#aka: secret of the wings

[envy-of-the-apple]

At what point did fairy!Gojo look at the reader and decide that he likes huge partners? I don't know why, but it's incredibly funny to me to imagine when a small fairy looked at a huge human and decided: "yes, this is all for me :))"

i rlly like the idea of said human bending over to pick something up and gojo just thinking to himself "everything's bigger in texas the human world:)"

buut said human always kinda treated gojo as a pet than anything else. like a stray cat that comes around every now and then. even in the fae world, despite his size, gojo's still a pretty scary guy that everyone knows. but the human obviously didnt know that and just like 'cutie pototieee!!!" and lets be honest in every AU gojo LOVES to be coddled so ya he allows a couple of head scratches here and there and that need for comfort eventually shifted into 'no matter what size; imma dive (into humanussy)'.

[gojoest]

lowkey had a very scandalous idea earlier this week, still very undeveloped though

[vsangles]

Victoria secret core

[crow-n-tell]

Minor update: looking at some trifold mirror references and I’ve realized something very important

The angle I chose to draw the mirror in means I am probably not drawing 3 reflections, I am drawing 4/5 reflections :)

Is this what Icarus felt like when he noticed the first of his feathers beginning to fall?

Overconfidence as an artist is awful, I did those perspective practices yesterday and started on a picture with A TRIFOLD MIRROR?

foolish. God awful and FOOLISH

[starry-bi-sky]

a half-ghost--? no- no wait, that's a changeling. that's even worse.

so i'd like to preface this by saying this stems from me going entirely off the rails thinking about tales of the passerine-- which is frankly quite on brand for me to think of one au, and then develop it so far left ways that it makes another au entirely.

bUT. Context! Danny's ancestors sometime before they immigrated to America had a fae marry into the family. This had its Side Effects. Naturally. The Fentonnightengale responsible for this charmed a fae thanks to their swagless nature and awkward demeanor, so instead of getting eaten the fae thought it was cute instead. The fae marrying into the family had an affinity for music, but that kinda repressed itself by accident -- blame the salem witch trials.

By the time Danny is born, the fae blood has become so latent that it really doesn't show up anymore other than the Fentons Eccentricity and obsession with the supernatural (a latent desire to return home to the fae realm - aka infinite realms). There's an unnatural charm surrounding the fenton that really only creeps almost every human within a visual radius, and Danny is no exception.

hoWEVEr. the accident that turned danny into a halfa in one timeline did no such thing in this one -- it just reactivated his latent fae blood, and reactivated it with a fervor. Effectively turning Danny from a human into a changeling.

Danny just thinks at first that he's a half-ghost -- only to realize later on from Clockwork that he's not one at all. He's very much fae -- which is a wild discovery for Danny to make. It also means his rogues are quite a bit more intimidated by him. Fae are above ghosts in the Infinite Realm Creature Hierarchy, no matter how powerful they are. A fae can still Steal the name of a ghost, so Danny's rogues are rather skittish/unsure around Danny until they realize he doesn't know he's a changeling -- after that, many of them vow to try and keep it secret amongst themselves.

Danny's 'ghost' form is rather birdlike, and in human form his appearance warps to match his comfortability. When he's alone with his friends he starts taking on unnatural features. -- his blue-green eyes brighten and his pupils elongate, his teeth sharpen, and his ears grow longer and animal-like. His hair softens to be more feathery, his nails sharpen. In general he takes on more 'bird-ish' features. At school, around his parents, and when he's stressed, tense, or scared, he looks completely human -- an instinctual survival mechanism.

As a ghost, he has large, pretty wings that gradient from black to dark purple-blue, with a shimmer across the feathers that resembles the aurora borealis. His limbs elongate, his legs becoming bird-like and his talons grow on both his feet and nails. His ears vaguely resemble a rabbit's, although they don't flop down like one. All his teeth sharpen. Razor sharp chompers, capable of biting through bone. His eyes take on a greenish-hue, but otherwise remain the same color, albeit his sclera becomes blue-ish and his pupils become diamond-shaped and white. Rings of seafoam blue circle around his iris, creating a reflective sheen. He makes chirping, creaking noises, and when he speaks there's a faint overlap that is very enchanting.

Overall he's rather beautiful in a terrifyingly inhuman way, its hard to take your eyes off him. He has a lot of feathers. He's very drawn to singing and music in general, and gets into music sometime after his accident. He likes flutes/ocarinas/woodwinds the most, followed shortly after by strings, and then piano. He also slowly loses the ability to lie -- which is really annoying and also terrifying until he learns how to reword himself and become a better wordsmith.

SInce this stemmed from an older brother dpdc au, its gonna stay an older brother dpdc au alsfh. i'll just get to the dpxdc part in another post since i wanted to get this off my chest first

[theshitpostcalligrapher]

ok so for the folks that work in back of house/kitchen: what's your go-to secret menu item?

aka the food NOT meant for customers and only the staff know how to order, sometimes from specific cooks

I work in a bar kitchen, we mainly serve fried appetizers, grilled snacks, bread n dips etc, right? But that means there's all the constituent ingredients to make a FULL chicken pita, it just takes more time and effort than is worth putting on the menu. but it also means you can really only order it if I'm working

the previous full-sized restaurant i worked at, it was something called a suicide gyro (like suicide wings) and you could only order it when Steve was working bc it was made with the small-batch hot sauce he made at home with the peppers he grew himself

[macfrog]

If you ever feel up to it - a little short story from the scom universe about reader and Joel deciding to have a second baby or finding out they're pregnant for the second time would warm my cold dead heart <3

i am. so. sorry. for the word count on this i truly do not know what happened. but i had a lot of fun with it, so. hopefully y'all do, too. happy fathers day! x

jellybean ~4k words | series masterlist warnings: pregnancy symptoms (feeling and being sick, horniness + sleepiness. aka me even when not pregnant), 99% just duckie vs her mom

Duckie spills the secret on a Friday.

The morning is lazy, slow. The breathing of the sea across a plain of beach. Your fingers sift through her hair like the breeze through sun-bleached pages. The way she and the sun tint the room peach.

Sarah sprawls out across the spot still warm on her dad’s side of the bed. She’s in a habit of waking up early to sneak through to your room, lift the bottom of the covers, and army crawl between your bodies.

Joel’s in a habit of stirring to the heat of her at his back, her tiny toes at his spine, and turning to scoop her in one arm. They sleep curled into one another, mouths catching flies.

This morning, though, she’s up to something. She brought a secret.

She’s flat-out on her stomach, pens scratching at the paper. There’s the scent of cherry and lemon and green apple tangling in the air. Taut frown on her face, tongue poked with concentration. She looks just like her dad.

She pauses and looks up at you. “What color is this part?” she asks, dabbing at the blank hubcap.

“Silver,” you reply, fixing the cap back onto the grape pen before it stains your sheets.

She huffs. “I don’t have silver, Mama.”

You tap on the page. “Daddy’s wing mirrors are black, but you did ‘em green. The colors don’t matter, do they?”

But it’s seven a.m., and you’re sharing only the red jellybeans for something of a pre-breakfast snack (the four-year-old’s idea), and you’re exhausted despite having slept the full night, and she keeps halting any time Joel’s humming quietens – just in case he spoils his birthday surprise.

She hunkers down with the lemon pen to nail the emblem of his truck, and you figure – color is just the least of it. Truthfully, to your kid – and so, to you, too – nothing has ever mattered more.

You cup her cheek and lift her gaze back to meet yours. “How about I grab you a glitter pen today, just for the wheels?”

She grins. Little milk teeth, gappy and gummy. Peach fuzz cheeks, sweet as the rest of her, a perfect fit in the palm of your hand.

I love you I love you you’re my whole world I love you, you want to say.

Instead: “Only if we tidy your room later. Deal?”

“Deal, Mama,” Sarah giggles, and her little ink-stained hands splay out across the page again.

She scribbles only a few more splotches of color before you both notice it.

The sudden silence.

The water’s stopped running. The shower screen rattles as he pulls it back. Dripdripdrip from the showerhead straight down to the empty basin.

Sarah twists to watch Joel’s disembodied arm blindly grab for a towel folded on the sink. It whips off out of sight, and he calls through from the bathroom.

“Duckie? You still there?”

“Gogogo,” you whisper, helping your daughter cover her dad’s drawing with blank sheets. “Leave the jellybeans, Duck, save yourself!”

She finds the entire thing hysterical. Swinging her masterpiece under one arm, two fistfuls of rainbow pens, springing from the mattress like it suddenly caught flame. She throws herself from the foot of the bed and dashes across the hall to her own room, candy scattering in her wake.

Joel’s head cranes around the doorframe. “Where’d she go?”

You smile, shrugging. Chewing innocently on a jellybean. “That’s funny. She was here a second ago.”

He pads over to the bed, towel slung loose around his hips. Smirks, when your hungry eyes descend his figure – the bearlike shape of him, all muscle and fur, toned where he needs it but soft where you want it.

He cages over you, dark hair dripping with the smell of citrus, skin sticky.

His lips are like velvet against yours. Tongue still singed with coffee. A low growl from his throat when you lean forward to lick into his mouth.

“Smell so goddamn good,” you murmur, dipping your head to bury into the crook of his neck.

His beard is fuzzier when it’s damp, natural masculine musk melded with the fresh soap and rich aftershave he uses. All honey and oatmeal, mixed with a woodsy scent – and fuck, it’s intoxicating. Moreso than usual – stronger and sexier.

You take his hands and lower them to your hips, letting his fingers knot around the baggy material of your – his T-shirt. Tugging on it, exposing the slip of delicate lace on your hips.

“Darlin’,” Joel warns, “we’re late. We still gotta drop Duckie off – If she walks in –”

You groan, huffing back into the mattress. The weight between your legs ripples over the horizon, pulses into weak nothing.

Joel fixes the shirt back down to your thighs just as the thunder of his daughter’s footsteps rumbles back into the room.

Tonight, he breathes, slicking some of the hair from his face.

You grin, taking his hand to pull yourself back up.

Sarah materializes in the doorway, a lingering half-girl. Smiling from behind the frame, twisting the ball of her foot into the floor.

“Hi, Duck,” Joel says, still playing with your fingers.

“Hi.”

“You look guilty.”

Her grin widens. She totters into the room, launches herself onto the bed, and nuzzles into your side. She squirms when Joel digs his fingers into her waist.

The beats of her laughter drum against your ribs, the same way her fists used to when she lived inside you.

“Alright.” You cradle her, her little head tipping back to wake the rest of Austin up with her squeals of glee. “Are we ready for some actual food, now?”

Joel chuckles, reaching for his mug.

Sarah nods from your lap. Her eyes drift down to the print on your tee. “Mama?”

“Mhm?”

“Do they like jellybeans?”

You frown. “Does who like jellybeans?”

Her finger prods lightly into your tummy. “The baby.”

Joel chokes, splattering coffee into his fist. He slams the mug down, pounds his chest clear of liquid.

“There’s no – Jesus, Joel,” you swipe mocha flecks from the sheets, “Told Sarah to be careful with her pens and then you spray coffee all over the…”

Sarah rolls off, cackling. “Silly Daddy,” she hoots, leaping on the bedroom floor.

“Hey,” you usher her over to the door, “Why don’t you go pick out what you wanna wear today? I’ll be right behind you. Quit tryna give your dad a heart attack, okay?”

“The baby, Mama,” she’s repeating, walking like a little convict. She turns over the threshold to her room like it’s a cell, her pink pajama uniform and guilty expression to go with it. Still laughing, swallowing the ticklish bursts when she notices you’re shaking your head.

“There is no baby.” You kneel before her, repeating, “No baby. Just you. How about your T-shirt with the butterflies?”

It seems to distract her enough. Thank Christ. She gasps, inspired, and twirls off to find the tee.

“Fucking hell,” you sigh, pushing back to your feet.

Joel’s flapping the sheets when you slip back into your room, still clearing his throat. Half-dressed: a white T-shirt over his broad chest and a pair of black boxers. Soaked hair clinging to the back of his neck and drying in flicks across his forehead.

Jesus, you want to pull him back over you and let him have his way.

You close the door over and spin, hands on your hips. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Me?” he croaks. “Did you hear what she just said?”

“You’ve known this kid for four years, Joel, you really can’t tell when she’s fucking with you? She’s my kid, keep up.”

“Just seemed an awfully –” he thumps his chest again, “– awfully specific thing to say.”

“She’s in a phase I think,” you reply, catching the pillow he tosses across. “She’s telling stories. Last week, her pre-K teacher congratulated me our supposed wedding. Asked to see pictures of the Mickey Mouse officiant.”

“Jesus,” he grumbles. “She really bought that?”

You mimic the breezy voice: “Sarah was very convincing.”

Joel scoffs. “I don’t know if I can take a lying phase and a copying phase at the same time. Every goddamn word I say, she’s gotta repeat it.”

“She idolizes you,” you straighten the sheets, “I think it’s endearing.”

“Hm. Just wait until it’s you.”

He wanders around the bed, pulls your back against his chest. His arms cross over your tummy, lips pressing into your shoulder where his shirt has slipped.

“How much harder would two be?” he mumbles into the bare skin.

“Two Sarahs?” You scoff.

Joel laughs. “Yeah, you’re right. I forget she runs on chaos and jellybeans.”

“Yup,” you turn in his arms, linking yours behind his neck, “And there ain’t no point in talking about it anyways, because I am not fucking pregnant.”

He rolls his forehead against yours, stealing bristly kisses. “Okay.”

“I’m not, Joel.”

“I believe you, baby.”

Sarah’s bedtime is a liberal eight, eight thirty on weekends. She likes to sit up, lodged between you and Joel on the couch, and help pick the movie you two will watch once she’s in bed.

Once – and only once – Joel tried to fool her by pretending to play her choice, then switching as soon as she went down.

The kid quizzed him on the movie the next morning. He failed. She’s never forgotten.

Tonight, though, Joel’s out. Some game that you know and care too little about sports to learn the name or importance of. He’s with some buddies at the local bar, probably nursing his second beer in as many hours, and counting down the minutes until he can come home to his girls.

Sarah snores soundly, slumped at your side as though butter wouldn’t melt. The flicker from the TV across her face, the gentle mumbling of the voices onscreen. Her hands limp in her lap, fingers idling in a pink snack bowl.

You admire her, stealing a piece of her popcorn. Teeth grinding down when you remember dishing it for her earlier, hearing her curious voice ask whether or not the baby likes popcorn more than jellybeans.

Nope, you sang, tossing a handful in your mouth as you passed her the bowl. Imaginary babies don’t eat popcorn.

She snorted (which unnerved you, because what the fuck is this kid finding so funny?), and followed you to the living room so close that you could feel her toes at your heels.

