#and the doors were all carved with patterns

[concerningwolves]

Throwback to the time I stood inside a reconstruction of Cappelenstugu, a house where every single surface was painted with rosemaling, and nearly burst into tears because it's so fucking beautiful. The pictures I can find on the museum website don't quite do it justice, but it's just. staggering. artist Olav Hanssen did this around 1800, in an enclosed space without reliable strong artificial light, and covered every single surface in gorgeous, intricate artwork (featuring Adam and Eve hiding after eating the apple, among other things).

Looking at Scandinavian interior design and thinking about how much cooler the world would be if the nordic countries took the South American approach to decor

[swytdoll]

☁︎ sex with exconvict!toji is more enthralling than it should be!

cw: fem!reader, breeding, virgin!reader, toji’s mean:( unprotected sex, spanking, size difference, dacryphilia.

they say the devil is a diminutive red man with a pitchfork, but that's not true. he's the eloquent charmer, the smooth talker who knows precisely how to infiltrate your psyche. he's the man with the handsome visage, the man with the enigmatic steel eyes that you could never quite decipher. the man with the scar on his lip that narrated a tale he'd never disclose, the man with the name toji zenin.

the evening he’d staggered through the wooden door, with nothing but the tattered clothes on his back, you knew he was trouble. you’d been perched on the plush, toffee-colored sofa, legs folded delicately underneath your strawberry-patterned dress, which complemented your sun-kissed skin. the room was dimly lit by the flickering light of the fireplace, casting dancing shadows on the walls.

it startled you to see this burly man with a rugged appearance and piercing eyes bursting into your cozy home. toji zenin was a formidable presence, his tall frame cloaked in clothes that clung to his muscular build, hinting at the strength beneath. his hair was dark and unruly, framing a face that bore the weathered marks of a hard life. a scar ran across his lip, adding to the air of danger that surrounded him. his steel-gray eyes were cold and calculating, and when his gaze locked onto yours, it felt as though he could see right through you. the intensity of his stare sent a shiver down your spine, making your skin crawl with goosebumps.

you had prepared to scream, your heart pounding in your chest, until your father appeared behind him, his familiar, reassuring figure bringing a semblance of calm. “this is toji, darling… he’s going to be doing some work around the farm. just for a while.” your father's voice was steady, yet you couldn't shake off the unease that lingered in the air.

your father’s words hung in the air, but your eyes remained fixed on toji. you could see the weariness in his stance, the way his shoulders slumped slightly as if carrying an invisible weight. his hands were rough and calloused, evidence of a life filled with hard labor. the flickering firelight accentuated the sharp angles of his face, casting shadows that made his expression even more inscrutable.

toji took a step forward, his boots making a soft thud against the wooden floor. the sound seemed to echo in the silent room, amplifying the tension. his gaze never wavered from you, and you felt a strange mix of fear and curiosity. there was something about him that was undeniably magnetic, despite the unease he stirred within you.

as he moved closer, you noticed the faint scent of earth and sweat clinging to him, a testament to his journey. he finally broke his gaze, glancing around the room before looking back at your father. “thank you for taking me in,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly, yet carrying a hint of gratitude.

your father nodded, placing a reassuring hand on toji’s shoulder. “let’s get you settled in,” he said, guiding him towards the back of the house. you watched them disappear down the hallway, the sense of foreboding still lingering. you couldn’t help but wonder what kind of trouble toji zenin had brought with him, and how it would change the quiet life you’d known on the farm.

two weeks had passed since toji zenin stepped through that intricately carved door, and things on the farm had shifted in ways you never expected. he’d settled into the routine of hard work, but there was something about him that still set your nerves on edge. the way he moved with a confidence that bordered on arrogance, the way he spoke just enough to keep you guessing—it all felt like he was hiding something.

you’d caught him a few times, deep in conversation with shady-looking visitors who pulled up in sleek cars that didn’t quite match the rustic charm of the farm. their hushed tones and furtive glances made your heart race. it was hard not to suspect that toji was tangled up in something dangerous, maybe even the mafia. the thought sent chills down your spine, but you couldn’t deny the intrigue he held over you.

one afternoon, you found yourself lingering by the barn, pretending to organize tools as you watched him work. his muscles flexed under the sun, glistening with sweat, and for a moment, you forgot your suspicions. but then you noticed the way he’d occasionally look over his shoulder, as if expecting someone. it was a small detail, but it made your stomach twist.

“hey,” he called out, breaking your thoughts. “you need help with that?” his voice was smooth, but there was an edge to it that made you wary. you hesitated, weighing your options. could you really trust him? or was he just a charming facade hiding something darker?

you hesitated for a moment, then decided to play it cool. “sure, if you don’t mind,” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady. you handed him a rake, your fingers brushing against his. the contact sent a jolt through you, but you quickly pulled your hand back, hoping he didn’t notice.

toji took the rake and started working beside you, his movements fluid and efficient. he was shirtless, his toned muscles glistening under the sun. his light blue levi jeans hung low on his hips, and his black boots kicked up dust with every step. his hair was matted with sweat, and he occasionally wiped his hands on a damp cloth he kept tucked in his pocket. “you’ve been watching me,” he said casually, not looking up. it wasn’t a question, more like a statement of fact.

your heart skipped a beat. “just making sure you’re doing it right,” you said, trying to sound nonchalant. but the way his lips curved into a faint smirk told you he wasn’t buying it.

“is that so?” he murmured, his eyes finally meeting yours. there was a glint in them, something that made your pulse quicken. “or are you wondering why someone like me ended up on a farm like this?”

you swallowed hard, caught off guard by his directness. “maybe a little of both,” you admitted, deciding there was no point in lying. “you don’t exactly fit the typical farmhand profile.” toji chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that sent shivers down your spine. “life’s full of surprises,” he said cryptically. “sometimes, you end up in places you never expected.”

you wanted to press him for more, to dig into his past and uncover the truth. but before you could say anything, he straightened up, wiping sweat from his brow. “let’s finish up here,” he said, his tone signaling the end of the conversation. as you worked side by side, you couldn’t shake the feeling that toji zenin was a puzzle you were desperate to solve, even if it meant uncovering secrets that could change everything.

now toji would be lying if he said he hadn’t found interest in the farmer’s daughter. how could he not? pretty dresses, and an even prettier face. your eyes sparkled with curiosity and mischief, and every time you laughed, it was like a melody that stuck with him long after. despite his rough exterior and the secrets he carried, he couldn't help but be drawn to your warmth and genuine spirit.

he noticed the way you moved with grace, even when doing the simplest tasks around the farm. your hair, always perfectly styled, framed your face in a way that made you look like you belonged in a different world, far from the dirt and toil of the fields. you had a way of making everything seem brighter, and toji found himself looking forward to the moments when your paths would cross.

the kindness was another thing that caught him off guard. you treated everyone with a gentle touch and a kind word, even him, the stranger with a past he tried to hide. there was an innocence about you, but also a strength that he admired. it was a combination that made you irresistible, and toji knew he was in deeper than he wanted to admit.

you couldn’t exactly recall how’d you ended up squished between two stacks of hay as toji fucked you mercilessly. the thrusts he delivered nothing short of cruel, folding you further into the prickly stack as you whimper sweetly. he almost couldn’t believe it when you’d taken him all at once, his eyes fluttering shut as your pretty tight pussy clenched around him so delicately. “virgin huh? god, you’re so slutty. what would daddy think of you being stretched out like this, hmm?”

you can only whine at his words, voice long gone. “ah!” the feel of his large hands spreading you apart has you sobbing, “oh she’s wet. you’ve been thinking about this for a while huh? i bet you’ve touched yourself to the thought of me plenty of times. such a slut.” his words are mean, but the way he splits you is meaner. “mhmmm, oh my gosh!” stars kiss your eyelids as his throbbing tip presses repeatedly into that gummy spot inside of you.

it leaves you a moaning mess, the sounds of skin slapping filling the entire barn. the sound of it has your pussy fluttering and your head spinning.

your toes curl as he pounds into you relentlessly. you can barely form a thought, only able to focus on the feeling of him ruining you. your cunt squelches obscenely, juices dripping down your thigh. your breasts jiggle, the tips of them brushing the hay every so often.

and much as toji wants to be gentle with you, the way you cry for him, beg him to taint you has him gripping the fleshy meat of your hips. he doesn't care if you're bruised, he just needs to hear more. your voice is so delicate, yet so needy. the way your face scrunches up, your eyebrows knitting together in pleasure. it all goes straight to his cock. the way you're stretched around him is lewd, the way your tits jiggle is even more so.

"so pretty." his thumb rubs your clit gently, his voice a growl, "be good and cum for me baby. be a good girl and cum on this big dick, yeah?" you nod frantically, unable to speak as his thrusts become more and more punishing. his words a broken record in your head, good girl, good girl, good girl.

"gonna- gonna cum!" he grins, his hand rubbing your clit even faster. his own orgasm is fast approaching, the way you're squeezing his dick so tight.

"go ahead sweetheart, i'm close too, fuck." the hand rubbing your clit goes to your neck, gripping the tender flesh and forcing you to arch your back even more.

he's nearing the edge, the coil in his stomach becoming tighter and tighter. "cum with me. cum." it's the only warning you get before he's releasing, his thrusts still brutal as he empties himself inside of you. his thumb is still rubbing your clit, the overstimulation too much as you squirt around his pulsating cock. the sight of it has him grinning, and the fact that he’s the first one to make you squirt making him proud.

his thumb continues flicking your bud, slower this time, as he rides out his orgasm, the overstimulation too much as a small orgasm wracks through your body. then he’s spanking you. one hit. then two. then three. then five.

your ass stings, but you can only whine at his cruelty. he pulls out. it all happens so fast and he’s tucking himself back in and zipping his pants up. a grin is still on his face, a satisfied expression plastered across his features. "thanks for the fuck baby. see you around."

you watch his retreating figure, the door slamming shut behind him. you sigh, still facedown. the sound of his truck peeling off leaving a bad taste in your mouth. but the sticky cum that drips out of you as you struggle to clean yourself up has the butterflies in your stomach returning.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Interiors

As a followup to the very popular post on architecture, I decided to add onto it by exploring the interior of each movement and the different design techniques and tastes of each era. This post at be helpful for historical fiction, fantasy or just a long read when you're bored.

Interior Design Terms

Reeding and fluting: Fluting is a technique that consists a continuous pattern of concave grooves in a flat surface across a surface. Reeding is it's opposite.

Embossing: stamping, carving or moulding a symbol to make it stand out on a surface.

Paneling: Panels of carved wood or fabric a fixed to a wall in a continuous pattern.

Gilding: the use of gold to highlight features.

Glazed Tile: Ceramic or porcelain tiles coated with liquid coloured glass or enamel.

Column: A column is a pillar of stone or wood built to support a ceiling. We will see more of columns later on.

Bay Window: The Bay Window is a window projecting outward from a building.

Frescos: A design element of painting images upon wet plaster.

Mosaic: Mosaics are a design element that involves using pieces of coloured glass and fitted them together upon the floor or wall to form images.

Mouldings: ornate strips of carved wood along the top of a wall.

Wainscoting: paneling along the lower portion of a wall.

Chinoiserie: A European take on East Asian art. Usually seen in wallpaper.

Clerestory: A series of eye-level windows.

Sconces: A light fixture supported on a wall.

Niche: A sunken area within a wall.

Monochromatic: Focusing on a single colour within a scheme.

Ceiling rose: A moulding fashioned on the ceiling in the shape of a rose usually supporting a light fixture.

Baluster: the vertical bars of a railing.

Façade: front portion of a building

Lintel: Top of a door or window.

Portico: a covered structure over a door supported by columns

Eaves: the part of the roof overhanging from the building

Skirting: border around lower length of a wall

Ancient Greece

Houses were made of either sun-dried clay bricks or stone which were painted when they dried. Ground floors were decorated with coloured stones and tiles called Mosaics. Upper level floors were made from wood. Homes were furnished with tapestries and furniture, and in grand homes statues and grand altars would be found. Furniture was very skillfully crafted in Ancient Greece, much attention was paid to the carving and decoration of such things. Of course, Ancient Greece is ancient so I won't be going through all the movements but I will talk a little about columns.

Doric: Doric is the oldest of the orders and some argue it is the simplest. The columns of this style are set close together, without bases and carved with concave curves called flutes. The capitals (the top of the column) are plain often built with a curve at the base called an echinus and are topped by a square at the apex called an abacus. The entablature is marked by frieze of vertical channels/triglyphs. In between the channels would be detail of carved marble. The Parthenon in Athens is your best example of Doric architecture.

Ionic: The Ionic style was used for smaller buildings and the interiors. The columns had twin volutes, scroll-like designs on its capital. Between these scrolls, there was a carved curve known as an egg and in this style the entablature is much narrower and the frieze is thick with carvings. The example of Ionic Architecture is the Temple to Athena Nike at the Athens Acropolis.

Corinthian: The Corinthian style has some similarities with the Ionic order, the bases, entablature and columns almost the same but the capital is more ornate its base, column, and entablature, but its capital is far more ornate, commonly carved with depictions of acanthus leaves. The style was more slender than the others on this list, used less for bearing weight but more for decoration. Corinthian style can be found along the top levels of the Colosseum in Rome.

Tuscan: The Tuscan order shares much with the Doric order, but the columns are un-fluted and smooth. The entablature is far simpler, formed without triglyphs or guttae. The columns are capped with round capitals.

Composite: This style is mixed. It features the volutes of the Ionic order and the capitals of the Corinthian order. The volutes are larger in these columns and often more ornate. The column's capital is rather plain. for the capital, with no consistent differences to that above or below the capital.

Ancient Rome

Rome is well known for its outward architectural styles. However the Romans did know how to add that rizz to the interior. Ceilings were either vaulted or made from exploded beams that could be painted. The Romans were big into design. Moasics were a common interior sight, the use of little pieces of coloured glass or stone to create a larger image. Frescoes were used to add colour to the home, depicting mythical figures and beasts and also different textures such as stonework or brick. The Romans loved their furniture. Dining tables were low and the Romans ate on couches. Weaving was a popular pastime so there would be tapestries and wall hangings in the house. Rich households could even afford to import fine rugs from across the Empire. Glass was also a feature in Roman interior but windows were usually not paned as large panes were hard to make. Doors were usually treated with panels that were carved or in lain with bronze.

Ancient Egypt

Egypt was one of the first great civilisations, known for its immense and grand structures. Wealthy Egyptians had grand homes. The walls were painted or plastered usually with bright colours and hues. The Egyptians are cool because they mapped out their buildings in such a way to adhere to astrological movements meaning on special days if the calendar the temple or monuments were in the right place always. The columns of Egyptian where thicker, more bulbous and often had capitals shaped like bundles of papyrus reeds. Woven mats and tapestries were popular decor. Motifs from the river such as palms, papyrus and reeds were popular symbols used.

Ancient Africa

African Architecture is a very mixed bag and more structurally different and impressive than Hollywood would have you believe. Far beyond the common depictions of primitive buildings, the African nations were among the giants of their time in architecture, no style quite the same as the last but just as breathtaking.

Rwandan Architecture: The Rwandans commonly built of hardened clay with thatched roofs of dried grass or reeds. Mats of woven reeds carpeted the floors of royal abodes. These residences folded about a large public area known as a karubanda and were often so large that they became almost like a maze, connecting different chambers/huts of all kinds of uses be they residential or for other purposes.

Ashanti Architecture: The Ashanti style can be found in present day Ghana. The style incorporates walls of plaster formed of mud and designed with bright paint and buildings with a courtyard at the heart, not unlike another examples on this post. The Ashanti also formed their buildings of the favourite method of wattle and daub.

Nubian Architecture: Nubia, in modern day Ethiopia, was home to the Nubians who were one of the world's most impressive architects at the beginning of the architecture world and probably would be more talked about if it weren't for the Egyptians building monuments only up the road. The Nubians were famous for building the speos, tall tower-like spires carved of stone. The Nubians used a variety of materials and skills to build, for example wattle and daub and mudbrick. The Kingdom of Kush, the people who took over the Nubian Empire was a fan of Egyptian works even if they didn't like them very much. The Kushites began building pyramid-like structures such at the sight of Gebel Barkal

Japanese Interiors

Japenese interior design rests upon 7 principles. Kanso (簡素)- Simplicity, Fukinsei (不均整)- Asymmetry, Shizen (自然)- Natural, Shibumi (渋味) – Simple beauty, Yugen (幽玄)- subtle grace, Datsuzoku (脱俗) – freedom from habitual behaviour, Seijaku (静寂)- tranquillity.

Common features of Japanese Interior Design:

Shoji walls: these are the screens you think of when you think of the traditional Japanese homes. They are made of wooden frames, rice paper and used to partition

Tatami: Tatami mats are used within Japanese households to blanket the floors. They were made of rice straw and rush straw, laid down to cushion the floor.

Genkan: The Genkan was a sunken space between the front door and the rest of the house. This area is meant to separate the home from the outside and is where shoes are discarded before entering.

Japanese furniture: often lowest, close to the ground. These include tables and chairs but often tanked are replaced by zabuton, large cushions. Furniture is usually carved of wood in a minimalist design.

Nature: As both the Shinto and Buddhist beliefs are great influences upon architecture, there is a strong presence of nature with the architecture. Wood is used for this reason and natural light is prevalent with in the home. The orientation is meant to reflect the best view of the world.

Islamic World Interior

The Islamic world has one of the most beautiful and impressive interior design styles across the world. Colour and detail are absolute staples in the movement. Windows are usually not paned with glass but covered in ornate lattices known as jali. The jali give ventilation, light and privacy to the home. Islamic Interiors are ornate and colourful, using coloured ceramic tiles. The upper parts of walls and ceilings are usually flat decorated with arabesques (foliate ornamentation), while the lower wall areas were usually tiled. Features such as honeycombed ceilings, horseshoe arches, stalactite-fringed arches and stalactite vaults (Muqarnas) are prevalent among many famous Islamic buildings such as the Alhambra and the Blue Mosque.

Byzantine (330/395–1453 A. D)

The Byzantine Empire or Eastern Roman Empire was where eat met west, leading to a melting pot of different interior designs based on early Christian styles and Persian influences. Mosaics are probably what you think of when you think of the Byzantine Empire. Ivory was also a popular feature in the Interiors, with carved ivory or the use of it in inlay. The use of gold as a decorative feature usually by way of repoussé (decorating metals by hammering in the design from the backside of the metal). Fabrics from Persia, heavily embroidered and intricately woven along with silks from afar a field as China, would also be used to upholster furniture or be used as wall hangings. The Byzantines favoured natural light, usually from the use of copolas.

Indian Interiors

India is of course, the font of all intricate designs. India's history is sectioned into many eras but we will focus on a few to give you an idea of prevalent techniques and tastes.

The Gupta Empire (320 – 650 CE): The Gupta era was a time of stone carving. As impressive as the outside of these buildings are, the Interiors are just as amazing. Gupta era buildings featured many details such as ogee (circular or horseshoe arch), gavaksha/chandrashala (the motif centred these arches), ashlar masonry (built of squared stone blocks) with ceilings of plain, flat slabs of stone.

Delhi Sultanate (1206–1526): Another period of beautifully carved stone. The Delhi sultanate had influence from the Islamic world, with heavy uses of mosaics, brackets, intricate mouldings, columns and and hypostyle halls.

Mughal Empire (1526–1857): Stonework was also important on the Mughal Empire. Intricately carved stonework was seen in the pillars, low relief panels depicting nature images and jalis (marble screens). Stonework was also decorated in a stye known as pietra dura/parchin kari with inscriptions and geometric designs using colored stones to create images. Tilework was also popular during this period. Moasic tiles were cut and fitted together to create larger patters while cuerda seca tiles were coloured tiles outlined with black.

Chinese Interiors

Common features of Chinese Interiors

Use of Colours: Colour in Chinese Interior is usually vibrant and bold. Red and Black are are traditional colours, meant to bring luck, happiness, power, knowledge and stability to the household.

Latticework: Lattices are a staple in Chinese interiors most often seen on shutters, screens, doors of cabinets snf even traditional beds.

Lacquer: Multiple coats of lacquer are applied to furniture or cabinets (now walls) and then carved. The skill is called Diaoqi (雕漆).

Decorative Screens: Screens are used to partition off part of a room. They are usually of carved wood, pained with very intricate murals.

Shrines: Spaces were reserved on the home to honour ancestors, usually consisting of an altar where offerings could be made.

Of course, Chinese Interiors are not all the same through the different eras. While some details and techniques were interchangeable through different dynasties, usually a dynasty had a notable style or deviation. These aren't all the dynasties of course but a few interesting examples.

Song Dynasty (960–1279): The Song Dynasty is known for its stonework. Sculpture was an important part of Song Dynasty interior. It was in this period than brick and stone work became the most used material. The Song Dynasty was also known for its very intricate attention to detail, paintings, and used tiles.

Ming Dynasty(1368–1644): Ceilings were adorned with cloisons usually featuring yellow reed work. The floors would be of flagstones usually of deep tones, mostly black. The Ming Dynasty favoured richly coloured silk hangings, tapestries and furnishings. Furniture was usually carved of darker woods, arrayed in a certain way to bring peace to the dwelling.

Han Dynasty (206 BC-220 AD): Interior walls were plastered and painted to show important figures and scenes. Lacquer, though it was discovered earlier, came into greater prominence with better skill in this era.

Tang Dynasty (618–907) : The colour palette is restrained, reserved. But the Tang dynasty is not without it's beauty. Earthenware reached it's peak in this era, many homes would display fine examples as well. The Tang dynasty is famous for its upturned eaves, the ceilings supported by timber columns mounted with metal or stone bases. Glazed tiles were popular in this era, either a fixed to the roof or decorating a screen wall.

Romanesque (6th -11th century/12th)

Romanesque Architecture is a span between the end of Roman Empire to the Gothic style. Taking inspiration from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, the Romanesque period incorporates many of the styles. The most common details are carved floral and foliage symbols with the stonework of the Romanesque buildings. Cable mouldings or twisted rope-like carvings would have framed doorways. As per the name, Romansque Interiors relied heavily on its love and admiration for Rome. The Romanesque style uses geometric shapes as statements using curves, circles snf arches. The colours would be clean and warm, focusing on minimal ornamentation.

Gothic Architecture (12th Century - 16th Century)

The Gothic style is what you think of when you think of old European cathedrals and probably one of the beautiful of the styles on this list and one of most recognisable. The Gothic style is a dramatic, opposing sight and one of the easiest to describe. Decoration in this era became more ornate, stonework began to sport carving and modelling in a way it did not before. The ceilings moved away from barreled vaults to quadripartite and sexpartite vaulting. Columns slimmed as other supportive structures were invented. Intricate stained glass windows began their popularity here. In Gothic structures, everything is very symmetrical and even.

Mediaeval (500 AD to 1500)

Interiors of mediaeval homes are not quite as drab as Hollywood likes to make out. Building materials may be hidden by plaster in rich homes, sometimes even painted. Floors were either dirt strewn with rushes or flagstones in larger homes. Stonework was popular, especially around fireplaces. Grand homes would be decorated with intricate woodwork, carved heraldic beasts and wall hangings of fine fabrics.

Renaissance (late 1300s-1600s)

The Renaissance was a period of great artistry and splendor. The revival of old styles injected symmetry and colour into the homes. Frescoes were back. Painted mouldings adorned the ceilings and walls. Furniture became more ornate, fixed with luxurious upholstery and fine carvings. Caryatids (pillars in the shape of women), grotesques, Roman and Greek images were used to spruce up the place. Floors began to become more intricate, with coloured stone and marble. Modelled stucco, sgraffiti arabesques (made by cutting lines through a layer of plaster or stucco to reveal an underlayer), and fine wall painting were used in brilliant combinations in the early part of the 16th century.

Tudor Interior (1485-1603)

The Tudor period is a starkly unique style within England and very recognisable. Windows were fixed with lattice work, usually casement. Stained glass was also in in this period, usually depicting figures and heraldic beasts. Rooms would be panelled with wood or plastered. Walls would be adorned with tapestries or embroidered hangings. Windows and furniture would be furnished with fine fabrics such as brocade. Floors would typically be of wood, sometimes strewn with rush matting mixed with fresh herbs and flowers to freshen the room.

