#at least he's on fire at the wedding... its all i have left

[giuliettagaltieri]

Not Her Man

Pairing: Rafe Cameron x Childhood friend!Reader

Chapter Synopsis: Feathers fall gracefully slow

Warning: Girlrotting

Word Count: 3193

Part 1 • Part 3

You were always scared to do drugs.  

You saw Rafe at his highs, you were with him, keeping him from doing anything stupid like when he was so sure he could backflip from Tanneyhill’s rooftop and land on the grass perfectly. 

But you also wondered how difficult it was for him to get clean.  To suffer from withdrawals.  And as you lie on your fur carpet, staring at the glimmering crystals of your chandelier, with your closet half emptied and scattered all around your room, along with rolling wine bottles on the polished hardwood floor of your bedroom, you think you might have understood just a little.

Blocking him was the hardest thing you have ever done in your life, especially when it was your routine to giggle over whatever interaction you had through text that day.  The itch to open his account for any update made you want to bind your hands together.

Your parents are out of the country, busy overseeing their business, forgetting to oversee their daughter.  Your maids were there for you, at least they try to be.  They bring you food on schedule, even sliding in a few scoops of ice cream every now and then in your room when your sobs start to echo around the halls.

Rafe tried to contact you multiple times.  First, through your phone, but you blocked him.  Next, he tried to throw pebbles at your window, but your seventy-six year old gardener fired a shotgun at him, thinking that he was a burglar.  Next, he tried a different approach, he was sending you gigantic bouquets of your favorite flowers, making the hallway leading to your room look like a wedding set up, the flowers perfumed the entire house too, drawing a concerning amount of bees.  One epipen to your chef’s thigh later, Rafe stops sending them.

He never really does anything right.  All he does is mess up, create more problems for himself.  You almost wanted to give in, but you remind yourself of the things he said.  Anger and hurt quickly replaces pity.

A familiar chime of your phone had you groaning.  Your friends are probably going to have another attempt of making you step out of your room, like inviting you to have your nails done or shop, just to get your mind off of Rafe.

You just let the ringtone end and you go back to staring at the chandelier, wondering if you’ll be quick enough to get out of the way if it somehow falls.  Before you can plan a strategic roll, your phone rings again.

Blindly reaching underneath the scattered pillows, you finally locate the buzzing device.  You answer without looking at the caller ID. 

“Y/N speaking.”  You mumble lazily.

“Hey, girlie.”  There goes the high-pitched voice of your friend.  “Sooo, the girls and I-hush!”  You hear a bunch of girls giggling behind the line and your brows crease together in annoyance.  “We’re going on a party tonight and we’re thinking that maybe you’d liketocomewithus?”

You play with the lace of your dress, eyes just following the patterns when you hear your name being called again over the phone.

“I’m not in the mood for parties.” 

“You are never in the mood for anything anymore.”  She whines behind the line.  Her tone prompts you to sit up to pick up the stale wine you left out in the open for too long.  Taking a sip and ignoring the thin coat of dust it caught after you ransacked your closet for something that made you look confident, only for you to end up squeezing in the dress that Rafe got you as a present for your 13th birthday.  He didn’t pick it out for you, of course, but it still made you all fizzy and bubbly and excited inside.

You put down the wine to scratch at the waistband that is digging on the skin of your under bust, the fabric being stretched beyond its capacity.

“I know.”  You tried to sound apologetic.  “I just can’t, okay?”

She sighs, making you let out a grateful sigh.  There’s still some ceiling viewing you had to get back to.

“I’m picking you up at seven.”  She speaks with finality and before you can answer, she continues.  “Please don’t let that awful man get the satisfaction of knowing that he has this much effect on you.”  You can hear her begging behind the phone.  She and the other girls are just looking out for you.

With an unwilling heart, you decide to get on your feet, your socked foot nearly slipping the moment it touches the wooden floor.  Cursing, you finally crouch on the piled up clothes you threw earlier. 

“Fine, I’ll come.”  You roll your eyes.  “Dresscode?”

You hear an airy chuckle and you can imagine her pinching your cheeks if you were within her reach.  “Party’s open to all, Kooks or Pogues.  In the community beach house.  You dress however you like.  I’ll match your vibe, if you’d like.”

This makes a smile creep on your lips.  She’s definitely on the top 10 list of the most annoying people you know but you thank God everyday for a friend like her.  “You know I love you, right?”

She snorts before bursting out in a fit of laughter.  “Duh.  I love you too.”

“See you later.”  You grin.  “Tell the girls I’m coming too.”

“Sure, see you!” 

You hang up and get started on searching for the right outfit.  Well, there’s the classic white flowy dresses, but everybody wears them.  You could wear a short and a cute top, show some belly?  Blech, you’re not exactly in one of your maneater moods.  But perhaps if you covered it with that oversized white pinstriped polo, it could work?  Yeah, something casual yet put together.  It’s not like you’re dressing to impress anybody, or somebody in particular, you’d prioritize comfort over fashion tonight.

A knock on your bedroom door pulls you from your thoughts.  With a shrug, you throw your chosen clothes on your bed.

“Coming.”  You call while trudging over to open the door.  There stood your maid, she was looking anxious, wringing her wrinkly hands.  “What is it?”

She glances at your odd choice of clothing before she looks away so as to not make you uncomfortable.  “Well, uhm, Sir Cameron is here again, miss.  He’s waiting for you downstairs, in the drawing room.”

You press your lips in a firm line.  “Tell him I’m not here.”

Your maid smiles apologetically.  “He…he saw you in your bedroom window before he came in, miss.”

Huffing, you tap your feet impatiently.  “Just tell him I’m busy.”

“He said you’ll say that.”  She mutters, amusement in her tone.  “And he asked us to tell you that he can wait.”

You close your eyes to keep them from rolling.  “Whatever, he can stay as long as he likes, but I’m not coming down to meet him.”  You push the door a little wider and your maid’s eyes widen at the state of your room.  “I’m sorry, I know you’re busy but can you help me clean up?”

The rest of the afternoon was spent tidying up your room. 

It was dark out, a couple of minutes past seven when your phone buzzed.  Knowing that it’s your girlfriends, you pick your bag, filled with the usual party necessities and head downstairs.  It’s a habit, assigning yourself as the responsible friend who stays sober to look after the others.

You are slipping in the pearl bracelet your grandmother got for you last Christmas when you hear your name being called and in instinct, you turn around.

“Oh, right.”  You say with a tone that is drier than the Sahara desert.  “You’re here.”

Rafe’s standing just outside your drawing room, his hands falling to his side.

“Yeah.”  He spoke awkwardly, his eyes glancing at your outfit, familiarity crossing them before he looked at your eyes again.  “I was waiting for you.”

You exhale softly and he just stood there, waiting for your reaction.

“I know.”  You say simply.  “Gotta go.”  You start walking again to your door.

“Wait, Y/N.” He easily catches up.  “You’re…you’re coming to the party, right?”  He asks hopefully.

“Yes.”  You respond without looking at him.

Rafe smiles but it quickly dissipates when he sees a different car waiting for you.  “Hold on, I can drive you there.”  He says quickly, his hand gripping yours just to get you to listen to him.  “I can drive you to the party.”  He says in an uncharacteristically sheepish way.

For a second, you look at him, really look at him.  His smile grows wide.  He missed having your eyes on him.  You’re his best friend, and he’s used to doing everything with you by his side.  He also liked how dependent you were on him too, always asking for his approval.  You have a bit of an overbearing attitude but he would be lying if he’ll say that he doesn’t miss you doting on him too.  Perhaps you’re not the only one who’s dependent on this odd friendship you both have.

“No, thank you.”  You say before pulling your hand away with a sharp look thrown his way.  He watches you walk away to greet your friends.  He’s still stuck there, staring, even after the car drives away.

He doesn’t understand it.

You’re the emotional one, why are you doing so well without him?  You never go to parties with other people, it was always him that you stick close to.  Clinging on him, pulling him to the dance floor when he’s about to do a line of coke, or accidentally knocking his cup when he’s had too much drinks.

Running a hand through his face, Rafe decides to hop on his car and follow you to the party.  You’ll be in the same space as him in the next few hours.  He’ll get another chance there.  He’s certain of it.

He didn’t get the chance.

With you by his side all the time, you memorized his set of activities at parties and you evaded him perfectly.  Rafe decided that it was best to stand by the punch table.  You’d get thirsty eventually, and he’ll be there waiting if you do.

On the other side of the house, farthest from Rafe, there you sit by the porch swing, admiring the push and pull of the waves.  The party was at its climax and everybody was cramped inside the house, dancing and drinking, or doing unholy activities.  You don’t know how you managed to slip away from your friends but you’re glad you did.  You needed the fresh air.

You’re just starting to get comfortable when a man stumbles out the door.  You watch him struggle to keep himself up.  He looked lost? Or just flat out drunk.  You watch in amusement as he scratches his blonde head, he must be having a whiplash from all the blinding neon lights inside and suddenly his vision switches to the bright light provided by the LEDs. 

His feet twist and he starts to fall to the side, your head tilting to follow his fall.  You wince when you hear the loud thud of his body hitting the floor, followed by his muffled but loud groaning.

“Motherfu-”  He sits on the floor, his legs sprawled out in front of him as he shakes his head like a dog.

“You alright, JJ?”  You chuckle.

He whips his head to you, cursing again when his vision spins.  “Y/N?”  He drawls out while rubbing his eyes.  “You saw everything?”

Still laughing, you get up to crouch next to him.  “I did.”  You smile when he groans out again.  “Are you okay?”

He props up a knee and rests an arm there, he looks buzzed, his eyes are heavily lidded as he stares off into the ocean.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”  He glances at you.  “Well, this is a strange sight.”

“What is?”  You mumble as you look away from him, deciding to play dumb.

He shrugs animatedly, hands gesturing to you and the entire space of the porch.  “Usually, wherever you are, your boyfriend is not that far behind.”  He points a thumb behind him.  “And if I wasn’t imagining it, I’m pretty sure I just saw him brooding over the drinks.”

You chuckle dryly as you bring your knees to your chest.  “He’s not my boyfriend.”

JJ looks at you with an unimpressed face.  “That’s all you heard.”

Playfully punching his shoulder, you sigh.  “We fought.”

He frowns, back straightening immediately.  “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”  It’s kind of sweet how your words seemed to have sobered him really quick.

“No!  No, he didn’t.”  You reply right away.  “Well, at least not physically.”

You watch him grimace.  “Outside physical fights, I have little to no idea how to respond.”

“That’s okay, JJ.  I don’t wanna talk about it, anyway.”

He gives you a boyish grin, as if to reassure you before scratching at his jaw, your eyes mindlessly follow his movements and you see a scratch.

“You’re hurt.”  You tell him, pointing at your own jaw.

“Huh?”  He touches his jaw and winces.  “Ow!  Must’ve scratched myself when I…uhm.”

“When you decided to attack the floor.”  You finish for him and he clears his throat.  “You’ll have to disinfect it.”

“Pfft, it’s fine.”  He shakes his head.  “It’s just a scratch.”

But you are already grabbing your bag by the swing and you return with a small kit.

“I forgot to bring wipes.”  You mumble before crouching down in front of him.  He swallows at your close proximity.  “Come on, JJ.  It’s just antibacterial cream.”

He hesitantly shows you his face and you gently apply the cream, tutting when he dramatically pulls away.

You grab his face and tilt it slightly and JJ squeezes his eyes.

“It fucking stings.”  He nearly whines, making you roll your eyes.

“Don’t be a baby!”  You huff and he stays still for a second, allowing you to smear the cream evenly and he rolls away from you as soon as you’re done.

JJ was muttering about God knows what while you’re busy putting your stuff away.  When you sit next to him again, he’s much calmer, a lazy smile back on his face again.

“Thanks, Y/N.”

You throw him a playful glare.  “You’re welcome.”

He touches the scratch and you almost tell him off but he quickly pulls his hand away. 

“Why didn’t Cameron make you his girl?”

You blow out a big sigh.  “He doesn’t like me.”

“Bullshit.”  He laughs but he clears his throat when you look at him unamused.  “Sorry.”

“It’s fine.”  You smile at him genuinely before averting your eyes.  “I wouldn’t blame him.  I mean, you saw how I can be.”  You chuckle this time but there’s no humor on JJ’s face, he’s looking at you rather sadly.  “I care too much and everybody suffocates around me.”

“I don’t.”  He says quickly.  “I was just being dramatic earlier.”  He rubs his nape.  “I’m not used to having people tend to me, I mostly just do it myself.”  He seeks your eyes and you finally look at him. 

You hear a creak behind you but before you can look, JJ cups your face to keep you from breaking your eye contact, making your breath hitch.

“I liked being taken care of like that.”  He whispers and your lips part slightly.

“JJ.”  You say breathlessly and he grins, his face leaning dangerously close to you.  “You’re drunk.”

He gently bites his bottom lip and you have to look away from his blatant flirting.  “I’m sober enough to kiss, I promise.”

This…this isn’t right.  

You gently push him away and his lips immediately form a pout.  “You’re such a kid, JJ.”

He clicks his tongue and angrily stoops as he glares at the ocean.  “You had no idea how long it took me to build the courage to do that.”

“Five minutes?”  You jokingly bump his shoulders, making his act break at the edges, a smile threatening to crack on his lips.  “Seriously, J, I can’t kiss drunk guys.  It’s unethical.”

He mimics you in a childish voice and buries his face on his palms harshly.  He turns to you again, with his hair disheveled and sticking to his forehead and red blotches appearing on some areas of his face.  “I’m not as drunk as you think I am.”  The way he glances at your lips had your throat drying up.  “I really wanted to kiss you.”  Aside from Rafe, you have little to no experience with the male attention and frankly, you don’t know what to do.

You place a hand on his shoulder and stiffly pat it twice.  “You’ll get over it.”

JJ looks at you exasperatedly.  “You’re taking this too lightly, this is my feelings we are talking about.”

You stifle a laughter.  “Oh, so you have feelings for me.”  You raise a brow at him and he nods his head enthusiastically.

“Every guy on this island has a thing for you.”  He says animatedly.  “If it wasn’t for your bodyguard, we would have made our move long ago.”

You are deeply flattered, you can’t resist the girlish smile from tugging on your lips, your cheeks slowly heating up.

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

He looks deeply offended and places a hand on his chest.

“You’re the ultimate dream girl, stupid!”  He dodges a punch from you.  “You’re like the total package.  You’re sweet, and smart, you’re also very pretty, you can be funny too when you let loose.”  He wiggles his eyebrows at you and this pulls a laughter from you, a real, genuine laughter that had your shoulders shaking.

“When are you gonna get serious, J?”  Wiping the tears from the corner of your eyes, you get up.  “Wait here, I’ll get us a drink.”

He gives you a two finger salute before lying smack down on the floor, with his arms spread out.  You shake your head, chuckling when you open the door.

And your hair stands on end.

There stood the very person you have been avoiding the entire night.

But for once, he isn’t wearing a scowl or a condescending cocky smile.

He was looking at you like a man defeated and broken.

“Rafe.”  You whisper as you reach for him but you stop yourself before your skin can touch.  He looks at your hand and then your eyes.  You don’t know if it’s the trick of light but you could have sworn his eyes are glassy.

“Hey, Y/N, everything alright?”  JJ calls.

Rafe glances at JJ and then back at you, he nods slowly as he takes a step back.  Your heart aches as you watch him take another step away from you but you will yourself not to follow.  He runs a hand on his mouth and he turns away from you.

You stare at his back as he leaves, torn between choosing your own pride or running after him.  For what seemed like hours, you stood there, frozen.  Still lost in the onslaught of emotions that surged through you.

Not Your Girl • His Girl

[lanabuckybarnes]

“𝓐𝓹𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓭𝓲𝓽𝓮 𝓐𝓶𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓟𝓻𝓮𝓽𝓮𝓷𝓭𝓮𝓻𝓼.”

Your marriage to the hand of the king, Lord Barnes, is a rushed state of affairs. But consummating must be done. Even if it’s not what you desire, he makes it so.

-°❀.ೃ࿔*-

𝓟𝓪𝓲𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓰(𝓼): Lord!Bucky Barnes x Lady!Reader

𝓦𝓪𝓻𝓷𝓲𝓷𝓰(𝓼): 18+ MDNI, Fantasy AU, Arranged marriage, Unhappy lady, Familial pressure/Trauma, Power difference, Praise kink, Degradation kink (for safety), Breast play, Body insecurities (M&F), Dirty talk, Oral (F), PinV, Pregnancy talk, Breeding kink probably, Overstimulation — Any more lemme know!

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓒𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 3.1K

𝓝𝓸𝓽𝓮: Everyone can blame @delicatebarness for this. This is an old piece I wrote probably over a year ago that happened to come up in conversation, it’s edited but I cannot assure it’s good.

The first flutters of snow were a comforting sight, your first reminder of home. You watched as they rested against the windowsill, thoughts of your family plagued your mind. Your sisters; they were all off on their own, betrothed to lords around the world.

Nights like this, you would cuddle around the fireplace under the thick fur blanket, your father recalled stories of wars fought in the past. Although, as his mind faded they became choppy and would mix with other memories.

Despite that, you found comfort in them. They brought you peace and serenity in an otherwise torn country — but your father’s words would not comfort you tonight. You curled further into your robes, wrapping fur-lined arms around your body; you blinked back small tears, determined not to let anyone see you vulnerable.

Your betrothal had been rushed; all you had ever dreamed of was marrying a nobleman and bearing his heirs. You and your mother had sat in the wee hours creating the perfect wedding you always hoped you’d have. The threats from the East had your family and his up in arms, tearing your ideal marriage to shreds.

The reception was small in comparison to most noble ceremonies; your families and the priest in attendance. At least the after ball was nice, you guessed.

Lord James of House Barnes, the hand to the future king and now your husband. He seemed sweet from the handful of times you’d met him — quiet and cold but he always offered you a brief smile or soft words. He brought you under his cape and celebrated the joining of your families which led to here.

