#Poison Box Ring

[crownedinmarigolds]

Fangfest 2024 - Day Twenty - The Sun

It's almost funny when arguably one of the worst days of your life is the best thing that ever happened to you.

Ralph never considered himself lucky - just another awkward military brat who grew up trying to join the army counter intelligence program who then proceeded to lose his leg on his first deployment who then became an Instagram thot to avoid the horrors of fighting for his benefits as a disabled veteran. It was only after he was spite-Embraced by an incel Nosferatu and came out a waterblood that things started looking up. Now he didn't have to engage often with people who didn't understand his weird way of thinking, met the bestest friends he's ever had, was offered community (even if he rejected it in the end) from the fullblood Nosferatu, and of course met his beloved Khloworm.

The Sun card in tarot represents enlightment, joy, success and material happiness, even marriage. Ralph faces his life head-on because he has a purpose that motivates him, and also because he is surrounded by the immutable love of his entire coterie.

(Not canon YET but they are definitely going to drink the Formulae that gives you the ability to tattoo. Every member of Stakebait gets the staked heart tattoo, and Ralph of course wants ink of his lover covering up the mottled mess of his former tatts his Embrace messed up! Still a little messed up unfortunately, damn low-tier Nos Curse. Fear not viewer, Khloe designed and drew it herself.)

[rememberthelaughtermp3]

why the fuck did i (deadly scared of sea creatures) have to live in the country with all the deadly fucking sea creatures

[bookishlyvintage]

Owlcrate May Unboxing: Against All Odds

[sqoa]

cw stalking

☓☓☓ stalker!satoru likes exploiting his heightened senses to learn everything and anything he can about you. he doesn't even need to be in the fucking room to know that you're sitting with your thighs pressed together because you're still thinking about the letter he slipped under your door that morning.

the letter, in which he wrote the dirtiest details about yourself that not even you picked up on. like how when you're really horny you become restless and can't keep still for too long, or how when you cum your eyes squeeze shut and you almost look scared of the pleasure you're giving yourself. which he loves, because your fear is an aphrodisiac to him.

but you figure whoever it is that's stalking you is only stabbing a guess at what could be true. because there is no way he's someone you've fucked, because you don't fuck on a whim. the only other explanation you can come up with is that he's been in your home, either to install cameras or slip into the shadows late at night when you're touching yourself. which is a ridiculous thought, so he must be assuming.

until you come home from a particularly gruelling day to find a small box on your pillow.

it's black, and wrapped in a blue ribbon that looks hauntingly familiar to the shade of blue—you shake your head. with trembling hands you open the box to find three things. one of which is a baby blue vibrator, the same shade as the ribbon and a certain set of eyes you often think of when you touch yourself. you also find a smaller box with a note attached.

'a promise, until you trust me enough to replace it with the real thing, doll.' it reads, and doesn't make sense until you open the box and find a ring inside. expensive looking and glistening under the moonlight coming in through your window. it fits your ring finger perfectly when curiosity bests you and you slip it on. You should be panicked, locking your doors and calling the police but there's a horrible ache in your lower abdomen that has you awful restless, and you realise that perhaps your sweet-tongued stalker knows a little more about you than you do yourself.

weeks of gifts like this go by, from sex toys to expensive meal deliveries each night, you're starting to feel more like a sugar baby than a victim. and still, you haven't even given in to your stalker... you've been too scared to touch yourself, to put the box of toys he's gifted you to use, because each night as you fall asleep you dream of vile things done to you by a man you can't see the face of. you worry that if you give in, let him watch you fuck yourself stupid on the toys he brought you, you won't want to hate this. to hate the way he calls you his doll, like you're a toy to be played with, in a home he somehow has access to despite how many times you change the locks.

it's not until you're on a mission one day, alongside satoru gojo. you're in an awfully tight space together, stuck in an abandoned warehouse and boxed in by curses that you're sure he could handle in the blink of an eye if he wanted to. but you're here, pressed chest-to-chest and breathing in the scent of his sweat and cologne mixing together—sugar on his breath.

and you're just so needy, after weeks of denying yourself in hopes of boring your stalker away. you have to press your thighs together, satoru's hard abs against your stomach is too much: and the way he looks down at you, laboured breath and glossy lips parted... you have to look away. but when your gaze meets the ground, you catch a glimpse of something that you hadn't noticed before.

a ring on his finger, one that matches yours—hell, it even looks cut from the same gem.

and his voice is poison. "you've been hiding from me haven't you, my doll?"

[xoladydeadpoolox]

@fightlikeaguurrl​ submitted a photo

"You think I'm getting fat? Be honest..."

“I’ll be honest, its going straight to your ass and I’m not complaining because I like it.”

[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Trinkets

Five presents Jason brought you back from his adventures and one you asked for. (+ one) ~1.2k words of fluff

Jason Todd brings you home gifts from his missions, which wouldn't be a problem, but he never really explains what they are.

The first time it happened, you had laughed at the green ring with a lantern symbol in the middle. It looked cheesy, like one of the fake ones you can buy from the superhero merch stores littered around malls and outlets.

You'd kissed his cheek in thanks, put it on your shelf, and never gave it a second thought.

At least you didn't, until a bright green glow woke you up from your sleep. You'd sat up immediately, jaw practically dropping to the sheets as the ring lifted itself off your shelf and flew out the window.

Jason barely budged, his arm still thrown over your waist. He let out yawn and cuddled closer before speaking, voice groggy and heavy, "Huh. Didn't think they noticed that one was gone."

"They," You half yell, voice pitching as you stare at his outline, hidden in the shadows of the room.

"The Guardians, babe," he yawns out, "They're in charge of the space cops. Just go back to sleep."

Naturally, you do not go back to sleep. You drag him to the kitchen, make tea, and demand he explains why a Green Lantern ring was in your apartment. (He's very happy to)

The second time it happens, you're much more wary of the gift he brings home. But to be fair, he can't really pass off an Amazonian steel sword as something he just picked up.

It doesn't take as much convincing as it should for you to let him mount it on your wall. But it's a sword! No one can blame you for thinking it looks cool in your living room.

It turns out keeping it around is pretty useful, because a few weeks later, your boyfriend crawls through your window, dressed head to toe in armor.

"Hey, doll," he drawls, "Can I borrow your sword?"

"Sure," You chirp back, more preoccupied with your book as he saunters over to the sword, "what for?"

"Artie's got confiscated, and we haven't gotten to steal it back yet," he supplies, stopping long enough to pull his helmet up and kiss your head.

"Oh, that sucks," You answer, offhandedly, "Give her and Bizzaro my love."

"You got it, babe," he chirps already halfway out your window.

He does bring your sword back, covered in green blood, but no worse for wear. It still looks great on your wall.

He brings you a box next. It's kind of ugly looking, but you thank him nonetheless.

"Be careful with it," he tells you as you flip it over in your hands, "It opens boom tubes."

You almost drop it, and if you hadn't already experienced the power ring, you would have shrieked at him. Instead, you manage to put it down very carefully and calmly ask, "It does what?"

"Open boom tubes," he answers, which clears absolutely nothing up, "I figured we could use it to country hop for our next date night. You know, dinner in Paris, drinks in Dubai, dessert in LA."

"Okay," You answer slowly, as if that makes complete sense.

It turns out, it does. Date night is lovely, and making out with your boyfriend on a random beach in Spain is very, very nice.

Batman waiting in your apartment to take back the boom box isn't so nice, though.

Jason tells you it was worth it. He's absolutely right.

The third thing Jason brings you is a plant. Flowers aren't a rare show of affection from him, but ones that move are.

"Uh, thank you, Jason," You start, prodding at the moving petals, they nuzzle your fingers the same way a kitten would, "But I don't know how to take care of these."

"Same way you take care of any other plant, water, fertilizer, nutrients, all that fun stuff," he says fondly, stroking a few of the petals.

"What if it gets sick," You ask, uncertain.

"We'll call Ivy," he says, unbothered.

"Right. Ivy. Poison Ivy. Who you know," You mumble, but the little plant is already worming its way into your heart. (You affectionately name it Daisy, for no other reason then it sways happily when you say that name)

The fourth thing Jason brings you makes you laugh because you know exactly what it is, "Jason, we can't keep this."

"Why not," he pleads, shaking the bright green quiver filled with arrows at you.

You giggled harder, smiling wide as you shake your head at him, "We don't even know what those do. Don't some of those explode?"

"So what," he huffs, practically pouting, "We can ask Roy. And it's not like I don't know my way around explosives."