Baroque (1600 to 1750)

The Baroque period was a time for splendor and for splashing the cash. The interior of a baroque room was usually intricate, usually of a light palette, featuring a very high ceiling heavy with detail. Furniture would choke the room, ornately carved and stitched with very high quality fabrics. The rooms would be full of art not limited to just paintings but also sculptures of marble or bronze, large intricate mirrors, moldings along the walls which may be heavily gilded, chandeliers and detailed paneling.

Victorian (1837-1901)

We think of the interiors of Victorian homes as dowdy and dark but that isn't true. The Victorians favoured tapestries, intricate rugs, decorated wallpaper, exquisitely furniture, and surprisingly, bright colour. Dyes were more widely available to people of all stations and the Victorians did not want for colour. Patterns and details were usually nature inspired, usually floral or vines. Walls could also be painted to mimic a building material such as wood or marble and most likely painted in rich tones. The Victorians were suckers for furniture, preferring them grandly carved with fine fabric usually embroidered or buttoned. And they did not believe in minimalism. If you could fit another piece of furniture in a room, it was going in there. Floors were almost eclusively wood laid with the previously mentioned rugs. But the Victorians did enjoy tiled floors but restricted them to entrances. The Victorians were quite in touch with their green thumbs so expect a lot of flowers and greenery inside. with various elaborately decorated patterned rugs. And remember, the Victorians loved to display as much wealth as they could. Every shelf, cabinet, case and ledge would be chocked full of ornaments and antiques.

Edwardian/The Gilded Age/Belle Epoque (1880s-1914)

This period (I've lumped them together for simplicity) began to move away from the deep tones and ornate patterns of the Victorian period. Colour became more neutral. Nature still had a place in design. Stained glass began to become popular, especially on lampshades and light fixtures. Embossing started to gain popularity and tile work began to expand from the entrance halls to other parts of the house. Furniture began to move away from dark wood, some families favouring breathable woods like wicker. The rooms would be less cluttered.

Art Deco (1920s-1930s)

The 1920s was a time of buzz and change. Gone were the refined tastes of the pre-war era and now the wow factor was in. Walls were smoother, buildings were sharper and more jagged, doorways and windows were decorated with reeding and fluting. Pastels were in, as was the heavy use of black and white, along with gold. Mirrors and glass were in, injecting light into rooms. Gold, silver, steel and chrome were used in furnishings and decor. Geometric shapes were a favourite design choice. Again, high quality and bold fabrics were used such as animal skins or colourful velvet. It was all a rejection of the Art Noveau movement, away from nature focusing on the man made.

Modernism (1930 - 1965)

Modernism came after the Art Deco movement. Fuss and feathers were out the door and now, practicality was in. Materials used are shown as they are, wood is not painted, metal is not coated. Bright colours were acceptable but neutral palettes were favoured. Interiors were open and favoured large windows. Furniture was practical, for use rather than the ornamentation, featuring plain details of any and geometric shapes. Away from Art Deco, everything is straight, linear and streamlined.

[halfmoonaria]

unanswered

pairing: tara carpenter and reader

summary: you break the cycle of being the second choice.

wordcount: 3.1k

tara <3 (10:27pm)

i miss you.

can you come over?

sam's not home.

You stared at the messages for a moment, a mix of emotions churning in your chest.

It wasn't the first time Tara had texted you like this—far from it.

Every couple of weeks, when the night stretched out too long and too quiet, she reached out to you. It had become a pattern, one you were all too familiar with.

You knew why she was texting.

It wasn't because she was lonely, at least not in the way you wished she was.

Tara was thinking about Amber.

Amber, who had her wrapped around her finger. You knew how Tara saw her, like she was something special, someone Tara wanted more than anything.

But Amber. Amber only wanted Tara when it suited her, when she needed someone to make her feel powerful, desired.

When Amber wasn't around, Tara turned to you. You were the one who picked up the pieces, who made her feel wanted when Amber didn't care to.

You knew it wasn't about love, not for Tara—not like you wanted it to be. It was about comfort, about filling the void Amber left behind when she was off doing her own thing.

But every time Tara texted, asking you to come over, you went.

You told yourself you'd resist, that this time you wouldn't give in, but the moment you saw her name on your screen, all your resolve crumbled.

Because for those few hours, you got to be the one she wanted, the one she needed, even if it was just physical. Even if it wasn't enough.

You typed out a quick reply, agreeing to come over, even though you knew how it would end. You would be there for her that night, but tomorrow or the next day, Amber would come back, and you would be forgotten, left waiting for the next time Tara needed you.

As you headed to her place, you thought about how it would go.

She would open the door, looking relieved, like she had been waiting for you. You would follow her inside, and before long, she'd be pulling you close, her hands desperate, her lips searching.

And you'd give in, just like you always did, because in those moments, it almost felt like she wanted you, like she needed you.

But in the back of your mind, you knew the truth. You weren't her first choice—Amber was.

You were the one she turned to when Amber wasn't there, when she needed someone, anyone, to fill the space Amber left behind.

And when Amber did want Tara, everything changed.

The texts stopped coming. You sent her messages, trying to check in, to see how she was doing, but they went unanswered.

It was like you didn't exist. Tara disappeared into Amber's world, wrapped up in her like nothing else mattered.

And when you finally did hear from her, it was a curt response, a text saying she wasn't ready for a relationship, that inviting you over had been a mistake. The words stung, even though you had heard them before.

Then the next day, you saw them at school, Tara and Amber, tangled together like they were the only people in the world.

Amber's arm was slung around Tara's shoulders, and Tara was laughing, looking at Amber like she was the only one that mattered.

You watched from a distance, that familiar ache gnawing at your insides, knowing that you were just caught in a loop—a constant cycle that never seemed to end.

You told yourself you'd stop. That the next time Tara reached out, you wouldn't go. But you knew the truth. You'd go, every time, because for those few hours, she was yours, even if it was all a lie.

And maybe, just maybe, you'd let yourself believe that this time, things would be different.

————

It wasn't different.

After leaving Tara's place, you had gone home late at night, slipping out quietly once she had fallen asleep.

The routine was almost ritualistic, carved into your brain. Waiting until the room was silent, then making your way back into the solitude of your own space.

Sleep had been elusive, haunted by the warmth of her presence and the cold reality of your situation.

The night before had been a predictable spiral of emotions. Amber had been ignoring Tara's messages for three long days. Tara had tried repeatedly to reach out, her texts becoming increasingly desperate and tinged with frustration.

Amber's silence had left her feeling raw and abandoned. The usual pattern of their volatile relationship had taken its toll on Tara.

When Tara reached out to you, she had come to you with that familiar blend of vulnerability and need.

It had begun with her confiding in you about Amber's absence, her frustration palpable.

She had spoken of feeling neglected and unwanted, her words mingling with tears as she expressed how Amber's disregard had left her feeling empty.

As the evening wore on, her need for reassurance had grown more intense.

Tara had sought out your touch as if trying to fill the void left by Amber's absence. Her need for physical closeness was almost desperate, driven by the emotional turmoil she was experiencing.

But even as you gave her what she asked for, you knew it was a temporary fix. You were there to soothe the pain and fulfill her need for affection, but you weren't the one she truly wanted.

The next morning, you found yourself at school, moving through the halls with heavy steps, lack of sleep and with that same old sense of anticipation mixed with dread.

You kept checking your phone, hoping for a message from Tara—a simple acknowledgment of what you shared the night before, anything to suggest that she felt something more.

But the screen remained dark, and with each passing hour, the silence grew louder, echoing the realization that you were still just a momentary distraction in her life.

During a break between classes, you walked through the corridor, your mind preoccupied.

That's when you saw them.

Tara and Amber.

They stood by the lockers. Tara was laughing, her face lit with a joy you hadn't seen since the last time Amber had returned.

And then there was Amber, her arm casually slung around Tara, claiming her with the ease of someone who knew they were wanted.

As you walked past, Tara's eyes caught yours for the briefest of moments.

There was something in her expression—an almost imperceptible flicker of guilt or perhaps regret—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

She looked away, her attention snapping back to Amber, who seemed completely unaware of the tension that had passed between you.

It stung. The way she could so easily disconnect from what had happened between you, the way she could just switch off her emotions and return to Amber as if nothing had changed.

You tried to push the feeling aside, to focus on your classes, but it lingered, a bitter reminder that, no matter how much you wanted things to be different, they never would be.

As the day wore on, you sent another text to Tara, hoping for some form of acknowledgment or a sign that things might be different.

When school ended and you headed home, the ache of being a second choice weighed on you.

The cycle was all too familiar: Tara's need for you when Amber wasn't available, and the emptiness that followed when Amber reappeared.

Each time you allowed yourself to hope for something more, you were met with the same cycle of anticipation and disappointment.

In the quiet of your room, you found yourself once again waiting for the next time Tara might reach out, even though you knew how it would end.

The hope that things might change felt increasingly fragile.

As night fell, the familiar loneliness crept in, settling in the pit of your stomach. You couldn't shake the memory of her touch, the way she had clung to you just hours before.

The emptiness of your room felt suffocating, amplifying the silence that had stretched on throughout the day.

You reached for your phone, staring at the screen, battling with yourself.

You knew you shouldn't reach out, knew it would only lead to more heartache. But the need for some kind of connection, any connection, gnawed at you. The words you wanted to say swirled in your mind—questions, reassurances, anything to pull her back toward you, even for just a moment.

Finally, you gave in, typing out something that almost seemed too desperate, even for you.

i don't want to bother you, but i just dont get why u can't answer.

Your thumb hovered over the send button, hesitating for a moment, knowing that sending it might only lead to more disappointment.

But the need for her to acknowledge you, even in the smallest way, was too strong to resist. You hit send, the message slipping into the void, joining the countless others that had been left unaddressed.

You scrolled to the last message you'd sent earlier.

i miss you. can we talk?

It still sat there, unanswered, just like so many others.

Then, the waiting began—each passing minute feeling like an eternity as you stared at your phone, hoping for the familiar buzz that would signal a reply.

The hope that she might respond, that things might be different this time, felt fragile, like it could shatter at any moment. But still, you clung to it, knowing that even the smallest sign from her would be enough to keep you holding on.

A few hours later, just as you were beginning to lose hope, your phone buzzed in your hand.

Your heart leapt, but the anticipation quickly turned to dread as you read Tara's reply.

tara <3 (11:49pm)

can you stop? i don't want to do this anymore. i don't want anything to do with you.

You stared at Tara's message, trying to process the harshness of her words.

They were unlike anything she had sent before—usually, it was as simple as her saying she wasnt ready for a relationship, or an apologetic excuse.

But tonight, her response was stark and final, a sharp difference to the usual uncertainty.

The weight of her words settled heavily, and the familiar ache of being a backup choice intensified.

You had been through this cycle countless times: waiting for her, hoping for something more, only to be pushed aside when Amber reappeared.

But this time, something felt different—more definitive, more cutting.

The message wasn't just a dismissal; it felt like a cold rejection, an end to the hope you'd been clinging to.

It stung, more than you wanted to admit, especially because it was a departure from her usual way of handling things.

This wasn't about being unsure or wanting space—it was a clear, unambiguous statement that she didn't want you in her life, at least not right now.

You were tired of the endless cycle, the emotional rollercoaster that left you waiting for her next move, only to be met with the same predictable outcome.

The frustration and hurt mingled with a reluctant clarity. It was time to accept that this wasn't going to change, that hoping for more only led to deeper disappointment.

As you set your phone down, the finality of her words clung to you.

It was a painful realization, but perhaps it was a necessary one.

The time had come to stop being her second choice, to stop waiting for a sign that things might be different.

The message was a harsh reminder that you deserved more than the fragments of attention she had been offering.

____

The following days passed quietly.

Tara didn't reach out—not a single message, not even a glance in the hallways at school.

The silence was new, unsettling in its finality, but surprisingly, you found yourself adjusting quicker than you expected.

Maybe it was because you had set your mind to it, determined to break the cycle that had kept you stuck for so long.

You stayed busy, filling the spaces where your thoughts might have wandered back to her.

It wasn't easy, but it felt different this time—like there was a real shift in the way you handled it. Each day that passed without hearing from her was a small victory, proof that you could move forward, even if it still hurt.

But what struck you the most was the time. It had never passed this long without Tara reaching out to you.

In the past, the silence might last a day or two at most, and then you'd see her name on your phone, pulling you back into the familiar rhythm. But now, the days stretched on, and with each one, the possibility of her return seemed to slip further away.

You couldn't help but wonder if Amber had finally come around, realized her own behavior, and decided to commit to Tara in the way she had always craved.

Maybe that's why Tara hadn't reached out—because this time, Amber wasn't pushing her away. Maybe this time, Amber was staying.

You thought this was the end.

Maybe in a way, you even wanted it to be over.

The endless cycle of being Tara's second choice had drained you, and a clean break, painful as it was, seemed like the only way to move forward. If Amber had finally come through for Tara, then maybe you could let go for good.

Unfortunately, that wasn't the case.

It was late on a Saturday night when your phone buzzed again. At first, you didn't even check it—assuming it was just a notification, something unimportant. But then, another buzz, and the vibration against your nightstand was impossible to ignore.

You glanced over, already knowing who it was before you even saw the name.

Tara.

The message sat there, glowing up from the screen in the dark of your room, cutting through the false sense of peace you'd managed to create. For a moment, you didn't want to open it. You didn't want to see what she had to say, because you knew where it would lead. It was never simple with Tara—it was always a pull, always a need that brought you back, even when you knew better.

But your fingers moved anyway, unlocking the phone and opening the message.

tara (2:03am)

are u awake?

Three simple words, but they were enough to unravel everything.

Enough to remind you that maybe you weren't as far gone from her grasp as you had hoped.

You didn't need to ask. You could already guess the situation.

Amber was probably at some party again, the kind where Tara was never invited, where Amber went alone and never bothered to check if Tara wanted to come along.

You could picture it perfectly—Amber's social media lighting up with photos and stories, flashing images of her having the time of her life, surrounded by people, as if Tara didn't exist.

Tara had always hated that. You knew the jealousy had probably started to build, slowly at first, until it reached a point where Tara couldn't take it anymore, and now she was turning to you.

Again.

It was always the same. Amber made her feel small, invisible, and then Tara reached out to you, seeking comfort and reassurance.

And you'd always been there—like a lifeline she could tug on when the weight of Amber's indifference got too heavy. But this time, something in you snapped. You were tired. Tired of being the backup plan, tired of picking up the pieces whenever Amber shattered her.

You didn't want to do it anymore.

Not this time.

The routine had become suffocating, a weight pressing down on your chest, and every time you gave in, it only added to the ache.

You could feel the familiar pull of her message, but instead of giving in, there was a resistance in you, stronger than before.

This wasn't your mess to clean up anymore. You were tired of being the person Tara came to when things didn't go her way with Amber. Tired of being her second choice, the one she used when her first option failed her.

Your heart sank as you stared at her message, knowing what she wanted, what she was asking for without even having to say it. And for the first time, you realized that you didn't have the energy to give her what she wanted. You didn't have it in you to be that person for her anymore.

You didn't answer.

For the first time, you just let the message sit there, ignored. You couldn't bring yourself to respond. Not this time.

Your phone buzzed again, and then again, as Tara's messages came through in rapid succession, each one more desperate than the last.

i'm sorry.

i didn't mean what i said.

please, i'm so sorry.

i do want you. i swear, i do.

The notifications kept lighting up your screen, each one tugging at that old part of you, the part that always responded, always showed up when she needed you.

But you didn't open them. Not tonight. You stared at her words, feeling a familiar ache in your chest, but this time it was mixed with something else—resolve. You knew what this was. You knew it was the same cycle playing out all over again, and you were tired of it.

She kept sending more messages, fragments of apologies, excuses, trying to pull you back in.

please talk to me.

i miss u.

please don't ignore me

i need you.

But you couldn't do it. Not anymore. You let the phone buzz, let her words pile up without an answer, because this time, you weren't going to be the one who gave in.

The ache in your chest tightened, but this time it wasn't enough. You weren't going to be pulled back into the same pattern. Not again.

You felt your thumb hover over the screen, hesitating for only a moment before tapping to block her number. It wasn't easy, but it felt like the only thing left to do.

The silence that followed was deafening, the buzzing of your phone replaced with an emptiness that was almost worse. Almost.

But there was also a strange sense of relief. It wasn't the closure you wanted, but it was the closure you needed. For the first time, you chose yourself. You chose to let go.

And as the night stretched on, you found a quiet peace in the stillness, knowing that this time;

you wouldn't be waiting for her anymore.

[mahalachives]

Part 5: The Sound of Her Silence

TW: This chapter contains intense emotional distress, depictions of self-harm, mental health deterioration, themes of suicidal ideation, fever-induced hallucinations, and emotional abuse. Reader discretion is advised.

Please take care of yourself and skip or pause if needed. 💛

Pairing: Azriel x F!Reader

Genre: angst, romcom, humor, fish out of water reader, canon (ish)

Summary: Murdered after a late-night study session in the modern world, you awaken in Prythian—still yourself, but with Fae features and the infamous title of Beron’s cold-hearted and ruthless daughter.

Then, fate snaps the mating bond into place between you and the shadowsinger, Azriel—who rejects it so fiercely, even the magic recoils.

You died a healer. You woke up a villain. Now fate’s mated you to who wants nothing to do with either—you’ll prove them all wrong, one heartbeat at a time.

Between Two Fires - Masterlist

The Great Hall fell into uneasy silence after the Night Court's entrance, their arrival a deliberate provocation.

Even Beron hesitated, his ever-burning flames receding as if inhaling before a storm.

The flames illuminated the High Lord's face, calculating, dangerous, a predator considering his options.

Rhysand stepped forward, power coiled tight beneath his skin, a leashed tempest. "Lord Beron," he said with cool precision, "we come regarding matters of mutual interest between our courts."

Beron's voice, low and sharp, sliced through the tension. "You enter my court uninvited. That alone is a breach of protocol. Give me one reason not to treat it as an act of war."

"Because war would serve neither of us," Rhysand answered smoothly. "Not over what is, by all appearances, a personal complication."

Your eyes were drawn unbidden to Azriel.

He stood apart from Rhysand and Cassian, his body angled as if bracing for a fight. His face was impassive, carved from stone, shadows held tight around him like armor.

Yet they strained against his control, reaching toward you in aborted, desperate movements before he willed them still.

Where one tendril briefly brushed the flagstone, a frost pattern etched itself into the ground and faded, leaving behind a scent like winter pine.

The mating bond flared in your chest, a barbed hook that twisted with every heartbeat, golden warmth laced with unbearable pressure.

Your lungs constricted. Your fingers trembled.

Every instinct screamed to move toward him, to close the unbearable distance.

Beron's gaze flicked from you to Azriel, sharp with calculation. "Your shadowsinger shows an unusual concern for my daughter." His fingers tapped once against his throne, embers spiraling upward. "Is this intrusion about the mating bond that threatens both our courts' standing with the others?"

Eris stepped forward, his copper hair gleaming in the firelight. "Perhaps we should hear what the Night Court has to say." His voice was silk over steel, practiced and smooth. "After all, we wouldn't want to appear inhospitable."

Beron shot his eldest son a withering glance. "Your hospitality has already cost us enough, Eris."

"Among other things," Rhysand replied to Beron's earlier question. "Though this may not be the appropriate setting to discuss such matters."

The doors to the Great Hall swung open, and Lady of the Autumn Court entered.

Your mother moved with quiet grace, her russet gown flowing like autumn leaves around her slender frame. She paused at the threshold, taking in the scene with eyes that betrayed nothing of her thoughts.

"You weren't summoned," Beron said coldly, not bothering to turn fully toward his wife.

She inclined her head slightly. "I heard we had guests." Her voice was soft but steady. "It would be remiss of me not to welcome them properly."

Beron's flames flared, casting harsh shadows across his face.

"Always interfering where you're not wanted. Like mother, like daughter." His gaze cut to you, contempt evident. "Both of you, useless except for the trouble you cause."

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides, rage building in your chest alongside the pull of the bond. The insult spoken so casually, so cruelly, made something crack inside you.

Eris's face remained composed, but his eyes hardened to amber chips. "The Night Court representatives are waiting." His voice was still controlled, but carried an edge sharp enough to cut. "Perhaps we should continue this discussion elsewhere."

Your mother's face remained impassive, a mask perfected over centuries of such treatment. Only the slight whitening of her knuckles betrayed her reaction.

Beron's nostrils flared. The flames around him crackled and dimmed, reflecting the push and pull of his control.

Heat pulsed in waves through the hall, making the air shimmer. At last, he waved a hand. "The western salon. I will join you shortly."

As the Night Court turned to leave, Beron snapped his gaze back to you. "You. Walk with me."

You stood, legs stiff beneath the weight of your father's fury, and fell into step beside him.

"I'll accompany them," your mother said quietly, moving toward the Night Court.

Beron grabbed her wrist, flames licking at his fingers, dangerously close to her skin. "You will return to your chambers and stay there until I send for you."

"Let her go." The words escaped your lips before you could stop them, quiet but firm.

Eris shifted slightly, positioning himself between your father and mother. "The Night Court is watching," he murmured, his voice for Beron's ears alone. "Consider the impression we make."

Beron released her wrist with a shove. "Get out of my sight."

Your mother's eyes met yours briefly, a warning, a plea for caution before she bowed her head and withdrew, dignity intact despite the humiliation.

Eris lingered a moment, his eyes meeting Azriel's with cold assessment. "Watch yourself, shadowsinger," he murmured, too low for the others to hear. "Beron's patience has limits, and so does mine."

He followed after Beron, silent as a blade at your back.

"Control yourself," Beron hissed at you as you walked. "Your mother's weakness is bad enough without you adding to our shame."

Rage simmered beneath your skin, hot as Autumn fire. "She is not weak. She never has been."

Beron's laugh was cruel. "Defending her now? Where was that courage when she needed it?"

The word struck like a physical blow, dragging memories forward, sterile white rooms with strange instruments, laughter that didn't belong in this realm, voices discussing you as if you weren't present.

A life before Prythian, before the Autumn Court. Before you were—whatever you are now.

The western salon was warmer, quieter. Sunlight poured through amber-stained windows, gilding the dust in the air. Rhysand and Cassian stood near the hearth, speaking in low tones. Azriel remained by the door, positioned like a sentry, his back straight, expression unreadable.

When your eyes met his, the bond shuddered.

Golden light rippled beneath your skin and his, cold fire racing along your veins.

Azriel didn't move. Didn't flinch.

His shadows curled in tight coils around him, containing the flare before it could escape, but not before one shadow darted toward you, caressing your cheek with a touch like frost-covered silk.

Your heart stumbled in your chest. Blood rushed in your ears.

Beron took his seat and gestured curtly to the chair beside him. "Speak, Rhysand. Then leave."

Rhysand sat, every inch the High Lord, his posture relaxed and voice level. "Recent events call into question the stability of our courts' relationship. An unexpected mating bond. An attempted crossing into another court's lands. An unauthorized rescue."

"My daughter's choices are her own," Beron said coldly.

"They become our concern when they involve one of mine," Rhysand answered, unblinking. "And when they nearly end in bloodshed."

You stared down at your hands. The bond tugged with every beat of your heart, flaring whenever Azriel so much as shifted his stance. His silence was deafening, a void that demanded to be filled.

Beron leaned back, his expression glacial. "The bond was rejected. That is the end of it."

"It is not so easily discarded," Rhysand said. "You know that. A rejected bond leaves... consequences. Dangerous ones."

Beron sneered. "Do not lecture me about consequences, boy. If your shadowsinger cannot stomach the match, that is no longer my concern."

"Then consider this a precaution," Rhysand replied, steel beneath the silk. "Allow my spymaster ten minutes alone with her. To ensure there are no... lingering complications that might destabilize Autumn's borders or create vulnerabilities Night's enemies could exploit."

A long silence followed.

Beron's fingers twitched, flames licking at his knuckles, crawling up his wrists like living things.

At last, he gestured dismissively. "Ten minutes. Then she returns to her chambers, under guard."

Rhysand rose. "Cassian, Eris, shall we?"

Eris unfolded himself from his chair with feline grace. "Of course." His gaze swept over you, lingering on the faint glow of the bond beneath your skin.

They filed out, one by one. When the door shut behind them, silence settled like ash. The only sound was the crackle of the hearth and your treacherous, thundering heart.

Azriel did not move.

You waited, the pressure in your chest mounting until each breath felt like drawing in shards of glass. He watched you like a stranger, shadows still circling his boots, though they shivered with what looked like restraint.