Some of the kids in her class have siblings. Some older, but mostly younger. It’s the only fucking explanation, the only thing that explains this sudden interest in the real estate of your uterus.

She’s going through a phase, you tell yourself, suckling on popcorn. But then – how many fucking phases do kids go through? Which phases did you go through?

Barney & Friends. That was a fucking phase. Refusing to leave the house without the hoodie your mom bought you from the Museum of Natural History, even in the height of summer. Ketchup and broccoli, your boyfriend at seventeen, frisbeeing your neighbor’s newspaper and aiming for his flowerpots.

Phase, phase, fucking phase.

Does she know something you don’t?

…No. You took a test just last week. Shut up. Stop letting the kid into your fucking head.

Joel’s keys jangle on the other side of the door, shunting into the lock with a sound which stills your brain.

You tilt your head over the back of the couch, your man’s beard tickling your nose as he kisses you. “Evening.”

“Missed you,” he whispers against your lips. He straightens and tugs the jacket from his shoulders. “She not in bed yet?”

“She fell asleep down here,” you reply. “I got too tired to carry her up.”

He caresses your forehead, big pillowy palm. “You feelin’ okay?”

“It’s been a long day,” you grumble.

Joel smiles. He flops down onto the couch beside you, reaching over to stroke Sarah’s head.

You roll, solid as a rock, curling into his side. “She keeps saying it, Joel. She keeps fucking saying it.”

His chest jumps, tectonic plates moving with a laugh. “You’ve met your match, honey. Produced a professional little shit.”

“One of the other moms from her class is pregnant,” you mumble. “That’s gotta be it, right? That’s where she’s getting it from?”

“Maybe,” Joel muses. His fingers link with yours. “Why don’t you take a test anyways? Settle it in your mind?”

It startles you awake, even if only enough to prove the fucking point.

“No, Joel!” you hiss, body jerking. “If I take a test, and it turns out negative – which it will – she wins! My four-year-old fooled me. No,” you pluck spilled popcorn from your lap, pinging it back into the bowl, “I know this kid. I gave birth to this kid. She is not fucking winning.”

“Alright, baby,” he coos, “it’s okay. I won’t let the four-year-old fool you.”

You glower. “Thanks, asshole.”

He chuckles. “She’d make the best big sister, though. She would,” he insists, when you huff back against his chest. “She’d love being the oldest. Get to be bossy, get to call the shots. Get to protect them, no matter what.”

Your voice feels so small, as inquisitive as your daughter’s when you blink up at him. “Were you protective over Tommy?”

“Oh, yeah. I mean, he was annoying as all hell – and I told him so – but anyone else had anythin’ to say about him, and – well, they had me to deal with.”

“Big scary Joel Miller,” you whisper, yawning into his shirt. “I knew him once.”

“Mhm,” he rumbles, “You sure did.”

You look up again, blinking all doe-eyed and dreamy. Already half-asleep.

“He never scared me,” you whisper.

Joel smiles.

“Well, you scared the hell outta him.”

Saturday morning, you wake to an empty bed. No snoring man, no scribbling girl. Just you – a starfish on the mattress. Bathing in waves of late-morning sun, sheets for coral, body as heavy as though you really are at the bottom of the ocean.

Her giggles carry all the way upstairs. Sarah. They surf into the room on a sunbeam, sounds like bubbles which shatter and sprinkle over your aching body.

You smile into Joel’s pillow, breathing in the smell of him, and peel your eyes open.

It’s ten thirty. Definitely – you blink three times and rub at your eyes, just to make sure. Ten thirty, and something’s swirling behind your navel. Something that sharpens, sours, when you push yourself upright.

“Oh, shit,” you rasp, and throw yourself across the room.

You barely make it, collapsing in a heap at the toilet. Your stomach empties in seconds; three heavy, painful gags and your head is in the bowl, choking on last night’s dinner.

“Motherfucker,” you spit, gasping, “Oh, Jesus.”

You’re sick. You’re just sick. Sarah probably caught something from pre-K, passed it on without even knowing. And, hey – you feel better, now that that happened.

You’re just sick. Nothing else.

“Mornin’,” Joel calls, watching as you stagger into the kitchen.

Sarah mimics his drawl. “Mornin’, Mama.”

“Hi, Duckie.” You crumple into the chair beside her, shoulders hunched. The smell of burnt toast and grape juice twists up your nose, and you suck in a slow breath.

Joel sweeps a hand over your forehead. He tips your jaw up to face him. “You alright? Thought we heard running.”

Sarah rips a slice of toast in two. She stares at the fluffy insides, the jam dripping from the tear. The sight of it lifts the hairs on your skin, the gloopy mess splattering onto her plate.

“Just feel kinda…funny,” you slur, turning away.

“Funny? Funny how?”

“Funny how?” your daughter parrots.

You shrug. Every word, every inhale makes you feel even more nauseous. “Probably just ate something.”

“Heard that one before,” Joel drones, and you throw him a flat look.

Sarah licks the jam from her fingers. She holds her tiny hands up to her dad, snorts when he pretends to bite at them.

“Eat your breakfast, Duckie,” he says then – in his Dad voice. And in something softer, kinder: “Can I make you somethin’?”

You swat the idea away, but it’s already churning in your stomach again. “Just gotta – get over whatever it – is.”

The table falls silent. Joel and Sarah stare blankly at one another. When you turn to look at your daughter, she’s staring straight back. Smirking.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you clip, wincing again at the dribbling jam.

“Alright,” Joel utters, “I think you oughta take a test now.”

“That is not what this is,” you groan, petulantly pushing up from your chair.

He takes your hand, steadying you. “No? I was thinking about it, baby, and I don’t think we’ve been safe enough to be so sure.”

You dump your golden toast in the trash and turn, crossing your arms. Your shoulders lift. “We’re not being any less safe than we have been the last four years.”

“Safe,” Sarah says, and Joel holds a finger up.

“No,” he tells her. “No. Not that word. Go back to funny.”

She beams at him. “You’re funny, Daddy.”

He sighs, pacing over. “Look,” he lowers his plate into the sink, “I’ll take Duckie to the park. Let you rest up, give you a quiet house for the morning. But darlin’, if you’re not better by tonight, you’re takin’ a test.”

You grimace. “But she –”

“I know –” he grits his teeth, “– I know you don’t want her to be right. But I want you to be okay, more ‘n I want to prove my child wrong. Like it or not, you’re taking a damn test.”

Your eyes flit across to the kid swinging her legs in her chair, the splotch of jam down her Peppa Pig T-shirt. Your greatest accomplishment and your biggest challenge, wrapped up into a hundred-centimeter, jellybean-fueled monster.

Her cheeks lift, jam-covered and smug.

“Funny,” Sarah says, nodding.

The afternoon strings the sun high in the sky.

You’ve been home alone for the better part of an hour, busying yourself by cleaning to take your mind off the nausea tugging at your esophagus. Making and remaking beds, folding laundry until your fingers cramp.

Sarah’s room has never been tidier. Joel’s workshop has never seen so little dust. And you have never been more determined to prove your four-year-old wrong.

You’re lingering in the bathroom, the window gaping. Sucking in breath after breath of fresh air – which only serves to tickle the acid burning its way up your throat, entice it further.

You’re emptying the cabinets, reorganizing them into some senseless order. Playing Tetris with boxes of Band-Aids, slotting in tubes of toothpaste. You blindly reach behind your hip for the next box – a nearly empty thing which rattles when you lift it, jitters as though nervous.

You glance down.

“Fuck off,” you hiss, throwing it on the shelf beside some tampons.

It stares back at you, as blinding as the sun. The two display window examples, pregnant and not pregnant, like a wink peering out from the dull cabinet.

Your gums taste of bitter bile, rancid. Teeth furry and aching. Your entire body aches – though nothing quite so bad as the space below your ribs, still tender from all your retching.

Slowly, your hands slip down your front to cup your lower tummy. Rounder than before, suppler – bloated, even.

“’s from all the throwing up,” you tell nobody in particular. Maybe yourself. There’s a desperate edge to your voice, almost a plea.

But then – a plea to who? For what? There was nothing you loved more than carrying Sarah for nine months. Duck. Start saying duck. Baby Duck.

You were never on your own. She was right there. Someone to talk to, someone to complain to. Someone to weep to, in the quietest lulls of night.

Her language came to you as easily as your own. All her kicks and punches, her fucking acrobatics while you tried to sleep. It was love, in its most chaotic form.

And you loved her, the very moment you saw those two lines. The very moment you realized she’d been in there the whole time.

You realize now, squatted on your bathroom floor, that it feels the exact same. A warmth, radiating from your very core, if only you’d pay it enough attention to feel it.

Like there’s someone there. Right there.

“If you’re fucking with me,” you warn your stomach, reaching for the single test, “I will lose my shit.”

Love, in its most chaotic form bursts through your bedroom door no less than half an hour later.

“Hi, Mama!” Sarah sings, tearing through the room with her hands behind her back. Her knees bump against the side of your bed, the air about her summer-warm and pollen-sweet.

“Hi, little Duck,” you mumble, voice swollen. You wipe sleep from your eyes, asking, “How was the park?”

She answers with a wide grin on her face, whipping out a small, shabby bunch of flowers. Dandelions and daisies tangled around one another, loose petals scattering over your bedsheets.

“Oh, baby,” you push yourself up, ignoring the sickly weight in your stomach, “Are these for me?”

She nods. She dusts her hands free of grass when you take the bouquet. And then, as you smell them and hum with delight, she turns.

First, over to the dresser. She stares at her reflection, pokes at some of the makeup on the table. Then over to the window – where her breath fogs the glass. You hear the whack of Joel’s tailgate closing, and she tracks him into the house, before examining the windowsill.

You watch nervously as she drifts back over to the bed, a curious hop to her movements. Inspecting, like she knows there’s something waiting to be found. Someone.

“Did you have fun with Daddy?” you ask.

“Yep,” her small voice says, distant and distracted. She disappears into the dim bathroom.

You slump back down on the mattress, dropping the flowers in a clump on your bedside table. “I don’t even know when I fell asleep, baby girl,” you say through a yawn.

Sarah doesn’t reply.

“Duckie?”

“What’s this?”

You lift your head. “What’s wh…Oh, n-no, Duckie, wait –”

She flees past you, one fist raised and wielding the pregnancy test.

“Sarah! Jesus, fuck –”

You’re chasing after her before you have a chance to consider it – nausea be damned. She’s squealing something, roaring with laughter, blitzing out into the hallway. She swivels, ladders down the stairs backwards, leaps straight into the arms of –

“Christ, Sarah –”

Joel stumbles backwards with the force she throws at him. She’s safe in his arms by the time you reach the top of the stairs, waving the stupid stick around his head like it’s a magic wand.

“Daddy!” Sarah cries.

He glances up to you: hunched over the top step, panting, clutching your stomach. He pinches the test from her grasp. “What do we got here, baby duck?”

She kicks her feet. She has no fucking idea what they have, but she knows you didn’t want her near it – and if you know your kid, you know that’s all the catalyst she needed to fucking take it.

You slowly make your way down towards them, smirk growing the nearer you draw.

Joel glances down to the test. The creases by his eyes deepen. He hugs Sarah closer.

“Two...two means...pregnant, right?” he asks.

You sigh, nodding. “Mhm.”

His head lifts.

He breaks, the second he sees your expression. Eyes glassy, tears spilling onto your cheeks. The same smile you wore that June morning: sleep-deprived and shellshocked, a love pumping through your veins so strong that you thought you might burst with it.

Joel reaches for your hand, reels you in against his body.

“Shit,” he laughs, holding the test up.

Your shaking hands take it from him – though you already knew what it says. You were dreaming of it all when Sarah broke into your room.

Dreaming of linked hands and echoed giggles; of bunkbeds and matching surnames, of all four seats in the truck filled and all four chambers of your heart spoken for.

Dreaming of one on each hip, one in each hand. Dreaming of them tag teaming Joel, of the word kids slung with his southern twang. My kids, the kids, our kids. All ours.

Dreaming of two Sarahs, goddamn it. Because nothing ever completed your life as effortlessly as one Sarah, and – hell, she was born to follow in her dad’s footsteps and become the elder Miller sibling.

“Shit,” you agree, turning to sob into Joel’s chest.

“Duckie,” Joel says, voice hoarse and choked by tears, “You’re gonna be a big sister.”

She giggles, tracing the damp lines down your cheeks. As she reaches your jaw, the elation on her face slowly dwindles into something of a frown.

Your lips part to repeat it – a big sister, Duck – when her tiny voice steals the air from your lungs.

“Shit!”

[florencemtrash]

Heads Will Roll | Azriel x Reader Oneshot

Warnings: Violence (aka Reader kills some fae and Rhysand and Azriel are 100% cool with it), fluff

One of Koschei's followers turns up to the Court of Nightmares prepared to make a bargain: your life in exchange for Ataraxia. But he'll soon learn that you are not to be underestimated, and you are always exactly where you want to be.

Azriel bristled from behind Feyre’s shoulder when the male winnowed into the Court of Nightmares in a dramatic display of power that had everyone beneath the dais falling back.

He was all sharp lines, emboldened by the pure black silhouette of his cape that flared out behind him, teasingly parting to reveal the bone white sword strapped to his right hip that seemed to whisper with horrible power. The only piece of him that didn’t look like it was cut from death and destruction were his bright blue eyes - startlingly innocent and all the more unnerving for it. He fit in well with the violence the Court of Nightmares naturally radiated. 

Rhysand’s eyebrow curled up in a look of carefully crafted boredom from atop his obsidian throne. The only one who looked more nonchalant than him was Feyre. She tilted her head up, staring down the slant of her nose to the unknown male as he extended his arms and bowed as prettily as a bird. 

“Greetings.” Even his voice was sharp and cutting. “To the Lord and Lady.” 

Cassian frowned from behind Rhysand’s back at the omission of their proper title. To the outside, Rhysand was anything if not bored. Inside, he was ready to blow the male to bits. He wore Koschei’s stamp on his forehead, red and dripping like a fresh wound.

Neither the High Lord nor the High Lady deigned to reply.

The male only smiled. All teeth. 

“I come to you on behalf of my master.” His smile grew. More teeth. “You may have heard his name.” 

“Koschei.” The name rolled off Feyre’s lips as easily as if she were ordering a meal - blasé and unimportant. But the name shifted the energy in the room, stirring up hornet's nests of gossip. Heads bowed towards one another like grass stalks in the wind, whispering.

Feyre tapped one finger on her forehead, “He has a fondness for marking his followers.”

“Like a collar on a dog.” Rhysand finished. He stroked the bond, grounded by the feeling of Feyre’s very soul on the other side. She had always been - and always would be - his calm.

“My name is Darwynn.” The male tipped his white head, “And I bring news from my master. News you may find worthy of your time.” 