"I guess so," You relent, trying to stifle your laughs as you inspect the bright green arrows, "How did you even get this?"

His eyes light up mischievously, "Do you really want to know?"

You stop short and narrow your eyes at him, "I would lose my plausible deniability."

"But you wanna know," he says, sly and playful.

You do. (It involves mutated chickens, tar, and one distracted Oliver Queen. You hang the quiver next to the sword)

Jason's getting ready to leave, bags packed and helmet lazy held under his arm, "Can I bring you back anything specific, doll" he asks, his free hand resting comfortably against your cheek, "Lasso of Truth? Maybe something with magic?"

You grin at him, leaning into his touch, "I actually do have something in mind."

"Oh," he prompts, eyes glinting with excitement.

"I want to complete my batarang collection."

He falters, "Your– what?"

"No one has," You exclaim, pulling away to showcase your collection, "I have Nightwings, Batgirls, Batmans, yours, of course, one of Robin's. But I'm missing Spoilers, Batwomans, Signals, and Red Robins."

He blinks at you, "That's– if that's what you want."

You giggle at how dumbfounded he looks, practically bouncing back over to him to kiss him, "Thank you, Jason."

He catches your waist and pulls you back in for another, longer kiss that leaves you both breathless and panting. His voice lowers, like it's a secret, "I'll bring you back some batarangs. See you in a few days?"

"See you in a few days," You echo, and he winks at you as he tugs on his helmet, leaving out your window.

Sure enough, you get your batarangs when he gets home. It takes some convincing, a few kisses that leave you senseless, but you get Jason to help you mount your batarang collection alongside the sword and quiver.

"I should get you a plasma rifle next," he drawls, admiring your growing wall of weapons.

"I think I'd fall over if I tried to shoot one of those," You point out, all smiles.

"I'll teach you," he tells you, hooking an arm around your waist to draw you closer.

Jason's a man of his word, and sure enough, he brings you home a plasma cannon after his next mission.

You only destroy most of the shooting range in the batcave when he lets you try it out.

[sgsketchbook]

ghastly,

with open eyes, he attends, blind.

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

UPDATE What's up, it's the proposal guy. You said you wanted to know how this turned out, so I figured I'd tell you. First some context though, because I'm mean and I wanna keep you in suspense longer.

1- I don't wanna doxx us so I'm not telling you where we live, but suffice to say, neither of us are American, and gay marriage has been legal here for less than five years. For both of us, this is the first relationship we've had where marriage was even an OPTION, and I think that's where we've been getting some of that whole 'this has to be a REAL proposal with EVERYTHING' idea.

2- I gotta figure out how to explain this properly. So, I'm pretty used to being the GUY guy in relationships? I was always the one who did the nice gestures, not the one they got done for. Before I met my dream guy, I didn't really notice or care that it was such a thing, I just assumed that's how shit worked. Also, I promised I wouldn't talk a lot about his stuff here, but his last boyfriend before me SUCKED. Anyway point here is, it turns out we both REALLY like feeling swept off our feet sometimes, and a big part of finding each other has been getting to feel special for once? That's a stupid sappy way of putting it the point here is I think all that's what morphed into "I need to be the one getting proposed to, also it has to be completely perfect", and then our Petty & Extra genes got involved.

So I'm sitting in bed thinking about all that up there, and watching all the comments coming in basically being like "Dude, you are BLOWING this" on repeat, and telling me to compromise, and I look up and see him flossing in the bathroom and making all these doofy faces at the mirror, and it's like a switch just flips in my brain, and I'm like "Oh, I'd rather he gets to have his perfect proposal than we both have an okay one". I'm gonna do it.

Morning rolls around, and while I'm 'out for my jog like normal' I hit up a pawn shop for a temp ring (the ring pop thing is cute but NOT HIM). I found one I was at least confident wouldn't get ruined the first time he got his hands greasy (he fixes old machines as a hobby it's hot as hell), got back home, and hid the box in the toe of my nasty ass workout shoes in the bedroom closet, since I figured he'd check there last.

He was still asleep, because he stays up late no matter what and then is SHOCKED he's tired the next day, so I called and booked a table at our usual anniversary spot. (Side note about the 'he picks bad restaurants' thing. This isn't an 'I like Greek, you like Chinese' situation, dude's just BAD at finding places. He either assumes pricey is tasty and I get to eat some overrated gourmet bullshit, or he'll try and find something hip and underground and risk giving us food poisoning again, and he REFUSES to give up and pick somewhere we've been before when it's his turn to plan date night. I'm obsessed with him <3.) Date was set, I'd propose on the 21st.

Some of you might have noticed this, but fun fact! It's currently the 16th.

Last night I'm doing dishes and he's been sent to our room for mug collection duty, and he's taking FOREVER, so I go check just in case he found the ring, because the man's a gift tracking BLOODHOUND. Turns out he hasn't, he's found my Angry Box.

I assume other people have an Angry Box? Basically, we had this huge messy fight right when we first moved in together, and I never wanna let it get that bad again, so I have this shoebox where I keep a bunch of our stuff I can look at if we're fighting and hopefully cool off. There's one of those photo booth roll things, letters we wrote when he moved back with his parents for COVID, the wine cork from our first date, shit like that. Anyway, he's just sitting on the floor staring at it, and I explain about the Angry Box, and then he! Proposes!!! Kind of.

He definitely didn't have anything prepared, because by 'propose' I mean 'ugly cried & rambled at me for several minutes before I figured out it WAS a proposal', but once I got on the same page it was amazing. I said yes, and he had to admit he didn't have a ring for me because he was CONVINCED he'd win and I'd do it, so I grabbed mine because, yeah, he was right. He was like "this is the ugliest ring I've ever seen" and I was like yeah well the plan is to replace it later and he went "No. You can pry this off my cold dead fingers. After I'm buried with it." So I guess it's not a temporary ring anymore.

I'm just gonna go ahead and skip to this morning. I pointed out we still have the reservation, and he said I should propose there anyway because "We can get a free dessert. They have those creme brulee shot glasses you like. And for love, or something" and I said ok deal, but that means you gotta get me a ring to keep it fair, and his eyes LIT UP. When I swung by his work for lunch he was still on the phone with a jeweler and he had a whole page of notes on three other ones. Pray for me.

OH PS: I was RIGHT that he'd been the one behind the cat biting me, but it wasn't about the proposal stuff, it's because I paid my baby sister three dollars to shout 'fuck you' every single time he enters a room she's in for (if you ask me, he should be madder at my sister for charging so little), and he did it by giving her a bunch of treats for biting his hands too, so now neither of us can pet our baby girl without oven mitts on. HOLY SHIT I love this man.

Oh my goddddddd I love everything about this <333 I awwww'd out loud on a voice call, like, six times while reading. You two are friggin perfect for each other and so obviously smitten with each other and I wish y'all all the happiness in the world

PS Are y'all planning to have a big wedding? If so oh boy I can't WAIT to get that one in the inbox

Original post

[nosyrobin]

||DC X SONIC!READER HEADCANNONS||

Summary: HEY?! A wild blue hedgehog that’s as fast as flash?! WHAT THE—

Sonic!reader who accidentally travels into a comic universe, dc as a choice and accidentally standing in the justice league HQ. “Uhhh.. meow?” The hedgehog says with a shrug. Immediately the hedgehog is running as quick as the flash? Barry or Wally, whatever you think is the flash at the moment is trying to catch the damn hedgehog. But the hedgehog only thinks of this as a game! Smiling before feeling his legs get caught in a glowing yellow rope.

“State your business and name!” The lady with the lasso says holding the animal up. Sonic!reader spits the truth out by how he has accidentally traveled into this universe. The team didn’t want to believe it, but you were still in the lasso of truth. So you were telling the truth. The hedgehog is already friends with flash, who wants to see how fast the hedgehog can do. And seeing how they both can do speed off and stop time while staying slow, yeah they both are downing food together.

Hal who literally makes fun of the quick hedgehog, that was before Sonic!reader took the ring off his finger so quick, flash laughed with the others. Batman only smiled a little before it quickly gone away.

Superman is gushing over how small the hedgehog is. He can’t help but not take Sonic!reader seriously. Really he can’t take the male hedgehog seriously because of how small and how funny and how they are determined to help people. It’s adorable to the man of steel!

Wonder Woman who adore the small hedgehog as well, after learning the adventures Sonic!reader has done and fought during. Wonder Woman smiles at the hedgehog, Sonic!reader then tells about how they have a female friend that wields a hammer. Immediately Wonder Woman is sat down when Sonic!reader describes the hammer and how big it is. Now Wonder Woman needs to know lore.