"You shouldn't have come," he said at last. His voice was low. Controlled. Ice, not fire. Each syllable precisely measured. "Not to the war camp."

Your mouth dried. "I didn't mean-"

"I know what you meant," he interrupted, sharp enough to cut to bone. "But intent doesn't undo consequences."

You stood, unable to remain still under the weight of his voice, every muscle drawn taut. "The bond-"

"Is inconvenient," he said flatly.

His shadows flinched at the words, contradicting his tone.

One of them drifted toward you before curling back like a burned leaf, leaving a trail of frost that melted instantly in the Autumn Court's heat.

You swallowed. "I thought if I said goodbye, it would ease the pain."

His expression didn't change, but his jaw tightened fractionally, tendons straining beneath scarred skin.

"And the lake? Was that meant to ease something too?"

You couldn't answer. Not truthfully. Your fingernails bit into your palms.

"I wanted it to end," you whispered. "I thought death might sever the bond."

His shadows stilled. The silence that followed was so complete it rang in your ears. The temperature in the room plummeted, your breath clouding before your face.

He stepped forward once, slow and deliberate.

Not close. Never close.

"I've seen bonds form between killers. Between traitors. Between those who should be enemies." His voice dropped lower. "They don't care about virtue or wisdom. Only connection. And sometimes, connection is a curse that will tear down everything we've built."

You stared at him, heart splintering. "Is that what I am to you? A curse?"

He didn't answer right away.

When he did, his voice was quiet, almost gentle, and that gentleness cut deeper than any blade. "You're not the same female I knew."

A breath. A pause. His shadows twisted around him, agitated.

"But you have caused too much pain." I can't trust myself around you hung unspoken between you.

The bond pulsed again, a flare of pain so acute it forced a gasp from your lips.

You staggered slightly.

Azriel didn't move to catch you, but his shadows lurched forward before he brutally reined them back.

You steadied yourself against a table, knuckles white. "If I could change it-"

"You can't," he said, more sharply than before. "And neither can I. Not without destroying what keeps both our courts safe."

His gaze locked with yours, centuries of survival and sacrifice written in the tight lines around his mouth. "The Night Court has enemies who would use any vulnerability. The Autumn Court the same. This bond is a weakness neither of us can afford."

He looked at you as if weighing something, then added, "I don't hate you. But I don't believe this bond is something either of us should accept. Not at the cost it would demand."

Another breath passed, then two. He reached for the door, shadows reluctantly trailing after him.

"I came to say goodbye," he said without turning around. "And to make it clear. I reject you. I dont want anything to do with you."

His shadows curled toward you one final time, a defiance of his words—their touch colder than winter, gentler than a lover's caress as they traced the contours of your face. Then they vanished, ripped back to their master.

"Goodbye," he said.

You couldn't speak.

Not as he opened the door and left without a backward glance. Not as the door clicked shut behind him, sealing you in the quiet.

You rose from your chair, legs unsteady, hand pressed to your chest where the bond burned like a brand. It pulsed once more, then dulled to a low throb.

Still there. Still aching.

But colder now. Just like him.

You moved toward the door, vision blurring.

You needed to be away from here, away from the lingering scent of pine and winter that his shadows had left behind. Each step felt heavier than the last as you pushed through the doors and into the hallway, not caring who might see the tears that now threatened to spill.

The corridors stretched before you, all amber and ruby and burnished gold.

Suffocating.

You quickened your pace, heading for your chambers, the only place where you might find a moment's peace.

A figure stepped from an alcove, blocking your path. Your mother—no, not your mother. The Lady of Autumn Court.

She stood before you, her eyes taking in your trembling hands, the faint golden glow still visible beneath your skin, the tears you could no longer hold back. Something in her expression softened, a recognition of pain she understood all too well.

You tried to step around her, to maintain the distance that had always existed between you, heightened by the knowledge that you were not truly her daughter. That you came from another world entirely, a world of skyscrapers and smartphones, not magic and immortal fae.

But she simply opened her arms.

The gesture broke something loose inside you.

Memories flashed through your mind, another mother in another life, hugs after scraped knees, whispered comfort during thunderstorms.

A life stolen from you.

You stepped into her embrace, burying your face against her shoulder. Her arms closed around you, unexpectedly strong, smelling of cinnamon and woodsmoke. The dam within you burst completely.

Silent tears soaked into the silk of her dress as she held you tighter, one hand cradling the back of your head like you were a child. Your shoulders shook with the force of your grief—grief for the bond, for the cold goodbye, for the life you once knew, for the truth you couldn't speak.

She made no move to pull away, asked no questions you couldn't answer. Her heartbeat steady against yours, a counterpoint to the painful throb of the rejected bond.

In that moment, in that corridor of amber and shadows, something shifted between you.

Not blood, not shared history, but something equally powerful—understanding. Compassion.

A choice to be family when nothing in fate had designed you to be.

You clung to her, this woman you barely knew, as the golden bond-light flickered beneath your skin and tears continued to fall.

Days passed in a gray haze of pain and emptiness. 

Confined to your chambers under Beron's orders, you barely left your bed.

The mating bond, once a dull ache you could somehow endure, had transformed into something monstrous in the wake of Azriel's formal rejection.

It pulled and twisted beneath your skin, the golden light pulsing visibly through your nightgown at all hours, casting eerie shadows across your walls.

"Make it stop," you whispered into your pillow, the words becoming a mantra as hours bled into days. "Please, make it stop."

Food remained untouched on trays. Water turned stale beside your bed. Sleep came only in fitful bursts, often jolting you awake when the bond would suddenly flare as if sensing Azriel across the distance.

Each time, the pain would be fresh again, as if his rejection had just occurred.

On the third day, you couldn't leave your bed.

Your limbs felt leaden, unresponsive to your commands. The bond's golden light had spread, no longer contained to your chest but threading through your entire body in a complex network that resembled veins of fire beneath your skin.

"Make it stop," you begged the empty room, your voice cracking with disuse. "Make it stop."

Briar came and went, her face increasingly drawn with worry. She bathed your forehead with cool cloths that brought momentary relief, helped you sip water when your throat became too parched to speak. But even her gentle care couldn't touch the agony of the bond.

"The healers say-" she began on the fourth day, only to fall silent when you shook your head weakly.

"No more healers," you whispered. "They can't help."

The rejection was killing you.

Not quickly with merciful swiftness, but slowly, systematically.

First your appetite, then your sleep, then your strength.

Soon, you knew, it would take your mind, and finally, your life.

By the fifth day, the pain had become so unbearable that you could no longer contain your screams.

They tore from your throat in ragged bursts, startling servants and causing guards to peer nervously through your door.

Ember, your faithful flame bunny, tried desperately to comfort you, nuzzling against your tear-stained cheeks and offering his warmth. But even his presence brought only fleeting solace.

"Make it stop," you sobbed between screams, your voice raw and broken. "Please, just make it stop."

Night fell, and with it came fever.

Your body burned from within, as if the bond had ignited your very blood.

The golden light beneath your skin pulsed in nauseating waves, brightening and dimming with each labored beat of your heart. Shadows danced strangely across your walls, though no source of light moved to cast them.

In your delirium, you thought you saw your human body, lying peacefully in a hospital bed, monitors beeping steadily beside it.

The vision taunted you—safety and normalcy just beyond reach. You stretched your hand toward it, only to watch it dissolve like mist.

"I want to go home," you wept, curling into yourself as another wave of pain crashed through you. "I just want to go home."

The latch on your door clicked softly, the sound barely audible over your ragged breathing.

You didn't bother looking up. Another healer, no doubt, come to offer useless remedies for a condition beyond their understanding.

"So, this is what a mating bond does," said a familiar voice, cool with equal parts disdain and clinical interest. "How remarkably... undignified."

You forced your eyes open to find Eris standing at the foot of your bed, his amber eyes assessing your deteriorated state with detached calculation.

He held a small wooden box in one hand, its surface carved with intricate symbols you didn't recognize.

"Go away," you managed, your voice barely audible. "Can't... help."

"Can't I?" A smirk played at the corners of his mouth as he set the box on your nightstand. "Your arrogance persists even in this state. How typical."

His dismissive tone convinced you he saw only what he expected to see. His cruel sister, temporarily weakened. He didn't suspect you were someone else entirely.

Eris opened the box with careful precision, removing a small vial of dark liquid.

"Do you know what this is?" When you didn't respond, he continued, "It's called ash tea. Death to our kind in sufficient quantity, it disintegrates our magic from within, dissolves our organs rather spectacularly." He swirled the vial, studying the contents with academic interest. "But in minute, carefully measured amounts..."

"Poison?" you whispered, hope flaring briefly.

Eris laughed softly. "Not as you're thinking, no. Though many would consider offering this to a High Fae treasonous." He sat carefully on the edge of your bed, an unexpected intimacy that emphasized the seriousness of the moment. "This particular blend contains ash wood bark, ground fine enough to enter the bloodstream without killing you outright, but potent enough to... dampen certain magical connections."

Understanding dawned slowly through your pain-addled mind. "The bond?"

"Precisely." Eris uncorked the vial, the scent of earth and something acrid filling the air between you. "It cannot be broken, but it can be... muted. Made bearable. At least temporarily."

You tried to sit up, wincing as the movement sent fresh waves of agony radiating from your chest. "Why would you... help me?"

Eris's expression remained carefully neutral, though something flickered in his eyes, not quite compassion, but perhaps a cold form of practicality. "Let's just say having the Lady of Autumn Court driven mad by bond rejection doesn't serve anyone's interests. Particularly not when diplomatic relations with the Night Court are so delicate."

He lifted the vial. "This won't be pleasant. And the effects are temporary. A day, perhaps two. But it should bring enough relief to keep you from it."

Hope and suspicion warred within you. This was Eris, after all—known for manipulation and political maneuvering, not acts of charity.

"What's the... price?" you asked, even as you eyed the vial with desperate longing.

A smile ghosted across his lips. "Smart question. There is, of course, a cost. The ash will dampen the bond, but it also suppresses all magic—including healing magic. You'll be weaker, more vulnerable to injury. And if you take too much, too often..." He shrugged eloquently. "Well, that's a risk you'll have to decide if you're willing to take."

Another wave of bond-agony crashed through you, drawing a whimper from your raw throat. The golden light beneath your skin pulsed viciously, as if the bond itself protested this conversation.

"Give it to me," you gasped, reaching weakly for the vial.

Eris held it to your lips. "Drink all of it. And brace yourself. This will hurt before it helps."

The liquid burned like fire as it slid down your throat, leaving a trail of blistering pain in its wake. You gagged, nearly retching as your body instinctively tried to reject the poison. Eris held you steady, his grip surprisingly gentle despite his usual coldness.

"Breathe," he instructed calmly. "The first wave will hit in approximately thirty seconds. Try not to scream too loudly. The servants are already terrified enough."

The pain began in your stomach, a spreading heat that quickly evolved into liquid agony. It raced through your veins like molten metal, seeking out the golden threads of the mating bond wherever they had infiltrated your system. You bit down hard on your lip to keep from screaming, tasting blood as your teeth pierced skin.

"Good," Eris murmured, observing with cold efficiency. "If you survive the next few minutes, relief should follow."

You couldn't respond, too consumed by the battle raging within your body. The ash tea burned through you like wildfire, while the mating bond fought to maintain its hold.

Golden light flared beneath your skin, brighter than ever before, illuminating your chamber as if noon sun streamed through the windows.

Just when you thought you couldn't bear another second, when death seemed not just welcome but necessary. The pain crested, held for one eternal moment, then began to recede.

The golden light dimmed, not disappearing entirely but retreating, condensing back toward your heart where the bond's core resided. The burning sensation of the ash tea transformed into something cooler, almost numbing, as it wrapped around the bond's tendrils like a smothering blanket.

"There," Eris said, satisfaction evident in his voice. "The worst is over."

You collapsed back against your pillows, gasping for breath. The pain hadn't vanished completely—the bond still pulsed steadily in your chest—but it was... contained.

Manageable. For the first time in days, you could think clearly, breathe without agony slicing through your lungs.

"How do you feel?" Eris asked, assessing you with calculating eyes.

"Like I've been trampled by a herd of horses," you replied honestly, your voice hoarse but stronger. "But... better."

He nodded, seeming pleased with the results of his experiment. "It forms a temporary barrier between you and the bond. It's still there, still active, but its effects are dampened. You should be able to eat, sleep, perhaps even function normally for a brief time."

"Thank you," you whispered, the words entirely genuine.

"Don't thank me yet. It has side effects, headaches, nausea, significant weakening of your healing abilities. A paper cut could take days to close. And when it wears off..."

"The pain returns," you finished for him.

"Precisely. This is not a cure, merely a reprieve." He rose from the bed, returning the empty vial to its box with careful precision. "I have more. Enough for several treatments, if necessary. But using ash too frequently risks permanent damage to your magic, possibly death. It's a temporary solution at best."

You nodded, understanding the limitations but grateful nonetheless for even temporary relief. "Why help me at all?"

"Because a mad Lady of Autumn is a liability to this court," he said finally, his voice carefully devoid of emotion. "And because no one deserves that particular hell. Not even you."

Through your exhaustion, you noticed Eris studying you with an intensity that hadn't been there before. His amber eyes narrowed slightly, head tilted in calculation.

"Rest now," he said, his voice oddly soft. "Sleep while you can."

The suggestion was unnecessary.

Your body, wrung out from days of suffering and the recent battle with the ash tea, was already surrendering to exhaustion. Your eyelids felt impossibly heavy, darkness crowding the edges of your vision.

The last thing you saw before consciousness fled was Eris standing over you, his expression unreadable as he pulled something from his pocket—another vial, this one filled with clear liquid.

"Forgive me, sister," he murmured, though the words seemed to come from very far away. "But you cannot stay here."

Then darkness claimed you completely.

Far away in the Night Court, in the darkest chamber of the House of Wind, Azriel knelt on the cold stone floor.

Alone, as he preferred. As he required.

His blade—Truth-Teller—lay before him, its edge gleaming in the dim light.

Blood. His blood. Already stained the steel, fresh rivulets running down its length to pool on the stone beneath.

Another wave of pain crashed through the bond, brutal and unrelenting.

Azriel didn't make a sound.

Five centuries of torture and war had taught him that lesson well.

Silence in suffering.

But his body betrayed him, trembling violently as the mating bond seared his insides like molten silver.

With deliberate precision, he picked up the blade and drew it across his chest, adding another perfect line to the row of cuts already marking his skin.

Each one corresponded to a wave of your pain that had reached him through the bond.

Blood for pain. Pain for denial. Denial for protection.

His shadows writhed around him, agitated and distressed by the self-inflicted wounds, but he controlled them with ruthless precision.

Control was all he had left. All he could permit himself.

It was the secret that male Fae carried and females rarely understood.

Rejection hurt the male more. Always.

The Cauldron's cruelest design—to make the one who denied the bond suffer more deeply, more fundamentally, than the one rejected.

The females experienced the pain as something inflicted upon them.

The males felt it as something torn from within them.

He had rejected you. For his family, for his court, for five centuries of history that couldn't be erased by the sudden, incomprehensible appearance of a bond.

Yet with each day that passed, with each wave of agony that pulsed through the connection, his reasons seemed increasingly hollow.

Azriel closed his eyes, mastering the tremors that threatened to overtake his body.

His wings tightened against his back, the membrane between the joints quivering with the effort of maintaining control. Each breath was measured, deliberate, a weapon against the madness that clawed at the edges of his consciousness.

The madness all males faced when denying the mating bond.

His shadows swirled around the wounds on his chest, trying to staunch the bleeding, but he commanded them back.

The physical pain was a lifeline, an anchor to sanity when the bond threatened to drag him into the abyss. Each cut was a reminder, a demarcation between thought and action, between the primal claiming instinct and his hard-won self-control.

"She's not mine," he said aloud, his voice steady despite the war raging within him. "She can't be mine."

His shadows disagreed, stretching southward toward the Autumn Court, toward you, before he wrenched them back with brutal force. They had grown harder to control since the bond formed, increasingly rebellious against his commands where you were concerned.

Just as his mind had grown more fragmented, thoughts circling in patterns he recognized as dangerous.

Possessive. Violent. Obsessive.

Mine to reject. Mine to claim. Mine to punish. Mine to protect.

Another wave of your pain rolled through him, sharper this time, different. Not the steady agony of rejection but something new—something foreign.

His body arched backwards, a wordless snarl escaping through clenched teeth as the unfamiliar sensation burned along the bond.

Something was happening to you. Something was being done to you.

Without conscious thought, Truth-Teller was in his hand again, his grip so tight the scars on his hands whitened. His shadows exploded outward, slashing across the walls in chaotic patterns before he brought them to heel.

"Control," he gasped, the word a prayer and command. "Control."

The foreign sensation continued, burning through the bond for endless minutes before slowly, gradually beginning to recede.

As it faded, the connection itself seemed to dim—not broken, never broken, but muffled.

Distant. As if a veil had fallen between them.

Azriel stared at his bloody hands, at Truth-Teller's gleaming edge, as realization dawned.

Someone had interfered.

Someone had touched what was his.

A low, feral growl built in his chest, shadows coalescing around him like armor. His wings flared wide, bumping against the chamber walls, as pure, primal rage flooded his system. It was the claiming instinct, the mating drive—made worse, not better, by his rejection.

Shadows pooled at his feet, rising up his legs like living things, responding to emotions he refused to name. They whispered to him, ancient and dark,

Find her. Claim her. Kill anyone who stands between.

For one terrible moment, he considered it—giving in to the madness, surrendering to the bond's demands. It would be easier than fighting, easier than the constant war between instinct and reason, between what the bond wanted and what his mind knew was necessary.

The shadows sensed his weakness, surging eagerly in response, already mapping the fastest route to the Autumn Court, to you.

With tremendous effort, Azriel forced them back, confined them to the chamber, to himself. His hands shook with the strain, blood dripping from fresh cuts to the stone below.

"I am not a slave to instinct," he said, each word precise and controlled. "I am not ruled by the bond."

But even as he spoke, he knew it for the lie it was. The mating bond had fundamentally altered him, changed something essential in his makeup. The ruthless control he had maintained for centuries was fracturing, eroding a little more with each denial, each rejection.

Eventually, it would break entirely. And when it did...

You woke to sunlight and the scent of lavender.

Soft sheets. Linen curtains. A breeze slipped in through the open window, carrying the scent of wild roses and summer heat.

Winnowed here from the heart of Autumn, you were somewhere new—somewhere safe. The ash tea still burned faintly in your bloodstream, muting the mating bond's agony into something distant and bearable.

Not gone. Never gone. But quieter now.

You pushed yourself upright, slow and stiff. Your muscles protested, days of agony had left their mark. Ember stirred at your feet with a warm churr, his tiny pink flame ears twitching lazily as he hopped up onto your lap.

His companion—Sizzle, your second fire bunny—lounged on the windowsill like she owned the house, her tail periodically sparking small holes in the curtains.

"We live another day, troublemakers," you murmured, scratching Ember behind his flaming ears. He purred in response, a sound like kindling catching fire.

Sizzle, apparently jealous of the attention, sneezed dramatically. A tiny fireball shot across the room, hitting the curtain.

You scrambled to pat out the flames while Ember, startled by the sudden movement, jumped onto your pillow and promptly set it ablaze.

"Perfect," you muttered, now frantically swatting at both the curtain and pillow. "Absolutely perfect."

The door opened with a soft click, revealing Lucien Vanserra standing in the threshold, one brow arched. His russet hair was pulled back in a neat queue, his metal eye whirring as it assessed the smoldering chaos.

"I see your therapy animals are hard at work," he remarked dryly.

"They're very passionate about interior redesign," you replied, finally extinguishing the pillow.

Ember, unperturbed by the commotion he'd caused, began grooming himself smugly. Sizzle hopped down from the windowsill to join him, leaving a trail of tiny scorch marks across the blanket.

Lucien stepped inside, moving with the fluid grace of a High Fae male. Despite his seemingly casual demeanor, his hand never strayed far from the ornate knife at his hip.

"Eris said you were stable," he said. "I see he was being optimistic."

"I'm perfectly stable," you protested. "It's these two that are hazardous."

As if on cue, both bunnies looked up at Lucien with identical innocent expressions, their flame ears flickering like halos.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Why am I here?" you asked, gathering Ember in your arms before he could cause more damage.

"My home. Border estate between Spring and Autumn," he replied. "Far enough from Summer that their water-wielders can't sense your fire magic."

"No, I mean why here. Why you?"

His jaw clenched. "Because Eris didn't trust anyone else to keep you alive."

A beat of silence. You stared at him. "Beron knows I'm gone?"

Lucien nodded grimly. "He's furious. You disappearing was one thing. But being bonded with the Night Court's shadowsinger... that made you a liability."

You swallowed hard. "He'll come after me."

"Yes," Lucien said simply. "But not here. Not yet. The border glamours I've crafted keep this place hidden from most eyes."

Ember, sensing your distress, nuzzled against your hand, his warm fur oddly comforting. Sizzle hopped closer, squeaking indignantly, as if personally offended by Beron's threat to you.

Eris swept into the doorway, elegant and deadly in fine Autumn Court attire. His eyes immediately landed on the singed pillow, then the bunnies, then you.

"You're awake," he added, gaze sliding over you. "Good. You were very dramatic about nearly dying."

You offered him a flat look. "You drugged me. Forgive me for not being chipper."

Eris just smiled thinly. "You're welcome."

Ember, evidently unimpressed by Eris's entrance, turned his back on your eldest brother and began methodically cleaning his paws. Sizzle, however, puffed up to twice her size, her tiny flame ears growing larger as she stared Eris down.

Lucien and Eris stared at each other, tension crackling like fire beneath still water. Centuries of history hung between them—betrayal, silence, blood.

"Why bring me here?" you asked again.

Eris's gaze darkened. "Because Beron watches me too closely. And because our charming brother has experience managing broken bonds."

Lucien's jaw ticked. "I'm not your pawn."

"No. Just the only one who's already walked through fire." Eris's eyes flicked to the scars on Lucien's face. "Literally and metaphorically." He continued. "I have business in the human lands. Autumn's emissaries report unusual activity," Eris said, already stepping back toward the door. "I'll return in three days. Try not to explode before then."

And then he was gone, leaving behind only the scent of embers and spice—not bothering to walk out, but winnowing away in a flash of copper light.

Ember triumphantly squeaked, as if he had personally driven Eris away, while Sizzle hopped in an excited circle, leaving a ring of tiny burn marks on the floor.

"Your security detail is very effective," Lucien remarked, his lips twitching.

"They're very selective about who they allow near me," you replied, patting the bed for them to return. Ember immediately hopped back onto your lap, while Sizzle took a detour to investigate Lucien's boots.

"So," you said, "Beron's hunting me."

Lucien nodded. "And I'm keeping you off his radar. For now."

Your mind flashed suddenly to that moment in the Autumn Court—Azriel's shadows coiling away from you, his face carved from ice as he rejected you.

The memory sent a bolt of pain through the bond, sharp enough to make you gasp. Golden light flared beneath your skin, pulsing once, twice, before the ash tea smothered it again.

Ember chirped in alarm, nudging your hand with his warm nose. Sizzle abandoned her investigation of Lucien to race back to your side, both bunnies pressing against you as if trying to absorb your pain.

Lucien tensed, his hand moving to his knife, not drawing it, but ready. "Breathe through it," he instructed, voice steady. "Don't fight it."

You nodded, forcing air into your lungs. "Why help me?" you managed after a moment.

He paused, then said, "Because someone should have helped me."

Your hand drifted to your chest, fingers pressing lightly over the steady, bruised thrum of the bond. "Azriel told me it wasn't real. That we weren't anything."

Something flashed across Lucien's face—recognition, perhaps. Understanding. His metal eye whirred softly. "But you felt it."

You nodded. "Still do."

Ember, as if understanding, rested his tiny paw on your hand where it pressed against your chest. His warmth seeped into your skin, a small comfort against the ache.

Lucien exhaled, his gaze distant. "It never fully goes away. You just get better at living around the ache."

"For how long will the tea work?"

"A week. Maybe less." His voice was clinical, practiced. "It gives you time to think without drowning."

"Think about what?"

"Whether you're going to keep breaking every time he turns away," Lucien said quietly.

