#a court of bones and dust

[arson-09]

Catrin: I don’t want to kill rhysand but the parasites in me want to kill rhysand

[helenanell]

Contempt of Court || Challengers

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Art Donaldson X Fem!Reader 

CW: 18+ MDNI. Alcoholism / substance abuse. Suicidal ideation. Mentions of car crash/ injury, infidelity (technically - Art is still married to Tashi, but they’re separated) Angst. Smut. A little toxic.

Wordcount: 10.8K

Notes: No use of y/n. Set after the events of the film. Reader is a Tashi stan (There’s too much Tashi Duncan erasure happening and I won’t stand for it.) 

Summary: Still recovering from an injury that put your tennis career on pause, your publicist has landed you a deal to be an ambassador for Nike. What she doesn’t tell you, is that so is Art Donaldson: the player who bad-mouthed you in a live, post match interview two years ago. You only find out once it’s too late. 

 (This story was inspired by the dynamic between Billy and Daisy in Daisy Jones and The Six. But…make it tennis.)

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For eight agonising weeks, your wrist has been encased in a cast, but now that it’s finally off, you feel far from relieved.

 As the doctor had sawn into the plaster, producing a cloud of white dust like he was breaking into a bone instead of revealing a healed one, you had actually felt panicked. 

After the car crash, you had spiralled into a pit dug with your own self-pity and pain. And once you’d reached the bottom, you’d staved off the encroaching darkness with alcohol and too many painkillers. 

You’d taken drugs before at parties and drunk until you wiped your own memory, the consequence being waking up with your skull practically splitting open from pain. But there was something profoundly different about becoming intoxicated in the hopes of rendering yourself numb:

 You hated yourself whilst you were doing it, and once the harmful buzz wore off, you hated yourself a little bit more. 

You had become fast friends with shame in the past few months. 

You have been desperate to play again, screaming, crying and practically tearing off your own skin with the need to get back to work- to not let yourself fall behind or your ranking suffer. 

But, amongst the amalgamation of negatives there had been a sort of relief, too. Relief, because the choice had been taken away from you. 

The accident hadn't been your fault and nor could you force your bone to heal faster, so for a brief period of time, you had convinced yourself nothing was your fault. For once, you couldn’t be blamed for your own fall from grace. 

But now your bone had healed and if you didn’t give recovery your all, it would be your fault. If there was no triumphant comeback, it would be on you. 

Another thing to fail at. 

Another thing to lose. 

All of which only added to your bafflement over your publicist’s insistence on coming over this morning, in order to discuss ‘a major opportunity’ that wasn’t related to a competition. 

You had originally tried to worm out of it, but your coach had found out and given you the third degree. 

You’re already tired at the thought of it and you don’t even know what it is yet. You don’t want to think about anything but tennis. You don’t have the energy for it. 

In all honesty…you’re hanging on by a thread.

‘Drinking too much’ is a far too casual phrase for how you’ve been living: it has connotations of casualness- a glaring lack of stakes. For you, the stakes are unbelievably high.

You know you can’t afford to become alcohol dependent because even being a functioning alcoholic isn’t an option for you. The only way to function as an athlete—to maintain your career trajectory and the attain the US Open title—is to be at one hundred percent. 

Mixing your painkillers with straight vodka isn’t one hundred percent: it’s a cry for fucking help. Except you can’t let anyone hear the cry, you need to stifle it. 

It’s bad enough that pictures of you being rolled away from your totalled car in a gurney had been plastered over the internet for weeks after the accident. The alcoholic, pill popping tennis pro was a story that would never go away. 

It would morph into an ugly sort of infamy: you’d been in the exclusive club of American sweethearts and heartthrobs who had been hounded so much by the ‘devoted’, that it had driven them to substance abuse to drown out the noise and fortify against the flashing lights. 

So, no one could know. No one.

Which is why, as your publicist pulls into your driveway, you’re rushing to hide a half full bottle of vodka inside a hideously expensive—and also just hideous—vase that had been given to you as an engagement gift.

Two years ago, when your fiancé–and fellow tennis player–had been caught in 4k, kissing a barely legal actress from a HBO teen drama, you’d almost smashed the vase. But, something about destroying a gift from Serena Williams felt like spitting out the ambrosia a god had fed you from their very own hand.

So, while your ring had been thrown into a ravine (best not to dwell on that.) the vase had remained. 

The doorbell rings much sooner than you’re prepared for. Who knew a five-foot-two woman in heels could move so quickly? 

You run over to the door, chewing down on two pieces of gum you’d hastily shoved into your mouth to cover up the scent of alcohol. When you pull it open, you’re met with the stern face of your Publicist, Rebecca. She’s tiny but terrifying, her sharp features framed by a pitch black bob.

Sometimes, it does feel a bit like you’re talking to Edna Mode, but you’d never dare say that.

“Rebecca, hi!” You’re aware the greeting is too happy, and try not to grimace.

When you step back to allow her to enter, Rebecca frowns at you as she passes.

“Why are you fake smiling?” she questions. “Your cast is off, you should be actually happy.”

 You drop the toothy grin, wincing with embarrassment as you follow her into the kitchen.

“I am happy about that, obviously.” You clear your throat, overly aware of how disingenuous you still seem. “What I’m not exactly overjoyed about, is whatever this ‘opportunity’ is.” 

You watch as Rebecca grabs bottle of water from the fridge and then pulls out a stool to sit at the kitchen island. You follow suit, dropping down beside her.

“Well, you should be. I practically had to sell my soul to get them to pick you.”

You level her with an unimpressed look. “Wow, Rebecca, way to raise me up from rock bottom.”

She waves you away. “Oh, please! You hate when I coddle you.”

You huff, dropping your chin into hand and propping your elbow on the counter. “Okay, out with it then. What is it?” 

Rebecca’s cheeks split with a blinding grin. “Nike.” She declares gleefully. 

“Nike.” 

Her smile dampens, disappointed you haven’t burst into happy tears. “Yes, Nike. You know…Just Do It.”

“Yes, I do. I’d just prefer not, you know…do it.”

Your publicist looks just about ready to slap you. “You’re kidding. It’s Nike.”

“Oh, is it? You haven’t mentioned that.”

Rebecca’s frown becomes a scowl and you think about ducking when she angrily snatches up her water bottle. But she doesn’t throw it, just waves it around as she begins to rant at you: 

“Do you know how hard it was to get this?! They wanted Naomi Osaka but I convinced them to go for you instead. And christ knows they were hesitant after the US Open meltdown-”

“We agreed not to refer to it as a meltdown.” You cut in. “My therapist says it has negative connotations that, ‘make me feel a harmful degree of shame.’”

Rebecca scoffs. “You went to one session with that therapist and then fired her because you didn’t like that she drew you a diagram.”

“It was condescending: I’m not five, I don’t need visual aids.”

“Okay, just shut up!” Rebecca barks, smoothing down her still immaculate hair and taking a deep breath. “This isn’t actually up for discussion. You’re doing it.”

“I’m not doing it.”

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( Two Weeks Later… )

‘Just Do It.’ 

It’s the first thing you see when you walk into the Nike office for the photoshoot. 

The poster from a past campaign with Andy Murray has been blown up to ridiculous proportions and framed, hanging in on the first wall that greets anyone who enters.

“If they make mine that big I won’t be able to look at it. I’ll actually vomit. ” 

When Rebecca–who is the epitome of a chatterbox–remains silent, you turn you head to look down at her. She’s already peering up at you, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Your eyes narrow with suspicion. “What have you done?”

Rebecca lets out a laugh laced with unadulterated fear. “Okay…so, any minute now you’re going to be super fucking pissed at me and you have every right to be, but remember that as you’ve already signed the contract, you don’t have a right to walk out of here.”

You stare her down, knowing it doesn’t take much intimidation for her to crack. 

You don’t end up needing her to blabber, however, because not even five seconds later, the door you’d just come through swings open and a lone figure enters.

 As you turn, you feel your publicist actually take a step away from you.

“Rebecca, I’m going to kill you.” 

You’re not looking at her as you spit out the threat, your eyes are already boring into the man who’s noted your presence and is lingering just beyond the doorway. 

Your history with Art Donaldson is far from extensive. In fact, while the trajectory of your careers have practically run parallel, the two of you have spoken maybe twice. 

But then, almost two years ago, the U.S Open had happened. 

Still dealing with the fall out of your fiance’s cheating scandal, you’d been in potentially the worst mental space of your life. And yet, you had still made it to the final.

 But, during the match…well you’d sort of lost your shit. And then you’d just lost. It had been dramatic and mortifying. 

Then, with the dust not even close to settling, things had gotten even worse. 

Having just clinched the men’s singles trophy for himself, Art Donaldson had sat down for his live post-match interview and one of the first questions he’d been asked, was about your ‘comportment’ during the final. 

You would never forget his answer: 

'Well, obviously it’s a massive disappointment. In so many ways the match between those two women today was legendary. But it always stings when you see someone get in their own way. Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court: it’s infantile and disrespectful to staff and to the fans. It threatens to overshadow what was otherwise a phenomenal game of tennis for both of them.'

When he had then been pressed for his thoughts on what should be done in regards to sanctions, Art had simply said: ‘I think whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’

In a few minutes, Art had made you a subject of scorn as well as unwanted sympathy.  He’d made you sound simultaneously contemptible and pitiable. 

He was right, but he hadn’t needed to sound so sanctimonious when he’d said it. And telling the world your own mental anguish was probably torment enough, was just salt in the wound.

In your own defence, you had gone into the final right off the back of the announcement that your ex-fiancé’s new girlfriend was pregnant. And the dates had made it blindingly clear, that conception had happened whilst you were still with him.

 You’d never felt so worthless or dehumanised. And then, after you’d practically killed yourself playing the match of your life, only to lose, Art fucking Donaldson had felt the need to call out your behaviour. 

‘Anger like that doesn’t belong on the court.’ 

Anger ‘like that’ wasn’t something you’d brought to the competition in your overhead luggage, it was a parasite that had been poisoning your blood.

You’d thought that sort of self-cannibalising rage was in your past, bust as Art starts walking over to you, it rears its ugly head once more.

And he has the gall to smile at you. It’s an amicable, almost anticipatory smile. 

You barely even register when Rebecca ducks away, muttering something about finding the photographer. 

Art calls out your name as he stops before you, the corners of his eyes creasing as his smile intensifies. “It’s good to see you.”

“The feeling is not mutual.” You intone harshly.

Art’s smile doesn’t drop, it just becomes tighter, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “Ah- so you are still upset about what I said at the Open.” 

You glare at him, forcing yourself to stop gritting your teeth lest they shatter. “What could possibly make you think that I wouldn't be?”

Art laughs softly, running a hand through his short blonde hair. “Well, because your coach and your publicist both assured me that you weren’t.”

Those fucking traitors. 

It looks like you’ll be going into tomorrow with only your nutritionist and your physio left on your team.

“They lied.” You reply sharply. 

Art tilts his head, his gaze becoming brazen in the way it assesses your face. “Clearly.”

“Well, obviously this isn’t happening.” You gesture between the two of you. “I’m not doing a photoshoot, let alone an entire campaign, with you.”

“I don’t see why it can’t go ahead.” Art declares casually, his lips tugging upward as he observes your indignation. 

You take a step back, not trusting yourself not to lunge for him.

“Well, it’s a good thing I have little regard for your opinion then, isn’t it?”

Art's brows draw together, some irritation beginning to pollute his easy going demeanour. “You do care.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do care about my opinion, because f you didn’t, you wouldn’t still be this pissed over something I said years ago. 

“Pissed?” You almost choke on the word. “You made me sound pathetic. Weak. You insulted my entire career!”

“I seem to recall saying that your match was ‘legendary.’ Phenomenal, is another word I used.”

If there wasn’t so much anger writhing in your gut, you might have rubbed it in his face that for something he’s outwardly dismissing, he seems to remember what he said about you very well.

You step up to him, closing the distance in two strides.

“‘Whatever she’s feeling that made her act that way, is probably punishment enough.’ You said that about me in front of peers and fans in a live interview that was watched by thousands!”

“You’re telling me you don’t think you were out of line?” Art challenges, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning in. 

You know he’s not wrong: it hadn’t been your finest hour. In fact, the morning after, with your behaviour laid bare in the cold light and already being picked over by commentators and tabloids, you had been able to acknowledge it may very well have been one of the worst hours you would ever have. 

But you’d rather die than acknowledge that to Art.

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you!” You hit back disparagingly.

Art’s fingers dig into his arms. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re a hypocrite, Art. I watched your match against Patrick Zweig at the…what was it- Phil’s Tire Town Challenger? Someone recorded it from the stands. Tell me, what emotion were you bringing to the court when you yelled ‘fuck you’ at him across the net?” 

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

“I’m not proposing a thesis, Art. This isn’t up for debate. I’m just telling you what I saw. And it seems to me, that you have some fucking anger issues of your own, so quit chewing me out over mine.”

“Chewing you out–” He splutters, his cheeks flushing with outrage. “Wow, you really do have a victim complex, huh?” 

“Fuck you!” You seethe.

Your exclamation doesn’t dissuade Art, instead he gathers momentum: 

“You’re acting like I should fall to my knees and beg for forgiveness over an entirely reasonable answer I gave to a question about your piss-poor behaviour. But I didn’t make you launch your racket across the court or cuss out the line judge. You’re not a tragic woman, or some wronged heroine, you’re a grown woman throwing a tantrum because I wasn’t very nice about her in an interview, two goddamn years ago!” 

“Well, I’m a bitch and you’re a hypocrite, looks like neither of us should be tennis’ poster child.” You snap, pushing past him and heading for the door. 

There was absolutely no chance you were doing this photoshoot. Nike could give Naomi Osaka another call. 

Just as you’ve got past him, Art is following you, snagging your wrist with his hand. “Hey! I didn’t call you a bitch.” 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone. Badmouthing people in public forums is your move.” 

You yank yourself out of his hold and with his eyes burning into the back of your head, you leave Art Donaldson alone in the lobby. 

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( Three Weeks Later… )

In the intervening weeks since your confrontation with Art, you have discovered just how airtight employment contracts can be. 

Nike should really give their lawyers a raise, because you have been assured that there is more chance of you sprouting wings, than being able to get out of the ad campaign. 

You’d been forced back to the studio a week later with your tail between your legs, but while you’d felt genuinely apologetic over the inconvenience caused to Nike’s team, your fury at Art had only compounded. 

Thankfully, the feeling had been mutual and the two of you had passed the entire shoot in utter silence. Neither of you had offered up so much as a hello or goodbye to the other, and while it had clearly been painfully awkward for everyone around you, it had worked out quite well. 

Unfortunately, you and Art had been called back for a day of what they were calling ‘action shots.’

Which is why you’re currently at a country club, dressed in all of Nike’s new gear, being forced to actually play tennis against Art. 

If it was anyone else, you would already have drawn attention to the fact that your wrist is in excruciating pain, but you refuse to falter in front of him. 

Besides, as much as you’re loathe to admit it, playing against Art is exhilarating. 

The team have just called for a break and somehow, despite the innumerable people that have been buzzing around you for the entire day, you and Art suddenly find yourselves alone at the side of the court. 

You’ve done well at remaining civil with each other, but that’s only because you only said ‘hello’ and ‘ready’ before you’d started playing.

Unfortunately for you, Art seems to be in the mood to antagonise.

“I don’t get why this is making you so miserable.” Art says, dropping down onto the bench beside you with a shit-eating grin on his face. 

You hold up the can in your hand, fingers biting into the condensation slick metal. 

“I specifically asked for Tangerine La Croix and they’ve given me Pure.” You mock. You couldn't care less about what you’re drinking.

“Funny.” Art deadpans. 

“And here was me thinking you’d jump at the chance to call me a diva.” You answer, donning a smirk of your own.

“You’re being ridiculous.”

Some genuine anger colours Art’s tone and it only feeds the fires of your own.

“What?” 

Art grabs the can from your hand and maintains eye contact as he steals as a sip.

“You refuse to let go of a few critical, but very valid sentences I said about you in that interview and you’ve used them to construct a narrative about my dislike for you. I don’t dislike you.”

“Oh, you don’t? That’s good, because this amicable exchange is really making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.” 

Art groans, slumping back on the bench. He manspreads so wide that his knee knocks into yours. 

“Can you not just enjoy yourself? It’s a beautiful day and we’re being paid to do what we’re great at.”

You wrinkle your nose and try to snatch back the can, but Art tightens his grip and the metal crumples as you both tighten your hold. 

“Yeah, well, not everyone gets off on having their face on a billboard.” You sneer, almost falling back when Art suddenly lets go of the can.

It’s practically empty and completely deformed, so you slam it down onto the empty space beside you.

“How do you know that I do?”

“What?”

“How do you know that I get off on it?” He repeats glibly.

“Because, you’ve clearly wanted to retire for years and now that you have, you can monopolise on the popularity that your wife built up for you and live off clothing lines and ads for the rest of your life.”

“Being great at tennis built up my popularity.”

“Oh, don’t tell me you actually believe that, Art? So many phenomenal players go widely unknown for their entire careers. You are only The Art Donaldson instead of just plain old Art, because Tashi Duncan made you a brand. She’s responsible for your legacy.”

“She didn’t make me.”

“Maybe not, but she did mould you into what you are. You would have been just another generic Stanford whiteboy if she hadn’t decided to give you fucking form.”

“You talk about her like she’s God.” 

“Are you telling me that’s not what it feels like when her attention is solely on you?” You challenge, but you don’t wait for an answer. “You know, I actually played her quite a lot when we were teenagers– we always ended up being us against each other in finals– and even then…it was like trying to play against an elemental force. Every time, without fail, there was a tiny part of me that just wanted to fall to my fucking knees in front of her. But I never did, instead it made my game better. She made my game better. Tashi put all she had into you after her injury, the least you could do is acknowledge what she’s done for you.

“You don’t have to tell me what I owe my wife.”

You scoff, rising to your feet. “I’m telling you what you owe your coach.” 

You don’t actually know where you’re going as you walk away, only that you need it to be far from him.

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( Two Months Later… )

At the launch event for Nike’s new line, you’re standing in front of the massive poster that’s at the forefront of the campaign and swallowing down bile. 

It’s a great picture, you’ll give them that: Your feet are practically lifting off the ground as you throw up the ball for a serve, your expression is contorted with a ruinous passion that portends some sort of violence. And across the net, there’s Art: he’s dropped into a crouch, ready to pounce once you send the ball his way. In the face of your fury, his anticipation comes fitted out with his signature smirk. 

It’s not just a great photo, it’s phenomenal.

 You want to tear it off the wall. 

You’re on the verge of asking anyone if they have a pen so you can scribble over Art’s face, when the man himself appears beside you. In your peripheral vision you catch a glimpse of his sleek, all black suit, but you don’t turn to look at him. 

“I’m not sure you’d get away with defacing it in front of so many people.” 

Trying to suppress your eye roll would be a fruitless endeavour, so you turn to face Art, forcing him to bear witness to your indignation. 

“You should know by now that I have little regard for decorum. You certainly like commenting on my lack of it.”

“I thought you’d still be hung up on that.” 

“Yeah, well, some of us have follow through.” You give him a venomous smile. “How is retirement treating you?”

“Ah, I should have known.”

“Known what?”

“You see retirement is quitting. So, you’ll force yourself to continue well past the point you should, your game will get shittier and shittier, so by the time you’re forced to quit, people will be pitying you instead of remembering how phenomenal you were.”

There’s a compliment in there, but you’re not feeling generous of spirit enough to pluck it out of the insult. 

“I know when to stop, Art. It’s just not now.” You answer coldly.

“Okay, when? Like- give me your timeline. You must have thought about it.”

“Not yet.”

This answer seems to really frustrate him and he just stares at you, a muscle in his jaw feathering as he grips his champagne flute. 

“Do you think I didn’t notice how much your wrist was killing you when we played each other? Are you really going to wreck your body out of stubbornness?”

“You know, Art, what you did wasn’t bowing out at the perfect time, it was cowardice. You skipped right to the curtain call when you still had a last act left to perform. You never got that US Open trophy, did you?” 

Art sighs, his gaze moving back to the photo of the two of you. "Yeah well, something tells me you won't either. Have a good night."

Then he's backing away, his stare lingering on you even as he lets the crowd reabsorb him. 

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( One Month Later… )

Had Tashi Duncan not been one of the people in your life that you most respected and admired, you wouldn’t even have considered attending the fundraising gala for her and Art’s foundation.  

But you were, quite frankly, obsessed with her, so of course you had come.

 Sitting in an uncomfortably tight dress at a table of people you don’t know and with a fair amount of alcohol circulating through your system, is quite possibly the most painstaking thing you’ve ever gone through.

Apart from the car crash. That had been pretty bad. 

But you’re adamant you won’t think about the car crash tonight, or the fact that, somehow, your wrist seems to be getting worse; devolving to a state more dire than when the cast had first come off. 

The meal—which you hadn’t been able to stomach—had come and gone and now the auction is beginning. Tashi is up on the stage, dazzling in the way that only she can and Art is standing at the bottom of the set of stairs that lead up to the platform.

Unfortunately, your table is very close to the front and you’re positioned right in his eyeline. 

Art keeps stealing glances at you with an emotion you can’t place. You had tried to switch seats with the man across from you, but the asshole turned out to be a real stickler for assigned seating. 

If only to distract yourself, you whip out your phone, resting it in your lap beneath the table.

The moment you open up Instagram, your heart drops into your stomach. 

You thought you had expunged any remnants of your ex from your life, but it seems you’ve missed a mutual friend on Instagram, one who has just reposted his engagement announcement with his girlfriend and mother of his now one year old daughter. 

That bastard has broken your heart and wrecked your head, but while your life just keeps getting worse, the universe has seen fit to bless him with everything he’s ever wanted. 

The auction is already in full swing when you rise clumsily from your seat and weave through the tables, heading for the closest exit. 

It’s only as you push open the door and begin to sway, that you realise you’re actually quite tipsy. You might have drunk a little too much before you’d left the house. 

It’s freezing outside, but you can’t face going back for your coat, so, unsteady on your feet, you flee into the extensive gardens that surround the estate that’s acting as the gala’s venue. 

You walk well past the point where the lawn lighting disappears and clamber over a fence that has ‘restricted area’ prominently posted in front of it.

You don’t know where you’re going, but as you stagger down the hill, your sadness is alleviated very slightly by the sight of a massive pond that you’re sure is beckoning to you. 

You kick off your heels and drop down onto the bank, quick to put your feet into the water. Once you’re settled, you retrieve your hip flask from your clutch and begin to guzzle vodka in earnest.

“What the hell are you doing?!”

You turn and you find an incensed Art striding towards you. You’re more than a little delighted by the sight of mud splattered over the polished surface of his shoes. 

“I was having some time to myself.”

“You needed to walk all the way down here to get it?”

You laugh caustically, gesturing at him. “Well…no. Obviously I should have walked even further away.”

Art huffs, entirely unimpressed. He takes a few steps further down the bank and holds out a hand beckoning you over.

“Come on, you need to come back inside.”

“Why is that?”

“Because, you offered tennis lessons with yourself as an auction item and you’re up soon. You need to be on stage.”

Ah. You’d forgotten about that. 

“Why do I need to be seen? It’s not like they’re buying me.”

“You still can’t stay in there. Get out.”

“I’m not in it, Art. I’m just dangling my feet in the water.”

“Well, you can’t ‘dangle’ your feet in there, it’s a pond not a swimming pool.” 

“I can’t?” You feign a bafflement as you look at your feet, submerged in the murky water. “I sort of already am?”

Art moves even closer but falters, his bright eyes becoming an invading force: his gaze takes hold of your edges and peels them back.

He can see inside.

“What’s wrong?” He probes, the harsher edges of his previous words now nowhere to be found.

