered “Jarvis?”

“Yes Ms Romanoff.”

“Who is this?”

” Ms Y/n l/n is the niece of Tony stark.”

“Alright and what is she doing here?”

“Ms l/n’s uses to the avengers will be great thanks to her-“

“alright Jarvis that’s enough” tony said walking in the door after receiving an alert that his niece had passed out.

“Yes yes she’s my niece.”

“Tony she can’t-“

“Can’t be here. Sure she can, she’s here isn’t she? Pass me that backpack Romanoff”

He said gesturing to your small backpack by the desk. Natasha frowned and picked it up shoving it into Tony’s chest.

“Less attitude Romanoff” he grumbled.

“Whatever.” She rolled her eyes. “What did Jarvis mean she has great value to the avengers?”

“Ask her yourself” he said pulling a small vile and a pack of gum from the front pocket. He broke the vial open and waved it under your nose. Your eyes screwed shut.

“Tony what the hell is going on?” Nat asked

You screwed up your face. “Tony” you whined “why couldn’t you let me sleep it off like normal” you whined eyes still shut.

“Sleep what off tony? what’s going on?” nat asked again.

Tony pulled a strip of gum from the pack and unwrapped it shoving it in your mouth.

“Chew. And I woke you up because you can’t meet the team if you’re unconscious idiot” he grumbled.

“Whatever. And those are for emergencies only.”

“Whatever i live with you now I’ll just make you more. Or make Bruce make you more.” He grumbled.

You cracked an eye open finally noticing nat who was stood watching unamused.

“Oh hi.” You said

“Hi?” Nat said sounding unsure.

“I’ll leave you two to it then.” Tony said winking at you and leaving before you could protest.

“Let’s try that again shall we?” You said standing up and brushing invisible dust from your clothes and extending a hand. “Pleasure to meet you, I’m Y/n, Y/n L/n” you said. Nat took your hand raising an eyebrow at your last name being different to Stark’s.

“Natasha but you can call me Nat.” She said her grip was firm and you could feel the callus’s of long days spent training on her palms.

“Well not the best first impression.” You chuckled putting the vile and pack of gum back into your backpack.

“What is that stuff?” Nat said raising a brow.

“Oh uncle tony makes it. Its energy gum a special type he made for me so i can recharge the battery after long jumps.” You said and Nat had about a thousand more questions.

“Long jumps?” She asked.

“Oh he didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what?”

“This.” You said disappearing with a pop and appearing behind her tapping her shoulder. Nat spun around.

“Super speed?” She asked.

“Nope.” You said popping the p. “Teleportation. And..” nat blinked and suddenly a bunny was sat by her feet.

“Shapeshifitng?” She said sounding impressed. With a pop you stood before her again.

“Yep” you smiled.

“Alright ill admit that’s pretty cool.”

“Yeah. Well I’m sure you have important things to do before the meeting this afternoon. Tony wants to introduce me to the team and i need to unpack.” You said wiping your hands on your paint stained jeans one of your nervous habits.

“Yeah. Well I’ll see you around L/n” she smiled and patted your shoulder before leaving and closing the door softly.

The day went quickly as you unpacked. The meeting was smooth with the team impressed and curious about your powers. You must have answered a hundred questions before tony stepped in. You shifted to about six different animals and teleported to get them all ice-cream from downtown as proof and just like that they all loved you. Apparently ice cream was a weak point for the group of earths mightiest hero’s. After the meeting was over you couldn’t help the fact your eyes lingered after the goddess you had come to know as Wanda. She was just so perfect. Her hips swished slightly as she walked away and you had to stop yourself from drooling. A crush was forming just like that. But you knew you had to pace yourself. You had plenty of people end things with you for being “too much” and you didn’t want another heartbreak.

As you walked back to your room you smiled to yourself. You grabbed your backpack and sketchbook and walked down to the grounds. Picking a tree and sitting under it. You opened your back and buried your nose in your sketchbook. So for the next few hours you sat trying to capture every last detail your brain could remember about Wanda’s face. After a few hours you had a beautiful drawing of the redhead and you smiled shutting. Putting on the finishing details you were so wrapped up in it you didn’t hear the footsteps approach until the person spoke to you.

“I was wondering where you had run off to.” Nat said sitting beside you. You quickly slammed the book shut but not before nat saw the picture. She grinned and raised a brow.

“Your an amazing artist.” She said and you flushed.

“Please don’t tell anyone.” You said.

“What that your a good artist?” She said grinning coyly

“No. About the drawing. You weren’t suppose to see that.” You said still bright red you slipped the sketchbook back into your backpack.

“My lips are sealed.” She said. “But before i say anything else. She single.” Nat winked before getting up and turning to leave.

“Nat?” You said and she turned around again.

“Yes?”

“Did you come to tell me something or just tease me?”

“Oh lunch is ready Wanda made a bit of a fancy meal for your arrival. Something tells me she likes you.” Nat winked and started to walk off. You hid your face in your hands. Grabbing your backpack before teleporting back to your room and dropping your bag on the bed before teleporting to the hall by the kitchen and strolling in.

“Something smells good.” You said and Wanda looked up and smiled.

“I just sent nat to get you.” She smiled. And you grinned as Nat walked in.

“Looks who’s here.” Wanda said pointing the spatula at you and smiling. Nat frowned at your cheeky grin.

“Must be a sixth sense” you said and winked at nat.

“Or you just teleported.” Tony said walking in and Wanda burst out laughing.

“Your no fun tones.” You fake glared at him.

“Bite me bear.” He said. Using your playful nickname for you. He loved bears and you often turned into one for him when he was drunk and sad so it became a name for you. Of course nobody would ever know that the great tony stark was cheered up by riding a big fluffy brown bear around his backyard in his late twenties. He couldn’t count the number of times he fell asleep running his hands through the fur of a sleeping bear cub in his lap. You brought him a comfort only family did. One he had failed to receive for years after his parent, your grandparents died. One you had also lost when your mother and father died also.

Wandas calls for lunch broke you from your thoughts as the boys all tumbled into the kitchen. You were introduce to the two girls you hadn’t seen before. Just getting back from their mission you learnt the blonde was Yelena, Natasha’s sister and Kate was Clint’s protege. You sat down feeling that maybe your family had grown a bit bigger. And maybe this wouldn’t be so bad after all.

“Just a reminder your party is tonight to welcome you to the avengers.” Tony said slapping your back as he walked past to get his morning coffee.