Gotham villains hate to see Sonic!reader coming when literally next minute they are in jail or in the asylum. Literally poison ivy and Harley were ready for their plan to succeed. But when they took a step forward, they were already in the asylum with a hedgehog swinging cell keys playfully in a guard uniform. “Already ahead of ya! Bye bye!” Then the blue hedgehog is gone.

The hedgehog being wrapped in a blanket like a baby because he got a bit tried when running. Clark is trying not to cry while holding the hedgehog. “Clark…give me the hedgehog.—" Bruce tries to grab the hedgehog. But the super immediately flies away.

Sonic!reader Who does his idle animation whenever speeding away from danger, mocking them as he wags his finger. “Gotta try harder than that!”

Catwoman having her whip around the blue hedgehog, having him hogtied. Sonic!reader is grumbling like the gremlin they are while catwoman, aka Selina is contacting Bruce. “Bruce..I got a hedgehog that says he’s with you..” “sigh..here I come.”

Barry and Wally just watching Sonic!reader speed around, they laugh at how adorable and excited the house. They Wally speeds over to try and stop sonic!reader who got stuff in a box.

“That’s so crash!” Bart says smiling at Sonic!reader who burned into a empty street with their speed. The fire shows a detailed chili dog. “I don’t know what that means, but yeah!” Reader says smiling and high giving Bart.

Impulse who likes Sonic!reader like a brother. Always asking for races and who can shove most food, but honestly it makes impulse and the flash family kinda disappointed to see that you aren’t really like them as you throw up. You eat for energy, they have to eat or else they die. Impulse still likes you treat you like you are part of the flash family, just like the flash does as well.

“You’re too slow!” Sonic!reader says when speeding pass impulse, aka Bart. Bart smiles at this and zooms to catch up which his new brother figure.

Batfamily vs Flashfamily wanting custody over the small hedgehog.

Bruce just training and seeing how fast Sonic!reader is and his potentials before treating Sonic!reader like son he just picked up. (He basically did) Bruce seeing how childish and smart mouth he can be reminded him of one of his sons, so he just basically “adopted” this small hedgehog.

Dick is just not amused at another speedster, what he is amused that this so called “speedster” is named Sonic and is fast like the flash. Reader just shows up in the manor holding up a chili dog with a goofy smile. “Want one? It’s still hot.” Dick couldn’t help but smile at the adorable hedgehog male and took the chili dog. Only he took the chili dog because he wanted to seem nice

Damian who couldn’t care what you are and who you are. Thought he is amused by how quick you are to have the audacity to talk back to him. He found out your weakness and smirks every-time the face of the hedgehog’s face drops at the word “pool.

Tim basically being DR. Eggman for Sonic!reader but more chill and totally not a villian. Tim just wants to know how a hedgehog is talking and is fast like the flash. Maybe he would pull on your quills to get a sample

Jason just reading the hedgehog books, maybe even bringing a comic book to Sonic!reader’s liking as the hedgehog has an oversized shirt with a goofy ahh smile. “Sup Jay!” Sonic!reader says with a smile. Jason just stays quiet and prays that he doesn’t show cute aggression at this hedgehog ass motherfucker.

Sonic!reader who just relaxes in the Wayne manor, talking to Alfred who just freshly made him some chili dogs. Yeah reader can get use to this.

[astaroth1357]

Solomon: MC- *takes a knee*

MC: Oh my God

Solomon: -will you marry me? *pulls out ring box*

MC: What?

MC: Didn't I poison you?? Gak! *falls to their knees instead*

Solomon: I switched our cups. *opens the box to show a small vial of powder*

Solomon: Say yes for the antidote!

MC: God I hate you so much-

[raphael-angele]

The Gift

POV: It's Regulus' birthday and he's opening presents at the breakfast table.

Regulus: Okay, so far I got a journal that cannot be opened unless I'm the one holding it; thank you, Evan. The Cain's Jawbone book; thank you, Barty. A brand new stationary set; thank you, Pandora. And a silver snake ring that has a needle that injects poison to whoever it punctures; thank you, Dorcas.

Pandora: Happy birthday, Reg.

Evan: Happy birthday, buddy.

Barty: Yeah, yeah, yeah, happy birthday and all that. So which one is your favorite?

Dorcas: You kidding? I win by a mile.

Evan: Oh, I almost forgot *pulls out a small box* This is from Potter.

Dorcas: Why was James Potter giving you a gift for Regulus?

Barty: And why was he with you in the first place?

Evan: Calm down. We bumped into each other in the halls and he asked me to give it to Reg.

Regulus: *opens the box* oh wow.

Pandora: What is it?

Regulus: *shows it to Pandora*

Pandora: Aww, that's so cute.

Barty: What is it?

Pandora: It's like an small pin of the golden snitch but instead of a ball, it's shaped like a star.

Regulus: *reads the note* "Still can't believe I caught you. JP"

Dorcas: Aw, Now that's just romantic

Barty: If Potter wanted to be romantic, he'd realign the stars to say, "I am untterly, undoubtedly, and deeply in love with Regulus Arcturus Black. I say with with sound mind and body. Love, James Potter"

Regulus, putting the pin on his robe: So whose gift is that one? *points to a box*

Everyone:

Regulus: ...no one?

Evan: *inspects* Well, it's addressed to you. And it says Happy Birthday. Maybe it's from your parents?

Regulus: Unlikely. Give it? *takes the box* Really nothing written on here.

Barty: Open it.

Regulus: *opens it and gasps*

Dorcas: What is it?

Regulus: *looks over at the Gryffindor table* Nothing *packs up the gifts, stands and leaves* Thanks for the gifts.

At the Gryffindor table:

Sirius: Hey, the birthday boy himself.

James: Oh, hi, babe.

Regulus: Hey. Sirius, a word? *they move a bit farther away*

Sirius: So what's up? Did you need something?

Regulus: The gift.

Sirius: Yeah? What about it?

Regulus: ...help me put it on?

Sirius: ...*smiles softly* Yeah, okay.

In the bathroom:

Sirius: You okay in there?

Regulus: *comes out of the stall with a roll of bandage*

Sirius: What do you think?

Regulus: *runs his hands through his torso, looks at the mirror and turns to the side*

Sirius: It's not too tight right? I think I hooked it on the right row.

Regulus: *cries*

Sirius: *goes up to him* Hey, hey, c'mon, don't cry. It's okay. What's wrong? Is it too small? Does it hurt?

Regulus: *shakes his head* No. It's perfect.

Sirius: Aww, I'm glad. Feels better right?

Regulus: Mhm.

Sirius: *sighs* I told you to stop using bandages to bind. You're gonna hurt yourself.

Regulus: I didn't have a binder to use.

Sirius: Well now you do. And this is a lot safer and comfier. Right?

Regulus: *nods*

Sirius: Yeah. Now, you have to promise me that you won't wear it for too long. If I find out that you've been binding longer than what's safe, I'm confiscating them. Understand?

Regulus: Mhm. I promise

Sirius: Okay.

Regulus: *hugs Sirius tightly* Love you

Sirius: *kisses the top of his head* Love you, too. Now, let's get you to class.

[darkbluekies]

The OCs search history <3

Silas:

"How to take care of ptsd in partner"

"How to make someone stop crying"

"How to make your partner forgive you"

"Best restaurant"

"Dark web"

"Diamond ring/neckace/earrings/bracelet"

"Best steak"

"How to stop people from gawking at my partner"

"Protein powder"

"Best soap to wash away blood from skin"

"Best detergent to wash away blood from clothes"

"Best cleaning supplies to wash away blood from walls"

"Best spray to keep blood smell away"

"Five star restaurant booking"

"Why are my clothes thrown out the window?"

Dr Kry:

"Morphine"

"Book series without explicit scenes"

"Healthy recipes"

"How to frame someone for murder"

"Am I secretely perverted"

"Forged signatures without watermark"

"Protein shakes"

"What happens if you mix poision with alcohol"

"Puzzles"

"PG-13 rated movies without angst or horror"

"Plushies"

"Needles"

"How to become an author?"

"How to know if your strict childhood has had any impact on your mental health"

"How to get over your phobia for germs?"

"Strong caffeine drinks"

King Edmund (let's pretend he has internet for a hot minute):

"Is it really dictatorship if I let people complain"

"Ptsd test"

"Why doesn't my wife talk to me?"

"Nightmare analysis"

"How to cheer up an angry wife"

"Can a queen rule over a king?"