“At the moment, it’s you.” 

“You’re drunk.”

“I’m not actually, but I’m getting there.” 

Art’s eyes flick to the metal object glinting in your hand. “Is that a hip flask?” 

“What a keen eye you have.” You mutter sardonically.

“Okay, I'm serious now, get out.”

“Oh, he’s being serious!” You mock, rising to your feet.

 But you don’t move away from the pond. Instead, you turn and start walking backwards into the water you wobble when your bare feet sink into the mud, icy liquid seeping into the thin fabric of your silk dress.

Art lunges forward, closing the distance until he’s standing at the edge of the water. His hand darts out and he grabs your forearm. 

“You’re too close to drunk to be near a body of water, let alone in one. You’ll drown yourself.” 

Art plucks the hip flask from your fingers with his free hand and tosses it into the grass behind him, all without taking his eyes off you. 

Then he seems to actually register where his hand is. He’s still gazing into your eyes as his thumb brushes over the scar above your wrist. 

“Compound fracture.” You say on a bitter breath. “The bone went right through. Fucking drunk driver. Funny that, isn’t it? He crashed into me, fucked my career probably permanently and then I became a drunk to cope.”

Some of the hardness in Art’s expression melts away, but it pools into the bags beneath his eyes and the shadows beneath his cheekbones, making him look almost distraught. Once you realise it’s sadness--no, pity--for you, you wrench your wrist out of his grasp and wade further back into the pond. 

You gasp, shocked as the frigid water wraps around your legs in an eager embrace. It’s like it’s clinging on, wanting to keep you forever. 

You find the thought of it quite peaceful.

You think on Art’s words from months ago: he’s right, about you being too stubborn to know when to stop. You won’t retire until you’re physically falling apart.

 But what if you just sink down into the water right now? You’d disappear and the memories would be of a great player gone too soon.

God, you didn’t realise you had such a large ego that you’d consider letting yourself drown just to save face.

Art is beyond unimpressed now. He’s furious. 

“Get out.” You just smile at him, stepping further back. The water reaches your navel and you let your fingertips skim over the water. “I’m not kidding, get the fuck out. Now.”

“Will you just back off!” You erupt. “We’ve done the campaign, we’re not friends, there’s no reason for us to be involved.” 

“None of that gives me a reason to leave you alone out here.”

“Why not?!” You protest desperately. “It’s not the ocean, I can’t be swept out to sea!”

“Get out of the water.”

“No.” 

“Get out.” 

“Get fucked.” You hit back, letting yourself sink back into the water. 

As you move to float on your back, another frantic laugh bubbles up as you're enveloped by its icy grip. Your dress becomes heavier, a five thousand dollar weight around your body, urging you to sink lower.

You turn your head to the side so that you can see the surface of the water:

This far out of the city, the stars are no longer choked by smog and so are able to tear through the darkness. The water perfectly mirrors the sky, so much so that it’s like you’re swimming in the cosmos. If you open your mouth, you could take some of it into yourself. 

You had struggled to get out of bed this morning, but now, in the quiet night, you have the chance to swallow a thousand stars–

Impudent splashing disrupts your peace. 

Your head shoots up, water running in eager rivulets off your hair as you watch wide eyed, as Art drops into the water. His jacket and shoes have been discarded on the edge of the bank. 

“What are you doing?”  

Art doesn’t answer, instead he drives through the water towards you, his strides producing ripples that disturb the reflected constellations. Shooting stars. 

You’re not very far out, so just as Art closes in on you, you plant your feet on the muddy bottom of the pond and stand up.

The fabric of your dress is dark and slick against your body like an oil spill. The breeze blows a tentative breath against you, causing your skin to pebble and your nipples to harden.

Art reaches for you but your hand flies out and you swat him away.

You push yourself further out, giggling at his expression as the water comes up to your chin. 

Then Art’s diving after you, the white material of his shirt submerged in the water. 

“Art, this is a pond, not a swimming pool.” You tease, amusement blooming.

In fact, you’re relishing the sight of his arms pushing through the water so much, that you forget to make another escape attempt. 

Before you know it, Art is right up in front of you, his breath coasting over your face as he wraps an arm around your middle beneath the water. 

You drive your feet into the mud, your smile growing as he looks exasperatedly up at sky. His fingers press into your side.

“This is so beyond funny.” He grouses, trying and failing to tug you closer.

Seeing as you’re not actually drunk, you’re not sure what comes over you, but you’re seized by a giddy, childlike urge. 

You decide to give into it.

Art’s eyes widen slightly as you rush forward, pressing your chest right up against his. Then, you place one hand on each of his shoulders and push.

There’s a brief moment, where your face rises above Art and he gazes up at you, droplets of water rolling off your face and onto him. He’s looking at you in the same way you had been gazing up at the stars. Perhaps you’ve become one of them. Wouldn’t that be something?

Art realises too late what you’re going to do. 

“Don’t you dare–”

You push all of your weight onto his shoulders and dunk him into the pond. His head goes under, short blonde locks floating up in the water.

You immediately let him go and when he comes up, spluttering for air, the hand not on your waist winds around the back of your neck, threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. He pulls you flush against him again.

When he speaks, it is a whisper you feel against your cheek. “You’re such an asshole.” 

Your hands fall onto his waist beneath the water. “I know.” 

You shriek as Art tips you back, his hand still cradling the back of your neck as he dunks your head into the water in retaliation. It feels like a baptism. 

When you come back up, he's chuckling as you gasp for air. 

“I had to do that.” Art defends.

 He notices you scrambling to push soaked strands of hair out of your eyes and proceeds to help you, his hand brushing over your cheeks and forehead before returning your sight to you. 

“I feel like you didn’t have to.” You splutter, fighting back a laugh of your own. 

You’re suddenly glad for his grip on you- you’re far too flustered to stand firmly on your own two feet. 

Art’s cheek’s dimple as he smiles, shaking his head at you. Your breath hitches. 

When he’s unencumbered by negative emotion…Art shines. 

He leans in again, his lips grazing the shell of your ear: 

“Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish, sweetheart.” Your breathing becomes even more laboured as he draws away, his nose briefly dragging against your cheek. “Now…get out of the goddamn pond.” 

And then he’s pulling away, leaving you gaping after him as he moves back towards the bank.

 His touch is an absence you really wish didn’t feel so profound 

“Spoilsport.” You grumble. But you’re already moving after him. 

The alcohol you did have in you has disappeared; shocked out of your system by the frigid water and the feel of Art’s hands.

 You wade back towards the bank, your hip flask is nestled in the grass and glinting seductively in the moonlight. 

With Art’s back to you, you let yourself stare as he drags himself out of the water. His shirt is stuck to his body and entirely see through, settling into the ridges of his muscled chest. The moon’s light shines through the fabric hanging from his sleeves, making it look like the membrane of wings.

As Art kneels on the grass, you blink rapidly as if he’s a vision you can dispel from your sight. 

You can acknowledge he’s attractive- you’re not blind– but you can’t abide the yearning arising within you. You don’t have room for that in your life, for anyone, but especially not for him. 

You finally reach the edge of the bank and then Art is kneeling at the edge, holding a hand out for you to take.

You consider him for a moment and process the newfound ease on his face. He seems almost serene. 

You fight off a shiver that you blame on the cold and ignore his outstretched hand, pulling yourself out of the water unaided. 

“Really?” Art bites out irritatedly, watching as you wander over to your hip flask and sit down right beside it. You take it into your hand and unscrew the cap. 

When you bring it to your lips you look right into his eyes. “Really.” 

You throw your head back, the path the vodka burns down your throat is a welcome discomfort. You had felt far too peace just now, floating in a sea of stars with Art. 

But those weren’t stars, just a reflection of them. It was a trick. Nothing that could ever be real. 

When you drop the now empty flask into your lap, there are tears in your eyes. 

When was the last time you’d felt even close to the happiness you’d found in that water? 

It wasn’t real.

A traitorous tear is already rolling down your cheek as you drop your eyes to your hands. 

“Hey.” Art says softly. He kneels down beside you, one hand on your soaked back as the other plucks the flask out your lap. “What’s wrong?”

You make a noise that’s half sob, half laugh. “I already answered that question.” 

“Yeah, except I know you’re full of shit.” When you look up at him, Art’s frown becomes something gentler. “I know I’m not your problem.” 

You scoff, shoving his chest. He sways backwards, but drops down onto his knees, planting himself on the ground beside you. His hand is still on your back.

“Yes, you are actually.” You answer nastily. “You really are.”

“Just tell me.” Art whispers, ducking his head into your field of vision so you’re forced to look at him. His free hand settles on your cheek. “Tell me what’s wrong because this…is sort of scary.”

You lift your hands and clasp his cheeks, digging your fingers in. You’re overcome by a violent impulse to tear into his skin. 

It would be far easier to draw blood than confront how you’re beginning to feel about him. 

“Aww.” You croon. “Did I scare the poor little baby?” 

“Stop it.” He scolds. His hands move to grasp your wrists but he doesn't pull you away, not even as you press your nails further in.

But you won’t stop- can’t stop. Your feelings have become spiteful and unruly, running away from you at a pace which you can’t hope to match.

You can’t take the strain. And because Art is the contributor to that is closest to you, it’s him you’re going to lash out at.

“No, really, I didn’t think you’d be such a pussy.” You forge on, spewing venom. “I scared you by getting in a pond? Grow the fuck up, Art.”

But Art doesn’t rise to it. His jaw doesn’t clench and his grip on you doesn’t tighten. 

“This isn’t okay.” He says, tentative but assured. “You’re not okay.” 

“No, I'm not!” You snap wrenching your wrists free. “But it’s got absolutely nothing to do with you.”

You try to rise to your feet, but Art doesn’t let you. He moves so he’s kneeling either side of you, his legs pressing into your thighs as his hands fall onto your shoulders. You can feel in the way his fingers press into you that he’s fighting the urge to shake sense into you. 

You look up at him, slightly startled by his forcefulness. His back is facing the moon now and his drenched body is limned in silver. 

Before you can berate yourself for even thinking about it, you’re winding your hand around his tie and dragging him down, smashing your lips against his. 

You shouldn't be doing this, a large part of you doesn’t want to, but it feels like the only way to purge yourself of him. And what kills a bacteria faster than blazing heat?

Art lets out a warning groan, but your teeth nipping his bottom lip is all it takes to have him leaning in. Even your kiss feels like a fight, battling each other for control, pressing with bruising force.

Art crowds over you, guiding your back against the grass.

You let yourself fall. 

As your back presses into the earth, one of his hands settles on the side of your neck as he drags the other up your leg. When he peels up the sodden material of your dress, his hand exploring your thigh, the cold air bites tauntingly against your rapidly heating skin. 

Your hard nipples brush against his soaked t-shirt and the feeling is so tantalising, that you find your back arching, pressing yourself into him and chasing the sensation.

When you let out a moan into his mouth, Art draws back as if some unseen hand has pulled on him.

He’s still agonisingly close, his lips a hair's breadth away as he gazes down at you through heavy eyelids, water droplets running down his face from his hair. His breathing is ragged.

 Art’s eyes close and with his sight lost to him, his lips drift closer to you again and his teeth nip at your chin. After placing a ghost of kiss over where he’s bitten, he takes a deep breath.

Then his eyes open, and his expression is blank. It makes you feel sick.

You’re burning up with want, but you can already see the realisation of your transgression settling into the very bones of Art. He’s about to spurn you, disdain no doubt working its way to the surface. So you have to get there first. 

“Poor, sensitive Art, scared by a kiss.” You goad. The words are forced out and they feel malformed on your tongue. “Don’t worry your little head over it, it doesn’t mean anything.” 

Art drops his eyes from you, shaking his hand as he pushes himself off up. 

“Nice try, but I know what you’re doing.”  

He mumbles it and doesn't give you a chance to acknowledge it befores he’s on his feet and walking away. 

Tears prick insistently at the back of your eyes but you force them back, pressing the heels of your thumbs into them until it hurts. 

You sit up, feeling leaves and blades of grass sticking to your exposed skin.

You feel the air shift behind you, and are startled when you peer over your shoulder and find Art standing at your back. He has his shoes back on and is gripping his dry jacket far too tightly. 

You find your voice, but it’s weak: “What am I doing Art?” 

He doesn’t meet your eye, instead he opens up the jacket in his hands and settles it over your shoulders. You sit there, stunned as he tugs it around your body. Then he leans down and over your shoulders, his breath on the side of your face as he deftly buttons the jacket up. 

Art encloses you in the dry garment that carries the scent of him. 

“You’re doing the same thing as me.” He says quietly. It sounds almost painful for him to talk. “Running away. I guess we’re both cowards.”

And then he’s gone, marching back up the bank without another word.

You’re left sitting there, wrapped in his jacket and staring out at the pond. 

Not the night sky. 

Just a pond. 

  ━━━━∙⋆⋅⋆∙━━━━

( Three Months Later… )

After your cast had first come off, Wimbledon had felt like an intimidating but still far off thing; a dark shape on the horizon, but one you had to squint to see. But then it moved closer, barreling towards you like a bat out of hell. 

You’ve made great progress in your recovery, you really have…but all your extensive physiotherapy hasn’t been able to heal the nerve-damage you’d turned out to have- at least not in a timespan that’s workable for a professional athlete. 

You’re done. Tennis career over.

And your worst fear has come true: it hadn’t been your choice. Injury has forced you out and the public discourse is rife with commiseration and useless, positive platitudes. 

Art has been proved right. Everything would be so much better had you known when to quit. You had preferred ridicule to this. 

But until you’d come to Wimbledon, it hadn’t really sunk in yet: you hadn’t had the moment of finality. 

What closure has ended up feeling like, is the final nail in your coffin.

As you had watched the first matches of Wimbledon from the stands, Rebecca glancing at you constantly–presumably to check you weren’t about to burst into tears–you had felt as though you were being buried: each serve and volley another hand tossing dirt on top of the coffin, sealing you beneath the ground for good. 

At least one part of your day has been successful. You have completed the challenge you’d set for yourself that morning, which was to not drink any alcohol until the evening.

 It has been excruciating.

Evidence of your victory lays in your trembling hands as you fit your keycard into the door of your hotel room. You’re desperate for what you know sits waiting for you on the other side. 

But then, just as the lock mechanism chirps to let you know you’ve been granted entry, someone calls your name.

Your keycard is left in the door as your fingers fall away from the handle and you turn to face Art. He’s stopped himself a safe distance from you and is gazing at you with what looks like…relief? 

Of course you knew he was at Wimbledon–you’d narrowly avoided crossing paths with him a number of times already today–but to hear his voice and having his probing stare directed solely on you, is as debilitating as you remember. 

You haven’t seen each other, or even spoken, since the night by–or rather in–the pond. 

The only place the two of you are still together in any capacity, is on the Nike billboards that are still occupying space throughout the world.

And as if Art’s thoughts align with your own, he says: 

“You pull an impressive disappearing act.” He steps closer.

“That suggests you went looking for me.” You counter, pleased with how detached you sound. “We both know you didn’t.” 

“No. I didn’t.” Art replies frankly. 

“So I didn’t disappear, did I? You just couldn’t see me.”

Art moves towards you some more, stopping an arms length away. 

“It felt the same.” He utters lowly. “You were gone.”

You shrug halfheartedly. “So were you.” 

Then you press your back into the door, fingers seeking out the handle, shaking now for a reason other than alcohol withdrawal. 

You really don’t know if you’re running away or urging him on, but when you push open the door and duck inside, you do know that you’re not angry when he follows. 

You put your back to the hallway door, expecting Art to move past you and head into the suite, but he doesn’t. At least not right away. Instead, he stops right in front of you, looking down at you as the door swings shut. 

You would barely have to lift your hand and you’d be touching him.

You hate that he looks so good. He’s in simple navy dress pants, a white shirt sitting snugly on his chest, the top few buttons undone. 

The two of you stand like that for a minute or so, and just as you realise that your breaths have practically synchronised, Art is moving away from you and wandering inside. 

It’s only then, as he ventures deeper, that you remember what you’ve been so eager to get back into the room for. You curse yourself, letting your head fall back against the wall behind you.

Even if he hadn’t already seen them, it would be too late for you to hide the line of alcohol minis that you’d gathered from the bar cart. 

You’d set them out earlier, the process almost meditative. It had been a promise to yourself: get through the day without drinking and you can have all of these once you’re alone.

But now they’re standing out in the open, displayed on the nearby desk like pieces knocked off a board in a game that you’ve been playing against yourself. 

You watch helplessly as Art walks right over to them, his hands in his pockets. Your face flushes with shame.

Art cranes his neck back to look at you. You’re still pressed against the wall, afraid that if you take one step closer, you won’t be able to stop yourself from taking ten more. And you don’t want to be close to him when his face shifts into pity or revilement. 

“You planning on drinking all of these?” Art asks, turning back to the bottles as if he knows his gaze is steadily undoing you and wants to grant a reprieve.

Eased slightly by the remarkable placidity of his tone, you’re able to answer calmly. But you still don’t move. 

“That was the plan.” 

Art lets out a non-committal hum. “Why?” 

You laugh awkwardly, wringing your hands together. “I don’t know, why does anyone drink?” 

“I don’t care about anyone, I'm asking about you.” His voice is firm, but the foundation of it is something less solid. His words shake on the way out. 

You’re overcome with the urge to be honest. It’s actually a lot easier when he’s not looking at you. 

“I drink because at some point in my life, every tiny thing became really difficult- like, embarrassingly difficult, to the point where I feel like a child again. And it turns out that ineptitude is easier to bear when you feel like you’ve imposed it on yourself. I drink because it makes me feel helpless…but, helpless by choice.”

The confession hangs suspended in the air, a horrifying, complicated marvel- like a beautiful butterfly now dead and pinned by its wings to a board. 

Art speaks into the silence, his back still turned to you. “Do you want to forget? Is that part of it?” 

“Forget what?” You’re struggling for breath now, his presence drawing all of the oxygen from the room.

He half-turns his head, blue eyes settling over you once more. “All of it.”

“There’s not enough alcohol in the world for that.” You say morosely.

You have learnt that getting drunk doesn’t rid you of all the thoughts that torment you in sobriety, it just pushes them further to the back. Even if you drink so much you can barely walk, the thoughts remain, banging on the barrier and demanding to be let back in. 

Art doesn’t respond to that. He turns back to the little bottles and you watch as he reaches out a hand and knocks over the one closest to him. He pushes it forward, sending them all toppling one after the other like dominos. His eyes are set on them as they roll around on the table, a couple falling onto the plush carpet. And your eyes are set on him. 

Then, he finally turns to properly face you, knocking the fallen bottles with his feet as he leans back against the table and crosses his arms against his chest. 

He’s waiting, you realise. Waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to make the first move. Wanting you to come to him. 

You push off the wall and start walking towards him. “Why did you follow me in here, Art?”

He sighs, the corner of his lip pulling up with a melancholy smile. “Because you make me feel helpless.” 

That almost stops you in your tracks, but you recover quickly, barely a footstep faltering as you advance on him. Your heartbeat is a warning drum in your ears.

Once you reach him, Art widens his legs, allowing you to step between them.

As you settle your hands on his thighs, his duck beneath your dress and come to rest on the bare flesh of the back of your legs. He draws you closer, making you fingers dig into his trousers to steady yourself. 

You sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as he leans forward, brushing his lips against your exposed sternum. 

You’re still flushed and sweating from the uncharacteristically blazing English sun and you shudder as Art’s tongue darts out lapping at the moisture there. 

You rock forward, placing your chin on the top of his head, inadvertently pressing his mouth further into your skin. His lapping tongue turns into kisses, kisses that travel down onto the swell of your breasts and into the valley between them.

Even when he reaches the fabric of your dress, he doesnt let it stop him: Art’s lips close around your clothed nipple, wetting the thin fabric with his saliva. You let out a breathy moan into his hair as he moves onto the next one. 

As Art works his mouth against you, you push your hands higher, letting your fingers brush the bulge in his pants before they’re settling on his belt buckle. 

He says your name, each movement of his lips searing into your flesh. 

“Do I make you feel helpless?” He asks, his hands moving up to curl in the sides of your underwear. 

“No, Art. You don’t.”

As you undo his fly, he begins to pull your underwear down.

“Why?” He closes his mouth around your breast and bites down just enough to make your breath catch in your throat. 

You remove one of your hands from his crotch and use it to grab the back of his neck, you pull him away from your chest, forcing him to look up at you as your other hand disappears into his trousers, palming his hardness.

Even as you step out of your underwear and kick it away, you’re starting to stroke him. His mouth falls open, sucking in a breath as gazes up at you as if you hung the moon.

“How could I feel helpless?” You goad, leaning in and resting your mouth beside his ear to whisper. “When I have so much power over you?” 

Art’s initial answer is to buck up into your hand, chasing the friction you’re moving too slowly to give him, but when you laugh at his desperation, he’s surging up, wrapping his arms around your waist and spinning you.

In a flash, you’ve taken up his position: ass resting on the edge of the desk. 

Before you can catch your breath, Art has his hands on your knees and is spreading your legs, exposing your bareness to him.

But apparently he still hasn’t got you where he wants, because his fingers then wrap around the back of your legs and he lifts you, placing you further back onto the wooden surface. More bottles roll off the edge and drop into the carpet. 

Then, finally, Art’s eyes meet yours. His smirk makes a return. 

“So…” He begins, his hands gathering up your dress and leaving it to bunch up at your waist. “I have absolutely no effect on you? None at all?”

“No-” You can’t even finish your thought let alone the word before his fingers are running through the wetness between your legs. Your instinct is to shut them, but his hips are in the way, so you only succeed in holding him firmly in place. 

You are left to stare as he lifts his hand up, evidence of your arousal glistening on his fingers. Then, slowly enough that he can watch the realisation of what he’s doing dawn on your face, Art takes his fingers into his own mouth.

His eyes meet yours and do not shift away for even a second as he licks your wetness from his skin. 

The tightness in your belly becomes almost too extreme to bear, and a throbbing begins between your legs. 

“I want you to ask.” Art says, his fingers–now wet with his own saliva–drawing circles on your inner thigh. “I want you to ask me to fuck you.” 

“I thought you were here because I make you feel helpless?” You try to sound taunting, but your voice is ragged with want. “Now you want to be in control?”

Art leans down and you expect an abrupt, bruising joining of your lips, but instead he kisses you slowly, tenderness in every gentle movement. His mouth is is still aligned with yours as he answers: 

“It’s not about control, sweetheart. I just want to hear that you want me as much as I want you.” 

You begin to kiss along his jaw, your sentence formed with words cushioned between the press of your lips:

“I want you to fuck me, Art.” 

Art's fingers curl around your jaw, bringing your lips back to his as he frees himself from his pants with his other hand. Your kiss is languid but rapidly growing with force, passion driving pleasure ever closer to point of pain.

“Condom?” Art questions into your open mouth. 

With his fingers digging into your chin, you can't shake your head so you’re forced to gather enough of your wits to speak again:

“Birth control.” 

“Okay.” Art pecks your lips before lifting a hand and spitting onto it. Then he’s fisting himself in his hand and pressing inside of you. 

Your legs immediately wrap around his waist, hooking together to pull him in even further. 

Art lets out a shuddered breath, his head dropping to your shoulder as he settles himself inside of you.

He kisses and licks across your collarbone, only stopping when he comes across the thin strap of your dress. With a little growl, he takes it between his teeth, tugging it back and then letting it ping back into your skin. 

You laugh, still adjusting to the feel of him inside of you as you move to pull down the top of your dress. But Art has other ideas. He stops you with a slow thrust, rolling his hips just enough to have your hands wrapping around his neck instead. 

“Let me do it.” He’s giving a command and yet it sounds like a grovel. 