“I heard the great tony Stark’s parties aren’t the same as they used to be. Hope I’m not disappointed.” You grinned taking another swig of your coffee.

Tony grumbled something about being domestic and you chuckled before going to your room to get ready for training.

It was about five when you finally decided on an outfit. The party starts at 7 so you had plenty of time. You had decided on a small sleek black dress that hugged all the right places. Sure you would have preferred a suit but you didn’t feel much like making a stir at your first party. After laying out the outfit you yawned not used to being awake so early in the mornings. Deciding you could take a quick nap you curled up and shut your eyes.

Incessant knocking woke you up with a start.

“Y/N the party started twenty minutes ago get your butt downstairs. Come on your making me look bad” Tony yelled with an almost whine in his voice and you jumped up. Fixing your hair into a fancy up-do and throwing on the dress and some makeup.

As you stepped into the room you realised it was one of Tony’s more calm parties. The avengers were sat around a table drinking and you grabbed yourself a martini before going to sit beside Natasha.

“Your going soft tones.” You grinned and he shot you a glare.

“Am not.”

“Its alright i kinda like domestic you.” You took a long swig from your drink feeling the alcohol go straight to your head.

“So y/n why do you call tony tones?” Wanda asked and you grinned lopsidedly as tony groaned knowing what was to come.

“Well witchy.” You grinned as you watched Wanda fight down a blush. “When my parents so kindly died.” Maybe the alcohol was doing a bit more than you thought. You missed the look of shock on the avengers faces as you continued. “Mr stark here.” You gestured loosely to him “adopted me. I was about sixteen and tones being the fun uncle let me go to his parties. When i was seventeen we were all hanging out, me and Tony’s street scum friends were drinking.”

“You let her drink at 17!!” Nat yelled and you shrugged.

“No point being rich if you don’t break a few laws I guess.” You grinned as tony covered his face with his fingers. “Tonys parties were a lot more wild back then and we had a little family legend me and the street scum.” You said affectionately. “They were my family. Anyways the legend was that if you got tony drunk enough his tone deafness goes away and his awful catawalling turns into the most angelic singing ever. So one night we tested it out and secured some strong liquor. I wont say if it was true or not but tony woke up in Mississippi with a hangover and no clothes.” You grinned and the avengers all started laughing.

“And where did you wake up y/n?” Nat said narrowing her eyes jokingly.

you blushed “w-well thats not important.” Tony seeing his chance to get back at you took it with a grin. “She woke up in Massachusetts with a hangover and a piercing.” You groaned.

“Where?” Wanda asked her curiosity peaking.

“Right here.” You said tapping the helix piercing you always loved but never had the confidence to get without the help of alcohol. “And before tony can convince you otherwise i alway wanted one so its not like i woke up with a piercing elsewhere.” You said pointing tony a sharp look. Tony choked on his drink. “Alright” tony said clapping his hands “change of subject.” And you burst out laughing knowing his piercing was rather … intimate.

“Oh i have plenty more stories of party animal tones over there.” You said tilting your drink in his direction “but I’m not nearly drunk enough yet for that.” You grinned taking a long sip.

“And you wont be tonight.” Nat said taking your drink from you carefully and setting it on the table “this isn’t that kind of party.” She smiled seeing you frown.

“Boring.” You yawned and slumped down the couch.

“So how did you get your powers if you don’t mind me asking?” Clint said eyeing your reaction closely.

“Oh you know, the usual.” You waved your hand dismissively dodging the question and changing topics. Nat and Clint exchanged looks not missing the way your shoulders hand tensed at the topic. Tony shot Clint a dark look telling him to drop it.

The night went well as you and the avengers chatted and shared stories. Nat was careful not to let you drink too much to keep you from embarrassing yourself on your first night. Taking it off you ever twenty minutes for a break. You let her for the most part. After about three hours the team was getting tired and you were mildly drunk despite Nat’s best efforts.

“Come on hot stuff i think its time i take you to bed.” Nat said playfully and your eyes widened. “Not like that.” She scoffed slapping your arm lightly.

“Goodnight everyone I’m taking this one to bed now.” Nat said jabbing a thumb at you and helping you to your feet as you swayed. Nat grumbled not ready for you to get a head injury walking back to your room she scooped you up with little effort. You squeaked slightly and threw you arms around her neck as she carried you bridal style into the elevator. Nat helped you back to your room handing you some of you pyjamas she found in a drawer she smiled at the matching snoopy pj shirt and fluffy pants. Handing them to you she turned her back as you changed. After the shuffling stopped she asked if you were done turning to find your shirt on backwards and a dopy grin on your face. Nat sighed. Turning your T-shirt around by guiding your arms back inside before helping you into bed. You looked adorable in your pjs and she helped take out your hair pins and used a wipe to clean off your makeup. After you were ready she placed a motherly kiss on your forehead and tucked you in. She sat with you until your soft snores filled the room and before she slipped out she put a bottle of pain meds and a glass of water on your bedside. She padded quietly down the hall to her room and slipped out of her fancy clothes changing quickly before getting into her own bed.

You were a puzzle, one she was determined to figure out. When she had heard you had lost your parents she felt almost a primal protection spark in her heart for you. It was almost maternal in nature as despite being almost 22 nat wanted nothing more than to mother you like a child. And it scared her. Yet she couldn’t seem to resist the urge to care for you. She thought you were sweet and she wanted to protect you.

Wanda however had different feelings. Since she had first laid eyes on you she was wrapped around your finger. You were perfect in her eyes. And the night of the party she was awake until the early hours thinking of every moment in great depth all over from the way the dress held you tight in all the right places to the way your grin became lopsided when you drank. All down to how nat had left with you in her arms and a feeling of jealousy sparked in her heart. She knew she had nothing to worry about. Nat was like a mother to all the younger avengers. Peter, Yelena and Kate were basically babied by her all the time. And she saw the love in her eyes for you the moment she met you. She knew you held a special place in Nat’s heart already but she couldn’t help but feel it should have been her who helped you to bed and cared for you. But she didn’t want to scare you away. She couldn’t live with herself if she blew her chance before it really even began.

MASTERLIST

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Chapter 22

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: there might be some spelling errors here and there which I’m sorry about—I’ll try and remember to check through in the morning <3

word count: 7,866

-Part 21- -Part 23-

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

More than once, you find your feet leading you in the direction of Bas’ house, but you always turn before you can reach his street. 