Azriel’s heart picked up in his chest. 

He knew what was coming - the words that would soon slip out of Darwynn’s mouth. You’d been gone for over a week and he felt your absence from his side as intensely as if someone had ripped the wings from his back. Empty, cold, and unbalanced.

For the first three days he hadn’t worried, even as the bond lay dormant in his chest. It wasn’t uncommon for you to hunt after secrets, unraveling mysteries like threads in a coat or diving into the unknown with an insatiable appetite.

Three days were nothing. But nine days was getting to be concerning.

“Go on.” Feyre said with a wave of her hand, looking more interested in the glass of wine in her hand than anything else. 

Darwynn reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin string of silver stained with blood - a necklace crafted from unbreakable metal with a deep blue pendant swaying like a pendulum. It was a piece of one of Azriel’s siphons, imbued with a small measure of his power and given to you as a Solstice gift after you’d accepted the bond. In the twenty years you’d been together, you’d never once taken it off. It was unnatural to see it swinging in the cruel male's hands.

Cassian growled. Azriel’s jaw clenched, beautiful brows lifting only ever so slightly in surprise. It was the only expression the Shadowsinger had shown all night.

Rhysand mirrored his expression. “Ahhhh yes, my sister. How long has she been missing for now, Az?” Rhysand looked back at him, some unspoken agreement passing through that brief glance. If this male had truly captured you, he would not be leaving this room with his head still on his shoulders.

“Nine days.” The Shadowsinger said, his mouth twitching to the side in a cryptic mix of a smirk and a snarl.

“You have her.” Feyre said. It wasn’t a question.

Darwynn’s eyes lit up with glee and he nodded, clapping his hands together like a child opening birthday presents.

“And what do you want for her? That is why you are here, is it not?” Feyre said once his “applause” ended.

Darwynn shook his finger at her, “It is comforting to know that since Amarantha’s trials, you’ve learned to - how shall I say this? Read between the lines.” 

“Careful.” Rhysand said, a warning trapped within that honey-laced word. Feyre’s illiteracy was hardly a concern for anyone anymore - Rhysand had seen to that - but that didn’t mean it wasn’t a subject that smarted and burned when prodded. 

Feyre’s dark red lips only turned up in a small smirk. Her mate would not allow any harm to befall her - even insults from pathetic creatures such as Darwynn.

"But I digress." Darwynn said silkily, “You should know she is uninjured-” 

“Obviously,” Cassian huffed under his breath, stealing a glance at his brother beside him. Azriel was handling this surprisingly well. If it were Nesta who’d been kidnapped and held for ransom, Cassian would not be able to school his emotions so readily. 

“And my master would like to make a trade.”

“A trade?” Rhysand said, displaying more interest in the subject than ever before. This was an opportunity to play Koschei’s hand. To gain whatever knowledge they could from the slippery sorcerer who was gaining more momentum each passing day. Koschei was still confined to his lake on the continent, but that didn’t mean he was powerless. No, not at all. 

Darwynn pointed a knowing finger at Rhysand’s belt where Ataraxia rested as silent as the death that hung over a deep winter’s night. 

“I see.” Rhysand said. 

So that’s what he wants. Feyre spoke to him through the bond, Some trace of Nesta’s power.

Y/n was right. He wants to leave the lake.

And he needs whatever power Nesta took from the Cauldron to do it.

Rhys hummed in thought, one finger lazily tracing the edge of his drink. He knew his sister, knew the power that raced through her veins, and she was not one to be trifled with. But people loved to underestimate her - the poor second child too weak and damaged to fight after losing her wings to the old High Lord of Spring. The female who rested on her brother’s strength and crown like a sapling tied to a stake. She wielded those assumptions carefully. It was perhaps one of her greatest weapons. 

Nine days. She’d been gone for nine days. Nine days since he’d sent her on a mission to the continent to spy on Koschei’s followers. Six days since anyone had heard from her. Three days since her scheduled return. 

Azriel stiffened and blinked - a movement so subtle that only Rhys, Cass, and Feyre noticed. All at once the tension left Rhysand's shoulders. Such a reaction from Az could only mean one thing - you'd arrived.

Rhysand clicked his tongue disapprovingly, taking a deep draught of his wine and muttered, “She’s late.” 

“She likes to be thorough.” Azriel said with the smallest of smiles.

“Even so. I don’t like to be kept waiting. She could’ve been captured sooner. Escaped earlier. Given us notice that she was coming.” He shook his raven black hair.

Azriel smirked, feeling the strength of the bond in his chest. Never wavering, “Maybe she finally decided to adopt your flair for the dramatic.” His golden hazel eyes flickered upward for the briefest of moments and you flashed him a quick smile from where you hid in the mountain rock above.

You’d only just opened your side of the bond, love and reassurance rolling over him like a flood. You were safe. You were whole. And you had carried out your plan beautifully.

Sorry to keep you waiting, my love. I had business to attend to. You spoke to your mate and only him.

I'd wait forever for you. You know that.

He felt your laughter through the bond like the fresh rain.

Who would've guessed the Spymaster's such a romantic.

Only for you. Only for you.

Darwynn narrowed his eyes, lips flattening into a thin line as pale as the moon. Something had changed in the air and he couldn't put his finger on it. This wasn’t the reaction he’d been expecting. He knew the Inner Circle were practiced in hiding their emotions but this… they almost looked pleased. Cassian especially was grinning like a madman, suppressing his laughter as Rhysand sent his thoughts to his mind.

“My master keeps good on his promises. But until you give me the bade, I can’t promise you what pieces of your wife there will be left to bring back.” Darwynn snarled, even as that feeling of dread grew in his stomach. He’d walked in here so confident. He needed to regain that confidence. He relaxed his shoulders. Stood up taller.

A wet thud echoed throughout the hall. Someone screamed - a female with blue-gray skin reeled backward, one hand clamped over her mouth in horror as she tripped over her blood-splattered silks. 

A decapitated head - warm, oozing, and less than a day old - lolled on the floor. Its eyes were frozen in a look of surprised horror. 

Darwynn’s heart stuttered to a stop when he recognized the bloated and bruised face. The face of one of his strongest males, left behind on the continent to watch over Koschei’s prison. 

Rhysand smirked and raised his wine glass towards Darwynn. The High Lord’s power flooded out over the room, knitting together a powerful web of magic that made it impossible for anyone to winnow in or out. Except for you of course - his darling sister who never failed to find the weak points in his magic and slip through as slyly as a cat. 

“There’s something you should know about my dear sister.” Rhysand’s voice boomed over the near-silent room without even trying.

A second head dropped from the ceiling. Then a third. Then a fourth. Laid out in a neat little arc around Darwynn.

“She never gets caught. She is always precisely where she wants to be.” 

Azriel’s eyes were trained on the slate gray arches overheard where he could just barely make out your form as you winnowed around the room, hiding in the shadows and dropping your gruesome packages in a neat circle around Darwynn’s shaking form.

The male unsheathed his sword, spinning around madly and counting every thud until all twelve of your guards were accounted for. 

All dead. 

All of them.

He growled dangerously, eyes beginning to glow a brilliant, icy blue as he aimed his power at the dais, right towards Rhysand. Azriel smiled with cruel satisfaction when you slipped out from behind Darwynn’s silhouette, bloodied and menacing. The knife glinted in the faelight, catching the curve of your arm as you spun around and drove the weapon through Darwynn’s eye. The light wrapping around him fizzled out into anything.

The male rocked on his feet, arms going slack and dropping the sword with a clatter on the ground. His legs gave out soon after, his body crumpling in on itself as easily as paper. 

You calmly rolled down the sleeves of your blood-soaked shirt, flicking a piece of gore off your shoulder in a manner so similar to Rhysand that your brother couldn't help but chuckle. 

You flashed him a grin - a stroke of white brushed across a red splattered canvas. 

“Brother.” You said, tipping your chin up in a show of greeting. 

“A bit dramatic, don’t you think, sister?” Rhysand gestured out to the Court of Nightmares. You spared them a look. Everyone looked positively sinful in their scraps of silk and exposed skin, silent and trembling as their dinners burned their way up from their stomachs to their throats.

You shrugged and winked at Rhys, “I learned from the best.” 

“Go get cleaned up.” He said. It was a clear and direct command, but you didn’t miss the warmth and hint of pride in his voice.

“As my High Lord commands.” You said, bowing deeply. 

At home. Rhysand spoke in your mind as you straightened. Get some rest. You did well.

You sighed in relief, happy that you would be free from whatever Court of Nightmare business left to attend to.

Thank you.

There was a brief pause before Rhysand continued, But next time you plan to get kidnapped, let me know. I was actually starting to worry and I’m not sure my old heart can take it.

You snorted, I’ll keep your elderly constitution in mind next time.

You dipped your head once more before winnowing to the River House. The smell of home nearly knocked you off your feet.

There would be more time to joke around with your brother - more time to tell him everything you’d learned - but right now you were in desperate need of a bath.

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You sank into your third bath of the night, groaning in pleasure as the hot water rolled over your aching muscles. The first two baths had purely functioned to scrub off the dried blood from your hair and skin. The majority of it wasn’t yours. But this bath, with all the fragrant oils and scents, was for enjoyment and relaxation.

It was no easy business getting kidnapped, and no easy business escaping. But like every other mission, you’d made away like a bandit in the night, carrying with you priceless pieces of knowledge and enough secrets to demolish an entire court. 

Your eyes flickered open at the feeling of shadows lacing around your arms, soothing your skin with a cool touch that was no replacement for the hands that followed. 

Finally your mate had decided to join you.

You sighed in happiness as Azriel trailed his fingers up your arms, scarred hands landing at your neck and gently tilting your head back so he could plant a firm kiss on your lips.

The bond sang within your chest more joyfully than a songbird. You didn’t like silencing this connection, you didn’t like shutting Azriel out, but sometimes your work necessitated it. It was for your safety as much as his. But no one understood that more than the Spymaster of the Night Court.

“Hello, my love.” Azriel’s voice vibrated through the air, warming your chest and shaking your bones. 

“Hello, Azriel.” You murmured, soapy hands trailing through his raven black hair so that he was completely surrounded by your scent.

“Gods, I missed you.” He said. He knelt on the tiled floor behind you, wrapping his arms around your bare chest as he buried his face in your neck and breathed you in. “I missed you so much." A kiss on your neck, "So, so much.”

“I missed you too.” You murmured, pulling him around to the side of the tub so that you could see him better. You traced the faint purple bruises beneath his eyes. Not an unfamiliar sight. Azriel had never been a restful sleeper, but since mating and marrying you, he’d been spoiled rotten and now could barely sleep a wink without you curled up in his arms. 

“Sorry I messed up your hair.” You apologized, twirling the now damp strands of his hair so they curled around your fingers. 

He smiled. It was a rare sight to anyone other than you, but seeing him happy never ceased to warm your bones.

“You did well, darling.” He said, smoothing back your hair before saying more seriously, “But next time could you tell me your plans before you shut me out?” 

You winced. “I’m sorry. There wasn’t time.”

“I figured as much.” Azriel said, kissing your cheeks to show that he wasn’t upset. You leaned into his touch as he traced your cheekbones with his thumbs. 

You were the most precious thing in the world to him. More precious than his wings. More precious than his freedom. More precious than the 500 hundred years it had taken him to finally realize what you were to him. The thought of losing you was more painful than a knife to the stomach.

“You can trust me.” You said, “I know how to handle myself.” 

Azriel chuckled and shook his head, “I am very well aware of both those things,” He tilted his head in thought, “And I’m fairly certain everyone else also knows now.” 

You blushed, “Maybe it was a bit much.” 

Azriel shrugged, “Maybe. Maybe not. All I know is one thing.”

“And what is this one thing?” You asked, leaning forward and capturing his lips in another kiss. He tasted like cedar and rain. He tasted like home.

“That you should never be afraid of showing your power. Never. No matter what happens. No matter what people say.” 

His hand that had been cradling the back of your neck moved down, tracing the scars on your shoulder blades where your wings had once been. You shivered under his touch, but didn’t recoil. He understood. He was perhaps the only person who understood what it meant to have such a physical piece of yourself taken away. 

You kissed his hands, taking care to feel every valley beneath your lips and worship them. They were a part of him now, tied to him as much as his shadows were, and so how could you not love them? How could you not love him? This male who was your equal in every way imaginable and who made you feel happier and safer than you ever thought possible. 

He helped you out of the bathtub, drying your skin and hair before carefully brushing through all the tangles and knots. 

“I should go report to Rhys.” You said with little determination as Azriel laid you out on the bed and then crawled under the covers beside you, pulling you against his chest and wrapping you both under the protective cover of his wings.

“Let it wait until tomorrow. Let me have you tonight.” 

You smiled, “I’ve only been gone nine days.” 

His hazel eyes melted into yours. “Nine days too long, Y/n.” 

You could never deny him anything when he looked at you like that, so full of feeling and a rawness too intense for words. And it wasn’t like you were dying to leave this bed and chase after your brother. Like Azriel had said - it could wait until tomorrow. So you melted into his arms and watched as Azriel slowly fell into a deep sleep for the first time in nine days.

______________

Author's note:

A woman covered in the blood of her enemies is *chef's kisses*

That's it. That's the note.

[midnight-els]

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the West Wing would have been even better if they'd had a White House cat. Some headcanons bc I was thinking about it today:

Jed gave the cat a very grand, biblical name. Everyone else has shortened it to something very stupid.

Obviously all of the press and the public adore the cat. There's a minor upset in a polling themed episode when Joey confirms that once again the cat has higher approval ratings than the president. Josh is cross that they are polling on this at all.

There is one chair in the Oval Office that is The Cat's Chair. The staff know not to sit there as you'll get a. covered in fur and b. screamed at by an irate cat trying to force you off. They never warn any of their least favourite congresspeople about this.

The cat wanders around in the background of episodes, often being chased or petted by the extras.

The cat is not allowed in the situation room. The cat is always in the situation room. They had to come up with a special bug detecting protocol for the cat in case anyone tried to take advantage of this.

Ripped from the headlines plot about a congressional investigation into something related to the cat, based on the incident about Clinton's cat's postage.

The cat LOVES Air Force One. The Secret Service do not love having to get him on board or captured to get back off.

Leo and the cat are best friends. They're basically this meme. Leo's the grandma. Jed is the mom.

Aside from Leo, the cat loves the secretaries best. They always have lots of treats for him in their desks. Debbie is the only one he doesn't get on with; she has resorted to using a plant mister to spray him when he tries to get on her desk.

Josh thinks he and the cat are archenemies. The cat hasn't paid more than 2 seconds notice to Josh in his life.