Then, in unison, his fingers find the straps of your dress and he’s pulling them away, tugging the bodice down and exposing your breasts to him completely. His hands fall onto them immediately, palming the supple flesh and lifting them up higher so that he can kiss them even as he begins to rock into you. 

Just as your heartbeat begins to find some sort of rhythm again, Art pulls out of you almost completely before driving back in. Your breath is knocked out of you and as he begins to thrust with controlled rapidity.

Your hands fall to his still covered ass and dissatisfied with the lack of contact, you push your fingers past the waistband and dig your nails into his naked flesh. 

Art moans into your neck, clamping down with his teeth as he picks up his pace yet again. 

“Art-” You call out, lost in the press of him inside you. 

The table begins to shake so much that it’s slamming against the wall, the noise perfectly aligning with the sound of your hips slapping together.

“Tell me this doesn’t make you feel out of control.” Art pleads, his movements growing frenzied. 

By this point you can hardly think straight, so you give in, his statement going unanswered as your head is thrown back in pleasure. Art chuckles, licking up the column of your neck. 

“I think I got my answer.” 

“Shut up.” 

When Art laughs at you again, you remove your hands from his ass and grip his face instead, drawing his lips back up to yours. He opens wide, panting into your mouth before your tongues start to move together.

You stay like that, mouths joined and breaths shared as his thrusts become messier,  his hands on your back beginning to tremble.

But you’re not close yet and he knows it. He reaches between you and presses his thumb into your sensitive bud, applying enough pressure that, combined with him driving into you, has you quickly coming undone.  

You break the kiss, crying out as your body is wracked with convulsions. 

Art smiles, his eyes drooping closed as he chases his own release. And it doesn’t take long. You’re still coming back to yourself when his hips stutter and his fingers dig into you. He lets go, spilling inside you. 

You both go still. You press your face into his chest–his shirt now dappled with spots of sweat–as he places a kiss on the top of your head. 

You’re both breathing heavily, reeling in the wake of your joining when your phone–tucked into your purse that you had dropped by the door–begins to ring

Still inside you, Art shifts, pressing closer as his lips begin to kiss a path down your cheek. “Don’t answer it.” 

You lean back just enough to meet his eye and smile. “I’m not going to answer it.” 

Art matches your grin as he leans down and gives your lips a peck. “Good. Because I’m nowhere near done with you.”

[jazjelspen]

my angel baby (part 4)

alastor w/ angel daughter reader

(notes: alastor joins charlie and vaggie in heaven to convince them about the hazbin hotel. angel reader physically resembles a fawn. )

(requested tags: @insomniacfigure @pooplyface1423 @mo-0-o @thekanrojimitsuri2 @maliciousmace @nevermorekisses @wildfire153)

(thanks to my amazing editor for helping me with this chapter!! @kruncher mwa mwa! /p)

It's been half a month, and you still aren't sure if you really wanna do this.

Sure you have done your research on spells, blessings, everything to protect yourself and maybe even others while venturing into Hell, possibly even in battle if you felt brave enough.

But nonetheless, it was conflicting. Not only were you going to see your father again but you're going to be literally in hell-- the terrible place was always a tempting topic to bring up in a hushed conversation, though few actually dared to do it. It's the worst place to go to after death, everyone on earth hated speaking of it and mentioning it was somewhat like a bad omen, at least from how you've seen others react to it at certain times.

Why bother diving head first into a realm where none of it’s events or residents were any of your business? The souls are in hell for certain specific reasons, so why bother saving a world that was meant to be the end of the line.

Oh but-- Charlie.

Charlie Morningstar's case and evidence sure intrigued you, but was it really worth the risk? Is it worth the sacrifice, the hiding, the possible dying to try to save a bunch of sinners? All of them, more than likely... are very much similar to, if not the same as, your father.

"Maybe..n-.." you breathed out loud, your hand moving away from under your chin as you were stuck in thought sitting at your desk. You were reluctant, of course you'd be.

You looked down at your bag on the floor beside your desk, filled with supplies and necessities for venturing into hell-- you planned it out but-- was it really.. Do these sinners truly deserve to be saved? Helped?

Why, of course they do.

At the very least.. some of them. 

Those who genuinely want redemption and those who committed sins in which they had no choice before they died or to help others. Those are the ones who should be saved.

And from what you learned in the court trial exactly half a month ago, you could only imagine how many sinners Adam and his fleet of Exorcists slayed that were genuinely hoping for a better chance at this 'second' life.

Besides-- why not save lives? Even if they weren't worth saving, even if you didn't know them personally or at all. Isn't that why you got into heaven anyway? Because you sacrificed yourself for someone you didn't know in the slightest?

You died for that reason, what's so wrong in doing it a second time?

Besides, souls like that one sinner Charlie showed the court, Angel Dust, could be on the path to light and eternal paradise... you could almost feel it in your bones and you bet Emily did too.

Wait, that's right--

Emily!

You could have almost jumped from your seat, Emily was the key to your path to Hell! But how to get to her-- Sera was always around..

Oh-- No, no, this is too good.

Ever since the court day Emily has been getting a bit more distant from Sera, if you could find Emily alone once without any inclination you were seeking her out then you could do it! Convincing shouldn't be too hard, she feels the same way as you do in a certain way.

You've been so caught up in your plan to escape disguised as an exorcist that you couldn't see the answer right in front of you! All those weeks wasted-- the initial plan was bound to fail anyway no matter the amount of preparation since, according to your research, the exorcist angels were scattered everywhere in their HQ like a beehive swarm; like busy bees buzzing with bloodlust. They seemed to all recognize each other and have specific physical attributes that you lacked immensely, even if you were to try and steal a uniform you really couldn't because-- you didn't know where they kept them inside.

You took in a deep breath in and out, 'I'm definitely not coming back unscathed..' you thought 'but.. everyone deserves a second chance, even sinners. And if they really don't deserve it then might as well save them so that they may continue living out their eternal sentences with no easy way out.'

You then looked towards a corner of your desk, grabbing a small and recent photo you took with someone very dear to you. You smiled softly at it before letting out a gentle huff of confidence and then carefully stuffing that photo in your bag for your trip to hell.

You then grabbed your bag, put it over your shoulder, and carefully walked out of your home.

It was currently early night in heaven, the sky as always was filled with stars that glow immensely so that heaven is never in utter darkness. At this time of the evening everyone was home and getting ready for bed, shops closing, people walking home. Thankfully you've hung around Emily long enough to know that when she's bothered by something, she doesn't go to sleep easily till she can fix it, and from what you knew the extermination in hell was still going to happen. 

Your wings started to gently flap and as quietly as they could they flew you up to the home quarters of Emily and Sera, them owning a taller building than the ordinary 'winner' would have considering their higher statuses.

It wasn't that hard to fly by since there was no need for security or guards, heaven never exactly needed to be protected from the inside.

You made your way around a high up balcony, one that you knew led to Emily's quarters. You noticed the balcony doors closed but light flickered from within; she's in there.

Your feet carefully plopped themselves on the balcony, nervously lifting your hand to knock on it-- still hesitant.

'Do I really want to do this?' 

It was too late to even ask that now, for your hand already knocked on the glass surface of the balcony door, breath hitched-- you awaited an answer.

...

The sound of pitter pattering steps could be heard from the inside as they neared where you were standing, a figure approached you from behind the glass.

Emily!

You smiled and waved at her awkwardly as she looked at you with a mix of shock, joy, and exhaustion. She opened the door to you with anticipation.

"______! How are you!... wait-- what are you doing here? It's late, you should be at home.."

"Look Emily," you said breathlessly due to your anxiety. "There's no easy way to say this but I need a huge favor from you.. bigger than anything I could ever ask for and will ever ask for. Not only that but- I'm sure you'll believe in my cause.."

She hummed in thought, eyes narrowed at you in an attempt to see if she should listen to her head or heart. "I'm listening..."

You then nodded towards the inside of her room, silently asking if you could go inside so no prying ears could hear you, even if it's unlikely. She read the words in your expression as she nodded and welcomed you in, closing the door behind her carefully.

You started whispering, "I need you to teleport me into hell."

Emily's breathing scuffled a bit, absolutely shocked from your request. "Hell??.. but why?.. ______ you nor I have ever been to hell!.. you could get really hurt or worse die..!" she whisper-yelled in concern to one of her best friends.

"Well-- we aren't sure if they can truly kill angels but I've practiced a few spells to try to defend myself. You know I'm a lot faster with my wings and if I find Charlie I'm sure she'll keep me from getting hurt!.."

"Charlie?.." she asked, now fully remembering what happened on that fateful court day "Wait, you want to go to hell to see Charlie?"

You nodded, "I have to, it's the only way I can survive there. Besides, I need to help her.. you know that what Adam and Sera are letting happen is unjust and inhumane.. you and I both know and agree about this and you can help me by sending me down there."

"but.. _____ I--"

"Emily, the extermination is going to happen in less than a month now.. there's no time left to leave this in the air."

"______.. are you even sure you'll survive a second down there? how do you even know you need to be there, if you really want to help you can try and stay up here where it's safe--"

You let out a quick sigh of fear, afraid that she's getting cold feet "C'mon.. even with your influence Adam won't stop and neither has Sera ordered him to pause for even a moment.. Besides, if they need to have sinners show their improvement and actually redeem themselves.. they need someone who actually has been in heaven and knows how to get there. 

They need a role-model, an example, and I'm willing to help and sacrifice myself a second time to at least give other people a second chance at 'living'.

This time, you shut Emily up, she's speechless-- you truly took her breath away with how determined you were. You were right to some extent, help from a 'winner' for sinners, become just like them as a teacher and be an example could genuinely make much improvement and possibly open the case once more. 

She softly smiled at you, a small amount of pride swelling in her chest, pride that she has for you and hope that she has in your mission.

"Well.. I'll take you there but not without one thing--" she stepped closer to you and folded three fingers of her right hand, then crossed you with them in an all too familiar pattern. Right shoulder, left shoulder, forehead, chest. The sign of the Cross. A sudden glow shined from you for a split second as if a star bursted around you,

"A protection spell. To protect you from the strongest blow that encounters itself towards you, it only works once but it's the strongest spell I know that can be an extra safety net for you down there.. meanwhile I'll try my best to convince Sera to think differently about the genocides.."

"Oh.. thank you Ems!.." you hugged her and she hugged back tightly, both of you guys brimming in a flurry of hope, determination, and anxiety. "I won't let you down.. I promise when I come back, and I will, Adam won't need to kill anymore people with his exorcists anymore.."

"Just-- be careful, _____. You're one of a kind, no one helps and brightens things up like you do.." she backed away from the hug only to hold your hands and smile at you, conflicted but convinced by you.

"Promise. I'll be back before you know it."

"Pinky.. promise?" she took out her pinky finger for you to hold onto, to reassure her that she's making the right decision. Helping you.. she doesn't want to lose you by sending you down your death sentence.

"Hehe.. pinky promise." you took out your own pinky finger to wrap it around hers, another spark lighting up around your wrapped fingers as if sealing the deal.

"Good.. once again are you sure you're prepared??.." she couldn't help but ask-- she didn't want to lose her best friend..

"I'm ready to face what I have to face, ready as I'll ever be." you let out a shaky sigh, betraying you slightly.

Emily let out a shaky sigh of her own before stepping back and slowly summoning a portal, it starting from a little glow in the air to slowly trying to mass itself into your height and size so you may go through with ease. It was difficult since it was mostly Sera or Adam opening them with constant ease and she never really had to until now, unfortunately though.. it was starting to make noise.

You hold your bag as tightly as you could, double checking if all the zippers are closed before preparing yourself for the even growing yellow portal.

"I don't know exactly where the Hazbin Hotel is so-- be... be careful _____.."

You looked at her and nodded with confidence, a look of strength emitting from your face. 

There was shuffling from the hallway outside Emily's room, "Emily? What are you doing at this time of the night?" Sera could be heard from afar, her voice loudly echoing across and even through the closed doors. 

Emily sped through her magic as she used as much of her mental strength as she could to open up the portal, it shouldn't be that hard but-- she never had to do this, she never thought she would do this. She was only in charge of keeping you happy-- but if this were to make you happy, then she's obliged to do so.

The portal was finally big enough for you to enter through, both of you hearing loud oncoming steps coming from outside the halls and in a quick motion you waved at Emily with a smile, her doing the same thing before finally-- you jumped into hell.

Right as you disappeared into the yellow and gold void, she let herself go from holding it open and right as Sera was opening the door, without even knocking mind you, the portal disappeared from thin air and all that was left was Emily standing in the middle.

"What are you even doing?.." asked Sera looking puzzled.

Emily chuckled nervously, shrugging her shoulders "Practicing for next show's fireworks..? heh.."

—----------------------------------------------------------------------------

You on the other hand-- were being slammed against a hard metal surface that smelled like rotten flesh and food, dried blood, and other stinky items. Hitting your head against it causes you to groan in pain and slowly hold your head, the smell beside you slowly making you feel a bit sick.

Your halo, clattering to the ground, its glow still present on it.. confirming your status to still be an angel. 

"Fuck.." you mumbled, rubbing the back of your head while picking yourself up from the ground. Looking at your surroundings you were in a sort of alley, the metal surface being a large dumpster. Your wings flapped a bit to stretch them out from the hit you took. 

You look at your halo and feel a huge sigh of relief get out of your mouth, despite knowing that only becoming a fallen could only happen if the court officially banishes you from heaven from all you knew it still felt good to know you're still the same you. Besides, you didn't know if a winner has ever become sinner before so.. that at least helped your mind keep itself from flipping over.

God..but your surroundings?

It reeked.

You peeked a bit in the dumpster out of curiosity but the intensity of the smell made you wanna puke so your nose begged you to move away. Now looking at the exit out of the alley you first picked up your halo to then place it above your head, floating above you right after letting it go. Picking up your bag once again to hold it tightly near you so no one would steal it.. being as cautious as you could.

Slowly peeking out of the alley you noticed a humble little town with colors of red, shades of pink, and filled with a few sharp toothed people. Everyone walked around casually and happily, like how normal humans would. Despite how huge the place is there seems to be a lack of crowds.. as if half of the town is missing.

Huh, this place reminded you of a sunny day in New Orleans when you were alive. Is this.. really hell? You haven't come across any people jumping out to kill you or anyone else randomly but a few explosions from far away still made you jerk from fear.

You carefully stepped out of the alley, feeling especially out of place the moment you started walking out. People with various shades of gray skin, everyone with blacked out eyes, sharp teeth, and all still dressed in clothes from around the time you died, maybe a bit of more older fashions but still.. reminded you of back home on earth just slightly.

Each step you took was a new question that you gave yourself.. where were you? is this a level or part of hell? does hell look this way all the time? is the Hazbin Hotel of walking distance? is Emily okay? why does the air smell weird? is your dad Alastor around? is it obvious im not from here-- oh of course it is you have a fucking halo damn it.

'Everyone looks almost normal," you thought 'Maybe I can try to find someone to help m--'

"Oh!.." you bumped into someone, someone small. You looked down to see a fairly normal looking child with eyes entirely blacked out, no pupils to be seen. Geez.. you couldn't lie but they creeped you out a bit.

"Hello there.. sorry I didn't see you.." you spoke to the kid despite how weary you were, giving it an apologetic smile while waving a little towards them in a very awkward manner.

They spoke nothing but instead flashed you a large sharp toothed smile that made your blood curl a bit, what made it worse was what it did next.

"It's okay missy! I like your wings!" Normally you'd smile more and make small talk but-- then the kid took out a cut off hand from behind their back and started chomping it on it as if it was corn on the cob. With your skin crawling and your face as white as a sheet from the shock, the kid then proceeded to run off nibbling on the bleeding hand.

You stood there frozen, your stomach begging to release anything you ate before you came upon here. You slowly turned your head to the right, your peripheral vision noticing a large wooden sign.

'Welcome to Cannibal Town!'

'Well that.. really explains it.' you took a few deep breaths as you tried to control yourself and your upcoming panic as to not alert other cannibals of your fear.. but you could've sworn they could probably smell it off of you.

Would they eat you? Are they going to eat you?.. but some have been looking at you walking by-- are they getting ready to pounce on you, bite off your flesh and--

You stopped in your tracks, noticing how further you are in the town from all your overthinking. You looked up to see that you are at the front steps of a small stage?.. gazebo..? you couldn't remember how hard your heart was pounding.

All of a sudden you felt an incredibly sharp pain on your wing, one that made you shriek aloud and everyone suddenly stopped and stared at you. You turned to see an old lady with a cane looking very similar to other residents around you-- BITE your wing?? what the actual living fuck??

The old woman seemed to grin and licking the golden blood from the bite she got from your wings, fortunately for you she only bit and didn't actually get a chunk of your wing off instead.. either way it fucking stung the way a large wasp sting would.

"Angel wings.. not bad at all-- OUCH!!" The old lady then let out a shriek herself, being hit by the end of a sun umbrella this time and whoever was holding it was shooing her away from you.

"Shoo! Shoo! Susan!! Run off now! We don't bite new otherworldly guests like that!" The voice shouted before the old woman scurried off just as fast as she came. 

You whimpered a bit as your bitten and slightly bleeding wing leaned towards your hands, your palms and fingers then gently caressing them as an attempt to soothe the pain with tears brimming and silently sliding down your eyes.

"Oh I'm so sorry about that sweetheart, that old hag has no manners." The same voice, a woman's voice, called out to you. Her appearance also looks similar to everyone else, the only difference is her large hat decorated with elaborate feathers and adorned with a small skull. 

"Let me see that dear.." she leaned in with her hand reaching towards your wing but of course you flinched away from her, absolutely not trusting her in the slightest form your first terrible experience and the many words of others before you.

You looked at her with fear you've never felt before, fear that you haven't felt since your death. You quickly backed away, your injured wing cowering towards your hands and chest.

'Holy.. fuck..'

"The names Rosie, sweetheart, what's a pretty little thing like you walking around here with no sense of danger?"

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Alastor held you in his arms as your nine year old self was fiddling with a toy in your hands after a long day of being taken care of by one of Alastor's lady friends. The man was coming out of work from hosting his famous radio show as he usually always did and now was entering his home after a tiring day from work and honestly he wasn't up for taking care of you right now. If anything he should've probably let you stay with the woman forever and he wouldn't have to be dealing with baby troubles..

Yet everyday you somehow always gave him a reason to keep you despite his almost heartless nature.

He walked in his home and closed the door behind him, locking it as well. Walking over to the sofa he turned on a nearby lamp before setting you down on the cushions and let you be in your own world while he then went to go eat something himself. You didn't have to since the woman that babysat fed you quite well and you liked what she gave so there was no need for you to be overfed.

Alastor went to prepare a meal for himself, not saying much to you in the process since all he wanted was to eat and sleep so better to just fill one of the boxes on that checklist as soon as possible. So while you were still distracted he quickly made himself a meal and started eating so he wouldn't starve before bed.

You were playing with your toy the nice lady gave you, mumbling small nonsense here and there while playing around. Until you decided to speak up loudly from afar,

"Papa, can I ask something?" you talked as you kept yourself entertained with your toy.

Alastor sighed a bit "Yes dear, what is it?" exhaustion evident on his voice that contracted to his permanent smile, be it small or big.

"Is it true that when you found me, my mama and papa didn't want me because I was an ugly and loud cry-baby?"

Alastor almost spit out his food, inevitably starting choking on it. Saving himself from dying of choking by drinking his drink he set with his food and calmed down. "W.. Why do you think that sweetheart? Who told you such an untrue lie!.." 

In truth, he didn't actually know why you were abandoned in that alley. All he found when he picked you up was you wrapped around in baby blankets in a basket and a note with a date on it, most likely your date of birth, but other than that he never knew why you ended up there and why. He simply just took you in and called you his own.

"The boys in the playground I played with said their mamas and papas knew you, and knew you found me. They then started saying I dress too girly and that my real mama and papa left me because I was ugly and a loud cry baby and that's why I don't have a mama and papa." Your little voice seemed to shake a bit but obviously tried your best to hide it away even at this young of an age.

But your father could see and hear right through you. 

Alastor sighed before taking one last spoonful of his food before leaving his meal there to walk towards you, settling himself on the same sofa you both always make the best of memories, this being one of them.

"Well darling, those boys obviously have parents who don't educate them! And are as dull as a doorknob if they say all that foolish nonsense.. you do have a mama and papa!"

You looked at him incredibly confused, since when did you have a mother?

He noticed this and laughed a bit at your expression "Silly, I'm your mama and papa! I do both jobs! I make you food, I have clothes for you, I give you a home, I get you ready for school, I talk to you all the time because you're mine!" He spoke cheerily, as if stating a very well known fact "Their eyes also must not be working also since I think I got the prettiest daughter in all of New Orleans if I do say so myself!" he pinched your cheek playfully, making you giggle. 

He continued on "Yes, you did indeed cry a lot as a small tiny baby but do you think I would've kept you if you were an enormous crybaby? Of course not! Which is why I still have you here with me." Alastor-- "And you dress too girly??.. why, but of course you'll dress the way you do.. you're my little girl! how will my little dove be able to shine in her natural beauty if she doesn't wear the most marvelous pieces of wardrobe I can get her!" He then continued to pinch both your cheeks at the same time, some of your cute baby fat still present on your face despite being a year behind in heading towards the double digits. 

You giggled and laughed loudly, smiling.. just the way you should always be.

Yes he was too tired for this, he was downright exhausted, but hey-- if he can keep an unfaltering smile despite feeling this then of course he can keep up with you even if he's not in the mood. You're the only person who he doesn't like to see in pain, in tears-- 

It's his job to do this, for what is he if he leaves you wilting by yourself with no 'light' of your own to guide you.

Certainly, he wouldn't even deserve to be called your father.

"Oh and dear?"

"Yes papa!"

"What are the boys' names? And their parents? I must have a little chat with them soon!..."

Oh, Alastor.

[mcuamerica]

I’m the Idiot

Pairings: Azriel x Rhys’s Sister!Reader

Summary: You've been in love with Azriel for years. What happens when one day he comes home claiming he's found his mate?

Warnings: Pining (oh gods, is there pining), mention of training, ANGST

Azriel Masterlist

Graphic by @tsunami-of-tears

You watched from the stairs as Azriel sparred with Cassian. Gods, the way his muscles shifted on his open back, tattoos morphing with them. It could bring you to your knees, if you stared too long. Especially if Azriel ever caught you.

Once his shadows made their way to your feet, you stepped onto the roof. "The High Lord and High Lady are waiting... And your mate, Cassian." You teased, leaning against the stone of the stairway.

Azriel turned towards your voice, your eyes going nowhere but his. That hazel oasis of warmth you always found comfort in. You'd been gone for a week on a mission to Summer, trying to repair tensions. It had been nice, but being back in the Night Court air was welcome. As was seeing Azriel.

He stalked towards you, your eyes never leaving his. Just as you were about to walk towards him, something tackled you to the ground.

The hard stone never came, as you landed on top of your assailant. "I've missed you, bug." Cassian said, squeezing your form against his own.

"Can't breath... Cass..." You gasped and let out a strained laugh as he let you go. "I missed you too. But how many times have we talked about not tackling me to the ground?" You asked, rolling onto your side.

"I caught your fall this time." He protested, dusting himself off as he rose.

You shook your head, moving to stand up yourself before you saw a hand in front of your face. "I won't tackle you, but I can assure you I missed you too." His voice said. You took his hand and offered him a small smile.

"I missed you, Az," you said, reaching up to hug him, even with the sweat still glistening on his toned body.

"Take a bath, both of you, before you come to the dining table. I think the House might dump buckets of water on you if you try to sit on those new chairs." You joked, taking a step back from Azriel. Just to give yourself space. Space was always good.

Azriel and Cassian both laughed, but something like comfort bloomed in your chest at Azriel’s. You wanted to make him laugh every moment. Especially because he was so cold all the time, but you always softened his demeanor. If there was bad news to tell, Rhys would make you go tell him because he never got mad at you.