A few days ago you’d thought it would take a fortnight for the transition between autumn and winter to truly become apparent. You were wrong. 

There’s no way you could mistake it for anything else, with the way breath now huffs from chapped, rosey mouths like ancient, angry beasts prowling across an early morning moor; how now when you step outside and leave the warmth of the heating enchantments the cold nips at your throat, splashing ice into your lungs, encasing your arched ears in snow-kissed winds; how even without much sense left in your hands you can feel as your blood recoils from the temperature, scrambling back to be closer inside your body and abandoning your limbs for the sake of comfort. Useless body. If you were instead one of the massive bears kept in the Winter Court with thick coats and dense, padded bodies this would be much more bearable. 

As it is, you have to settle for keeping a brisk pace and wrapping yourself in an uncomfortable amount of layers. Layers that wrinkle too easily beneath one another and store sweat in their fibres. It’s always a relief to be once again indoors so you can shed the many skins. Especially when so much of the cosier cloaks are inlined with fur. You try not to let it bother you but as soon as that particular smell of leather creeps in, or meat with a little too much preserving salt…

Winter’s gotten a little easier. You can appreciate some of its beauty now it’s less likely to kill you. Its glittering exquisite. 

“What about this?” Elain gestures to a folded quilt that’s laid out amongst other similar items: bedsheets, pillowcases, towels, flannels, cloths. The quilt is a patchwork of small squares about the size of your open palm, each one different in pattern but similar in colour—pinks, pale pinks, whites, creams, oranges, pale oranges, a glitter of egg-yolk yellow. Around the hem hangs a slight frill made up of white lace. On its underside shows the padding designed for comfort, perfect for maintaining heat and being a cozy blanket to nestle under. 

An image passes through your mind then of all four of your crammed into that tiny bed, stuffed beneath a blanket like this in the depths of winter. Fingers so cold they felt like ice, cold enough to wake you from your sleep if a bare foot grazed your calf. Nesta and Feyre would usually be on the outside during the colder months, rarely taking place in the cozy, warm centre. You and Elain ever the middle children. 

A second image forms soon after, except instead of being set in an alternate past seems to fit more with a branch of the future: all four of you stuffed on the long sofa in the River House’s living room, the fire crackling behind its muffler but Nesta still on the furthest side. Some of you would be reading, Nyx might be cuddled beneath the quilt, close to Feyre’s chest, and maybe you might be stitching something together or sewing a pattern onto the sleeve of Elain’s top. Nyx would probably be briefly fascinated by the lace frill. Then if it was interesting enough he might try to eat it. 

You zone back in when you realise Elain’s looking to you for an answer. You wince, wanting to pull back into yourself and hide in your skeleton, sit on one of your own ribs, arms hung over an upper one. “I really… It’s lovely, but the bedroom I have is fine. We don’t need to find replacement stuff.” 

Elain seems a little crestfallen but quickly blinks it away, already turning her head to scour for something else that might take your interest. “Are you sure? It looks so warm,” Feyre pipes up, inspecting the little patterns of the squares. “I can imagine you all wrapped up in this, tucked away into a chair with a book heavy enough to break someone’s foot.” 

“I’m sure,” you assure her. “Really, the bedroom in your house is more than enough. I’m not sure I even wear half the clothes in the wardrobe—I’m fine.” 

After the news had been announced, tears had been shed, and you’d all spent the night on that sofa too afraid to let go of one another, Nesta had been the one to suggest fixing up the House of Wind again. It had been patched up after the initial explosion, but Nesta had suggested making it somewhere nice, reasoning all of the furniture had been destroyed anyway, so your room would be in need of some redecorating anyway. ‘Besides,’ Nesta had pointed out the following morning, ‘It’s mine. I can do what I like with it.’ And spend Rhys’ money while doing it, had gone unsaid, but after Nyx’s birth at least some of their aggression seemed to have boiled off. 

“This just seems like too much,” you admit while walking at Feyre’s side, Nesta strolling along the far side of the street while Elain’s already begun appraising a new set of pale green pillowcases. “You don’t have long,” Feyre murmurs in reply, her voice straining toward the end, “six months will fly by.” 

“I don’t mind,” you whisper absently. “My room’s fine as it is. We don’t need to redecorate the entire House of Wind.” 

Feyre falls silent, feet tapping in time together along the icy cobbles. Then her arm is tentatively slipping beneath your own, gently linking at the elbow, careful not to cause any aches in your flesh. You squeeze her faintly, bodies pressing closer in the cold, arms locked to try and keep up warmth while walking through the city. 

You glance up at the clock tower constructed at one end of the main square. It reads midday. Elain will be leaving for the human lands in a little under an hour and none of you have yet had lunch. Feyre follows your gaze, reading the time. “She won’t be gone for long, remember?” Feyre assures quietly. “She’ll be back before night.” 

You blink, turning to face your younger sister, “Oh, no, I wasn’t thinking…” You flush, averting your eyes as you pull your arm from Feyre’s, “I’m not that clingy.” It comes out sounding more defensive than you’d thought it would, the tug of your arm rougher than you’d anticipated, but you speed your pace regardless, crossing the street to instead join Nesta. She’s looking into the window of a large bookshop, her sharp eyes picking out titles even through the warped and rippling glass panes. 

Nesta reads even more than you do, which is saying something. You’re not sure you could even read a romance book anymore. Not without a piercing sense of loss pinned through your heart. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Nesta muses, pulling from your thoughts, standing straighter as if she’s considering entering the shop, “of having a meal up at the House of Wind. Would you come?” You blink, looking over to her inquisitively, “Just…a meal?” 

“I was thinking of bringing Emerie and Gwyn to it, too. None of you have met one another.” Nesta turns back to the window, though she doesn’t seem to be looking at the books anymore. “Elain and Feyre would be there, too.” 

“For sometime near solecist?” 

“That could work.” 

You pull a part of your lower lip into your mouth, nipping at the interior. “Have you thought of a present for Feyre this year?” You ask, still being without a gift. It’s still about two months away, but…time has a habit of slipping through your fingers. Silverish eyes slide sidewards to you, and you glance at her questioningly. Nesta looks back into the window, “I think the plan is to all do something together. Elain seems to think that’s what Feyre wants.”

“Do you think she does?” 