The fire had been stoked for a while before you were escorted to the lord’s room, a thick robe for you to change into folded neatly beside a jug of fresh wine. With a promise of the Lord’s presence soon, the guards left you to view your candle-lit room.

You weren’t a silly little girl anymore; you knew what was expected next. A marriage was always followed by the consummating ceremony. Whenever your mother brought it up you brushed her off. You would take it in your stride, after all that was your duty. But as you stood as still as the air in the room, your nerves fluttered to life. You weren’t ready, you had no clue what to do and you were scared Lord Barnes would simply take what he wanted, discarding you after. Perhaps that would be easier to deal with.

“Homesick, my lady?” his voice sounded from across the quarters.

You turned to look at him; his long hair pulled from its loose bun, curling atop his shoulders, his dark coat had been shed leaving him in only a starched shirt and pants. His blue eyes, though almost invisible in the dim light, twinkled.

“A little my lord.” You spoke, your voice trying and failing to sound confident. Your fingers drummed against your arm as you teetered your weight on the balls of your feet. Your antsy movements did not go unnoticed by the lord’s perceptive eyes. He stepped forth, making his movements slow and cautious, ensuring he didn’t spook you with a pace and swiftness you knew he had. You appreciated that.

“Tell me wife, why do you shiver not from the cold but my presence?” His large, war-torn hands held your upper arms in a loose embrace, thick fingers squeezing the flesh. You may have feared the intimate touch to come but his hands held nothing but comfort.

“The ceremony my lord.”

He tut, his plump lips falling to your ear to kiss it softly before trailing down the length of your neck, his hands soothing over the plum fabric of your robe.

“None of that, my dear, I am your husband now and I really hate the formalities where they’re unneeded.”

An apology weighed on your tongue as his finger hooked under your chin to meet his gaze, but the flicker in his eyes had you forgetting basic human functions.

Lord Barnes was ridiculously handsome. You’d heard the jealous whispers of the rats teeming the palace because of his gifted looks.

‘He has drawn the shortest straw.’

‘Do you think after he has warmed her bed he will come to warm mine’s? A prudent little thing like that doesn’t know how to keep him full.’

Comments about your body and appearance cut you deep. You began hiding away in your chambers and, when your presence was a must, you donned thicker garments. James had never uttered a word about his distaste for you, yet you were sure he thought of it too. You were only by his side for politics, once you gave him an heir your body would be unusable to him.

“You think too much,” The young lord murmured through a huffed laugh, breath misting ever so slightly. His laugh; airy and dripping in honey was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard.

“I’m sorry, my L—”

“Ah ah,” his finger flicked the tip of your nose gently, playfully reprimanding you. “I will punish you if you say it again.”

“I’m sorry…husband.” Your body stiffened at his teasing words. You knew they were weightless, merely a prose in the wind, yet the thought of him dishing out a punishment in any way set you on edge.

You let him turn you to face him, his hands cupped your face, tilting your head back until you were in the perfect position.

“Much better,” he praised. Then his lips fell on yours, a groan bubbling up his throat as his tongue slipped out to trace at the crack of your mouth, seeking entrance. But you didn’t know, you had never kissed a man other than your father, on his cheek, this was well out of your comfort zone.

James retreated, a look in his eyes that you perceived as disappointment or dissatisfaction.

“I-I’m sorry, my Lord, I don’t—” you stuttered but he silenced you with another soft kiss.

“You should have told me, my love.” It wasn’t disappointment swirling in his ocean-blue orbs. It was guilt, mingling with an untamed amount of love.

“We will take this slow for you, my lady. The night is young and I wish to make a good impression on you.” He gripped your hands, bringing you both to the pelt covered bed. You let the thought of just how much of a great impression he’d made already melt into the wrinkles of your brain.

The backs of his knees clashed into the deep mahogany, halting his movement. You hadn’t realised, mind wandering away from you again like it always had, and you tumbled into his solid frame.

He barely moved, a quiet grunt the only evidence you had made contact with him at all, beside your dainty hands splayed across his dark undershirt.

“Have you never felt a man’s touch before, love?” He questioned, the back of his fingers ran down the side of your face, over your racing pulse point before falling just short of the dip in your robe.

“N-never.” Your cheeks flushed, the need to hide yourself, melt into the floor, rushing to the forefront of your jumbled mind. Before you could, he caught your chin again in a calloused palm, tilting you back up to meet deep blue eyes, judgment never once passed over them.

“Have you ever touched yourself?” If you weren’t blushing before you definitely were now. His laugh at your reaction dulled the embarrassment in your veins.

“It is not something you have to be embarrassed over, we all do it. I did it—a lot.” James’s smirk turned into a full face splitting smile at the sound of your giggles. God they were mesmerising, he wanted to collect them in a flask and drink them down whenever he was too far to hear them with his own two ears. A flutter of butterflies bloomed in his stomach. How had the love bug struck him down so quickly?

“I have.” You answered simply.

“Teach me.”

You blinked up at him, confusion marring your soft features. “Sorry?”

“Show me how to make you feel good. Take your time undressing, and when you are ready I’ll make you feel good.”

Lust darkened James’s stare, making you feel already bare in front of him. Yet he made it known silently that it was still your choice, letting you know that if you refused he would end it right then and there. The men that waited outside for the sounds of a successful betrothal evening would have an issue but they could be dealt with quickly. Nothing a meeting with the broadside of your Lord’s blade couldn’t fix.

Your nipples pebbled and breath bated at the realisation that for the first time in a long time you could decide your own end. You pondered for a moment, eyes tracing the lines of stone beneath your feet but the idea of your new husband watching you pleasure yourself, teaching him about your body, had you aching between your thighs.

You nodded, stepping back. James rested himself on the bed, weight on his hands. His eyes stayed on your face, studying for any sign that you weren’t doing this for you. He would hate knowing that you were giving yourself up to him out of obligation, not love. He found no such emotion.

You moved your hands slowly, fingers dusted over your clavicles before they slipped beneath the mauve robe. Each shoulder fell from your body, collecting in the crook of your arms as if to tease the man you faced. But just the sight of your bare throat and sternum arose a twitch in his nethers. You reached for the black tie holding both sides together, undoing the knot with a flick of your wrist — the fabric fell from your breasts to the floor in a pool of purple.

His eyes fell instinctively to your hardened nubs, his mouth dried as he gaped, like a fish out of water. You were stunning, Aphrodite amongst a school of pretenders. James followed your curves but each of them led back to your twinkling eyes.

“Enchanting,” he breathed, not missing the way you preened, like you had never been told it before. How dare they? This world had been so cruel to you, liars and leeches feeding off of you to make themselves feel better. It wouldn’t happen again. He made a mental note, letting himself get distracted from you for merely a second, to ask you for a list of names.

“You think?” You gazed down at yourself with wavering uncertainty. It made James’s heart clench.

“I know.” He stated firmly.

“I feel beautiful in your presence.” You said, chewing on your lower lip, confidence had begun to sprout. You moved your hands up your body, cupping your full breasts. You squeezed gently, a soft gasp ricocheted around the quiet room. James watched on as you almost struggled to handle your own body. He’d have you taught soon enough on how to make yourself as good as he made you.

“The things I would do to your body, angel.” James growled. unable to resist the throbbing of his cock, he palmed himself over his loose breeches.

Maybe it was the way he looked so uncontrollable at the sight of just your breasts or, the way his pupils had blown so wide, hiding that unique ocean colour because of you, that made you so willing to give everything over to him. Let him take what he wanted.

“James,”

“Yes angel?” His husky drawl battered at your stomach.

“I’m ready.”

He paused for a moment, making sure he heard you correctly. Then he wasted no time, bouncing from the bed and meeting you in a single stride. His lips smashed into yours, teeth clattering together but the pain dull compared to the desire you felt. His much larger hands smacked yours from your tits, replacing them with his searing palms, their roughness delightful against your nipples. Only when there was no air in your lungs did he part, peppering featherlight kisses down your front until he kneeled at your feet, his head level with your navel. A lord, on his knees for you, enthralled by you.

“You are a godsend…” he praised, his mouth securing around one of your breasts drawing a pleasured cry from you. “I will pray every night, thanking the gods for gifting me, a lowly Lord, with you.”

“Please James—” you begged, fisting locks of raven-toned hair.

“Yes, my love, call to me.”

“Would you like me to touch you here? Where you are weeping. She is begging for attention.” You choked on a gasp as he whispered, a hair from your hooded clit, his hot breath fanned over your slit.

“Please,” that word had become your new mantra. A prayer that seemed to get you anything you wanted.

“Good girl.” His mouth descended upon your folds, suckling everything they had to offer. His thick tongue dipped lower, into your untouched hole then up to press against your pearl. Your moans urged him along. Using his tongue as a distraction he slipped a thick finger into you, groaning at how tight you clung to the lonely digit.

“Gods, you weep for me. Do you like it? Your husband, on his knees for you, licking your cunt, hm? Making you feel good?” His second finger joined the first, stretched you out. With expert precision he found your internal pleasure spot, his fingers curling inwards — making you see white.

“Ohh James!” You cried. You were dizzy with pleasure, lightheadedness so strong you would have fallen if not for his iron grip on your hip, keeping you stable.

He listened to the messages your body sent out into the room; he clenching of your walls, your voice breaking. You were close.

“You feel that, my lady, the knot tightening? Don’t hold it back, let it snap.” He doubled his ministrations, humming against your clit and fucking his creamy fingers into you with abandon. Your eyes squeezed shut and your walls clenched his digits so tight he could no longer move them. A shrill yell rips from deep within you as your body jerks, reacting to wave after wave of almost unbearable release. He moved the best he could, his tongue licking you gently, the pads of his fingers rocking against your g-spot until you pulled away in overstimulation.

Collapsing in a heap of sweat stained skin, James was quick to scoop you up into his arms. “You did so well angel, so good for me.”

He kissed all over your blushed skin. It was an odd feeling, so close but so far away from everything, you had never felt anything like it, your heartbeat loud in your ears as you clung onto your husband for dear life.

The ladies of your own home often commented about orgasms and how mind numbing good they felt when you got the chance to experience one. This must’ve been it, you couldn’t have imagined a feeling more intense than now.

It was James’s cock twitching against your naked thigh that pulled you from the floaty space you rested on. Realisation set in. He had made you feel good, forgoing his own pleasure. You wanted to give him it all.

You clambered up until you met his eyes. “Take me, James, make me yours.”

“Are you sure, my love?”

“More than anything,” you reaffirmed. The loss of his warmth felt weird, your body arching up to meet him.

He laughed at your desperation as he shed the last of his clothes. His skin glowed under the dull firelight, drawing attention to the amount his body had endured through decades of war. Scars and stabs from blades, burns, and bites decorated his body. They were his biggest insecurity. One time in his life he had beautiful silky skin without a blemish in sight, after the battles he faced he returned with more scars than he could tell the stories for.

He flinched lightly as you traced the one above his heart, a stab almost fatal to him. You shuddered, thinking of a life without him brought about great sadness that clawed at your insides.

“They are ugly.” he brushed your hand off of it, lacing your fingers with his, but you shook your head.

“I think they make you look rather handsome.”

Now it was his turn to blush. He buried his head into your chest and slapped your thigh teasingly.

“I love you.” It slipped so easily from his mouth that he barely noticed it, but you did.

“I love you too, my Lord.” You said, your breath hitching as his thick cock ran through your folds, stopping at the dip of your hole and pressing in slowly.

“I told you I’d punish you for that,” James queried a brow at you, you only smirked in return.

“So do it.”

Any more teasing words died on your tongue as he split you open around him, settling deep within you. He stayed as still as stone letting you adjust to him before fucking into you slowly.

“Feels so good—so tight, angel. Can’t wait to fill you with my seed—fuck! Have your belly with our kids, our heirs.” He moaned loudly, picking up the pace. You nodded frantically, focusing on only the pleasure between your legs and his filthy words.

Your walls clenched, the head of his length brushing that spot he’d treated so well earlier. Your orgasm approached quicker than you would’ve liked, giving you only a small warning before slamming into you full force.

“Ohh fuck—” James cried out at your tightness, thrusting sloppily into you as his own orgasm took him by surprise. He took your mouth, muffling his moans with it. He spilled so deep inside of you, coating your fluttering walls. Your mind took a second to think of how easy you'd take if James made you feel this good every time he wanted you between the sheets. But those were thoughts for the future, for now you wanted to bask in the present with your new husband.

He moved slowly, picking you up with ease and bringing you both under the sheets and the throw over pelt.

“Did I hurt you?” He asked, peppering kisses along your collarbones.

You shook your head, he’d done anything but hurt you, he’d awakened your soul, quelled your fears. When forced into this betrothal, you were afraid that the man you’d marry would be like most of the lords around the world, taking what they wanted whenever they wanted. James showed you different.

“That’s good,” he sighed before kissing your lips gently. “Get some rest angel, I am not done with you yet.”

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[kasagia]

Flesh and blood

Pairing: Halbrand x fem!elf! reader Summary: Centuries of running away, fighting with what is right and what you should do, have left their mark on you. In time, you begin to realise that the war between good and evil, light and darkness, will never end. And you are tired of all of it. Especially since HE never leaves you alone. Not even for a short moment. Not even when you're about to marry someone else. A bit of a sequel to Skin and Bones, but can be read on its own! It took me longer than I thought, but I kind of like the way it went. I hope you will like it! 🤭🥰 Inspired by: David Kushner - "Flesh x Blood" Halbrand's Masterlist ~•♤♤♤•~ Main Masterlist

"I don't remember the last time you prayed to the Valar." Galadriel sneaks up to you silently. You close your eyes and breathe in the sweet air of Lothlórien.

You were looking for a quiet place where you could calm down and clear your mind of everything that had been bothering you in recent days. And quite a bit had piled up. And not just because it was your "wedding week.".

"That was… ages ago." You reply thoughtfully and stroke the ring hanging around your neck with your fingertip. A ring forged by Halbrand.

"He won't come here. I will make sure of it. He's too afraid of failure. We have many more allies now. You can be safe for yourself and your fiancé." Galadriel assures you with burning fervour and takes your hand that you hold on your lap. You smile, glad that something of her fire still remains—despite the centuries you have fought for yourselves and your people.

"It's not me I'm worried about. Nor Thranduil. You know… you know how Sauron is. He'll do exactly what we least expect. And I can't let him surprise me again." You say, standing up and taking away your hand from her grip. You walk closer to the willow with white leaves and rest your hand on its trunk.

You try desperately to cling with your soul to the power that lies dormant in it—the light that is both a part of you and Garadiel. But as usual, you don't feel the pleasant tingling in your body. You feel the power flowing through you, but... it's not as addictive as the darkness that he tried to pour into you so many times.

The silence after your words is oppressive, to say the least.

"Do you still have these dreams?"Galadriel's soft whisper makes you shiver a little. You wonder if she can feel it in you—the way the light the Valar gave you beats against the darkness that sang to you the most tempting ballads and promises.

"Less often. I guess he's too busy to bother me. Or maybe he's already bored with me? That would be convenient turn of events." You reply and finally turn to fully face her. A small smile appears on your face, but by the way she narrows her eyes at you, you can tell she's seen through at least some of your lies.

"But do you want it? For him to... leave you at peace?"

"There is no peace for me, Galadriel. Neither for you. We both know that." You try to avoid responding to her question and are about to walk away from her, but in the distance you see the silhouette of a very familiar prince of Mirkwood. “Forgive me.” You say, using that perfect excuse, and head towards your fiancé.

Guilt hits you every time you see a smile on Thranduil's face. Not just any polite, mocking, or trained smile that you get used to seeing. He seemed to have his special one—the one reserved just for your eyes to see.

You don't know exactly how you've charmed the Elven Prince, but you didn't go into too much detail. This alliance would be good for the elves. It would unite you in the fight against the one who held the torn remains of your heart in his claws.

Although... you couldn't say you didn't hope that the passionate feelings the platinum-haired prince had for you would be returned from your side someday. Maybe in time you'd learn to love him as he loved you.

"My lady." He greets you and reaches for your hand. He places a kiss on the top of it with full reverence, not to tease you as HE used to do.

"Elf." Halbrand's raspy voice rings out behind you as you and Galadriel discuss something. You're celebrating a battle won against your enemies, the night dark, the area lit only by the light from the campfires and torches. You blush as you meet the intense gaze of his stormy eyes, and you blame the alcohol you've just consumed for that, not the effect this special mortal has on you. "May I?"

Too focused on his muscular, exposed shoulders, you almost don't notice him nod toward the elves dancing around the fire. Before you can respond, Galadriel takes the wooden tankard from your hand and practically shoves it into Halbrand's arms. She would do anything to bribe him into ruling the Southlands and becoming her ally now. She would even go so far as to push you into his bed if it would change his mind.

You hold your breath, your heart beating a little faster as he takes your hand and presses a kiss to it. Your skin tingles as his lips caress you, his stubble teasing, just like the way his blue eyes scrutinise your reaction.

He pulls away, giving you a mischievous, mysterious smile and holding you to his chest, joining the other couples around the fire and spinning around in his arms like nothing else in the world matters. Ironically, a mortal makes you feel more eternal than any elf, dwarf, or man you’ve ever met.

You shake your head at the memory, and when Thranduil's eyes find your face again, you give him one of your smiles. One that he unfortunately can't recognise as a mask. One that Halbrand would see through in a blink of an eye.

"You were not at the war council today." He notices and nods toward the gardens. You begin to walk at a leisurely pace as you consider how to respond to his observation.

"I did not feel too… focused to participate in it today. I hope you didn't miss me too much?" You tease him, hoping he'll ignore the slight note of concern in your voice.

You wanted your complicated realtion with... Sauron to remain a secret from him. He didn't need to know about things that were long in the past… or your fears that the past wasn't as far away as you'd like it to be.