Sizzle, who had been unnaturally still and attentive, suddenly hopped toward Lucien and squeaked forcefully, as if disagreeing with his pessimism. She punctuated her argument by sneezing a perfect smoke ring.

Lucien blinked down at her. "Was that... intentional?"

"She has opinions," you said, unable to stop a small smile. "Strong ones."

You looked at him. "And you? With your bond?"

His jaw tightened. "I've learned to stay standing."

You let silence sit between you. "It hurts."

"It should," he replied. "It means you cared."

You stroked Ember's back as he nestled against your ribs. "Azriel's in love with Elain," you said. I

The bond flared again at the shadowsinger's name, a sharp, twisting pain that made your fingers curl into fists. Golden light rippled beneath your skin, illuminating your veins like molten metal.

Lucien didn't flinch. "Yes."

Your eyes widened slightly. "Elain is your mate."

He nodded once, the motion tight and controlled. "Yes."

You gave a sharp, humorless laugh. "So my mate wants yours. And yours won't even look at you."

Heat surged through your body—not the bond this time, but your own power.

Flames licked between your fingers, dancing along your knuckles. Ember chirped in alarm, scurrying to safety, while Sizzle watched in what appeared to be admiration.

Lucien moved with startling speed, his hand closing around your wrist. Not roughly, but firmly. "Control it," he said, voice low. "You'll burn down the house."

The absurdity of the moment—the deadly serious warning about your power—broke through your anger. You took a deep breath, pulling the fire back inside.

"Sorry," you murmured, extending a gentle hand to coax Ember back.

Lucien's smile didn't reach his eyes. "The Cauldron has a twisted sense of humor."

"I'm done," you said, voice barely a whisper. "Done chasing someone who only ever turns around to run."

The moment the words left your mouth, the bond gave a violent pulse, as if in protest.

You gasped, pressing a hand to your chest as golden light spilled between your fingers.

Lucien looked at you for a long moment. "Good."

"I keep thinking if I'm better, softer, less angry, he'll see me. But I could walk through fire and he'd still stare at the smoke."

His voice was quiet. "I know the feeling."

You wiped at your face with the edge of the sheet. "So what now?"

Lucien's mismatched gaze found yours. "Now we learn to walk forward. With the ache. Without them."

You offered a watery smile. "We'll be strong for each other."

He returned it, faint but real. "The Vanserra way."

You wiped tears from your cheek. "Honestly? They're both walking red flags."

Lucien blinked. "Red what?"

"It's a saying," you explained quickly. "Red flags mean warning signs. Bad news. Like signals in battle, but for people."

"So I've been ignoring battle signals for decades," Lucien said dryly.

"Exactly. And Azriel..." You sighed. "Shadow and steel and silence don't make for healthy relationships."

Lucien's laugh was unexpected—sharp and genuine. "Don't let Rhysand hear you say that."

"At least I'm done chasing my red flag," you said.

The bond throbbed once more, a deep ache that would never truly fade. But for the first time, it didn't feel like it would tear you apart.

He nodded, the golden eye whirring softly. "And I'm learning to carry mine."

You looked at him, really looked at this brother you barely knew, and said, "We've got each other. That's enough."

Lucien leaned back. "The Vanserra siblings. Mated. Rejected. Slightly flammable."

"Speak for yourself," you grinned, A small flame danced across your fingertip as you stroked them, controlled this time, gentle. "We're adorably flammable."

His laughter—sharp and real—echoed softly through the room, making both bunnies' ears perk up in delight.

And for the first time in days, the ache in your chest felt like something you might one day be able to carry without breaking—a permanent bond, yes, but no longer a chain.

The golden light pulsed once more beneath your skin, and somewhere, miles away, in the darkness of the Night Court, you knew a shadowsinger felt it too.

Azriel woke shaking, breath crystallizing in the frigid air.

The bond.

Muffled for two days now—erupted with savage, unfamiliar pain. He'd marked each hour of silence with thin, precise cuts across his chest, but nothing prepared him for this blazing agony, as if the golden thread inside his ribs had been yanked tight and set aflame. Shadows writhed across the floor, mirroring his frantic heartbeat as sweat soaked the sheets.

He dressed by touch alone, leather sliding over half-healed wounds. Blood blossomed beneath the buckles, warm against his ice-cold skin. The hallway distorted, edges warping, but discipline drove him forward.

Movement might drown the torment. He staggered toward the training ring, trailing frost in his wake.

Cassian was drilling recruits when Azriel stepped onto the sand. Ice crackled under his boots; every Illyrian within twenty paces fell silent. His hands trembled violently, nearly dropping the practice sword until he clenched harder, reopening the newest cut.

Crimson seeped down his abdomen, its metallic scent sharp in the morning air.

A young warrior advanced.

Azriel struck—too fast, too brutal—wood splintering against bone.

The boy crumpled with a cry that Azriel barely registered through white sparks bursting behind his eyes, each one pulsing with the bond's torment.

Another opponent stepped forward, then another. Azriel met each with vicious, mechanical precision until Cassian intercepted, arms braced across his chest.

"Look at me," Cassian ordered, voice cutting through the roaring in Azriel's ears.

Azriel's vision swam. "It's worse," he rasped, throat raw. "Didn't know it could get worse."

Cassian's gaze dropped to the blood darkening Azriel's tunic. "You need a healer."

"I need-" Azriel couldn't finish.

Shadows spilled from his shoulders, lashing the air like whips, carrying the scent of nightfall and steel.

Cassian's siphons flared crimson, siphoning the wild magic before it scorched the watching recruits. "Training's over. War room, now."

Azriel remembered nothing of climbing the stairs to the River House, only the taste of copper and frost on his tongue. Maps blanketed the long table where Rhysand, Feyre, Mor, Amren, and Nesta looked up as he stumbled in, darkness trailing his every step.

Rhys's violet eyes narrowed at the blood. "Az-"

"The bond," Azriel grated, each word a tremor. "The agony's funneling straight through. I can't-" He pressed a shaking fist to his sternum where phantom fire burned. "I can't shut it out."

Feyre reached with her mind, gentle as dawn. The attempt brushed against raw nerves; Azriel recoiled with a guttural snarl. Glass shattered in the windowpanes.

The chandelier swayed, crystal tinkling. Shadows erupted, drenching the room in smothering darkness that tasted of ashes and grief.

Mor stepped forward, palms raised. "Az, breathe-"

"Every heartbeat feels like a blade," he said, voice breaking.

His eyes—normally calm as a midnight lake—shone wild, desperate. "If it gets any worse, I'll-" He bit down on the rest, but the madness was there, circling, hungry, a beast straining at its chains.

Nesta's steel-gray gaze tracked the shadows crawling over the ceiling. "Then we fix it before you lose yourself."

Cassian planted a steady hand between Azriel's shoulder blades, grounding him. "Name the order, Rhys."

Rhysand's power rolled out—cool midnight and stars—pushing the shadows back until lantern-light flickered once more. "Stealth flight to Autumn in four hours," the High Lord said. "We extract and return before dawn."

Azriel's knees nearly buckled with equal parts relief and renewed terror. "Four hours is too long."

"It's how long it takes to prepare winnow points that Beron can't trace," Rhys countered, voice edged with authority. "You will hold."

Azriel's jaw clenched so hard something cracked.

Fresh blood slid beneath his leathers, a warm contrast to the cold sweat beading his skin. "I'll try."

Amren clicked her tongue, ancient eyes gleaming. "Try harder. Velaris has survived worse than your shadows."

Azriel dragged in a ragged breath that smelled of pine and steel and coming snow.

The pain surged again—hot, merciless—and his vision went white at the edges. But he felt Cassian's steadying hand, heard Rhys's measured voice, sensed Feyre's mind-touch waiting for permission.

He swallowed hard. "Keep me busy."

Cassian's grin was fierce, all teeth. "I can do that."

The shadows settled—trembling, resentful, but leashed. Focus returned to Azriel's fever-bright eyes, razor-sharp and deadly.

Four hours.

He could endure four more hours of this hell.

And when the time came, he would fly south on wings of night and frost, and anyone standing between him and that muted golden thread would learn why even High Lords feared a shadowsinger's wrath.

Author’s Note:

If you made it through this chapter—first of all, I love you. This one was heavy, but necessary. Our girl is still standing (with fire bunnies), and Azriel is one breakdown away from realizing he’s in love. As always, thank you for reading. 💛

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[pellucid-constellations]

Of Oblivious Minds (4)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: You're positive Azriel is in love with Elain. It seems so obvious. But Cassian is laughing at you and suddenly nothing makes quite so much sense anymore.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: Angst

a/n: Thank you for reading and sorry for the wait!! I hope you enjoy :) Let me know what you think ❤️

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

~~

You were leaving today, and suddenly—with your bags at your feet and the air around you filled with stagnant silence—a few days seemed so juvenile. So… inconsequential in the grand scheme. 

You would leave, and when you returned everything would be the same. Azriel would still love another and you would still be left with the bleak realization that you had spent the last few centuries denying a love that you knew to be fruitless. 

Nothing would change if you were to be gone only a few measly days. 

But if you were to be gone a month? A year, even? 

Much of your work for Rhysand could be done from afar, especially with the library in Day Court. Helion wouldn’t mind; he’d asked you to consider an extended stay in the past. And maybe there could even be something there, something to take your mind off of your true home. 

The home that wasn’t Velaris. 

You saw him every time you closed your eyes. His rare smiles, his even rarer laughs; you saw the way his watchful eyes skated across every room you entered and reminisced on each twitch of his hands—the way you could feel it against your fingers when you grabbed for him in the busy streets of Velaris. 

Azriel was inescapable, even when you battled against your vision and attempted to drift to sleep. 

He was everywhere, everything. 

But he wouldn’t be in Day Court, and although that wouldn't stop your thoughts, it would be something. It would be distance. 

With a flick of your wrist, you sent your bags away to Day Court and heaved in an uncomfortably large breath. You knew he would do little to deny you, but you still needed to ask Rhys. He was your High Lord and employer, above all your friend, and you knew it would take a little persuading. 

Maybe tears. Yes, tears were very moving and equally as conjurable at the moment.

It only took one step before the knock on your door left you still. Your shoes made a dent in the carpet and you could hear him breathing on the other side of the ornately carved wood. You could always tell when it was Azriel. 

You shifted your weight from one knee to the next, gripping your skirts at the thigh. Azriel knocked again, this time in a faster pattern—more rushed. 

You bit into your lip. You hadn’t planned to see him again, not before you left. You would deal with the repercussions of such an act later on, but not now. Not when you had finally gotten your emotions under control for long enough to have a conversation with Rhys. 

It made sense to you now why you had repressed this for so long. 

The sound of your voice was startling. “Come in.” 

The door creaked, but the sound was overpowered by Azriel’s boot clicking against shining marble. The shadowsinger entered before his shadows, but the wisps followed close behind, quickly abandoning their master in favor of darting toward you. They twisted up your legs and elbows, rolling into your hair and dancing along your fingertips. 

Something like fear, love, crushing defeat tugged and tugged at your chest. 

“Azriel,” you greeted, aiming for a surprised tone and failing. “Have you come to see me off?” 

The spymaster didn’t smile. “Rhys sent me. He said you might have a message for him.” 

That cauldron-damned meddler. Of course he somehow knew about your reservations. You doubted he knew exactly what you had to say, but you had been dragging your feet all morning and were currently about an hour late for your own departure. 

And of course he had sent Azriel of all people. 

“Oh! Well, I suppose I could go and—” 

“Why is half of your vanity gone?” 

You blinked, startled by the words. If Azriel was anything, he was polite and never one to cut someone off. You went to search Azriel’s expression but found him zeroed in on the table pushed into the corner of your room. 

“What?” It was all you could think to formulate. 

But Azriel was quick to respond. “Almost all of your things are gone. Your perfumes and the pots of cream you keep on the side. You’ve only left the items you don’t use anymore.” 

“How do you know—” you cut yourself off this time, ignoring the glaring question that tried to blind you. “Azriel, I’m going away… to Day Court. You know this.”

But Azriel only shook his head, stalking over to the table and yanking the drawer open so harshly it shook the mirror. When he didn’t find what he was looking for, he went to your closet, throwing open the door, shoulders rising and falling with more effort. 

“Azriel—” 

“You’ve packed too much.” He turned to you, some of his shadows returning to wind around his chest. “You’ve taken most of your clothes.” 

“You know I always overpack,” you laughed, but the laugh sounded fake, painful. 

You fought the urge to cower under Azriel’s scrutinizing gaze. It was as if he was on fire, as if he was aflame and filled with something that had been pent up for far too long. If someone, anyone, were to look inside of you, they would see the same thing. 

Which is why you needed to get far, far away from this situation. Away from him.

But the longer you looked back at him—the longer you tried to slap that easygoing smile on your face—the longer he stared back with the same steady intensity. 

“Is something the matter?” you tried. 

Azriel’s hand twitched. 

That feeling crept along the edges of your ribs once again. 

“Is something the matter?” he parroted, jaw so impossibly tight the words came out pinched. 

You finally looked away, playing with your fingers. “Yes?” 

He started laughing. But it wasn’t the kind of laugh that made you feel light. It didn’t fill you with pride for eliciting such a sound from him, nor did it make you want to laugh in return. It made you feel dark; as Azriel laughed, you wanted to heave the sound back within the depths it flowed from. 

“There are several things that are the matter, y/n, but I’d say the most pressing is that you have been avoiding me for weeks. That every moment I’ve tried to spend with you has been promptly evaded and now you’re leaving and you had no intention of saying goodbye.” 

“I was going to—” 

“Please,” he pleaded, eyes soft yet so achingly desperate. “Don’t lie to me. Not right now.” 

The indent in the carpet was becoming permanent; you couldn’t seem to move. 

“I’ve been… I’ve been going through a hard time. Leaving seemed like it was the best for me. Just for a little while. Just until I could sort a few things out.” 

“For how long?” he asked, voice cracking along the precipice of the last word. 

You paused then, staring hard into his eyes. “A while.”

A shaky breath left the shadowsinger, his chest reflecting the sound. He ran a hand into his hair and tugged at the roots, an action you hadn’t seen him do in years. A sickening sort of pity ran through you—a sort of responsibility. 

Because Azriel was your friend, and he was going through something, too. You had no idea if his mate reciprocated his feelings. You found it hard to believe that anyone wouldn’t love Azriel, but the conversation you’d overheard last week gave nothing away. 

Maybe Azriel hadn’t told her yet because she didn’t love him. And maybe you were being a bad friend by not being there for him. 

Tossing your hurt to the side, you took a step forward. Azriel watched the movement, eyes flickering behind you to catch the previous imprint of your feet on the carpet. 

“I’m sorry,” you began, resolute. “I’m sorry that you felt you couldn’t tell me. And that you’ve been… having a hard time. I know I’m not leaving at the most opportune time, but you can write to me and I can help you.” 

Some of the brokenness on Azriel’s face morphed into confusion. “Help me?” 

“With your mate.” 

And it was as if Azriel had been shot. He physically recoiled, his right foot coming down to catch him as he fixed his imbalance. 

“I know you wanted to keep it private, but I overheard. Azriel—” You swallowed. Hard. “—It’s so wonderful that you’ve found your mate.” 

Something was set in motion, and Azriel was shaking his head. His gaze was fixed on you and his eyebrows were pushed together in a painful expression and he just kept shaking his head as your chest caved and it became hard to breathe. Something pulled from within and it felt like your heart was unraveling. 

Couldn’t he see how hard this was? How much it took from you just to acknowledge that he was destined for someone else? 

The shadowsinger seemed unaware of your inner turmoil, instead taking long steps across the room until he reached you. He leaned down, brought his hands up to your face, and he broke another piece of you as his forehead touched yours. 

He was whispering something, words so low even your fae ears couldn’t catch them, but you knew they were fast. Fast and incoherent and you weren’t even able to find their meaning in his expression because his eyes were squeezed so tightly. 

“Please, just notice. See it, angel, it’s there.” 

Your jaw quivered. He was so close to you. The few words you were able to make out were confusing. 

“My oblivious girl. Please.” 

“Azriel—” 

When he opened his eyes, the world fell off its axis. The fear in your chest—the feeling that had been unraveling you and leaving you weak—alighted. It pulled and pulled but this time it didn’t hurt. It no longer left splinters embedded in your ribs or took the breath from your lungs. 

As you looked up at Azriel, it was only soothing and warm and—

Mate. Azriel was your mate. 

You pushed back from him, stumbling and catching on the rug as you went toppling down to the floor. There was no pain from the fall; a numbness overtook your body where the warmth once flowed. 

“You’re my—Azriel, you—” 

There were no endings to the sentences you began. Azriel tried reaching a hand down, but when you wouldn’t take it he joined you on the floor. He sat with you between his legs, bringing you forward until your knees curled against his chest. And then he wrapped you in his arms and then his wings, taking calming breaths as yours ran rampant. 

“I am your mate,” he finished for you, so much more soothing than you had ever heard him speak.

“But Elain,” you gasped out, finding solace against his chest. You leaned your forehead against him and relished in the heat. 

“What of Elain?” Azriel asked, bringing a hand up against the back of your head. 

“You love Elain.” 

“I do not love Elain.” 

“And Mor?” 

“I do not love Mor, either.” 

You nodded against him. This would take longer for you to come to terms with later, but only simple answers were getting through to you now. And the bond—the bond—sang as you touched Azriel. The bond didn’t care if you were confused or hurt or disbelieving.

Your mind swam as a new influx of emotions filled you, but there was a distinction to them and you knew they weren’t your own. At first, it was hard to pick through them all; there were so many that they all blended together. There was an obvious tender love, but also a crippling fear that mingled with a darkness you couldn’t place. There was adoration and hopefulness and a sense of peace that lay at the bottom of all else. 

But you could tell this peace was new. It wasn’t as deeply ingrained as the others. 

Azriel leaned back, craning his neck down to catch your gaze. “Do you feel that?” he asked. When you nodded, he continued. “Those feelings have always belonged to you. All of them. I know there is not a lot of proof of that, and I will spend the rest of my life making up for that, but they have always belonged to you.” 

“Have you always felt mine?” you asked, voice sounding unused. 

“Since I’ve felt the bond,” he nodded. 

“How long have you…” 

Azriel sighed, but it wasn’t out of irritation. The bond told you as much. “Months.” 

Tears burned at the back of your eyes. “Then why did you never—” 

Azriel shushed you as your voice cracked. He ran both hands behind your head and held you steady as his lips pressed to your forehead. 

“I didn’t want to lose you.” 

Throat still closed, words still choked, you replied, “That is idiotic.” 

This time, when Azriel laughed, you felt that pride spark up in your chest. “I know, angel. Gods, do I know that.” 

There was a brief pause, a respite to the revelations and emotions in the room. You counted your breaths as you pressed against Azriel, and he ran his hands up and down the length of your spine, chaste kisses pressed to your head as the minutes ticked by. 

“Don’t leave.” Azriel broke the silence. “Stay. Please.” 

When you didn’t answer, he kept talking. 

“You don’t have to love me. I know that is a lot to ask and there are still so many questions left unanswered. But, y/n, I have loved you for a long, long time. I couldn’t bear it if you left. It has been difficult to even function this past week with you avoiding me. If you were to leave—”

“I only avoided you because I thought it wasn’t me,” you interrupted, pulling back once again to meet his gaze. “I thought you didn’t love me and I couldn’t stand it, so I wanted to leave.”

A grim line set into Azriel’s mouth. The desperation returned to his eyes. “We have wasted so much time.” 

“I wouldn’t say wasted. Not when you were here. Not when I was still with you.” 

“Angel.” The word came out like a plea, and then his lips were on yours. His hands pressed you closer and his mouth was hot against yours and it was everything you’d spent three centuries ignoring. You loved him, gods did you love him, and in this kiss was every proof that he loved you. 

You tangled your fingers in his hair, musing the already displaced strands. His wings quivered as you kissed him more, the action sending little pools of light into the bubble he had created. They felt warm against your eyelids, and when you pulled away to see the cause, Azriel moved his attention to your jaw, your cheek, your neck. 

“You are my mate,” he affirmed against your skin, low and gravelly. “Mine.” 

You pulled his head away, leaning your forehead against his own. “And you are mine.” 

“I love you,” he said. 

And you couldn’t say it back, not yet. Azriel seemed unperturbed by this and accepted your small smile as a reply, reciprocating it tenfold. His smile shone in the pockets of light created by his wings and his eyes no longer looked sad. It made you want to say it back.

When that guilt flooded you and your mouth parted, there was a tug at the bond instead. You gasped at the feeling, blinking up at Azriel with owlish eyes. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for months,” he admitted, smile softening as he ran scarred fingers along your cheeks. “Every time I felt your doubt or fear. I figured I could startle it out of you.” 

You rubbed at your chest. “It feels warm. And…” You couldn’t find the words.

“It feels good, angel. This bond was cold and it hurt, but it—it feels good. Like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.” 

A breathy, awestruck laugh escaped you. “You know, I still have to go to Day for the weekend. It’s court-appointed.” 

Azriel groaned, burying his face in your neck. “Then I will come with you,” he grumbled, words muffled against your skin. 

“You cannot. But you can wait for me to return and I will come right back here.”

[theskywithin]

🌙 The Moon Phase You Were Born Under — And What It Says About Your Emotional Blueprint

We often speak of Sun signs as identity, of rising signs as masks, and Moon signs as emotions. But we rarely ask this question: What was the Moon doing when I was born? Was she just beginning to glow… or was she already starting to let go? The Moon phase at your birth isn’t just a backdrop, it’s an emotional rhythm, an imprint of your soul’s internal timing. It speaks of how you process feelings, how you grow through life’s tides, and what kind of light you carry, growing, full, fading, or new.

P.S. There’s a little poll waiting for you at the bottom! Should we explore the Moon phases through the zodiac signs next… or wander through the houses? You get to decide.

🌑 New Moon — The Seed

You were born in the hush before the story begins. When the sky is dark, and everything that could be is still curled inside silence. This is the phase of souls who begin where others end, who carry invisible blueprints in their chest and build futures from intuition alone. Your emotions come from a place before language, raw, instinctual, searching. You feel life deeply, but often quietly, like waves moving under frozen lakes. You may feel like no one truly sees you because you are still writing who you are. Still dreaming what you’re meant to become. You don’t need to follow a path. You are the path.

🌒 Waxing Crescent — The Spark

You came into the world when light was still fragile. Just a sliver. Just a whisper. And that’s how you move through emotion too, like someone protecting a candle in a storm, always hoping it will catch. There is a quiet bravery in your soul. A kind of soft persistence that keeps reaching, even when no one’s cheering. Your emotional life is shaped by longing, by almosts, by the ache of beginnings not yet named. You often wonder: Will it be enough? Will I be enough? And yet something in you always rises. Always grows. You believe in what hasn’t happened yet. And that belief makes you a lighthouse for others still finding their way.

🌓 First Quarter — The Clash

You were born into friction. The Moon in one direction, the Sun in another. A crossroads written into your bones. This is not a phase of ease, it’s a phase of pressure, of turning points, of inner battles that demand movement.  Emotionally, you live with a constant inner tug-of-war. One part of you wants peace. The other part wants to break every pattern you've inherited. You feel things like storms breaking against glass, loud, urgent, necessary. You are not here to stay quiet. You are here to challenge the blueprint, to carve a new door where others saw a wall. You don’t just feel, you ignite.

🌔 Waxing Gibbous — The Refiner

You were born in the inhale before the full light. When everything is almost - almost complete, almost clear, almost ready. You carry that ache for alignment in your chest like a second heartbeat. Your emotions aren’t chaotic, but they are relentless. You feel the pull to improve, to shape, to polish every part of yourself and your world until it reflects what you know it could be. You may overthink, not because you doubt yourself, but because you care that deeply. You are a sculptor of inner truth, chiseling slowly, lovingly, toward wholeness. Your life is not about getting it perfect. It’s about honoring the process of becoming.

🌕 Full Moon — The Mirror

You arrived in the moment of full glow. All things exposed, all feelings magnified. You don’t carry a light, you are the light. And because of that, your emotions are rarely subtle. They are floods, revelations, reflections. You see yourself most clearly through others, but that mirror can be both gift and distortion. In life, you may struggle with projection, wondering which parts are truly you, and which are echoes of who others want you to be. Your emotional life is theatrical, intense, and wildly intuitive. You feel it all. And when you allow yourself to own that intensity instead of apologizing for it, you become the moon itself, pulling tides, revealing truths, and giving light in the dark.