"How much alcohol can you drink before you get knocked out?"

"Beatiful dresses for a queen"

"Jewelry for a queen"

"Are public executions a good fear tactic?"

"How do women's anatomy work?"

"Can you punish theft by death?"

"Can you cook rats?"

"Why are little kids scared of me?"

Jerry:

"Is drinkable bleach a thing????"

"What to do if your s/o is a fucking loser"

"Is saying 'you're an idiot' synonyms for 'i love you'?"

"Guns"

"Knives"

"Sexy outfits that doesn't make me look like a fucking clown"

"How to ask someone out on a date without sounding like a loser"

"Impressive date ideas"

"Alcohol that will make me forget today, yesterday, tomorrow and a week forward"

"Spare parts to motorcycle"

"Why am I so fucking cool?????"

"Why am I so fucking miserable?????"

"How to hug your s/o without it being cringe"

"How to make your motorcycle go much faster?"

"Boxing gloves"

"40 boxes of *your favorite snack*"

Hedwig:

"Aestethic wedding ideas"

"Is baby trapping illegal?"

"Is nepotism really that bad?"

"How to guilt trip someone"

"Utterly obsessed with my partner"

"How to be a good kisser"

"Dark web"

"Buy hitmen"

"How to bankruptcy someone"

"How to impress your partners parents"

"Best flowers for dates"

"Best hotel resorts for couples"

"Can you become a super model without school grades"

"Love poems"

"Poison"

"*your adress*"

"Best perfumes to seduce someone"

"*your instagram*"

"*your name*"

"How do I know if I'm blocked on social media"

[tadpolesonalgae]

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You — Part 23

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: I’m so relieved to finally be getting to this fun part of the story!

word count: 5,699

-Part 22-

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Already there’s a horse and cart in the street, trunks and chests neatly stacked in the back, iron padlocks weighing heavy to keep possessions sealed. Blankets and rugs are tied in bundles, bedsheets and pillowcases that you can still smell, remember the feel of them; the warmth they retained. The heat of bare skin flush to your back. Sleepy golden eyes, sharp even when softened by early morning light. 

There’s a lump in your throat. 

Held between two chests is an open-topped crate, a myriad of personal belongings jumbled about inside: a box you know contains golden rings, his favourite being the one plain band that wraps two hands around his thumb, clinging snugly; a board game you’d tried to play after drinking, back before you’d become closer than friends; wooden goblets with geometric designs burned into their curve; a pair of glasses with circular, coloured lenses. A stack of something wrapped in cloth which must be crockery, ceramic plates with illustrations of crude figures pick-axing ice. A neatly folded quilt is tied down to one of the chests, the one that had been tucked over the back of his armchair, made up of pinks, oranges, magentas, and turquoise. Small tassels hanging off the ends that he’d made himself. 

The door to his house is propped open with a wedge crafted of iron, featuring a rabbit in a coat with carrots stuffed in his pockets. Bas’ figure emerges from the comparative darkness lofting a second, smaller crate in his arms. His eyes find yours but he makes no reaction save for the tightening of the skin at his knuckles. He exits through the waist-high wooden gate, walking to the back of the cart to heft the crate in front of the one your eyes had been previously resting on. “Hi,” you say, stepping closer but pausing a respectful distance away. Bas makes no sign of acknowledgement, muscles in his forearms flexing as he hefts the crate into place, pressing it flush to the back. You consider walking away—he clearly isn’t interested in speaking with you, but… “You’re leaving already?” 

Bas turns, his expression unchanging, still retaining the frown of concentration from transporting heavy objects to and fro but seemingly colder now you’ve appeared. His stature casts a shadow over you. “Something you want?” He asks, tone clipped but not quite sharp enough to be impatient. Softened at the end. You watch him for a moment—nothing seems sufficient enough or appropriate. ‘I’m sorry’, ‘I miss you’, ‘how are you’. Would any of those suffice? You can’t imagine them doing so. Instead you shift on your feet, casting a portion of your attention to the moving wagon standing stationary at the foot of his front garden. “It looks like you’ll be gone soon,” you observe, speaking quieter than normal for an open day. After a beat, Bas folds his arms over his chest. “Either tomorrow or the day after.” Golden eyes shift to the cart, glancing over the trunks, “Ma’s still got a few things to pack, but once those are loaded we’ll be off.” 

Off and gone to the Winter Court, almost entirely out of your reach. You only have six months left to live—do you have enough time to spend on giving him space? You can’t expect him to forgive you so suddenly, so swiftly. People aren’t made like that. But can you risk that time? If you die before seeing him again, or if this is the last time you see him you can’t risk being anything other than honest. But being honest in a situation like this…you need the time to pass to give it the deserved weight. Springing your timeline on him… You don’t want to tell him like this. So instead you look over your shoulder, glancing back into his house. “Got any more boxes that need carrying?” 

“Carrying boxes isn’t going to fix shit,” Bas mutters, the poisoned tone catching you off guard. Have you earned yourself that venom? Apparently so. 

“I just want to help,” you murmur, looking back at him. “I might not get to see you again.” 

“Your sister’s High Lady. I’m sure reaching Winter Court would hardly require a lift of her fingertips,” Bas snaps. His lips press themselves together, like he regrets the outburst. You look down, peering at the cobbles beneath your feet and give a small shake of your head. “I… If you don’t want me there, I won’t visit.” The words sting your throat like bile, hating how they sound on your tongue. “If you want your space I won’t intrude. But it… Obviously I’d like to be able to see you again.” 

A few beats pass without a reply, the quiet resting on your shoulders and you make an effort not to let it ruin the moment. You clear your throat, shaking off the mood and glancing up at him, “So. Any crates I can take?” Your heart quickens—if he denies you here it’s a full stop. You can’t imagine you’d be able to find him again if you lose him. The Winter Court is large, and their ties already strained with the Night Court—there’ll be no strings to pull. But it’s his decision now. It’s in his hands. 

Bas’ jaw works, his eyes narrowing on you in a way they haven’t done in a long time, but it seems he relents, nodding once toward his house, a loc falling across his temple with the sharp movement. “There are two small boxes in the front entrance, one contains shoes and fabrics, and the other contains herbs. Herbs go on top, yeah?” You nod your head, keeping the smile locked up tight. “Herbs go on top.” 

The box full of shoes is surprisingly weighty and you wonder if there are more than a few pairs of boots inside, studded with metal that might be weighing the crate down in your arms. Still you manage, sliding it into place on the last row of space available in the wagon before heading back to collect the box of herbs. You can pick out some of the scents: tarragon, mint, thyme. A hint of pepper and cardamon. The slight warmth of cinnamon and ginger. Rosemary. “I won’t forgive you if you try and make off with my herb box,” a voice calls from further inside. 

You start, gripping the small chest tight. 

Bas is watching from the living room doorway that leads to the hallway, stairs appearing behind him and the kitchen a little further beyond. It’s disturbing in a surreal way, to be standing inside the bones of his home. Gone are the dried herbs and flowers that had been strung along the walls and ceiling beams, rug removed from the floors and furniture sparse of cushions and quilts. Everything that made it a home, every personal detail seems to have been painstakingly stripped away, leaving only that scent of rosemary and freshly tilled earth that has familiarity stretching aching limbs in your chest. 

You summon a huff of laughter, glinting down at the plain chest. “It’s certainly tempting me…” You remember trying foods with him. Things you didn’t have access to in the woods. Dishes you wouldn’t have had access to even if you’d remained in high society. All the different herbs and spices they have here, in Prythian. The range of climates allowing for a variety of taste to grow. You remember the first time he’d soaked chicken in wine among other things, how the meat had tasted a little more bearable, flavoured and soft and tender. Feeling more like meat than leather, without the salty burn to help preserve the food.

“One more upstairs then it’s on Ma.” Bas’ statement cuts through the silent memories washing through, bringing a tremble to your fingertips but you nod. Once you load this chest into the wagon then it’s done on your end. Nothing to keep the conversation going. You manage a small smile but don’t meet his eyes as you turn with the chest in hand, walking it out to the cart and loading it in. From inside you pick out the footfalls of Bas descending the staircase and you stand back to give him room. He slides the box into place and lifts the panels of wood that will prevent any trunks from sliding out on an uphill, latching it in place. Safe and secure. 

For some reason you can’t look at him. As if looking at him will mean acknowledging it’s over, and he’s going away. 

For a moment you simply stand alongside the wagon, neither sure what to say, what to do now the shared task has been completed. Now it’s time for another decision to be made. 