“Probably,” Nesta replies. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“Won’t that ruin the surprise?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to know what she wants so we don’t do something she won’t enjoy?” 

You purse your lips. “Elain can ask.” 

Nesta seems to decide she’s done with the bookshop, turning her body to move on ahead and you follow quietly. “So, about the meal?” She reminds, and you swallow but manage a short nod of your head. “It sounds nice.” Your lips part, throat flexing in preparation to add on, I’d like to meet them, but something stops you and then the moment has passed. Nesta seems satisfied enough with your answer. 

Had she also mentioned Elain and Feyre intentionally when bringing up the dinner? 

You worry your lower lip. It’s been nice spending time with them again. Being on the sofa. Feeling bones press together. Hair sliding over shoulders. But has it been too much for them? Feyre has a husband and a baby and a court. Nesta has Cassian and her own life. Elain…is who you’d usually spend time with, but she’s leaving to visit Lucien. 

Bas is leaving too, soon. 

Maybe you should be returning to the House of Wind on your own instead of making them take you there and pad the way. You’re not ready to go back. Maybe you should just lock yourself up in the Prison. But that’s a stupid thought, one that’s not going to help you. Why try and make things worse for yourself? 

Your stomach grumbles and you flush, putting your hand over it in attempts to quiet the noise. 

It’s about time for lunch, anyway. 

————

“You haven’t been up to the House since, right?” 

You startle, spinning around as your hand recoils from the door handle, chest rising and falling so rapidly that saliva gets caught in your throat and you have to cough into the crook of your arm. At least you didn’t eat too much over supper, or you might have been worried about being sick.

Azriel stands silently in the hallway a little distance away, his eyes vaguely alarmed at your abrupt reaction. He clears his throat. “Sorry. I thought you’d heard me.” 

“It’s fine,” you excuse, coughing once more before lowering your arm, going to straighten your skirts before a rush of something shy flutters through your chest and your hands instead join at your front. “You’re just…very quiet.” 

Azriel hums, and you shift on your feet. You’ve been spending so much of your free time with your sisters that you haven’t really seen anyone but them over the past two days. Well, aside from Madja, who you’re still seeing every morning at ten o’clock, much to your relief. You lick your lips, finding them chapped and dry. “So…was there something you wanted?” 

Azriel nods his head once. “Not exactly. I was thinking it would be a good idea for you to readjust yourself to the dimensions of the House, since Nesta’s told me you’re redecorating.” You flush, eyes dipping away, once again shifting on your feet. “Well, it’s more her idea…” you hedge, “since…you know, it’s hers now…?” 

“I know. But you’ll be wanting new furniture,” he reasons. “The walls had to be realigned so your room will be wider once it’s complete.” 

“Once it’s complete?” 

He nods his head. “You blew it up, remember?”

The flush deepens and you take a subconscious step back towards your room. You hadn’t meant to wreck the House, even if it was only your room that was really ruined. “I just meant…you mentioned walls needing to be realigned, so I was wondering whether they’ve yet been…” 

Azriel nods his head. “They have.” 

A beat passes. “So, are you coming?” 

You look up, surprised. “Hm? Where?”

His eyes narrow. “To the House. Is your head okay?” 

“Fine.” Your brows furrow. “Fine.” 

“No headaches?” He pushes, hazel eyes scanning swiftly over your body in a painfully analytic fashion. “No bouts of forgetfulness? Brain fog?” 

“No. No, I’m fine. None of that,” you assure, glancing down to the hardwood floor, a small part of you still stumbling at his attention. But it’s all good and fine noticing a problem once it’s obvious. “Besides,” you add, “I’m sure Madja would have picked that out by now…” Right? Madja’s been nothing but dependant as company. Competent and kind, so gentle with your skin and flesh and mind. 

Azriel seems to disagree, his head tilting slightly and you wonder if it’s a movement he’s showing intentionally or whether it’s simply something he’s learned to do when around other people after having every reaction trained out of him. “You’re only seeing her for about twenty minutes each day. It’s easy to miss some things.” 

“Yes, but isn’t she…? It’s Madja. Isn’t she supposed to be…I don’t know, one of the best healers in Velaris?” Isn’t she? Arrogance aside, wouldn’t it make sense Rhys would only want someone he could trust around during Feyre’s birthing? Madja must have proven herself to be reliable hundreds of times to be trusted enough to work so high up. Azriel nods his head, confirming your inner thoughts, “Probably in all of the Night Court.” 

“So, she would know if something was wrong.”

“There’s no harm in double checking.” 

You swallow, eyes awkwardly scanning him and the hallway, too nervous to look at him properly. “Well,” you say, once more clearing your throat, “I think I’m fine.” 

Azriel nods his head. “Shall we go?” 

You brows furrow deeply. “Where?” 

“To the House of Wind,” he says, stepping forward as if to reach for you, “Did you forget already?”

Your nostrils flare, lips curving at their edges. “I’m messing with you, Azriel.” 

His hand pauses in mid air, then it retracts and he stands straighter again, a look of faint displeasure held between his brows, “You shouldn’t joke like that.” Tension coils in your chest, and you look away from him, lips pursing, “life’s dismal enough as it is. I’ll joke about what I want to.” Azriel sighs, taking a step back to where he’d originally been standing, reinstating that cold distance between you that has your heart stretching thin. 

“Joke about what you like, but keep that humour away from your sisters. They’ll be going through a lot, right now.” 

You look at him then, arms lightly folded across your chest. “Will they?” You ask, tension coiling tighter. “Yes. I’m sure they’ll be finding it the most difficult right now.” Azriel’s chest expands, then he’s blowing out a harsh breath, “you know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“You know you could have said it better.” 

Quiet hangs in the air, then your throat is rolling, fight disintegrating when he makes no move to respond, shame at your snappiness creeping to your surface; disappointment he didn’t attempt to amend the exchange. Just one sentence would have been okay. You’re past pretending like you’d demand a lot from him. A few words and forgiveness would fall from your lips in a desperate spill, hungry for his care. 

Your lips press together. “Shall we go, then?” 

Azriel had flown you up—he hadn’t wanted you to winnow. You hadn’t thought much of the House since you’d been staying in Feyre’s home, but now you’re back and the smell is wrapping around you and it feels like you never left. It’s after a family dinner, you’re not yet obviously ill, warmth from Bas’ palms lingers on your hips and you’re still on good terms, Mor’s offered to take you out into Velaris and you never wrote back to Eris. You never told Azriel how you felt, and you still speak regularly in the library, your heart fluttering every time your eyes would meet, and you still think you’re in with a chance of keeping his attention. 