"I actually did." His comment catches you off guard a little. You stop when he reaches into your hair and tucks a sundrop lily behind your ear. It's a sweet gesture. Really. And you feel warmer and nicer inside… but your heart doesn't flutter in your chest like it would if HE did it. "I heard these are your favorites?"

You nod with a smile, not daring to tell him that your favorites are the red-white Carnations. And not because Halbrand gave them to you the other century...

"They are." You whisper hoarsely, a smile plastered on your face and you look away at the flowers growing around you.

He doesn't let you look away for long though. He gently takes your chin in both his fingers and tilts your head, forcing you to look at him.

There was a delicacy, a grace in everything Thranduil did. He was the epitome of an ideal elf, in whom it was easy to see the roots of a great family. And you would have fallen for him, indeed, had you not tasted the seawater of darkness on your chapped lips all those centuries ago.

"What's on your mind?" He whispers, staring at you intently, searching for an answer to your strange behavior.

There are a lot of things stuck in your mind… and none of them should be there.

Because how could you tell him that your mind wasn't occupied by him—just as it should be—but... by Halbrand? How can you tell him that you spend countless nights wondering about what could've been, turning the silver betrothal ring that Thranduil gave you on your finger and fantasising that its metal was black, made of the same as Sauron's crown?

"Many things. Wedding. War. Orcs... Sauron." You confess partly the truth, keeping your gaze fixed not on his eyes and face but on the garden behind him. "I… I'm worried about what's going to happen." You admit mysteriously, without betraying, that you are truly afraid of being bound to him.

You are too scared to admit that the dark corners of your heart are dying with longing for the one you should never have desired. That part of you wishes that your groom carried far less light within him.

"I promise you, he won't ever touch you again. I will protect you. With my kingdom, army and life." All you can give him in return for such a racy declaration is a faint smile that you hope actually looks more convincing than it feels.

"I know. But I hope you will never have to, Thranduil." You add, completely honestly, for the first time, and on instinct you lean in and snuggle up to the elf.

He seems at least surprised that you seek comfort from him, but he doesn't comment on it. Instead, he wraps his arms around you and places a hand on your head, gently running his hand through your hair as he lets you hide in his embrace for a moment.

And it feels good. Really.

But not as good as hugs from HIM.

"Galadriel said that I would find you here." Halbrand's voice interrupts your prayer to the Valar. You turn on the bench and look at the mortal. He slowly walks over to you and sits down next to you, staring at the holy oak before you. "Blaming yourself for their deaths won't get you anywhere. They're soldiers. They take into account the possibility of being killed when they go to war."

"Every life is worth mourning, Halbrand." He snorts at that, as if he doesn't believe the sincerity of your words. He turns his gaze to you, but you don't want to look back at him. You're afraid he'll see the tears in your eyes.

"Possible. But praying to the Valar will not bring them back to life." You jump up from the bench as if burned, to which he gives you a confused look.

"What are you trying to do? What do you want to tell me?! That stupid, eternal elf shouldn't shed tears over a life taken for no reason? That I shouldn't sit in a corner and cry like a child while people die around me? I know it! I know it perfectly well, mortal!" Your voice breaks slightly and you can no longer stop yourself from crying silently.

He freezes. For the first time, he sees your outburst. You're usually a composed oasis of composure, but now... after you saw him at the edge of death... Halbrand starts to connect the dots. He walks over to you and firmly, quickly closes you in his arms. You try to pull away, but he doesn't let go.

He actually doesn't want to let you go.

He had many names; he had taken many forms, but in none of them did he feel... peace. Holding you in his arms while you were crying into his chest, seeking comfort from him, as your fingers dug into his shoulders, clinching to him tight as if for dear life... he felt peace. He felt some strange kind of relief caused by the fact that you cared about him much enough to mourn his potential death.

You cried into his chest because you were afraid he would die, that he would leave. Sauron tries to remember the last time someone cared so much for him. He can't remember. Or he doesn't want to remember anything but this.

And he took selfish pleasure in the knowledge that his leaving would have devastated you.

You let yourself cry into him, pour out all the emotions that have been weighing on you since you saw him bleeding on the healers' bed, and you shiver in his arms as a cool gust of wind somehow hits your skin and breaks through the safe cage of his warm embrace.

"No Valar has ever answered my prayers. None has ever looked after me like you are... thank you, Y/N." He whispers into your hair and presses a kiss to your forehead.

He feels a strange pang in his heart as his lips touch the surface of your silky skin. You still tremble in his grip, but he holds you impossibly tight, refusing to let any force separate you. It's a strange feeling. One he's not used to. One that seems addictive - much like your sweet scent, which he hopes will linger on him so he can appreciate it longer.

This moment between you is... intimate. Not just because he holds you close to his chest, whispers sweet things into your ear, and plants kisses that colour your cheeks the same scarlet as your dress. It's because he uses your name for the first time. And it's to comfort you. A mortal. A blacksmith. A simple man... for whom you've fallen so quickly it's pathetic.

When you finally stop crying and he carefully wipes away every tear that's left on your cheeks with his thumbs, you do the boldest, stupidest thing in your entire, long life. You stand up on your tiptoes and connect his lips with yours.

He is... surprised by your unexpected act. At first he is unable to react to the way your lips move gently against his. You kiss him with a tenderness he has not felt for at least several centuries. And the Valar above, how sweet your lips were.

The tempting vision of the future he could have with you passes through his mind, enticing him more than any vision of power that Morgoth putted in his mind.

You take away his breath and any possibility of movement with each gentle biting of his lip. His heart beats uncontrollably quickly as he revels in your closeness and your ethereal scent, which wraps him better than any blanket could. He clings to your sofftness like a centuries-old thirst for touch-broken man that Morgoth had made him.

You pull away from him when he remains still for too long, fearing you've crossed a line. Allowing you to believe in it is the only crime he can’t commit.

His plans to slowly seduce you and use you to get on Galadriel's better side fly out the window as he desperately reaches for you. His needing of you is greater than anything he has felt since he took this new form.

And Valar, curse him if, after he has tasted you, he does not get all of you to himself.

He tangles a hand in your hair and, making sure his entire hand is securely around the back of your head, pushes you against the column in the courtyard with a force that makes you gasp into his mouth.

He’s quick to seize the opportunity, his tongue slipping past your slightly parted lips as he greedily savours every last bit of you, devouring you like a starving man as his other hand desperately grabs at your waist, taking a fistful of the material of your dress.

He wants to be as close to you as possible, any logical thought in his mind giving in to the force of his desire as he presses his entire body against you, wondering only where and how to take you, which places are your sweet spots, and what to taste first to put out the fire you've ignited inside him—a desire so great he's become its obedient slave in less than a blink of an eye.

And for a moment, he truly feels like a weak mortal. As you work just as quickly to unbutton his shirt, he feels like a regular human being. And he despises that feeling as much as he desires more.

"He is here." At Galadriel's words, you drop the white gown you were taking from the wardrobe.

Your maids rush to you, trying to save the silk dress from getting wrinkled, but you don't care. All you can think about is him. Sauron. Halbrand... Annatar. He was here.

"What?" You stare at her in shock as she nods her head for the rest to leave your chambers. The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the hurried footsteps of the elves leaving, who have managed to do your wedding hair and light makeup.

"We... wanted to keep you away from it—Erlond, me, and Thranduil. We thought it would be the best for you. Sauron... he entered the city gates a week ago and... surrendered. Sort of. He let us lock him in his cell. He has no crown, no rings. He said he wanted to make an alliance with us. Peace. Of course we don't believe him. We're waiting for our allies to provide us with... the right means to get rid of his physical form for good. Before that... we'd like to get as much out of him as possible. Or rather, find out what his real plan is. But he's been silent for weeks. He wants to talk to you. Only you."

"You kept it in hidden? From me? Together with my future husband?" You ask coldly, inside seething with rage at their betrayal. How could they pretend nothing was happening for a week? That the greatest evil in Middle-earth hadn't come to your gates and wasn't lurking in the dungeons, waiting for the most likely moment to strike?

"Y.N, I… I know how you feel…"

"No. You don't know." You answer her firmly, piercing her with an icy gaze that makes her flinch. "Am I your enemy now? A less worthy ally who fell in love with an enemy? Because that's what he is to me, Galadriel. How dare you... how dare you doubt me after I've chosen you every time? After I had chosen Middle-earth and elves every single time! Each of us faces darkness, Galadriel. Even you are not made entirely of light. So I'm asking you, what right do you have to exclude me from your plans?!"

You explode in rage at her and walk over to her. You breathe quickly, air leaving your flared nostrils, and the urge to pin her to the wall with a dagger at her neck is overwhelming.

"Everything I do, I do for the good of Middle-earth."

"You're not the only one! What do you think is the reason for my marriage to Thranduil?! The good of Middle-earth, the strengthening of the alliance—that's all I've done for these cursed centuries at your side! But I thought I was your true ally and supporter. Thank you for reminding me that I fall short of your light and greatness, my lady."

Before she can say anything, you're already running out of the room. You ignore the elves milling around, who were listening to your conversation, and head to one place. The dungeons.

You can't ignore the pang in your heart as you consider your conversation with Galadriel. She didn't trust you. They didn't trust you. After all the years at their side, the sacrifices, the battle against the darkness within you, they thought of you as a lesser elf that any time can be consumed by the darkness. You were not a worthy guardian of Middle-earth in their eyes. And you probably never will be.

You blink faster, fighting back the tears that want to spontaneously come to your eyes, and practically run down the stairs. You don't ask the guards where he is. You can feel him clearly, the ring that still hangs safely on your necklace pulling you toward him, feeling him as soon as you set foot on the same floor he is on.

You prepare yourself to not show any emotion on your face. You take a few deep breaths and climb the last few stairs. A rather comical sight greets you. Six men stand by the bars, as if the chains and shackles around the neck, wrists, and ankles of the man in front of you were not enough to assure him that he would not escape. As if they could stop him if he actually wanted to escape.

You watch his new form closely as he drinks in your sight with an equally intense gaze, as if assessing all the changes in you since your last meeting. He is no longer Annatar. He doesn't have blond hair, but he is a near-perfect replica of Halbrand. A damn bastard knew too well which one of his forms you had weakness for.

"Leave me and the prisoner alone." You order the soldiers. They look at each other uncertainly. But you are in no mood to deal with their blatant refusal to immediately obey your words. “It was an order, not a request.”

You see a small, mocking smile spread across his face as he watches the soldiers hesitantly leave you alone. The door closes behind them with a bang, sending an involuntary shiver down your spine. Centuries. That's how long it took for the two of you to be in the same room in flesh and blood.

It shouldn't feel this right.

"Personally, I think I made you a better ring." He begins, casting a significant glance at the Thranduil's ring that adorned your finger. For a moment, you felt as if the metal would melt under his contemptuous gaze.

"Personally, I believe that it is not the ring that is important but the one who gives it." You comment and take a step towards the bars. He can't move, thankfully, so there still is a decent distance between you two.

He's trapped in the middle of the room, chained to the floor with heavy chains. And though he looks defenseless... but deep down you know he's been through worse. No prison could hold him for long.

"Your little elf prince... did he finally tell you that I was locked here? Or was he too afraid I'd steal you from the altar? By the way, I didn't know you had a thing for blondes? Maybe Annatar wasn't as disgusting to you as you claimed."

"Oh Annatar was a self-absorbed, egotistical psychopath with unrealistic ambitions. A pretty close and faithful form of you. Probably the closest yet, Sauron." He frowns at the contemptuous, almost disgusted way you say his name. He clears his throat and shakes his head, chuckling darkly.

His mockery sends waves of anger through you as well as a warm, all-too-familiar feeling in your chest. His laughter was both poison and wine to you. How much would you give to be able to get lost in it with impunity...

"Now now. Why call me by a name you despise? We both know which one you like more... especially in the darkness of your chambers." You tremble slightly, but you don't let him know that the constant visions and dreams were affecting you in any way.

If you've learnt anything about him, it's that he doesn't like it when you don't react to his actions. And right now, you really want to piss him off; see him losing his composed and mocking demeanour, as if he were still playing the cards in your game, as if he were 15 steps ahead of you.

"Why are you here, Halbrand? Perhaps you prefer Annatar? The Dark Lord? It's hard to keep up with the nicknames you've been giving yourself lately, Lord of orcs and Mordor." You ask calmly, playing with the ring on your finger—a habit you had developed far before your engagement and, as you've just noticed, something that annoyed him when it wasn't his ring that you were showing off like that.

"Oh, well, someone had to carry a pillow with wedding rings at your…"

"You're wasting my time." You interrupt him coldly, staring at him intently. “Maybe I should just let Galadriel play with you while I focus on my husband?” You ask, rasing defiantly an eyebrow at him as you wonder if he will continue his stupid game or once in his life he will open his cards to you.

"Good thing we have eternity, right?" You sigh and roll your eyes at him. That was exactly how you remembered him.

What else could you expect from him? If he hadn't shown you the illusion, he would have entangled you in his dark web of lies. It didn't matter if he came to you in visions or stood before you in flesh and blood—he wasn't the one you fell in love with; he was much more. You should have realised after all those centuries that whatever was between you two wasn't love, affection, or anything decent.

He desired your power. Not you. Maybe you should finally take a hint.

Maybe he had shown you the darkness for too long to feel tempted by it any longer. Maybe this light was finally what you longed for. Or maybe you got bored of his little, sick games and manipulations. Maybe you craved for something real—something he obviously would never give you.

You turn your back on him and are about to leave when he suddenly calls your name. Not the pet names he liked to call you. Your name. Your real name. And something about the way it rolled over his tongue wouldn't let you just walk away from him.

Even though you should have done it ages ago. Even though the whispers of darkness had been tempting you for too long, and even though you knew perfectly well that it would be better for you to leave this room as soon as possible, you didn't.

You stop, but you don't spare him a glance again. You wait for what he has to say, not really knowing what you want to achieve with him. Because you are perfectly well aware that Galadriel has already informed Erlond and Thranduil about your sudden outburst and that they are most likely eavesdropping on the two of you now. HE probably knew that too. Just as you all knew that he wouldn't appear here without a serious reason.

"Not in a joking mood, I see. You'd be a lot happier as my bride, by the way. But if you insist, I think I can tell you this great secret, but it must remain just between us two, my sacred light." He pauses, clearly waiting for you to look at him again. You sigh and reluctantly turn to face him. The intensity of his sea-green gaze burns worse than any flame, making you feel like you're the one being interrogated and shackled by him. "Actually... I'm here to replace your groom if he decides to run away from the altar. I wouldn't want the beautiful sight of you in your wedding dress to go to waste."

"Who said he would leave me? Thranduil loves me." You speak with complete certainty of the prince of Mirkwood's feelings for you. You wish you had as much confidence in yourself as you do in him.

"Not a big achievement. He's not the only one. He's not the only one who put a ring on your finger, is he? But tell me... what seems more... intimate? Wearing one on your finger or on a chain around your neck, close to your heart?"

After his words, the ring on your chest - the very one he gave you - becomes heavy, heavy under the awareness that his words carry a bit of truth... Why would you still keep his ring close to you if you already had one?

"You tell me. It seems that of the two of us, you know the most about the chains. Especially the dark ones."

"I may be chained to the darkness. But you, my stubborn and beautiful elf, are chained to the light. Tell me, Y/N, does the Valar answer your prayers and your pleas after you have cried out to me in the darkness of so many nights? Can you whisper their names in your holly gardens, knowing it is mine you wish to scream out loud for all of Middle-earth to hear?"

Only when blood is running in a stream from your hand do you realise that you've gone to the bars and wrapped your hand around them, squeezing tightly so you hurt yourself. He's drawn you to him like a spider to its prey, wrapping you in the web of his words, making you lose your guard enough to get close to the bars. And that was your mistake.

In an instant, he’s in front of you. You gasp in shock, unable to process when he’s freed himself from his shackles or when he’s wrapped his hand around your wrist and pulled it through the bars. All you can do is hold your breath and watch as he licks your wound, moaning as your crimson blood spreads across his taste buds, tasting you like you’re the most exquisite of drinks.

"We belong together, my lady." He says this nickname mockingly as he leans down to press his lips to your hand. "No matter how far or fast you want to run, or who you want to run with. I will always find you. I will always be near. You will be able to feel my breath on your neck in every dark night. You will always be mine, Y/N."

You gasp as his lips move up your hand. He’s so close, your noses brushing through the bars as he forces you closer to him, to feel you the way he wants.

You gasp as he slides his hand along the sharp edge of the bars and mixes your blood with his, pressing your hands together tightly. You watch as the black, thick liquid runs down his wrist, and an unwanted little voice in the back of your head convinces you to lean down and taste his blood with the tip of your tongue. You stand there, staring at him as if spellbound, unable to move as he presses kisses to your joined hands, spreading your blood across your skin.

Suddenly, you are being dragged backwards by two strong pairs of arms. And although Halbrand... Sauron tries to hold you by force, almost crushing your wrist, Erlond and Thranduil pull you away from him.

"That's a very rude way to interrupt someone's conversation." He comments unimpressed, running his finger over the bars where your blood still is. He sucks his thumb, humming at another metallic taste, irritating your not-yet-husband.

"You're lucky there's no suitable weapon here yet to end your miserable life, you disgusting, cursed Maiar. I'd like to see you try to get close to her, no longer having any physical form."

"I would still have a better chance of getting a taste of her wonderful nectar and light, little prince. Actually, I've already done it. What about you?"

You knew perfectly well what game he was playing and how much he wanted to spore the elf so that he would slip and stab him with his sword, thus not killing him fully but allowing him to take another form. But Thranduil seemed too agitated to leave him without a word, and Erlond was too interested in getting more information out of Sauron to stop his friend.

"I can connect with her in a more meaningful way. First of all, I have enough light in myself to bind our souls to each other." Sauron frowns in displeasure, never taking his contemptuous gaze off your fiancé.