CJ and the cat are archenemies. CJ was very pro-cat until she caught it fishing in Gail's bowl one day. Now she's at war to keep it out of her office. She's still trying to convince Danny to write a piece exposing the cat's dark side to its adoring public. Carol is very tired.

Sam wants so badly to be best friends with the cat. The cat thinks he's trying too hard. Will ends up exactly the same way.

Toby and the cat have never properly interacted and both are very happy to leave it that way.

The cat is supposed to stay in the residence during big events. Abbey stopped enforcing that after he got out and scratched Lord John Marbury when he picked him up against his will.

The cat has a secret service code name. One time, the code names are changed and an overenthusiatic reporter tries to break a story on the first lady's 'unusual activity' by following what he thinks is her code name. It's the cat's. CJ dines out on this for weeks.

The cat occasionally goes missing. The secretaries and Charlie have a recurring B-plot where they have to go and recover him. Somehow, the cat has always ended up somewhere relevant to the A-plot.

The cat properly goes missing after the incidents with the Thanksgiving turkeys and the goat in CJ's office (aka prime cat territory). Each time she claims she'll be nicer to the cat when it returns. Each time it lasts about two days.

Margaret thinks the cat has psychic powers and frequently provides warnings based on her interpretations of 'the signs'. Usually she's right.

The cat somehow makes off with the final edits for the state of the union one time (of course they were only handwritten on one piece of paper). Chaos ensues.

Jed tries to send the cat to Manchester partway through the series. After large-scale outcry from the staff, press and public he is returned to the White House. Unfortunately, after a couple of months as a barn cat he is even more badly behaved than before.

The cat is in both Jed and Abbey's official portraits.

[liyliths]

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౨ৎ ⋆ ｡˚ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝𝐬 𝐚𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭: 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐧𝐞 a stranger things rewrite

pairings: steve harrington x reader

contains: fem!reader, minor enemies to lovers, slow burn, violence, cursing, mentions of death, blood, steve being an ass in season one but epically redeems himself, and any other warnings that may come with stranger things lol

moving into the small and quiet town of hawkins, indiana, was not the most ideal vision of how you thought your sophomore year would go. between being under chief hopper's wing, dodging steve harrington, and a kid going missing in a town where nothing happens, you find yourself being pulled into the unexplainable.

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𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗢𝗡𝗘: 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗨𝗘 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝗢𝗡𝗘 you've just been dragged to the middle of nowhere, aka hawkins, indiana, with your pos father where the cicadas are loud and the neighbors are louder. after moving into your new trailer home that’s seen better days—probably in another lifetime, you somehow end up under chief hopper's care, hawkins' grumpiest cop. oh, and did i mention you found a creepy portal in the woods? how much weirder can this town get?

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗪𝗢: 𝗣𝗥𝗢𝗟𝗢𝗚𝗨𝗘 𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝗧𝗪𝗢 your first few weeks in your new town, hawkins, are honestly anything but normal. you quickly find yourself caught between making new friends and keeping your distance, all while dodging the king of douchebags, steve harrington, and his clumsy attempts to get to know you, all on your first day. and, with a cherry on top, a strange figure in the woods makes you question if hawkins has a wildlife problem—or something much stranger. spoiler alert: it's not just deer.

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗧𝗛𝗥𝗘𝗘: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗩𝗔𝗡𝗜𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗢𝗙 𝗪𝗜𝗟𝗟 𝗕𝗬𝗘𝗥𝗦 turns out nancy wheeler and her family aren't all that bad, but middle school boy humor is the worst. ignoring your gut for once? classic mistake—now a kid's missing, and the guilt trip's free of charge! what's even cooler is that steve harrington won't get off your ass, and loves to make fun of people with missing siblings with his lovely friends. oh, and now barb's missing. hawkins couldn't get any better!

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗢𝗨𝗥: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗢𝗗𝗬 will byers was announced deceased, and now your friend barb is officially missing. steve is a grade a asshole and breaks jonathan byers camera, tearing up his photography. the figure you saw in the woods and in your nightmares ends up in one of the photographs jonathan took, leaving suspicion that will is alive, and barb is in danger. maybe hawkins is cursed!

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗙𝗜𝗩𝗘: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗙𝗟𝗘𝗔 𝗔𝗡𝗗 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗔𝗖𝗥𝗢𝗕𝗔𝗧 barbra is still nowhere to be found, and you and your friends think you can do something about it. steve attempts to apologize to you, but you spare him no time to talk. hopper is really bad at keeping secrets, and will's funeral was dreadful. you and your friends search for the monster, and there's some weird tension between nancy and jonathan. then nancy decides to disappear while monster hunting! how fun!

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗜𝗫: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗠𝗢𝗡𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥 you thought you almost lost nancy, and you've supposedly figured out what's causing your nightmares. also, hopper is apparently interested in conspiracies about children with telekinesis, wonder where that one will go! while you're shopping for supplies to go monster hunting with nancy and jon, you run into the one and only: steve harrington, who sucks at relationships, and you can guess how that one ends. hopper finally finds out you've been tracking down a monster, and you've concluded everyone is terrible at keeping secrets!

𝗖𝗛𝗔𝗣𝗧𝗘𝗥 𝗦𝗘𝗩𝗘𝗡: 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗕𝗔𝗧𝗛𝗧𝗨𝗕 you're on a wild goose chase for some kids, including one with apparent superpowers, who could've guessed? steve is also realizing he has some shit he needs to fix, and his friends really suck. then, you wind up at hawkins middle school to make a fancy bath for a kid with telekinetic powers. here's to hoping she finds will and barb safe and sound!

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season one's playlist worlds apart navigation

[ladykailitha]

I think I have my Christmas/New Years fic for the year.

Rich business man Steve hires starving artist Eddie to do a five piece work for Dustin for Christmas. It's of the Party as their D&D characters fighting a purple dragon. The dragon in the middle with its wings spanning the other four pieces. Each piece with a different character.

Only he hires Eddie back in June because of how long the piece is going to take. Over the next six months they grow together as Eddie updates Steve on the pieces.

All the while Eddie is working on secret sixth piece. His Christmas present for Steve. It's of a paladin and a yellow dragon having tea in the yellow dragon's home in the desert.

But unbeknownst to Eddie Steve is setting it up so that on New Year's Eve, Eddie will be the honored artist at the local art museum where all his works will be put on display for the world to see.

AKA: Eddie falls first. Steve falls harder.

IT'S HERE!!!

[ichorai]

stitch ; coriolanus snow.

pairing ; young!coriolanus snow x capitol!reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; and he clearly wasn’t thinking straight, because his feet didn’t bring him back to his own filthy, dirty, rat-infested home. he brought himself to your winged estate, gardened and manicured and polished to perfection.

words ; 8.7k

themes ; angst, action, mild fluff

warnings / includes ; themes of classism, violence/injury/death/drug misuse, foul language, lucky being lucky, a lot of kisses, coryo's paranoia, he's much more toxic this chapter someone pls save reader (aka doomed by the narrative), i tried to keep him in character as best i could </3

a/n ; thank you for all the support on this series so far! if i've planned this out right, there will be two more parts coming after this one!

series masterlist. main masterlist.

Considering you survived numerous explosions and a metal-pipe lodged in your abdomen, you weren’t looking all that bad. Though you were still badly aching, the injuries you had sustained during the bombings strayed away from your face, save for a few small cuts and bruises that would heal in no time. It made it easy for you to pretend like everything was okay as you donned a crisp, ironed, academy uniform. A new one, that wasn’t stained with your blood and the arena’s dust.

All the doctors had advised you to stay at the hospital to rest and recover. But with the games starting in mere hours… you couldn’t leave Wovey alone. You made a promise, and you intended to keep it.

After surprisingly little begging, your mother caved and signed the release forms for you, on the condition that you’d stay on a wheelchair for the entire duration of the games—or until you were fully healed. Whichever came first. 

Coriolanus came early that morning, looking more tired than the last time you saw him, and promised your mother that he’d take care of you with a charming smile. He kissed your cheek, thumb brushing just beneath your jaw, before wheeling you off to the academy. The warm, fresh wind was refreshing against your face, billowing your hair to and fro.

“I gave her rat poison,” Coriolanus said as he pushed you along. 

The suddenness of his words startled you into a flabbergasted silence. You stared straight ahead for a few moments, lips screwing to the side, trying your best to remain calm. Then, you gritted out, “What in Panem made you think that was a good idea? If Highbottom finds out… it’ll be over for you, Coryo. That’ll be grounds for worse than expulsion.”

“Lucy Gray has to win. She can’t—on her own. I had to give her something.” Coriolanus’ hands flexed on the handles of the wheelchair. 

“I can’t cover for you forever, Coryo,” you whispered, words almost lost to the wind. But he heard.

He narrowed his pale eyes at the back of your head. “You won’t tell, will you?” There was a biting edge to his tone.

“You’re an idiot if you think I would.” You pressed a hand over your bandaged abdomen, obscured by the vibrant red fabric. “Besides—if you go down, I’d go down with you. With enough secrets of yours I bite down on… that makes me an accomplice, too.”

Lucky Flickerman’s eyes were wide as saucers when you showed up to the academy in a wheelchair. He fluttered over to you with a reporter following close behind him, shoving a camera into your face. You loved him, truly, but it was hard to tell apart the Lucky that appeared in front of cameras and the real Lucky your mother was best friends with. A myriad of questions fell from the mustached man’s mouth, and you only managed to answer one and a half of them before Sejanus appeared, and Lucky turned to him to ask him questions about his missing tribute.

With a roll of his eyes, Coriolanus pushed you down a ramp (one that hadn’t been there until just a few hours ago, when they heard news of you coming in a wheelchair), and settled you in front of a monitor with your name on it, in the middle of the rows of seats. His was by the very edge, much to both of your dismay.

“Let me know if you need anything,” he told you, enveloping one of your hands in both of his. He kneeled down in front of you so he’d be at eye-level.

You nodded, but pursed your lips. “Why did you tell me? About the…” You trailed off, worried someone would overhear. But he knew what you were talking about—the rat poison.

He tried his best to give you a genuine smile, nudging his knuckles beneath your chin. They felt cold against your skin—a stark contrast to what the wind outside had felt like. “It’s like you said, isn’t it? Enough secrets of mine you hoard, the more you’re tethered to me.”

You couldn’t quite tell if he was joking. Your lips parted, but no words left your tongue.

Dipping forward, he pressed a chaste kiss to your forehead. “Let’s hope this is over quickly.”

Let’s hope they all die quick, he might as well have said.

“Mmh,” you told him, sparing something akin to a smile. Though, it might’ve looked more like a grimace. Coriolanus’ head was far too preoccupied to notice. You felt sick, and glanced around at all the other students who were taking their seats. Lucky was making his way to the front to get some final touch-ups, flashing you an encouraging wink.

A minute later, he waved away the makeup artists and brandished a microphone from thin air. You almost rolled your eyes—his amateur magic tricks were certainly getting better and better.

“Okay, everyone, places! We’re about to go live! Just because we’re not hosting doesn’t mean you’re off the hook. Help me out here, alright? Don’t get lost behind your screens. No yawning, no gum-chewing—keep your chins down, heads up, shoulders back, people! And—do remember to smile. It’s why we have teeth.”

Lucky began grinning from ear-to-ear as a demonstration. 

His teeth are far too white for his face, Coriolanus thought as he settled into his seat. A shade brighter and I’d surely go blind.

With a hand raised, Lucky began counting down with his fingers. He announced himself with his usual charming flair—and when the music started thrumming, low and ominous, he began wishing everyone a happy Hunger Games, before rushing off to stand behind all the students. 

The large screen in the center of the theater lit up with a shot of the tributes walking into the arena. Several dozens of smaller screens surrounding it gave the students a wide plethora of different angles. 

Your throat went dry upon seeing Wovey and Lucy Gray emerge from the entrance tunnel holding hands. They smiled at each other—one of the smaller cameras managed to catch it just perfectly—all soft and encouraging. Peacekeepers pushed the two onward with the barrels of their guns and they were forced to separate. 

“Stand on your marks or you will be shot,” the announcement system buzzed.

Some of the tributes sobbed. Some of them hardened with determination.

The cameras panned around—until one of them landed on a hanging body, strung up by bloody ropes. Your eyes widened when you recognized him as Sejanus’ tribute.

Was he dead?

His chest gave a hunkering breath, though shallow and wheezy, and you dreaded to think about how much pain he must’ve been in. 

“Guess we can all sleep better now knowing he’s off the streets,” Lucky said into the microphone. The audience of students behind you burst into sporadic cheers and bouts of laughter.

This must’ve been the last straw for Sejanus, as he got up from his desk and just about chucked the entire monitor across the theater. It fell against the stage with several clutters and thunks. Many of the students nearby flinched. 

“YOU’RE MONSTERS!” he screamed, face wrought with anguish. “ALL OF YOU!”

With that, he stormed out. Perhaps if you weren’t confined to your wheelchair or in a great amount of pain you would’ve followed him, you thought. But maybe you were just making excuses for yourself.

Sejanus was a brave man with a rash head. You were neither brave nor rash.

Lucky began to count down again. And just as he reached one, a loud, buzzer-like sound rang through the arena. Echoed into the theater from the monitors.

The tributes began running every which way. You had your eyes fixed on Wovey. At first, she seemed to jaggedly step towards the center, where a selection of weapons were laid out. But she thought better of it once she saw all the commotion and scuttled back to the rows of seats as fast as she could. She climbed and climbed, and your chest was heavy with the idea of her falling, or of someone following her. Nobody did, thankfully.

There you go, sweetheart. Hide.

The last you saw of Wovey was the top of her small head before she disappeared behind the dusty seats. Good.

Then, you turned your attention to Lucy Gray, running around and screaming for Jessup. You briefly glanced back at Coriolanus, who was looking incredibly tense. His entire face seemed to be set into a deep frown.

What is she doing? he mouthed, mostly to himself. Run!

Immediately, buzzes rang out through the theater as tributes were slowly eliminated and disappointed students got up from their seats. You tried your best to avert your eyes from all the blood and gore. The screams, however, you couldn’t escape. A girl three seats away from you puked all over the floor, much to Lucky’s irritation.

To your relief, Lucy Gray managed to find Jessup amidst the chaos, grabbing his arm and pulling him towards the hole in the ground—into the tunnels. A few angry tributes were following after them at a worryingly quick pace. Lucky made a rather smug comment about the gamemakers being prepared enough to have security cameras installed in every nook and cranny, even after the bombing “disruption”. 

You let out a large breath you didn’t realize you were holding in when Lucy Gray managed to crawl into a room through a flap in the door, Jessup hot on her heels. The tributes cursed and yelled, but no one dared follow in after the two in fear of getting hurt while trying to get in.

“Thirteen tributes remain,” announced Lucky. He looked to you and gave you a wink. “Reaper still looming large on top of the charts while Coral and her pack try to make a play. Little Wovey has done an excellent job of scaling the broken columns and hiding beneath what’s left of the seats. Let’s hope we see her soon.”