Soon enough, you were at the dining table as Rhys and Feyre described a mission for Azriel to go on in Autumn. And you, even though you were known to be the emissary to every court, would not be going. Rhys's logic was that you just came back from Summer and you needed rest.

So, you sat at the River House watching Nyx for a week as you waited for Azriel's return. When you were in Summer, you had a deep talk on a day that Mor came. You decided you needed to let Azriel know how you felt about him. Since he left so soon after you returned, you didn't have time to talk to him.

You couldn't keep pining for him, it was too hard. Every time you were around him, you wanted to jump his bones. You wanted to declare how much you loved him. Not like a best friend, not like a brother, but so much more.

You knew Azriel was back before Rhys told you about his arrival. A few of his shadows were swirling around your arms as you made your way to the Town House. You needed to tell him. Now.

"Az!" You said happily as you saw him standing in the living room.

"(Y/N)!" He said happily. "I've got something to tell you." He said, a bright smile on his face.

"Me too!" You said, biting your lip as you stopped in the doorway. "You go first, though." You said, nerves starting to eat at you.

I love you, Az. I've loved you for decades. Your confession echoed in your head, slightly bouncing on your heels as you waited for him to talk.

"I found my mate in Autumn." He said, that smile still wide.

Your heart sank as you blinked, but put on a fake smile. "Oh... That's great Az," You said. "How- How'd you meet her?" You asked.

"She was at a market I stopped at. I swear, she's one of the most beautiful females I've ever seen." He said.

"One of?" You questioned.

"Well, you- Yeah." He said and blushed. "I had this tug in my gut and I just know it was the bond snapping."

"Did it snap for her?" You asked, trying to keep your voice from shaking and the tears from welling in your eyes.

"I-I don't know. I didn't say it to her. I just asked if I could take her on a date this week. And she said yes." He said happily.

"Oh, that's great." You said and nodded, taking a step back towards the doorway.

"What did you have to tell me?" He asked, taking a step towards you.

"Just- Just that I missed you." You said and shrugged. "I'll see you at dinner..." You said and turned to leave. You heard him call after you as you stumbled out of the doorway, closing the door behind you.

You closed your eyes and winnowed to Mor's apartment, knocking on the door. Tears were streaming down your face as she opened the door, Emerie behind her.

"Oh... (Y/N), what's wrong?" She asked, pulling you into her apartment.

"A-Az found.." You shook your head, holding back a sob. "He found his mate." You whimpered, collapsing into her arms.

She hushed you as she rubbed your back and led you to sit down on her couch. Emerie came to comfort you on the other side as you told them what happened.

"How am I supposed to see him at dinner?" You asked once you calmed down, wiping your eyes. "He'll probably be talking about her the whole time. I can't do that." You said, sniffing as you leaned back.

"I'm getting wine." Emerie said, standing up. "And cake." She nodded, walking to the kitchen.

You decided to skip dinner the next night, instead taking Nyx to the park while the rest of the family enjoyed the dinner. He always made you remember how easy it was to be happy, how carefree he was as a child.

As you were walking back to the River House, you saw Azriel walking out of the door. Nyx shouted for him, causing you to wince as you set him down and let him waddle over to Az.

Your heart squeezed at the sight of Azriel picking up Nyx and tossing him in the air. You held back the tears in your eyes as you walked forward. "Was dinner good?" You asked.

"Elain made a delicious pie, so yes. But you weren't there. And it wasn't as fun." He said.

The comment made you wrap your arms around yourself. "I need to get him back," you said, nodding to Nyx as he giggled. "Feyre will have my head if he doesn't get to bed on time."

"Is everything okay?" He asked. "I figured you would be at the training ring this morning. Cass said you've been every day this past week." He said.

You shrugged. "I just needed a break." You said, reaching to take Nyx. "Have fun on your date." You choked out, then walked away from him towards the River House.

You again heard Azriel say your name but you ignored him. When he didn't say anything else, you allowed a few tears to fall.

"Crying?" Nyx asked, reaching out to put his hand on your cheeks. You let out a laugh, kissing his head. "Okay?"

"I'm okay, buddy." You said, tickling his side. His laugh allowed you to put an actual smile on your lips as you walked into the River House.

"He's all tired out, I promise." You said as you handed Nyx to Rhys.

"Did you really just want to spend time with him or did you just want to avoid Az?" He asked.

You narrowed your eyes, shaking your head. "Mor told you?" You asked.

Rhys shrugged. "She was worried for you." He said.

"I'm fine. Just didn't want to see him tonight.. But I'll be back to training with Cass tomorrow."

Rhys nodded, taking Nyx up to his room to sleep while you went to get ready for bed on your own.

Az was at training three days later and Cassian wasn't. You sighed as you went over to start your warm up, trying your best to avoid his gaze.

You turned on the new machine Nuan made, where it would whirl knives at you as you dodged them. They were dull and wouldn’t do any actual damage, but it was a good exercise for swiftness. You took a deep breath, concentrating on the way your feet moved. You tried to focus as best you could, but you still felt Azriel’s gaze on you.

You spared a glanced towards him, groaning as two knives hit your shoulder then your abdomen. In shock, you fell to the ground. And in an instant, Azriel was standing in front of you. The whir of the machine was off.

“Hey, you okay?” He asked, his hazel eyes seeking yours. If it were any other day, you would be comforted by his eyes. But it only made frustrated tears well up in yours. “(Y/N)? What’s wrong? Did you get hurt,” he asked, immediately going to check where the knives hit.

“Get off of me!” You said, well… yelled. A lot louder than you expected. You backed away from him, watching as he slumped to the ground.

You got up and brushed the dust off your pants.

“What’s wrong?” He asked again, stepping closer to you. Only for you to push his chest back.

“You! You’re what’s wrong!” You said, hot tears pouring down your cheeks. “You are an idiot.” You growled, beating on his chest when he didn’t move an inch.

He stayed silent as you cried, then you finally took a step back and sunk down to your knees. “I’m the idiot.” You muttered to yourself, burying your face in your hands.

“You are not an idiot.” Azriel said, kneeling in front of you.

“I am!” I sobbed. “I’m an idiot because I love you Azriel!” You choked out. “And you have a mate. And I’m an idiot for loving you when you have a mate and I’m an idiot for loving you when I’m clearly nothing more than a friend to you.” You said, hiccuping.

You jumped slightly when Azriel’s scarred hand cupped your cheek. “You are not an idiot.” He whispered, making you meet his gaze.

His eyes were welled with tears as he stroked your cheek with his thumb.

“I am,” you whispered.

“No. You’re not. I am.” He whispered. “She’s not my mate… I was stupid and thought that it was the bond snapping with her. But it wasn’t.” He said.

“What?” You asked. “She’s- you don’t have a mate?” You asked.

“I do.” He whispered. “But it’s not the female from Autumn. I told her I thought she was my mate and she said she already had one.” He said. “And she was going out with me because he’s sick… but the bond did snap when I was in Autumn.”

You slumped further into him, more tears welling in your eyes. “Of course it did.” You whispered and sniffed.

“It snapped, (Y/N), for you.” He whispered.

Your head perked up, searching his eyes. “What?”

“Eris was talking about you when we walked into the market, and the bond snapped into place because I was pissed he was talking to you. And I almost tackled him to the floor until I saw that other girl. And I thought it was for her.” He said.

“Are you sure the bond didn’t snap for Eris?” You rasped.

A bright laugh escaped Azriel’s lips, causing a smile to light up your face.

“There she is,” he whispered, stroking away the tears. “You are my mate, (Y/N)… I knew it the moment I saw you this morning.” He whispered. “And I’m such an idiot for not realizing it sooner.”

You sniffed, biting your lip. “Az… I haven’t felt anything snap.” You whispered.

“Maybe it’ll take time.” He whispered. “And I’ll wait as long as it takes… because I love you.”

You choked out a sob and wrapped your arms around him, burying your face in his neck. You took in his scent of cedar and night-kissed air, a sense of comfort washing over your body. In that moment, you felt that tug in your gut strengthened.

You pulled away with a gasp, only to find Azriel cupping your cheeks. “You feel it now?” He asked.

You nodded happily, leaning forward to place a long-awaited kiss on his lips. “I love you Az.” You whispered.

“Gods, I love you too (Y/N).”

You offered him food that night. And Rhys was pissed you didn’t invite him.

[fr0stf4ll]

A court of Shadows and Moonlight - Part 2

paring; Azriel x reader

summary; In the wake of looming war and changing traditions, a gifted healer returns to the Night Court after centuries of wandering the continents. Tasked with stepping into Madja’s legendary role, she must guide reluctant healers, soothe wounded warriors, and face the entrenched prejudice of Illyrian leaders. But as she mends torn wings and broken spirits, an unexpected bond awakens between her and the Night Court’s enigmatic Spymaster. With rivalries simmering and a dangerous threat looming on the horizon, she must reconcile duty and desire, learning that true healing can extend beyond flesh and bone—if she dares to embrace the light hidden among the shadows.

word count ; 4k

notes; hello hello, thank you so much for all of your comments on the last part. I'm so happy that you guys want to read more of the new fan fiction. Here is the part 2, please don't hesitate to comment or to ask to be on the tag list. Bisous bisous

link for part 1 or part 3

---

Early morning light painted Velaris in gentle pastels, the snowy streets glowing beneath a sky that hinted at a clear day ahead. The hostel’s front step creaked softly as you left, having already arranged to keep your horse and belongings there for a few more nights. With your cloak drawn tight against the crisp winter air, you stepped onto the cobblestone path, the familiar scent of the Sidra mingling with the freshness of newly fallen snow.

You knew the way well enough, even after centuries away: to reach Madja’s quarters, you had to skirt the edge of a quiet residential district, pass through a small courtyard where a fountain tinkled with ice-rimmed water, and turn down a short lane lined with lanterns and blossoming plants enchanted to survive the cold. Before heading straight there, though, you caught a whiff of something enticing—fresh pastries, warm bread, the sugary hint of glazed treats.

Following your nose, you discovered a small bakery tucked between a tailor’s shop and a candle-maker’s stall. Its sign hung overhead, carved wood depicting a loaf of bread and a swirl of steam. The door, painted a soft teal, stood slightly ajar, letting out the heavenly aroma. Inside, rows of sweet rolls, tarts, and delicate pastries awaited. You remembered how Madja always had a fondness for morning pastries—she used to claim that a little sweetness helped start the day on a kinder note.

Stepping inside, you selected a variety of treats: sugar-dusted pastries, flaky croissants, and small fruit-filled buns that gleamed with syrup. Alongside them, you chose a crusty loaf and a few savory rolls for balance. Wrapping them carefully in parchment, the bakery’s clerk smiled warmly, admiring your thoughtfulness. You paid without hesitation, a slight grin touching your lips at the idea of surprising Madja with these morsels of delight.

With your package of pastries cradled in one arm, you pushed open the door and stepped back onto the street. Distracted by the lingering taste of sweetness in the air and the memory of Madja’s grateful smile, you didn’t notice the tall figure coming around the corner until it was too late.

Your shoulder collided with something solid—very solid—and you stumbled a step, clutching the pastries protectively to keep them from spilling. Looking up, you saw a broad chest encased in fighting leathers and, as your gaze traveled upward, a pair of strong, dark wings folded neatly behind his back. His face was turned toward you now, brows lifted in mild surprise. He was tall, toweringly so, with an air of alert strength that suggested he rarely found himself caught off-guard.

“Pardon me,” you said quickly, voice low and genuinely apologetic. You stepped aside, adjusting your hold on the parchment bundle. The last thing you wanted was to cause a scene or lose these treasured pastries to the snowy ground.

For a heartbeat, you noted the faint surprise in his eyes—he’d expected perhaps a greeting or a challenge—but you had no time for curiosities now. You had a meeting to attend and pastries to deliver. Without waiting for his reply, you nodded, a brief dip of the head, and continued on your way.

The sounds of the city moved around you: distant laughter, the whisper of wings overhead, and the muffled crunch of your boots in the snow. You cast one last curious glance over your shoulder, the winged male already merging into the morning bustle of Velaris. Then you pressed forward, heart light with anticipation. Soon, you would be face-to-face with Madja again, and this time, you came bearing both sweets and your renewed commitment to the healing art she had first taught you.

You had barely raised your knuckles to knock on the old wooden door of Madja’s office when it swung open with a gentle creak. Standing just inside was your old mentor, her silvered hair braided neatly, the familiar warmth in her eyes gleaming even brighter than you remembered. Before you could utter a word, she stepped forward and wrapped you in a gentle, enveloping hug.

The scent of herbal poultices and clean linens—scents forever associated with her—filled your senses as you leaned into the embrace. For a moment, all the centuries and miles you’d traveled fell away, leaving only the memory of countless afternoons spent under her watchful guidance, the hush of the healing rooms, and the soft murmur of her patient instructions.

“My dear child,” Madja said, her voice trembling slightly with joy, “it feels like a lifetime since I last saw you.” She held you at arm’s length, scanning you from head to toe. “Look at you, so grown, so poised. It’s hard to believe you were once that quiet apprentice peeking around doorways, curious about every tincture and suture.”

You smiled, a surge of tenderness filling your chest. “It’s been too long, Madja. I’ve been… everywhere, I think.” You lifted the carefully bundled pastries and bread you’d carried all this way. “I know how fond you are of sweet treats in the morning, so I made a stop on my way here.”

Madja’s eyes lit up at the mention of food, the lines at their corners deepening with delight. “You remembered my weakness!” she teased, ushering you inside and closing the door with a gentle push. Her office had changed little: jars and vials lined shelves, each meticulously labeled; scrolls of medical diagrams were rolled and tied with ribbons; a comfortable armchair waited near a small, round table. A thickly woven rug covered the floor, and a window let in gentle winter daylight, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazily through the air.

As you set the pastries on the table, Madja peered at them with undisguised pleasure. “Oh, look at these,” she breathed, selecting a delicate fruit-filled bun to inspect before taking a small bite. The way her face brightened was like sunshine on fresh snow—pure and sincere. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. Not just the pastries,” she added quickly, laughing, “but you, my dear. Knowing you would return gave me such comfort these last months as I considered my retirement.”

Her words stirred something soft inside you, a gentle ache of gratitude and affection. “You knew I’d come back,” you said quietly, resting your hand on her arm. “I never forgot your lessons. Everywhere I went—Summer Court, Dawn Court, even across the sea—I carried your voice in my memory. It guided my hands, reminded me of compassion and patience in the face of suffering.”

Madja smiled, the emotion shining in her gaze. “Oh, child. That means more to me than all these treats combined. And trust me,” she said, biting into a sugar-dusted pastry, “that’s saying something.”

You both laughed softly, the sound rising and falling in the small, familiar space. Outside, the city hummed with life, and the snow continued to lend a quiet hush to the streets. But here, in this moment, you and Madja were safe in the past made present—teacher and student reunited, ready to pass the torch and write the next chapter of healing in the Night Court.

“Come,” Madja said, beckoning you to sit. “Eat with me, and tell me of your travels. Then we’ll speak of what must be done next. We have so much to catch up on, my dear. So very much.”

Time slipped by like melting snow beneath a warming sun. One conversation bled into another, memories overlapping with new tales as you and Madja shared a quiet feast of words and understanding. Seated by her small, round table, you sampled the pastries you’d brought and she sipped a mild herbal tea, letting it cool on her tongue as she listened with rapt attention.

You spoke of the Summer Court’s lush jungles and how their healers used exotic flowers to treat fevers. You described the Dawn Court’s libraries, where you learned surgical techniques from scrolls older than the High Lords themselves. You detailed the human realms and distant continents, where you discovered remedies made from plants that grew only under strange red suns. And, with a hint of satisfaction, you recounted the new healing methods you developed—mixing herbs in precise measures, using controlled spells to mend bone and flesh faster, more cleanly than ever before. Every word you offered up was met with pride in Madja’s eyes, as if the knowledge you’d gathered were the rarest jewels.

She questioned you about your power, the subtle magic that allowed you to sense illness and pain with startling accuracy. You admitted it had grown stronger with practice: now you could slow a hemorrhage with a whisper or soothe a maddened mind with careful, empathic focus. Through it all, Madja smiled quietly, nodding now and then, her delight and approval like gentle applause in the hush of her office.

Eventually, though, the mood shifted, and the laughter died down into a more somber tone. With a careful breath, you ventured into more painful territory. “I heard about the last war with Hybern,” you said softly, your gaze drifting to the distant window where a smudge of pale sky marked the passing of morning into afternoon. “I should have come back sooner, but I was too far—lost in the deep continent. By the time I got the news, it was already over. I… I’m sorry I wasn’t here to help.”

Madja’s expression grew gentle, understanding etched into every line. “It was a hard time for all of us, child. Many who lived through it bear scars not only of the flesh, but of the heart and soul. The war was brutal, and there were moments when all seemed lost. But we survived—at great cost, yes, but survived nonetheless.” She reached over, placing her hand over yours. “You cannot blame yourself. The world is vast, and news travels slowly. You followed your path and gained what we now need.”

You met her eyes, searching them for certainty. “And now you say… a greater danger looms?”

Her shoulders rose in a slight shrug, but her eyes hardened with quiet resolve. “Yes. Rumors stir—more than rumors, in fact. Whispers of powerful forces converging, alliances hidden in shadow. The next conflict may surpass anything we have ever witnessed. The time will come when Prythian, and perhaps the world, will need every skilled hand, every healer who can do more than close wounds. They will need a leader who can guide healers and armies alike, someone who understands not just medicine, but people. Someone who’s traveled far and wide, who knows how to adapt and improvise.”

Your heart squeezed gently in your chest, understanding dawning like the slow rising of a sun behind storm clouds. “That’s why you’re retiring,” you said, voice hushed. “Because you can’t help as you wish anymore, and you believe I can.”

Madja nodded, eyes shining with conviction. “I’ve given my centuries to this court, to its people. But my hands grow stiff, and my eyesight dims. I know my limits, my dear. And I know your capabilities—greater, more flexible, better suited for what is coming. I trust you to take up my mantle and lead in ways I no longer can.”

A hush settled between you, broken only by the distant murmurs of Velaris and the faint crackle of a log shifting in the hearth. You saw in Madja’s face not only the mentor who guided your shaky first steps, but a visionary who understood when to pass on her legacy.

You bowed your head, acknowledging the weight of this new responsibility. “I will do my best,” you said softly, resolve steadied by her faith.

Madja’s smile returned, quieter but no less sincere. “I know you will, my child. It’s time for the student to stand at the helm. And this city, this court, will need you more than ever before.”

——

Azriel’s POV

“It’s really happening,” Cassian said, disbelief coloring his tone. “Madja’s actually retiring.”

Azriel stood near the window, wings folded neatly behind him, his dark gaze drifting between the three others in the room: Rhysand, Feyre, and Cassian. They had gathered in a private meeting chamber with a broad table at its center. Beyond the glass, Velaris shimmered under the soft winter light, a gentle hush settling over the streets below.

Feyre leaned against a chair, her voice quiet and steady. “We knew this day would come. She’s served this court for centuries—long before any of us held these positions.” There was a reverence in her tone, as if recognizing that an era was ending.

Rhysand, standing beside her, tapped a folded piece of parchment against his palm. “Madja sent a message this morning,” he said, his voice level. “She wanted us to know that her replacement has arrived in Velaris.”

Cassian crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Already here?” he repeated, frowning slightly. He didn’t sound angry, just unsettled by the rapidity of this change. It wasn’t that any of them doubted Madja’s judgment; rather, it was strange to think of someone else stepping into her role so swiftly.

Feyre shifted her weight, curiosity and concern mingling in her eyes. “Do we have a name? Any details?” She glanced first at Rhysand, then at Azriel, as if seeking confirmation that all would be well.

Rhysand’s violet gaze dipped to the parchment. He unfolded it and scanned the lines. “Her name is Y/N,” he said. “She left centuries ago to travel the courts and even beyond Prythian’s borders, expanding her healing knowledge. Madja describes her as someone she raised after the first war with Hybern—an orphan of that conflict. She took the girl under her wing, trained her, and now says she’s more skilled than ever.”

Azriel remained silent, his shadows stirring subtly at his shoulders. If Madja trusted this Y/N to succeed her, to guide the healers of the Night Court, then that spoke volumes. He could sense the unease mingled with acceptance in the room. Changes like this did not come often, but when they did, they tended to carry immense significance.

Cassian exhaled, one hand lifting to rub at his neck. “If Madja believes in her, we should give her a chance. Still, it’s hard to imagine anyone filling Madja’s shoes.”

Azriel caught Rhysand’s faint smile, a subtle tilt of the High Lord’s lips. “We’ll arrange a meeting today,” Rhysand said, setting the note aside. “We need her expertise, especially if the rumors we’ve been hearing prove true. If a greater conflict is brewing, we’ll require a healer who can lead effectively and adapt quickly. Madja wouldn’t hand us just anyone.”

Feyre nodded, the tension in her posture easing slightly. “Then we should welcome her properly,” she said softly. Azriel noted the determination in her eyes—Feyre had always been good at making newcomers feel at ease.

Cassian grunted in agreement, leaning back as if resigned. “Fine. Let’s meet her.” He didn’t sound hostile, simply accepting that times were changing again, as they so often did.

Azriel finally moved from his spot near the window, stepping closer to the table. Outside, the snow-dusted city remained unaware of their deliberations. This Y/N must be formidable, if Madja thought her worthy of such a mantle. He exchanged a glance with Rhysand, who gave a faint nod, understanding passing silently between them.

They would meet her soon, and then they would know if Madja’s faith was well-placed. Azriel let the thought settle in his mind like a quiet promise: a new ally, a new guardian of life and health amidst all the uncertainties of a changing world.

Later that afternoon, standing in one of the House of Wind’s halls, Azriel and the others awaited the arrival of Madja and her chosen successor. The space was quiet, warmed by braziers that chased away the winter chill lingering outside. Feyre stood to Rhysand’s right, her posture poised and welcoming. Cassian hovered nearby, arms crossed but relaxed, appearing more curious than wary now. Azriel took his place slightly behind Rhysand, shadows flickering softly around his shoulders, keen eyes focused on the grand doors.

He heard them before he saw them—the soft padding of footsteps, the gentle murmur of Madja’s voice as she guided her protégé. Azriel noted a subtle change in his companions: Rhysand and Feyre straightened a fraction, their gazes sharpening, while Cassian let out a quiet breath. The old healer’s arrival was expected, but who accompanied her was still an unknown that drew all their attention.

The door opened smoothly, revealing Madja first. She moved at a calm pace, the lines of age and wisdom etched into her face. At her side was a taller figure Azriel instantly recognized. He stiffened, remembering the morning’s brief collision. He’d caught only a glimpse of her then—enough to register her beauty, but not the details. Now, with the bright lamplight and open space, he could take in every nuance.

Y/N was indeed a High Fae, Azriel guessed, based on the gentle taper of her ears and the timeless look in her eyes. She stood tall, her posture neither arrogant nor meek, just quietly assured. Long hair, light brown and lustrous, fell behind her back, with small curls at the ends that softened the lines of her figure. She’d tucked the strands behind her ears, revealing a face that mixed elegance with warmth. Her eyes were a deep, rich blue—Azriel thought of midnight skies reflected on calm waters—steady and clear as she surveyed the room.

A soft smile curved her lips, genuine rather than practiced. He recalled how quickly she’d left him this morning, offering only a brief apology. Now, seeing her fully, he understood why his memory had clung to that brief encounter. Hers was a beauty that felt natural, not forced—grace in the set of her shoulders, kindness in the soft curve of her mouth.