They hadn’t felt good at the time—they hadn’t felt enough—but you’d take them back in a heartbeat if you could. 

The two of you walk in silence down the hallways that lead to your old room, but when you reach for the handle you almost pause, able to feel the weight of Azriel’s attention on you and for a truly awful moment you worry they’re all inside, your room already done up, money already wasted on you, and you’ll have to pretend some kind of gratitude for the debt. But you cast the thought away, because that’s ridiculous—you’d been out with your sisters just this morning. 

You’d been unfair to Feyre. Short-tempered. Intentionally choosing to keep misunderstanding her. And then you’d done the same with Nesta, pushing your emotions onto them. 

Maybe it would be better for you to return up here again, so you’re away from them. Isolated, so your foul moods don’t bleed onto them. So they can stay happy, and you can deteriorate without having to feel bad about your inner necrosis. So they don’t see the way you’ll fall apart over these last six months. 

The handle twists in your palm and the door swings open. 

Azriel was right about the walls—they’re further apart than they used to be, your room suddenly a few inches wider, enough to disorientate you. But that’s not it. 

Your hand falls away from the handle, breathing shallow and deathly as you step back into the room. A small bed has been pushed where the old one used to lie, a similar looking desk up against the wall, a wardrobe near the windows, all resembling their previous pieces but so clearly different. Emptier. 

Your stomach drops, and the ground falls out from beneath your feet. 

“Where-” Your throat strangles the words in your mouth. Warping them to a hoarse rasp. “Where are my things?” 

You hadn’t thought about it. You’d put it out of your mind. Made sure to lock it up tight in a box along with the rest of the mess because you’d fall apart time and time again if you could think about it. But if the furniture was obliterated, and the walls destroyed… 

“They were blown apart, too.” 

The far end of the room stretches, distancing itself further and further from you as the walls either side become narrower, the floor beneath your feet groaning as if it’ll give any second. All of it’s gone? Everything? Everything?

You walk over to the desk, fingers tracing the surface, lips stitched shut. A painting had once sat there…greens, and golds, and falling stars. A romance book sat in solitary on an upper shelf. A bookmark with silver thread. A pendant with a small map contained inside. 

Your feet carry you to the wardrobe. There’s no smile drawn into the dust on the mirror. No lipstick, nor nail polish. The jigsaw you never touched, still wrapped in its bow. All of it? All of it’s gone? 

Scared eyes turn to the bed, glancing once to the empty bedside before you’re faintly walking over, lowering to your knees to peer beneath the mattress. Staring into the empty space beneath. Dark and hollow. No box holding your golden solar system. No bags from a shopping trip with Mor. No comfy slippers, and that dress that you’d only worn once, in the shop. The one that had looked nice, and you’d never worn it, too ashamed of yourself. 

“Did the-” The words are sticky, drying your throat together, tongue stuck too the roof of your mouth. “My orrery…?” 

Your heart is pounding and there’s a delicate fire beneath your skin, a cool sweat glossing your flesh. A soft roaring around your ears. You can’t have lost all of it. 

“A couple of things made it,” Azriel says from the doorway. You turn to look at him, the air around him warping and spinning faintly. Shallow and shimmering. Azriel shifts, something about his expression changing that you can’t quite pick out. “Are you feeling alright? You look…” 

“I’m fine,” you whisper, staring at him because it seems too much effort to really move your eyes elsewhere, lids pinned to your brows. A couple of things made it. A couple of things survived. 

Azriel nods his head. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll get them.” He looks like he might says something else, hazel eyes flicking over you, but he keeps his mouth shut and turns, disappearing from the doorframe. 

In his absence a wave of dizziness overcomes you. It’s without nausea, but the room is shifting, your head unable to find a balance to keep your body upright and you end up settling lower to the ground, lying on your side, knees curled to your chest. The room is so empty without any of yourself in it. Is this what Bas’ home will look like once he’s gone? 

Is this what your room will look like, once you’re gone? 

You picture it, the raised bed with the thick duvets, the desk pushed up against the wall to lie beneath the window, the bathroom connected with its cool, pale tiles. The room you and your sisters spent an afternoon and evening contained in, chatting and drinking tea; the room Madja’s tried to heal you in; the room you found out you were going to die in. Will it stop being your room once you’re gone? Will Feyre repurpose it? Keep it as it is? 

A floorboard creaks in the hallway, but you just don’t have the energy to move. Choosing to instead curl tighter, allowing your eyes to close in order to try and contain the hot pressure that’s building behind them. You don’t want to cry. 

Can death come any quicker? 

Footsteps pause on the threshold, and shame tugs on your gut, wanting to scuttle away and hide beneath the dark hollow of the bed. To crawl away to some dark space and be out of everyone’s way, keeping to your own corner far from anyone else. Safe and alone in the darkness. Like a small spider lurking on the top shelf in a wardrobe, just trying to keep out of someone’s way. You could get so far if you had eight legs. If you were as small and nimble as a spider you could go anywhere. 

The mattress stretches as a weight is delivered to it, then a presence is gathering at your back. 

A few seconds pass, then he’s asking quietly, “What are you thinking about?” 

You take time evening your breaths before you answer. “Spiders.” 

“Is there one under there?” Azriel asks, still keeping to that soft, low voice. Your lips tremble, but you open your eyes enough to look into the darkness, peering about for any eight-legged creatures. You shake your head faintly. “What got you thinking about spiders?” He asks next, and you realise his voice is close enough he’s probably sitting behind you. On the floor with you. You try to shrug your shoulders, not wanting to answer, but the movement is stunted from lying on your side. 

“Do you mind them?” He asks. 

“No,” you reply, voice creaking through the quiet. They’d made you uncomfortable at first, when they’d started creeping into your house all those years ago. Spinning their webs on bookshelves and between table legs, down the hinges of doorframes, where the breeze brings in smaller bugs for them to catch. “They’re small.” 

“Even the big ones?” Azriel replies. 

“They don’t hurt anyone.” 

“They look creepy.” 

Your brow furrows, then you’re rolling over on the floor to face him. Sure enough he’s sat a little distance back, arms around his parted knees. “Are you scared of spiders?” 

Azriel’s eyes twinkle. “Not the small ones.” 