"You may not know this, Elven Prince, but darkness is as good a connection as any, and a much stronger one I dare to say. Besides... you cannot bond with one who is already taken."

This is clearly too much for Thranduil to bear. The Prince of Mirkwood is in front of Sauron in a split second, his blade at his neck. A thin line of black blood runs down to his collarbones as he, unfazed, still smirking, stares down at your fiancé.

"Thranduil leave him." You butt in and place a hand on the elf's shoulder. He looks at you sideways, his jaw clenched and his hand trembling slightly against Mairon's neck as he is still tempted to take his life. You gently grab his wrist and pull his hand away from Sauron, ignoring the searing look he gives you as you touch another man before him. You gently cup the elf's cheek and force him to look at you. "He is not worth it. Let us go, he will not tell us anything useful, he will only confuse our minds. This is just another of his numerous games."

"You know perfectly well that not all of this was a lie, Y/N. And if anything… I'm not the only one here who resorts to it, am I, my beloved nemesis?" You try to ignore the look Sauron gives you from behind Thranduil's shoulder.

You lean down and gently connect your lips with the elf's. He seems to melt into your kiss, one of your rare acts of tenderness. And you can't quite give yourself over to the feeling of his lips against yours enough to not hear the soft growl of the man behind you.

"Let's take this wedding. We won't achieve anything here anyway." You say, moving away from him and trying your hardest to ignore the pain in your chest and the cries for the Dark Lord that Erlond and Galadriel were taking care of.

But you knew well that his imprisonment wouldn't last long. He'd get out. The only question was when... and what was the real reason of his comming here.

The ceremony is beautiful. Really. Even though you may not be the most enthusiastic bride, you are happy that your people have something to celebrate and have a moment of respite from the danger that is now closer than ever. With Sauron in the dungeon and an army of orcs on the loose, anything could happen. And you didn't want to even imagine the many possible scenarios.

"A coin for your thoughts?" Thranduil quickly joins your side, handing you one of the goblets in his hand.

You smile softly at him and take a sip of the drink, wincing slightly at the taste. He chuckles and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you close as you watch the dancing elves.

This wasn't exactly how you imagined this connection between you two to look like. Elven couples who chose to bind their souls together through marriage spoke of a great connection of souls and minds, but you barely felt this link between him and you.

For a moment you thought you had said your vows wrong, but Thranduil didn't seem to act like anything was wrong. So you too pretended that everything was completely fine. Just as always.

"Honestly, this isn't how I imagined our wedding would be." You chuckle softly, sipping the drink he gave you.

"Well, that wasn't what I had in mind either, my dear wife. But it doesn't make it any less joyful. You're mine. Finally." He whispers and presses a kiss on your temple. A shiver runs through you as he gently slides a ring onto your finger. The engagement ring that somehow disappeared from your finger. You frown and give him a questioning look. "Sauron must have stolen it from you somehow. I'm just returning it to its rightful place—my queen's finger." He replies and reverently places a kiss on the back of your hand.

You frown and look at the metal band on your finger. It was… oddly heavier. Like more massive. Strange, since it was the exactly same ring as few hours ago.

"Is there something wrong, my love?" He asks sweetly, taking the empty chalice from you.

You absentmindedly play with the necklace around your neck, freezing when you realize you don't have the familiar weight of Sauron's ring hanging around your neck.

"Shall we dance? For the first time as husband and wife?" Before you can answer, he already has you in his arms and leads you to the dance floor. You surrender completely to his guidance, feeling your head hum slightly.

All you can look at is him. Your vision can't focus on the couples dancing around you or anything else except him. And suddenly, you see it. A small crack in your fucking vision.

You can't believe how you could be so stupid and naive.

"I... Sauron" You mumble, feeling slightly disoriented as the poison he gave you is starting to work. Suddenly, you are overcome with immense fatigue, and all you can do is lean against him as you wander into blissful nothingness.

"My beautiful light. Only mine. My wife." He whispers in your ear, confirming your too-late suspicions, and easily scoops you up into his arms.

You dream a dream without dreams. Very strange occurrence since for centuries you were haunted by him in any moment of peace.

It must have bordered on obsession, since the first thought you had after waking up was always him. He made you crazy without even trying, without even being close to you in flesh and blood.

And you're genuinely afraid of the lengths he'll go to once he finally has you within his reach.

"I know you are not sleeping, my dear wife. Your breathing quickened about 10 minutes ago."

You don't know how you could have been so stupid and naive. How you could not have noticed the obvious difference in Thranduil's demeanor. Just like you have no idea how he did it, how he managed to plan this entire show and execute exactly what he wanted. Just as always.

"Eventually you'll have to open your eyes. Don't you want to see our kingdom, my love?"

"Don't call me that, you disgusting plague." You growl, finally opening your eyes. You're in a bedroom, pitch black. You're lying on the most velvety silk sheets, but it's not them or the decor of the room that catches your eye.

He sits just a few feet from your bed. He's wearing black armour made of sharp metal plates. There's a streak of red blood on the side of his face. You shiver, wondering what he had to do to get that blood there.

"Now now. Is this the way to greet your newly wedded husband?" He asks mockingly as he slowly approaches you.

You sit on the bed and rest your back against the headboard, trying to move away from it as far as the handcuffs attached to your ankles will allow.

"I didn't marry you. I was promising myself to Thranduil." You say stubbornly as he slowly sits down on the edge of your bed.

You glare at him sternly as he lazily reaches up to stroke your cheek with his thumb. The ring on his finger—the very one you thought you were putting on Thranduil's finger—pricks your skin unpleasantly, mockingly reminding you of your great mistake.

"But that wasn't really him standing before you, was it? Your elven prince's… his… appearance is currently far from what you remember. You could always be mistaken, my love."

His voice is so sweet that it is nauseating. He drops his hand and suddenly stands up from the bed. He goes to the closet and starts to take off his armour, completely oblivious to the fact that you're in the same room as him. How you wish you had access to a small knife right now...

"What did you do to him?" You ask, your voice shaking as a thousand possibilities race through your mind. You can't believe how all of you fell for the idea that there was some way you could make him defenceless and block his powers. Millennia on his back, and he still played you however he wanted.

You shiver as he suddenly stands before you again. He gently cups your cheek in his hand and stares at you as if you were another addition to his collection of prized possessions he’s torn from the throats of his enemies. The pearl in his dark crown of scorched lands.

"He wanted to take you from me. You know very well what I do with thieves, my precious light of life. I burn them." He leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek. His stubble stings unpleasantly, your heart pounding at his closeness, but still all you can do is sit there in shock, wondering how he managed to gain control over you. And how best to play your cards to make sure he doesn't hurt anyone else.

"I wasn't yours. Not for anyone to steal me from you."

"Your mistake, for which his pretty face paid. Do you know how much time I spent convincing my army not to feed on him once they smelled the delicious scent of a burnt elf?" He asks, unfazed, continuing to press his lips against your skin. His hand tangles in your hair and wraps it around his.

He tilts your head back and buries his face in the crook of your neck, nibbling at your sensitive skin. You hold your breath, biting your lower lip until it bleeds.

A tear slips down your cheek, but he ignores it, ignores your quick breaths and broken sobs as you mourn the one man who truly wanted to save you from falling into the darkness. From falling into the arms of the Lord of the Rings.

"You are a monster." You whisper, unable to hold your voice back from a broken sob. His hand works on the fastenings of your nightgown, oblivious to the fact that you are currently reliving the suffering and death he brought to the land of Galadriel and your would-be husband.

"I am your husband. That's all that matters now."

He leans down and captures your lips. You can only moan as the force of his kiss cuts off all other sensations you feel. His lips claim yours as if it were his eternal right, one you've denied him and one he's had to rightfully fight for. You feel him sigh softly as he presses you against him, making sure he feels yours against every inch of his body. He's not kissing you. He's conquering you. He's marking his territory, laying claim to every tiny part of you, not wanting to leave any part of you unsullied by him.

He had cursed your spirit utterly centuries ago. He had planted the seeds of darkness that had only flourished in the centuries away from him. And now, having gathered enough of an army and grown strong enough to be virtually unstoppable, he was taking your body for himself.

And you realize that even the Valar do not forgive you your sin in wanting him even after all the terrible things he has done.

You still try to fight him. With the last of your strength, you push him away from you, trying to protect the remnants of light that remain in you. Light that he desired as much as he wanted to destroy it through his darkness.

"What have you done? Where am I?" You growl, trying your best to hide how panicked you are. You reach for your powers and throw him across the room.

You throw off the bonds that bind you and walk to the nearest window. You hold your breath as you see the lands that were once sacred gardens, where you prayed to the Valar, engulfed in flames and ash. He destroyed it all. He razed the entire city to the ground. All because you dared to bind yourself to someone other than himself.

"In your husband's house. Right where you belong." He approaches you silently and presses a kiss on your shoulder. He wraps his hands around you like a snake, tightening his grip on you.

You hyperventilate at the destruction you've brought upon those you loved. You wonder how many of them survived, how many escaped, how far his armies have spread, and how long he's kept you locked away in his golden fortress like a sick prize that you clearly were to him.

In your last, feeble attempt at rebellion, you scream. You scream until your throat aches, and much longer after that. You turn in his arms and throw yourself at him in a frenzy with fists and nails, wanting to hurt him as much as he hurt all the people of Middle-Earth and you. You want to hurt him so much that he will feel it in every tiny part of himself, so he will be able to feel your own pain and despair.

You curse him in both elven and general speech; you throw insults at him; you struggle and fight with him. The fact that he stands calmly without losing his composure, taking your blows as if they were nothing, makes you even angrier and more passionate in your efforts to hurt him. You hit him even harder; you want to throw him off balance, drive him insane—just like he just did to you. You feel extremely powerless when you realise that you cannot.

"Have you finished?" He asks, catching your wrists in both hands as your attacks become less frequent and your screams turn into quiet sobs.

He pushes you against the wall and presses you against it, immobilising you. His other hand gently wipes the tears from your cheeks, as if that would somehow ease the ache in your chest. You feel as if the last of your light is dying a slow, painful death with each of his touches.

"Not even close. Let me out. Let me out or I'll go mad. I'll go crazy. I'll make sure every single day of your damn life is a nightmare."

"You won't. I need your light, Y/N. It's the only thing keeping me sane among these stinking orcs. And if you go mad... then we shall go mad here together. As husband and wife. For sickness and for worse. Until we heal all Middle-Earth."

"You are already lunatic." You promise him, twisting your wrists so you can dig your nails into his palms. He hisses slightly, but doesn't remove his hands from you.

"Possibly. But I'm not your monster. I didn't kill them, Y/N. Your little friends should have died, but I spared them. I only took their land from them. I showed mercy, Y/N. For you. Because of you. My wife. Don't you see that? Don't you like the control you have over me, my lady, my light, my sweet and dear wife?" With each new nickname he trails kisses along your temple to your cheek, stopping at the corner of your mouth. "Doesn't that mean more than anything I have done for you?"

"It means nothing. It never meant anything and never will. You have no soul; you have no light. You can't... you can't bond with me... with mine... you won't pollute me."

You shiver as he runs his tongue from your jawline to your neck, stopping suddenly to suck a hickey into your skin. You gasp and bite your lip hard, trying not to let out any more sounds of pleasure, but you can’t just ignore the way he presses himself perfectly against you.

"Oh, Y/N…you know so little of the powers of darkness. I am already one with you. I have been through the ages and always will be. In body and soul, in mind, in dreams, in spirit, in flesh and blood, I will always be a part of you."

He's right. You know he is because you feel him with your whole being. Even hundreds of years apart didn't manage to get you out of the clutches of his influence.

He poisoned your mind through your dreams and entered your body like a venomous poison, starting with your soul and ending with your flesh. And the worst in all this situation was that you didn't know how to stop him.

"You… you promised you would leave me alone. That you wouldn't lift a finger until I called for you, until I came to you myself." You mumble as he pushes you back into the bed.

He straddles you and cups your cheek tenderly in his hand, watching you closely. He plays with you slowly, like a spider that has captured its prey in its web, savouring every moment he can explore your body with his fingers.

"Apparently you needed a little push. Beside that, didn't you ever try to reach me?" He asks, slowly weaving your hand into his. The rings on your fingers mock you more than his words. Because did you really defend yourself with all your might when you landed so easily in his arms? "You will beg for me, Y/N. You will crave my company. I will wait until the memory of any other kindred spirit than me dies in you. I am very patient, Y/N. Ages and aeons have taught me this. I will wait until you have no shelter, no confidant, no friend, no lover left on this world but me."

With that dark promise, he pushes your back down on the bed. He hovers over you, giving you no time to respond. He swallows your every breath hungrily, as if he'll never get to kiss you again, but you both know perfectly well that now that you're finally in his iron grip, it's quite the opposite. He has all the time in the world to destroy you. A thought that, along with the intensity of his kiss, fades inside you as you allow yourself to give in to your darkest, wildest, most ardent desires.

With every kiss that marked your body, every little moan, every soft gasp, you felt yourself sink deeper into the depths of darkness. His fingers caressed your skin, igniting something much more than lust within you.

And even though you love the way he feels against you, digging your nails into his back and tangling your hands in his hair, pulling him as close as you can, wanting and needing him to finally become one with you after all these centuries, you don't give in to him completely.

You knew what he was like, what he was capable of, and what sweet lies his lips could tell as they caressed your breasts, peppering every inch of your exposed skin in a frenzy of kisses as his fingers prepared you for him. You could moan and hold on to him tightly, pretending he had you all to himself as the edge of his wedding ring brushed against your walls, but deep down, every little connection to him made you want to fight him even more.

But you'll play smarter next time. You were a diligent student, and he's just taught you a very important lesson. Patience is golden. So you'll wait. Wait until he believes he's completely tamed you, that you'll willingly become his king, his Queen of the Rings. You'll make him believe you're his and his alone, and at the right moment you'll plunge the dagger into his Mordor-black heart.

You cry out and bite his shoulder when, just as you think about plunging the dagger into him, he thrusts his length into your wet, aching walls. And the Valar above, if this were to be a sin, then you no longer wish to remain holy and pure.

As he begins to thrust into you with all his strength, no longer holding back the lust and desire suppressed for years, you wonder if this is the ecstasy elves feel when they return from this world and become one with the light of the Valar. If not, you are glad he has led you far away from that path.

He whispers something to your ear in black speech, but to you these are just fragments of meaningless words, as your head buzzes with the flood of feelings he gives you. He is relentless in his conquest of you, and for a moment you truly feel utterly defeated and at his mercy. It is only when the blood from his arm—from the exact place where you bit him—runs down your chest that you remember that this is not the end for you. You will not submit to him. Ever. He may have won you through deception, but he will never extinguish the fire within you—the light that may not have been as pure but still blazed beneath the surface of your skin.

"Bind... yourself to me." He grunts between his hard thrusts, trembling as he nears the edge. You don't know if it's a command or a needy cry of the desperate, lonely immortal, but you know that if your plan is to succeed, you must give him part of yourself he could hold on to...

“Halbrand!” You moan when he suddenly slides his hand between you and stimulates your clit, teasing you and bringing you closer to your pleasure, caressing you the way you used to do in the dark of night with him in mind.

"Mairon." He breathes shakily, his tone bordering on pleading. You shiver, realising what he's just revealed to you. The name he didn't give himself. The one he had no control over. And maybe, if the circumstances were different, if he'd won you over differently, you'd appreciate more how... sensitive to you he had to become to share something like that. "My light... Mairon." He doesn't ask. He never does. But in that moment, you could take it as his prayer to you. A plea from the depths of his heart, where there's a shred of light left. Which you know perfectly well there isn't. Or at least you want to believe that he's completely rotten to the core. Otherwise, he could truly love you. And knowing that would destroy you.

"Mairon." You moan as you both fall apart and you open yourself up to him, doing what he asked of you - bonding yourself to him with flesh and blood.

He collapses on top of you, trapping you in the tight embrace of his arms. He presses his mouth to your temple, his nose in your hair as he inhales and absorbs every last bit of you, wanting to memorise this moment forever and etch it into the memory of his mind, into his very being.

You allow it. For both him and yourself, to enjoy this stolen moment of peace between you two.

Because Sauron forgot one important thing. That in the glow of your light he can both bask and burn. And since you can no longer remain holy and good like Galadriel, since that path of light was blocked for you from the day you met him and the Valar have turned their back on you, refusing to protect you and defend you against him, then you will become much worse than all of them.

Middle-Earth should beware of the new Lady of the Rings.

[ririright]

“The Starless Vow Chronicles: Ashes in the Storm”

In the void between stars, promises are shadows—and love can be the cruelest curse of all.

The Executor was silent tonight. Not in truth, of course—its great engines hummed their endless symphony, its systems clicked and sighed, and its crew hurried along catwalks with practiced precision. But to Lord Vader, it was silence. A silence vast and suffocating, thick enough to drown in.

The stars beyond the viewport were cold, distant fires.

Vader stood alone in his private chamber, back turned to the galaxy he once swore to protect, helmet catching the reflections of a thousand suns he no longer felt. The hiss of his breathing echoed off the walls, a rhythm as steady as a death march.

It had been years.

Years since Mustafar scorched his soul and left only smoke behind.

Years since Obi-Wan carved the last of Anakin Skywalker out of his burning flesh.

Years since she died.

She.

He didn’t say her name.

Not anymore.

Even now, it would have felt like breaking glass inside his throat.

But she lived in his memories like a ghost that refused to fade.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

He saw her sometimes—on the edges of sleep, in moments between pain and purpose.

The shimmer of silver beskar flashing in the sun.

The braid she used to wrap in leather, stubborn Mandalorian pride wound tight with royalty.

The laughter—Force, her laugh—it still hurt worse than his burns.

“Ani, you look ridiculous in that robe.”

“You’re one to talk, Mand’alor of Bedhead.”