You glanced at your monitor. There were options to send her food or water if need be. But not yet. You had to be resourceful with the donations you had.

“Six tributes gone in minutes. If they keep it up at this pace… we’re going to be out of here in no time.”

Many hours passed. It was incredibly quiet for a long time—save for Lucky moving off to the side to do some reporting of the weather. Some students even fell asleep by their monitors. 

You were growing tired too, lids heavy with exhaustion and head bobbing up and down a few times. You tried to keep yourself awake, paranoid that something could happen to Wovey if you were to accidentally doze off. To your relief, you snapped awake when a hand rested on your shoulder and Coriolanus kneeled down beside you, offering a bottle of water. It felt wrong to be drinking at your leisure when the tributes were probably parched right now. 

You took the bottle with a grateful mutter of thanks and took a hefty swig.

“How are you feeling? Your wounds okay?” His hand moved up to gently smooth over the back of your head.

“I think so,” you replied, before grimacing. “I don’t like watching this, Coryo. I never have.”

“I’m sorry,” he offered. “I can take you back, if you want. To the hospital.”

“No. I have to stay,” you protested. He seemed relieved at this, not keen on leaving any time soon. 

With a curt nod, he gestured back to his own seat. “Just—let me know if you need anything.”

“You should focus on your tribute, Coriolanus,” you told him, brushing the back of your fingers along his jaw.

“My tribute didn’t have a metal pipe sticking out of her a day ago,” he whispered. “You’re priority number one. You always will be.”

“Well, I’m fine. Lucy Gray, however, is much more at risk,” you replied airily. “If my Wovey can’t win… I’d really rather see her alive.”

Those pale eyes of his searched yours.

“I love you,” he said. It was abrupt and sounded as if someone was strangling it out of him.

“I love you, too. Get back to your seat before Highbottom finds a way to get mad at you,” you told him. With a pointed jerk back to his seat, you heavily emphasized, “Again.”

With a squeeze of your shoulder (you tried your best not to grimace, since he pressed right against a large bruise on your collarbone), he rose back to full height and headed back to his monitor. 

The arena was still silent, even an hour later. Just as you were beginning to seriously consider taking a nap, there came a rustling from the rubble. Lamina, the other district two tribute, rose from behind a large stone slab, and approached the hanging Marcus.

His blood from all the exposed wounds he’d acquired had slowly dripped down his body and formed a frighteningly sizable, semi-dried puddle down below. It was a wonder how he hadn’t already succumbed to his wounds. 

Lamina climbed up the broken stone columns to make her way to him. There were several dried tear tracks on her face, and her nose was very red. Lamina stroked Marcus’ head, and he seemed to jerk alive with her touch. His chest rose and fell in a broken, staggering motion. 

“Please…” he croaked. “Please…” 

He dissolved into gentle sobs.

When Lamina raised her hatchet, you tore your eyes away and looked downward. There came a sick squelch as she struck him and the audience gasped. Lamina cut at his bonds and watched his body crumple down to the ground. Donations for Lamina began to steadily climb higher.

Pup Harrington, Lamina’s mentor, decided to take it upon himself to be the first one to send his tribute a drone with water. Dread settled the pit of your stomach when the drone buzzed in through the broken rooftop of the arena—but it didn’t seem to slow down. No, it only accelerated faster and faster the closer it got. Lamina gave a little shriek and ducked just in time—the drone crashed into the stone column and exploded into a thousand metal parts. The glass water bottle fell down below and shattered by Marcus’ now-dead body.

How were you supposed to send Wovey water now? Perhaps you’d send her food instead—that way, it wouldn’t shatter and go to waste if it hit anything. You scrolled through the options on your monitor. Apples would be a good choice. Plenty of water in them. But you held back—Wovey might’ve been asleep underneath those seats.

A few more hours passed by, slipping well into nightfall. You took a vial of prescribed morphling from your bag and downed it in one go. You could feel it buzzing through your system almost immediately, numbing the sting of your still-healing wounds. It just so happened that Highbottom swept down the steps then, eyeing you behind those spectacles of his. You shuddered and leaned your head down onto the table. The drugs were making you incredibly sleepy.

Highbottom stopped just behind Coriolanus. “You can’t save her by watching,” he murmured to his most loathsome student. “What do you want from that girl?”

“Nothing,” the blonde gritted out. “I want her to live.”

“Mmh. And the Plinth Prize would be a happy coincidence, I suppose.”

Coriolanus’ eyes squinted at nothing in particular. “I believe I’d be entitled to it.”

“Of course you do,” Highbottom retorted, tone heavy with condescension. “And who do you think makes the final decision for the prize you so covet, Mr. Snow? Wake up. Even if Lucy Gray Baird somehow wins it all, I will do everything in my power to make sure that you don’t see a single dime. So… ask yourself this: how much do you care if she lives now?”

Coriolanus was gripping his hands into fists so tight that they turned a ghostly-white.

“And I know… if the young and talented Y/N wins that prize… it’ll go straight to you. Isn’t that right?” Highbottom’s lips twitched in amusement when Coriolanus stiffened. “So it seems that neither of you will be seeing that prize, Mr. Snow.”

His jaw twitched, and he snapped his head to the scowling dean. “You can’t punish them because of me. That’s not fair. Y/N doesn’t deserve that.”

Highbottom let out a gruff laugh, quiet enough for nobody to notice. Mostly everyone had gone home or was asleep, anyway. “It’s not like Y/N would have won anyway—not with that quiet little runt. Kid was doomed from the very start. Take a good look in front of you, boy. Take a look at those tributes—and then you come and tell me what’s fair.”

The very last word was practically spat at him. The dean turned on his heel and marched off. 

Still, hours passed by silently. Lucky was clearly growing agitated with the fact that things were moving so slowly. He’d already had to cancel two dinner appointments.

When Volumnia Gaul stepped into the academy, a dark cloak draped over her shoulders, you were already half-awake. She stood beside you menacingly, and you startled into full alert with a small noise of surprise, the bright blue of one of her eyes boring right into you. She said your name then, all low and elongated. You could barely suppress the shiver that ran down your spine. Still groggy, your blurry peripheral vision told you that practically every one had retired for the night. Save for a few straggler students and, of course, Coryo. You noticed, with muted interest, that every single screen was frozen on an image of the Panem crest, rather than the security camera footage inside the arena.

“I can smell the morphling on you,” she muttered, brows raised. “You should go home. Get some rest. Change those bandages of yours.”

You glanced down at your abdomen—a grimace made its way onto your face when you noticed that your uniform (new, mind you), was stained with a fresh bout of blood. You’d bled through your bandages. With a frown, you uneasily swallowed. It didn’t seem like Dr. Gaul was going to accept no for an answer.

“I, uh—” She noticed the way you began to angle yourself to Coriolanus. He’d fallen asleep by his monitor, in a similar fashion to you.

Her mouth pursed in mock-sympathy. “Coriolanus wants to stay. Watch over his songbird. I suggest you find someone else to wheel you back home.”

Your lips parted in surprise. A part of you wanted to protest, but you were far too tired to argue. “I can get myself home,” you told her. “Good night, Dr. Gaul.”

A creaky, amused titter fell from her throat. “Your little one is good at hiding. A shame she’s not going to make it.”

A wave of nausea rolled over you. You determinedly fixed your gaze on the ground and began to push yourself out of the academy. Volumnia watched you go with narrowed eyes. Once she was sure you were gone, she made her way to Coriolanus. 

The boy had a job to do.

Bobbin’s blood was still all over his hands. Dried, now. Dark with time. Dr. Gaul stitched up the gash on his left shoulder blade—he wondered if you had been in this much pain when you woke up in the hospital. But it was different, because he was slashed by a little boy, and you fell onto a metal pipe. Coriolanus wasn’t sure which one was better. 

Not that it was a competition. It was all Sejanus’ fault anyway, he concluded.

He had wanted to sprinkle bread crumbs on his dead tribute’s body. What a waste.

Once Dr. Gaul had sent him off back home with his wound tightly bound, he staggered out with a heavy chest and tear-stained cheeks.

And he clearly wasn’t thinking straight, because his feet didn’t bring him back to his own filthy, dirty, rat-infested home. He brought himself to your winged estate, gardened and manicured and polished to perfection. 

This should be mine, he thought. I should have this. I deserve this.

And then, another irrational thought crossed his mind as he rang the doorbell. 

It will be mine.

The doors swung open—which mildly surprised him, considering it was very late at night—and your mother peeked her head out. She eyed him with part confusion, part surprise. Then, she caught sight of the blood on his hands. The door widened to let him through. 

Almost immediately when he stepped in, your mother roped him into a warm embrace. He inhaled and choked on air. And then, he dissolved into a fit of wracking sobs. She crooned and stroked her hand along the back of his head.

“What’s this, Coriolanus? Whose blood is this?”

He hiccuped and drew in a staggered breath. “It’s… mine. I got into a fight with a classmate about the Games. It got violent and bloody—Dr. Gaul fixed me up.” He emphasized a wince and gestured to the wound on his shoulder. He let your mother fuss over him, demanding to take a look at the gash. Reluctant, he unbuttoned his uniform again to let her see.

It seemed the commotion was enough to wake you up, because you had limped to the top of the grand staircase with sleepy eyes and messy hair. 

Once your mother caught sight of you out of bed, she pulled away from Coriolanus to chastise you, but her words fell on deaf ears. You mumbled out your boyfriend’s name in confusion, before leaning heavily against the bannister to slowly step down, wincing with the movement. 

Coriolanus was quick to move upstairs, meeting you near the top, as you had only managed to descend a handful while he jogged to you. He cupped your face first, smoothing his thumbs over your jaw the way he always did. And when you spread your arms, he just about fell into you, his nose dropping down to the junction between your neck and your shoulder. His entire form trembled with his cries, muffled into your skin. 

It was as if he’d been reduced to a child all over again. Eating paste, salty with his tears of hunger. 

“Coryo,” you whispered, gripping at his waist. “Coryo, please tell me what’s going on. You’re worrying me.”

He hesitantly withdrew his damp face away from your neck. “Can we… talk privately?”

With pursed lips, you looked down to your mother at the bottom of the staircase.

She cleared her throat tiredly. “I’ll leave you two be. But no funny business, understand? Y/N needs to recover.”

With a serious stare in Coriolanus’ direction, she turned and marched off to the Northern wing.

“Come on,” you told him. “Let’s go to my room.”

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, rubbing the space between his brows. His arm wrapped over your waist to help you up the few steps. “It’s so late, and I just barged in and interrupted your sleep—”

“Coryo, you’re covered in blood. Sleep is the last thing on my mind.”

Once in your room, you shut the door and leaned against it. Coriolanus made his way to your bed and sat on it, face buried into his hands.

“Does this have something to do with Dr. Gaul?” you asked, watching him with keen eyes. 

His head snapped up and he regarded you curiously. “How’d you know?” 

“She told me to leave. And all the screens were… frozen.” With slow steps, you limped across your room to sit right beside him. “Whose blood is that?”

Coriolanus was silent for a long while. So long that you wondered if he even heard your question at all.

“Don’t—don’t hate me. I need you.”

“I won’t hate you. I love you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Stop it, Coryo. You don’t get to decide whether I l—”

“It was Bobbin.” He effectively cut you off, rendering you speechless. “I killed him.”

You stared at him as if he’d grown another head. “The… the district eight boy?” With each passing second, your eyes grew larger and—wetter. Coriolanus had to turn away. “You were in the arena? Dr. Gaul made you… oh, Coryo.”

“Sejanus went in to see his friend.” The last word was sneered out in a rather demeaning manner. “The tributes started attacking us. I… I hit Bobbin with a rock.”

He left out the gorey details. How he kept bashing Bobbin’s head in even after his body stopped twitching. How it felt… powerful. 

“It was self defense, then,” you murmured, drawing closer to brush your lips against his shoulder, just above his sutures.

It was, at first. And then it… wasn’t. Coriolanus pursed his lips. 

“Bobbin… he was Wovey’s friend, I think.” Your voice wavered, and you blinked away the tears that welled up in your eyes. “I hope she’s okay.”

Coriolanus said nothing as he frowned. He didn’t like how much you cared for her, no matter how much of a hypocrite that made him. It was like Highbottom said… the kid was doomed from the very beginning.

“Are you okay?” you asked him, voice as soft as silk.

“I don’t…”

“It’s okay if you’re not. I’ll be here for you.”

“You’re too good,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re always just so… good. How do you do it?”

There was a considerable silence before you reached over to take his chin between your fingers and force him to look at you. “I’m just trying my best. And you are, too. Don’t discredit yourself, Coriolanus. You’re good for me. You always will be.”

His pale eyes flickered. Then, he kissed you. Slow and soft, begging for more but—you pulled away with a hum before he could press further against you. 

A distinct coldness fell over his expression. “You can’t tell anyone what I told you. About Bobbin.”

You studied him for a few seconds. Watched the way he folded into himself with such caution. Compartmentalize and shield the most ugly parts of himself away from you. It was a defense mechanism of sorts. You knew it all too well, and narrowed your eyes at him.

“Why do you always think that I’ll go about and tell the world everything you say to me? Do you not trust me?”

He sucked in a shuddering breath. “I do. I do, of course I do. You just—you know everything there is to know. You can destroy me completely, and it’ll be my fault because I let you in—because I let myself fall in love with you.”

Your features twisted into one of shock. “Is that what you think? That I’m seeking to destroy you? Bring you down? What—Coriolanus, why would I do that? Do you hear yourself? How many times do I have to say that I love you until you realize that I mean it?” 

“You can love me and still betray me. They’re not mutually exclusive.” There was a terse silence that stretched thick between the two of you like taffy. His brows furrowed together and he stared angrily down at the ground as he frustratedly worked his jaw. “I’m not saying you will betray me. I’m saying you could. And that… that terrifies me.”

“I won’t. You said it yourself, remember? I’m tethered to you. I’m an accomplice—I know too much,” you said, exasperated. “But there is nothing I want to take from you. I gain nothing from stabbing you in the back. I just—I want for us to be a normal fucking couple!”

Coriolanus hung his head. With another sharp breath, he nodded several times, as if he was snapping himself out of his own thoughts. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I trust you. I’m sorry.”

When your countenance softened inexplicably, Coriolanus let himself slowly tear his walls of paranoia back down. His hands returned to you then, far more hesitantly cradling your face, gripping your hips, squeezing your thighs as he kissed you. It was familiar and comforting, yet simultaneously all too much.

“Will you stay until I fall asleep?” you panted into the kiss, trying to break away as your lungs screamed for air. “I miss you. It’s been so long since we just… existed alone together.”