Bas breaks the silence. “Thanks for the help.” You look at him, running your eyes over his expression, trying to gain hints to what’s okay to reply with. Trying to make the right choices. “Thanks for letting me help,” you reply, clearing your throat and glancing back to the wagon. Bas pats his hand once against the wood, shifting to lean his weight against the structure. “We’re going to be heading up northeast first,” he tells you and your ears prick with hope. “Ma’s got a sister who lives around there—near the coast. They haven’t spoken in a long time, but she figured if we’re moving it would be good to let her know.” 

You nod your head slowly. “Have you met your aunt before?” Bas shrugs his shoulders, his eyes skating across belongings piled up in the back, “don’t think so. Not one I can remember, at least.” You nod again, looking toward the cobbles. You should be going. Letting him get on with packing up and moving. “I hope-” Your voice catches and you have to clear your throat, swallowing a breath. Looking up a little to meet his eyes. “I hope things are better for you, wherever you go. For you and your mother.” Is that too far? Have you pushed too much? Bas seems to be asking himself the same questions, and you hope he comes to a different conclusion. 

“Pa mentioned a statue to me once,” he says softly. “One made entirely out of ice, with snakes carved, wrapping around the feet of the first High Lord of the Winter Court. Apparently it’s about the height of one of the Old Pine’s and every scale of the snake’s skin was carved by the same hand.” Bas shifts, his golden eyes locking with yours. “I hadn’t thought much of it, but we’ll be trying to find a spot around that statue since it’s where Pa grew up. Something he remembered from his childhood.” 

Your heart falls numb for a second before skipping into a swift pulse, bumping against your ribs and you take in a subtle breath. You nod your head. Ice statue with snakes. Relief strikes so hard your legs are weakened, having to shift your weight from one hip to the other so a knee doesn’t buckle. “I hope you get to see it,” you manage, sounding strained before you swallow, nodding your head. “I hope you find what you’re looking for there.” 

Bas’ mouth tightens into something that might have been a smile, then he’s nodding his head once in reply and patting the cart again. “I need to check on Ma now—see how she’s managing with packing.” He pushes off from the wagon, and you turn to watch him pass through the waist-high garden gate. He pauses. 

“Give me some time though, yeah? I need…time. Some space. Let me adjust and settle down for a bit.”

You nod your head, happy enough he seems to be allowing you to visit. You can work from there. Earn back his trust. You realise he has his back turned and can’t see you, so offer your reply, “I will.” You want to say more. I’ll miss you until then. I’m sorry. Thank you. 

But, time. 

You still have some of that left to give. 

————

You take your time walking back to the River House, following the Sidra for some way. Affording yourself the allowance to peer in shop windows, gaze at people going about their lives, wondering about what their own stories are. 

You’re happy Bas decided to tell you. Not just about where he would be moving to but about the route he’d be taking to bypass his aunt. You know he didn’t have to tell you. You weren’t entitled to that knowledge, but he decided to tell you anyway. A small piece of forgiveness—a small, tentative first step. After so much darkness in your life it seems like a tiny star twinkling in the sky, clouds parting just long enough to catch a glimpse. A promise that there is good in the world, and if you’re in a bad place now it would be foolish to stop. 

You need to keep going in order to escape it. 

————

The kitchen is surprisingly full when you enter the entry way, discarding your cloak and outer layers to the hooks on the walls, taking care to ease out the ties of your boots before also discarding them alongside other sets. 

Inside there’s no need for jumpers or cloaks, fleeces or scarves. A muffled pop of a log sounds from the living room, honestly sounding closer to someone stepping heavily on an upper floorboard but there’s something about the warmth that tells you the fire’s lit. That and you can make out the faded orange flicker on the wall parallel to the living room’s door where flame light is colouring the cream wallpaper. The smell of heated food catches your attention and your stomach shifts in response, squeezing itself together in complaint as if to remind you of how empty it is. Some warmed bread and butter would be lovely to start the day with. There might even be some chilled clotted cream available in the ice-enchanted larder. 

Rounding the corner, you’re sure you haven’t ever seen the kitchen so full. Glancing at the clock mounted on the wall beside the crockery cabinet however, you realise it’s approaching lunch time. You suppose it makes sense—if Madja’s at ten O’clock and you left after that to visit Bas, then taking your time to walk back will have brought you to lunch. That would explain the business. 

Already there’s crackling from cooking oil on the stove, the smell of heated bread and salt, the slight fattiness of meat mixing with the sweetness of sliced fruit coming from another side of the large kitchen. An egg cracks and you hear the sizzle of it as it hits the pan, the knock of steel as it slices into a chopping board, the smell of chives, onions, and tomatoes greeting you next. On the main table sits sliced bread, baked through with diced olives and rosemary, butter sitting ready for the taking on a platter with a flattened knife propped on the tray’s side. 

Feyre, Mor, and Amren are already seated at the table, each with a plate of what appears to be mashed potato surrounded by steamed beans and thickly cut ovals of tender meat. Amren's plate holds meat more that anything else. Feyre tips a deep boat of spiced sauce over her mash so it drizzles atop the vegetables before passing the boat to Mor, seeming not to care they’re eating in the kitchen rather than the connected dining room. Nesta barks something at Cassian over the loud fritz of the oil and he passes two plates to her side before returning to the chopping board, a few moments later stepping close to her side to slide the sliced chives into the pan with the eggs. A shadow whisks past you into the room, depositing salt and pepper to the side of the stove before hurriedly returning the way it had come. You turn your head quick enough to catch as it scampers back to the upper floors, disappearing through the ceiling. 

At a side along the window-lined wall is Elain, pressing her fork into some well-mashed banana before scraping it off onto some toasted bread, already softened with butter. You make your way over, taking the serrated bread knife from beside her plate to cut a slice yourself, liking the look of the thick crust and seed-scattered bread. Her eyes find you and a smile follows swiftly after, taking in your appearance, “Was it you I heard come in?” You nod, holding the bread firmly as you grind the knife forward to cut the crust, “I forgot to eat breakfast before heading out and lost track of time.”

Pulling a plate down from one of the stacks inside a cabinet with a window in you move the slice from the chopping board, “You’re having lunch?” Elain’s cheeks warm, her lips tightening as she looks guiltily out onto the front garden. “My sleep was troubled,” she admits, “I only awoke around ten thirty this morning.” 

Your brows furrow. “You’re sleeping poorly?” 

“It seems that way.” Elain exhales, pausing the sweep of her knife across the mashed banana. “It’s just the same thing over and over again. I wish the beginning would fade now it’s passed but apparently I must watch the whole sequence from start to finish.” 

She’s still getting the vision? 

You look away from her—down to the side table, “I’m sorry.” But Elain shakes her head, sighing once more before straightening her shoulders. “I’m okay. It’s just a bit of lost sleep.” Before you can ask her anymore however, the sound of footsteps catch your attention, Rhysand and Azriel apparently having finished up whatever had been keeping them from joining the lunch. Elain pushes a smile to her lips then gestures with her eyes to the table, suggesting taking a seat. You follow after her. 

“Finally given up work to grace us with your presence?” Feyre muses, resting her chin atop the smooth skin of her tough knuckles. Rhysand lifts a brow, his mouth curving with a fondness specifically meant for his mate, “I gave you plenty of attention this morning, Feyre.” But your youngest sister doesn’t blush like you would have had a lover repeated those same words for you. Instead her mouth matches his curve, blue-grey eyes alight with twinkling mischief as she inclines her head toward Azriel. “In fact I was speaking to your Shadowsinger. His presence is much more appreciated.” The male in question dips his head by a degree, taking his seat beside Amren as silently as possible while the High Lord and Lady continue their domestic teasing. 

“Is that so?” Rhysand remarks, seating himself in the chair to Feyre’s right, opposite Mor. “Will you tell me what’s so much more appreciated about my brother’s presence than my own?” Feyre arches a brow, her smile widening, “I wouldn’t want to hurt your ego, preening and engorged as it is.” Rhys’ expression shifts to something verging on smug but Mor stabs a thick oval of meat with her fork, lifting it from the plate, shifting it between Rhys and Feyre, “enough from both of you. I don’t want to hear this over lunch.” The compass point of her fork settles on her cousin, Mor’s nose wrinkling, “Az also isn’t a smug bastard, unlike someone else I can think of.”

Elain takes the open seat beside Rhysand and opposite Amren, setting her plate down and drawing her chair back, leaving you to stiffly take the one at her side, across from Azriel. What poor seating choices you’ve all made.