“At least I don’t sleep with a protocol droid’s anxiety chip.”

They had whispered wedding vows in the dark, fingers bruised and hearts louder than their voices. Her lips had trembled against his when she said she’d follow him anywhere.

But she hadn’t.

She couldn’t.

The war didn’t ask.

It took.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Vader turned from the viewport and lowered himself onto the meditation platform. The hiss and release of his helmet echoed like a gunshot in the chamber. He sat in the shell of his own ruin—scarred skin exposed, eyes ringed in shadows deeper than sleep.

He closed his eyes.

And let her in.

In the dark, she sat beside him, the warmth of her hand brushing his.

Not metal. Not the cold of prosthetics or the rasp of breath.

But her—flesh and flame, fury and mercy.

“You said you’d come back,” her voice murmured, like embers on the wind.

“I know,” he rasped, voice dry, raw, human. “I know.”

He had wanted power to protect her. He got a throne of ash.

He had wanted time to save her. He bought only agony.

“Did I matter?”

Her question cut cleaner than any blade.

He opened his eyes. “You were the only thing that ever did.”

And still—he failed her.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Palpatine called her a weakness. A casualty.

But she had never been weak.

She died fighting.

She died free.

She died before she could see what he became.

Vader rose. Reclaimed the weight of his armor. The mask sealed with a hiss, snapping the world back into suffocating order.

And yet… in that moment of quiet, in the cracks of steel and fury—

He still felt her hand in his.

Not forgiving.

Not condemning.

Just there.

He would never see her again.

But she would haunt him until his last breath.

And that, perhaps, was the final justice.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆ ⋆⭒˚.⋆

Outside the viewport, the stars went on burning.

Unmoved.

Unmourned.

Unforgiven.

But deep within the armor, in the dark pit of what was once a man,

Anakin Skywalker knelt, unseen.

And whispered her name.

[witchygagirlwrites]

Hold On- Pt 1/2

Kelly Severide x Reader

When Kelly hears about a threat at med he doesn't think he's gonna end up facing losing even more than the love of his life

Warnings: Gun violence, death of a child, shooting of a pregnant female

“Kelly!” you all but giggled his name out, he had you down on the bed and was teasing every spot he knew would pull a reaction out of you with his lips and tongue. He’d worked his way down your neck and was now kissing across your collarbone. “What baby? You really want me to stop?” he teased, blue eyes moving up to meet yours. You felt your face warm under the intensity of his gaze. God you loved this man. “Not really, I mean I’d much rather keep you in bed then send you off to walk into fires”

He smiled and pressed a kiss onto your chest “Love, you know I’m going to always find my way back to you if there is any way possible” you ran your nails through his short hair, teasing the grey locks and smiling when he nuzzled further into your touch “I know Kel, doesn’t help me feelings any about the love of my life being in danger every damn time he goes to work” 

“Well you know if something does happen and they can get me to Gaffney, Rhodes will do everything in his power to bring me back to you” he teased and you shoved playfully at his head “Do not use Connor to tease me!”  He laughed and moved up the bed, turning to lay on his back and pulled you towards him so you didn’t have a choice but to straddle his waist.

You crossed your arms and he grinned, gently unfolding them and taking your left hand in both of his. He ran a finger over your engagement ring “I promise you. I will dig my way out of hell itself if need be to be able to become your husband” you shook your head “I wish you wouldn’t take how dangerous your job is so lightly Kelly. I love you, I respect your job but you need to respect that it is a little nerve wracking” he nodded, “I know baby. That’s why I call you so much during the day, just to calm your nerves. I love you”

You leaned down to press your lips against his “I love you too Kelly” he grinned against your lips “We have enough time” you laughed and braced your hands against his chest, enjoying how the smooth muscles moved under your palms “Then don’t waste the damn time” he pulled you down to him and flipped both of you over “Yes ma’am”

You stared at the little plastic test in front of you. The two pink lines felt like they were staring back. You were pregnant, at least a few weeks from how damn dark those lines were. This wasn’t a faint positive by any means.

You took a deep breath, a smile working its way onto your face. Your wedding was in a couple weeks, maybe you wouldn’t have to get many more alterations done to your dress? At least you knew you hadn’t just randomly gained weight now, right?

A laugh escaped you at your own dumb little joke. You snapped a photo of the test so you could show Kelly tonight then wrapped it in a paper towel and threw it away before washing your hands and heading back out onto the floor. You had to hide your excitement or you’d give yourself away the moment Maggie or Connor saw you. They’d know some form of good news had come your way.

You were pregnant. You and Kelly were going to be parents. You couldn’t wait to tell him. “Soon to be Severide” you turned at the sound of Connor’s voice, a grin slipping onto your face “Hey Con” he smiled “You’re with me today, I got a couple pediatric surgeries so who better than my favorite peds nurse”

“Such a suck up” you laughed and he grinned “Gotta make sure no one knocks me out of place as your best friend” you shook your head “Never” and fell in step with him as he handed you the tablet that had the first patient’s chart pulled up.

‘So, big day’s getting here quick man” Matt told Kelly, sitting down next to him in the bays. Kelly nodded “Couple weeks, I can’t wait” Matt laughed “I never thought I’d see the day that you of all people would be downright excited to get married”

A broad grin slipped onto Kelly’s face as he shrugged “I guess it really does just come down to finding the right person. I couldn’t imagine my life without her now Matt” “I’m happy for you both and I’m honored I get to stand up there with you” Matt told him, patting his knee.

For it to still be early in the day the firehouse had been fairly busy so they were enjoying a little bit of downtime while lunch was getting cooked. “Where’s Gabby?” Kelly asked and Matt waved towards the door “Her and Sylvie are in there watching Cruz cook”

He nodded, pulling his phone out to send you a text. Just checkin in. I love you a few seconds later the bubbles that you were replying popped up then the reply came through I love you too

He smiled and Matt laughed “You’re adorable Kelly, really” and he threw his hat at Matt “Man, shut up” Matt grabbed the hat and tossed it back “I’m just teasing. It’s good to see. It is”

___________________

Kelly was running drills with squad when Boden walked to the door leading out into the bays. “Kelly” he looked up and the moment he spotted his chief he felt his stomach drop. Something was wrong. He didn’t know what. He didn’t know how bad, but he knew something was wrong.

“What is it?” he asked and Boden looked like he was bracing himself “There’s an emergency at med, there’s been a lockdown” he didn’t hear anything else Boden said because he was already running to his mustang.

You stood next to the bed in the hybrid OR, staring down the man that was threatening both you and Connor. He had brought his son in with a ruptured appendix but from what Connor could guess, the appendix had ruptured the day before. You didn’t even know how the hell the kid was still alive to this point.  “Save him” he ordered and Connor nodded “I’ll do everything I can but you need to surrender to the police” the man currently had a gun in his hand.

He shook his head and raised the gun towards you “Save my son or I kill your nurse” you swallowed hard, your thoughts immediately going to the baby  “Please, I just found out I’m pregnant this morning. I haven’t even told my fiance” “What?” Connor asked, the look in his eyes had gone from worried to downright terror now that he knew it wasn’t just your life at risk but your baby’s too.

“Then he better do his job” the man spoke. Connor nodded “I will, let her go. Hold the gun on me. Something besides having the gun on a pregnant woman” “Connor you can’t operate alone” you reminded him, swallowing hard from where you stood across the table. You slowly met Connor’s eyes “Just concentrate. I’m ok” 

____________________

Kelly threw his car into park and ran towards the entrance of the ED despite the fact that there was police tape everywhere. “Severide!” he heard several voices calling his name. It was both Halsteads and Voight. “She’s in there” he barely got the words out. Voight nodded “We’re getting tapped into the security cams to get some sort of idea what we’re dealing with so we can form a plan. Come on”

He fell in with the older man and followed him. He walked over to where Burgess had a laptop set up on the hood of her suv. The screen went black then the footage of the ED, namely the hybrid OR came onto the screen. His heart stopped when he saw a man point a gun at you. His heart crumbled when your next words were  “Please, I just found out I’m pregnant this morning. I haven’t even told my fiance” he felt his knees go out from under him and he would have hit the concrete had Jay and Will not lurched forward and caught him. 

“She’s pregnant?” he whispered more to himself than anyone. Voight nodded to Jay “We’re taking control of this scene, fuck SWAT. We have our people at risk”  “I’ll get ready to breach” he nodded then looked at Kelly “We’re gonna do everything we can to get her out safe Kelly” “Please Hank” he pleaded, eyes glued to the screen.

_____________________

You handed Connor another tool, feeling your stomach drop with every bloody gauze. There was no saving this kid. The appendix rupturing was bad enough then he’d sat for over twenty four hours? His blood had gone septic. At this point Connor was just trying to keep his heart beating long enough in hopes that whatever cops were outside could figure this out.

You knew this, you just hoped his father just didn’t figure it out. “His B.P. is dropping” Connor spoke low to you and you nodded. You didn’t have what you needed to keep it up in the OR. If he flatlined….You were fucked. 

He was purposely staying between you and Connor too. There was no way out of this without the cops getting in before this kid flatlined and unless they made it within the next two minutes. You looked up into Connor’s eyes, feeling tears forming in yours and whispered “If something happens look out for Kelly, promise me” “Nothing is going to..” you cut him off “PROMISE ME” he nodded, tears in his eyes “I promise” 

The man was getting twitchy, he was either due for another hit or catching on. You could feel your hands start to shake slightly. You were engaged to the love of your life, pregnant with his baby and now facing being killed.

“Why isn’t his blood pressure coming up?” he asked and Connor didn’t look up “That’s normal” you nodded, “It is” he kept fidgeting, moving to shove the gun into your side “It better be because the little pregnant nurse probably wants to make it home to her fiance”

You stiffened and Connor glared at him “Come shove that thing in my side. I’m the surgeon, not her” “Yeah but she’s the one with a kid. She’s the one who deserves to die if my son does” you felt tears slip down your face.

___________________

Kelly watched the laptop, frozen to the spot. He knew Voight’s team was moving in. Connor was doing everything he could to keep this son of a bitch’s attention off of you but he could see just how fucking scared you were. He could see your lips moving and knew you were whispering something to Connor.

The next few moments seemed like they happened too slow and too fast all at the same time. He could see Jay come into view just in the corner of the screen. The man moved to look out of the OR, the kid flatlined and he saw the barrel of the man’s gun flash right before you hit the ground.

He turned and ran into the ED, shoving only god knows how many people out of the way. He ran past the body of the man and hit his knees at your side. “Baby?” he whispered and you rolled your head to the side to look at him, eyes full of pained tears as Connor snatched stuff down to hold pressure and screamed for help “I’m sorry Kelly” “It’s ok love, just stay awake” he tried but your eyes fluttered shut, the blood seeping through Connor’s hands as the medical team flooded into the room. They got you onto a gurney and wheeled you towards the elevator “We need to get her to an OR now and get ASHER!” 

He heard Connor giving orders but he couldn’t move. The love of his life and his baby. Was he going to lose you both?

Part 2

[hehe-69]

Bonfire Part 7

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6

Time for the Wolfpack on crack. I hope you enjoy this lil palette cleanser. Because it’s going to get rough in the future. (This is short af because it’s just me writing more Wolfpack)

Tag list: @coldonez

—————

“You’re kidding me,” you say shock filling your voice. “You’re telling me that vampires turn into fucking disco balls in the sunlight!” The frustration in your voice makes Jacob throw his head back and laugh.

“Don’t worry, I’m sure Jacob will protect you.” Jared teases and immediately gets horrified as Jacob glares at him. “Dude, quit stirring the pot before you get your ass beat.” Amusement fills Embry’s voice as he speaks. “Yeah no kidding, you’re lucky (Y/N) is here or else you’d be Jacob’s new chew toy.” Seth adds through a mouth full of marshmallows.

“I’d pay to see that.” Leah grins as she speaks, she still hasn’t forgiven Jared for drinking all of Seth’s Capri Suns.

-

“Oh Paul is 100% Squidward.” Seth says as you and him take turns assigning each member of the group sponge bob characters. “Embry is SpongeBob without a doubt.” You announced and hear Embry say ‘YUSSSSS!’

“QUILL IS PACTRICK BECAUSE HES MY LOVER!” Embry shouts out joining in. “DUDE WHAT THE FUCK?!!” Quill laughs out.

“Wait, Jared would be doodle bob.” You say and start pointing at him making doodle bob noises and you start wheezing laughing. “WHY DOES IT MAKE SO MUCH SENSE!” Seth gets out through fits of laughter.

-

“Okay, I think it’s time for you to take a nap.” Jacob tells you, you’ve been laughing for at least 15 minutes. “Yeahhhhh I think so too.” You are literally crying laughing and Seth is still wheezing. Everyone else has begun laughing either from the doodlebob joke or from how unhinged you and Seth’s laughter has become.

-

Now that things have calmed down, you all sit by the fire and just talk. For hours, just enjoying each others company. And you can’t help but notice, that Quill and Embry’s legs are pressed against each other.

—————

Weeks after the bone fire, at Emily’s house

“Hey guys!” Seth’s voice is filled with excitement, finally he was going to be involved with the boys. Quill and Embry had told Seth to come talk to them after helping Emily clean up supper. “You wanted to tell me something?”

“Me and Quill are together.” Embry says straight faced and Seth laughs. “Okay I’m not falling for another one of your pranks.” Seth laugh fades as he realizes how dead serious the two boys look. “This is a prank…right?”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Quill says cryptically, and then Embry grins widely, pure evil shines from within his eyes. “Why tell me this?” Seth asks, and he fears the answer. “Because either way…no one will ever believe you.” Embry chuckles as he finishs Quill’s sentence. And the two boys walk away. Seth is left in the dark, horrified. They’re right, no one will ever believe him. Seth makes the saddest hurt puppy face known to man and slowly walks back to Jacob’s truck.

No one will ever know the truth…or will they heheheheheh.

————————

Tis a short but sweet fill part, I have much work to do😈😈😈😈

Here’s a hint, it has to do with two bffs falling in love. ITS QUILL AND EMBRY IM SOLD ON THIS UNINTENTIONAL LOVE STORY. EMBRY X QUIL

So ummm yeah, small break from (Y/N) and Jacob but they will be back. Part 8 will on hold. I’m gonna make a one shot about Embry and Quill about them getting together in this universe. If you don’t like them together as more then bros in love you can just ignore it.

Jacob and reader are side characters in it toooooo

Tanks for reading. Part 9 will involve Bell’s wedding sooo angst and so on will be in the forecast.

Id like to restate that I will not abandon this long fic till it is done I’m just taking a bit of a break from it because I’ve made 7 Parts so far and it’s not even been a week since the first part.

Enjoy your peace while it last WUHAHAHAHAHA

Also as always feel free to request something you would like to see in future parts

Love ya🫶

Part 8

[fanaticdragonrider]

dont have a title yet

Post-httyd 3: Eretlout before and after marriage.

Eret and Snotlouts relationship is strange, complicated. But they mend it and fix it as they go.

thanks to @julesisblue for being a beta-reader!

“Snotlout husband of Eret” didn’t sound so bad.

Snotlout flipped through the pages.. colors upon colors, and how to achieve those hues from flowers and clay. a variety of wedding ideas Snotlout bunched up in a leather folder he never thought he needed.

Junglehouse blue? Too tacky. Pink? They were both men! Red? Looks like a love inn. He needed the perfect color pallet, he was going to be finally betrothed. 

Eret loves the ocean, doesn’t he? He’ll keep the baby blue for the banner, oh yeah— It’s all coming together.

Gold for Snotlout and blue for Eret, Snotlout laid down on the wooden floor with a soft smile nobody has ever knew, he never thought he would get married. But Eret wants to!

The viking imagined how the smell of the ocean would calm the sailors and how the soft cloth would be placed upon their hands to make Snotlout the coolest most manly viking husband.

Or so he thought.

The wedding was cancelled, or at least Snotlout felt like it was- when in reality it was postponed till next week.

“It was rainin yaks and dragons!” Gobber said to Gothi in the great hall, Waving his wooden hand as if the officiator could change the weather. Gothi was already bored of his constant complaining, can’t an old woman sit in peace? Weddings never go as planned anyways.

Snotlout’s eyes were brighter than usual.

The crackling of fire couldn’t muffle the angry voices in his head, yelling at Thor for the lightning and storms— it couldn’t even muffle his shame.

while his outstretched legs were warmed up by the great halls fire. He felt Eret walk casually from gobbers stressed yapping to Snotlouts quiet rage.

Eret clenched his jaw. A rain-soaked Snotlout on the floor didn’t help.

Snotlout had spent 1 minute thanking thor for not going outside in his wedding attire and another minute sulking in front of the great halls hearth. 

Erets sweet accent snapped Snotlout out of his thoughts as he sat behind him. “Lad.. the wedding will be held soon enough, no?”

Snotlout wanted to be hugged from the back, his eyes became softer. From icy to something with warmth.

If it wasn’t Eret, Snotlout would have bitten his face off as soon as he sat down behind him, instead the shorter viking leaned back into Erets chest silently.

“Its so humiliating—“ A mumble left Snotlout

“No, Lout its not.”

“Thor always had it out for me, i was struck by lightning 14 times! And now this, Eret!” he cried out.

Sometimes life is unfair.

Everyone felt bad for them both.. the rain outside was strong and sudden, they couldn’t even reschedule for a later date in time.

And yet- Eret was hopeful for some sort of relief.. the pain Snotlout endured might become a gift. Despite him deserving it most of the time

…

Despite everything, they still got betrothed.. needless to say a viking and a sailor didn’t know what to do during a honeymoon so they decided to just sail with Erets old crewmates, who surprisingly adored Snotlout.

There were lanterns and sweets to wave them a warm goodbye near the docks, Erets place.

Fishlegs scratched his chin “But why? Honeymoons are for fun!”

despite the tradition being for the blessing of a son in the maidens womb.

Eret shrugged but the shorter viking wasn’t so merciful.