You blink, unsure what to make of that. “Then, the big ones?” He hums in a way that might be a yes. It’s hard to pick out what he means by that one, smooth noise. “Which ones?” You ask, watching him quietly. “I know there are large ones in the Summer Court jungles? Arachnids as big as your torso.” 

Azriel smiles. “Those are fine.” 

“But their venom can paralyse you,” you argue softly, brows furrowing. Small ones are fine, small ones can’t hurt you. But the larger ones, those can bite. Those ones can be dangerous. “They’re easy enough to avoid,” Azriel reasons. 

A look of concentration knits itself between your brows, and you push yourself up from the floor, shifting back to lean against the bed. “What court do they come from?” Azriel’s lips curve faintly—he’s not going to tell you. “The continent?” You ask, trying to work around it, but this time he shakes his head. “On Prythian?” He nods. Your eyes narrow, inclining your chin by a singular degree, “how big are they?” 

Azriel pauses, thinking. “Curled up…probably as large as that bed,” he answers, nodding to the bed you’re leaning against. “Splayed out…each joint in a leg was probably around your height.” Your eyes widen in fascination. Then they narrow again, suspicion rising in your mind, “is this creature magical?” His lips don’t smile, but his eyes do, and he nods his head. Your mouth parts, “that’s cheating.” 

“How’s it cheating?” Your mouth opens again but you can’t give an answer, eyes darting about as you think. “You’ve done most of your learning while you’ve been here, haven’t you? We have books on the creatures here. I’m sure you know some of them.” 

“I don’t know of any spiders that big,” you reply with your brows furrowed, frustrated you don’t know the species he’s talking about. Azriel laughs and you avert your eyes, scowling into the floorboards. 

“She’s locked up in the Prison now, anyway,” he says casually, as if that makes it better. You look at him again, “‘she’?” 

He nods. “Can you guess?”

Your brow tightens again. “I don’t want to.” You pull your knees up to your chest, readjusting your skirts so they’re covering your ankles. Leaning your chin into the dip of your palm, a downward tug to your displeased lips. Azriel raises a brow, “I didn’t know you were a sore loser.” 

“We weren’t competing.” You mutter. 

“Are you really upset?” He asks, sounding perplexed. You sigh, shifting on the floor now the bed is beginning to dig into your spine. “No,” you mumble, “I’m used to it.” 

He smiles, eyes twinkling, “used to what?” 

You don’t smile back. “You.” 

Azriel’s features mellow out, light winking away in his eyes and you watch the warmth sift down and out from his expression. “You aren’t entitled to my affections, just because of your situation,” he says softly, but sternly. No leniency afforded to you. No padding or gentleness to muffle the hurt. An ashamed blush creeps up your neck, spreading through your cheeks as you lower your head. “I’m not talking about that,” you mumble. Gloved fingers wring together and you pull your legs tighter to your body, “I’m talking about how needlessly cold you were. How clearly you cared for Elain without thought for me.” 

“You needed a clear answer. I was helping.” 

“You used me,” you whisper. 

Across the floor, you can feel it as Azriel stiffens. Almost freezes. 

“You used me,” you repeat, this time looking at him, “you knew how I felt about you. There’s no way you couldn’t have, Azriel. You-”

“You kissed me back.” Hazel eyes pierce into you, the shadows at his back stirring as though raising from their sleep. “You-”

“I’m talking about before.” The whisper rushes out of you on a swift exhale, hurrying to get the words past your lips so he doesn’t remind you any further. You swallow, a familiar feeling of shame coating your skin. “When I would speak with you in the library. And you would only speak with me to learn more of Elain. You were using me.” Azriel’s brows narrow and your heartbeat quickens unpleasantly. “You know I was making sure she was okay,” he claims softly, “the Mother knows you were too preoccupied.” 

“Stop lying to me.” A hot pressure is building behind your eyes again, staring at him in this room with the walls that feel like they’re closing in. “I know you love Elain. I know that, so stop trying to pretend like I’m imagining it. You wanted to know more about her so you spoke with me to learn more. You must have known how lonely I was, how hard it was for all of us after being ripped from our home, from our lives, and shoved into a world we had never wanted to be a part of. It’s like you’re just trying to get me to hate you.” 

As soon as the words leave your lips you freeze, staring at him with widened eyes. 

“Is that-?” You cover your mouth, toes curling in your socks as you huddle your limbs together. “Is that why you were so cold afterwards? Was it so horrible to deal with? Was it really so disgusting to you that…?” 

Azriel says nothing and you feel at that moment like the earth might split open and swallow you whole, suctioning you down far below the ground for discovering such a horrible secret, snatching you away before you can tell anyone and sealing you a thousand times in jagged stone beneath cold, damp earth. 

————

Her eyes are wide and her chest is heaving, knees pressing tight together as if to hide her body from him. He should lower his head to respect her dignity, look away to offer her privacy but that in itself would be yielding too much information. Doing anything other than watching her crumble would be exposing a part of himself and no matter how much she’s hurting, he cannot. He will not. 

Azriel doesn’t care if she hit the nail on the head. He hadn’t meant any of it. But had he really been expected to simply accept her tenderness for him? Even if he wasn’t the spymaster he’d be able to see how much she thinks of him, how she listens to him and hangs on his words as if they heal wounds. If she thinks she loves him, she should know how awful he is. 

————

You shake your head, still staring at him. Then you try to push yourself to your feet. 

You need air. Need fresh air, and to get out of a room as cramped as this one. But when you stand you spot the things he’d laid on the bed. The things that had survived the blast, and you freeze. 

On top of the bare mattress, weighing into the bed is a thickly bound volume. The spine reads: Prythian: An Anthology Of Discoveries, in golden lettering. Sitting small atop the book however, is a familiar silver band, its narrow edges smooth and shiny. It’s the ring Eris gifted you on that last day in Autumn. The one he’d told you would help keeping your magic in check. The one you’d left discarded then nearly killed Azriel by being unable to control yourself. 

“This…? This is all that made it?” Your fingers trace the title, and you consider for a moment raking your nails down its surface, scalping its smooth leather and ripping the pages from the spine. The silver is cold against your fingers, and you imagine casting the window wide and throwing it out to the winds. Throwing it far, far away, somewhere you’ll never have to see it again, where you’ll never be reminded of the poor choices you made that brought such an unbearable amount of shame into your life. 