He nodded—because how could he say no to you?—and helped you settle back onto the bed. Let you hold onto him, let you trace mindless shapes into his arm. Watched as your eyes fluttered shut and you fell back into what looked like a restful sleep. Envy curled within the confines of his chest. Sleep graced you so easily. Why did everything come to you so easily?

Nonetheless, he dipped forward to brush his lips against your temple, before gingerly pulling away. You stirred with the jostling, but stayed deep asleep. With that, Coriolanus made his way out of your room, clicking the door shut as softly as he could, and descended down the stairs. He left your house with a heavy chest and a throbbing shoulder.

Early the next morning, your mother came to the academy with you to watch the end of the Hunger Games—and to be there for moral support, she’d told you. She wheeled you in with a bright smile, greeting all the staring students with a friendly confidence. Once she brought you in front of the very same monitor as yesterday, she kissed the top of your head before flitting away to speak with Lucky, who was all smiles and charm. You overheard him saying that he was confident the games would come to a close soon. Your mother said something in reply, but their voices were drowned out by the swell of students entering the theater.

Coriolanus walked in only a few minutes after you, Tigris on his arm. The two of them made their way to you—Coryo was stone-faced, looking more tired than ever. Tigris appeared more worried than anything, but she was just about glowing in her new pink dress, all sharp angles and pristine fabric.

“You look beautiful,” you told her genuinely once she drew closer to you and took both your hands in hers. “I love your outfit. The color suits you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, flushing a pleased rouge hue. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been impaled by a metal pipe,” you told her with a slight grimace. “But, you know… no better way to fix that than to watch children kill themselves through a screen.”

The two cousins laughed dryly at your sarcasm. Tigris then enthusiastically told you that the dress she was making for you was ready—and you grinned and told her you were incredibly excited to come see it. With that, she nodded and left to take her seat amongst the stands, wishing the two of you good luck. 

Once she was gone, Coriolanus reached out to grasp your shoulder. Your talk with him last night plagued him for hours and hours when he should’ve been asleep. 

“Did you sleep well?” you asked him, leaning into his touch when he brushed his knuckles against your cheek. “You look tired, Coryo.”

A wry smile. “Slept like a baby.”

It was a lie, and you knew it. You frown-smiled at him nonetheless.

He bent at the waist, tilted your face up to meet his, and kissed you square on the lips. Some of the students in the stand wolf-whistled, and it felt distinctly like Coriolanus was putting on a show for them, and for the cameras. And you were, well—you were an unwilling actor.

When he pulled away, he smiled at you and gestured to his seat in the corner. “Whatever happens, I’ll be right there.”

“Okay,” you murmured. “Likewise.”

Coriolanus found himself wondering if you were hiding something from him. Why did it feel like you were drawing yourself away? Were you planning on sabotaging him?

Before he could dwell on it anymore, you gently nudged him off, as Lucky was beginning his opening remarks once again. He talked about the mystery behind Bobbin’s death (sending a cold tremor up Coriolanus’ spine), but moved on rather quickly to the stats board. 

The few remaining mentors settled down and the rest of the students in the stands quieted to watch the games continue. 

Not fifteen minutes later, commotion started brewing between Jessup and Lucy Gray. It was hisses and twitches from the boy at first, but then grew into explosive anger and panicked aggressiveness. Frightened, Lucy Gray began to doggedly run away from her friend, crawling out of the rubble-strewn tunnels and back into the main arena. 

“Something’s wrong,” Lysistrata, Jesssup’s mentor, said. “He wouldn’t turn on her like this.”

You narrowed your eyes at the hazy screen. There seemed to be foam collecting at the corners of Jessup’s mouth as he chased after Lucy Gray, demanding to know what she’s done to him. The hazy memory of Lucy Gray at the zoo mentioning a bat bite resurfaced into your mind.

“It’s rabies,” you told the two. “The foam in his mouth. He’s got rabies—the bat bite in the train, remember?”

Coriolanus and Lysistrata’s eyes both widened. 

“The same district folding in on itself!” Lucky announced into the microphone, and began rattling off some more unnecessary commentary.

“Send him water!” Coryo demanded Lyssie. 

“What?” she asked, watching in horror as her tribute tried to make a grab for Lucy Gray, but she ducked away just in time.

Impatient, Coriolanus stood up and leaned over her desk with gritted teeth. “Remember the posters in the war? Rabies—it makes you afraid of water. Send him a drone!”

Lyssie’s mouth opened and closed. “That’ll scare him!”

“Yes,” he said, tapping on her monitor. “It’ll get him away from her. Jessup is done. And you’re the only one that can get it right to him.”

With a tight frown, Lysistrata reached forward to order a water drone. Lucky was preening with all the action.

“Thank you,” Coriolanus breathed out once her order processed through. 

“Nothing to be proud of,” she said, scowling at the screen.

Lucy Gray was begging for her friend to snap out of it as she climbed up a fallen stone pillar, and screamed when a water drone came whizzing right past her ear, crashing into Jessup. Glass went flying every which way. The water had done its job scaring him—Jessup yelled and tittered with the sudden force. He fell backward and toppled right off the pillar. His body made a sickening crack as it came in contact with the ground. The audience exploded into cheers. 

Horrified, Lucy Gray slid down the pillar after her barely-alive friend, hands shaking. A terrible sense of guilt washed over you.

“Jessup?” she asked, shaking his shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere. Okay? You watched over me, now I’m watching over you. Sleep now, Jessup. Sleep.”

Jessup’s death was slow and painful. Lyssie sent a bitter glance towards Coriolanus, before storming off. 

But the horrors weren’t yet over for Lucy Gray—Coral and her pack appeared from behind a large pile of rubble, cornering her like coyotes would a lamb. They sneered and jeered at her.

You turned to look at Coriolanus, seeing his face crumple with desperation. His eyes flickered to you for a brief moment.

“Use your donations!” you called over. “She won’t fight, Coryo. You know that!”

With a frantic nod, Coriolanus snapped his gaze back to his monitor, and hurriedly pressed down on eight drones of water for his tribute. 

“Mentors allying together in such troubling times!” Lucky exclaimed, rubbing his hands together. “Will it be enough to save the songbird?”

The little machines whirred into the arena at alarming high speeds, and crashed into the unassuming tributes surrounding Lucy Gray. She ducked and covered her head with shaking hands as water and glass and metal parts flew every which way. 

“Hey!” one of the mentors exclaimed. “You can’t attack the tributes!”

“I’m just sending water,” Coriolanus retorted back, looking extremely relieved. Then, he looked back at you, and mouthed, thank you.

Taking advantage of the knocked down tributes, Lucy Gray rushed forward, grabbed a glass of water that remained miraculously unshattered, and ran off to hide behind another fallen pillar. You remembered that Coriolanus had given her rat poison—a part of you wanted her to use it to survive, and the other part of you hoped she wouldn’t ever touch it in fear of people finding out about Coriolanus cheating. That would spell the end of him.

Coral and her pack roused with groans and aches. They moaned about losing Lucy Gray, before setting their sights on Lamina and pursuing after her. It was a shame to watch her go, you thought, remembering the kindness she did for Marcus. She was stabbed in the abdomen (reminding you of your own bound bandages), and fell into a crumpled heap beside her district-mate.

While they were all busy going after her, one of the smaller screens caught Lucy Gray appearing back from behind the rubble, placing the full water bottle back on the ground. She hurriedly reached over to dump water out of any of the other bottles that hadn’t broken. 

Lucy Gray managed to escape Coral just as she began to notice what she was doing, darting up some broken stairs and into a duct, latching it shut so they wouldn’t be able to follow her in. Lucky made a sullen comment about how there were no cameras set up inside there.

Coral and the pack retreated back down to survey all the water Lucy Gray had dumped out, save for the one single bottle. You wondered if said bottle was filled with rat poison, by any chance. 

Since you had your gaze focused on one of the smaller screens, you hadn’t even noticed little Wovey emerging from a row of seats not too far away from where Lucy Gray was hiding inside the duct. 

Your eyes frantically turned to the main screen when one of the pack members exclaimed, “It’s Wovey!”

“No, no…” you muttered, leaning forward in your wheelchair, ignoring the painful sting in your side. Wovey was quick to disappear back under the seats, scampering between rows and small gaps under fallen rocks so that they couldn’t follow after her. Twisted relief clawed at your chest and you heaved for breath when they muttered defeat and decided to go back down to the ground. The group began to dissolve into an argument, which thankfully kept them otherwise occupied from going back to hunt after other tributes. To none of your surprise, Coral ended up stabbing Mizzen right in the chest. 

“And who do we have here?” said Lucky when the main screen changed to show a coughing girl emerging from her hiding place. “Ah! It’s Ill Dill. Tuberculosis on legs.”

Dill staggered towards the water bottle. Uncapped it and drank a few small mouthfuls. She coughed and wheezed. Lied down slowly, chest still rattling with coughs. It had to be poisoned, you concluded. To die right after taking that drink… it was far too much of a coincidence. Lucy Gray must have used the poison. You didn’t dare chance a glance back at Coriolanus, afraid you’d see cruel victory in his eyes.

Reaper ran out a minute later, calling out for Dill as he rushed to her. “Dill? Hey, what happened? Dill! Dill, wake up!” 

And when he realized his district-mate was dead… Reaper let out a guttural scream. It echoed and ricocheted around the arena for everyone to hear. You frowned and tucked your arms closer to your sides.

To your surprise, Reaper began to move the dead tributes’ bodies to where Marcus and Lamina were. He laid each of them carefully beside one another. Fixed their positions and brushed the dirt away from their face. Dill first, then Mizzen. Then Bobbin by the entrance—to which none of the other mentors knew who killed except Coriolanus and… you. 

Reaper tore down the long Panem flag hanging from the arena’s wall. The students burst into boos and derogatory yells. He dragged it over to the makeshift morgue and draped the dusty fabric over the corpses. 

There was a lump in your throat as you watched him stand over the bodies he had so meticulously arranged. He gave the tributes one last shred of dignity when the Capitol—you included—had so monstrously stripped every bit of it away. You twisted in your chair to look at your mother in the stands. She had a hand over her mouth as she watched on, looking every bit as choked up as you.

Reaper gazed straight into one of the cameras and spread his arms. “Are you gonna punish me now?” he asked. “ARE YOU GOING TO PUNISH ME N—”

His yells were suddenly cut off by a breaking news announcement. They still echoed about the theater, and you still could hear Reaper’s strong voice in your head. 

Volumnia Gaul sat stiff and menacing on the large screen, her single, beady blue eye seemingly ablaze with a cold fury.

“Capitol citizens, I’m afraid I must interrupt our Games to announce a tragic loss. One that affects us all. Felix Ravinstill, son of our beloved president, has this morning succumbed to his injuries sustained in the rebel bombing.” The screen changed to display a horrifyingly graphic image of Felix’s dead body covered in bruises and unhealed gashes. This was met with gasps and cries from the crowd. “Out there in the districts… they will be celebrating this young boy’s death as a triumph. I will not allow my Games to give our enemy such victory. I swear to you, here and now, before the sun goes down tonight, a rainbow of destruction will engulf our arena. Even if it means there’s to be no victor in these Games!”

Scandalized murmurs spread throughout the theater. 

Your lips parted with shock. What was the point in having the Hunger Games without a victor? You turned to look at Coriolanus, who was looking every bit as distraught as you. 

A rainbow of destruction, Gaul had said. He knew exactly what that meant. With a tight expression, he sat up and ran out of the theater. You watched him go with utter confusion, calling out his name, but your voice was drowned out over the sea of upset students.

Where was he going? To plea his case with Dr. Gaul or Highbottom? Or… no, he’d told you about the snake muttations Gaul had in her lab—while you were drowsy and delirious with pain, but you could remember it faintly—how they were rainbow in color, fast as lightning as they struck down Clemmie. Did that mean those snakes were going to be set loose in the arena? 

Your heart skipped a beat. Wovey could hide from the other tributes, sure, but small, fast, and most likely deadly snakes? She wouldn’t stand a chance. 

And what of Lucy Gray? What was Coriolanus planning on doing for her?

Fifteen minutes later, Coriolanus came running back in, sweaty and breathless. Just in time, because Coral and her pack were beginning to close in on Lucy Gray, stabbing spears through the vent flap. One of the boys down below the ducts began to cough and sputter, not in an unsimilar fashion to Dill, before collapsing down to the ground with a shudder, blood pouring out of his nose. 

Rat poison. You were sure of it. 

They stabbed at the duct some more until it buckled and broke under her weight, and she came crashing down. Hurriedly, Lucy Gray stumbled up to her feet, climbed over the dead body, and ran as fast as she could away from Coral. They were hot on her tail. Everyone watched with bated breath.

And then—the loud whirring of a carrier came descending down the center of the arena. A large, blackened cylindrical tank was being lowered into the center through the broken rooftop. You let out a shaky breath of petrification. Inside must’ve been the snake muttations Coriolanus told you about. 

The few remaining tributes stared at the tank with wide eyes, too stunned to move. 

“I’d wager that that is going to be no good.” Lucky smiled as he stared at the screen. “But wouldn’t it be fun if it was candy?”

Both the arena and the theater lapsed into utter silence. 

Until—until little Wovey peered her head up from the seats. She’s so frail, was your first thought. Slowly, she began to climb out of the rows and hopped down broken pieces of stone to get back to the ground. 

“Wovey—” you found yourself saying aloud. Many eyes drew to you. “No, no, no…”

You watched as the little girl walked towards the large black tank with wide eyes. She sniffled and wiped her nose with the back of her grimy hand. Reaper was warning Wovey to keep away, but the little girl was still moving closer.

“Is it over?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Can we go home? Please…”

“Fuck! Fu—shit, fuck! No, Wovey!” you frantically yelled as if she could hear you. Desperate to get her to stop going towards the tank, you looked down at your monitor.

Not many donations… 

But enough to send a drone.

Maybe if you sent food—it’d distract her. Keep her away.

And so you began placing an order for a food drone, much to Lucky’s commentary delight. With shaking hands, you pressed confirm.

But there was one thing you hadn’t considered. 

You hadn’t considered the drone coming in from directly in front of Wovey—with the tank right in its way. A whizz, a blur of silver metal, and murmurs of shock from the crowd. The machine drove itself against the glass tank and broke apart into a thousand pieces. Small red apples went flying every which way. Wovey stopped in her tracks for a moment. 

It was a temporary relief.

A crack formed in the tank. And then—another splinter within the glass. And another, and another, and another. They formed a terrible sort of spider web. 

“No,” you whispered, lips quivering. It was all your fault. “Oh, no.”