🌖 Waning Gibbous — The Teacher

You were born after the peak. In the glow that lingers. This is the phase of reflection, of wisdom uncoiling itself from experience. You carry the soul of someone who’s already seen behind the curtain and now wants to help others understand what it all meant. Emotionally, you live in layers. You feel first, and then you translate. People may see you as calm, but inside you, entire stories are unfolding. You are often the one others turn to, because you make pain make sense. You don’t need loudness to lead, your truth ripples outward in quiet waves. Your life is a gathering of meanings. You feel like a book always being written, always one chapter ahead of those around you.

🌗 Last Quarter — The Releaser

You came into the world already letting go. This is the phase of endings, of clearing, of sharp truths and softer aftermaths. You carry a strange freedom in your chest, the kind that comes from burning bridges that no longer lead to you. Your emotional life is one of cycles. You love, you shed, you learn. Again and again. You don’t cling, you transform. In the world, this can make others uncomfortable. They want certainty. You offer clarity. And clarity often costs comfort. You are not here to keep things intact. You are here to break illusions so new roots can form. You are the truth after the storm. The ache that knows: even endings are beginnings.

🌘 Waning Crescent — The Dreamer

You were born in the hush before the Moon disappears. When light is thin, and dreams speak louder than words. You carry a softness the world has forgotten. A depth that doesn’t scream to be known, but waits quietly to be felt. Emotionally, you are porous. You feel what’s yours, and what isn’t, and everything in between. Your life may feel like a long remembering, of something you can’t quite name, but always carry. In real time, you may drift, retreat, dissolve, searching for silence not to escape, but to return to yourself. Others may call you distant. But really, you’re listening to a frequency most have tuned out. You are the final breath before rebirth. The lullaby between lifetimes. The poem that doesn’t need to end.

[nemo-writes]

⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔ 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐞 ; 𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝜗𝜚˚⋆𝜗𝜚˚⋆

↣ pack!tf141 x witch!reader

↣ chapter summary; pushed to your limits, you endure under your mother's ruthless training. but the quiet of night brings an unexpected reunion—and amid raw confessions and unspoken truths, you draw a firm line between your past and present, choosing your new path over the fractures of your old life.

⚠️ warnings; none

★ previous ; next

☆ story masterlist

The cold expanse of the stone training chamber greeted you as you stepped through the heavy wooden doors. The air was thick with the hum of residual magic, a constant reminder of the battles fought here before you. Flickering sconces cast elongated shadows that danced mockingly against the dark stone walls, their flames sputtering in anticipation.

Your Mother stood at the center, a sharp, commanding figure whose very presence demanded attention. Her arms crossed over her chest, and her piercing gaze fixed on you with the weight of expectations that could crush lesser souls.

“This will be your life until the ceremony,” she said without preamble, her voice sharp and unwavering, cutting through the heavy air like a blade. “If you fail here, you fail the coven.”

The words struck hard, meant to suffocate any flicker of defiance, but you squared your shoulders, refusing to falter. You stepped forward into the center of the chamber, the hum of magic growing louder with each step.

Training began immediately, and there was no mercy in her approach.

Waves of fire and wind lashed toward you, their force leaving you barely enough time to react. You conjured barriers of shimmering energy to counter her attacks, your hands moving instinctively in intricate patterns, your magic sharp and focused.

“Too slow!” she barked, her voice echoing off the walls as the ground beneath your feet rumbled ominously. Thorned vines erupted from the stone, their sharp tips lashing out with deadly precision. You sidestepped, barely avoiding the onslaught, and summoned a blade of pure energy to sever the attacking tendrils. The effort sent a sharp thrum of power through your bones, but you held steady.

Every spell she cast, every challenge she threw, was designed to break you—to punish you for leaving, for daring to defy her control. Yet you met her assaults with spiteful determination, the simmering rage within you sharpening your focus. Each successful counterstrike was a small victory, a reminder that you were not as fragile as she wished to believe.

“You’ve grown complacent,” she sneered, her tone icy. “The time you wasted outside the coven has softened you!"

Her words were daggers, meant to carve away your resolve, but you gritted your teeth and replied evenly, “And yet I’m still standing.” The flicker of amusement that crossed her face was fleeting, but it didn’t escape your notice.

The grueling session stretched on for hours, testing every ounce of your endurance. By the time she finally called for a halt, your body ached, your clothes were singed and dusted with soot, and sweat clung to your skin. Yet, despite the pain and exhaustion, you remained standing.

“Adequate,” your Mother said, her tone clipped as she assessed you with a critical eye.

You wiped at the sweat on your brow, your expression neutral as you replied, “I’ll do what’s required.”

She nodded once, a silent acknowledgment of your effort, before turning on her heel and striding toward the exit. Her long robes swept behind her as the heavy door swung shut, leaving you alone in the quiet chamber.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to breathe, letting the tension in your shoulders ease as you took in the stillness of the room. The scorched stone and scattered debris bore testament to your struggle, but it wasn’t defeat that lingered in the air—it was resolve.

You straightened, brushing off the grime from your clothes. There was still so much to do, so much to prove, but you would face it all, one step at a time.

. . .

Later that night, as exhaustion weighed heavily on you, Sybil pressed close to your side, her warmth grounding you in ways no magic ever could. You trudged down the hallway, the familiar path to your room offering a small sense of solace.

“Miss, please—wait!” a voice called out behind you, urgent and trembling.

You turned to see Marnie, the young maid who had delivered your clothes days earlier. Her pale face was illuminated by the faint glow of the lantern she held aloft, her chest heaving as though she had been running. She grasped your arm tightly before you could react, her fear palpable.

“There’s no time to explain,” she whispered, her voice strained. “You have to come with me. Now.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the desperation in her wide eyes silenced you. Without waiting for a response, she tugged at your arm, pulling you down a corridor you hadn’t walked in years.

Sybil let out a low growl but followed close, her alert posture mirroring your unease. The flickering lantern light in her grasp guided your way through twisting hallways that grew colder and darker the farther you went. The air grew damp, and the faint scent of earth replaced the sterile stillness of the upper floors.

Marnie led you to a narrow staircase descending into the underground levels of the manor. She hesitated at the threshold, her voice breaking as she urged, “Please. You’ll understand when you see.”

You followed her down the stone steps, the silence broken only by the distant drip of water and the soft scrape of your boots against the floor. The lantern’s light cast eerie shadows on the rough stone walls, making the underground space feel even more oppressive.

At the bottom of the staircase, an older woman stood waiting. Recognition flickered—it was Fiona, a maid from your childhood who had always been kind to you. Her sharp eyes studied you intently, worry etched into her lined face.

“Keep watch,” Fiona instructed the two younger maids at her side. They nodded nervously before scurrying off alongside Marnie, their hurried footsteps fading into the distance.

Fiona motioned for you to follow, leading you into a small, cluttered supply room. The air inside was stale, the shelves lined with long-forgotten supplies.

Then you saw him.

Johnny.

He sat by a small table near the far wall, his long hair held up in a messy ponytail. His once-distinctive mohawk was completely gone. In front of him sat a cup of tea, untouched and forgotten, its faint aroma mingling with the stale air of the room.

You froze in the doorway, your breath catching in your throat as your mind struggled to process what you were seeing. Of all the scenarios you had imagined, this—him—had never even crossed your mind. The sight of him here, in this place, after everything, left you reeling.

At the sound of your steps faltering, Johnny looked up, his tired eyes meeting yours. In them, you saw everything—pain, regret, longing, and something that looked like desperation. He stood slowly, his movements tentative as though he feared any sudden action might shatter what fragile thread held this moment together.

He murmured your name, his voice rough and low, holding the weight of everything unsaid. He took a hesitant step toward you, his entire being radiating fragility, a vulnerability you had never associated with him. He looked unlike anything you had ever seen before: broken and raw, stripped of the easy charm and boisterous energy that had once defined him.

But before he could take another step, Sybil moved.

The Borzoi stepped in front of you, her white fur bristling as she lowered her head and bared her teeth. A deep, rumbling growl rolled from her chest, reverberating in the small room as her sharp fangs caught the dim light. Her stance was protective and unyielding, her hackles raised as she planted herself firmly between you and the man she had once loved, just as you had.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, his face crumpling as though Sybil’s reaction struck him harder than any blow. For a moment, he stood there, his hands twitching at his sides as if unsure whether to raise them in surrender or let them fall in defeat.

You couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The tension in the room was suffocating, the charged silence broken only by the low, menacing growl emanating from Sybil’s throat. And in that moment, all you could do was stare, the weight of the past colliding with the sharp sting of the present, leaving you rooted to the spot.

His fragile appearance fueled the fire rising in your chest. You took a sharp step forward, your voice cracking as it rose.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you hissed, your words laced with equal parts panic and fury. 

“Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” you continued, your hands shaking as you gestured toward him. “Coming here—do you even understand what this place is?! You’ve put yourself in danger, Johnny, and for what?! To satisfy some... some whim?!”

Johnny raised his hands in a placating gesture, his face pale and his eyes pleading. “I had to see you. Just once—”

“No!” you snapped, cutting him off. “You had to stay away! Do you think this is a game?! Do you think they won’t find you?! That they won’t—” Your breath hitched as the weight of the situation bore down on you, threatening to overwhelm your already frayed nerves.

He took a hesitant step forward, his hand reaching out toward you. “Lass, please, I—”

“Don’t you dare touch me,” you spat, your voice shaking but firm. His hand fell to his side, his shoulders sagging under the weight of your words. For a moment, he looked as though the world had crumbled beneath him, but you couldn’t afford to feel sympathy—not now, not here.

“Sit down,” you barked, pointing sharply to the chair he had just risen from. “Sit your ass down, Johnny!”

He hesitated, his mouth opening as if to protest, but the look in your eyes brooked no argument. Slowly, he sank back into the chair, his posture defeated, though his blue eyes remained fixed on you, filled with unspoken words.

Your attention snapped to Fiona lingering by the entrance. “You need to leave,” you said firmly, your voice steady despite the turmoil inside you. “Go back to your posts. I won’t have you involved in this any further.”

Fiona hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. “But, miss—”

“I said go!” you insisted, your voice breaking slightly but your resolve unshaken. “I’ll handle this.”

Fiona’s eyes softened with something like pity or concern, but she nodded reluctantly, the door creaked shut behind her, leaving you alone with Johnny.

You turned back to him, your chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Johnny’s gaze never wavered from you, his presence simultaneously infuriating and heart-wrenching.

You exhaled heavily, the tension in your shoulders weighing you down as you pulled out a chair and sat across from him. Your legs felt weak, the exhaustion of the day compounding with the whirlwind of emotions his presence had brought. You glanced at Sybil, still poised like a sentinel by your side, her eyes never leaving Johnny.

“Stand down,” you murmured, your tone soft but commanding. She huffed, her tail flicking in irritation, but she obeyed, retreating a step. Even so, her ears remained pricked, and her gaze darted toward the door every so often, her alertness unshaken.

Johnny fidgeted in his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. His lips parted, and the words began to spill out in a flood, his brogue thickened by his heightened state. “It was Leah—no, not her—she didn’t mean it, we know that now, but it wasn’t about her, it was about you, lass. The curse, it was a parasite—Alejandro said—and it... it wasn’t meant for us. It was for you.” His voice cracked, his sentences tangling as he struggled to get it all out. “They wanted to isolate you, to—to pull you away, and we—God, we didn’t see it—”

“Stop,” you cut him off sharply, raising a hand. His words faltered, his wide, desperate eyes meeting yours.

With a flick of your wrist, you waved at the cup of tea sitting untouched on the table before him. A faint shimmer of heat rippled over its surface, steam curling lazily upward as you warmed it with a simple spell. “Drink,” you ordered firmly. “No talking. Not until it’s gone.”

He blinked, caught off guard, but you held his gaze with unyielding intensity. Slowly, he reached for the cup, his hands trembling slightly. His first sip was cautious, his lips pursed as the heat hit him, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he settled into a slow, deliberate rhythm, sipping the tea in silence.

The quiet between you was heavy but oddly grounding. You leaned back in your chair, your arms crossed as you watched him. The act of drinking forced him to pause, the heat of the tea slowing him down as he took each sip with care. His breathing evened out gradually, and the wild, frantic energy that had gripped him when you first entered the room began to dissipate.

Sybil shifted beside you, her head resting on her paws but her sharp eyes never leaving Johnny.

When he finally set the empty cup down, he let out a long, slow breath, his shoulders sagging as though the weight of the world had momentarily lifted. He looked up at you, his eyes clearer but no less filled with emotion. You said nothing, your own expression unreadable as you waited for him to speak.

He began to speak, his voice quieter and steadier than before, though tinged with the raw emotion that seemed to cling to him like a second skin. He recounted the events that led him here—the unraveling of the pack, the curse that had ensnared them, and how everything had been orchestrated to isolate you. There were details you hadn’t known, fragments of the story that filled in gaps you hadn’t realized existed. He told you about the painstaking journey he had taken to track you down, the guilt that weighed on all of them, and how they were left trying to piece themselves back together in your absence.

You listened, your expression neutral, though your heart churned with a mix of emotions you refused to let surface. The words were significant, the pieces he shared adding clarity to the murky picture of what had happened, but in the end, none of it really mattered. Not now. The past was carved into stone, the choices made and the consequences paid. 

Whatever answers he sought from you weren’t ones you could give him—not anymore.

When he finally stopped, silence fell between you, heavy and expectant. His hands fidgeted with the edge of the table, and his blue gaze flicked to yours, searching.

You leaned forward slightly, your hands resting on the table as you fixed Johnny with a firm, steady gaze. The flickering light from the overhead light cast soft shadows across his face, emphasizing the gaunt hollowness that hadn't been there before. He opened his mouth to speak again, but you raised a hand, cutting him off before he could start.

“No,” you said, your voice sharp yet steady. “My turn now.”

He froze, his lips pressing into a thin line as he sat back in his chair, his shoulders tense. His hands fidgeted on the table, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I’m not coming back,” you began, your tone resolute. “Not to the pack, not to that town, not to the life I left behind. If you can tell Laswell that, she can sell off everything I left. Maybe Farah or Alex will want something—it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Johnny flinched as though you’d struck him, his eyes widening slightly. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered hoarsely. “You can’t mean—”

“I do,” you cut him off again, your voice soft but unyielding. “I’ve made my decision, Johnny. I’m staying here. I’m taking leadership of the coven.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his mouth slightly open as if trying to process what you’d just said. His hands curled into fists, body coiled like a spring ready to snap.

“You don’t have to—” he began, his voice rising, but you cut him off with a sharp glare.

“Don’t you dare,” you snapped, your voice low but venomous. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t have to do this. You think I’m being forced? That I don’t know what I’m doing?” You leaned closer, your eyes narrowing as your anger flared. “I paid the price to heal Leah.”

Johnny froze, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“I paid the price,” you repeated, your voice trembling slightly but no less firm. “Leah—she’s alive, she’s whole, because of me. And maybe that’s for the best after everything.”

His face crumpled, his hands clenching tighter as he leaned forward, his lips parting to say something—anything—but no words came out. The guilt and anguish in his eyes were almost too much to bear, but you didn’t let it break you.

“You’ll relay this to the pack,” you said, your voice softening but still firm. “Tell them I’m staying here. That I’m rebuilding my life, in my way, on my terms. And please...” You paused, swallowing the lump in your throat as you struggled to keep your composure. “Don’t come back. Any of you. My heart has endured too much already, and this—this is the least you can do for me. All of you.”

Johnny’s head dropped. For a moment, he looked utterly defeated, the weight of your words pressing down on him like a physical force. 

“I’ll tell them,” he finally murmured, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. He lifted his head just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “I’ll tell them. But—” His voice broke, and he had to take a moment to steady himself. “You’ll always have us, lass. No matter where you are.”

You said nothing, your expression unreadable as you leaned back in your chair, your hands falling to your lap. Sybil nudged your leg gently as you tried to keep the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes at bay.

Johnny sat there for a long moment, before he finally stood, his movements slow and reluctant. His gaze lingered on you for a heartbeat longer, as if committing you to memory, before he turned and headed for the door.

He paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame, his shoulders hunched under the weight of everything left unsaid. Slowly, he turned back to you, his eyes glistening with tears that clung stubbornly to his lashes. His voice, when he spoke, was hoarse, trembling with emotions he could barely contain.

“Can I... touch you?” he asked, his words cracking under the strain. “Just once. One last time.”

For a moment, you hesitated, your gaze flicking to Sybil, who remained at your side, her head raised and alert. But Johnny stood there, his hands shaking as if even the question itself was too much to bear.

You nodded, a small, reluctant gesture and stood up. “Alright,” you whispered. “But just this once.”

He stepped forward hesitantly, as though afraid you might change your mind, his movements slow and careful. When he reached you, his trembling hand reaching up to touch your face. His fingers were rough but gentle as they traced the curve of your cheek, his thumb brushing softly against your skin. He closed his eyes, his breath shuddering as he pressed his forehead briefly against yours.

Then, as if unable to help himself, he dipped his head, burying his nose in the crook of your neck. He brought you snug against himself, one arm wrapped around your waist, and the other cradling the back of your head.

You shivered, the familiar sensation of him so close stirring a wave of emotions you couldn’t quite control. But you didn’t pull away, allowing him this moment, this chance to hold onto what had already been lost.

“Your scent,” he murmured against your skin, his voice breaking as a tear slipped down his cheek. “I just... I needed to remember. Keep it close.”

You stiffened slightly as he shifted, his lips brushing close to your face, but you pressed a hand lightly against his chest, stopping him. “No,” you said softly, firmly.

He didn’t argue, didn’t try to push further. Instead, he drew back slowly, his tear-filled gaze locking with yours for a final, heart-wrenching moment. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice heavy with sorrow and gratitude.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward the exit, his steps slow and heavy, as if every movement cost him. You stayed rooted to the spot, watching as he disappeared through the doorway and into the darkened corridors beyond.

When you finally stepped outside to see him off, the sky was painted with the soft hues of the encroaching dawn. Johnny’s figure was barely visible as he disappeared into the edge of the forest, his long hair catching the faint light before he vanished entirely into the shadows.

Tears slipped silently down your cheeks, hot and unbidden, as you stood there in the stillness of the morning. Sybil pressed her nose to your hand, a soft, comforting whine escaping her as you wiped your face roughly and turned back to the house.

You didn’t look back again. There was nothing left to see.

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[heavysighing-dreamyeyes]

Prey

Slasher AU. Prefacing the fic with the knowledge that there's no batman in this au. I was thinking about Scream and those kinds of horror films when I wrote this, so, all the warnings that come with that.

CW for murder, some knife play, predator/prey dynamics, and sex under manipulation. Smut written with AFAB reader in mind. 18+ MDNI ~3.7k words

Gotham is known for its crime, known for its filth and grime. So when you started dating Jason Todd, you were floored by how good he was. Attentive, sweet, kind, and always so soft with you.

He's the antithesis of everything you're used to, constantly going against your more pessimistic expectations. Your boyfriend is a rare, treasured comfort in the city that's been nothing but rotten to you.

It helps that he's nothing but a gentle giant. Sure, he can scare off anyone looking for trouble while you're walking the street, but he's harmless. If he wasn't born and raised in crime alley, you'd assume he'd have no idea what to do with his size and strength.

He assures you he's more than capable of swinging the bat you keep by your bed if anyone ever broke in. You believe him, of course, but it doesn't completely soothe the knot of anxiety in your stomach. Not when Red Hood is stalking the streets.

It's a name that's been haunting Gotham for over half a year. He's become Gotham's most prolific serial killer in nearly no time at all. He has no pattern, no specific victim type. All the GCPD seems to know is that he targets 'the rot' and wears a distinctive, blood-red mask.

He scares you. It's not that you think that you're on his intended targets list, it's just– his victims, you knew an uneasy amount of them.

The creep at your work? Found dead with a lengthy, bloodstained list of previous convictions.

The offputting guy that liked to lurk at the coffee shop you love? Murdered with the names of his victims carved into his body.

The stranger in your apartment building who stared a little too much? Killed and left with his eyes plucked out in some parking lot.

Jason said it was just a coincidence, that there was no need to worry when it was just criminals and predators being targeted. He sounded so confident, so sure of this fact that it was easy to brush off the unsettling fear that seemed to travel to your spine every time you heard Red Hood's name.

But now? You wish you had taken the gut feeling more seriously.

You weren’t even supposed to be home. You were supposed to be at work. Safe. Calmed by the people around you. But your manager had double scheduled you and your coworker, and, in the moment, you had been more than happy to take the opportunity to spend more time with your boyfriend.

Jason was nowhere in sight when you had come home. It had been quiet, almost eerie. You assumed he was napping, getting some well-deserved rest. You knew how hard he works. You were almost giddy, at the thought of surprising him, at curling up in your soft, warm bed and surrounding yourself with your boyfriend's arms and scent.

You cracked open your bedroom door slowly, carefully, not wanting to disturb him. But it’s not the sight of your handsome, sleeping boyfriend you’re greeted with. It’s something far worse.

Your brain doesn’t quite make the connection between the imposing figure tugging on a pair of leather gloves and the serial killer prowling the streets at first. But as your gaze trails up the stranger to where his face should be, you recognize the mask that's been on the edge of your nightmares for months.

Red Hood. Red Hood is in your room, and he’s picking up a knife off your bed to shove it into a sheath on his hip. You have the chilling realization that your boyfriend is nowhere in sight. Panic starts to close your throat. He could be dead. Jason– your Jason– could be dead.

You think you make a noise at the thought. Or maybe you step back in horror. You’re not completely sure. But what you do know, is that you’ve done something to get him to notice your presence. Red Hood whips his head towards you. He breathes out your name. And you turn on your heel to run.

You dart through your apartment, vision tunneled with one purpose. Get away. You have to get to the door, have to get help, have to hope that your boyfriend is still clinging to life and that you’ll be fast enough to save him.

Your heart threatens to pound out of your chest, your hands feel clammy, and all you want to do is cry, but you have to run. You have to. He’s right behind you. You can hear his heavy boots hit the ground with every step, and it only serves to make skin grow cold and your spine tingle.

You throw open your front door, opening your mouth to scream and beg someone to come help.

You don’t get the chance. The door slams shut in front of you, your only hope for escape barricaded closed by a large hand pressing into the wood above your head. You try to yell, try to shriek and make a commotion, but leather presses harshly against your lips before you're able to make a sound.

It’s muscle memory, built on self-defense training Jason always insisted you practiced, that you’re able to elbow him in the gut and bite down on his hand. He grunts, shifting his hold on you. You find enough space to spin around and shove him. You think he steps back more at your audacity than at your strength.

It doesn’t matter why, all that matters is that it gives you an opportunity to sprint past him, to try to make it to the fire escape. He must find your attempt cute, because he huffs out a laugh as he lunges for your fleeing form.

You cry out as he tackles you to the ground, maneuvering you as you both fall. The impact of the ground is somewhat softened by his chest, but it dazes you enough that you don’t put up a strong fight when he flips you to your back.

Seeing him up close knocks the air from your lungs more than the fall did. His mask gives away no emotion, only his slightly labored breathing and body heat gives away that he’s even human. Even as terror sets itself into every fiber of your being, there’s a brief clarity in your panicked thoughts.

There’s no scent of blood on him. There’s a chance, there’s a hope, that Jason is okay. There’s a chance he wasn’t home when Red Hood broke in. There’s a chance he’s safe. And maybe, maybe Red Hood won’t hurt you. You’re not exactly good, but you’re not evil, not someone he would target.

The thought calms you enough that you start to struggle, if you could just survive until Jason gets here– the thought is cut short when something shiny catches your vision. In your frenzied state, you’d failed to notice Red Hood unsheathing his knife.

You freeze, and he lowers the tip of the knife to rest it at the base of your throat. He hasn't said anything since he caught you, hasn’t given you a hint of what he wants from you.

You wish he would, wish he would give you anything to latch onto. Tears threaten to prick your eyes as he settles his weight on your hips, hunching over as if to get a better look at your petrified face.

Your heart only beats fast when he starts to trail the knife down to catch the collar of your shirt. You can feel how sharp the blade is, how he would only need to press a little harder to make you bleed. The idea makes you whimper softly, unable to hide how vulnerable you are.

He catches the noise, head tilting like he finds it interesting, and he pulls the knife down your sternum until the fabric of your shirt starts to stretch and tear.