You can feel it begin to crush into you again, and your knees shake like they might buckle. Why is this all that lasted? 

“The book was enchanted, as many are nowadays.” Azriel’s voice is far off in your head, the world tipping beneath you. “The magic protecting it was ripped apart, but the book’s still intact. The ring seems to have its own magic warding it, though it’s been damaged.” 

“Is this-?” You turn to face him, arm banding across your stomach, able to feel as the shame and hurt squeezes you insides. “Is this your way of punishing me for what I did? By showing me this?” Azriel’s brow furrows, and he takes a step forward, “No.” You’re not sure you believe him. He takes another step forward, so he’s stood before you and you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him. “I thought you’d be happy. I thought it would make you feel better. That you had something to keep.” 

“That reminds me of why you all hate me,” you say, hot tears spilling from your lashes, scalding your cheeks. “You can’t be expecting me to believe that you’re showing me these things because you’ve forgiven them. That you’ve so suddenly had a change of heart about what happened. Not this.” You sniff, trying to hide your face. “Not you.” 

Silence hangs in the air, stretched and painful until, “You think we hate you?” 

“I know you do,” you whisper, “and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…” 

Scarred fingers collect around your wrists, and you try to cover yourself as he gently pulls your palms from your tear-stained face. “Look at me.” Look at me. 

Does he know what he’s doing? Or are you joining dots that have no business being joined? You open your eyes but look away, staring at the floor, at a section of wooden panelling that must have been redone when- “Look at me.” 

His shadows cooly gather beneath your chin, lifting your head but you stubbornly refuse, instead casting your gaze to the right where the door is. Just anywhere but him. Anywhere but his eyes, eyes that will make your heart splinter. You look at the threshold, the handle of the door- 

Azriel’s wings open, and then you’re ensconced in night. 

His shadows gather between your feet, circling overhead so there’s nowhere for you to look anymore but him, everything else inked out to be bland and uninteresting. Only a very small amount of light is allowed through the darkness, like a dozen black veils of silk have been thrown over you to keep you together. Slowly your breaths begin to settle, transported away from the demanding present and instead somewhere else entirely, where time has been paused and you have no pressure of worry beating down on you. 

Your nostrils flare, but your breathing has become even. Chest slowly rising up and down, calmed and quietened. 

Your throat trembles, but you look at him. 

His hazel eyes are normal. No disgust or revulsion to be found. No ice, either. At first glance you might have called the look indifferent, but…calm. Quiet. 

Hands release your wrists, one lifting to the circle of your shoulder, but the other moves for your chest. You inhale softly as his fingers graze across the fabric of your top, his touch featherlight and careful. They pause, coming to a stop in a place you’re certain he’ll be able to feel the pounding of your heart. But he makes no remark on the wild rhythm, instead pressing the pads of his fingers down so they’re resting atop your breast. “You have a scar here, don’t you?” 

Something tugs from beneath your ribs, an alertness jerking awake beneath his touch. 

“It’s small, isn’t it? Barely there. Less than a scratch, but it’s scarred.” 

What? How does he…? 

His hand finds yours and he guides you a step closer to him, then lifts your palm to the side of his stomach, his ribs. “I don’t hate you,” he says quietly, but in the shared silence you have no need to strain your ears; you can hear him perfectly. “None of them hate you either.” 

“You’re lying,” you whisper. 

“I’m not,” he replies, pressing your palm flat to where that matching scar lies, embedded deep in his flesh. Where he’d stolen the arrow you had meant for yourself. 

Your head hangs in defeat, and your forehead meets his chest. His hand releases your shoulders, scarred fingers skimming the small hairs sprouting from the top of your nape. 

————

Night has fallen by the time you return to the River House. 

It’s dark and you wrap your arms tight over your chest, wind playing with your hair, kissing ice up your neck. At your side, Azriel seems unbothered by the descending winter, appearing as stoic as ever. 

Coming up the pathway that leads past the front lawn you can see the lights in the House are one, letting you see in to the living room and kitchen, each separated by the hallway that connects to the door before you. No one’s in the living room, but you can easily make out the figures of two of your sisters in the kitchen—Feyre and Elain. You wonder what they could be speaking about when Elain soundlessly slams her hand down on the table. 

You pause, and you know Azriel’s watching too. 

Elain’s teeth flash in the faelight and your brows narrow, pulse spiking—they look like they’re arguing. You hurry a step forward, hand falling to the handle but Azriel places his palm atop your shoulder, pausing you. You look back at him. “We should give them space. Let them sort it out on their own.” 

You consider, glancing between him and the front door. Teeth nip at the interior of your lip—you’ve not seen Elain like that in a long time. She’s not one to become easily agitated. “No,” you say, “they’re my sisters. I want to know what’s wrong.” 

“It looks private. You should wait-” 

But you turn the handle, giving him a strange look, “They’re my sisters.” 

As soon as the door opens, Elain’s voice rings through the halls, bouncing off the walls with crystal clarity, “I want to know why I had to hear it through Lucien, Feyre. Who, I might add, didn’t even hear it from one of you.” 

Quiet settles, tense and taut and you halt, blinking. What have you just walked in on? 

With as little noise as possible you push the cloak from your shoulders, hanging it on one of the hooks in the entryway. Elain’s voice carries on, unaware of the new listeners. “Are you going to explain it?” She asks, voice softened from its previous cut, still bearing a nasty edge. “I didn’t want to worry you,” comes Feyre’s quietened reply. “I didn’t mean to hide it, Elain, but the timing was never right, and you’re both…” 

“We’re both what?” Elain asks sternly, her voice tight. “Untrustworthy because we aren’t as tightly knit with others in your circle?”

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Feyre replies, with soft steel. “That’s got nothing to do with it.” 

“Then tell me why you didn’t think to mention it.” 

Silence falls, and you feel guilt gather in your chest for eavesdropping. You turn to glance at Azriel but he seems to have vanished into shadow at some point. Maybe he actually had intended to give them privacy, but you’re in too deep now. Instead of hiding you straighten your skirts, quietly stepping further along the hallway until you reach the kitchen, peeking your head around the doorway, “is everything okay?” 

Cocoa coloured irises flick to you and Feyre turns in the kitchen, spotting you in the hallway. “Fine,” Feyre says—too quickly. You look over to Elain, but she’s watching Feyre instead, coca eyes simmering. You swallow, and step decisively into the room, steadying your voice, “What’s wrong?” Because something’s clearly amiss. 