With that, the glass gave way to its fractures, and burst apart in a cascade of glittering shards. The snakes came tumbling out just as Dr. Gaul had said: a rainbow of destruction. They took down Wovey first as she screamed, slithering over her small body until you saw no part of her left. You had fallen silent, but your entire body ached as you violently shut your eyes, eliciting a hot tear to streak down your cheek. 

“Not candy! Down goes Wovey!” Lucky announced, though he winced with an apologetic glance in your direction. “Sorry, Y/N.” 

The rest of the snakes were quick to pick off Coral’s pack, and then Coral herself, who cried out that all those lives she took… they couldn’t have been for nothing.

They slithered around Reaper, who sat strongly by the pile of bodies he had arranged. He died alongside them as the serpents closed around his throat.

And that just left Lucy Gray.

“All colors lead to Gray!” Lucky announced, overly pleased with his wording.

Coriolanus smiled, victorious. “She’s—she’s won. It’s over. She’s won! Let her out!”

“Afraid that’s not your call to make, Mr. Snow,” said Lucky. He pointed over to Dr. Gaul, who was watching from the theater’s stands with crossed arms. 

The students all murmured and gasped. Coriolanus looked around helplessly.

“Dr. Gaul, she’s won!” he asserted. “It’s over, let her out!”

Volumnia stared at the blonde boy with narrowed eyes, but said nothing.

And then… Lucy Gray began to sing as the snakes slithered their way to her. They coiled over her ankles and into the ruffles of her dress. Over her arms and around her stomach. Along her back and draped on her shoulders. She sang and sang, her voice strong despite the itchy dryness in her throat.

“Why aren’t they attacking her?” Festus Creed demanded. 

Coriolanus set his jaw. “Must be the singing. It’s calming them.”

“She can’t sing forever,” he replied with an upturned nose.

Everyone in the audience watched, enraptured, as Lucy Gray sang her heart out, wrapped in iridescent snakes. You let out a shaky exhale, and another tear slipped down your face. Watching Wovey go was one thing—you didn’t want to watch Lucy Gray die, as well.

Anger rose in your throat. 

You turned your wheelchair away from the screen—away from your damned monitor. It was your fault Wovey was dead. You wouldn’t watch Lucy Gray die, too.

“LET HER OUT!” you screamed at Dr. Gaul. Coriolanus flinched and stared at you with wonder, along with the rest of the student body. You bared your teeth in a pained snarl, and you let the tears freely fall. They were scalding against your skin, along with the multiple cameras that had turned right to you. “She won. Who’s going to donate to your Games next year if they know you’ll just kill their victor off? Let her out, Gaul!”

“Dr. Gaul, please,” Coriolanus pleaded, nodding at your words. “Let her out.”

“Get her out!” Tigris chimed along. Your mother voiced the same sentiment a second later, her face shining at you with pride. 

One by one, students began yelling at Dr. Gaul to get Lucy Gray out of the arena until practically everyone was chanting along.

“Nobody’s going to watch your Games without a victor!” Snow told her over the swell of voices. 

With a sharp scowl, she raised her hand. Almost immediately, the crowd fell into silence. 

“Get her out,” she quietly grumbled to one of her assistants.

Lucky clapped and announced excitedly, “She’s won! Lucy Gray has won! Coriolanus Snow is the winner of the 10th annual Hunger Games!”

Victory music began playing throughout the theater—trumpets and drums and bells echoing into his ears as the students rushed down from their seats to congratulate him. Shaking his hand, slapping at his back, ruffling his hair. Tigris was at the front of it all, smiling at him so wide it was a wonder her face didn’t split into two. She wrapped him into a warm hug and he held her tight, laughing into her shoulder as the weight of realization fell against him.

He’d won.

Once he pulled away from his cousin, he pushed through the packed crowd to get to you. You were on your feet already, though your weight was leaning heavily against one of the handles of your wheelchair. You were positively overwhelmed by all the commotion around you. 

He held your face with both his hands and kissed you in front of everyone. The cheers grew louder and louder, and Snow pulled away smiling wider than he ever remembered smiling before.

But when he looked at you again—truly looked at you—there were still tears spilling from your eyes. They didn’t look quite like tears of joy, either.

“She was thirteen,” you sobbed, curling against him. “Coryo, she was thirteen. It was my fault. My fault.”

Caught up in his own victory, he’d very nearly forgotten who you were talking about. It took him another second to realize that you were crying over Wovey. Irritation clawed at his chest and he frowned at you. You should’ve been congratulating him—not thinking about your silly dead tribute. What were you expecting? Hadn’t you known this was coming?

Nonetheless, he held you to his chest with empty words of comfort murmured into your ears, rubbing a palm up and down your back in a placating manner. He kissed your forehead and the crowd swooned with the romance of it all. 

You jerked away from Coriolanus when you felt a distinct pain shoot up your stomach. You looked down, noting the darker red blotch in your uniform. 

It seemed like you’d bled through your bandages again.

taglist: @nicksolemnlyswears, @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy, @marjorieisreading, @emlovesya, @dallaav, @sillyskeletonpatrolghost, @sunshine-stars-12, @intoomanyfandom-s, @eclipixels, @unclecrunkle, @wotcherpeak, @dangelnleif, @freyafriggafrey, @scaraslover, @tiaamberxx, @dracuno, @c-losur3, @ashy-kit, @innercreationflower, @spear-bearing-bi-witch, @mymadokamagica, @24kmar, @cowboylikerhian, @ireallydontcareanymorebrooo, @curled-hair-red-lips, @har-rison-s, @aoi-targaryen

[vsangles]

Alessandra Ambrosio

[skyjasper]

Betray You Like A Man.

Azriel X Rhys sister oc (but Rhys Centric kinda?! Rhys and Az angst?)

Summary: HOFAS bonus chapter inspired. Azriel and his mate Y/N Moonbeam aka Rhysands little sister have been hiding for over 50 years. When her older brother finds out he is anything but happy.

Masterlist

Warnings: mentions of SA, Yelling, lots and lots of Angst, quite Az.