Madja stepped forward, inclining her head to Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Azriel. Her companion followed, a respectful dip of her chin acknowledging their status. Azriel watched as Y/N’s gaze flicked over each of them—first Rhys and Feyre, her eyes brightening with recognition of their roles, then Cassian, and finally coming to rest on him. For a heartbeat, their eyes met, and he could have sworn he saw a hint of amusement there, as if she, too, recalled that small mishap by the bakery.

He did not look away. He simply acknowledged her presence with a subtle nod, shadows stilling around him, curious and contemplative.

Madja offered a small smile of encouragement to Y/N as Rhysand and Feyre stepped forward. The High Lord’s posture was relaxed yet attentive, violet eyes reflecting quiet curiosity, while Feyre’s calm warmth radiated outward, creating a welcoming atmosphere. Cassian, still a step behind, nodded in greeting, arms loosely at his sides now. Azriel watched it all unfold, shadows settling into a content hush around him.

Rhysand’s voice was smooth and cordial as he broke the silence. “Madja, thank you for coming. We received your message,” he said, inclining his head to the old healer. “And this must be Y/N, your chosen successor?”

Madja nodded, gently touching Y/N’s elbow in a familiar, reassuring gesture. “Indeed. As I explained, Y/N has returned from her travels—more skilled and knowledgeable than ever. I believe she will serve the Night Court well, especially with what may lie ahead.”

Feyre’s gaze shifted to Y/N, her expression warm. “Welcome home,” she offered simply, the sincerity in her tone unmistakable. “We’ve heard much about you—and I’m sure we’ll have plenty of questions.”

Y/N’s smile deepened, the tension of meeting these influential figures easing a fraction. “It’s an honor to be here,” she replied, voice carrying a steady calm. “I’m grateful Madja trusted me enough to call me back. I hope to prove worthy of that trust.”

Cassian snorted lightly, not unkindly. “If Madja trusts you, that’s already a high recommendation. The rest, I think, will fall into place soon enough.”

Madja tilted her head in gentle agreement. “We will not rush this transition,” the older healer said, her tone practical and kind. “I’m not disappearing tomorrow. For the coming weeks—perhaps months—Y/N and I will work side by side. She will get to know our healers, understand their rhythms, and learn the intricacies of how our wards are organized. By the time I step back fully, she will have found her footing and earned the confidence of every healer under this roof.”

Azriel quietly observed Y/N’s reaction to these words. There was no flash of panic, no tension coiling in her shoulders. Instead, just a measured acceptance, as though she’d been preparing for this for a long time.

Y/N nodded, turning her gaze to Madja briefly, then to Rhysand and Feyre. “I appreciate this gradual approach. It will give me a chance to reacquaint myself with the Night Court’s traditions. I’ve learned much elsewhere, but integrating it here—especially if a war is on the horizon—requires care.”

Her mention of looming conflict stirred something in the air. Azriel noticed how Rhysand’s jaw tightened just so. Feyre’s eyes flickered with a hint of steel beneath their kindness. Cassian’s grin faded slightly, replaced by a sober light in his hazel eyes.

Rhysand offered Y/N a small, approving nod. “Caution is wise. We will likely rely on your skills, your counsel, and your ability to coordinate healers in the field if trouble does come knocking.”

Feyre chimed in softly, “We’ve seen how vital good healers are, not only for soldiers but for civilians, for stabilizing morale. Your presence isn’t just medical; it’s strategic.”

Y/N’s lashes lowered briefly, acknowledging the weight of these words. “I understand,” she said, a calmness threading through her voice. “Healing is more than closing wounds—it’s about maintaining hope, ensuring that fear doesn’t consume everyone. I’ll do my best to uphold that.”

Madja’s smile warmed the room. “You see why I chose her,” she said quietly, pride evident in every syllable.

Azriel inclined his head at Y/N, a quiet gesture of respect. She seemed to notice, meeting his gaze for a fraction before turning back to Rhysand and Feyre. He thought back to their brief encounter that morning—the quick collision, the apology, her hasty departure. Already that memory seemed distant, replaced by the impression of a calm, capable presence who might very well become an anchor in the uncertain times ahead.

“Well,” Rhysand said, after a moment, “I suppose all that remains is to officially welcome you into this role. Y/N, you have our full support. In the coming days, we can introduce you to the healers, and you can start making your own assessments.” He paused, a faint tilt to his smile. “And, of course, do not hesitate to call on any of us if you need assistance.”

Cassian smirked softly. “Just don’t ask me to bandage anyone’s wounds—I’m all thumbs with that,” he teased, the tension in the room easing into something lighter.

Feyre rolled her eyes in mock exasperation. “Ignore him. He’s quite good at following orders when it counts.”

Y/N let out a gentle laugh, and even Azriel’s lips curved slightly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting but enough to notice. The wind seemed to ease outside the windows, the hush of snow falling quietly on Velaris’s spires. Within the House of Wind’s halls, the new healer had been welcomed, the path of her mentorship and eventual succession laid out clearly.

Madja’s eyes shone with satisfaction. “Then it’s settled. We’ll begin tomorrow morning. Y/N, I’ll show you around the wards, let you meet a few of the lead healers.” She glanced at Rhysand and Feyre, and then at Cassian and Azriel. “The rest will follow naturally.”

Azriel considered the moment: transitions were often fraught with uncertainty, but here, in the presence of trust and openness, they felt manageable. He said nothing more, content to stand by and watch as a new cornerstone of the Night Court’s strength stepped quietly into place.

----

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[serpentandlily]

Arcane - Azriel x Reader

Azriel x DeathGod!Reader

Summary: Azriel never thought he’d find his mate, was convinced the Mother hadn’t even given him one because he was unworthy. That is, until he stumbles upon his mate while looking for the most unusual ally.

Based on this request.

Warnings: very brief illusion to past SA

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“We’ve exhausted all our options,” Rhys declared, dropping his head into his hands. “I’m afraid another war is on the horizon. Koschei cannot be dealt with alone.”

“I don’t understand. The weaver and the bone carver were able to be killed,” Cassian interjected. “Why is it impossible for us to find a way to kill Koschei?”

“It took the might of the cauldron to defeat them,” Rhys explained.

“Well, then let’s ask Miriam and Drakon if we can use the cauldron,” Cassian replied, giving the obvious answer.

“It would be no use,” Feyre sighed. “I destroyed the book. We’d have no idea how to cast the spell the King of Hybern used that day. And we risk Koschei, himself, getting his hands on the cauldron.”

“There’s got to be another way,” Mor chimed in. “Something, someone, that could be as powerful as the sorcerer himself. He wasn’t the only God that found their way to Prythian.”

“Most of them are locked up in the Prison,” Rhys said. “And the Prison would not allow us to free any of them even if we wanted to.”

“Az, how has your search for Bryaxis been going?” Feyre asked.

“Not good,” Azriel answered honestly. “It’s like that thing disappeared from Prythian entirely.”

The room was silent for a moment until Amren sat up straight. “Wait, there is someone we could go to for help. As a last resort.”

Rhys lifted his head, staring at her with a heavy resolve. “No, absolutely not. It is too dangerous.”

“You said it yourself, we’re out of options!”

“What are you two talking about?” Feyre asked, looking between them.

Rhys let out a long breath. “Bryaxis…had a sibling. If you could even call her that. Someone who also came from wherever he slipped through from.”

“And why haven’t you mentioned this before?” Mor asked with a glare, crossing her arms.

“Because,” Rhys started. “Like I said, it’s too dangerous to get into contact with her. She’s…well, to be honest, no one really knows much about her. She keeps herself in a dark cave somewhere in the middle. Likes the darkness as much as Bryaxis does.”

“If no one knows much about her, then how do you know she’s dangerous?” Feyre asked. “Everyone was scared of Bryaxis until I went down there and was helped by it.”

“I’ve been told stories of her from my father,” Rhys explained. “How in the past, long before any of us were born, she could cause the fall of entire armies. Could level any court into rubble and dust.”

“And if that’s true, then doesn’t it speak to her character that she hasn’t done any of that? Maybe she is good of heart,” Mor suggested.

“We’re out of options, Rhys,” Amren said. “She might be our last hope.”

“Fine,” Rhys sighed. “I guess we better get ready for a trip to the middle.”

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

“Alright, maybe this was a bad idea.”

Azriel glanced at Cassian to see him frowning as they stood in front of the dark cave. It was just him, Cass and Rhys who had come here to try and find this creature to ask for help. But it seemed Cassian was already losing his nerve.

“I tried to tell you,” Rhys muttered under his breath. “Azriel, can you scout ahead with your shadows?”

As soon as those words left Rhysand’s mouth, Azriel’s shadows darted ahead, trailing into the cave in a flurry. Azriel’s eyes widened as he was left standing completely bare, exposed. Not a single shadow had stayed with him, which was unusual. He tried to brush it off, tried to hide how uncomfortable he felt without them.

They waited expectantly but his shadows never returned. Azriel’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“I can’t call them back,” he said to his two brothers watching him. “They aren’t listening to me.”

“That’s…unusual,” Rhysand said, stroking his jaw.

Nothing more was said as the darkness in the cave seemed to grow and grow, almost extending out towards them despite the sun overhead.

“Who are you?”

The feminine voice was sensual yet sweet, playful almost. Nothing like he had been expecting. It struck something inside of Azriel, making his chest ache. Rhysand stood up straight, switching from brother to the High Lord in a mere second.

“I am Rhysand, High Lord of the Night Court,” Rhys answered, plucking a piece of lint from his coat. “If my sources are right, I believe you are y/n, sister of Bryaxis.”

“That I am,” the voice answered. “Why are you here? No one ever dares come here.”

Those words might’ve seemed like a threat, but her tone was light, curious.

“We’ve come to beg a boon,” Rhysand answered honestly. “There is another Death God who threatens war. We have been unable to stop his efforts.”

“Nobody has ever asked for my help before,” the voice said back in that same curious tone. “And what of Bryaxis. Will they help as well?”

“Bryaxis…Bryaxis was freed by my High Lady. We have been unable to find them.”

A step in the darkness. Another. Light footsteps came closer and closer to the edge of the cave. Azriel’s heart rate picked up, his hand falling to truth-teller. Cassian’s face was white and he looked ready to flee.

“You are afraid.”

It was not a question. Just a statement. But Rhysand answered it like it was.

“Bryaxis is made of nightmares,” he explained. “Something so terrifying to us. Perhaps you do not see it the same way but I imagine you are much the same and that is why we are…nervous.”

A laugh. A light, lilting laugh. Something sparked in Azriel’s chest.

“Me and Bryaxis are not made of the same thing, but opposite. A balance for our world,” the voice said. “Bryaxis is made of nightmares but I am made of dreams.

“Then why do you hide in the shadows?” The question came out of Azriel’s mouth before he even realized he was speaking. He could see his own shadows now, twirling in the darkness as if they were home.

“When we were captured, Bryaxis caused them fear so they were locked below the earth.” Her voice was sadder now, more serious and Azriel found himself hating that. “But I-I caused them…something different than fear. So they kept me locked in their bed chambers for decades, centuries, until I was able to escape. But then I learned those that did not desire me, feared me instead for the same reason. I was either caged or hunted. That is why I hide here.”

A shiver ran down Azriel’s spine. His face hardened at what she was implying. The fae who had captured the two Gods had locked one beneath the library and had used the other for…He felt sick to his stomach.

“If you are to help us,” Rhysand spoke, “I can promise you that we have no intention of keeping you locked up at all.”

“I do not trust the fae. Bind your words to magic and perhaps I will help you in return.”

“What is it that you want from us?”

It was silent for a moment, as if she were pondering.

“A place to stay. A place to live. Somewhere safe from being hunted or kept as a prisoner. A chance to live in this world, outside of this cave. To get to experience all that you do. That is what I wish for.”

Azriel knew that wish. Knew it all too well. For it was one he had for years while being locked in his father’s dungeon. So maybe that is why he found himself stepping closer to the cave, found himself unafraid of the darkness that had captured his own shadows.

Maybe that was why those words slipped out of his mouth before he could think of the repercussions, before he could be held back by one of his brothers.

“I will promise you that, y/n. I will promise you the opportunity to experience life outside of this cage, outside of the darkness.”

He could feel the heavy stares from his brothers on his back but he didn’t turn around, didn’t look anywhere but that darkness, even though he felt so exposed without his shadows.

Another footstep.

And another.

Until a figure began to emerge from the darkness, finally stepping into the light.

Azriel’s breathed hitched, his eyes widening in surprise. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but it hadn’t been this.

Because before him now stood the most beautiful female he had ever seen. The type of beauty only a Goddess could possess. The type of beauty that had his head spinning, had his heart palpitating in his chest.

She smiled and he felt the whole world pause in that moment. It was a sight that would bring any male to his knees. A sight that could start wars.

She held out a small, delicate hand.

“Then I will help you, shadowsinger,” she said.

He mindlessly took her hand in his, shaking it as the sting of magic burned on both of their skin forming a bargain tattoo on the inner wrist. He looked down at it to see what the magic had created out of their promise to each other.

Swirls of shadows with a small lunar moth emerging at the end. A creature that sought light, finally leaving the darkness.

When he met her eyes again, those beautiful expressive eyes, he stumbled back a step. Stumbled as a golden thread unwound itself in his chest and pierced straight through the universe to the female standing before him.

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆

The battle lasted thirty-seven days. Koschei was defeated, the females he had spelled were freed. Beron had been exposed for helping him and was killed by Eris finally, bringing a new leader to Autumn.

And things were finally at peace.

“What are these again?”

Your index finger poked at the spongy thing on your plate. It smelled sweet, good. And it was warm to the touch. You glanced up to see the shadowsinger watching you, amused.

“Those are pancakes,” Azriel answered with a chuckle.

“Pancakes,” you repeated, slowly, testing the word on your tongue. “I thought cakes were desserts. Not breakfast.”

“They are a bit different from cake. Made in a pan instead of baked in the oven, hence the name,” Azriel explained.

You hummed in response, taking a bite out of one of the pancakes. “Hm, just as sweet as cake.”

“I might’ve added a bit more sugar than normal to them,” Azriel said, rubbing the back of his neck. “To satisfy that raging sweet tooth of yours.”

Your cheeks heated, that ticklish feeling in your stomach came again. A feeling you had never felt before this month and still had yet to make sense of. It made something in your chest ache when you looked at Azriel.

“You made these?”

Azriel nodded. “Someone slept through breakfast with the others.”

Your cheeks turned even redder.

“You should’ve woken me up,” you muttered before stuffing more bits of pancake into your mouth.

“You deserve to rest, y/n.” Azriel was still watching you with that little glint in his eyes. “After everything, you deserve to rest.”

Since coming to Velaris to help with Koschei, Azriel had been the one to show you around, to help you learn the customs of the fae. He had so much patience for you and your endless amounts of questions.

The others had helped you as well, had welcomed you into their home with open arms, but there was just something special about Azriel. You felt some sort of pull towards him. As if the darkness inside of you called to his.

He was beautiful, more than any God or male you’d ever seen before. And beneath his icy exterior, he was sweet and kind. Thoughtful. Witty.

You enjoyed being with the others but you preferred times like this, when it was just the two of you. He was less shy, more at ease, when it was just you. And something about that made you happy.

Seeing him smile, even when it was just the faintest expression, brought you joy like you’ve never felt before.

And Gods, he brought out so many emotions you had not felt in a very long time, some you hadn’t even known you could feel. You had begun to crave his presence. Desire it. You wondered if he felt the same.

“Did you still want to come with me to the city today?”

Azriel’s voice pulled you from your thoughts. That’s right, Azriel had cryptically told you he needed to pick something up from Velaris today. When you had asked him what he was getting, he had refused to answer.

“Yes, I would like to.”

“We’ll leave as soon as you’re ready.”

An hour later, you found yourself in Azriel’s arms, flying down to the city. Your heart was pounding in your chest at how closely he held you, like he was afraid you’d suddenly fall from his arms. You kept your own arms around his neck, playing with the ends of his hair.

You still remembered the few hours after the last battle. The showdown with Koschei had left you depleted, covered in wounds, but otherwise okay. Still, Azriel had burst into your tent with panicked eyes and only seemed to be calmed when you had let him tend to you like a mother hen.

You didn’t know what to make of his behavior. But you did know that being in his arms made you feel safe.

“Can we get more of those honey mooncakes on the way back?” you asked, trying to distract yourself from the ticklish feeling in your stomach again.

Azriel laughed, his chest rumbling against your body as he tightened his grip on you. “That sweet tooth of yours really is insatiable.”

“I didn’t get to finish mine from last time,” you said in defense for yourself. “Cassian got to them before me!”

“Well, next time tell Cassian to go get his own,” Azriel said. His breath ghosted against the tip of your ear, causing a trail of goosebumps on your skin. “I buy them for you, not him.”

Once again, you found yourself with red cheeks and a swelling heart. Ever since he had discovered your sweet tooth, Azriel had a habit of leaving sweet treats out for you. At first, he found it hilarious that a Death Goddess craved pastries of all things. But now he found it just downright adorable.

When the two of you returned to the House of Wind, you found Feyre and Mor waiting for you. You barely got out a small goodbye to Azriel before they were pulling you away, telling you it was time to start getting ready for the night.

Tonight was Starfall. Something you hadn’t seen in centuries. The girls helped you get ready as day turned to dusk and finally night.

“Come on, we’re going to be late,” Mor giggled, leading all of you out of the room and up to the main balcony. You could already hear the crowd and the music.

You felt nervous as you reached the top, your eyes instantly darting around to find that one person you were always looking for these days.

Azriel stood with Rhysand and Cassian, dressed in all black, finely tailored pants and a matching coat. He looked handsome, yet still beautifully lethal. The darkness and light bounced off the elegant planes of his face, causing his hazel eyes to glow golden.

When he caught sight of you, those eyes widened and you felt them roam your entire body. You’d always hated being looked at in such a way, but not with Azriel. Never with him.

In fact, you found yourself getting heated under his stare.

Rhysand and Cassian moved to their respective mates, leaving you to greet Azriel alone. He took your hand in his, pressing a gentle kiss to your knuckles.

“You are stunning,” he whispered. “Absolutely stunning. Happy Starfall.”

You blushed. “Thank you.”

Azriel gave you a rare smile that had your heart pounding. You peered at the crowd, watching the faeries enjoying their evening. Azriel stood with you, his fingers brushing against yours in a comforting gesture. He knew you weren’t the biggest fan of crowds, not when your presence was met with so many stares of both fear and desire.

“What are they doing?” You looked at the crowd of faeries that seemed to all be paired off, moving to the music from the band.

Azriel’s lips twitched, like they always did when you asked him a question like this. “They’re dancing.”

“Dancing,” you repeated. The word sounded familiar, like something you had known in a past life. You had spent so many years in that cave, you had turned into a mere shadow of who you used to be.

“Would you like to dance?”

Azriel had turned to look down at you, running a hand through his hair. His shadows curled around his wings.

“I don’t think I know how,” you whispered.

He held out his hand to you. “That’s alright. You can follow me lead.”

You bit your lip but decided to take his hand. He had promised you a chance of experiencing the world as it should be. He hadn’t led you astray yet.

He pulled you to the dance floor and you mimicked the other pairs, keeping one hand in his and placing the other on his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around your waist, yanking you closer to him.

The music started up again and Azriel began to lead you through the dance. It was easier than you thought it would be or perhaps he was just a good lead. Still, it wasn’t long before you were smiling and being twirled around in his arms.

You danced like that for a while, basking in the feeling. The soft music, the laughter, the gentle faelights above you. You had never felt so alive. And it was all thanks to the male who held you in his arms.

A slower song came on, some pairs leaving the dance floor. You looked around in question until you realized the pairs who had remained held a more intimate position. You copied them, placing your arms around Azriel’s neck.

Both of his arms wrapped around you now, resting on your lower back.

“Is this okay?” He leaned down to whisper in your ear.

You nodded, letting him drag you even closer until your bodies were pressed together. The dress you were wearing was thin and you could feel all of him through it. His hard chest, his sculpted muscles.

Azriel swallowed audibly, swaying you gently to the music. You laid your head on his chest, letting him rest his chin on top of your head. Every inch of you that touched him was on fire.

You closed your eyes for a moment, just letting yourself feel this, embrace it. You’d never felt like this before. So warm and light. It felt like it was just you and him that existed.

That is until you opened your eyes. You suddenly felt overwhelmed as you noticed lingering stares. A lot of them. You felt uncomfortable under the weight of them.

“What’s wrong?”

Azriel had some sort of sixth sense when it came to you. He always seemed to know what you were feeling before you said anything.

“Everyone’s looking at me,” you muttered under your breath, staring up at him.

He raised his head, looking around with narrowed eyes. That caused most of them to look away, not wanting to risk the shadowsinger’s wrath.

“Come on,” Azriel whispered. “I know somewhere we can go that’s more private.”

He enveloped you in his shadows until you were stepping out of the darkness and into a rounded alcove somewhere else on the balcony. Vines dangled down from the roof, trailing down the pillars holding it up.

You stepped forward, placing your hands against the stone railing. You could see the crowd below, the one you had just been in. Still hear the music and still see the night sky. You turned to face Azriel.

“Thank you,” you said. “I-I just hate it when they stare. Like I’m some weird creature.”

Azriel stalked forward until he was right in front of you, so close you had to tilt your head up to look him in the eyes.

“They don’t stare at you because they think you’re weird,” Azriel replied. “They stare at you because you are beautiful.”

His hand rose and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. Your heart skipped a beat. Your mouth parted to say something but a roar of cheers cut you off. You whirled around to see thousands and thousands of stars beginning to soar through the sky.

Your mouth dropped open. It was more beautiful than you remembered. The stars kept falling and falling, like cascading fireworks. So bright and breathtaking. You couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped your mouth, standing on your tippy toes to lean over the balcony as if you’d be able to reach the stars.

An arm circled your waist and Azriel’s front was pressed against your back as he held onto you.

“Careful,” he whispered in your ear, scared you were going to tip right over the edge and fall down the steep mountain.

“So beautiful,” you murmured, staring up at the stars. “Oh, it’s so much better than I remembered it from all those years ago.”

“It never stops amazing me,” Azriel said. “No matter how many times I watch it.”

You both watched in silence for a little longer, letting the music and laughter and cheers fill the space. Eventually, you turned in his arms, now pressed against the railing.

“Thank you,” you said again, “for bringing me here.”

“Anything for you,” Azriel whispered, raising a hand to rest on your cheek. His eyes were filled with a reverence that stole your breath away.

A brush of magic zipped by in the air and you gasped, raising up your wrist. The tattoo was gone. The bargain had been fulfilled. You had defeated Koschei and Azriel had given you the opportunity to live a life more than you had dreamed. That chance at life was in your hands now.

“The tattoo is gone,” you said, grasping his arm and pulling back his sleeve.

Your eyes widened to see his tattoo still there. The lunar moth emerging from the swirls of shadow.

“Wha—”

“I got it tattooed,” Azriel cut in. “Permanently.”

You glanced up at him in question. “Why?”

“Because I always want a reminder of what I promised you,” he said, his thumb stroking your cheek. “What I still promise you, y/n. A life worth living. I want to continue showing you the world, to be there when you experience new things.”

You were speechless. Completely, utterly speechless.

No one had ever shown such devotion to you, such care and love. Your heart swelled up, your chest ached.

“Azriel,” you stuttered out. “I-I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything,” he replied. “I was trapped in the darkness once too. I know what that’s like and I never want you to fall back into it. I don’t need anything from you, just the chance to be there with you while you learn, while you feel.”

Something was building inside of you, building and building until it was ready to break out. You rubbed at your chest, at the unusual feeling.

“I feel this…I feel this thing inside,” You said, gesturing to your chest. “Do you know what this is? Do you know why I feel this way?”

Azriel grabbed your hand and placed it on his chest, in the exact same spot yours ached.