A tense silence passes and you can feel your insides trembling, as if the quiet is a living, breathing creature, gently but increasingly firmly pushing against you, weighing on your shoulders, pulling on your back, an invisibly current slowly trying to drag you from the room. You stand still. 

Feyre’s shoulders sag in a way you haven’t seen before, her can lowering in a way that casts heavy shadow beneath her eyes and into the downturned corners of her mouth. “We’d thought to keep you out of it,” she says, much too softly for High Lady. “You’re both…” But she trails off, landing her face in her hands and rubbing along the narrow lengths of her curved brows. Her hands fall to her sides and she leans back against the table, arms moving to fold over her chest. “I know what it’s like, to be kept out of something…” She looks at both of you in turn, blue-grey eyes anguished and distraught, showing a turmoil she’s been battling with for quite some time. And what she’s said is true—she knows what that’s like. How she almost died without knowing the circumstances of her own child. She knows better than anyone what it means. 

So what could have made her decide…? 

You release the tension of your stance, settling back against the wall since this seems like something important. 

“You may have seen us to be more on edge than usual…” Feyre confesses, casting a glance to Elain. Your older sister’s expression doesn’t give, but acknowledgement passes through her eyes and Feyre continues. “Nesta’s been practicing with Ataraxia more frequently, despite how little we know about its nature; Amren’s been trying her efforts at furthering her understanding of The Old Language; then the trip Nesta and Cassian went on to the Day Court…to visit Helion’s libraries.” She swallows thickly, shadows accentuating the roll of her throat. “Helion, Spell-Cleaver.” 

“Nesta mentioned a binding spell,” you now recall from that supper all that time ago. Amren had bitten her off. Nesta had Ataraxia out on the table when you’d gone to visit her. What Eris had been talking about during your visit to Autumn. It must have something to do with why he was surprised you weren’t learning to fight. 

But why would you need to?

“We…” Feyre starts but swallows her own words. Besides her, Elain shifts on her feet, her attention casting skittishly around the dimly lit kitchen, only small yellow lights lighting the large room. Your younger sister sighs harshly, rubbing her face once before looking at you fully, hands again to her sides. “We think the Prison is collapsing.” 

Her words settle into the quiet of the kitchen and seem to disappear in the external world while they ring endlessly within your mind, repeating in a space away from the linear passage of time and instead growing louder and louder with every hurried repeat. We think the Prison is collapsing. 

What are you supposed to say to that? 

You can feel your eyes stretch, throat turning dry from breathing through your mouth, lips open while you stare. 

“Why?” You manage to gasp out, throat closing up on itself. Why would the Prison be collapsing? Why now? Why?

“When Nesta fought Lanthys,” Feyre begins solemnly, “perhaps even when she first retrieved the harp…whether it was Ataraxia, one of the Dread Trove, or Lanthys exploiting a worn fibre of the spell’s fabrics…maybe a combination of the three…we don’t know for certain.” 

“You don’t know why the Prison is breaking?” Elain asks, staring at Feyre. 

“We know the wards are weakened,” she corrects, as if savouring the small grace that they seem to still be holding. But for how much longer? “We think it’s in relation to a magical object imbued with Cauldron-made power being in close proximity to such an ancient antiquity…that their magic might have abraded the spells of the Prison… But no. We don’t know for certain.” 

The walls tilt, shadows stretching and you’re thankful you’re leaning against the wall. Feyre meets your gaze with a look you could call grieving. “Please let’s discuss this further in the morning. I’m sorry it was kept…that I helped keep it from you—both of you—but for a conversation like this…” Feyre looks to Elain, a bit of that strength being forced to her surface. “We can speak in the morning.” 

Elain watches Feyre silently, and for a few moments you think you might see anger in her eyes, but it’s turned calm and quiet. “I imagine it’s difficult, in some respects,” Elain says, “to play the role of High Lady.” 

You can’t tell whether it’s meant as consolation or a jab, but Elain’s already departed from the room, leaving just you and Feyre. 

“How long have you known?” You ask in the quiet. Feyre shifts but doesn’t look away from you, “Long enough that we’re running out of options.” 

You nod your head, more than just fatigue now weighing on your lids. “I’ll see you in the morning. Sleep well.” 

————

It’s strange how you find yourself meandering the opposite way from your bedroom when you reach the top of the stairs. Seeking out a room you’ve never once tried to approach without explicit permission beforehand. But the whole night had been strange, and your head is swimming slightly, paddling in the shallow part of a clear river. 

Your hand lifts, but at the last second, and for no discernible reason, you change your mind, opening the door quietly without knocking. 

Azriel is sat at his desk, a low light atop the surface, a lampshade tinting the colour a pale yellow. Ink scratches over parchment, and you pause on the threshold, leaning against the doorframe. You could understand the pleasure of spying, if it means seeing people like this. 

He looks up after a moment, seemingly finished with his task as he sets the paper aside and lowers his quill. 

“It was Blue Annis, wasn’t it?” You speak before he has a chance to. “The spider you were telling me about.” 

“Yes.” Azriel inclines his head. “It was.”

Something big enough, cruel enough, powerful enough to strike a chord of unease into Azriel. And the container holding her and countless others is fraying? 

You lean a little more of your weight into the doorframe. “How long do you think is left before the wards are sparse enough for one of them to slip through?” 

“Probably another month,” Azriel replies. His expression doesn’t falter as he adds, “one might’ve already managed.” 

“What do you mean by that?” You ask, fear twisting in your stomach. He must be able to smell it on you. Azriel leans back into his chair, “We’re checking each cell to make sure. So far everything’s been where it should, but it’s a slow process. By the time we happen across an empty one…” He raises a brow as if to say: Who knows how far it’ll have gotten?

A shudder spider-walks down your spine. “Are they all as scary as she is? As Blue Annis?” 

“You’ll work yourself up into a panic like that,” Azriel tells you, his face remaining serious. “You’re already imagining the worst possible creature you can think of, aren’t you?” 

“Is she less scary than I’m imagining?” You ask dryly, forcing a wry curve of your lips. 

Azriel’s eyes seem to twinkle, but maybe it’s the light. 

“What’s she like?” You force yourself to ask, voice lowered beneath the night. But Azriel shakes his head, “Ask me another time.” 

His lips curve, but the light in his eyes has winked out. “You don’t want her to be the last thing on your mind before night.”

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