Behind Amren and Azriel, Nesta presses to Cassian’s side who’s holding the plates aloft, keeping them steady as Nesta transfers the four eggs in the pan between them, two soft yolks for the two slices of buttered bread atop each plate. 

“Azriel also remembered to bring me blood more frequently than yourself, Rhys,” Amren drawls from opposite Elain, a wicked croon on her crimson-cut mouth. “Even when he didn’t want information from me,” she adds pointedly. Rhys tilts his head, a plate appearing out of thin air before him on the table along with cutlery and a napkin, “and who’s to say those weren’t gifts sent along from myself?” But Amren doesn’t fall for it, reaching for a glass of red wine, “You won’t fool me, boy.” Rhysand shrugs his shoulders, unbothered by her relaxed attitude. “I suppose if you were still of the inclination to accept bottles of lamb’s blood you’d be receiving a box’s worth. I have a request to make of you.” 

Amren inclines her head, the black cut of her hair slicing along her sharp jaw, faint interest in her silver eyes, “Pray tell”.

Nesta casts salt and pepper over the plates of eggs and chives, then the two of them join the table. As Cassian departed before Nesta, he fills the seat to your right, while Nesta settles in the space opposite him, to Azriel’s left. The only way the current arrangement could be made worse is if Rhysand and Elain were to swap seats. You grimace internally and treasure her presence. 

The High Lord inclines his head to Azriel whose shadows settle a map of Prythian to the centre of the kitchen table. “Cassian and Nesta have already checked through Helion’s libraries. That means excluding the Night Court, there are five other Courts to examine.” As he speaks, thin shadow seeps across the parchment to darken the land of Night and Day, signalling they’ve each been studied.

“Between us,” Rhysand continues, “we can split between those remaining Courts, in turn accessing their libraries. Where I’ll need your help, dear Amren, is translating the books we encounter in the Old Language. I would rather not have to take them all on myself.” Rhysand pauses, lifting violet eyes from the map to the slight female diagonal from his seat, “What do you say?” 

Amren seems to consider his request and you have to fathom how respected she is to so idly take her time considering a request from a High Lord. A few beats pass as her grey eyes trace the island, then blood red lips are cutting into a grin, moon-white teeth flashing in her mouth, “I think I’m going to enjoy opening my Solstice presents this year.” 

Rhysand smiles and you wonder if he was confident Amren would accept or whether this was a gamble on his part. Feyre would probably be able to tell.

Across from the High Lord, Mor clinks her glass with Amren’s, the two females grinning from the other side of the table. There’s a smile on Feyre’s face but you imagine it’s one of those ones that rather than being of your own choice is truly the result of the infectious kind of happiness—seeing people you love enjoying themselves. 

From the other end of the table however, Nesta is studying the map, her silver eyes not even scanning the table before they’re finding Rhysand—suitably distanced from one another. “Five courts and seven of us. I would think you and Feyre would be remaining in the Night Court, leaving us with a court each,” Nesta points out, her tone verging on mild boredom. Steel glints in her hands as cutlery catches the light. “Do you intend for us each to cover the libraries of a court, or do you possess secret reinforcements on hand?” 

The beat of pause that follows her inquiry stretches a fraction of a second longer than it normally would, the tensing as if preparing for a collision to occur as it always feels when those two acknowledge one another. But Rhysand inclines his head to his right and the tension dissipates as swiftly as it had gathered. “I wouldn’t call your sisters secrets,” he muses, slowly. “But yes: reinforcements.” 

You blink. 

From the stiffness of Elain’s shoulders you imagine this is news to her, too, which brings you some level of comfort. More comfort when Elain is the one who meets Rhysand’s gaze, asking, “scouring the libraries for—what?” The relief settles deep. This setting is mildly frightening as it is without the pressure of handling easily observable interactions with others.

Rhysand’s attention settles onto Elain but you get the strange feeling it’s somehow also extending to yourself, “I believe Lucien mentioned the matter of the Prison.” Violet eyes flick over to you. “And that Feyre offered an explanation of the situation last night?” You avoid an answer by diverting your own attention to Elain who is still watching the High Lord. She nods. 

“Would you be willing to help?” Rhysand asks, without much preamble. 

Help? Help how? If it means coming into contact with a single creature that’s supposed to be inside that Prison your answer has to be a firm no. If it means attempting to wield even an ounce of your magic that seems to be sucking the marrow from your bones every passing day your answer has to be a firm no. If it means- 

Your thinking time comes to an end when Elain nods her head, and violet eyes once again flick past her onto yourself. Decision time.

You shift in your seat, unwilling to offer a definite answer, “If I can.” 

The High Lord nods and again you wonder if it was a gamble in relying on your help. As Nesta pointed out, one each to a Court seems an impossible task. But how are two extras going to aid that task? You’d have to pair up, but there would still not be enough of you. This seems to be Rhysand’s next subject matter as he again nods to Azriel, shadows pulling the map closer to the centre of the table so all can see it. Besides you, Cassian’s torso blocks out light as he leans forward, wings casting shadow upon the floor as you each examine the map with new eyes.

“So who’s tasked with which Court?” The General asks, “And who’s taking a solo trip?” 

Instinctively you’d imagine Azriel and Mor would be the two to travel solo—they seem to be the most suited to handling a task like this on their own, but what do you know?

“Well you certainly won’t be visiting Summer Court after obliterating that building,” Mor deadpans. 

“It shouldn’t have been built there,” Cassian replies with a look of mischief.

Leaning closer, Nesta nods her head to the map, “I don’t think Spring Court is a good idea for Cassian and I. I could manage Tamlin but I threatened him the last time I saw him.” Cassian’s smile widens. You guess it makes sense those two would be a pair. “If Summer Court is off the table then we’ll take either Dawn Court or Autumn Court.” 

Right.

Someone’s going to have to scour the Autumn Court. 

Besides you, Elain clears her throat. “I could go to the Spring Court.” She shifts in her seat, nodding to the lower portion of fae-inhabited lands. “I’m sure if I asked, Lucien would be willing to accompany me, and we have an alliance with them, too. I don’t imagine the High Lord of Spring being a great threat to myself but he certainly won’t be to Lu.” It’s a surprisingly sound argument. But if Elain pairs with Lucien than means you’ll be either with Mor or Amren—unless you could remain here and help search any other books in the Night Court with Feyre. 

Just as you’re about to offer the option however, Azriel speaks. “Are your ties with Viviane still sustaining, Mor?”

Mor nods her head though her smile fades almost imperceptibly.

The Shadowsinger nods. “If Mor handles the Winter Court, and Elain and Lucien take the Spring Court, that leaves Dawn, Summer, and Autumn between the rest of us.” Azriel’s shadows shift, further darkening the Courts now with assigned explorers. “Feyre and Rhysand will be staying here, taking care of ruling and the Illyrian texts?” 

The High Lord nods his head, “I’ll be covering the Hewn City, too, and splitting any ancient books between Amren and myself. Feyre will be helping with newcomers.”

“And if Cassian and Nesta are planning to move together that leaves the Summer Court,” Azriel states, hazel eyes find your own set across the table, “which you and I will cover.” 

You try to convince yourself the silence that passes over the table doesn’t stretch like you think it does. 

Hazel eyes hold yours for a second longer before returning back to the map, the Summer Court now tentatively cast in shadow. “That means Cassian and Nesta can take either Dawn or Autumn, but one pair will have to take two courts.” 

At your side, Elain fumbles. “She could come with me,” Elain pushes, “I’m sure she could help in Spring.” 

“Or with me and Cassian,” Nesta presses. 

“She could stay here,” Feyre adds, then turns to Rhysand. “Besides, the Summer Court libraries are part of the Old Temple they have which are deep in the jungle, aren’t they?” Her blue-grey eyes fall to the map, brows pinched, standing from her chair and Mor slides the map along so Feyre can jab her nail to the thick jungle of the Summer Court, an X marked in its middle. “Those jungles are dense, aren’t they,” Nesta adds, glancing to Cassian, a hard look on her face, “no flying overhead.” 

“Which is why we should be the ones to go,” Azriel says, keeping calm but firm. 

Nesta narrows her eyes, silver boring into the male at her side. “The creatures in that jungle are magical, like most of the beasts spread across Prythian. Not to mention poison and venom, and parasites in water streams unless you know which are fresh and safe to drink from. Even the beetles can be lethal, so unless you take a guide which may alert your presence in a foreign court, it will be too dangerous.” 