“It is the mating bond,” Azriel answered, softly. “I feel it too. Right here. I have since the day I met you.”

His shadows swirled around like they had been waiting for this. You felt your own darkness rise in response until the two had joined together, watching together from the dark crevices.

“A mating bond,” you repeated.

Something snapped the moment you said it out loud. As if a question you had been asking your whole life had finally been answered. A gold thread was woven between the two of you, a beacon of light in the darkness. A place for that moth to call home.

You gasped looking back up at Azriel. Now that you recognized the bond, it grew more taut. You stumbled closer to him, fisting his coat in your hands.

“A mate,” you whispered. “You're my mate. I..I didn’t even know Gods could have mates.”

“Say it again.” Azriel’s voice was as dark as the shadows. A shiver ran down your spine.

“Huh?”

“Say it. Say that I’m your mate again.”

“You’re my mate,” you whispered, looking up at him through your lashes. “My mate.”

A quiet whine came from the back of Azriel’s throat that sent heat between your legs. Your eyes widened. A muscle in his jaw clenched. The air around you was charged and you felt like you had been set on fire.

“And you are mine,” Azriel growled. “My mate.”

His possessive tone only made that heat grow. Your lips parted, a small breath leaving your lungs. His eyes glanced down to your lips, hungrily. You gave him the smallest dip of the head, the permission he was waiting for.

Azriel surged forward and crashed his lips against yours. You stumbled, your backside hitting the stone railing behind you. You met his vigor with your own.

His lips were soft and warm. And his kiss felt like heaven and hell all mixed in one.

He groaned as you deepened the kiss, tilting your head back to give him more access. You yanked him closer, wanting to feel him everywhere. You never craved someone as much as you craved him.

His tongue swiped your bottom lip and you opened for him, letting him claim your mouth. His scent was intoxicating, he tasted like pure sin. You could drown yourself in him.

Your hands trailed up from his chest to circle around his neck. His own hands were holding you by the waist, pulling your hips into his. They traveled down your thighs until he was lifting you up, seating you on the stone railing, never pulled away from your kiss.

You parted your legs, letting Azriel step even closer as he finally pulled away, trailing kisses down your jaw to your neck. You whimpered at the feeling of his canines grazing the sensitive skin.

His nose traced the column of your throat before he rested his forehead against yours. You were both panting, both completely lost within each other.

“Wait,” Azriel breathed out, squeezing his eyes shut for a second. “I got you something. I don’t want to forget to give it to you.”

Because he would. He would forget his own name as long as the sweet scent of your arousal filled the air. Would forget the whole world existed if you kept staring at him like you were.

He pulled a small black box from his pocket, handing it over to you.

You opened it, gasping at the beautiful ring displayed inside. It was made of gold with a mesmerizing amethyst gem in the shape of a teardrop, accentuated by crescent moons on both sides and tiny stars.

“Azriel,” you breathed out. “This is beautiful.”

A small smile ghosted his lips.

“May I?”

You held out your hand and he pulled the ring out of the box before sliding it onto your ring finger. It was the perfect fit. You admired it, twisting it under the faelights to see the gem glow.

“It’s perfect,” you sighed.

“I had it made just for you,” Azriel said. “It’s what I had to pick up in the city today.”

“I-I really don’t know what to say, Azriel.”

Azriel rested his forehead against yours. “Just say it again. Tell me you feel this too. I’ve been searching for you for over five hundred years now and I just need to hear you say it. Again and again. Until I can wrap my head around it. Until I realize I’m not dreaming.”

You smiled, lifting up to press a small kiss against his lips. Your heart fluttered in your chest at his words, at the realization of why exactly the bargain had been fulfilled. You had asked for someplace to be safe, for a home, a chance to live. Azriel was giving you all of that and more.

“You are my mate. And I am yours,” you murmured against his lips. You pulled back to look him in the eyes. “All I’ve ever wanted was to find somewhere to call home. Being with you, being in your arms—that feels like home to me, Azriel. The one I’ve been looking for my whole life.”

Azriel’s eyes searched yours, as if he was trying to find the lie in your words. But there was none. Of course there was none. You were falling in love with him.

“Does this mean you want it?”

“It means I want you. I want all of you, everything.”

Azriel smiled and the sight nearly blew you away. You giggled as he held you close to him, buried his face in the crook of your neck. He kissed your throat once, twice.

“Then I think we’re due for a long vacation,” he murmured against your skin.

You knew what he was referring to. The frenzy that would come with this. Just that thought alone caused a tantalizing ache between your thighs.

“I think so too,” you whispered back as Azriel pressed kisses up your neck and jaw.

He held your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your skin as he stared into your eyes. His gaze was filled with so much promise, so much love. And then he kissed you again and everything felt right in the world. You were home.

[realspacejunk]

Across the sprawling tapestry of our world, amidst the flat lands and forests, the mountains' solemn peaks, the rugged coasts, sprawling dunes and the silent depths of cavernous earth, there stand monuments of enigmatic grandeur. Reminders of a time forgotten, there lie scattered remnants of the bygone Age of Wonders, veiled in mystery and cloaked in the hushed secrets of heresy. These ruins, wrought of ethereal white stone intertwined with veins of golden and silver, stand as solemn sentinels to an era lost. Their works speak of skill and power beyond our reckoning, a testament to the ingenuity of minds now forever stilled. Tales among the learned speak of a people long vanished, a race of ancients known as the Nairim. Once, they walked beneath the god's golden light, their footsteps echoing through the halls of time, the wonders of their creation inspiring fairy tales of fools. Yet, lust for grandeur and folly marked their days, and they dared to defy the gods themselves, their ambition a flame that consumed them til their race was destroyed and their last bones became dust. They stand as a warning, a cautionary tale of betrail enshrined in words and tongue. To admire the ruins of the Nairim is to court the ire of powers long dormant, to stir the embers of forgotten evil. Thus the voices of the wise counsel against delving too deeply, against unravelling the threads of a past best left undisturbed and buried. Let the ruins of the Nairim, these Humans, stand as silent witnesses to the folly of their hubris, as testament to the fragility of mortal pride. Let them stand, and let us heed the lessons they impart, lest we too be consumed by the flames of our own hubris and the thoughts of heretical darkness.

Thalas the historian, History of the White Towers - Introduction to the Old Cultures of the Continent of Sands Fourth Age

[kayesfanfics]

Can you please write an Alucard oneshot where he catches the reader after they fall while trying to clean something high up.

“How can we not find a single broom in this castle?” You wondered aloud as you looked for some sort of cleaning supplies. “Didn’t Dracula have people to clean for him or something?”

“He probably stopped caring about his living state.” Adrian said bluntly, tone unreadable as he opened random doors along the hall the two of you were walking along. You had just said farewell to Trevor and Sypha not too long ago, sending them on their way. You had chosen to stay behind with Adrian to clean up the castle and hold, as you and the pale dhampir had grown quite close over the course of your adventure to kill his father. After giving him a couple nights to process what had happened, he was ready to help you clean the castle and return it to its pristine state.

“Ah! The maids quarters!” You shouted to him after opening a door and seeing things like brooms, buckets, feather dusters, stuff like that. He followed you into the room, helping you gather the things you would need. Adrian carried a long ladder and the heavy stuff, while you picked up the smaller items and bars of soap to scrub the floor with. The two of you went back to the entrance of the castle, where it was an absolute mess from the large fight between the four of you and Dracula’s Court. Adrian began to use his inhuman strength to toss boards of wood outside, while you swept up the dust and wood splinters behind him. Some of the drapes had been knocked off their bars holding them up towards the ceiling, and they would need to be put back up to get out of the way of cleaning. You went to [ick up the ladder, not realizing how heavy and sturdy was, and barely able to lift it up.

“Need some help?” Adrian’s playful voice spoke up behind you, chuckling as he watched you struggle with the ladder.

“Please! Don’t just sit there and watch!” You pouted as he laughed at your feeble attempt, but he walked over and picked up the ladder with ease, asking you where you wanted it. You pointed to a bare spot on the wall where a curtain used to be, grabbing one off the floor and hauling it over to the ladder. Adrian held the ladder for you and you walked up it, curtain in hand to put it back in its place.

You stood up as high as the ladder would let you, Adrian warning you to be careful. You rolled your eyes at his comment, waving his concerns off as you stood on the highest step to put the curtain back in place. Adrian worriedly offered to put them up instead of you, but you declined, telling him you were very much capable of doing this task. You put up the next few curtains just fine, Adrian slowly calming down and worrying less about you. But on the very last one, you twisted your ankle when your boot caught on a step, causing you to topple over. You braced yourself for impact with the floor, instead feeling something soft catch you during your landing. You opened your eyes and looked up at Adrian’s bright gold eyes, full of concern and worry as he held you close to him.

“Are you alright?” He asked, brows furrowing as he set you down and put his hands on your shoulders.

“I’m fine! You caught me!” You said as he checked you over for any sign of injury.

“Well, dammit, Y/N! This is why I said it would be better for me to put up the curtain! What if I wasn’t here to catch you? Your human body would’ve cracked if you hit the floor! Think of the broken bones! A concussion! Death!” He rambled on and on as you huffed, walking past him to pick up a broom. “I’m not finished!”

“I am.”

[utterlyotterlyx]

White Flag

Cassian x Rhys!Sister Reader

Summary - There had never been a moment where you and Cassian had seen eye to eye, despite his attempts to make peace and make a friend of you, it wasn't something that you wanted.

Warnings - angst, swearing, teasing, back and forth banter, mentions of blood

The Day Court had become your home from the moment you had decided that you couldn't bear to be around Cassian any longer. Luckily, Helion was a good friend of yours even if he wasn't overly fond of your brother and his inner circle. and granted you sanctuary before you had even finished asking him the question.

A part of you didn't even know how it had all started, that outlandish flare of dramatic hatred that passed between you whenever you were too close. Maybe he was threatened by your athletic prowess and strength, maybe you despised how often a new female ended up in his bed

Things had come to an abrupt head when you had punched him square in the nose for making a comment about your mood, asking if your cycle was drawing near. Blood gushed from his nostrils and he stuttered back a few steps, cradling the now broken bone and groaning as blood dripped onto the floor.

"Why is he bleeding?" Rhys had enquired after entering the room, sensing the stench of blood through the closed door of his office.

Cassian stood by the sink, bloody rag clasped around the injured affect, "Because he's an idiot," you replied with astounding calmness, feet propped up on the arm of the chair and your fingers flipping idly through the pages of your book.

"I didn't know that idiocy caused people to just start spontaneously bleeding from the nose."

You had hummed, a smirk pulling at your lips when you noticed Cassian's hazel gaze ripping through you, "I think it's a new phenomenon."

Rhys had usually kept out of your spats, like the rest of the inner circle, they knew your sass was not something to play with, it was unfortunate how Cassian skipped over that fact.

Then there were the countless family dinners that were interrupted, and sometimes ruined, by your joint fire.

"You know, Cassian," his ears pricked upward but his eyes narrowed, he'd like to believe that maybe for once you'd say something nice to him, to stop this feud between you, "Remember that one time I said that you were cool?" He nodded, falling victim to another one of your games as the room held a collective breath, Rhys already pinching the bridge of his nose, "I lied."

Cassian growled, slamming his fork down on the table and standing from his seat, the chair skidding along the wood with his brute force, "I can't help imagining how much more awesome the world would be if your dad had just pulled out."

You were smirking, that shit-eating smirk you always wore when you managed to get him to bite, "Please, save your breath, Cassian," you cooed obnoxiously, popping a honey soaked carrot into your mouth, "You'll probably need it to blow up your next date."

Azriel had choked on his wine and you spared him a sidelong glance, convincing yourself that if Cassian's red face turned one shade darker then he'd surely erupt in flames.

Then there were the missions that Rhys had assigned you and Cassian to, he thought forcing you two to work together would put an end to the nonsense that was your tiff. Azriel was the unlucky one who had to accompany you both so that you didn't wind up killing one another.

An ash arrow hurtled past your face, grazing the tip of your pointed ear, you had dodged its full puncture successfully and heaved out a sigh as you took cover behind a nearby tree, "Oh my gosh, did you see that?! I almost just died!"

Cassian had sauntered past you, sword coated in the blood of your enemies, strands of brown hair falling from his bun, and dirt dusting the side of his face, he grinned at you, "Tragic that you didn't."

Azriel audibly groaned, sick of both of you, it had been three full days of trudging around the outskirts of the winter court, he was freezing, Cassian was making his head pound with his constant complaining, and you were certainly catching a cold.

The Shadowsinger had finally had enough when he had heard you and Cassian arguing at the edge of the clearing, the latter had gone to bathe, to wipe away the blood and dirt from his skin, only to turn around and find that his clothes had been plucked from the bank.

"I didn't do it," you told him through laughs as Azriel approached, Cassian was stood in the water up to his impeccable v line, fists clenched and seething through his teeth as his body shivered from the cold.

"Then why are you laughing?!"

You were leaned against the trunk of a tree, clad in your warm clothing that Rhys had insisted you wear, badass or not, you were still his little sister, "Because whoever did it is a freaking genius."

Rhys had had enough of it. Of all of it.

An ultimatum had been delivered to you both, after being pulled into Rhys' office by the scruffs of your necks by Azriel, you had been told that one of you had to move out of the House of Wind permanently. Though, Rhys' plans of keeping you apart had completely backfired when you had stood up and told him that you were leaving the Night Court altogether, the words shaking the room enough that even Cassian felt guilty that your feud had become so severe that you actually wanted to leave your home court.

"And go where?" Rhys had rose, that power pulsating around him like a heartbeat, a drowning effect that made you all feel dizzy as his eyes darkened and jaw clenched.

"The Day Court," you stated like it was already decided, "Helion has offered me a place within his court and I accepted. I leave tonight."

"Over my dead body!" Rhys rumbled, it was deadly enough for even Azriel's shadows to cower behind him whilst Cassian looked at you bewildered.

Ticking your tongue against the roof of your mouth, you quipped, "Well, go lay down and die then because I'm not going to be told what to do, especially not by you."

"You are my sister. You are a Princess of the Night Court."

"And I am allowed to make my own decisions regarding my life and future," you looked to Cassian and frowned, your eyes dipped with an emotion he'd never seen in you, "And, right now, my life is not here."

That was how you found yourself within Helion's court, doused in white and gold, with tanned skin from the bright never-ending sun, with your toes dipped in sand and the ocean breeze drifting through your hair.

It had been a year since you had left Velaris, and gods, you missed the City of Starlight so much. The Day Court was wonderful, beautiful in its own incredible way, but it wasn't Velaris, your home.

Helion had found you walking along the sandy shores when you should have been readying yourself for the ball starting in a few hours. Rhys and the entirety of your former family were visiting to celebrate the announcement of Feyre's pregnancy, stopping in every court bar Autumn and Spring to spread the joy, to signal a new age for Prythian after all of the torment they had been subjected to.

"I would have thought you'd be ready by now," Helion noted, watching your cream coloured dress float in the breeze, you held your shoes between your fingers and gazed outward to the ocean.

You hummed, "Part of me isn't looking forward to it," you admitted.

The time you had spent in the Day Court had made you softer, had given you a new perspective. There was much more to love in life than arguing and feuding, and you had spent a little over two weeks trying to figure out why you and Cassian could never seem to get along.

Helion draped an arm over your shoulder, his golden crown shimmering in the sunlight that was usually focused on you, focused on making your skin glitter and smile, "It's been a year since you left, I'm sure they're all looking forward to seeing you."

"Or telling me how much easier their lives have been without me," you laughed sadly, slumping into his side softly as he turned to lead you back up to the palace.

"You're a changed woman now, Y/N. I think that more than anything they'll just be happy to see you thriving."

Fuck.

You were so late. So late that it would be noted as disrespectful no matter how much longer you took. Helion was right, you should have been readying yourself much earlier rather than trailing your toes in the sand.

Helion had gone to great lengths to secure you the most spectacular dress anyone had ever seen. A rich gold garment that snaked tightly around your breasts and curved perfectly over your thighs and ass, no sleeves attached to it, but he had gifted you a set of matching arm cuffs and one for your thigh which was exposed by a high slit, as well as ear cuffs which gave a subtle nod to the Day Courts abilities to hone their gifts of invention.

You were practically running down the halls whilst putting your heels on and clasping your necklace around your neck, taking a sharp left which you knew would lead you to a more secluded entrance where you hoped you could slip in unnoticed.

Sliding through the small opening in the wall, you ducked your way along the length of the room, popping up and smoothing your dress out before reaching for the nearest passing tray of flutes, downing half of the liquid to make it seem like you had been there for longer than you had.

"Very smooth, Y/N," A familiar voice purred with amusement laced in his voice, you turned to find Azriel stood behind you, he looked surprised as he took you in, acknowledging the tanned hue and glow that had possessed your skin, your violet eyes seemed a shade or two lighter than Rhys'.

"Az," you breathed, placing your flute down on the table beside you and throwing yourself into his open arms, you both laughed, and he inhaled your scent, salted summer oceans and velvety rose petals.

Pulling back, you smiled up at him brightly, showing all of your teeth. It was like Day had thrown up on you, though, Azriel couldn't deny that gold most certainly agreed with you. Another force jolted into your side and you lifted your arm to find Mor bundled into your ribs, squeezing you tightly and refusing to let go to the point you had to physically unwind her from you.

"I've missed you so much," her bottom lip wobbled as tears gathered in her eyes, you reached for her, wiping the stray droplets with your thumb.

"You know I'm only like ten minutes away from you, right?"

"Not the point, Y/N," a deep voice drawled, it made you shiver, and before you could even properly move to find the owner, you were already gathered up in his arms, "Hello, little sister."

"Hi, Rhys," your eyes found Feyre stood a few feet away from you, a hand cradling her swelling bump, you moved to her, looking down at that bump, "Congratulations, I'm so happy for you."

Rhys couldn't deny that you seemed different, that you had changed since the night you had left Velaris after your argument, after the ultimatum he had wrongfully forced on you. Feyre had told him that you would be fine, that you deserved to see what life could be outside of Velaris, that you would one day come home to them a different woman than the one who had left.

They all watched as Feyre guided your hands to her stomach and you felt your nephew wriggling around and kicking, "Hey, stop kicking your mama," you had bent down to whisper, "She's been through enough," and the little thing within her halted, settling into a comfortable position and Feyre sighed with relief.

Straightening your posture, you took your flute and took another sip, feeling overwhelmed by all you had missed, "I'll be back in a minute," you told them, Rhys moved to follow after you but Feyre stopped him, she knew how much it must have been for you, she was always the understanding one.

Your usual haven was empty when you had reached it, a white stone balcony at the end of a secluded hallway that looked out onto the lapping waves colliding with the mountain upon which the Day Court Palace lay.

A single tear flowed down your face and you heaved in a breath, trying to control yourself by clutching onto the stone railing. Your hair whipped around your face, and the fire lanterns flickered in the breeze.

"I know that we aren't friends, but if you need me to punch somebody out, you know I can and will," the voice you used to grimace at called to you from a metre or so away.

Spinning on your heels, you saw Cassian before you, illuminated by the moonlight so that you could see his unbound hair and muscular chest that peeked out from his undone shirt, "Thanks, but I'm good," you sniffled softly, grabbing your flute and finishing off the sparkling liquid inside of it before placing it back onto the stone ledge.

Cassian frowned at you, his eyes roamed over your face and figure, smiling in approval at your bright eyes and tan skin, and the masterfully tailored dress and accessories you adorned. There was something soft about you.

"It's good to see you, Cassian. You look happy," the admission tugged sadly at that ball of bliss inside of you, the ball that had been enriched and glowed like starlight.

He approached you, stepping out into the night and understanding why you had blindly led yourself there, he had followed you, noticing how you weren't paying much attention to where you were going and simply allowing your feet to carry you there.

"I could be better," he expressed, taking another step closer to you and finding nothing untoward in your expression, no anger, no distaste, nothing but warmth, "It's weird seeing you not being mad with me."

A gentle laugh pushed through you, it crinkled at the corner of your eyes, "If it means anything, I don't think I was ever really mad at you."

"Yeah?" Cassian coaxed, wanting more of an answer from you.

The lanterns scattered light over the side of your body, the small speck of glitter in your jasmine body oil shimmering softly, "I think I was jealous of you if anything," you had turned away from him and propped your elbows up on the stone platform, staring up at the stars longingly, "You're a true Illyrian and I'm not, not since I lost them," your shoulders rolled, and Cassian saw the faint crescent moon scars ripple at the movement, "I think I saw you as reckless, you were making so many stupid moves that could end up with you being hurt or losing your own wings," you flinched at the thought, "I'm sorry."

"I get it," he told you, mirroring your stance and looking upward at the sky which held nothing on Velaris, "I think I'd be the same if I were in your shoes."

Cassian on some level had always known that you harboured some resentment toward them, for their privilege of not having to worry about having their wings clipped. It had broken them all when it had happened to you, that was the moment you'd turned cold toward him, causing more arguments than anything else.

"This court has changed me, I'm not that person anymore. I hope you know that."

Cassian grabbed your wrist as you moved to walk away, pulling you flush to his chest and tensing as his rough fingers ghosted over your cheek, "I never thought you were that person. I tried to fix it, you know, fix whatever I had done wrong. I was the one who made sure you always had enough strawberries in the house and made Feyre swear to take credit for it. I was the one who made sure your bathroom cabinet was always stocked full of bath oils and healing creams, not Mor. That gift three solstices ago you loved so much, the blanket made from the dresses of Selene and your mother, that was me too, not Az."

"But why? We hate each other?"

"I never hated you, the truth couldn't be more opposite," you could feel his heart beating through the silk of his shirt, through the satin on your dress, he grazed his fingers around the cuffs on your ears, "I love you actually, a lot, and I stupidly thought that if all the words I could get from you were teasing jabs then it would be enough, just to hear your voice."

"You love me?"

Cassian grinned, lowering himself and stopping only millimetres away from your lips, sparks of fire sparking between them, "Always have, Princess," when you didn't move away, he closed that gap between you and allowed the world to explode into a kaleidoscope of colour around your forms, you fisted into his shirts, pulling him closer, and his hands found the small of your back, leaning into you.

Panting, you pulled away, opening your eyes to find his hazel spheres pressing into you, his nose touching your own. You laughed, a laugh that send shivers of joy down his spine, "I can't believe we were in love all this time. I swore I would never become this trope."

Cassian chuckled, a rich a deep thing that made you yearn for him, he kissed you again, with more hunger than you had ever felt, "Who doesn't love a good cliché, my formiddable mate?"

Authors Note

I'm happy now x

[florencemtrash]

The Artificer: Part II - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: Torture, violence, death

✨Based on this ask ✨

Masterlist of Masterlists

“She is my mate.” The male’s eyes flashed with horror and understanding, and that feeling chased him towards his death, “And your High Lord will burn for what he’s done.”

Five months later…

“Where is she?” The Shadowsinger stalked forward, silent as the dead and just as unfeeling.

The Autumn Court warrior at least had the sense to tremble when The Shadowsinger came near. But he kept his red-cracked lips shut, golden eyes shining with hatred. 

“Bastard.” He sneered, spitting on Azriel’s polished boot. 

“I said.” A shadow darted out from his side, grabbing a fistful of matted tawny hair and wrenching it back. His skin was thin, so translucent that Azriel traced the flow of his blood in his purple veins with dead eyes. “Where. Is. She?” Every word was emphasized with a violent jerk.

He’d gone to visit you last week, carrying your favorite chocolates from Velaris and hoping for a far sweeter kiss in return. Instead your workshop had been in ruins. Swords shattered and the fire burnt out. For the first time, the room had been cold and unlit. 

Azriel had only found the pathetic male in front of him, kneeling on the ground and uselessly tugging at the sword which refused to move - Sunseeker. 