“First of all, FISHFACE! I like honeymoons because i get to have a great time and rub it in your faces.” Snotlout offendedly pointed at fishlegs.

“And just because i wont have a sappy smoochy honeymoon doesn’t make me any less of a viking! So you better be thank-!”

Snotlout was interrupted by his husband.

“You’ve done enough for today.” Erets voice somehow tamed Snotlout. As he was steered towards the ship.

Snotlout let out a soft laugh and waved everyone off as he boarded the ship. It wasn’t a usual occurrence to hear him laugh with so much love, it was usually filled with mockery or it was a victory laugh. But this one was different.

Snotlout was lulled to sleep by the noises of the ship. Crewmates chatting, the oceans tide rising and the ship gently rocking, creaking.. He wondered how babies felt when they were sung lullabies and rocked by their mothers. Was this it? 

He felt warm, his round nose right next to Erets old beige fur coat that smelled like the ocean, it was soft and warm as he snuggled deeper into the bed. Staring at the moon from the round window on the swaying ship. Wondering how many times Eret went to the sea.

Eret has been more busy lately, he felt a little jealous. They got married but he still wanted attention! But the only way he could find peace in knowing he cant choke Eret out for leaving him alone for so long is hugging the sailors old clothes.

Eret kept moving, always looking forward— as if stillness could kill him, he would hear the cracking of whips and dragons.

Snotlout couldn’t seem to figure out why..

He didn’t understand.. Eret knew all of Snotlout, from his body to his head. But Snotlout sometimes wished he could see Erets slavemark for more than a few seconds before the candle is snuffed out, ask him, tell him it reminds him of hookfang.

 He feels guilty, guilty for not knowing his husband more. What if someone knew Eret better than Snotlout did? Would Eret go to them instead?

He loved Eret in a pathetic and desperate, Snotlout-like way.

[autism-autobot]

Flower of a Poisonous Seed Part 52:

Part 51:

Tw: hate crime, vandalism, racism,

"So that's the plan. What do you think, Father?"

"I don't like any of what has happened recently, but I understand the precautions we must take moving forward. Perhaps you can take your mother with you. As much as I trust Nezha to have chosen good company for the task, I would prefer one of our own to be there by your side."

Erlang Shen drove them to Wukong and Nezha's house.

They were absolutely devastated at what they saw.

PIF: *in shock* Oh, my stars. Was it like that when you left, my child?

RS: No. No, this is far worse. The flowers are new, though.

On the sidewalk outside the picket fence were bouquets of fresh pink carnations and blue hyacinths. Signs and notes of support and love accompanied them. Packs of unused incense were laid there too. Beyond that, the house looked more like a war zone.

Someone had set fire to the yard leaving black ash in its wake. The smoke from the fire had turned the originally blue-green walls an unsavory gray. Every window was broken.

Jing: Stay on alert in case traps have been laid. We can never be too certain.

Erlang: Even if it is safe, there's no way that house is in good enough condition to be lived in.

PIF: Still, we should investigate the damage. Save any belongings that may be intact, and see if was isn't can be restored.

RS: Agreed. Cousin was wise to instruct us to take the objects we held most dear to us, but many things were left behind in favor of haste, practicality, and necessity.

Jing: Wukong's been excitedly showing Macaque pictures of their grandchildren, so at least the photo albums were spared.

RS: *laughs* As they should be.

The inside wasn't much better. Porcelain tableware and picture frames were smashed on the floor. The TV had an axe in it. The house was built out of fireproof materials but all inside that could've been burned was burned.

Red Son stepped out onto the back porch. His Uncle's favorite tea set had signs of mended breaks that weren't broken a week ago, neglected in the rush to safety. It was one of the few things Wukong had brought with him when he moved in with Nezha. It was a wedding gift from Guanyin, one that was used daily by the happy couple and yet somehow managed to survive the childhoods of their offspring.

A bold and black-hearted soul destroyed the tea set. Then a brave and kind soul took the time to mend it.

Red Son just wished he knew who to thank.

~~~

Princess Iron Fan stepped carefully through the master bedroom's bathroom. It wasn't much of a bathroom anymore.

The mirror was, unsurprisingly, shattered. Shards and medicines littered the floor. The bathtub and toilet looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to them.

Iron Fan went back into the master bedroom to make her leave. That's when she spotted a photo of Wukong and Nezha behind the door, missed by whoever rampaged through there.

The photo featured the two holding hands while walking down the stairs. Nezha was being led by a round, curly-haired Wukong. They were smiling.

Iron Fan felt her heart break like the mirror.

She held the photo in her shaky hands as she wept for a dozen reasons.

~~~

Erlang took gentle care to lift fingerprints off of the axe lodged in the TV. He only knew basic forensic science, but a sample could help find the culprit(s) responsible.

Xiaotian Quan sniffed around for any trace of the culprit's scent.

Erlang takes his role as Co-ruler of the Celestial Realm very seriously. Jing took on the legislative role while he was in police and military affairs both foreign and domestic. This qualified as a domestic threat. Even if it didn't, he wouldn't let this thing slide.