“Then it’s perfect that she can tell the difference between the poisonous creatures and the harmless ones.”

Azriel holds Nesta’s gaze for a beat before turning to you. “You’ve read about the jungle haven’t you. About the creatures inside?”

You mentioned the spiders the other day.

“I can go with her instead,” Nesta says, eyes sharpening. 

“You won’t be able to protect her as well as I can.” There’s no condescension in his statement, just fact. She’s learning from him and Cassian how to fight, after all. How to wield a blade. 

Nesta’s eyes remain sharp, not straying a second from their target. The temperature seems to rise, air thickening. You swallow, tongue flicking out over dry lips, “I could tell them apart.”

“No. You already have a limited life-span; you aren’t shortening it any further,” Nesta says calmly, her eyes still piercing into Azriel. And yet it’s Elain who shifts again in her seat, sitting straighter, “If she says she can tell the difference, she can tell the difference.” Elain looks over to you, a small smile on her lips. “She’s the best one to send to the Summer Court.”

A muscle flickers in Nesta’s jaw, a few, heavy moments of tension weighing through the room that have your pulse spiking for no discernible reason. Then it ends, and Nesta looks back to the map. “So Cassian and I will take the Dawn Court and the Autumn Court.” 

“You’ll only be taking the Dawn Court.” At the sound of Rhysand’s voice, Nesta’s eyes turn pure silver for a fraction of a second.

She arches a narrow brow, her expression sharper than an Illyrian blade. “So you’ll send Mor instead?” She asks, the hiss of slicing steel underlying her honed tone. “Or do you think you can get Lucien to squeeze his way back into his home-Court?” There’s a dangerous challenge in her silver eyes. 

“Neither,” the High Lord answers, slowly. “Feyre, Amren, and I will remain here. Myself searching the libraries the priestess’ cannot cover, Amren for backup on the ancient texts, and Feyre with helping as we begin a slow evacuation of the towns surrounding the Prison as a precaution and preventative. Mor will cover Winter, Elain and Lucien will cover Spring, and you and Cassian will cover Dawn.”

Even Feyre’s looking at him strangely.

“The Summer Court boarders the Autumn Court,” Rhysand states. “We can’t afford to waste time making extra journeys.” 

So you and Azriel will be taking both the Summer Court, and the Autumn Court. 

Rhysand breaks his gaze with Nesta only to find your eyes further along the table. They’re steadfast. Grounded. “Will you manage that?” 

Why put that decision on you? 

You look across the table to Azriel—why had he of all people volunteered to pair up with you? His logic checks out, but wouldn’t Mor have been able to ward off any magical creatures? Then again, your relationship with Mor isn’t the best… 

Azriel gives no clue to his emotions, other than a subtle incline of his head. 

Your throat rolls, but you force yourself to look back at Rhysand, and offer a nod of your head, “I can manage.” 

All seven Courts are ensconced in shadow. 

————

You sigh as you settle into bed, tucking yourself close between the duvet and mattress. Plumping the pillow beneath your cheek as you curl your knees to your chest. 

You’ll be leaving in three days, but bypassing a coastal town Northeast of Velaris. The condition of you entering the Summer Court jungle was you’d at least have some kind of protection other than Azriel. The sea-town is also the only town outside of Illyria that will sell Illyrian blades, and Illyrian leather from the wild oxen that inhabit the unforgiving terrain of the steppes, its hide significantly tougher to compete with the rocky climate and freezing nights.

You don’t like the idea of having to carry a blade of your own, but you suppose, knowing some of the creatures within, you’d rather be with it than without it. Although you’ve yet to decide whether you’ll be visiting Autumn first or Summer. 

But that’s a decision for tomorrow. 

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

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[adrienneleclerc]

Hi! I saw that requests were open and i don't know of you do "part 2's" but this is about Lando latest story (the "what's for dinner b****h") can you do a part 2 with the reactions to the video (the other Quadrant guys, the other drivers, the fans) thank you so much ❤

Hey, babes! So I do part 2’s if it’s something people really want and reactions sound super fun to do! You know that sound of “how the fuck did he not die?!?” That’s what everyone is thinking!

Part 2

Pairing: Lando Norris x Latina! Reader

Summary: Lando’s Quadrant post had millions of views, which means there are millions of people reacting to it, his colleagues included.

Warning: spelling and grammatical errors because I refuse to read it over

Lando posted his video about 5 minutes after editing everything. Carlos got the notification when he was boxing so he decided to sit on a bench in the gym and watch the video his friend and ex-teammate posted.

“Knowing my girlfriend, she will not act so sweetly to me calling her a bitch…” Lando said in the video and Carlos paused it.

“Got that right cabrón, have you met her?” Carlos said. He was the one that introduced Lando to Y/N since she’s friends with Rebecca, he resumed the video.

“…but I want to know how she reacts.” Lando said.

“Not well, my muppet friend.” Carlos said. He watched the video and as soon as Lando said “bitch, what’s for dinner?” He saw Y/N’s face change while she was making dinner.

When Carlos finished the video, he just had one thought on his mind, and he called Lando. Two rings later…

“Hel..” Lando didn’t even finish his greeting.

“How the fuck did you not die?!?” Carlos asked, practically screaming, Lando pulled the phone away from his ear, and brought it close again once Carlos is done.

“Oh, you saw the video.” Lando said nonchalantly, looking over at Y/N who was making popcorn.

“Yeah, i saw, how did Y/N not do anything after you called her a bitch?” Carlos asked and Lando gasped offendedly.

“She threatened my life! I hardly call that nothing.” Lando said.

“She was kidding.” Carlos said.

“I Don’t think she was, I’ll talk to you later, mate.” Lando said. As soon as he hung up, his phone rang again. “Yes?”

“There’s no way Y/N was okay with you calling her a bitch.” Oscar said.

“Why a re you talking about Y/N like she’s the victim, she threatened to kill me!” Lando exclaimed.

“It’s a girl thing, Lando. Lily says that she wants to grow aconite flowers.” Oscar said but considering Lando’s pause, he knew that Lando did not know what he was talking about. “It’s wolfsbane, poisonous.”

“How are you not concerned by this?” Lando asked.

“She listens to true crime podcasts, it’s a girl thing. Don’t forget to train.” Oscar says, hanging up. Lando moves to the couch and Y/N puts popcorn in a big bowl so they could watch a movie together in the living room.

“What was that about, fresita?” Y/N asked.

“Nothing, baby girl, just my friends talking about my prank video.” Lando said.

“Ah that, we’re trending on YouTube, the posts has so many comments.” Y/N said, opening her phone to YouTube,

“No way, let me see.” Lando said, Y/N handed Lando her phone and he clicked the video and began reading the comments.

Land-hoe: you could see the terror in Lando’s eyes when she mentioned research chemicals 😂

GP Queen: the second he said he was going to call Y/N a bitch, I knew he was going to fear for his life, I was right.

User32: there is no way Y/N is that unhinged, how can she threaten her boyfriend like that?

Oscah Girly: that’s how they are, they’re so April and Andy from Parks and Rec.

LN4💕: yes!! They’re so black cat and golden retriever

Ferrari slut: I love how he apologized immediately after, he’s so sweet to her

“Well they got one thing right, you are definitely the black cat to my golden retriever.” Lando said, giving Y/N a kiss on the forehead,

“Thanks, Lando, but the both of us are more like chaotic orange cats.” Y/N said and Lando laughs.

“You’re not wrong.” Lando said.

The next day, Lando was scrolling through TikTok and saw someone upload a part of Max’s stream from yesterday. The part where Max reacts to Lando’s prank video

“Lando was super brave for calling Y/N a bitch while she was holding a knife…good an her for setting boundaries…see, right after setting boundaries, Lando fixed his behavior. Lando does a lot of stupid shit but that man loves Y/N with all his heart and would never call Y/N or any other girl a bitch, he’s respectful like that.” Max said in the clip. Lando liked the video and kept scrolling.

The End

Hope y’all liked it!

[pricetagged]

The usual from me, I'm afraid. I'm back at my nonsense, typing up wife-hunter John while I take a break from tidying my apartment (: Here's part iii! (there will be more reader/john in part iv )

Masterlist l Previous

Content: More stalking, manipulation, voyeurism & marital sabotage. John's a bad man and I want him viscerally <3

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It tears at him, rends flesh from bone with sharp little teeth. Corrugated. Rusty. It poisons his bloodstream, boils blood to madness and burns to feverish pitch.