Azriel held it now in his hands, the pale, yellow glow sharpening the shadows beneath his eyes and the elegantly cruel cut of his jaw. 

It had been a risk trying to pick up the sword, but the weapon had sung to him and his shadows, calling out for him to wield it instead of the unworthy Autumn Court male. Azriel was no replacement for its real master - he was no replacement for you - but Sunseeker willed it and he obeyed. 

“Is there truly no one else capable of wielding it?” Azriel asked, sitting so close to you that your knees and elbows brushed against one another. He didn’t have the courage to kiss you just yet, but gods did he want to. And with the hours he’d spent looking at and dreaming about your lips, he was certain he had a good idea what you tasted like.

“Her.” You corrected, holding the sword up to the steady stream of sunlight that spilled through the slats in the ceiling. Pressed against the light, the sword appeared almost transparent - as if made of glass. 

Azriel smiled. You liked to name and personify every tool, weapon, and piece of equipment you owned, as if you had a secret third eye that allowed you to see into the lives of inanimate objects. He wanted to believe it was true - it was the only way he could explain the wonders you produced with your bare hands.

“There is one other person capable of such a thing,” You hesitated to tell him, but ultimately finished. “My mate.” 

All at once Azriel’s heart fell into free fall, prepared to crash through the cradle of his bones and into the floor. His face, marvelously, betrayed nothing.

“Your mate.” He stole his gaze away, focusing on a very interesting speck of dust on the counter, “They’re lucky.” He murmured, drawing away. 

You snorted, shaking your head. “Not lucky enough.” You sheathed the blade, returning it to its new place on the wall, “They haven’t found me yet.” 

“Oh.” A flicker of hope filled his chest - dangerous and unwieldy. “Is that… is that something you want? A mate? ” Azriel wondered aloud before his mind could trap the words. He cringed, shaking his head in self-disappointment. 

What a stupid question. Everyone wanted to find their mate. Everyone. He himself had been obsessed with the concept for hundreds of years. He had thought he’d find his mate in Mor, and then Elain, he had even thought he felt something more than friendship for Gwyn. 

But more recently the idea had faded into the recesses of his mind. More recently the worst of his thoughts had fallen silent, and it was all thanks to you.

“Maybe,” You considered it, “Maybe not.” You sighed, sinking back into your seat. You rubbed at a metal coin on the benchtop, feeling the oil gather on its surface and taint your fingers grey, “My parents were mates. They didn’t love each other though. Not really.”

“I’m sorry, Y/n.”

You shook your head and shook off his sympathy.

“I don’t know if I want a mate…”

You pulled your chair closer and reached out, delicately beginning to drag your fingertips over the ridges and valleys of Azriel’s scars. His heart stopped when you picked up his hands and gently kissed them, your calloused fingertips rolling over his ruined skin. 

“But there is something I definitely want.” You revealed, looking at him with more feeling than you ever had before. 

You’d been scraping by on lingering touches and reserved smiles and momentary glances that spoke of more than friendship. But it wasn’t enough. It had never been enough, not since the moment he’d walked into your workroom. You felt like a woman starved, deprived of something that you hadn’t even tasted yet. It was a terrible pain to want something you didn’t even understand the nature of. 

Azriel wasn’t everything. He wasn’t the air you needed to breathe. He wasn’t every piece of joy that life could bring. But he was the bright touch of color in the world that made everything that came before seem dull. And you didn’t want to live in greyscale anymore.

Azriel swallowed thickly, his hands instinctively falling to your waist and pulling you into his lap. “Whatever it is you want, Y/n - anything at all - I’ll give it to you.” He whispered reverently, closing his eyes when you pressed your forehead against his, “I swear it on my life.” 

It was such sweet torture feeling you pressed against him with your hands caressing his throat. You smelled like woodsmoke and citrus. Heady, sweet, and clean all at the same time. 

“Just you, Az. I just want you.” 

He couldn’t handle it anymore. He tightened his grip on you, swallowing your little gasp of surprise with his lips. 

Time was molten metal. Cooling, slowing, and warping around your hands as you molded it to your liking, so you could savor this moment for as long as possible.

Little did you know, your mate had found you. And he would find you again. Nothing but the crashing of the stars and the splitting of the earth would keep him from fulfilling this promise.

Azriel’s eyes darkened. 

“Three of you were sent to take Y/n.” Azriel stalked around the male, slipping in and out of eyesight without warning. The male pulled at his chains and the ring of his futile efforts echoed throughout the dungeon. 

“She put up a fight.” Azriel emerged from the male’s left, shooting out an arm so quickly that the pain followed after the fall of blood down his freckled cheeks. 

Azriel cleaned Truth-Teller on his forearm nonchalantly, continuing his ambiguous path. If it weren’t for the hard cruelty in his eyes and the knife in his hands, he would look… normal. As if he were doing the grocery instead of slowly butchering a fae alive. He’d already taken three fingers and four toes. 

The male began to shake. 

“I saw the blood in the shop. It wasn’t yours, and it wasn’t hers.”

Another arm shot out, followed by a scream. The male grappled for an ear that was no longer there, feeling the blood drip down his arms from the stump. 

“I DON’T KNOW!” The male cried out, curling in on himself, “I don’t know.” He repeated miserably.

“What don’t you know?” Azriel asked. His countenance said he was bored, but inside he was barely holding on by a thread. His shadows begged to be released and scattered across all of Prythian until you were returned home. They wanted chaos and pain - anything to distract from your aching absence.

Let us handle this. They hissed. We can take him. We’ll get the information. We’ll get everything. Let us-

Azriel shushed them, and they obeyed, falling to the edges of his consciousness and the edges of his body. 

“What don’t you know?” Azriel leaned forward, some sick, twisted part of him relishing in the way the male flinched. 

“I-I don’t know where she is. I don’t even know why he wanted her. Just some no-name artificer from-”

“Who wanted her?” 

The male paled further until his skin was as pallid as moonlight on lakewater. 

“WHO?!” 

“THE HIGH LORD!” He whimpered, shuffling away from Azriel’s encroaching footsteps. The chains scuffed the ground and then clanged when he reached the end of his length, trailing blood. “Ber-Beron wanted her.”

Azriel stilled, his insides turning cold. 

There were dozens of reasons why Beron might want you as his prisoner. Your talents alone made you worth a thousand men. But if Beron had any awareness of what you meant to him? 

Azriel gritted his teeth. “For what purpose?” He growled.

The male’s dull eyes closed in defeat. He was as good as dead. He could only hope the rumours were true and that the Night Court were not the devils they pretended to be. Then, and only then, might he be offered the option of a violently quick end. 

“He heard rumours of an artificer - a female artificer - capable of crafting weapons that could be bonded to a single wielder. He’s been searching for years now.” He shook his bloodied locks, “We thought…We thought it would be another dead end. Another body to bury. We didn’t think-” He choked on his words, trailing off into silence. 

Azriel crouched down, dragging the Truth-Teller down the male’s face like a sculptor ready to carve a piece of marble down. 

One wrong breath, one flinch, and he’d draw blood. 

“Finish what you were going to say.” His hazel eyes cut deep. 

He swallowed, “We didn’t think… we didn’t think she was anyone important.” 

Azriel’s eyes were swallowed up by shadows until they hardened into two marble stones.

The male held his breath, feeling an oppressive power start to press down on him. Suffocating. Cold. Lethal. Darkness shoved him to the floor, crushing his ribs until they splintered and snapped. 

“That was your mistake,” Azriel growled, “She is someone important. More important than you will ever be.” With a flash of blue and black, he buried Truth-Teller into the male’s chest all the way down to the hilt. 

A shock of surprise and pain flooded the male’s face, and before the expression could dissipate, Azriel leaned in close enough to smell the blood pooling on his tongue and dripping down his chin.

“She is my mate.” The male’s eyes flashed with horror and understanding, and that feeling chased him towards his death, “And your High Lord will burn for what he’s done.”

___________

His shadows roiled in frustration, climbing up his legs and arms like fire greedily chasing after oxygen. They weren’t happy about being denied a kill, and every moment Azriel kept them on a leash, the more irritable they became. Their devotion to you was second only to Azriel. Even then, they would hesitate to disappoint you, even if it meant going against their master. 

Soon. He promised them. Soon.

Azriel’s silhouette was carved out of the fabric of the night sky, shadows curling around his arms and wings as he stayed low, pooling his power to keep them all hidden. Cassian and Eris lay on the ground beside him, arms and wings tucked in close. 

Autumn lay like a sleeping giant all around them, sighing with a breath that had mist floating up from slick, damp earth covered in leaves. Azriel was grateful for the weather, the rain disguised the curling of their breath in the air and masked their footsteps when they crossed over from Spring. Night and mist were a Shadowsinger’s dream. 

The ground rose steadily in front of them, trees only daring to inch halfway up the hill as if they too could taste the magic in the air. All the trees - save for the godstree that marked the crest of the hill and snaked its thundering hand towards the sky in a knobby, clenched fist. 

Icaryon Hill was one of Autumn’s most highly guarded secrets, and like the Forest House, it hid all its treasures and prisoners underground. 

Azriel leaned down, pressing his ear to the ground and straining his ears for anything. Anything at all. 

Eris smirked at him, reveling in the way Azriel bristled and bared his teeth. He would never let the Shadowsinger forget how he’d become desperate enough to swallow his pride and ask him for help.  

Cassian looked equally displeased at the Lordling’s presence. “I hope your information isn’t as useless as the rest of you.” 

“Careful who you call useless, Bastard,” Eris drawled, choosing his words very carefully, “Or else I might have to leave you and your pretty little artificer for the dogs.”

Cassian had to stop himself from wringing his pale, slender neck, but Azriel - for once in his life - didn’t have that much self control. 

He shot forward, wrapping one scarred hand around Eris’s throat and slamming his head back into the ground, pushing down until he sank six inches into the damp soil. 

Eris’s eyes flashed with something like triumph and curiosity. Nevermind that the Shadowsinger was currently crushing his ribs with his knee, or that Truth Teller was starting to leave a thin line of blood on his neck. 

Azriel hated him, and the piece he hated most was that even when Eris was down, he had a way of making himself out to be the biggest person in the room. 

“Az, that’s enough,” Cassian hissed. His eyes kept swiveling back up to the hill, “Let him go.” 

Eris had warned them there would be a narrow window of time between the changing of the guards. The belly of Icaryon Hill was so expertly warded that no one - not even the High Lord - was capable of winnowing in. At some unknown time three guards would slip out and three guards would slip in, all winnowing to the gate hidden in the base of the godstree. One - and only one - of the males would have the key necessary to enter and exit and they’d have to unlock the gate in twenty seconds or risk triggering an alarm. If any blood was spilled on the earth, internal alarms within the Forest House would trigger the arrival of a squadron of gorgons capable of turning flesh to rock with a single touch. 

That meant in order to evade the wards they’d have to winnow up the hill, kill six highly-trained males without bloodshed, and find the key in less than twenty seconds if they wanted even the smallest chance of getting you out. 

Cassian knew this and it made his stomach turn. 

Eris knew this and it made him cocky. 

“Interesting.” Eris said, tilting his head with a smug smile on his face, “The Artificer, huh? Was that doe-eyed seer not enough for you?” 

Azriel began to heave with rage, eyes turning pure black. It was enough to scare even Cas. Azriel had been on edge for weeks since you’d gone missing, but Cass had never seen him so… so unhinged. 

Azriel had traded in his icy rage for a darker, more visceral variety capable of driving him to madness.

And Eris was not making things better.

He continued to goad him, “Maybe she ran away? I wouldn’t blame her.” 

“Eris, shut the fuck up.” Cassian growled, “When are the guards changing?” 

Eris ignored him, concentrating on the Shadowsinger. Azriel may have been the one to approach him for help, but that didn’t mean he was going to waste an opportunity to advance his own agenda. 

It was funny. Everyone said The Shadowsinger was near unreadable - cold as a statue and as unfeeling as steel. But deep down, Eris knew he was still the same little Illyrian bastard that had been shoved into a cellar and convinced he didn’t matter. And more than making him insecure or thoughtful, it had made him angry. 

Eris switched tactics, focusing on you instead, “Maybe, when this is all said and done, your precious whore will run away too.” Azriel stilled, shadows pouring off of him to the ground where they turned into claws and sank in deep, “And just maybe, I’ll be there to fuck her the way she likes. I’d pay her good money too.” 

“Eris!” Cassian’s warning came too late. Azriel raised his arm, Truth Teller glinting in the darkness.

Something in the earth shifted, thin rays of light spilling out of the gate atop the hill. 

Eris smiled. 

Just on time.

The guards were changing.

“Fuck!” Cassian groaned, grabbing at his swords but not daring to unsheath them. 

Azriel was roiling with panic and rage, every muscle in his body feeling ready to split in two. And Eris… Eris was smiling. 

“Go on Shadowsinger.” He said, pointing to the hill, “Tick tock.” 

Azriel clawed the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet at the same time he clutched Cassian’s arm hard enough to bruise. They winnowed up to the gate in a whirlwind of death and shadow. 

Six guards. 15 seconds.

Eris slammed his fist into two of the males’ throats, cutting off their roars of alarm. Two swift kicks to their knees and they exploded out with a sickening snap. Sharp cracks followed and they fell to the ground, their necks sticking out at a harsh angle. 

Four.

Eris dropped to his knees, ripping at amour in search of the key. 

Cassian rolled to the ground, narrowly missing the downward swing of a sword that buried itself in the ground. He bounced onto his feet, as lithe and limber as a fae a quarter of his size. He grabbed a fistful of blood-red hair, swiftly bringing the other elbow down. He made perfect contact at the base of the skull, severing the connection between the spinal cord and the brain. 

Three.

This was taking too long. They would never make it in time. 

But… but how was it still so quiet? Cassian dared to look up from his search for the key and his blood ran cold. 

Azriel…

Azriel was death and decay given form. The moment they reached the gate, for the first time in his life, he relinquished full control of his shadows. 

They swarmed around him until he was nothing more than a dark, blurry cloud of destruction. He grabbed the male closest to him, digging his hands into his throat and registering the horror in his eyes before shadows poured into his eyes, mouth, nose, ears. They flooded every sense, screaming in Azriel’s ears of a power that he had never been desperate or angry enough to unleash… until now. 

The shadows filled the male’s body, wrecking bones and ripping apart tendons with a force that transformed them into razor sharp talons. The male gurgled, body jerking around in pain. Azriel finished him off by snapping his neck with a clean, sharp jerk. The body fell to the ground with a hollow thud.

Two. 

The remaining guards similarly dropped to their knees, empty eyes and hands left to ghost over their throats before they fell forward. Dead.

Shadows leaked out of their eyes and mouth, slipping over their cooling bodies like the rain that pitter pattered against their backs. But no blood. Not even a drop.

One tendril of night slid up Azriel’s leg and washed over his hands, depositing a glittering bronze key that burned with warmth. 

He should have felt more. More surprise and some semblance of disgust at what he’d just done. What he’d been capable of. But those feelings remained hidden, sullen and silent behind walls of obsidian willpower and adamant. 

Cassian and Eris stared at him, wasting a few precious seconds to gape at the littering of bodies around them, raindrops pattering onto their backs and slowly absorbing into leather and skin. 

Cassian swallowed, daring to break the silence, “I never knew you could do that.” He admitted blandly. Cassian wasn’t afraid of his brother - he never could be. He’d survived too many battles by his side to ever fear being on the wrong end of his blade… but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be unnerved by the powers that thrived within him, and how little anyone knew about them. 

“Neither did I,” Azriel said without emotion, closing his fist around the key. “Let’s go.”

He stalked to the gate where it hummed in the ground like a dropped coin, fluttering with life, beckoning him to enter. 

Just a little longer, Y/n. I’m coming.

He used the key and the gate opened.

You crouched in the darkness, cradling your ruined hands and trying not to cry. 

The first few weeks Beron had let you out of your cell during the day, bringing you to the forge hidden beneath the hill so you could set about building him a weapon of his own. You’d leaned into his desires, working the metal until it sang a song of promise to the cruel High Lord. 

He wanted power, and you’d promised it to him, proving your worth long enough for Azriel to come find you. But it had been almost two months, Azriel was nowhere to be found, and Beron was losing patience. 

He traded empty compliments for threats, and when those failed to do anything, he turned to outright cruelty. Just this morning, he’d had one of his men whip your hands until they bled. Then, as a personal touch, he’d torn your shirt to pieces and trailed his fingers down your back. His touch had been light. You could’ve mistaken them for the kisses of a lover if it weren’t for the fact that he’d set the tips of his fingers on fire so they burned the whole way down. 

They smarted and burned, the pain seeping in now that the shock was ebbing away.

“He’s coming. He’s coming.” You murmured to yourself, curling in on yourself with your arms pressed close to your exposed chest. “Just stay strong. Stay strong.” 

“He’s not coming for you, dear.” A phantom hand, cold and bony as death, caressed your back. You looked up, eyes shining like two shards of glass in the darkness. 

The High Lord was as handsome as he was deadly, the smooth and elegant planes of his face and his honey-sweet voice in stark contrast to the light of his eyes - or rather lack thereof. 

They held no warmth, no pity, no fear. 

“He’s not coming for you.” He repeated.

“Liar.”

He clicked his tongue in disappointment, shaking his head. His blood-red robes trailed along the grate of your prison cell, blocking out the meager light that trickled down. The gold-trim embroidery winked deceptively, flashing sultry looks of wealth and opulence in your direction. 

Your stomach growled painfully and you wrapped yourself up as best you could. You’d spent most of your life time by the forge. Cold was not a familiar experience. 

“I don’t know what that Illyrian bastard, Azriel, promised you. Wealth. Prestige. Love.” 

You growled, kicking the wall hard enough for a shower of dirt to rain down on your head. You tried not to flinch when debris landed on sensitive skin, “Keep his name out of your mouth.”

Beron smirked, amused, “So much anger. So much defensiveness for a male who won’t care about you the next time a pretty female with doe eyes wanders into his path.” 

You bared your teeth at him. 

“Ahhhhh,” he clicked his tongue happily, “So perhaps you’re already aware he holds a certain reputation. Pity.” There was another swoosh of his velvet robes, “I’m promising you safety, enough gold and silks to make an empress jealous, and in return I just ask for you to do what you’ve always done.” He held up his hands, “I don’t understand where the difficulty lies”

“In return you’d want to make me your bitch.” You spit out, “To give you the tools to kill whomever you pleased.”

“I already have the tools to kill whomever I please.”

“No. No you don’t.” He narrowed his eyes in displeasure. You limped forward, holding your hands close to your chest. Your body may have been weak, but your heart and your mind were still strong. Not even Beron was capable of taking that from you. You looked up at the High Lord unflinchingly, “When Azriel comes for me - and he will - I’ll ask him for your head on a pike.” 

Beron sneered, “If he and his half-breed Lord decide you’re worth the trouble, I’ll kill your little Shadowsinger first and reduce him to ash.”

You set your jaw, refusing to look away as the High Lord turned on his heels and left the room. Only then did you sink to your knees exhausted and breathed in the scent of damp, rotting earth.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

__________________

Taglist: @dr4g0ngirl @glitterypirateduck @i-am-infinite @brujitafantomatico @woodland-mist @coureurs-de-bois9 @aetherl0l @gorlillaglue25 @onlyangellh

[arson-09]

Made some moodboards for Tamlin + my acotar ocs :3

Tamlin & Catriona

Squid & Rosetta

[ddollfface]

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐀 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐦𝐚; 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞

Being The Daughter of The Orgre Is Difficult, Especially When It Comes to Dating.

It was a struggle, dating that is. Throughout your life, there’s always been something that causes boys to run away from you, both literally and figuratively. Though the actual running died off as you got older, instead, they’d just look you up and down and chuckle, whispering something to their friends before walking off. During those times, you wished they’d just run away screaming their heads off, that way they wouldn’t bruise your ego with harsh words and nasty stares. 

This wasn’t that big of a deal, at least when you were young. In your early years, you were far more concerned wondering what your mama was going to cook for dinner, or how far you’d make it on the monkey bars (you always did all of them, no question about it), so you didn’t really recognize this aversion boys had for you. If you did, then you just didn’t care. The idea of romance was clearly not on your mind as a seven-year-old. 

But, just like most girls, you grew up. Your body began to change and morph into that of a woman, albeit an awkward one, but a woman nonetheless. You were getting older, changing, and noticing how society viewed you differently, not just because you were a woman, but because you were… well… you. 

Of course, being a girl in this world put you in an interesting position, seeing how society had certain expectations of you, even though you were still so young and oh-so dumb. How can one expect someone so young, who hasn’t even lived for two decades, to know if she wants to birth a whole human? Let alone have more than one! The judgments didn’t stop there. There were constant stares, constant whisperings, and rumors going around that you weren’t a girl, instead, you were some old man disguised as a girl because there was no way a girl could ever look like that. Because there was no way a girl could ever carry that much, or run that fast, or act like that.

There was no way that you were a girl.

And so, not only did boys avoid you, but so did girls. Most people deemed you to be weird, abnormal, and frankly a little scary. The way you were framed, carried yourself, and looked was just too odd not to stare, not to gawk, and not to talk about. You were just so strong, so capable of crushing a bone to dust, and everyone knew.

Everyone knew that you were strong, not just by looks, but from personal experiences. You excelled in the physical arena and somewhat advanced in academics as well, but you really stood out on the court, field, or really anywhere where physical strength and agility were required. Even without thinking, you were capable of so much, so much more than everyone combined. You didn’t need to do anything, simply flicking a baseball would send it further than any major league ever has, or kicking a soccer ball into the atmosphere with a flick of your ankle. Yeah… your teacher knew that whenever you were put into a game, he wasn’t going to get a ball back, so you weren’t. 

Simple as that, you weren’t allowed to do anything, too harsh, too strong for everyone else. Your teachers knew it, your classmates knew it, and you knew it.

So naturally you were a repellent when it came to dating, not that you’re interested or anything. For sure, you’ve never thought of holding a boy's hand, or running your fingers through their hair while they rested on your muscular thighs, or going out to eat together, or going to the movies, or- 

Okay, maybe you’ve thought about it… but that’s normal! Everyone, at some point, wishes for some type of intimacy, right? Was it wrong that you wanted a boyfriend? 

No, it wasn’t, so when the foreign exchange student’s eyes met yours, you were a lost cause. At that moment, when he first walked into the room, taller than the average man, seemingly calm but a little lost, you were a goner. You were not obsessed, but extremely attracted to him. He was so different, and he didn’t know anything about your feats in strength, or how you may have broken an arm or two when you were younger…

He was your fresh start, your chance of having some normalcy throughout your chaotic life of training and searching for victory over it. Ah, right… You forget about it sometimes, how it’s stare seemingly never leaves, always observing, watching, and calculating. At certain times, you feel as if you’re on TV or something, as if you’re about to be PUNK’D. It never happens though... At this point, you’ve gotten used to it, accepting it, and now searching for it. 

Throughout your life, this thing, creature, man, or government has always watched over you, leaving you some money to pay the month’s expenses, keeping food on your table, and seemingly encouraging you to buy some heavier weights, which you ignore. Rather than the occasional envelope with cash on your doorstep or maybe the occasional fighter sent your way, who you suspected was sent by this thing, there was no contact between you and this creature. You didn’t know it’s name, why it’s doing this, or how it knows you. And it’s always been that way, and you’ve accepted it in your life, deeming that you’d crush it anyway. You never thought it’d ever reach out to you.

And let’s just say you were in shock when you were given a note, a piece of paper lying on your dingy, kitchen table. Though it was just a piece of paper, it was so intimidating, so threatening that you couldn’t help but lose your breath at the sight of it. It’s not that you’re scared of paper, but instead, what was written on it.