Words: 1,382.

~~~

She and Azriel had been seeing each other secretly for over 50 years now. They had been through hell and back together, finding out about Rhysand under the mountain, Supporting her brother with his mate, fighting a damned war, and even finding out they were mates. Not once did either of them let on to their secret relationship, always passing each other with cold glances and curt words. The only form of kindness shown was on important occasions. But the minute they were alone, when they got back to their secret apartment, they were perfectly fine.

That was until Rhysand barged into Azriel’s apartment yelling something about Nesta telling Feyre something about their babe and found the two of them laying on the floor. Y/N reading and Azriel mulling over paperwork with a biscuit. In an instant, albeit a second too late, Azriel’s wing was covering her. Rhysands words fell away and he stood still, she could see him just barely through her mate's wing but she knew that her older brother could smell her.

“Azriel,” Rhysand growled out. With a knowing sight, Azriel released his wing that covered Y/N’s frame, not hiding her wings.

The moment Rhysands eyes found her matching violet ones he turned and walked out, slamming the door. She turned her head to her mate whose eyes were glazed over in silent conversation, she decided to listen to what Rhys had told him.

“Do we go? We should probably give him time to calm down shouldn’t we?” She asked, staring at Azriel’s golden eyes. He just nodded quietly.

Silently and with deathly calmness they gathered themselves and flew to the river house. She winced as they walked in the door, taking in the ruined vases and the loud shouting of her other brother and sister trying to calm Rhysand down.

“I DO NOT CARE. THAT IS MY SISTER.” He screamed at Cassian. She turned to Azriel, putting a hand on his chest to stop him,

“Maybe I should go in there alone.” She offered. And with a short nod he agreed, before she could walk away he grabbed her arm, and with a deadly voice he spoke,

“If he even thinks about yelling at you I will be in there. I will just be right outside.” Then he let go so she could enter the room. When she did she gasped at the sight of her older brother.

“Rhysand,” she spoke firmly, only slightly scared as his raging eyes turned on her.

“Is that bastard here?!” He spoke.

“It doesn’t matter, Rhysand.” She went to place her hand on his arm when he flinched away and stared at her with disgust.

“Don’t even get me started on you.” He raised his voice, tears springing to her eyes at his reaction. The pair of them had always been as thick as thieves, never staying mad, and definitely never yelling at each other like this.

In an instant, Azriel was behind her, hands on her waist to inform her he was behind her. Her brother didn’t even glance at the male behind her before continuing,

“I can’t believe you slept with my brother like some common whore.” He spat out like a slap in the face, he knew what she had been through, what she had done for him while he was under the mountain. A cry fell out of her mouth, his words inflicting more pain than any physical blow could.

Before she could say anything the entire room went still, the bottom half of the room covered in angry shadows. Before she could blink her mate had her brother around the throat against the wall.

“Be very careful how you talk about my mate,” Azriel growled, she could feel his anger festering through the bond. She sent a comforting phantom hand over his shoulder.

“Your mate?!” Rhysand laughed, “That’s hilarious brother, no one could ever love a bastard like you. We all know it, just admit it Azriel, you aren’t capable of loving a female.”

And then it was Y/N who was on top of her brother, facing him with a slap that resonated throughout the entire room. Not a single soul spoke as the sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the room. Not even Feyre said anything as her sister-in-law hit her mate.

“Fuck you Rhysand.” She yelled. “Fuck you for reacting like this! You are nothing but a cowardly piece of shit. You blame everyone else for everything that is your fault. Did you ever stop and think as to why we didn’t tell you?!” She yelled, Rhysands mouth opened to respond but she continued, “No Rhysand, you don’t get to speak. Maybe if for once in your godsforsaken life actually looked at anyone other than your mate you see that the people around you are going through shit! You would see the face that Elain is on the verge of breaking, that Nesta was going through something none of us could possibly imagine, that Cassian was coping and that I, your fucking sister, was traumatized. I get it Rhysand, what you went through under the mountain, trust me I get it, but it does not give you the right to treat everyone else like shit because they don’t react the same way you do to trauma. You do not get to sit here and act like my brother trying to defend my honor when you haven’t actually acted like a decent brother for the past 3 years!” She screamed in his face.

She gave him one more resounding slap before standing up and finding Azriels hands.

“Do not come find us brother, for I do not want to see your pitiful face.”

Then, hand in hand with her mate, they left. They both flew, flew for hours till they were at the cabin Azriel had built for his mother before she passed. When they arrived and got out of the cold she sunk to her knees, tears finally flowing.

Az’s rough hands came to hold her face, “Shh my love, he is not worthy of your tears.” He murmured into her hair. Instead of trying to calm her again he just let her cry, not once letting her go, instead instructing his shadows to gather water and blankets.

So she fell asleep crying in his arms over the hurt her brother had caused. And when she woke she found Azriel’s dark hair. She stared at him as her fingers twirled in the onyx strands.

“You know what he said wasn’t true right, you know how to love and you are worthy of it Azriel. You and I are the proof, this right here,” she gestured in between the two, lightly pulling on the golden ribbon that flowed between them. “This is the proof. I love you beyond words Azriel. I know you feel the same shadow singer.” She told him. Observing as his hands tightened around her waist. They had both suffered far too much to let the words of her cruel brother diminish all the progress they had made.

It wasn’t easy at the beginning, getting Azriel to open up and come to accept himself. It took him years to realize he was worthy of her love. That he wasn’t a broken bastard.

“I love you beyond the sun and the stars, I would travel worlds for you Azriel. And if the stars would vanish then I would voyage through the darkness with nothing but my bare hands to find you.” She whispered, “I would rip the wings off my back if yours were ruined because I know how much you need to fly. I would kill gods and kings alike to ensure you are safe. For as long as I am alive you will no longer be alone ever again, you will always be loved. I will always love every part of you.” She brought his scarred hands to her lips and kissed the skin on them. When she released his hands her lips found his mouth.

“There are not enough words in this world for me to express my love for you Y/N Moonbeam, So instead let me show you.” He spoke against her lips before moving his kiss down her neck.

And show her he did.

~~

Taglist:

@littlelunatica @going-through-shit @annaaaaa88 @i-am-infinite @impossibelle

[ruhorih4ra]

Hello fellas 🧙🏻‍♂️ long time no see... Heheh

Get out of my way: the new exchange student!

She was doomed from the beginning. Since the first time her body appeared in that grim room, surrounded by demons. Demons! The one and only Lucifer, fallen angel and king of hell. Except he wasn’t the King of Hell and instead of being an horrendous monster he was a good looking jerk with an old-fashioned uniform. At the time he was kind and respectful, but she knew it, when she saw the demon’s eyes, those eyes that spoke for themselves, she was sure that Lucifer knew.

She is extremely capable to do her job, so she remained calm. When Asmodeus touched her body and exclaimed with a very sweet and fake voice that she was beautiful and how he couldn’t help but want to feel her skin, she knew he was merely doing a security check. That implied that Asmodeus aka The Avatar of Lust, also knew her secret.

Initially, Beelzebub was left in charge of her, The Avatar of Gluttony and King of flies looking after a human? She did her best to remain unfazed by his stature and stern features, but really appreciated when Mammon stepped in and demanded to be in charge. That was until he pinched her forearm so bad she felt a drop of blood slide down her arm, “Don’t try anything funny, human.” So, The Avatar of Greed knew too.

She did a quick report. Real demons, all have different eccentric traits, some have functional wings, others have tails, all of them are taller than the average human. They have unusual features and seem to speak English fluently. All of them knew her now not-so-secret secret.

She tried to look for the famous exchange student, the human who had been kidnapped. Sc only saw you for a split second before her vision was blocked by the prince of the Devildom. “Welcome to the Devildom, Sc.” He smiled and it was so honest and open that he could have fooled her. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

When Diavolo finally introduced you, she felt relieved. You seemed to be a nice, kind person. So she assumed her reports were correct and you had developed Stockholm syndrome after being captured for a whole year. “Nice to meet you, Mc.”

“Nice to meet you too, Sc. Don’t worry, you’ll have a good time here.” You replied, your eyes were kind and you seemed genuine. Sc felt sorry, she knew right there that you were the only one who wasn’t aware of her intentions.

However, that was the first and one of the few times she could actually talk with you. Sc knew they would try to avoid leaving the two alone, but they were more stubborn than she had thought, always putting you in opposite directions.

She had received a particularly harsh reprimand one day after “helping” you with council work. She wasn’t trying to be sly, but you offered her information for free so why not? Lucifer seemed furious, Sc didn’t know what made him angrier the fact that Mammon wasn’t there and thus you had been alone or the possibility of an information leak. Mammon arrived before she could say anything relevant, but Lucifer probably knew that already.

However, that day he offered a free waltz class. She accepted, what else could she have done? “I told you to stay away from them, human. I know who you are and your reasons to be here, don’t bring Mc into this.”

Sc didn’t lose her temper and kept smiling, dancing as well as an expert. “Why? Are you afraid of losing them?” She was so sure that Lucifer wouldn’t try anything while you were under the same roof that she let down her guard. “Is that a threat?” Lucifer asked, staying calm too, leading the dance with the same softness of his voice. “You brought them here without their consent, forcing them to coexist with you and your brothers.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow and Sc took it as an invitation to continue. “You put them in danger and manipulated them to love you. That’s not love, that’s codependency.” Lucifer’s grip tightened, squeezing the new exchange student’s hand more and more. “I see you have been thinking about it quite a lot, human. You can think whatever suits you best as long as you stay away from Mc.”

“That’s enough, Lucifer.” Sc felt his hand being slowly crushed under an unstoppable force. “If you try to hurt them I’ll break every single one of your bones with my own hands.” Lucifer smiled and tilted his head. “Almost as good as a cursed record, don’t you think?” Sc couldn’t reply, the pain of having her hand completely crushed was too much, her skin was pale, if she didn’t fall was because Lucifer’s hold on her waist. Before she fainted, Sc took Lucifer from the shirt collar. “They’ll realize what kind of monster you are and we’ll leave together.”

She couldn’t remember a thing after that, she woke up in her bed with her hand completely fine. However, after that the brothers reinforced their security, there wasn’t a moment in which one of them was not watching her and thus she couldn’t get close to you. Always playing with Leviathan, reading with Satan, sleeping with the twins, shopping with Asmo. It was torture.

“Mc love this game.” “This is Mc’s favorite book.” “Don’t touch Mc’s pillow.” “I remember that time with Mc when…”

Why? Sc wanted to pull out her hair in desperation. Since she arrived her mission had been impossible, she couldn’t get any information of the Three-Legged Crow Group and their recent growth in the human world, Sc knows that the prince is closely related but that’s all.

Oh, but in comparison, she knows lots of things about Mc’s whole routine, what they like and dislike. They were like puppies wagging their tails at the mention of your name, no, maybe it would be better to call them worshipers. They didn’t act like demons, not unless they thought she was up to something against their beloved human.

That’s when she decided to take action. Her contacts told her about a certain creep in a local market that was always ready to offer solutions. She asked Beel to take her there with the excuse of wanting to know more about the devildom’s cuisine and then… Beelzebub had been glued to her the entire time.

Sc hadn't completely overcome her fear of Beelzebub, but she had to admit that looking the gigantic demon cry over pudding had been a great help. Still, Beelzebub is a demon capable of swallowing her within seconds if he wanted and that’s something she couldn’t ignore. “No turning back now, not without Mc.”

“My lord, do you know that I am a spy who was sent to the Devildom to gather information about Lord Diavolo?” Sc spoke in her best professional voice. As expected, Beelzebub face remained neutral, nodding slightly. “Lord Diavolo tried to kill a human, they were at an amusement park.”

“That human shot Belphie, Lord Diavolo showed mercy, I would have shown him my fangs.” Beelzebub said with a mouth full of fries. “Following that logic, Lord Belphegor killed Mc, right? what should we humans do?”

Beelzebub stopped, he didn't look angry or threatening, he looked embarrassed. “Mc didn't die.”

“They died, in a sense. You know that, right? Why are they still here? Are you threatening them? Why?” Sc stood in front of Beelzebub, her heart violently shaking her whole body. “Mc is nice and understanding, they forgave us. I don't know why and no, we're not threatening them.” Beelzebub had stopped eating, he stood in the middle of the busy sidewalk, earning curious glances from passing demons.

“Are they nice and understanding or they have to be? How much of their love is just well-masked fear, my lord?” The woman knew that Beelzebub had been an angel, when he speaks about you she can even see some of that light in the demon's eyes.

Beelzebub wasn't a fan of overthinking, although he was an expert on the matter. The fact is that he didn't have time to do it while you were in his arms, feeding him his favorite desserts or sitting on his back sharing your day while he did push-ups. He had wondered those things too, but he had pushed them to the far corner of his mind. What if Sc was correct? What if they weren't protecting you?

Beel felt the sudden need to see your face and so he turned around. “We should go back to the house of lamentation.” he didn't wait for Sc, just walked along the crowd with stiff steps and a gloomy face. “Mc can leave if they want, they're strong and capable. They even confronted Lucifer more than once, protecting Luke and me and... don't tell Lucifer I told you this.” He stopped, not many demons were around anymore, the stalls and enthusiasm of the market had disappeared. “They don't need us as much as we need them. It must look twisted from the outside but I don’t want them to leave.” The red-haired demon stopped as a certain question forced its way through all of his troublesome thoughts. “How do you know what Belphie did?”

Beelzebub turned to see Sc, but he just found an empty street, that and the horrible silence that settles before the painful realization that he had been fooled.

Sc was taught to be discreet and silent, her steps didn't make a sound, losing Beelzebub had been easy once the demon's mind had wandered far from there. It was only when she was in front of the shady place that she started questioning her plan. It didn't even look like a shop and, if that wasn't enough, it was quite far from the local market too.

But she entered nonetheless, the classic sound of a small bell ringing was heard when she opened the door and peeked inside. Two white eyes that resembled a pair of marbles and were the only perceptible thing in the dark room met her eyes and left a sensation that ran down her spine and shook her nerves.

She thought of backing off, but she saw Beelzebub looking for her and quickly stepped inside.

“I need something to neutralize demons.” She walked towards the pair of eyes that laughed with a quiet delight. “Now.” She held the demon's gaze and cursed when someone knocked at the main door. The demon put a bird cage on the table. “10,000 Grimm.”

“What the fuck is this?! Those idiots are at least 6’0 tall, this crap is the size of a rat!” Sc hissed but the bell rang again and her muscles acted on its own, taking the cage and leaving the Grimm.

“What are you doing? What is that?” She had never seen the avatar of gluttony so angry and threatening. “I need it for my classes.” Sc said with the last shred of will she had left, feeling a pang of shame when she heard her own voice sound like a little girl on the verge of crying. Beelzebub inspected the cage first and then the seller, trying to choose the best way to proceed. “Fine, but you'll show it to Lucifer later.”

Beel dragged her carelessly through the Devildom's streets. She could hardly hold the cage and follow the demon's footsteps, before she could even think in the possibility, the cage slipped from her hand and rolled open on the floor. “Wait, lord Beelzebub!”

Beel stopped and picked up the cage in less than a second, handing it to Sc and resuming his previous race, but Sc’s movements were even more clumsy than before as she couldn't stop looking at a little black cloud swirling around Beelzebub's head.

“My lord, you have something on your head.” Sc murmured, stopping Beelzebub again from his hasty walk. The demon just looked around, the murderous scowl that had formed on his face gave way to one of curiosity. “I don't see anything.” He gave Sc a look that meant he wouldn’t stop again and promptly turned around and once again took her wrist to continue walking.

Lucifer found nothing out of the ordinary with the cage, he merely raised an eyebrow and sighed in annoyance, “I suggest something bigger.” He said as his only comment. Eventually she thought that everything had been a scam, surely the seller had seen a good opportunity to fool her and that was the end of her little feat.

That was until your blood stained the House of Lamentation and she saw for the first time since her arrival the fear painfully painted on the faces of all the brothers, from the youngest to the oldest. They had rushed to your room while she stood there, looking stupidly at the dried blood as a lump formed in her throat.

Perversely, and much to her shame, she realized that for the very first time since she set foot in hell she was alone. Nobody was watching her, she could wander around with no one to stop her.

Finally, she could do her job.

So she remained silent, even when she saw two little demons bothering you at the dining table. She kept quiet, even when a little demon (who didn't look so little anymore) threw a book at her head when she tried to catch him. She didn't say a word, not even when you fought with Lucifer and left everyone feeling miserable.

She could remember Satan's madness, the raw emotion, the demon had radiated, drowning Sc in a sea of anxiety and fear. But even then she remained calm, because surely you would forgive them, surely you would forgive her too, right?

She didn't mutter a single word because it was working. She had been forgotten even by the prince and his terrifying butler. She convinced herself that this was for the best and that you would thank her once you were both in the human world.

However, that changed one night, when Mammon arrived to the library and roughly tied up her wrists. “How did you know I was here?!” Sc struggled in an attempt to free herself from the rope. “I have eyes everywhere.” Mammon winked at her and forced her to walk ahead of him. “Where are we going? Where is Mc?”

Mammon stopped, but his hands stopped Sc from turning around. “Why are you askin’, human?” Sc felt the pointy nails of the greed demon caressing her neck. “They seem off, I’m worried. That’s all.” And wasn’t that true after all? You were different, ever since the fight you have been more rude and violent. Even she has retreated behind Lucifer’s back when you pass by.

“Someone attacked them.” The avatar of greed’s voice was cold and composed. “Those idiots dared to hurt them.” Sc felt Mammon´s nail pressing on her neck, exactly on the carotid arteries. “Do you know something about it, witch?”

“No, I don’t. Are they oka-!” The young woman couldn’t say anything else as the demon pushed her to the floor. “Ya wanna know somethin’ human? Truth is Mc’s not a bad liar, ya know? They had lied to me looking straight to my face without batting an eye.” Sc’s groaned when Mammon took her by the hair and forced her to stay still while he spoke just inches away from her face. “It’s unfair, you see, because we are demons, I can hear your heart screaming the truth, it’s so loud it hurts my fuckin’ ears.”

“Please, I ddon’t knnow anything.” Sc said in short breaths. “Are they okay?” Sc asked again. Mammon tightened his grip on the woman’s hair before releasing her. “Yes they are. I’ll take you to the attic and you’ll stay there until Satan beats the truth out of you.”

Luckily, she wasn’t held hostage for long and nobody ripped the truth out of her, no wonder why. They looked miserable, awful, lost. Sc had found what had happened, from the attack and the fact that the attackers remained unknown, to your decision to stay in purgatory hall.

Every time she saw you, you were surrounded by little demons. No, they weren’t little anymore, they were real copycats of the brothers. They were your guardian demons, spinning around your head like nasty flies. She knew it was her fault, after all, they had appeared after she bought that cage.

At one point she had decided that the mission wasn’t as important as you and that she should do something but then again, things were much better now that the brothers weren’t there all the time but bloody hell, things were worse now that you were alone with those pests.

She got out of her classes to take a break and that’s when she saw you sitting alone at an old and almost crumbling table. She counted them, there were 6 demons already, one more than the last time.

Sc looked at her hands, only one report left and you could leave the devildom. She only needed a little more time, then she could save you and show the world the truth. Almost unconsciously, her eyes landed on you again, sleeping peacefully in that lonely place.

Part 22?

She swallowed hard before going back to her business. Not even 5 seconds passed when she heard a loud sound coming from the place you were at before, she ran as fast as possible but when she arrived you had disappeared and the table you were in was now reduced to a pile of rocks.

I know I don't update this (or anything, actually :3) often, so feel free to tell me if you want to be removed from this humble taglist hahshaha.♡

Taglist: @yuumaofc @asmolover1234 @gallantys @prefesro @urminebutidontwantyou @fiveofspades @exrellian @kaiserkisser @cutestpatoootie @fandumshippr @frenchmess23yo @reject-queen @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf

[voch]

I absolutely adored @firecurls-27’s idea of What If Chalice Was Adopted By Other DLC Bosses? and I decided to do that with the cupbros!

More info about these designs:

King’s Leap Prince Cup and Prince Mug were taken in by the King and Queen of games and raised to be proper Gamemasters. However, Prince Cup found he liked participating in the games way more than controlling them, and rebelled, living a double life. Every night he sneaks out and lives with the Mice, enjoying their jovial parties. Little does he know they’re planning to overthrow and execute the Queen. Mugman knows of his brother’s secret, but won’t give him away. However, he is very suspicious of the Mice, and isn’t afraid to go to any lengths to protect his kingdom. Where will each brother find their loyalties lies, and will they figure it out before it’s too late?

Esther Winchester Two Shots and Ten Gallon are the West’s most fearsome nogoodniks. Two Shots is small, rough, and rowdy, and has a shorter fuse than Mama Esther’s dynamite, but he’s an eagle eye capable of shooting a gold coin from across the town. Ten Gallon runs his Mama’s spaghetti saloon, but don’t be fooled by his more passive demeanor: he’s a professional con artist with more than a few tricks up his sleeve. Ten Gallon constantly worries Two Shots is gonna end up being picked by vultures in a ditch with his attitude, but there’s no stopping the sharpest shooter in the Isles… right?

Moonshine Mob Big Cup and Mugsy Smiles are actually raised by different members of the Mob, so they’re more distant than other Cupheads and Mugmen. Big Cup was taken under the Snail’s proverbial wing and Mugsy Smiles was adopted by Charlie and Lightbug. Big Cup is pretty tough and never takes no guff from nobody, but he feels pretty lonely in the mob. He has respect, but no real friends. He stuck the antennae into his hat to feel a bit more part of the family (just don’t ask where he got the antennae from). Mugsy Smiles, meanwhile, is more of an entertainer. He can play many instruments, he can sing, and he can dance. He’s not afraid to get his dirty in the real whiskey business, though. Big Cup and Mugsy Smiles don’t really connect the dots that they’re brothers, but they both feel like something is missing from their past…

Glumstone Cuppy and Muggy are beloved by the gnomes. Cuppy has gotten a real knack for mining and loves the shiniest of ores and gems. He even uses gold to fix cracks in his skin. Muggy tends to growing the Gnomeberry gardens, making sure they’re as bright and juicy as possible. Being raised how they were, they picked up many more talents, including storytelling, making every sentence a rhyme, and of course, mountain climbing. In fact, Porkrind often recalls the tale of how they rescued his beloved wife from her demise in the snowy hills. And every summer, when the happy campers dare to venture through the mountains, they may get to sneak a peek of the two tallest gnomes in the Isle…

Mortimer Freeze Cold Cup and Snow Milk, aka the Ice Cream Brothers, are not to be trifled with. The most powerful magicians in the Isles, their combined magic is said to be strong enough to freeze over Hell itself. Cold Cup uses Ice Cream and similarly delicious frozen treats to lure in new members, while Snow Milk… deals with them. Details in their design I’m proud of? Cold Cup has a Pentacle in his hat while Snow Milk has a Sword necklace. Pentacles are the replacement for Diamonds in Tarot, and Swords are the replacement for Spades.

Howling Aces Cast and Mike (named after “C” and “M” in the RAF Radiophonic alphabet, respectively) were raised as Yankee Yippers to be the new Top Dogs of the Howling Aces. Cast, who takes more after Hugo Bulldog — and even has the same bones tattoo to prove it — is serious and well-trained soldier. Mike, who has a more natural love of aeroplanes and leadership, takes more after Sargent O’Fera. However, Mike has a long-standing rivalry with local boy genius Canteen Hughes, who seems to have a bone to pick with the Aces, for some reason. Guess he and Mugman can’t be best friends in every universe…