It's a trap of his own design, and he just had to poke at it. He set it up, jaw wrenched wide and trigger taut and, god, he had to touch it. Had to feel the bruising pleasure bloom then give to something sharper. Sweeter.

In his more reflective moments he wonders if setting up the cameras was a good idea. He's a possessive old bastard and he's torn; not because of any hand-wringing morals, no. No, but rather that he's left himself licking along the knife's edge, close enough for it to cut if he presses hard. He can touch it. It's in his grasp, but he's not fully confident that he's the only one wielding it.

There are too many variables still.

And it's left him here, testing the pressure of the razor-sharp rim and wanting to dig deeper. (He fisted at himself harder than usual that night, flesh aching and engorged and throbbing as the cold metal of your wedding ring bit at the veins and ridges of his length).

The screen is his most hated ally. Pixels and light; the blue sheen. The static blur that raises the hair on his arms as he caresses your image. It's the sweetest torture, watching you boxed in by the four corners of a machine. Gazing on only the impression of you, shadowy and reflective, pacing the monitor. It's peiskos, but wrong. He has you in his home, but can only see and touch you in artificial impotence. It drives him wild, makes his throat ache and his head hot watching you, but not knowing how you taste.

That's not him, he thinks, having something that he can't fully possess. Even the bottle of 1926 Macallan locked in his cellaret has been cracked open, rolled around the palate and savoured before returned to the shelf. Locked safe behind glass, yes, but within reach.

He has to see you again. The trap is tightening, and isn't it funny that it's caught him too?

(His hand moved faster, pleasure simmering as he watched your wide eyes turn glossy and your voice grow thick. 'I don't know where it went! It must have fallen off in the garden, I swear!' Even being unable to taste it, to lick at your tears and feel you tremble-

-it had him tensing his thighs, body clenching in anger and heat as he listened to your apologies. As he listened to your pathetic, half-hearted moans. The way you gave in so sweetly, so eager to please and make good. Your husband's disgusting, breathy grunting. Weak. Unsatisfying-

-But it had his palm tightening around the tacky, swollen flesh at his tip. Slit leaking as the rage boiled his blood and sent it south in a paroxysm of rapture).

He sees Buck before he sees you. It's a necessary evil. No, that's not quite right. It's inevitable; it's reasonable. He needs to lay the bait, shuffle the leaves over it and let nature take its course.

It's a classic pub. A real boozer, where the floor is always slickly sticky and the walls are a cheery, tobacco-stained yellow. The kind of place that serves only pork scratchings and pints.

Your husband didn't expect to see him there. Fox in the henhouse, only he's too stupid to realise that he's the bird.

"System is running well, mate! Thanks. This round's on me," he claps at John's shoulder and does admirably well at hiding his nerves.

It has him smiling into the pint glass, schadenfreude as your husband subtly stretches his aching palm and paints on a wary smile.

(Foot hovering just above the spring; steel teeth ready to -)

"You here alone?" John sips at his drink, eyes scanning the dingy room until - yes, there in the corner he sees a familiar Union Jack cap. Good lad.

"No, no. My mates have just left. Like to linger, you know, for the company," he sends a wink to some pretty thing nursing a G&T by the window.

"Not enough company at home?" he tries to make it light, hoping that the gravel in his tone could be mistaken for interest. And it is, really, if prey drive could count as mere 'interest'.

Buck scoffs, rolling his eyes in a way that looks a lot like rolling belly-up. 'Tell me I'm a real man, look at me! I've got the pick of the flock'. "You know how it is. Gets boring, fishing in the same hole all the time, eh?"

"I wouldn't know," he hums, eyebrows drawn low in faux-consideration. Meets him dead in the eye, lets the mask drop for a just a second. Let's the words come out flat and dangerous. "I've never had a problem reeling in what I want."

The words linger, settling heavy and awkward in a way that has him licking his teeth. Tension so thick he can chew it, feel the fat and gristle rend under the strength of his jaw. It's heady watching the way your husband flounders, not sure how to react until the pack leader backs up and loosens the canines at his nape. Lets him breathe. It's a joke, really. Go on. Laugh. And he follows suit so easily. It's almost boring, he thinks, with eyes cold and muscles frozen under his fake smile as he watches the man chuckle.

"You've gotta stay, Price, that's a good one. One more drink, c'mon." Funny. He thinks that it's his right to give orders. He thinks that John's staying at his command.

John taps twice at the foamy rim of the glass. Catches his sergeant's eye from across the room. "Sure, why not."

It's time.

It's masterful, really, how well Gaz slips over. Greets Buck like an old friend. Drops hints and in-jokes that have the man chuckling along as his eyes flit about with confusion.

"Can't believe I've run into you, here. I thought I'd seen the last of you when you moved house, what, a year ago?" Kyle slides into the barstool on the left. Boxes him in, piggy in the middle. "Still with that finance company?"

"Yeah, yeah it's been a while," he trails off. Too proud to admit that he doesn't know Gaz. Has never met the man. John can feel the way his eyes keep flicking towards the side of his face. Needy. Histrionic.

"You lads catch up, have fun. I'm away for the night," he sets the empty glass at the bar with a soft thud. Makes a show of introducing himself to Gaz and waving the two of them off.

In the cool air of the smoking area he has a moment of fika. Cars roll by on a distant road. The muffled sound of laughter and murmuring filters through frosted pub windows. The rich, heavy smoke of his cigar swirls around and around until he's closing his eyes in the haze. It's slow, calming, and he takes a moment just to appreciate the hand that he's about to play.

He thumbs over the smudged screen of your husband's phone. Only 2 missed calls and 1 text.

>>Sorry to go on at you, but you said you were finishing work at 5 today. It's nearly 8 now. Can you at least let me know where you are? We were going to start that series tonight and I've been getting worried waiting for you :/

Poor, sweet thing. Polite, too. All love and care wasted on the pathetic, juvenile lump slumped over the bar right now. 

(It whets his appetite, seeing how well-trained you are. How you toe the line, defer to the farcical rules set out for you in your relationship. 'Stay at home. Don't blow up my phone.'

Would you come to heel for him? If a weak, useless hand could shape you so well, what could a strong one do?)

<< Sorry, baby. I goty caugtht up at the pub w some friends. HAd a few drInks. Cmome and get me? [LOCATION SHARED]

He flicks the stub of the cigar away as he pockets the phone.

Curtains up; show about to begin.

He settles into his seat, a well-worn booth. Threadbare, stained upholstery and faded coasters. It's shadowy here, tucked away in the corner but offering a perfect line of sight to the door. And right by that very door is Gaz, your husband, and the pretty thing from earlier.

The bell jingles; wind whistles in.

Gaz lets his grip slip, lets your husband slump in the seat until his head is resting against the neck of the woman he was chatting up. Fingers inching up her thighs as she laughs and flirts back.

"What..?" it's too noisy in here to hear you, but he's listened to your voice over and over. He knows just how your pitch is rising. The slight crack on the final consonant.

You stand, face screwed up as you try to make sense of the situation. But two plus two can only ever equal four, and your husband's hands up a skirt can only ever equal- 

"Hi, gorgeous. Here to meet someone?" his sergeant grins up at you. Plays the charmer so well. "Got an empty seat with us, if you fancy it."

There's a little bitterness cutting at the furl of your lips. You're holding it in so well but, god, the words must burn, coming out like bile. "What, sure that I'm not interrupting something?"

"No, no. He said he's just having a little fun. Said he wants something warm before he goes home to his bitch wife," Gaz chuckles, leaning towards you like he wants to whisper a secret. "Bit sick of hearing his complaining, if I'm honest. Makes her sound like a right harpy. But you could take my mind off it."

"Not sure about that," he sees the way your chest hitches. Sees the sob that you swallow down as you steel your expression. "I am the 'bitch wife'."

And it's magnificent. Kyle's played his part so well; stuck to the script like he's performing at The Globe. An ad-lib here, an improvisation there. He hands you a napkin, rubs at your shoulder as he looms over the treacherous tableau he fashioned for an audience of two. You, and John. Ache and Hunger; betrayal and mastery. He maneuvers you, keeps you from causing a bigger scene as he hauls your husband by the scruff of his jacket. Choreographs the steps so that John can see every last microcosm on the universe of your face.

It's his set, his design. He's the architect, director, and audience all in one.

(And that foolish, stupid player of yours tugged at the lure. Found himself swinging, tied up in the string).

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Ik reader wasn't really present here, but had to get the ball rolling (: Also I've been stressed and not sleeping so forgive me for this being a bit...

And yes. John stood there and put all the typos in that message on purpose. Unhinged.