After seventeen years, what could it possibly have to say? Almost in the blink of an eye, you were standing over the paper. It was fancy, you noted, picking it up as you examined it, not even reading it. It was quality paper, as much quality paper can be, and it had a little emblem in the corner. That piqued your interest, getting closer you gasped, throwing the paper onto the table. 

Why the hell is the 5-7 Paulownia seal on this stupid paper? Picking the paper back up, you let your finger graze over the seal, solidifying that it was in fact the seal of the Japanese government. With a sigh, you decided to read the paper, trying to ignore that whatever has been watching you has some type of power in the government, especially if they have access to this type of material.

.

.

.

Stop with this girly bullshit. You’re a Hanma, you don’t settle, so quit it with that blondie and get used to it. Y.H.

Huh? Who knew such few words could cause so much turmoil? After all these years, this is the most you’ve ever heard from this thing, who may or may not be a government official, and happens to be an asshole as well. You couldn’t help but clench your jaw, crumbling up the paper as you threw it into the trash, not thinking twice. Grumbling under your breath, you rolled your eyes, deciding to cook some dinner. 

Who was this guy, and you assume it’s a guy because no woman would say that type of shit, to order you around as if he’s your dad?

Hanma, you think to yourself, sitting down with a bowl of soba in front of you, Pretty sure that’s the name of that one fighter… You looked up in thought, stirring the noodles mindlessly, feeling as if there was more to the thought, but you didn't get to finish it.

Knock 

Great, who could that be? To your surprise, and your heart's demise, you’re met with the so-called “blondie.” You smile, feeling yourself go weak in the knees as you looked him, creating some small chit-chat, feeling time fly quickly. And you almost cry when he asks you out, questioning your sanity when he tucks some hair behind your ear before walking away. You can’t even remember what he said anymore, was it the aquarium? Or was it the park? You, honestly, don’t care, just too giddy to express a coherent thought. 

The note no longer on your mind once you sat down, smiling at the bowl, mindlessly stirring as you sighed. For the first time ever, you finally have a shot with someone, someone who doesn’t care about how strong you are, how you look, or how others think about you. He doesn’t care if you’re taller, stronger, and could honestly beat his ass, he likes you.

So caught up in your thoughts, that you completely miss the dark aura looming through the window. A man with crimson hair, flowing down his back, and twirling through the wind as his bloodlust seeps throughout the city. His smile taut as he clenched his jaw, watching from afar as his kin wandered down the wrong path, not even paying any mind to his warnings, his cautions. Brown eyes trailed the figure of a giddy blonde, who pumped his fist in the air, too happy to acknowledge any peering eyes. 

With a sigh, the monster of a man followed after the stupid schoolboy. If no one was going to listen to him, then he’d just have to take action, wouldn’t he? After all, what kind of father would he be if he let his only daughter mingle with such pests who couldn’t even bruise her pinkie finger? 

What a stupid girl, He thinks as the breaking of bones and squealing gets lost in empty air, a disappointed frown seeping into his features.

[everythingacotarbxm1012]

They're Mates - w/ Y/N Pt 5

Notes - Pt. 4 from Feyre's POV; 1.9k words; as always, lines/plotpoints/characters/situations directly from the books

Series Masterlist

✨💫

Feyre stood behind Rhys in the threshold to the sitting room of the town house, her mind still reeling from the events of that morning. The amulet from Amren, Y/N and Azriel’s history, the Prison, the Bone Carver.The chill she still felt in her body was probably the only thing keeping Feyre awake at this point. She could see Azriel and Y/N lingering by the window where someone could watch the world being dusted with snow. The emissary’s eyes were trained on the shadowsinger, something like fondness mixed with desire in them. 

“Amren’s right,” Rhys drawled from where he stood. “You are like dogs, waiting for me to return home. I ought to buy treats for the lot of you.” 

Cassian flipped his high lord off with ease. Feyre noted a coiled up tension in his body, more in his jaw than anywhere else. He sat next to Mor who had decided for a practical outfit of black pants and a thick blue sweater. Just as Cassian’s hand was returning to his lap the emissary stepped forward and smacked the general in the shoulder. He gave Y/N a withering look.

Rhys gave the pair a look that said behave, before Y/N stepped back towards her mate who remained as unreadable as ever. Noticing the free armchair across the couch, Feyre strode over to it, dropping down and stifling a groan as she stretched. Gods that felt good, the heat of the fire warming her numb limbs. She contemplated for only a moment if Az chose the window to be further from the fire. What might have become of the shadowsinger without the emissary? What kind of messages did they— 

“How’d it go?” Mor said from beside Cassian.

Feyre looked over to Rhys who hadn’t moved from where he stood. “The Bone Carver,” Rhys started with a sigh, “has too much time on his hands considering how often he likes to pry into other people’s business.”

Feyre noticed Y/N reach for her mate’s hand as his shadows twisted up to encircle their wrists. 500 years and they never seemed to have an urge to be away from each other. Feyre realized the farthest she had found the pair from each other was moments ago when the emissary had smacked the Cassian upside the shoulder.

The Night Court’s general broke through the silence, his hands falling to his knees. “But?” The tension had reached his voice.

“But, the busybody can be useful, when he so chooses,” Rhys replied with another sigh. 

Feyre flexed her slowly warming fingers, happy to take a few moments while Rhys explained what the Bone Carver had shared. She preferred to try shutting out what she’d revealed to the Bone Carver. Rhys’s explanation didn’t go without the occasional swear, all the while Azriel’s shadows grew thicker around him.

“The mortal queens have one part of the Book, Tarquin the other,” Rhys finished.

The spymaster stepped forward, his mate remaining by the window. “I will contact my sources in the Summer Court about the other half of the Book of Breathings on where it is hidden. I can also fly to the human world. See if I can locate their half before we ask them for it.”

The High Lord of Night shook his head. “I don’t trust this information, even with your sources, Azriel. Not anyone outside this room, except for Amren.”

“They can be trusted, Rhysand,” Y/N said, quickly stepping forward.

The shadowsinger’s scarred hands clenched at his sides, eyes narrowing slightly in his high lord's direction.

“I, we, we are not taking risks where the Cauldron or the Book is concerned,” Rhys responded calmly. He returned the spymaster’s stare.

Feyre watched as the emissary gently reached for her mate’s hand, and his fingers slowly uncurled. His eyes drifted away from Rhysand and back to Y/N. Their fingers gently intertwined as most of the tension from Azriel’s body eased up. A single gesture from his mate and his body already loosened up. More proof for the power of their bond.

“So what do you have planned,” Mor asked.

“Well,” Rhys responded as he picked at an invisible piece of dirt on his fighting leathers. “The King of Hybern sacked one of our temples for a piece of the Cauldron, which, as far as I am concerned, is an act of war.”

“Of course he wants war,” The emissary interjected more strongly than she had anticipated. Feyre wondered what Y/N might look like in a meeting, negotiating for the Night Court. “For the Mother’s sake, we were an ally to the humans during the War. He would never dare sway you at risk of revealing his plans.”

Cassian nodded in agreement before adding, “Amarantha’s…cronies likely reported to him Under the Mountain.”

“Hybern and his forces successfully infiltrated our lands, without detection. I have every intention of returning the favor.” Rhys said as he straightened himself up slightly.

Mother above!

“How?” Mor asked. There was a delight, a feral delight in her eyes. The same look was painted on Cassian whose fingers had loosened slightly over his knees.

“We go to Hybern to bring the Cauldron back. Or to nullify it.” 

Y/N looked like she was biting back a comment and instead said, “Hybern would already have countless wards to protect it.” 

Feyre watched Azriel’s thumb gently rubbing over his mate’s hand. “She’s right. We would need to find a way to get through them, undetected,” the shadowsinger added. He glanced at Y/N with a look that said I literally cannot live without you.

“Then we start, now while we hunt down the Book. We do it swiftly, so by the time we have both halves we can get through without word spreading quickly,” Rhys said like it was the simplest solution possible—the simplest task possible.

“And how are you planning to retrieve the Book?” Cassian added.

“These objects are spelled to each high lord and can only be found using their power.”

Feyre caught the almost apologetic look the emissary sent her way. “You don’t know that it will work,” Y/N said to Rhys. Her hand remained in Az’s the entire time.

Rhys smiled slightly. “True—but there is a way to test it.”

“Mother’s tits! Here we go again,” Cassian grumbled from his place besides Mor. 

Feyre, still not entirely understanding, leaned back in the armchair.She was perfectly happy to let the High Lord of the Night Court and his Inner Circle have their battle wills until Rhys said, “With your abilities, Feyre, you might just might be able to find the half of the Book in the Summer Court. To be certain, to make sure when it counts, when we need it, when we need you, we’re going on another trip…see if you can find an object that I’ve been missing for quite some time.”

The cluster of grumbles from the others did not go unnoticed by Feyre.

Y/N loosed a breath.

“Shit,” Mor groaned, covering her face with her hands.

“Where,” Feyre asked tremulously.

“The Weaver,” Azriel responded. His thumb stopped rubbing his mate’s hand. 

“Who is the Weaver?”

“An ancient and wicked creature,” Azriel responded with a sharp exhale that tickled the back of Y/N’s ear. “Who should remain unbothered,” the spymaster shot in Rhysand’s direction.

Rhys couldn’t seem to be bothered. “I want to see if Feyre can identify the object amongst the Weaver’s trove.”

“Oh! By the Cauldron!!” Mor exclaimed. 

Feyre chewed her lower lip, weighing the risks of it all in her mind, still exhausted from earlier that day. “The Weaver,” Feyre began to press, “the Bone Carver. Can you just call someone by a name?”

Everyone but Rhysand and Azriel let out a laugh. Though something in Azriel’s face changed upon Y/N’s laugh. Something that ran deeper than a child-like fondness.

“What about adding another name to that list?” Rhysand asked Feyre who had finally seemed to warm up.

A few grumbles sounded about the space.

“Emissary,” Rhys said, ignoring the room. “For the human realm,” Rhys clarified, looking to Y/N as if to say Feyre is not replacing you.

Azriel said, “Rhysand. There hasn’t been one since our births.”

“And there hasn’t been a human-turned-mortal since then,” Rhys added with an almost shrug before looking in Feyre’s direction. “The human world needs to be prepared...especially if Hybern plans to destroy that wall and let his forces free.”

A pause.

“We need the other half of the Book from the mortal queens and we need them to bring it to us because we can’t use magic to influence them.”

More silence. Feyre noted the snow coming down outside still, the way the general’s fingers were gripping at his knees again. The look in Y/N’s eyes—something Feyre recognized but couldn’t quite place. 

“You, Feyre, are an immortal faerie,” Rhys began, “with a human heart. There is a very real possibility that the moment you step onto the continent you are...hunted...for it. So we set up a base in a place where humans might just trust us. Trust you.”

Everyone’s eyes turned to Feyre, but all she saw was the spymaster’s hand that went to rest on his mate’s back, the Emissary of the Night Court’s back.

“A place where other humans would risk going to meet with you, Feyre,” Rhys added. 

Feyre again looked to Y/N. There was a moment of pause Feyre thought, that perhaps by looking at Rhysand’s current emissary she might think of an answer. There was one. Nesta wanted nothing to do with the fae and Elain was far too sweet to be brought into this mess. “My family’s estate,” Feyre said before she could stop herself.

“Mother’s tits!” Cassian said as his wings flared. “You believe we could ask that of your family? Demand that of them?”

No .

“Cassian, regardless of what we do or do not do with her family, blood will be spilled,” Mor said. 

In an emissary-like fashion, Y/N added, “It is a matter of how much blood we can save, where it will flow and how many humans we can...save.”

Feyre let out a nervous, shaky breath. “The Spring Court, it borders the wall.”

Rhys went to say something, but Y/N got to it first. “We can fly there offshore.” The emissary stepping forward, as if sensing Feyre’s nervousness, offered a hug to the new fae. Feyre gladly accepted it. It was that same kindness she had recognized the night Feyre had met the rest of the Inner Circle at dinner. A kindness that had kept the shadowsinger company for so long. Y/N returned to her mate’s side and he unashamedly placed his arm around her lower back.

“I wouldn’t risk discovery from any court by flying over Prythian,” Rhys added as he watched Y/N return to Azriel’s side. “I know it won’t be easy. But if you could, if there is any way you could convince those queens to—”

“I’ll do it. They won’t be happy about it, but I’ll make Elain and Nesta do it,” Feyre said. She thought of Amarantha, what she did to Clare, how much worse Hybern might be. She looked to the emissary as Rhysand spoke, as if asking to teach her how to do it. To use her wits and charm, to be Emissary of the Night Court for the human realms.

In all of her intelligence and kindness, Y/N nodded.

Feyre considered for a moment if Rhys could use magic to make her family agree, to help if they refused. She wondered if it would work.

“Then it’s settled,” Rhys said. Nobody in the room looked particularly thrilled. “Once Feyre darling here returns from the Weaver,” his voice dropped slightly, “we bring Hybern to its knees.”

🌌 ✨

Taglist : @5onedirection5 @emryb @lilah-asteria @azrielrot @scatteredstardustt @mis-lil-red @bxm-1012

[antlered-prince]

The ValRayne Faeu Masterpost

Decided to finally make a masterpost for @owl-bones and I's fae au! This will be updated when I remember and contains all the relevant info and designs you might want (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

You can find more under the #valrayne-faeu tag on both of our blogs. Feel free to also use this tag or tag either of us in anything you make!

Last updated: 2/7/2024

Designs

Finished Dream (full body soon) Blue (will get a slight revamp) Ink Nightmare Killer (will also get a small revamp) WIPs Horror Dust (wings) Cross Error (wings)

How tall is everyone?

World Building

Designing OCs/Self-Inserts - ONE | TWO | THREE | FOUR Can a human become fae? And visa versa? What kind of insect wings are associated with each court? What determines which Court you end up in? Rejecting becoming fae What if a fae tears off their own wings? Trying to return to the mortal realm early after being trapped Primary rules of interacting with the fae How big are the fae? What does the fae realm look like? How do you get to the fae realm? What might the fae find intriguing enough to take someone to their realm? Is there something unpleasant about the fae realm? Why wouldn't people enter the fae realm willingly? What would happen if you trick and fae instead? If a fae steals a concept can you trade it back? Iron, rowan and four leaf clovers What if a mortal manages to escape? Can fae and humans have children? Changelings Can fae be killed in some way? Do the Courts overlap our world? How knowledgeable is the average mortal? How do fae feel about Integrity souls? What is the aspect of Integrity souls that fae share? Why do fae trick people? Do fae normally have so many names? Enemies/Predators of the fae? How is a fae born? How were Dream and Nightmare born? Who is the most dangerous? Where do Dream and Nightmare stand in regards to each other?

Character Specific Asks

Dream If you can't lie, why avoid eye-contact? (Art) How can we trust you if you could be lying? Some insight on Fae Dream If Dream finds humans so interesting, why does he change them? Bird MC Drabble (ft Dream & Nightmare) Bird MC Drabble - Does Dream feel remorse? Bird MC Drabble - Can we make him understand the culture difference? Bird MC Drabble - Is there anything we can say to change his mind? What would Dream do in exchange for affection? (Art) Why is affection a big deal? Anonymous Dream Drabble He's totally non-threatening guys (Art)

Blue Blue and his conflicting values and nature (Art) I'd let him trick me (Art) I want to hug him! (Art) Who did this to you? (Scar)

Ink I'd use him as a model for painting (Art) What can I get with..... (Art)

Nightmare What is Nightmare's goal? Does Nightmare have a favourite trick? What would happen if he met his match? What's the best deal Nightmare has made? (Art) I would die to get my hands on that book What flowers are in the book? Nightmare's favourite flower? What would he want in exchange for a kiss? (Art) If we stay, would he be willing to give us information instead? If I stay for the (eternal) evening, where would I stay? What happens if we fall asleep in his library? (notes on Dream's garden & library) Nightmare would move us? (Library) If I asked for a hug, would he give one? Can I pet his wings? What is Nightmare's favourite noise/sound? Nightmare's wings (Art)

Killer What's Killer's favourite trick?

Dust What is Dust like?

Multiple Characters Who stole the ability to lie? Who is the liar theory (Art) Who would appreciate mortals being hard to trick? Names that Dream and Nightmare have collected Any Papyrus-type fae? (OG AUs design ideas) Can I hug Dream and Nightmare? Dream and Nightmare - Someone who didn't want to leave (Abusive family) Which fae are most likely to accidentally in-debt themselves? Someone staring while they talk because their voice is pretty (Reactions)

Other helpful refs

Beetle wing origami

[milqueandsugar]

🌼☕` Crush, Crush, Soda! ` ☕🌼

Gen / Fluff

Includes / Alastor , Lucifer , Husk

| ALASTOR |

Shock. Horror. Dismay.

Forget wrench this is throwing a hauling truck into his plans

It's very sudden very sharp realization, like getting splashed with cold water

He was obviously aware he had taken to you, how could he not? You were polite, clever and oh so fun to carry a conversation with

Talking to you made radio seem boring!

He was not, however, aware that the other residents had noticed his kinship with you

He had over heard a conversation between Husker and the pink spider demon, where the insectoid sinner complained about how you got special treatment

Husker agreed, which was fair, but then mentioned how Alastor apparently fancied you and that was why

Fucking shock to him and Angel dust

After gripling with that cosmic terror for the night, and visiting Rosie once the clock hit an agreeable hour he had come to the conclusion that despite the impossible, he carried a flame for you

Once he calms down and rearranges his evil vision board to include you in it he lays it on THICK

He's the perfect gentleman, obviously, but he's courting you too so he goes above and beyond

Your chair? Pulled out. Your arm? Linked with his while you stroll. You? The venison steak of his eye baby

| LUCIFER |

Charming comes naturally too him, he won both eve and Lillith over bro he has bublical level rizz

He's very, very comfortable around people he knows or simply doesn't care about, totally normal around Alastor who can kick rocks but a bit antsier and anxious around Charlie

His nerves get worse when he's trying to right himself, he can care very very deeply for someone and never feel nervous around them but the second he does something wrong his anxieties and insecurities come rushing back

He's not subtle, everything he does is flirtatious but in a spur of the moment kind of way he thinks nothing through

Confidence is sexy to him so he tries to show off things he's confident in like inventing/engineering and music!!

The biggest tell he is interested in someone is how excited he is to show off to them, to show how good he could be for them, to show how he betters their life

How he does this depends on you truly, in a rough spot financially? He pays for small things at first, dinner, lunch, something cute you liked at the store then builds to anything you want because you deserve it far more than him or anyone else here

Struggling with control since selling your soul? He puts you in position of power , he shows you what your capable of, what he knows you can do but you don't

He fills your needs faster than you realize you have them, hell is for suffering but it sure does feel like heaven when you're with him

| HUSK |

He's more calculated then the two idiots above, he knows that warmth in his chest when you make his drink, or sit at his bar until he's off or fix an out of place Feather

He's so attracted to you, how real you are, how unapologetically YOU you are, and how you make room for him in everything

He's totally love struck and totally aware of it which makes it even worse

He's doing his best to plan this out while also twirling his whiskers and kicking his feet when talking about you

He's not shy about his feelings but he know being with him is a danger to you, which he can't stand for

He does his best to secure your safety before actively courting you, what's the point of loving someone if you're not putting in the effort, and boy does he put in the EFFORT

Gentlemanly like Alastor but in his own gruff way

Likes to help you do things, teach you how to do things, he likes feeling useful and he likes how you come to him when you have problems

It reminds him a bit of his overlord days, and time with you builds his confidence and back bone back to what it was before Alastor, even if you aren't dating yet

Plays lots of card games with you, won't show you the cheats be knows until your dating, gotta keep you coming back for more yknow?

[jiubilant]

Some people, once they're old and frail and flubbing half their chords, can feel impending weather in their bones. Inge Six-Fingers, Dean of Lute, can feel impending foolishness. She scowls and rubs her knee. A laugh like a bear being baited echoes from the headmaster's office, sure enough.

“Stop him,” groans Giraud through his hands when she stumps in. “Oh, stop him.”

The tableau's familiar, thinks Inge, already cross. Viarmo's pacing behind his desk, bright-eyed, ablaze with some new notion like Olaf in effigy. The desk is strewn with papers, winecups, tented books. Giraud's slumped in the good chair. A stranger, the only surprise, sits on the stool: a woman in hunter's furs, young, with a wolf's long smile.

“It’s only just, Giraud,” says Viarmo, spreading his huge hands in supplication. He grins at Inge. It's the same grin, she thinks, that he'd flashed at her fifty years ago before breaking another master's nose. “A king can sever our lutestrings, our purse-strings, our heads—”

“You’ve lost yours already—”

“—but who, in the end, sings the king’s deeds,” Viarmo declaims, undaunted, “when king and crown are dust indeed?”

“Too many syllables,” says the wolf-woman at once.

“You’re right," Viarmo concedes after a moment's sober thought. "Were we flyting, I’d be laughed out of court. Once more unto the breach.” He clears his throat. “But who, in sooth, sings the—”

“You,” snaps Inge, rounding on him, “you old ruffian, and you”—she jabs a finger at Giraud, who starts to attention like a flogged legionary—“tell me what you're up to, and who that—is that," she says in a different voice, staring at the bottle on the desk, "the Surilie?”

For several frightful years old Bendt, who captains the College's kitchen like a galley, has hoarded the Surilie. No one else dares enter the buttery; the door-key, on its length of dirty string, glints around Bendt's neck like a dire talisman. The masters joke that he mutters to it. The apprentices joke that a third-year who broke into the buttery for mead was walled up there alive.

"The Surilie," Viarmo announces with a grand sweep of his arm, as if heralding the arrival of some prince. He reaches for the bottle. "Let me pour you some."

Inge watches him with fascination. "Gone mad, have you?"

"And while I'm at it," the madman continues, splashing two fingers of Bendt's best wine into the nearest cup, "may I introduce you to Lydia Lítli, fosterling of Whiterun's jarl?" His grin broadens, if such a thing is possible. Inge's leg twinges. "She's brought us Svaknir's lost verse."

Inge looks hard at him. Then she looks hard at Giraud, the little weed, who wilts. Lydia Lítli, when the hard eyes flick to her, scrapes a stiff and well-trained bow.

"No, you haven't," Inge says, staring at her. "No, she hasn't. It's—you lug," she goes on with some asperity, turning back to Viarmo, "it's lost."

Giraud's voice is muffled by his hands. "I wish it were lost."

Viarmo gestures operatically with the cup. "I have transcribed it—"

Giraud sits up. An outraged flush suffuses his peaky face. "Despoiled it—"

"—restored, with Lydia's helpful erudition and the invaluable expertise of our own Master Gemane, those portions that weathered the years poorly—"

"Filled the gaps with utter tripe, is what he means—"

"—and have prepared it for recitation on the morrow," Viarmo concludes with good cheer, "at court, where it will pay your salaries." He raises the cup in toast—then blinks at it, no doubt recalling that he'd meant it for Inge, and passes it to her. "Santé."

Kyne's bloody beak, she thinks, staring at him. "You've forged Svaknir's lost verse."

"Please, Inge." Viarmo looks down at her with eyes wide and ears flat—astonished, she thinks, as a cat tapped on the nose. Scoundrel. She can tell by his mouth that he's trying not to laugh. "Skalds have collaborated on their compositions since the first lute was strung."

"You've gotten drunk on Bendt's prize vintage," Inge retorts, not to be gainsaid, "all three of you, and forged—"

"Reconstructed—"

"Collaborated on," Giraud puts in nastily, "I thought—"

A polite throat clears. When Inge looks up, Lydia meets her eyes as only wolves will do.

"Try the wine," she says—this Hviting horse-breaker, this shield-thane in her skins. "It's good."

It's Giraud's face that finally does Inge in. She turns from them all, her scowl contorting, and drowns a laugh in the cup.