You choke on nothing, desperately grabbing at his wrist to try and stop him from ripping your shirt in two, “Wait– please,” you start to beg, anything to save yourself from this. He can’t– you can’t let him– not when you know Jason will be the one to find your body.

He shushes you, low and soothing, and even your best efforts doesn’t stop his steady hand from tracing a line down your body with the knife, “Don’t be scared, baby. I thought you liked it when I got rough?”

His voice. His voice. You know that voice. It chills you to the core, widens your eyes, and sends you spiraling to a fact you never once considered, “Jason?”

He laughs, the sound distorted by the mask and drags the knife back up your skin to rest over your heart, “I knew you’d get there. You’ve always been too smart for your own good.”

It’s not fear that makes your body shake anymore, but anger as you snap at him, “Are you kidding me? Is this some kind of stupid prank?”

“It's not a prank baby,” he says, so plain he may as well be talking about the weather, “I’m Red Hood.”

You blink, shocked to silence as your anger fades to unease. You can only imagine what he looks like right now. Eyes dark, face set with a mockery of a smile, and nothing like the Jason you know.

You swallow thickly, trying to reconcile the man you love, and the murderer bracing most of his weight on your body, “But– Jason– you wouldn’t– killing people– that’s not right,” you finish lamely.

The air seems to grow thick with tension at your stuttered words, and he raises the knife. You scream and squeeze your eyes shut as he brings it down without hesitation.

Pain doesn’t come, but a thunk by your ear does. You open your eyes and turn your head, the shining blade is embedded into the wood by your face, so close that your eyelashes nearly brush it when you blink.

The sight is enough to make tears fill your eyes, and any semblance of safety you felt was quickly ripped away by the glimmering knife.

Jason starts to shush you again, catching your chin gently with his gloved hands to turn your face back to him. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt ya. I would never. You just don’t understand yet. The people I kill- they aren’t really people, baby. They’re monsters, a cancer to the city. I’m making things better, helping.”

He sounds like he really believes that, and it makes you want to cry harder, “Baby,” he coos, “Don’t be scared. I’ve always kept you safe. How I do it? Well, it doesn’t really matter, does it? I’m not asking you to get your hands dirty.”

You flinch when he starts to wipe your tears, and he tuts, one hand leaving your face to lift his bright red mask to the top of his head in an attempt to calm you.

There’s no pretending it isn’t him. Every blemish you’ve come to memorize, every fleck in his eyes, the quirk of his eyebrow. It’s him. Jason is Red Hood, and Red Hood has you pinned to your apartment floor.

“Better,” he asks gently, leaning down to kiss away the tracks of tears on your cheeks. It only serves to scare you more. Your boyfriend, he seems nearly unrecognizable now.

“Please,” you beg again. You’re not sure what you’re asking for. For him to let you go? For him to tell you it’s all a sick joke? For him to stop killing?

He offers you none of these, only rambles idly as he presses kiss down to your jaw, to your throat, “C’mon, baby. I’ve always taken care of you, haven't I? This doesn’t change anything. I still love you. You’re still my partner, my everything. I’m just making things better for you, for everyone.”

His hands start to trace the bare skin of your sides, pushing aside your torn shirt, “Let me remind you how good we are, baby. It’ll make everything better.”

He punctuates his little speech with a roll of his hips, and it draws a gasp from your throat.

It’s so familiar, something you couldn’t help but crave from him. But it feels tainted now, almost wrong. You grab at his shoulders, half to push him away and half to find comfort in pulling him closer as raw panic lacing your features.

He grins at you, as if he can read your every thought and internal struggle. You open your mouth to protest, to remind him and yourself that this is wrong. That even if the people he kills are evil, vile, and twisted, that doesn’t make him right.

Jason doesn’t seem interested in hearing your arguments, though, and he ducks his head to capture your mouth in a passionate kiss.

He nips at your lips, traces your tongue with his, and leaves you panting for air when he finally pulls away. “There you go,” he praises, running his thumb over your spit-stained mouth, “No need to think so hard about it.”

Later, when you’re sticky with sweat and exhausted and laying on his chest, you’ll berate yourself for giving in.

But in the moment? He knows exactly what you like, knows exactly how to get your head to go foggy, and lose your inhibitions. He’s been in your bed for months, learned every little thing that makes you tick with frightening accuracy, and he uses every bit of that knowledge to convince you to give in.

He nips at your pulse, fingers tugging at the fabric of your pants. He’s heavy and warm on top of you, and his murmured praises and gentle touches are almost enough to distract you from the knife driven into the floor by your head.

You dig your nails into his shoulders and somewhere between him sucking a line of bruises to your chest and him hiking your thigh over his hip, what’s left of your clothes is thrown strewn and crumpled onto the floor.

The wood is cold against your back, but it’s the look in his eyes that makes you shiver. He’s completely dressed, even as he has you naked and exposed underneath him. And his gaze, his gaze is almost predatory as he devours the sight of you.

You don’t know how you never noticed it before, the way his eyes darken like he wants to eat you alive, like he wants to keep you soft and spread open for him forever.

It makes your throat tighten, nearly sends you back into a state of sick terror, but then he dips his head, and nips the shell of your ear, “You’re being so good for me, doll,” he praises, reverent and soft, “You just keep being sweet for me and everything will be okay."

Your breath hitches, and suddenly it's not fear that knots itself in your stomach, but a desire to be good. You want to be sweet for him, want his praise and adoration and approval, no matter what he’s done or what he's capable of.

Pride flickers over his face at the way your eyes seem to glaze over and he’s quick to undo his belt, eager to keep you compliant and dazed, “Look at you, all flustered over some pretty words,” he half taunts, “S’like you were meant for me.”

“Jason,” you start, and he shakes his head at you, pushing his fingers between your teeth.

“Bite down for me, sweetheart,” he instructs, and you can’t help but listen, nipping at the leather of his glove so he can free his hand. “Good,” he coos at you, “Now, hold onto that for me while I take care of you.”

You want to listen, want to do as he says, but his fingers start to rub slow, steady circles against your clit and your mouth drops open in a pitched whine all on its own, letting the glove fall to the floor.

He laughs at you, fond and mocking all at once, “Sweet baby, can’t handle it can you? That’s alright, doll. I’ll make you feel real good anyway.”

You nearly go cross eyed when his cock nudges your cunt. Usually he’d take his time, have you creaming on his fingers or tongue before he’d make you see stars on his cock. But there’s something on face that says he has something to prove, that even with knowledge of who he is, it doesn’t change that your body knows him, wants him.

His name leaves your throat in a needy cry as he sinks into you, slowly guiding himself deep into your fluttering cunt.

Your back arches as his fingers press harder to your clit, his smile almost primal as he feels you clench down on his dick, “Gonna make a mess, baby,” he warns, and you’re not sure if he’s telling you he’s planning on making you a mess, or if he’s pointing out that you’re already on the verge of soaking his cock.

You groan when he starts to rock his hips in shallow thrusts, and it makes you babble his name faster. He’s being careful, letting you adjust to every inch of him as he splits you apart.

But, it’s not enough, not enough to drive the thoughts of Red Hood lingering on the edge of your mind, so you hook your ankles behind his back, and squeeze your eyes shut. If you don’t see him, don’t see the mask still resting on top of his head, maybe you can still pretend he’s just Jason, just your sweet, normal boyfriend.

“Don’t hide,” he grunts and jerks his hips forward, burying himself in one smooth motion that makes you gasp and snap your eyes open.

“There you go,” he murmurs, smile sharp as he gazes down at you. He drops his forearm to the ground next to your head, caging you between his arm and his knife. His free hand leaves your clit to tug your thigh higher up his hip.

He almost seems proud when he starts to grind into you, watching every blissed expression that crosses your face when ruts against your sweet spot.

He pulls his hips back, making sure your eyes stay locked on his, before he drives back into your cunt, setting a head spinning pace that has your needy mewls and the sound of skin on skin filling the room.

He lowers his head to kiss you with a sly grin, swallowing up every whine you make. All the reservations you had quickly disappear, replaced by the tight feeling building in your gut, by the drag of his cock against your walls. He’s relentless, chasing his and your pleasure with a single minded focus.

There’s a promise in his touch, when his hand leaves your thigh to find your hip. His fingers dig into your skin, hard enough to leave an imprint. If your head was any clearer, you would recognize it for the threat that it was.

His lips leave yours, and he buries his face in your shoulder, thrusts becoming sloppy as he murmurs slurred vows into your skin. “Gonna keep you forever. Gonna make you feel this way every day. Never gonna let you go. Never gonna lose this, baby.”

Maybe it’s the way his voice goes ragged. Maybe it’s the way his hips stutter as he fights off his release. Or maybe it’s the way he presses feverish kisses to your skin. But it sends you spiraling over the edge, clenching around his cock and cumming with his name in your throat.

He follows you with a moan, movements slowing as he pumps his spend into your twitching pussy. “Good, baby. So good,” he manages to get out, pulling his face back just enough to watch you whimper and try to gather what’s left of your rationality.

He tilts his head down, grinning like a hunter that’s caught the best prize of the season. The movement causes his mask to slip off his head, sliding it back in place to cover his face. The air catches in your lungs at the sight, your body tensing as clarity strikes through the lingering haze of pleasure.

Jason only laughs, tracing the curve of your jaw, “What’s wrong, baby,” he teases, slowly rolling his hips into your sensitive cunt, “Don’t tell me you forgot who was fucking you?”

“Take it off,” You murmur, voice tight as he drags every last bit of ecstasy from your body.

He hums, “Mm, No. You gotta get used to it, sweetheart. This mask, me, ain’t going anywhere.”

A part of you is still scared, scared to test him more than you already have, but it’s not Red Hood you want, it’s not Red Hood you fell in love with. Anger guides your actions as you reach up to rip the mask off his face. He catches your wrist faster than you see him move.

Everything seems to stop.

He slowly lowers your wrist back to the ground, pinning the offending hand above your head, “Now, sweetheart,” he says slowly, voice lowered to a tone you’ve never heard before, “We’re not going to do that.”

“I’m not sleeping with Red Hood,” you hiss, sounding braver than you feel.

He snorts at you, and every word he speaks is followed by a sharp thrust of his cock, “Baby, I am Red Hood.”

Your arguments turn to keens, overwhelmed and dizzy by his institance to keep driving his dick deeper into your pussy. His words hardly seem to register, but he keeps talking to you anyway, “You’ve been sleeping with Red Hood, baby. And you liked it– loved it. Just have to remind you.”

You can’t seem to focus. He’s good, so good at hitting all the spots that turn your brain into mush and your legs into jelly. But that mask, that stupid mask is staring down at you. It’s the only thing you can see.

You’re divided between Jason, the Jason whose cock has you babbling and moaning, and Red Hood. Red Hood who has your wrist pinned to the hard floor, who’s watching your every movement like he needs to memorize every expression, every sound you make.

It’s not until later, when he has you cumming on his cock for the fifth time, that you realize they are the same. They’ve always been the same.

Jason Todd is Red Hood, and now that you know, he'll blur the lines until you're not sure why you were ever really scared of him.

[mrsbuckybarnes1917]

10: UNDER THE SURFACE

Previous chapter < MASTERLIST > Next chapter

Summary: You’re nervously preparing to meet Bucky’s friends for his birthday and give him a personal gift. As you head to the restaurant with Bucky, you’re introduced to Sam and Torres, who tease Bucky while making you feel welcome. Things get tense when your ex shows up at the bar, making unwelcome advances and insults. Bucky steps in, showing his protective side.

Warnings: Strong language and insults, violence/threats, brief reference to past trauma/loss, unwanted touch and inappropriate comments from Leonard

Word Count: 5504

Something inside you held your hand back. It was poised and ready to rap against Bucky’s front door, but you paused. Anxiety. Would Bucky like your gift? Were you ready to meet his friends? You took a deep breath and let your body move on autopilot, cutting off the messages from your brain which would be liable to leave you paralyzed forever.

You gripped the small velvet box tightly in your hand. It felt heavier than it should. It didn’t take long for Bucky to answer the door, revealing a half dressed super soldier. He was wearing a black t-shirt and jeans and had one sock in his hand. You glanced down to see that its partner was on his foot. 

“You’re early,” he frowned.

“Yeah, sorry, I just wanted to talk before we left. Is that okay?” you asked.

“What’s that?” he responded with his own question, completely ignoring your own.

“A gift,” you said shyly, stepping inside when he moved to let you pass. “For your birthday.”

Bucky looked surprised and raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.” You handed him the box, feeling even more anxious now. “It’s personal… so if you wanted to open it now rather than at the party…”

He looked down at the box, then back at you, sitting down beside you on his couch. Bucky opened the box. Inside was a black and gold bracelet, its design subtly mimicking the intricate pattern of his vibranium arm. His name— James Buchanan Barnes— was engraved on the inner surface.

Bucky stared at it for a long moment, his expression unreadable.

“I… I remember you said…” you muttered, trying to fill the growing silence, “that you don’t have your dog tags anymore. I thought maybe... this could be a reminder of who you are. All of you. Not just the soldier, or the Winter Soldier, but James, too.”

He blinked and looked up at her, his blue eyes startlingly bright. “Princess...”

“You don’t have to wear it if you don’t want to,” you added quickly, suddenly feeling extremely self-conscious. “I just thought—”

“No,” he interrupted, his voice was soft but firm. “It’s perfect.”

He slipped the bracelet onto his right wrist, where it settled snugly against his skin. He twisted his arm, studying the way it looked against the black and gold of his vibranium. For a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he looked back at you, and his lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” you said, your own smile blooming as the tension in your chest eased. “Looks good on you.”

Bucky tugged on his sock, still glancing down at the bracelet on his wrist as though he needed to remind himself it was real. His fingers brushed over the engraved lettering, his name carved into the metal as though reclaiming something he’d thought lost.

“You really see people,” he murmured again, almost to himself, and it made your chest swell with an odd mix of pride and affection.

You smiled and looked back at him. The bracelet, snug against his wrist, looked like it had always belonged there.

After a moment of silence, Bucky cleared his throat. “You know...” He hesitated, his fingers still grazing the metal. “This... what you made... I bet other people might like it, too.” His voice was cautious, like he was testing the idea aloud for the first time and wasn’t sure how you’d take it.

You tilted your head with surprise. “You think so?”

He nodded slowly, not meeting your eyes. “Yeah. Not the same, obviously.” He gestured vaguely with his vibranium hand. “But... something personal. Something that feels like... them.”

Your mouth dropped open, totally caught off guard by the suggestion, even more so because it was coming from Bucky. It wasn’t like you hadn’t done this before, but it had always been a gift idea for someone you cared about. Not once had you considered that it would be something you could do for others. “That’s... actually a really good idea.”

Bucky glanced at you hesitantly. “I mean, only if you want to. But maybe just don’t... mention me?”

“Of course not. But... would you mind if I took a picture of you wearing it?” you asked tentatively, biting your lip softly. “Just your arm, nothing else. I’d love to get feedback from my followers, see what the interest is like for custom pieces.”

Bucky looked down thoughtfully, his expression somewhat guarded and you rushed to clarify.

“It’s totally fine if you’re not comfortable. I can just describe it or post the sketch instead.”

He exhaled slowly, his thumb brushing over the bracelet again. “Just my arm?”

“Just your arm,” you promised, pulling out your phone. “Deal?”

He placed his right arm in his lap in implied consent, and you quickly framed the shot, focusing on the bracelet, as the black and gold gleamed in the light, the engraving hidden but the design standing out against his skin.

“Perfect,” you smiled, lowering your phone. “Thank you, Buck. This means a lot.”

“Yeah, well...” He looked away, scratching his beard. “I think it’s a good thing. People deserve to feel like they’ve got something that’s... theirs.”

Your heart swelled at his words. His approval seemed genuine, not just a clause of your contract. You glanced down at the photo again, admiring how the piece on his wrist really popped against the dark background of his jeans. You uploaded the image to your feed with the caption: “Every piece has a story, and I’d love to help tell yours. Would you be interested in custom jewelry options?”

“Shall we go?” Bucky asked, standing up. He grabbed the leather jacket which was draped over the back of the couch.

“Yeah, sure.” You followed his lead, not missing the way he carefully pulled his sleeve over the bracelet so that he wouldn’t disturb the way it sat on his wrist.

The restaurant was warm and surprisingly lively, a welcome relief to the bitterly cold weather outside. Bucky was at your side, his hand hovering on your lower back in a show of support. Both of you had decided on the ride over that your act would have to start before you entered because anyone could be watching. 

You’d been right, Sam and Torres were waiting near the entrance, their smiles bright and welcoming.

“Buck! Look who decided to show up! Happy Birthday, man!” Sam said, clapping Bucky on the shoulder before turning to you with an appraising grin. “And this must be the better half.” He offered his arms out in a hug which you returned shyly.

“I’m not quite sure about better,” you laughed. “Maybe the half with less attitude.”

Torres laughed, extending his hand. “I like her already.”

Bucky muttered something unintelligible under his breath but didn’t protest when Sam and Torres ushered you both toward a table near the back. He grabbed your hand and dragged you along, keeping you close to his side like his own personal shield against the merriment.

As the evening unfolded, you got to know Sam and Torres a little better. They treated you like they had known you for years, taking it in turns to tease Bucky and make you feel welcome.

“Anyone who can put up with him must be an angel.”

“Oh very far from it, Joaquin!”

“So,” Sam cut in, leaning towards you with an easy smile, “tell us about yourself, Y/N. What’s your story?”

“Sam,” Bucky said darkly in warning.

“What? Gotta get to know the potential sister-in-law!”

Bucky already looked like he was going to explode but you leaned against him, giving him a small nudge. “Not much to tell,” you said, wrapping Bucky’s vibranium arm around your waist. “Grew up with my grandma. Studied art and design, and now I live opposite this grump and pay the rent by designing jewelry. But you know the last part, seeing as you’ve already stalked my Instagram.”

Sam laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender. “Caught red-handed. I had to make sure Bucky wasn’t just making you up to get us off his back.”

You laughed, a mild hint of panic in your tone. “Well, as you can see, I’m very much real.”

Torres joined in on your laughter. “You’ve got some serious talent though,” he said earnestly. “That bracelet with the stars was my favorite. Amazing work.”

“Thanks,” you blushed. “That was inspired by my grandma, actually. She used to love the stars. Every night she would tell me a story about the different constellations. She said that the stars reminded her of how, even in the darkest night, there was light to guide you. So, when she died a few years ago, I designed that one in her honor.”

The three men fell silent for a moment, moved by your tribute.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Sam said quietly, while Torres nodded beside him, echoing the sentiment. 

You felt a pang of sadness for a moment, the pain quickly softened by the way Bucky’s hand wrapped around yours, his fingers weaving between yours. You looked up at him, his face inches away from yours. He wore a concerned expression, his eyes searching yours. It wasn’t a subject you had broached during your prep for the charade. You gave his fingers a quick squeeze, offering him a small smile of reassurance, telling him you were okay. Despite this, his arm tightened around you protectively like a guard dog.

Sam cleared his throat, breaking the solemn moment and lightening the mood with a grin. “Well, your grandma sounds like she was an incredible lady. Explains where you get all your charm.”

“Yeah,” Torres added, smirking. “And it also explains how you put up with this one.” He jerked his thumb toward Bucky, who gave him an unimpressed glare in return.

“Trust me, dealing with him is a pleasure… every time.”

Bucky choked on his beer as you responded and you patted his back while Sam laughed at a blushing Torres. You looked up at Bucky, your eyes sparkling with mischief. His ears were red and his expression painted a picture of incredulity and something else— something more intense. His lips twitched, as though he was searching for something to say, but no words came from his mouth.

“You okay there, birthday boy?” you teased.

The look Bucky was giving you was disarming; there was an icy fire behind those blue eyes which you’d never seen before. A smirk graced his lips as he leaned down to your ear, his voice low enough so only you could hear. “Careful, doll. Keep this up, and I might forget which parts of this are for show.”

The deep timbre of his voice sent a jolt of heat straight through you, his words dancing across the line between playful and dangerously serious. Bucky pulled back to meet your gaze, as if daring you to respond. But before you could, Sam clapped his hands together, interrupting the moment.

“All right, lovebirds, save it for later! I wanna know more about your girl.”

“More?” you asked jokingly. “Wow, nobody expects the Spanish inquisition!”

Sam laughed but leaned onto the table. “Oh baby, we’re just getting started. Gotta make sure you’re good enough for our guy, here.”

You leaned in, undeterred by the insinuation. “Good enough for him?” you answered, your hand over your chest and voice filled with mock offense. “This guy was at my door practically every day begging me for a shot at this,” you waved your hands over your body with a flourish.

“Begged, huh?” Bucky smirked.

Turning to Bucky, you smiled back. “Absolutely! You might as well have been out there on your hands and knees. Just couldn’t resist my charm.”

“You make it sound like I had no choice.”

“Oh, trust me,” you shot back with a widening grin, “you didn’t.”

“You two need to keep it in your pants; this place’s meant to be family friendly!”

Sam shook his head while you and Torres laughed. Bucky didn’t say anything, but his grip on your hip tightened slightly.

“Okay, real talk—” Torres sobered up and leaned towards you. “Do you have any single friends? You know, someone who might appreciate a guy like me?”

You tilted your head, with a look of intense concentration as you pretended to consider his request. “Hmmm, a guy like you? That’s a pretty tall order.”

“Hey, come on, I’m totally a catch!” Torres insisted, feigning a look of outrage. “Good looks, charming, muscles, and excellent taste in friends!” He pointed at Sam and Bucky, earning a scoff from the latter.

“Well,” you teased, “I do have a couple of friends, but you're not their type.”

“I’m up for the challenge,” Torres replied, winking.

“I’m not sure Hanna and Aditi are your type, plus they are both taken… by each other.”

“Ah, the paint champs, right?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Torres knew he had slipped up.

You frowned, you hadn’t mentioned paintballing to Bucky. “That’s some heavy duty stalking you guys have been doing there, huh?” 

Sam raised his hands and laughed. “Hey, it’s harmless curiosity. Gotta know who’s dating our guy.”

Bucky groaned. “I thought I told you to be subtle.”

“Harmless, huh? Good thing I only have to turn on the TV to dig up dirt on you guys. So, I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

“So these girls are your partners in crime?” Sam asked.

“Yeah, they’re… my family,” you said with a fond smile. “Been through everything together— puberty, high school, camp, college, questionable relationships, terrible fashion choices. You name it, we survived it.”

Sam grinned. “Sounds like the kind of friends who’d know where the skeletons are buried.”

“They wouldn’t just know,” you teased. “They’d be the ones helping me bury the bodies.”

Torres chuckled. “Now that’s loyalty. What’re they like?”

“Hanna’s the free spirit,” you explained. “She kind of goes where the wind takes her, which is hilarious because Aditi is the opposite— she’s wound a little tight. Super organized, loves a good plan. Honestly, I think Hanna’s ‘whatever happens, happens’ attitude drives Aditi up the wall sometimes.”

“Yeah, opposites attract.”

You laughed, leaning slightly into Bucky. “Yeah, kind of like me and this one.” You reached up and lightly tickled Bucky’s chin, drawing a rare smile as he rolled his eyes with mock exasperation.

Sam’s grin widened. “Sounds like you’ve got a solid crew. What’re their families like? Must’ve been interesting growing up around all those dynamics.”

Bucky frowned at Sam, narrowing his eyes questioningly, but Sam pressed on casually without acknowledging his friend’s pointed stares.

“Oh they’re a colorful mix,” you said, glancing between them. “Hanna’s family is just her and her mom. They’re really close since her dad left when she was ten. And Aditi’s family? Traditional Indian parents. They were strict about her education and, of course, boys.” You chuckled softly. “They were pretty shocked when she came out, but they adjusted. Her dad, especially, was super open and supportive.”

“Sounds like they’ve got good people backing them up,” Sam said, his voice warm but still probing.

“They do. And they’ve been just as generous to me and Hanna,” you said with a smile. “Aditi’s parents always included us in their holiday parties, made us feel like family too.”

Bucky’s hand lightly brushed yours under the table, a small, supportive gesture, but his gaze flicked between you and Sam, his instincts clearly still on edge. Sam, however, just nodded thoughtfully, his expression unreadable.

“Must be pretty well off to invite everyone to the party.”