He didn't know or care for Macaque that well but Wukong is a brother. Erlang would rip the heavens from their foundation if that's what it took to keep Wukong safe. Now more than ever, Wukong needed people who would protect him from harm.

~~~

Jing: *over the phone* Son... I'm so sorry.

Nezha: *sobbing* Oh gods, why?

Jing: We'll be taking home whatever we can salvage, but... it won't be much.

Nezha: That's okay, Father. We can get by without much.

Jing: I will collect what I can. I love you son. I will support you both in any way I can.

Nezha: Thank you, Father. Goodbye.

Jing: Goodbye.

Nezha: *hangs up* *turns to Wukong*

SWK: *tears streaming down his face*

Nezha: *crying* You caught all that?

SWK: *nods* *cries silently*

Nezha: *faking a smile* Guess it's time to look for a new place to live!

SWK: *fakes a smile back* *hugs him*

Nezha: At least there's flowers for you.

SWK: *between quiet sobs* Pink carnations and blue hyacinths mean "Sorry". Not everyone is our enemy.

Nezha: *sobs loudly* Beautiful darling! I should hope so!

The two break down crying in each other's arms. They know they'll survive this storm together. But today? Today they mourn the home they lost. The one they made together. The one they planned to spend eternity in. As usual, life had other plans.

Part 53:

Masterpost

@weaverpop @istopaskingmemate @ainnur @starrclown @cutvdo @swkbiggestdefender @fruit-fight

[loveueddie]

𝑯𝑨𝑷𝑷𝒀 𝑽𝑨𝑳𝑬𝑵𝑻𝑰𝑵𝑬'𝑺 𝑫𝑨𝒀, 𝑱𝑶𝑯𝑵𝑵𝒀'𝑺 𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳 ۵

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Fem!Reader

Warnings: innuendo of sex, mention of sex, inappropriate language, Johnny being a cute boyfriend. Not yet reviewed.

You and Johnny have known each other since high school, through Reed. It turns out that having a similar IQ to Reed made you his best friend, when he met Sue, you were forced to meet Johnny Storm. At first, it was annoying, you hated his playboy and womanizing ways, he was always flirting with you and you had to put up with it every single day. It got worse when he and the others took the space trip where they gained their powers, he was always showing off his flames and attracting attention. You had to put up with him every single day, again, when you helped Reed officially found the Fantastic Four. Johnny was always winking, flirting, and touching you... until you discovered that everything he said was more real than the Thing's fake wig.

Johnny changed, the womanizing side was left aside, he changed for you. He fell madly in love with you just like you fell in love with him. He was always trying to make you feel special, in his own way. Sometimes when you were angry, he would bring you flowers, when he accidentally set them on fire because he was nervous.

Being Johnny's girl was not an easy task when your boyfriend is the most coveted and most admired man by women in New York. York. Even though Johnny told you every single day that you were his girl, you couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and possession when some random girl flirted with him, sent him letters with lipstick on his mouth, or winked at him.

But despite the jealousy, being Johnny's girl also had its good moments. All of New York knew you're the girl from the Human Torch:

Before heading to the Baxter Building for a day of work as Reed's assistant, you walk towards the coffee shop. To say the least you were late and that was never like you, the girl who was always right, punctual, intelligent and Reed's sweetheart. You blame the delay on your sister-in-law, Sue, who kept you up late showing you the wedding dresses she intended to choose for her wedding to Reed.

You enter the coffee shop, the bell ringing as you enter the place with the aroma of several different types of coffee. As soon as you approach the counter, the manager immediately smiles and says to the attendants the usual:

"Johnny's girl espresso!"

Johnny's girl. The title caught on everywhere and you loved being his girl. I mean, who wouldn't love to be Johnny's girl?

You were in the laboratory, making notes on what you and Reed could do to make HERBIE's intelligence more up to date, the robot was part of that crazy family of superheroes. You were doing it alone as Reed was busy making new installations in the Baxter Building, Sue and Ben were decorating the building with decorations for Valentine's Day.

Then your attention is taken away when you feel your reading glasses come off your eyes and Looking up, you see your boyfriend putting his glasses on his eyes and giving a charming smile.

"What do you say?" He strikes a playful pose, flexing his strong biceps through that skin-tight jumpsuit that makes you look horny just by looking at it. “Do I look smart and sexy?"

You pretend to roll your eyes and look at him, taking his glasses off his eyes. "No, you look even more stupid."

"Hey baby, that was mean of you." Johnny says placing his hand on his chest and pouting dramatically. "I'm Johnny Storm, I'm sexy and hot even if I were bald."

Johnny's smile was enough to make your legs go wobbly and you thank God you're sitting down. Johnny on the other hand, grabs your hands and pulls you up so you can stand up and he wraps his arms around your shoulders. "How's my girl?"

You smile, hands stroking his strong biceps on your shoulders. "Actually, I want to eat something."

"Really?" Johnny whispers, his brown eyes turning a darker shade and his voice full of desire. His hands, covered in black gloves, went down to your ass and squeezed lightly. "Because I'm hungry too. Very hungry."

You look at him, your eyebrow raised and biting your lip, because Johnny always had an insatiable thirst for you that happened when you least expected it and in the least expected place.

"Uh, uh." You place your index finger on his lips as he leans in to kiss you. "Last time you did this, we ended up getting laid here in my lab..."

"Yes, and it felt fucking good." He growls, biting your finger playfully.

"But it wasn't cool when Reed found out and had you wash the Fantastic Car with an old toothbrush after Ben ate nachos and burritos." You remind him and he groans in disgust at the memory.

"I'm going to ban all machos and burritos from this town." Johnny says with a look of disgust, but soon replacing it with a smirk. "But come on, we'll be careful this time. My girl likes naughty thrills."

Yes, damn, you did after you met Johnny and didn't know each other anymore. Johnny managed to corrupt Reed's innocent assistant with just carnal acts. You couldn't complain, the sex with Johnny was incredible and mind-blowing, after all, he had a lot of experiences before you.

But despite that, you deny it, maybe because Sue and Ben were walking back and forth with their Valentine's Day decorations, it wouldn't be nice to be caught by Sue or Ben.

"I promise that tonight beautiful lingerie awaits you in your dorm." You say smiling and Johnny's eyes light up like a child just getting candy.

"A lingerie, huh?" Johnny smiles. "You know, I wrote this in my letter to Santa Claus, but I didn't think I'd get the gift so soon. Any special reason?"

Typical of Johnny forgetting the dates and not noticing all the Valentine's Day decorations lying around . Sometimes he was distracted, like the last time he got lost on a car trip because he got distracted watching two ants having sex

"Today is Valentine's Day." You say, wrapping your arms around his neck. Johnny tries to hide his surprise with a smile.

"Y-yes, of course I did. I haven't forgotten. Pff, I would never forget the date of our first kiss." Johnny says. "Me? Never!"

You nod, suppressing your smile, finding his denials about not having forgotten that date cute. "Did you hear that?" Johnny says suddenly and you frown, not hearing anything. "Ben is calling me, he must have gotten stuck in the toilet again. I'll see you later, I love you!" Johnny kisses you before running out the door.

"I love you too." You say, even though he was already gone.

It was almost seven in the afternoon and you were locking the lab to go to Johnny's dorm floor to do the who promised, you were eager to say the least. This night would be unforgettable.

Or not.

Ben runs towards you looking panicked, panting as if he had run a marathon to get to you. You look at him confused, finding his behavior strange.

"Johnny was attacked on the terrace! We need his help!" Ben says.

His words were enough for you to run to the elevator and press the button for the building's terrace several times. Once there, you look around trying to find Johnny, already expecting to see the worst of your boyfriend.

But there was nothing.

Then, the sky is lit by something strong with yellow and orange colors. You look up at the sky and see your boyfriend flying with his body full of flames, waving at you with an arrogant and passionate smile on his lips.

You can smile in relief as he slowly flies towards you and extinguishes the flames when he lands on the floor.

"Ben said...oh my god, I'm going to kill him." You say hugging your boyfriend tightly. Johnny smiles, hugging you back and placing a kiss on your forehead.

"I'm fine, I asked him to do it." Johnny says, pulling away a little to look at your face, a smile playing on his lips. "You know I've always liked a dramatic entrance."

He points to the sky and your heart pounds with love for your boyfriend when he sees the sky in flames, something he did for you, written: I love you, my girl.

"Happy Valentine's Day, baby." Johnny whispers in your ear, gently kissing your ear.

"I love you." You smile, looking into his eyes and then up to the sky where Johnny's statement was written with his flames. He lit up the sky for her for all of New York to see his love for her.

"I love you more, my girl." Johnny kisses your lips, with love and fire. His lips moving against yours, bringing butterflies to your stomach. He pulls away and puts his forehead against his. “Are you still going to wear that lingerie? Because I think big Johnny is ready for action." He points to his groin.

You laugh, nodding your head. "Yes, my love."

You're definitely Johnny's girl.

[luxheroica]

I wrote Wyll/Karlach, inspired by this art. I have been shipping them hard for months and knew I needed to contribute to the ship in some way. Also on AO3.

Tonight the camp is drunk on success and copious amounts of wine. There is still hardship and danger on the road ahead, not least for those who still bear the tadpoles in their heads. For tonight the goblins are gone and the druids ritual halted, the wine is sweet and the fire bright and that is enough to banish thoughts of darkness ahead. 

The bard Alfira has struck up a string of country dances on her lute, the kind of songs played at festivals and weddings for all to join. Wyll, in good humor and more than incidentally tipsy, joins the first one– a circle dance that has him linking arms with Lia on his left and Zorru on his right as they careen faster and faster around the roaring bonfire. 

There is something liberatory about dancing among the tieflings. None of them stare at his horns (still heavy on his head) or his strange eyes, instead taking them in stride. 

Wyll is the only one among the group that he has privately begun to think of as ‘companions’ to join the dance. Tav snuck off some time ago to find a private tent with Gale. Astarion is skulking around somewhere with a bottle of wine. Lae’zel scorned the idea of any revelry and has gone to bed, and Shadowheart in rare sympatico with the gith has also retired early. 

He is surprised not to see Karlach among the party– until he turns and sees her at the edge of the firelight, drinking out of a flask and watching the dancing, her feet tapping along with the music. 

The song comes to an end with a repetition that is so fast it nearly has all of them tripping over their own feet. Wyll has to catch his breath when at last the lute sings out its last note, and the gathered tieflings break out in applause. 

He excuses himself from the fireside and finds Karlach, who tips her drink at him and nods when he approaches. 

“You don’t wish to join the dancing?”

“Oh, ah,” Karlach shifts on her feet. She’s always in motion, he’s noticed, whether she’s fidgeting or pacing around the camp. “I don’t really feel like setting anybody on fire tonight. Plus I don’t know any of the dances.” As if sensing she’s brought the mood down she grins at Wyll. “You looked like you were having fun though.” 

“It was quite fun,” Wyll says, eyeing Karlach, who is watching the firelight circle with half an eye. “Most of these dances don’t have complicated steps– they’re easy to learn, if you follow what everyone else is doing you’re more than halfway there.” 

“Doesn’t solve the problem of me turning that whole line dance into kindling.” 

She’s keeping her tone light, joking and grinning, like she doesn’t really care that she can’t ever touch anyone without harming them. 

Wyll follows her lead in this. “I’ve got a nice sturdy pair of leather gloves,” he cajoles, pushing her just a little. “And Mizora’s present should make me at least a little resistant to infernal fire.” 

Karlach grins again, softening a little this time. “Don’t worry about me, soldier– I’m all left feet, you get me out there I’ll just careen into everything. Get out there and enjoy yourself.” 

Wyll doesn’t believe that– well, he does believe the part about her careening, she seems like the type to careen– but he doesn’t believe that she truly wants him to leave her to go enjoy dancing. Karlach puts up a good front, but were he in her shoes he would want nothing more than the simple things that had been so long denied him. 

He fishes in his pouch and draws out his pair of sturdy leather gloves which he slides over his hands, like a courtier drawing on his silk gloves so that he might offer a hand to a lady, then bends at the waist in his very best courtly bow. That it is a little out of practice he thinks she will forgive, especially when an irrepressible laugh burbles up out of her. 

Wyll winks, and Karlach laughs again. 

“Well, my lady?” Wyll asks. “May I have this dance.” 

She’s grinning truthfully now, as she takes his hand. There’s a bit of heat, like he might feel pulling a pan from the oven, but it’s shielded by the leather. “You may,” Karlach says, a laugh still at the back of her throat. 

Wyll pulls her towards the firelight. Careful to give her enough space that any careening won’t be a danger, but still within the flickering orange glow of it. A few of the tieflings look at them and grin when they join. There’s a new tune starting up– he knows this one, a sprightly hop meant to be danced with a single partner. 

“This one isn’t complicated, just follow my steps,” Wyll murmurs to Karlach as he begins twirling her around the fire. At first she is clumsy, all left feet as she said, but after a few turns she starts to anticipate the little skip-hop on the third beat. Wyll smiles. “There, you’re getting it.” 

Karlach shakes her head, still grinning. “You’re playing with fire, you know that right?” 

Wyll meets her eyes. Grins right back. “Wouldn’t be the first time.” He sends her out in a spin, and her laugh echoes all the way to the sky above. 

They whirl around the bonfire, until the flames become embers and the music slows and they all at last stumble off drunk and sleepy to bed. Wyll’s thick leather gloves are covered in scorch marks, but he considers it worth the sacrifice to see Karlach’s soft smile when at last the dancing finishes for the night. 

There will be danger on the morrow, but for tonight his heart is warm. 

[mxtantrights]

Bounded by shadow and blood (18)

azriel x magic!fem!reader

Kynas walks up the steps to Dias. No one in the crowd reacts. He really had them under his control, which was scary. Controlling that much blood at once is not easy and it takes its toll. 

You wonder if that is also why he looks so close to death, or if it’s the other powers running through him. How’d he do that?

“How did you get like this?” You ask.

He smiles at you from your brother’s side. 

“Does my darling wife want to nurse me back to health? That’s sweet.” He snarls.

You wanted to buy time. Amren could have gotten the message but maybe she needed time to get here. And if the wards are down then the whole inner circle could help her. Not that they would help you, but if they knew the shadow singer was in trouble you have no doubt they would do all they could and more.

Your eyes waver over to the man in question. He looks stone cold. And he’s looking right at you. His face isn’t giving anything away. Not even the pain that he’s feeling because of Kynas. 

He really should have left as soon as he got here. 

“Well I think you should at least wear something more appropriate to my throne ceremony.” Kynas says.

You look at him wildly at that. So he did want the throne. Why? Sure power is one of the greatest loves of his life—you never quite made the list. But there were so many ways to get to the throne, why this way?

While you’re not paying attention, your outfit changes. You don’t feel it. Not at first. It’s not until the red sleeves cover your arms that you get it.

You weren’t wearing the clothes from before. Now you were in a red dress. One of the dresses that Kynas had picked out for you to wear at the wedding ceremony. One of the dresses you passed on—and pissed him off.

It was barely a dress. A deep cut down the middle of your chest, only strings to cover your back. The only thing you liked about the dress was the long trail that faded from red to black. 

You reach up to touch your ears. Earrings. And your hand roams down to your neck, a blood pearl necklace no doubt. His favorite. 

“You always wanted me to be docile and obedient but this is a new low.” You bark.

Kynas laughs at that, “No the low would be you giving out your blood to a fae. A lower born fae at that!”

“Who cares?!” You shout back.

At your words Kynas’ eyes shine with amusement. You go slack. Your body temperature rising quickly. You focus on keeping control of your own blood.

“I take it the bastard doesn’t know that its sacred to give blood?” Kynas asks.

“Kynas—“ you start.

But he turns right to the shadow singer. Azriel looks him in the eyes.

“You performed a marriage ritual, did your friend tell you that?” Kynas asks him.

But of course he can’t answer. Azriel struggles against his hold but he can’t break it. You are silently praying for Amren to show up. Or Cassian. Or Morrigan. Maybe even Rhysand. Hell, even Nesta would do at this point.

“I took down the wards, I’m wearing this stupid dress, what more do you want?” You ask, trying to take his attention away from Azriel.

Kynas looks back at you now. He interlocks his fingers together. Menace. Coward. Idiot. 

“I want you to kneel.” He says.

But he’s not commanding or forcing you to do it. You feel his hold on you release. The temperature in your body going back down, ever so slowly even if you feel like you’re on fire from rage.

“Don’t you…dare kneel to him.” Your brother says in between puffs of air.

You look at how he’s struggling. His eyes are turning red. His whole body is trembling. You want to run to him but you can’t. You know that as soon as you do Kynas will do something.

Kynas growls and sends your brother flying down the steps. He rolls and rolls until he lands flat on his stomach. You gasp and take a step closer but as soon as you do, a heavy blood blade forms. The red sword now pointed behind your brother’s skull.

“You will kneel!” Kynas shouts.

You can see your brother resisting. He’s shaking violently now. 

A voice from behind you calls your name. You recognize it as Amren’s voice. You hear other footsteps behind her. You can’t turn back to see them. The shadow on your wrist warms. 

You cannot give your back to Kynas, not when he holds your brother’s life in his hands.

“Never!” Your brother shouts back.

It happens in a matter of seconds, though it feels like eternity. You watch as your brother smiles at you one last time. No matter how forced it looks you will savor it for the rest of your life.

Your brother, breaks out of Kynas’ hold. Kynas doesn’t expect it and stumbles back, his hold on everyone else in the room faltering for a second. A second is all you need.

As you send three blood daggers from your hand, the blood sword that Kynas has pointed at your brother’s head rushes forward. Your daggers hit their intended target. 

Kynas falls on his back with a loud thud. The towns people, gathering their senses, rush away from the front of the room. You however look fro your brother, who is no longer in front of you. The blood blade staked into the floor, but no sign of him.

“Orlin?!” You scream.

“Right here, sister.” 

You turn around. There he is. Your brother, leaning against Cassian by the front of the door. You gather up the ends of your dress and run to him. He grabs a hold of you and brings you in for a hug.

It’s not hard to notice that you are crying. You duck your head down as you brother holds the back of your head.

“I’m so sorry sister,” he whispers.

It’s years of feelings that you’ve held onto pouring out of you at once. Grief, rage, tension, guilt. All of it comes out of you in between broken sobs.

“We’re okay. You saved everyone.” Your brother continues.

You pull away from him, shaking your head, “I didn’t—I mean I couldn’t have done it alone.”

You look over at Amren. She walks over to you and envelopes you in a hug. She whispers in your ear about the blade, and how she came as quick as she could when she realized something was wrong. You thank her over and over again.

From behind you can feel his presence. You turn your head to look. There Azriel is, not a scratch on him. He gives you a once over, you actually watch his eyes search you from head to toe. You have a feeling if no one else was here his shadows would physically make sure you were okay too.

You don’t notice it on first glance. That’s why when you look him over you notice how tense he is. 

“I’m okay,” you start saying.

He starts shaking his head, like he can’t believe it. You move to him at once. You grab his hand and place it at the juncture of your neck and shoulder. He lets out a strangled breath at the feeling of your blood flowing beneath his hand.

You nod your head again, “I’m okay. We’re okay.” 

He nods his head too. 

“Sister,” your brother says.

You pull away from Azriel. A few of his shadows climbing up your arm. You turn to face your brother but when you do you wish you hadn’t. He shows you his hand, which came from the back of his head, and there it is. It’s not blood. You wish it was blood. 

A dark substance coats his hand. You take two large steps to him. But it’s not quick enough. He stumbles into your arms. You go down to the floor with him.

Your brother lay on his back on your knees. You can feel the tears coming down your face again. Red. The color of the tears and all you can feel right now.

“Orlin, please, I can fix it!“ you cry.

He shakes his head.

“He gave his blood to the bog of Oorid. What he got back was slowly killing him.” Your brother says, coughing in between words.

If the blood inside Kynas was killing him, then the same blood he used to form the sword he pointed at your brother…was already in him. When he held him by the blade at the neck and when he nicked the back of his head.

He was already...

“I can take your blood, I can give you mine—“ you start.

All of these options could work. In theory. By taking your brother’s blood you could temporarily heal him. But if it’s been spreading for longer than you think you would have to take much more blood, and he wouldn’t survive that.

You could give him your blood, but that wouldn’t work as a cure. It would only work if you could stop the infection. Which, once again, might have been taking root for a long time.

The scars and bruises on his body. You doubt Kynas would use any other blade than his own blood to hurt your brother. 

“I am your older brother, my job is, was, to protect you. I cannot let you give me your blood.” He speaks.

His voice groggy now. He holds out his hand and you take it in yours

“I should have came sooner. I should have known.” You say.

“It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault, sister. But they are going to look to you know.” 

You let out a shaky breath and look around the room. The towns people are all taking in the scene in front of them. This wasn’t like the death of the council members which you hid from them. They are all witnessing the death of their emperor, right in front of their eyes.

They’re all watching in real time as the throne is being passed from one sibling to the next. From the heir to the spare.

You look back down at your brother, “I can’t do it. I don’t want this.”

“I know,” you brother hacks loudly and a bit of dark liquid comes out of his mouth, “but I know you’ll figure it out.” 

In your grip you feel his hand loosen. You shake your head and keep repeating his name. As if that would simply wake him up from this awful nightmare. When his chest stops rising you gasp.

You hug his body to yours. Even though you can feel it going cold by the second. It doesn’t feel real. You and your brother were supposed to live this life together. Yes you left and he stayed, but it didn’t matter. You weren’t supposed to be the only one left.

You don’t know how long you stay like that. It doesn’t feel like long. It feels like time is passing you by.

And you don’t move from your position until you hear a voice calling you. It’s not Amren, or Azriel. Or anyone from the inner circle. You know this voice like the back of your hand.

You slowly let your eyes trail up, up, up to the door of the throne room. Standing there in the threshold is Semaj. He looks shaken up but you can’t sense any injuries on him. He’s looking at you now with a scared look on his face.

He gets down on one knee and places his hand over his heart. Sadly he bows his head.

“Empress.” He says.

It’s strikes a reaction in the whole room. One by one all of the towns people bend their knee and bow their heads. You even see Amren joining in. They repeat the same word Semaj had said. The same word you had run from your whole life.

Empress.

[noise-vs-signal]

“The author types the words ‘the author types the words’. Stand, and feel the energy that crowds the room, a current siphoned back through time from all those future readings, all those other people and the varying degrees of their absorption, their awareness half-submerged within the text and half-detached from moment, from continuum, and therefore reachable.

Lacking any territory that is not subjective, we can only live upon the map. All that remains in question is whose map we choose, whether we live within the world’s insistent texts or else replace them with a stronger language of our own.

The task is not unthinkable. There are those weak points on the borderline of fact and fabrication, crossings where the veil between what is and what is not rends easily.

Go to the crossroads, and draw up the necessary lines. Make evocations and recite barbaric names; the Gorgo and the Mormo. Call the dogs, the spirit animals, and light imaginary fires.

Walk through the walls into the landscape of the words, become one more first-person character within the narrative’s bitter procession. Make the real a story and the story real, the portrait struggling to devour the sitter.

Obviously, this is a course of action not without its dangers, this attempted wedding of the language and the life; this ju-ju shit. Always the risk of a surprise twist ending ….

When Odin asked for wisdom from the head of Mimir, he paid with an eye: this knowledge carries with it a curtailment of perception, or at least a narrowing. The depth-vision is forfeit.

The time has come to end and seal this working; to complete the story-path with absolute immersion of the teller, a commitment and a sacrifice.

The rite is simple, of its kind, intended only as a point of focus, a conceptual platform on which to stand amid the swirl and shift of this delusory terrain: imaginary serpents are placed at the compass points to guard against the mental snares those cardinal directions symbolize, while at the same time an appeal is made to equally symbolic virtues.

Idea is the only currency in this domain, and all ideas are real ideas. A heavy language is engendered and employed to fix these images as marker buoys within the mind.

This incantation and the novel both progress towards the pregnant, hanging silence of their culmination. This is how we do things here, and always have done.

Wine and passionflower and other substances of earth. Shapes painted with contorted fingers on to empty space. Deranged, of course, but then derangement is the point.