“Yeah, Aditi’s dad is an accountant. Never really understood what it is that he does, but he works at some big company,” you said with a shrug. “Honestly, I’ve never really asked. Numbers and I don’t exactly get along.”

You paused for a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. “But he’s always been really generous with his time. He’s the one who helped me set up my business and gave me advice on managing my taxes. Even now, if I have a question, he’s just a phone call away.”

“That’s solid,” Sam said, nodding approvingly. “Sounds like he’s got your back.”

“Yeah, he’s kinda been like a father figure for all of us,” you admitted, your voice softening. “‘Cause Hanna and I haven’t really had anyone like that.”

You didn’t catch the flicker of sadness that crossed Sam’s face, but Bucky’s eagle eyes didn’t miss the muscle twitch. He knew Sam far too well not to know that there was more to this interrogation than simple curiosity.

“Hey, doll?” Bucky leaned in, brushing his lips near your ear to make it look affectionate, but he kept his voice casual. “Think you could grab us another round?”

You raised an eyebrow, catching the subtle hint that Bucky wanted to speak with Sam and Torres alone. “Wow, delegating this early in our relationship. You’re walking a fine line, Birthday Boy.”

Bucky pressed a soft kiss on your cheek, making you blush. “I’ll owe you for this,” he whispered.

Bucky watched you saunter over to the bar, looking away as soon as he realized that he was enjoying the way your hips swayed from side to side. He turned back to Sam with an accusatory stare.

“What gives?” he demanded.

“What’s wrong, Buck?” Sam asked with feigned innocence.

“You know exactly what I mean? What are you two up to?”

“Not here, Buck. Now’s not the time,” Sam dropped his voice. “I don’t want you worrying until we know there is something to worry about.”

“Is she in danger?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“That’s not good enough, Sam,” Bucky growled.

“We’ll let you know if there’s something to tell.”

As you leaned against the bar, waiting for the bartender to finish up your order, you suddenly felt a hand on your shoulder. A familiar voice slurred behind you, dripping with false charm and too much alcohol. You felt as if someone had poured a glass of ice cold water over your soul.

“Well, well, if it isn’t my favorite heartbreaker,” Leonard drawled, his grin smug and unsteady as he swayed slightly. “Fancy running into you here. You’re looking as stunning as ever, babe.”

You looked over your shoulder, hoping against hope that you were mistaken. Leonard’s tie was loose, and his usually immaculate hair was tousled in a way that you had only seen after certain intimate activities. He was leaning far too close to you, his breath heavy with the scent of whiskey.

“Leonard,” you said, your nose crinkled with disgust. You took a step back to put more space between you. “This is a… surprise.”

Leonard’s grin widened at your reaction, completely oblivious to the fact that his presence was repulsive to you. His eyes gleamed with a combination of arrogance and alcohol-fueled confidence.

“Where’s the surprise, babe? I’d call it fate. Bringing us together,” he replied, his voice dropping with entitled flirtation. “Been thinking about you.”

“Oh really?” Your tone couldn’t have any less enthusiasm if you tried.

“It always comes back to us, you and me. I mean, I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye the last time I saw you. So this seems like kismet.”

You scoffed derisively but Leonard didn’t seem to notice. “I’m pretty sure you were the one who walked out on me.”

His eyes narrowed at the memory, a flicker of anger passing through him before his smirk returned, even though it looked a little forced. “And who’s fault was that? But I’m willing to be the bigger man here, I mean, you know you miss me.”

“I wouldn’t bet on that if I were you.” You cringed and tried to move further away, but out of nowhere Leonard’s hand slid to your waist. His touch was hot, and not in a good way. “I don’t miss anything about you, Leonard. And get your hand off me.”

He chuckled darkly, ignoring your protests. “Come on, don’t be like that. We had something good, you and me. Bet no one’s measured up in that department since. Go on, admit it, babe— no one knows you like I do.”

Before you could answer with a retort, Leonard’s hand slid down to your hip and around to your ass.

“Let go,” you snapped, your voice shaking with anger and disgust as you tried to push him away. But Leonard just tightened his grip, pulling you closer.

“Hey!” 

The word was not said as a shout; in fact, it was relatively quiet, but the force behind it cut the air like a knife. Bucky was standing behind you, his face remained impassive, but the fire behind his blue eyes burned with a barely bottled rage. “You heard her. Let go.”

Leonard sneered, slowly and reluctantly dropping his hand. But he didn’t step back. “Oh, look who it is,” he said, his voice mocking. “The neighbor. Gotta say, you move fast, babe. First me, now this guy? What’s the tally at, now? How many notches on that belt of yours, huh? Quite the little slut, aren’t you?”

His words hit you like a slap on the face, they made your breath catch and your eyes burn. You felt dirty, exposed. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, threatening to spill over. But before you could react, Bucky stepped in front of you, positioning himself between you and Leonard.

“Watch your mouth.” His voice was low… lethal.

For a second, Leonard faltered, but his drunken bravado flared and he puffed out his chest. His lip curled into a contemptuous smirk. “And what’re you gonna do about it, Sergeant? Huh? You think you’re tough? Come on, try it.” Leonard held out his hands as an invitation for Bucky to make a move.

Bucky gently pushed you further backwards out of harm's way. “Careful, doll. This guy’s trying to be brave.”

Bucky turned back in time to see Leonard pull his arm back. He swung, a wild, clumsy punch aimed at Bucky’s jaw. Bucky didn’t even flinch. He stepped to the side with ease and grace, allowing Leonard’s momentum to carry him straight to the floor.

“Idiot,” Bucky muttered, shaking his head. He turned back to you, his face softening as he saw your shaken expression. “Come on, doll. You don't need to see this.”

But before you had taken one step, Leonard shouted after you, his voice slurred, and his hair completely disheveled. “You think you’re better than me? Huh? Think you’re better off with this murderer? You’ll come crawling back, you always do!”

Bucky let out a slow, controlled breath and let go of your arms before turning back to Leonard. He crossed the short distance between them in two strides and grabbed Leonard by the shirt and hauled him to his feet with shocking ease. He brushed off Leonard’s wrinkled suit jacket, straightened his tie with exaggerated care and then leaned in close to speak to Leonard. His voice was low enough that you couldn’t make out Bucky’s words.

Whatever it was that Bucky said made the color drain from Leonard’s face. His bravado vanished, his mouth opening and closing silently. Without uttering another word, Leonard stumbled away, disappearing from the restaurant.

Bucky turned back to you, his expression softening instantly. His hands came to your shoulders, steady and reassuring. “You okay?” he asked gently.

You nodded but the lump in your throat was too firmly lodged to let you speak. The tears you’d been holding back felt like they were ready to break the dam. Sensing your distress, Bucky pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing against your ear. “I’ve got you.”

Even after you’d had a chance to compose yourself, Bucky’s hands lingered on your shoulders. His gaze searched yours with furrowed brows of concern. “Why don’t we just get out of here?” he suggested. “I’ll take you home. You don’t need to deal with this anymore tonight.”

You blinked up at him, surprised by the offer. “Bucky, I can’t just leave. Sam and Torres put so much effort into this. It’d be rude to just take off.”

“Doll,” he interrupted gently, his voice dropping lower, “I don’t care about them right now. I care about you.” His thumb brushed along your arm in a comforting gesture, anchoring you. “Let’s get outta here.”

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice, but you shook your head and forced a reassuring smile. “I appreciate it, Bucky, I really do. But I’ll feel worse if I bail on them. Besides…” You glanced toward the table where Sam and Torres, both men had their eyes on you. “I can handle this.”

He studied you for a long moment, as if weighing the merits of arguing further. Finally, he exhaled, though his protective concern didn’t waver. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you said softly. “I’ll be okay.”

His hand moved to the small of your back as he guided you back toward the table. “Just say the word, and we’re gone,” he murmured close to your ear, his presence grounding.

As you approached, you noticed the change in Sam and Torres’ demeanors, their earlier merriment gone. Sam's sharp eyes darted to Bucky, then to you, and Torres looked more serious than you’d ever seen him.

“Everything okay?” Sam asked you, his tone casual but his gaze searching.

“Yeah,” you replied, forcing a smile that didn’t reach your eyes. “Just ran into an old… acquaintance.”

“Acquaintance?” Torres repeated, his brow furrowing. “That guy was all over you, and not in a good way.”

Bucky rolled his eyes at the younger man’s bluntness.

Sam leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, a kind smile on his face as he spoke to you. “Looked like Bucky handled it, though. What’d you say to him, Buck?” he asked, turning to Bucky with a smirk.

Bucky shrugged, slipping his arm back over your shoulder and pulling you close to his side. “Just told him to leave her alone.”

Torres let out a low whistle. “Man looked like he’d seen a ghost when he walked out. Sure that’s all you said?”

Bucky didn’t answer, his attention still focused on you. “You sure you’re okay?”

You nodded quickly, feeling uncomfortable under the weight of their attention. “I’m fine, really,” you insisted. “Just embarrassed. I didn’t mean to make a scene or ruin the night.”

You just wanted the ground to swallow you up. Not only had Bucky’s friends witnessed your humiliation, but you were worried that it would put your fake relationship in jeopardy.

“Hey,” Sam interjected. “You didn’t ruin anything. That guy was out of line. You handled yourself fine. And Bucky—” Sam smirked slightly, leaning back in his chair. “You might’ve earned yourself a permanent invite to every future birthday bash.”

Torres snorted. “Seriously, that guy hit the floor faster than I could blink. You’ve got moves, man.”

Bucky, still watching you, offered a faint smirk. “He was drunk. Didn’t take much.”

“Still,” Sam said, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “If you need to head out, we’ll understand. No shame in calling it a night after dealing with that.”

You hesitated, glancing between the three of them. Bucky’s hand settled lightly on your knee under the table. “You guys put so much effort into tonight. I don’t want to ruin it for you.” You said the last bit to Bucky, knowing that he wasn’t the type of person who would willingly plan a social event, especially not for himself.

“You’re not ruining anything,” Torres said quickly.

Sam nodded in agreement. “Exactly. But if you wanna stay, we’re here. And if you wanna leave…” He glanced at Bucky, whose hand was still on your knee. “I’m pretty sure you’re in good hands.”

Bucky knew you wouldn’t give in, you were tough, tougher than he had expected when he had first met you. He liked that about you. So he decided to take the matter in his own hands. “I think we’re done for today, guys. Thank you for this.”

“Bucky—” you started to protest, but he cut you off gently.

“No arguments,” he said gently, squeezing your knee and then letting go of you completely. Bucky stood up and grabbed your coat. “Let’s go.”

You opened your mouth to counter, to insist that everything was fine, but his gaze silenced you. It wasn’t demanding, no— it was suspiciously protective, possibly even concerned.

Sam raised his hands in surrender. “Fair enough. But you better let us know when you get home safe.”

“Will do,” Bucky said, already helping you to your feet.

Torres offered you a reassuring smile. “And hey, next time? We’ll make sure it’s just us. No exes crashing the party.”

You managed a small smile, grateful for their understanding.

Bucky walked close to you, ever vigilant as you found your way back to his car. The evening had been a whirlwind of emotions and even though you had escaped the storm, the damaging effects of Leonard’s cruel words lingered.

You glanced at Bucky as he drove, his profile clearly lit by the streetlamps. He had remained silent but it wasn’t uncomfortable like you’d expected. There was no judgement radiating off him as you’d feared. As he parked the car outside your apartment complex, he didn’t make a fuss. Jumping out of the driver’s seat, he flew around to your side to open your door, brushing off your words of thanks.

His gentleness surprised you, he was so different from the standoffish man you’d known when he moved in. This Bucky was a gentleman, every bit the boyfriend you had hoped Leonard could have been. You felt ashamed of the relationship you’d had with the businessman. You were getting off the elevator on your floor, almost at your front door but you stopped in your tracks, unable to hold it in any longer.

“Bucky?”

He stopped and turned to face you. “Yeah?” he answered, his brow furrowing at your tone.

You looked down at the worn out carpet, tracing the old fashioned pattern with the tip of your heeled shoe. “Do you… d’you think I’m a slut?” The words tasted foul on your tongue.

“What?” His response was sharp, his face sporting a startled expression. He took a step back towards you, eyes searching your face. “Why the hell would you ask me that?”

You shrugged, feeling more and more foolish by the minute, but now that you’d opened up, the words kept tumbling out. “I just… Leonard said…” You trailed off, taking a moment to figure out what you were trying to say. “Maybe he’s right, like, look at me—”

“Stop.” Bucky’s voice was firm but gentle, and he tilted his head down to catch your gaze. “Don’t even finish that thought.”

“But—”

“No,” he cut you off, stepping even closer to you. “What that man said was bullshit. He was drunk, he’s bitter that he lost someone as incredible as you. All he wanted was to hurt you because you know you’re better off without him.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, letting out a shaky sigh. “It was just so… personal. He’s always been able to see through me and… what if everyone else sees me that way? Even my friends think I can’t maintain a relationship.”

Bucky gritted his teeth for a second before he blew out a long breath. He reached out and brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face with incredible tenderness. “Now you listen to me,” he said, his voice low. “You’re not a slut. Not even close. You’re smart, you’re kind, you’re surprisingly tough, but you know how to be vulnerable with people. It’s… refreshing. Leonard doesn’t know you— not really. And anyone who says something like that doesn’t deserve to be in your life, let alone have their words live in your head.”

You bit your lip to stop it from trembling, blinking to hold back tears, but one escaped anyway. Bucky caught it with his thumb, brushing it away carefully.

“I mean it,” he said, his voice unwavering. “You’re amazing, doll. Don’t let some asshole make you doubt that.”

You nodded slowly, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“Anytime.” He gave you a small smile, walking with you to your front door, watching as you unlocked and opened it.

“See you later?”

“See you later, Princess.” He winked before turning to open his own front door.

“Oh and Buck?”

“Yeah?”

“Happy birthday!”

He smiled, closing the door slowly. You stepped inside your own apartment and for the first time that night, you felt like you could breathe again. Leonard’s venomous words still stung, but Bucky’s kindness had dulled their edge. As you leaned against your door, you realized that maybe Bucky cared more about you than you’d expected. And as confusing as that thought was, it also felt… comforting.

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[shizuturnspages]

May I please request scaramouche and childe with a darling who runs away on their wedding day because she is terrified of them and just wants to live an independent and peaceful life away from the fatui? How would they react ?

The Runaway Vow

Synopsis: You thought if you stayed obedient, quiet, and didn’t struggle, they'd eventually let you live your life. But when the wedding bells chimed and the Fatui watched on with eerie reverence, your soul screamed. You ran. You didn’t look back. You only wanted freedom. But monsters like them don’t take rejection well. Pairings: [Separate] Yandere Scaramouche, Childe x Reader

Scaramouche – The Broken Doll's Rage

The silk of your wedding dress fluttered behind you like a ghost of the life you were meant to live—fragile, immaculate, and utterly suffocating. The palace the Fatui built for the occasion had high walls and higher expectations. Scaramouche had insisted on the finest details: imported Mondstadt wine, Liyuen gemstone embroidery, Inazuman cloth, Snezhnayan orchestras. And yet, every opulent choice was a lock on your cage.

You had been silent too long. Obedient too long. You smiled through your dread, hoping he’d grow bored and forget the vows he claimed would "bind you together for all eternity."

But the truth was: he never intended to let you go.

The moment you disappeared, panic didn't take him—rage did.

“She ran?” Scaramouche’s voice cracked in disbelief as he stood in front of the shattered mirror you had used to sneak out through the servant hall.

You didn’t even leave a note.

“Where was security? Where was everyone?” His shriek echoed off the marble walls, wind, and lightning beginning to stir around the palace in unnatural tremors. He tore through the corridors, tearing down flowers, silk, and anything painted in white.

“She was mine. Mine. Mine. Mine.” His voice grew more distorted with each repetition. You weren’t just a bride. You were his proof—his proof that someone could love a "puppet" who had no heart. He had worked so hard to appear kind, patient even—biting down every violent instinct, every twisted urge just for you.

And now? You’d thrown it back in his face.

“Fine,” he muttered, voice dangerously calm. “Let’s not pretend anymore. I’ll rip the world open if I have to.”

The sky darkened with a storm that bore no weather pattern—only his rage.

He would find you.

He would carve your name into fate if he had to.

And when he did, you’d learn: a doll doesn’t let go of the only warmth it’s ever known. Not even if it breaks that warmth apart in the process.

Childe – The Smile That Didn't Reach His Eyes

Childe’s wedding smile was sharp.

Not out of joy—no, that smile was for the people watching. The Fatui agents. The Tsaritsa’s court. Everyone needed to believe this was a perfect union.

You had been quiet lately. Withdrawn. He thought it was nerves.

Maybe a part of him knew. Maybe that's why he kissed you on the forehead the night before and whispered, “You’d never run from me, right, darling?”

You had smiled, and lied: “Of course not.”

The ceremony was full of pomp. Soldiers in polished armour. Snezhnayan nobility. A chilling orchestra that rang out in victory.

But when the violins reached their crescendo and your cue came, the aisle was empty.

And Childe’s heart stopped.

The guests began murmuring. Fatui agents subtly reached for weapons, unsure of what this meant. But Childe didn’t speak. He stared down the aisle as if you’d simply been delayed. As if the vision of you in white would appear at any moment.

She’s coming. She’ll walk through that door and smile like always. She wouldn't—

The double doors remained closed.

He left the altar.

His knuckles were white.

He didn’t need to ask the agents stationed by your quarters. He already knew.

And the first thing he did was order them not to chase you.

“No,” he said calmly, brushing imaginary lint off his lapel. “I’ll handle it. Myself.”

The guests were dismissed. The music ended. The palace quieted.

Then he snapped.

Furniture shattered, portraits ripped from the walls, an entire courtyard frozen and crushed under his fury.

And yet, even in that rage, he whispered your name with something heartbreakingly tender.

“Why’d you run, love?” he murmured to the cracked wedding ring in his hand. “Wasn’t I good to you? Didn’t I give you everything? All I ever asked for was you. Just you.”

He wouldn’t let anyone else search. Because if anyone touched you, if anyone even looked at you, he couldn’t be responsible for what he'd do.

He’d find you himself. And when he did… he’d cry. He’d scream. He’d kiss you like you were glass and then shatter you anyway, just to glue you back together.

Because if you were too afraid to stand beside him at the altar, then he’d find a way to kneel at your feet and make you love him back.

Even if he had to break everything else to do it.

[luvst4rc0r3]

u wrote clingy jinx, can u do clingy jinx AND reader? they both radiate that “pls don’t leave” energy or whatever u want, have a good day!

Bro THE VIBE IN THIS DRABBLE SUCKS SO IM SORRY IF THIS WAS NOT WHAT YOU WERE EXPECTING

"Held Together"

Clingy!Jinx x Clingy!Reader

It had been a long day—one of those days that felt like it was never going to end. The chaos of the world had a way of catching up with them, and both Jinx and Reader were feeling the weight of it all. But when they finally got a moment to themselves, all they wanted was to stay wrapped up in each other, away from everything else.

As soon as they walked through the door, Jinx was already at Reader’s side, her arms winding around their waist like she couldn’t get close enough. She buried her face in Reader’s chest, inhaling the scent that had become her anchor.

“Please don’t leave,” she mumbled into their shirt, her voice quiet but desperate, like a silent plea.

Reader’s heart ached at the sound of those words. They knew the feeling too well—the constant pull to stay close, to never be apart. They wrapped their arms around Jinx, pulling her even closer, as though she could somehow melt into them.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jinx,” Reader whispered, their voice soft but firm. “I’m not leaving you.”

Jinx hummed in contentment but didn’t let go. She tightened her grip, as if she was afraid that if she did, Reader would vanish. Her fingers traced patterns on their back, seeking that steady reassurance that she wasn’t alone.

“Promise?” Jinx asked, looking up at them with wide, pleading eyes.

“Promise,” Reader confirmed, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

The air between them was thick with that mutual need to stay, to never let go. Neither of them was ready to face the world outside, and right now, all they needed was each other.

Jinx tilted her head back, her lips brushing over Reader’s throat as she let out a small sigh, her breath warm against their skin. “I don’t care about anything else, just… just don’t leave me, okay?” she murmured, her voice laced with that quiet vulnerability she rarely let show.

Reader gently cupped Jinx’s face, tilting her chin up to meet their gaze. “I won’t. I’m here. Always.”

The words were a promise, one that neither of them could break. But they didn’t need to say anything more. They just held each other, both radiating that silent, shared need to never be apart.

And even as Jinx started to relax in Reader’s arms, the clinginess didn’t fade. Instead, it shifted into something gentler. Jinx’s hands found their way to the hem of Reader’s shirt, tugging at it lightly as she pulled them closer.

“You’re not leaving, right?” she asked again, her voice barely above a whisper, as if she needed to hear it one more time.

“I’m right here,” Reader replied, pressing a kiss to her temple. “And I’m not going anywhere. I promise.”

They stood there for a long time, wrapped up in each other, both unwilling to break the fragile moment of peace they had carved out of the chaos around them. Neither of them wanted to let go—because in each other’s arms, they were safe.

I want sleep

[actuallybean]

Truth Hurts* | Part One

When a witch curses you to spill the truth and nothing but the truth, your biggest secret slips—you're hopelessly, shamelessly into both Winchesters. Good news? They’re just as into sharing as you are. *Contains sexual material: Minors DNI, threesome with brothers Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader x Sam Winchester Part Two Tag List: @mostlymarvelgirl Supernatural Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The motel room smelled like cheap coffee and gun oil, and the rain outside tapped against the windows like a metronome counting down the moments before everything came undone.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, flipping through a local police report on your laptop. Sam paced behind you, reading aloud from the thick journal he’d been annotating since breakfast. Dean was slouched in the armchair by the window, polishing one of his pistols with casual precision—and absolutely not looking at your bare legs, even though you were sure he had at least three times already.

“Weird symbols carved into the chest,” Sam muttered, flipping a page. “Victim found in a locked room. No forced entry.”

“Witch,” you said, not looking up.

Dean smirked. “You say that like it’s your personal vendetta.”

“It is.” You looked over your shoulder at him. “You weren’t the one who spent three hours coughing up beetles the last time we dealt with one.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, yeah. That was gross. But I did hold your hair while you threw up, so I think I deserve partial trauma credit.”

Sam snorted. “That’s not how trauma works.”

Dean gestured vaguely with the gun oil rag. “Tell that to my dry-cleaning bill.”

You rolled your eyes, but your heart warmed. This was your favorite part of the job—quiet, close, the three of you orbiting each other like gravity didn’t apply anywhere but here. You felt safe with them. Anchored. Loved, in a way that had never been spoken aloud but radiated from every shared glance, every brush of Sam’s hand when he handed you a file, every cup of coffee Dean slid silently across the table when you looked tired.

Still, the unsaid things weighed heavier than the salt rounds in your duffel.

Like how Dean’s gaze lingered a beat too long on your mouth when you smiled. Or how Sam’s fingertips would rest against your lower back for just a second more than necessary when you passed each other in tight spaces. Or how your heart ached for both of them, in different ways—but equally, deeply, stupidly.

You were too afraid to ruin it. So you didn’t say a word.

“Okay,” Sam said, snapping the journal shut. “There’s a pattern. Victims all worked at the same antique shop downtown. We go in tonight, after hours. Check for hex bags, maybe a cursed object.”

Dean cocked his gun and stood. “Cool. Witch-hunting on a Wednesday. Guess I’m skipping karaoke night.”

You laughed, stuffing silver bullets into your belt. “Since when do you sing in tune?”

Dean held a hand to his chest. “Wounded.”

Sam slung his bag over one shoulder. “Don’t worry. You can sing to the witch.”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “That a kink I didn’t know about, Sammy?”

Sam rolled his eyes. “Let’s just get this over with.”

You grabbed your jacket, walking between them, hyper-aware of the heat that radiated from their bodies on either side of you. Dean opened the door and you stepped into the rain, your skin already tingling—not from the cold, but from the tension hanging thick between the three of you. Fragile. Unspoken.

Something was about to break.

And you had no idea that in less than 24 hours, you’d spill every secret you’d tried so hard to swallow—and they’d both be there to catch every single one.

✦

The antique store sat at the corner of a quiet block, shadowed by overgrown trees and cloaked in moonlight. The sign above the door was barely visible, letters faded and warped: Griffin’s Relics – Est. 1889. The air felt thick here, like something ancient was watching.

Dean jimmied the back door open with practiced ease while you and Sam kept watch, guns loaded with silver rounds just in case. The second you stepped inside, the hairs on your arms stood on end.

“This place smells like regret and lavender,” you whispered, nose wrinkling.

“Definitely witchy,” Dean muttered, flashlight cutting a path through the gloom.

Sam nodded toward the far corner. “Back there. Office space. That’s where the last victim was found.”

You moved as a unit—sweeping, scanning, breath tight. Glass cases lined the walls, filled with dusty jewelry, doll heads, rusted blades. The air hummed with residual magic, and you could feel it crawling along your skin like static.

“This place is a freakin’ cursed-object buffet,” Dean said, shining his light over an old porcelain mask. “I vote we torch it and grab burgers.”

You crouched beside a display case. “Hold on. These runes—they’re Norse. Protection and binding magic.”

Sam joined you, brow furrowed. “Definitely witch work. But why those? Protection for what?”

That’s when the trap triggered.

The second Dean stepped over the threshold into the office, the air snapped—like a rubber band pulled too tight. A sigil on the floor flared crimson, and an invisible force slammed the door shut behind him. You and Sam rushed forward, but it was too late—the room was sealed.

“Dean!” you shouted, hands on the doorknob. It was burning hot.

Dean’s voice was muffled from the other side. “I’m fine! Just pissed off—son of a bitch warded the room!”

Sam turned to the wall of shelves, searching for anything remotely magical. “There—look!”

You followed his gaze to a wooden idol—small, horned, its mouth carved open in a twisted grin. You both reached for it at once, and the moment your fingers touched it, a shockwave pulsed through the room.

Your knees hit the floor hard, vision swimming. You could hear Sam calling your name, feel Dean pounding on the door—but none of it made sense. There was a rush of heat, then cold, then—

Your chest heaved as the pressure faded, and Sam knelt beside you, wide-eyed and pale.

“You okay?”

You blinked. “Yeah. Just… dizzy.”

Dean burst through the now-unguarded doorway, eyes wild. “What the hell was that?!”

You stood shakily. “It was cursed. Some kind of defense charm.”

Dean looked you over. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I… I think so,” you breathed, blinking. “Everything feels weird.”

Sam hovered beside Dean. “It was a curse. Some kind of magical tripwire.”

Dean’s hand slid to the back of your neck, grounding. “What kind of curse?”

You looked at them, heart pounding, and tried to say “I don’t know.” But what came out was: “I ate the last slice of pie last night and I blamed it on Sam.”

Dead silence.

Dean blinked. “…What?”

You clapped your hands over your mouth. “That’s not what I meant to say!”

Sam’s brow furrowed, curious. “Wait. Try again. Say something you know isn’t true.”

You hesitated. “I hate coffee.”

You tried, but instead what came out was: “I once stole one of Dean’s flannels and sleep in it when I miss him.”

Your eyes widened in horror. Dean made a sound that was absolutely not appropriate for the middle of a witch hunt.

“Okay,” Sam said carefully. “You’re cursed. It’s a truth-binding spell. Classic magical compulsion—you can’t lie.”

You groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “This is bad. This is so bad.”

Dean looked entirely too amused. “So, just to clarify… you did eat the last slice of my pie.”

You glared at him. “And I’d do it again.”

Sam chuckled under his breath, but you could see the tightness behind his eyes—the worry. He wasn’t laughing at you. He was already working through how to fix it.

“We need to break the curse,” he said, scanning the shelves. “There’s probably a totem somewhere. Something binding the magic. If we find it—”

Dean nudged you gently, leaning in close. “You okay handling this until then? We won’t push.”

You nodded. “As long as no one asks me anything deep, I should survive.”

Dean smirked, but didn’t press.

Sam gave your shoulder a brief squeeze before stepping toward the back room. “Let’s find the source before you start telling us how you really feel.”

You smiled tightly, following them. They didn’t know it yet—but that was exactly what scared you most.

[the-halloween-jack]

Disarray ✢ Jason Todd

Synopsis: She had become his sanctuary, the one unshaken constant in a life fractured by violence and resurrection — the only person who saw beyond the wreckage and chose to stay regardless. Jason Todd returns to the person he considers his home, only to find it in disarray.

Jason Todd x Reader, female pronouns. Warnings: Angst (with comfort).

Masterlist

Notes: I set out to write a short piece, nothing over a thousand words, I was successful! Normally I write way too much.

Words: 923

Jason never knocked, never felt the need to announce his arrival — he did not possess the disposition for this courtesy, and he already knew she would be anticipating him, with an easy smile, as though she relished his company. Jason could not compel himself to understand, to comprehend why a person so pure, so gentle, would allow themselves to be tainted by someone so burdened, someone like him. 

He reached out, the old window yielding with a decrepit creak as he moved it upward, and climbed through the aperture without grace. 

The room was fractured. His hands began to tremble.

This space, so wonderfully hers, had rapidly become his sanctuary; the one place on this sphere where he felt truly at peace, where he felt he could be himself. Now, it lay in ruins before him, a body of motion and disorder. Cushions were sprawled across the expanse of the room, drawers were cracked wide open, and papers lay scattered across all surfaces. 

The breath he had been holding sputtered out — he was gasping, fighting for air. Jason’s eyes swept through it all — not taking it in, not registering — he needed to snap out of it, to make sense of it. He unwillingly looked up, stomach crumpled with the realisation that the clasp of the front door had been left unlocked. Her name claws at the back of his throat, but he does not call it. He cannot get himself to name her absence, to solidify it in his reality.

The place was not big, and yet it felt like lifetimes had passed as he scoped through it, shattering with every room that failed to offer her silhouette. His dread grows not in a line, but in every conceivable direction, fractal and fast; erratic. The fragment of him that still knows reason suggests she went out. The rest of him — the person carved hollow by Lazarus and consequence — had already begun to grieve.

The unlocked door is a wound. A violation.

Someone knows. Someone traced the pattern, mapped their connection, and found the one seam he should have reinforced. He pictures her hands — how unarmed they are, how gentle, how tender— and it is unthinkable to entertain that they are subject to a stranger’s mercy.

His mind does not race — it plummets. The catastrophe is palpable — he can almost taste it. It cuts sharp against his tongue, and sears like acid. She is gone. Y/N is gone. The word nests in his chest like a cancer, malignant and burgeoning, defiling everything in its wake. He dropped to his knees, he had always been so sure of himself, so confident in his resolve, but he knew he could not overcome this, his dread left him immobilised, obsolete.

And then —

The door opened.

Y/N stands calm in the frame, flushed from exertion, keys in hand, with a ghost of a smile on her lips — until she sees him. Or rather, perceives what was left of him; feeble upon the floor.

‘Jason...?’

Her voice is quiet at first, tentative. The light that had been in her eyes began to dissipate — concern filling the place it left vacant in its departure. She moved to him, quickly, dropping the keys somewhere behind her.

‘Are you... Are you hurt? What’s wrong? What happened?’

But he only shakes his head, eyes wide, breath shuddering, he felt it quake in his chest. Then he pulled her down to him, taking her in his embrace. His arms tightened with something akin to desperation, like a man who had already begun to bury his world. She feels it in the tremor of his breath. In the way his jaw locks against her shoulder.

‘I thought — ’

He does not finish, he cannot. The words collapse on the edge of his tongue.

Y/N pulled him in tighter, beginning to trace his scars where she knew they lay underneath his shirt, a ritual that brought him great ease.

‘I thought someone took you,’ he whispered against her shoulder, again and again, as if the repetition might bleed the terror out, extricate it from where it festered beneath his skin. ‘I thought they knew. That they connected you to me. I thought I’d gotten you hurt.’ 

Or worse, he wanted to utter, but the notion was too revolting, too vile.

‘No,’ she murmured, hands on his face now, grounding him. ‘Jason, no. I’m fine. I just — I couldn’t find my keys. I tore the place apart looking for them.’ She motioned around her, to the disarray encircling them, the catalyst of his anguish. He looked into her eyes, savouring the sensation of it, of having her in his arms.

‘I left to check my car, I didn’t think... I’m so sorry —’

Jason did not respond, for he no longer possessed the capacity to commit thought to speech. He simply pulled her closer, burying his face in the crook of her neck like a man anchoring himself to the last artifact capable of keeping him afloat. His breath was still uneven, ragged with the aftershocks of a panic that refused to fade. She was here — warm, real, speaking — but his body had not yet caught up with the truth of it. All he could do was hold her, tighter than he ever had before, as if that force alone might keep his world from collapsing. Because some part of him, raw and relentless, still feared that if he let go, she would vanish — not in a torrent, but quietly, like sand through his fingers.

Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

[olive-main]

Heyyy! What do you think about a fanfic of Eris x Reader where they're both newly mated but Y/N lives in the Night Court while Eris has to look over the Autumn court. So he sends her tons of extravagant gifts while they're separated cuz he misses her and even the inner circle is like 'isnt this a bit much?'. Until they meet up again and Eris convinces her to live with him in Autumn. I hope you like the idea and thanks for hearing me out! 💕

Treasured Yearning

Pairing: Eris x Reader

Summary: Separated by their courts, Reader and Eris navigate the strain of their newfound mating bond. Eris, sends gift after gift to try and quell the unspoken longing. As the inner circle questions Eris’s intentions, Reader must choose between the home they know and the mate who waits for them in Autumn.

Wc: 1.2k

A/N: I changed up the plot a littttlleeee bit but it’s essentially the same thing. Send in more requests specifically for Azriel and Eris, especially if they’re angsty :b

——

The gilded box rested on the polished table in the House of Wind, casting tiny flecks of amber light onto the stone walls. The sunlight streaming through the open balcony doors caught the delicate pattern carved into the wood, turning the leaves of the Autumn Court’s sigil to gold.

You drew a deep breath, preparing for the familiar, turbulent mix of emotions. The gifts always came this way, beautifully crafted and painfully personal, each one a reminder of the mate you hadn’t seen in weeks. Eris vanserra, the High Lord of Autumn, who somehow still made you feel his presence across court borders.

Cassian leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “I swear to the Cauldron, if this isn’t the most over-the-top thing he’s sent yet, I’ll eat my own boots for dinner.”

“Be kind, Cass,” Feyre murmured, her expression soft but strained, as though she was trying not to reveal too much. You could tell she was torn, watching your struggle but respecting your mate bond. Still, the strain in her voice was unmistakable.

“I’m serious,” Cassian insisted, his brows furrowing. “Six gifts in one week? That’s a bit much, even for a High Lord trying to win over his mate.”

You didn’t respond, carefully prying open the box. The velvet interior cradled a necklace—amber stones carved into perfect, tiny flames, each glowing with a life of its own. However this necklace was different from the others you’ve received, the second you grazed your finger against the stone a familiar warmth brushed against your skin as if he were here, holding you.

Mor leaned forward, her gaze sharp. “It’s manipulation,” she said, a note of disdain curling her lip. “He’s making sure you don’t forget him, tying you to him with magic and gifts. Typical Vanserra behavior.”

Her words cut deep, even though you knew she was trying to protect you. You wrapped your fingers around the necklace, the gems warm in your palm. “It’s not like that,” you murmured, but your voice wavered, and everyone heard it.

“Isn’t it?” Mor shot back, her eyes fierce. “You’ve been miserable since the mating bond snapped into place, and he’s… he’s in his court, playing High Lord. How is that fair to you?”

“Mor,” Feyre warned, but the damage was done. The room went still, and your breath caught in your throat. It wasn’t fair—none of it was fair. The bond had given you a mate who was kind and cunning, fierce and surprisingly tender, but one who was tied to a court that had never been kind to you or your friends. Yet from the second the bond had snapped he had revealed what laid behind his mask of indifference. Since then the separation was an agony Eris tried to ease with every carefully chosen gift, every whisper of warmth that only made you long for him more.

You stood, the necklace clutched tightly in your hand. “You think I don’t know that?” you asked, your voice breaking. They all fell silent, their concern and pity hanging heavy in the air. “You think I don’t feel how unfair this is every single day? But he’s doing his best. He’s…” You took a shuddering breath, fighting to keep the tears at bay. “He’s trying.”

Rhysand’s gaze softened, and he inclined his head. “We only worry because we care,” he said, his voice gentle, but there was an undercurrent of something else. Worry, perhaps. Or doubt.

You didn’t have the strength to argue. Not after having one too many since they found out about Eris. So with the necklace in hand, you left the room, feeling the weight of their concern and disapproval pressing down on you. The wind whipped around you as you stepped onto the balcony, cold and biting, a stark contrast to the warmth you craved.

You missed him. You missed him more than words could convey, and no amount of gifts could fill the space he’d left in your life. You slipped the necklace around your neck, shivering as a warm, gentle pulse spread across your skin. It was almost like he was here, standing behind you, his hands on your shoulders, whispering reassurances you desperately needed.

It won’t be forever, you told yourself. But you didn’t believe it, not really.

——

You laid in bed tossing and turning, unable to sleep as a million thoughts ran through your mind. You were never very good with the unknown, and this whole situation with your family and Eris left too much to the unknown. So you decided that you wouldn’t wait, you wouldn’t sit around until things got worse or better.

Writing a quick note you watch as it disappears to Eris. In reply, he tugs on the bond. Relief washes over you as you let out a deep breath. Scribbling one more note for your family, you winnow away.

——

The woods of the Autumn Court were alive with the crackling energy of falling leaves and crisp, golden air. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting everything in shades of fire, and you stood in the heart of it all, wrapped in a cloak that did little to ease the chill seeping into your bones.

You heard him before you saw him. Footsteps crunching over leaves, his familiar step steady and certain. His copper hair gleamed like flames, his amber eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that nearly brought you to your knees.

He looked tired, but when he saw you, his whole face softened. “Y/N,” he breathed, and it was all the invitation you needed. You crossed the space between you, and his arms were around you, warm and strong, pulling you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

“I hate being apart from you,” you whispered, your voice cracking. “I hate all of this. Everyone thinks… everyone thinks you’re manipulating me. That you’re doing this for some sick plot.”

Eris’s hold tightened, and you felt the tension radiating from him. “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “I wouldn’t expect anything less from people who have spent their whole lives seeing the worst in me. But it’s not about them. It never was. It’s about our bond, love. I feel it. Every second we’re apart, it feels like something is tearing me in half.”

You pulled back enough to look into his eyes, searching for the truth. His face was open, vulnerable in a way few ever saw. “Then why haven’t you asked me to come with you?” you asked, a tear slipping down your cheek. “Why do we have to keep doing this?”

Eris cupped your face, his thumb brushing away the tear. “Because I need to make sure it’s safe. Because I want you in Autumn, but I can’t put you in danger until I’m certain no one will use you to get to me.” His voice broke, and for a moment, the strong, confident High Lord you knew crumbled before you. “But I can’t keep doing this either.”

A shudder ran through you, and you pressed your forehead to his. “Then tell me to stay. Tell me to come with you.”

He closed his eyes, breathing you in. “Come with me,” he whispered, his voice full of longing and fear and love. “Please.”

And even though the Night Court had been your home, even though leaving meant facing a court full of enemies and allies who might not welcome you, your heart had already made its choice.

As always Ty for reading XOXO~

[jhyoos]

hiiii! i love your writing so much and recently i've been craving for an angsty powder/jinx (i'm not sure if you write for her) x reader one-sided story (by reader's side) and idk, if you want to add a happy ending, you can do what you like better! could you, please?😩😭🙏🏻✨

Bound To You

jinx x reader

mentions : established relationship, break-up, angst, romance, between s1 & s2

summary : jinx thinks it's best to break-up after blowing up the council.

You and Jinx had been together for three years, bonded by ink, chaos, and something deeper neither of you ever had to put into words. You were the same age, but life had shaped you differently—while she ran with the wild and reckless, you carved out a space for yourself as a self-made tattoo artist in the depths of Zaun. Your setup was far from professional, your tools secondhand, your ink not always the best quality, but people came to you for the art, for the price, for the stories.

Jinx was one of them. She’d walked into your shop one day, all swagger and mischief, asking for a set of cloud tattoos. The process took time, so she kept coming back, letting you etch those wisps of sky into her skin while conversation filled the spaces between the buzzing of your needle. It started as casual banter, then inside jokes, then something else entirely—something that made her linger even after the ink had dried.

When Jinx finally asked you out, she did it in the most Jinx way possible: by spray-painting a bunch of unconscious goons into the words “Will you be my girlfriend?” right in the middle of your apartment. She was beaming, so damn proud of her masterpiece. You? Not so much. But looking at her—grinning, slightly unhinged, waiting for your answer—you couldn’t say no.

Your apartment became her safe haven. Whenever the weight of the world crushed down on her—when grief, anger, or memories of Vi clawed at her mind—she’d find her way to you. She’d lay her head on your lap, spilling her thoughts in tangled sentences while your fingers traced absentminded patterns on her arm. She missed Vi more than she ever admitted outright, but you saw it in her eyes, heard it in the way her voice would break. And you? You listened. You gave her words of wisdom, reassurances she sometimes took and sometimes didn’t.

Jinx wasn’t overly affectionate—not in the conventional way. Kisses were rare, and sex wasn’t frequent, but when she did show love, it was always a surprise. Sometimes, in the middle of a conversation, she’d press a quick, unexpected kiss to your lips and laugh at your reaction. Other times, she'd show up at your apartment in the dead of night, wordlessly shutting the door before turning you inside out in the way only she could.

You loved everything about her. Her intelligence, her beauty, her chaotic humor. Jinx was everything you could ever want. And for three years, she was yours.

It all started when the whispers began—the rumors that Vi had returned to Zaun. At first, it was just street talk, the kind of gossip that spread like wildfire in the undercity, but then she was at your doorstep. Vi, standing there in the flesh, with a blue-haired enforcer at her side, eyes sharp and questioning.

They asked about Silco. About Jinx.

"I don’t know," you said, voice firm as you stared at them. And it was the truth—you really didn’t. Jinx had vanished the moment word got out that her sister was back. You hadn’t seen her, hadn’t heard from her. The absence gnawed at you, but you weren’t about to hand over even the scraps of information you did have. So, before Vi could press further, you slammed the door in their faces and locked it.

Days turned to weeks.

You missed her—her weirdness, her sassy comebacks, the way she’d throw her arms around you when she was feeling playful or press a chaste kiss to your forehead when she thought you weren’t paying attention. But she was nowhere to be found. And then, one day, word spread that Jinx had done the unthinkable—she had blown up the council.

The undercity was electric with her name. People were rallying, some mourning, others idolizing. A new era was being painted in shades of chaos, and Jinx was at the center of it. People even started dyeing their hair blue in her honor, turning her into something more than just a person—she was a symbol now. And since everyone knew you were her girlfriend, your business boomed. People wanted ink that would mark them as Jinx’s followers, as if carrying a piece of her on their skin would make them untouchable. It was overwhelming, exhausting, but it kept your mind from caving in on itself.

Until that night.

You came home after another long day, locking the door behind you before toeing off your shoes. Your body ached, your mind was heavy, and all you wanted was to collapse onto your bed. But as you stepped into your room, you froze. A hooded figure stood in the shadows, unmoving.

A gasp escaped your lips as you fumbled for the light switch. The moment the room flooded with dim light, your heart leapt into your throat.

Blue braids peeked out from under the hood.

"Jinx?" you called out, voice barely above a whisper.

Slowly, she turned to face you. It was her. But she looked different—drained, haunted, as if she was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders.

Without hesitation, you stepped forward, wrapping your arms around her, holding her tight. She smelled like oil, gunpowder, and the faint remnants of whatever perfume she used to wear.

"Are you okay? Where have you been? I missed you so much," you murmured against her.

But she didn’t hug you back.

You felt the stillness in her, the way her arms stayed at her sides. Slowly, you pulled away, looking into those tired, stormy eyes.

"What’s wrong?" you asked, your stomach twisting with unease.

She hesitated, her gaze flickering down for a brief moment before she spoke.

"I don’t think we can be together anymore," she said, voice hollow, barely a whisper.

Your heart plummeted.

"What?"

Your breath hitched in your throat, the weight of her words slamming into your chest like a freight train.

"What do you mean?" you asked, your voice unsteady, barely more than a whisper.

Jinx looked at you then—really looked at you. There was something in her eyes you had never seen before. Guilt? Regret? Fear?

"I'm wanted," she muttered, her voice hollow. "A high price. Enforcers are breathing down my neck, and it won’t be long before they figure out I’ve been with you."

Your stomach twisted. "Jinx—"

"If they find out about you, they’ll come after you too," she cut you off, her voice sharp, raw. "I can’t let that happen."

You stepped closer, shaking your head. "I don’t care. Let them come—I can handle myself."

Jinx scoffed, a bitter smirk curling her lips. "You really think that? You think you can take on Piltover’s enforcers? They’re not just gonna arrest you, they’re gonna use you. You’re leverage."

"I don’t care!" you snapped, your chest burning with frustration. "I care about you! We can leave, go somewhere else—anywhere. We can figure this out together!"

She let out a breathy, humorless chuckle, shaking her head. "That’s cute. Really, it is." But there was no joy in her voice—just exhaustion. Just pain. "If you get hurt or if you die...I wont be able to live with myself."

"Don’t say that—"

"It’s the truth," she shot back, her fingers curling into fists. "I can’t be what you need me to be. And you can’t be what I need anymore, either."

"Stop deciding that for me!" you snapped, stepping forward, reaching for her, but she flinched back.

Her eyes darkened. "This isn't a choice."

Silence stretched between you, suffocating.

"So that's it?" you asked, your throat tight. "After three years, you just—what? Walk away?"

Jinx hesitated for a moment, her breath shallow. You could see the war in her eyes, the hesitation in her stance. But then, just as quickly, she shut it down. She tugged her hood up over her braids, shrouding herself in shadow.

"You’ll be better off without me," she murmured, voice barely audible. "Just… forget me, okay?"

Your heart screamed at you to do something—to grab her, to tell her she was wrong, to beg her to stay—but your body wouldn’t move.

And then, just like that, she turned.

"Jinx, wait!" you called, your voice cracking.

She didn’t stop.

"Please—don’t do this!"

But the door creaked as it shut behind her, and you stood there, staring at the empty space she left behind, your hands trembling, your vision blurring.

Jinx was gone.

And for the first time in three years, you truly felt alone.

It had been nearly a month since Jinx walked out of your life, and in that time, everything around you had crumbled.

The streets of Zaun had changed—more enforcers, more raids, more bodies being dragged off to Stillwater. The name Jinx carried more than just a reputation now; it carried fear, chaos, and destruction. And you? You were caught in the middle.

You shut down your tattoo shop, selling off the property after hearing about the latest wave of Jinxers arrested and locked up in Stillwater. You had always been loyal to Zaun, always supported its people in your own way. But when it came to violence—to the way things had spiraled—you reached your limit.

You didn’t want to be associated.

And so, you drifted.

Days bled into nights, spent drowning in cheap liquor at The Last Drop, trying to forget the way Jinx’s voice used to sound, the way her touch used to linger. You let the numbness consume you, burying the ache of her absence under layers of booze and exhaustion.

But that all changed the night there was a knock on your door.

At first, you didn’t think much of it. Maybe your landlord, though you had already paid your rent. You groaned as you pushed yourself off your couch, rubbing your face as you stumbled toward the door, already irritated.

"Dude, I’ve already paid—"

Your breath caught in your throat as your words died mid-sentence.

Jinx stood there.

She looked different.

Her long braids were gone, her hair chopped short in a messy, uneven cut. Bruises and cuts littered her skin, some fresh, some fading. There was something hollow in her eyes, something worn and desperate.

Before you could say a word, she grabbed your wrist and yanked you forward, crashing her lips onto yours.

You melted into the kiss, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. She was warm, familiar, everything you had been craving for the past month. You clung to her, pouring every ounce of pain, longing, and relief into the way your lips moved against hers.

When she finally pulled away, her breath was heavy against your lips.

"Come with me," she murmured, her voice urgent. "I’m leaving—far away from here. And I want you to come with me."

Your heart pounded as you searched her face.

"Jinx—" You bit your lip, shaking your head. "I haven’t seen you in a month. You disappeared—no word, nothing."

Her grip on your wrist tightened.

"And I’ll make up for every second of it," she promised, her voice barely above a whisper. "I swear."

You stared into her eyes, searching for any hint of doubt, any hesitation. But there was none. She was serious. More serious than you had ever seen her.

You exhaled, nodding slowly.

"Let me grab some important stuff."