Speak the desire in terms both lucid and transparent. Write it down lest it should be forgotten when the spasm hits.

…

These are the times we dread and hunger for. The mutter of our furnace past grows louder at our backs, with cadence more distinct. Almost intelligible now, its syllables reveal themselves. Our world ignites.

The song wells up, from a consuming light.”

Text from the final chapter of “Voice of the Fire’ by Alan Moore (1996).

Images (in order) are:

”Drawing Hands“ by M. C. Escher (1948).

"A Map of Days” by Grayson Perry. (2013)

“Hecate” by Jane Estelle Trombley.

“The Hanged Man” by Lakandiwa (2013).

Page from “The Horrorist” by Jamie Delano and David Lloyd (1995).

Collage image of Austin Osman Spare by Kenneth Grant.

Photo of Brion Gysin and William S. Burroughs with the Dream Machine.

“I Am That I Am” permutations by Gysin & Burroughs (“The Third Mind”).

“Holy Fire” (Left panel) by Alex Grey (1987).

For more on art, magic & ritual, please visit “Noise vs. Signal”.

[tanoraqui]

queenship under siege and there's a WHAT in this mountain?! (LotR)

[re: badly described WIPs fics I almost certainly will never actually write - in the lead with 17.5% of the vote as of midnight 3/3/24]

I know I’ve said this before, because I do love it so, but:

The only reason, the ONLY reason, I would ever want the Arkenstone to be a Silmaril is this: the day after Aragorn leaves Rivendell with the Fellowship, Elrond summons Arwen to his study and bids her to go to Erebor.

"What?" she demands. "Surely I am needed here, or out in the wilds, marshaling the Rangers - "

"Your brothers will manage that, after they escort you," her father insists. "You must go to Erebor, and ask Dain to let you open Thorin's tomb, that you may look upon the Arkenstone. Gloin will help you - I spoke with him ere he left. Don't let anyone else know your purpose - as far as the world is concerned, I am sending my only daughter to a safe stronghold until Mordor is defeated."

"Are you not?" she cries. But he will explain no more than, "I think the jewel may be important to our oncoming war, but I wish you to assess it unbiased" - and he gives her two letters to read only once she's made her own judgement of the jewel.

So Arwen goes. The Misty Mountains are crawling with orcs, but in cloaks woven by their grandmother, she and her brothers slip through with only a few close calls. Elrohir and Elladan don't know why she's going even a little, save that their father bade it and (he said) their grandmother supported it. The problem with having Elrond for a father and Galadriel for a grandmother is that, while technically they may each be wrong at times (allegedly), in agreement they never are.

It's nice to have what may be one last journey with her brothers, at least. All three of them know that Elladan and Elrohir will soon be in battle alongside their cousins the Dúnedain, and for all Erebor's strength, it will soon be under attack. Rivendell might soon be under attack. Lothlórien might soon be under attack.

The twins leave almost as soon as the three of them arrive; they have other work to do. Dain barely protests letting Arwen mildly exhume his cousin in order to assess the famous jewel - he doesn't quite like letting an elf(ish person) near the Heart of the Mountain, but he is very worried about the black-armored army lurking across the River Carnen, and respects the wisdom of Elrond and his immediate kin.

Arwen sees the Arkenstone sitting calmly in the hands of of the fallen king, and she sees it clutched in the burning hand of a no-longer-king, fallen free from a twisted iron crown, stolen over a king's bloody body, hallowed by a Queen, forged in a fire like the world never saw again... It glows softly; its light matches that of the small crystal that hangs around her neck now, one of a set of three.

[Here me out: Galadriel made three: one for Celebrian and Elrond as a wedding gift, jointly from herself and Eärendil; one for thw twins upon their birth, and one for Arwen upon hers. Celebrian left hers behind when she Sailed; Galadriel gives it to Frodo.]

The letters are from Elrond and Galadriel, respectively. They say much the same thing:

I'm so sorry to spring this on you, and to make you a guardian of this secret

If the Ringbearer's quest fails and the Enemy regains his full power, please take the jewel (as freely giving by the dwarves if at all possible) and use it however you can to save everyone and everything that you can. (Elrond's says, "My parents will help as much as they can. Do not hesitate to ask for their or any other aid." Galadriel's says, "If you seek Undying Shores with mortals in tow, for succor or for more active aid, hold the Jewel high and beseech first Ulmo and his spirits, and then every single kin-relation you have, no matter the connection. Once you rouse the general populace, then approach the Valar - though don't appear to delay.)

Galadriel's says, "Círdan knows to potentially expect you." Elrond wrote, "If you see your mother before I do", stopped there and blotted it out.

Neither of them needs to say, We will hold the line, to buy you as much time as we can. Both say "I love you", "I'm sorry", and variations on, "I know you can do this."

Arwen made the Choice of Elros several decades ago: to live among Men as a Man, to take up queenship of a people at the start of a new Age of the World and rule until most of those she loved most had passed and it was time to follow as a Man. Now she faces the Choice of Elwing: to leave most of those she loved the most for dead and flee with Silmaril in hand and only the hope of the impossible to save a doomed continent.

(Or, if she was optimistic, the Choice of Lúthien: to face down the Lord of Death and demand back one single most beloved [for Aragorn could not live while Sauron triumphed], and steal him away for many peaceful decades ere doom fell entirely, their own best efforts done. But Lúthien had been, in her glorious way, very selfish, and Arwen was not.)

The reason I haven't started writing this fic and probably never will is that I have a perfect sense of what I believe kids call the vibes - the mood, the tone, themes, the visual and emotional aesthetic - and none of actual, like, events of the story.

It's about Arwen's final trial of leadership and diplomacy, before she (hopefully) takes up a throne of Gondor, being living with Dwarves for three months under threat and then fact of war. Helping in the infirmary. Participating in strategy discussions, because war isn't her area of expertise but she has participated a few times, in her nearly 3,000 years of life. Mediating as a neutral party on inevitable conflicts between Dwarves the Men, especially in the last week and a half when they're under high stress while besieged together with two kings dead in the field.

Carrying a torch in the deep corridors of the Mountain because she's Mannish enough not to see naturally in the dark. Standing extra watches because she's Elvish enough to see well in starlight, especially if the Star in question is her grandfather; and getting scouting reports from the local thrushes, because they're talkative and Melian's heirs have always had a knack for the speech of birds.

Busying herself with sewing a banner for Aragorn, with jewel-stars and a crown of mithril and gold - for her elders have appointed her as their last hope, and she shall hold it for them and for all the people she can save if in the end she must; but her Estel fights in the field. The night the armies of Mordor cross the river to strike at Dale, she stands on the summit of the Lonely Mountain and calls a friend among the Eagles, who takes the finished banner in her talons and bears it south to where Arwen's brothers and cousins ride to Aragorn's side.

(She shares dreams with him sometimes - but she must keep secret a thought that beats in her like a heartbeat, and he must devote all his thought to the quest and the war. So they don't speak much.)

It's about the crushing weight of history and legacy and the very practical matters of running a kingdom in duress. It's about multicultural exchange. It's about love and hope and a hundred different OCs, most of whom will never be recorded in history books even if they die heroically or steal siege-stores to sell on the black market, or simply live and thus deserve to do so. It's about hard work and mortality.

It's about how 77 years after the Battle of Five Armies, Dain II Ironfoot swings his axe until he falls defending the body of Brand King of Dale, son of Baird son of Bard the Dragonslayer, and their people all take refuge in the Mountain together; and Arwen tends the wounded with the Songs she learned from her father and the neat stitches her mother taught her for first cloth, then skin; and she walks among the frightened people - none of them remotely her people; Dwarves and entirely common Men, mostly descended from easterners migrating slowly west - and knows that if these are all she can save, she will gladly die or live as she must in order to do so; and the people hearken a little to see her pass by with starlight in her eyes and on her breast.

And then - after an eternity of painful anticipation, after what feels like no time at all - the Shadow passes, and the wait and tension abruptly lift.

They very much do still have to go defeat that army before the gates, though.

[copalcetic]

@bart1607 asked Alrich x Ursa in the Star Wars Rare Pairs Exchange, and then I fell down a rabbit hole. For characters with very limited screen time across two shows, Sabine's parents sure do change sides a lot in the ongoing (some might say endless) strife on Mandalore. I wanted to figure out why, at least to my own satisfaction, they might make the choices they did.

to paint, and nothing more - In the aftermath of the Great Clan Wars, the young survivors navigate unspoken tensions and shifting alliances at Sundari's Royal Academy of Government.

The first thing he notices, because it's impossible not to notice, is the blaster pointed at Veraslayn's head. The second is the girl holding the blaster. Her brows are drawn down at a ferocious angle, her hair pulled back so tightly he can see it flex with tension every time she breathes. She's not a girl; she's a sword made out of flesh. He moves his hand without conscious thought, starting to sketch the startling lines of her face, and freezes when the mouth of the blaster drifts toward him. "If you were a sniper," she repeats, "you'd be dead."

art is never chaste - Alrich Wren, on his wedding night.

"Alrich," Verslayn says, her breezy tone turned serious, "forget all that. The statement you're making, the way it will play to the holovids, none of that matters. Well, it does matter," she says, because Veraslayn is Kyr'tsad's chief propagandist and even on the eve of her best friend's wedding she can't let go of her strategizing. "Having a Countess marry in full beskar'gam—it's a declaration. It will bring us recruits. But that's for me to worry about. You have more important things to focus on."

the elimination of the unnecessary - Alrich Wren is left in a precarious position when Death Watch schisms over Maul's ascension and the Nite Owls go on the run.

Urie's blaster twitches, then lowers. Everyone has limits, it seems, even those who stayed loyal to the Shadow Collective. Firing on a former compatriot is acceptable; firing on an infant is not. "Alrich," he acknowledges. He pulls his helmet off, letting his voice shift into its natural light tenor. "Where's Ursa?" "Fighting for Mandalore, I hope," Alrich says mildly. "Not here."

triptych - Three times Alrich Wren paints flowers.

He forgets that he's cold, lost in a whirl of mental sketches, until Ursa settles a fur cloak over his shoulders. The collar is lush and silver-gray; the hide has been dyed saffron. Clan Wren colors. Ursa clicks the tiny, topaz-eyed bird clasp shut at his throat and smiles at him. This close, he can feel her breath warm on his cheek. The retainer is watching them, expression inscrutable. Alrich doesn't lean forward. "The colors suit you," Ursa says, and settles her helmet back in place.

having left undone - Bo-Katan and Alrich have a heart to heart on the anniversary of Ursa's parents' death.

Once, it would have been Bo woken up by the faint clink of Ursa clipping her armor on in the pre-dawn light, Bo watching her slip silently out of the room when Ursa went to keep vigil for her parents' deaths. They'd shared a room when they visited each other as children before the war, telling stories late into the night; they'd shared a room after, keeping watch. Ursa is a married woman now. Bo tries not to resent that.

a civil war like this, it always sells itself - Swept up in the politics and violence of the Great Clan Wars, Ursa and Bo-Katan grow up quickly—but perhaps not quite quickly enough.

By the time Duke Kryze appears in person to escort his daughter back to Mandalore, all obvious signs of the fight in Wren Stronghold have been erased. Every window pane is repaired, the walls scrubbed of carbon scoring. Chairs pulled out of secondary guest and meeting rooms replace ones shattered in the skirmish. The insurgents, of course, are gone.

what do you think an artist is? - No one understands what Ursa Wren sees in Alrich. (She doesn't care to explain.)

There's a truth Ursa has carried all her life: she could never love anyone who wants to be less than the best. It's a trait she comes by from both her parents. They loved each other dearly while they lived—and their marriage was an endless, exhausting squabble for dominance. "It keeps us sharp," they'd said. She can see the truth in that, though a tiny, disloyal part of her mind says, Not sharp enough. She wants more than that.

[rosanna-writer]

we said hello and your eyes look like coming home (20/?)

Summary: A canon-divergent AU where the bond snaps for Rhys on Calanmai, Feyre unwittingly accepts it, and Fire Night magic proves to be more transformative than anyone bargained for. Feyre drags a mate she hardly knows out from Under the Mountain, then puts him back together as war with Hybern approaches. Warnings: dubious consent, canon-typical sexual violence, canon-typical violence Rating: Explicit Chapter Word Count: ~5k

ch. 1 - 10 | ch. 11 - she underestimated just who she was stealing from | ch. 12 - no amount of freedom gets you clean | ch. 13 - stay stay stay | ch. 14 - call it what you want to | ch. 15 - even when you're sleeping, keep your eyes open | ch. 16 - you drew stars around my scars | ch. 17 - do you remember all the city lights on the water? | ch. 18 - and it smells like me | ch. 19 - your mom's ring in your pocket | ch. 20 - she is here to destroy you

Content warning for canon-typical violence and animal death. Some text in this chapter is taken directly from A Court of Mist and Fury.

Read on AO3 or you can find the twentieth chapter below the readmore.

Mud didn't seep through Illyrian leathers. A small mercy, perhaps, but after sitting in it for a few hours, the cold was infinitely more tolerable when I stayed dry. I couldn't move, not without scaring away the ducks that were finally beginning to forget that I was sitting on the edge of the pond.

And I'd been dispatched to find dinner.

We'd fanned out to cover more ground—someone in Windhaven must have tipped the rogue war-bands off, and they'd retreated deeper into the forest. Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel took turns flying circles overhead, looking for signs of movement.

We'd likely be out here several days, too long to carry enough food to last the whole time. Though I knew it was to put some distance between me and an initial confrontation with hotheaded warriors with a hatred for humans, I didn't mind. The work needed to get done anyway.

I still hated hunting, but being out in the woods alone cleared my head. There was a quiet and stillness that was impossible to find in a city, even one as lovely as Velaris. I let my mind wander, and I considered how to best capture the dappled sunlight on the water if I ever painted this view. Filling a full canvas still felt like a long way off, but…perhaps a landscape would be the way to ease back into it. Maybe I'd paint a mountain before I tackled everything that had happened under one.

But I could only think of painting for so long, and the ducks were still flitting about too nervously for my liking. I sat a bit longer, and my mind drifted to other things.

Rhys never told me if he was proposing or not. I hadn't asked again. In truth, I had no idea what I was supposed to do after recovering the ring—return it to him? I couldn't wear it openly, at least not without inviting questions we weren't ready to answer. But I hadn't seen a faerie wear a wedding band or use a surname or even known someone else with a mate.

And if faerie funerals were so different from mortal ones, then I supposed weddings would be, too. Especially when a High Lord was involved. Gods, the only person I'd talked to about the difference between marriage and mating had been Tamlin—there was no reason to believe anything he'd told me was accurate.

I was out of my depth. But the ducks had finally settled, so I did the one thing I was good for and let an arrow fly. It speared a bird through the neck, killing it instantly.

The rest of the flock alighted—I had to move quickly. Half on instinct, I aimed, accounting for their speed and direction as I shot down three more, one right after the other. Every arrow found its mark, and the unlucky ducks dropped to the ground as the rest soared away.

My hips and knees barked in protest as I stood; crouching in the mud for so long had left me stiff. At least nothing had gone numb this time.

I felt better, though, even with the tedious task of retrieving, cleaning, and cooking the game ahead of me. In the Spring Court, I'd gotten comfortable and let my guard down far too easily. I'd never felt safer or more taken care of in my life than I had in these last two weeks with Rhys in Velaris, but…I'd worried, on some level, that I'd gotten soft or lost my skills because of it. Bagging those ducks proved I hadn't.

Being loved didn't make me any less a wolf.

I gathered the birds and made my way to the place we'd agreed to meet up at sunset. Without wax or even a large pot of water, I'd either have to breast them out—which would waste some of the meat—or pluck the feathers one by one to roast them whole. And we needed to get a fire started.

I was still plucking the first bird when Azriel arrived. There was a smear of blood on his leathers, and that told me enough—whatever had happened resulted in no survivors. Wordlessly, he grabbed a carcass, sat down next to me, and began ripping the feathers off, too.

No one had ever done that for me. Not my sisters or my father, not even when I'd asked for help.

Cassian landed not long after that, grim-faced and slightly bloodied. He nodded a greeting, then crouched and began coaxing a fire to life. "We're lucky to have a professional around," he said, indicating the carcasses with a jerk of his head.

"Did I catch enough?" I said.

"More than enough to ensure we don't have to listen to Cassian's stomach growl all night," Azriel said.

Knowing that none of us would go hungry set me at ease. The duck in my hand felt like even more of a tangible contribution, proof that it hadn't been a mistake to bring me to Illyria. I smiled to myself and kept ripping out feathers.

I hadn't heard him winnow in, but I felt the familiar darkness of Rhys's power reaching for me again. I turned to see him walking towards us through the trees. As he got closer, my eyes drifted to a scratch on his cheek. Then all my attention locked onto it.

Hardly a scrape—whoever had done it hadn't even broken the skin, and his magic was already halfway done healing it. My blood boiled anyway. Someone had gotten close enough to get a talon or a weapon on him.

"Who," I said, though the word was more growl than speech.

"They're dead," Rhys said.

I was on my feet without even realizing it, closing the distance between us in long strides. "Good. Did you—"

"Yes. All by my hand."

The scratch had faded completely, but I reached for the place it had been. Rhys caught my wrist and tugged me to him. The momentum made my greeting more collision than kiss. I nearly knocked us both over, but Rhys was solid and steady as his other arm twined around my waist to crush me against him.

We'd only been apart a few hours, but someone had almost drawn blood from my mate; an utterly irrational wave of guilt that I hadn't been there to stop it and relief that he was fine had swept away my good sense. I was already pawing at him with my free hand.

The pointed clearing of a throat cut through the mating-bond-induced madness. Without looking up from the bird he was still plucking, Azriel said, "I'd like to remind everyone that we agreed no sharing bedrolls on this mission."

I didn't have it in me to feel embarrassed. Perhaps I couldn't feel ashamed of anything when Rhys had an arm around me. I interlaced our fingers and pulled him back towards the fire.

We sat down, and Cassian dug a rag out of his pack and tossed it in our direction. I reached up to catch it, but it snagged on one of Rhys's talons.

Cassian grinned. "That's for Feyre. I can tell she's dying to clean you off."

Rhys narrowed his eyes, flicking a finger towards the rag, and it dissolved into mist. "I'm not an invalid," he grumbled. On my other side, Azriel chuckled.

Cassian took over the rest of the cooking after that, and one knowing look we shared across the fire was enough to tell me he'd made do with unseasoned game and campfires plenty of times before. Roasted whole, the duck wasn't half-bad.

Before long, night fell, and we were divvying up shifts to keep watch. I took the first, then had no trouble falling asleep—not in the open air, underneath the stars. The next day was more of the same as we tracked the rogue war-bands deeper into the forest.

On the third day of hunting, I was crouched up a tree when a glint of something bright green tore my attention away from the forest floor. I'd assumed the shape circling above had been a bird, perhaps a hawk or a vulture, and hadn't thought much about it.

But birds didn't sparkle. That was an emerald-colored siphon.

The path the Illyrian was taking brought him closer, but I didn't think he'd spotted me. I froze. He flew closer, almost in range of my bow.

I didn't dare even breathe too loudly. Keen faerie senses were difficult to hide from, and even if I stayed hidden, his looping flight pattern would send him back in the opposite direction and I'd miss an opportunity.

He came closer. And closer. There was no time to run.

I grabbed an ash arrow and took the shot.

The arrow ripped a hole in one of his wings, and the Illyrian plummeted to the ground like a stone in water. I scrambled down from my perch and barreled through the trees. As I ran, I pulled another ash arrow from my quiver—a fall from that height could have been deadly, but if not, an injured Illyrian warrior could still find a way to bury a dagger in my belly.

I heard him moaning in pain before I stepped into the clearing where he'd fallen. He'd landed on his back, torso twisted and his legs bent at unnatural angles. A shattered pelvis at the least, maybe even a snapped spine. Healing magic was the only thing keeping him alive. The siphon on his chest flickered weakly, like a heart struggling to beat.

At the sound of my footsteps, his head turned. His eyes burned with hate as he reached for a knife strapped to his belt. I nocked the ash arrow, aiming directly for his face as I took a step closer. His hand stilled.

"Tell me where the others are hiding," I said. "Don't bother lying. The High Lord is on his way."

"I won't take orders from Rhysand's human whore," he spat.

"The best outcome you can hope for is a mercy kill before he arrives. Give up their locations, and I'll consider it."

For a long moment, he said nothing. My arm began to ache from keeping the bowstring pulled back, and I prayed my fingers wouldn't start shaking. I said nothing either, just tried to emulate Azriel's deadly, stone-faced resolve.

The Illyrian's hand twitched, but his fingers never closed around the hilt of the knife. Instead, through clenched teeth, he recited the litany of names and locations I was after. I believed him—I doubted he was in a state to lie convincingly.

As I listened, I gave one insistent tug on the bond and dropped my shields so Rhys could hear it all, too. The beast that had once rested in my mind became a furious thing growling and snapping its jaws.

The clearing plunged into darkness. I couldn't see where Rhys was, but I felt his power sliding along my skin all the same.

"Is that all?" I said, my voice so cold I hardly recognized it as my own.

The Illyrian whimpered something that might have been "yes." I loosed the arrow; even under the cover of Rhys's darkness, my aim stayed true. The point landed in the Illyrian's eye, buried deep enough in his skull to render him still and silent forever.

Just like Andras.

Even with the threat gone, the darkness didn't clear. I glanced up, and my vision had adjusted enough to make out Rhys's silhouette, his wings flared and hands shaking.

"You should have called me the moment you spotted him," Rhys said, voice ragged.

"I handled it," I said simply.

Rhys growled. At me. And the fact that I was too human to properly bare my teeth and return the favor—rage bubbled under my skin. If he'd been closer, I would have shoved him.

"Then why bring me here?" I hissed. "Just to humor me?"

I felt like such a fool for not having realized it sooner. Killing a few ducks was hardly a real contribution—they might as well have patted me on the head and told the High Lord's little human mate she'd done such a good job. Shame made my cheeks go hot.

"Don't be stupid, Feyre," Rhys snapped.

The darkness rippled and churned around us, like a storm at sea. The tendrils seemed to lap at me, pressing close then retreating, even as they skittered down my spine. Magic thrummed in the air.

I crossed my arms. "I'm not."

"You could have gotten yourself killed. Even Cassian won't run into a fight without backup if it's available. There were three of us who could have gone with you, but for reasons I can't even begin to fathom, you waited until the very last second."

I'd never seen Rhys this…undone. Not even when I'd first gone Under the Mountain. His breathing was ragged, and there was a note of panic in his voice I'd never heard before.

"I…I didn't think to ask. At least not at first. I called for you as soon as I remembered." As ridiculous as it sounded when I said it aloud, it was true. But the habit of doing everything on my own was a difficult one to break.

Rhys sighed, his shoulders slumping as the fight went out of him. The darkness seemed to lift, but before I could be sure, he'd winnowed closer and pulled me against his chest. I couldn't see much other than his wings cocooning me.

He pressed a kiss to the top of my head. "I love your fearlessness just as much as every other part of you, but please remember that you're not alone anymore. I can't lose you, Feyre."

"I love you too," I said, voice thick. I set my bow down and hugged him back.

Both ends of the bond seemed to settle as we held each other. I savored it—the heat of him against me, the sun shining through his wings, the soft scrape of the scales of his leathers against my cheek.

"You are your own person, and I will not dictate your choices. Ever." Rhys picked a twig out of my hair; it must have gotten lodged in my braid when I'd climbed down from the tree. "If you'd told me what you were doing, I would only have asked you to allow me to come with for my own peace of mind."

I'd never asked why he'd gone alone to that cursed party fifty years ago. Maybe he'd insisted on it; maybe he'd also forgotten to ask for backup, then paid a terrible price. It seemed better not to bring it up.

"You aren't alone either," was all I said.

There was a pulse of something down the bond that I couldn't quite identify, then he stepped back, tucking his wings in tight. His expression was unreadable—a wall had gone back up.

"I've passed all the information on to Azriel, and his shadows are scouting out the locations we were given. Will you be able to keep going? It's alright if you're rattled—you did just kill someone."

There was nothing but a howling void where my guilt should have been. Perhaps I'd lost that piece of myself when I'd killed Andras. If anything, I just felt…numb. "He deserved it."

"I don't disagree."

Rhys let me into his mind as he conferred with the others. I relaxed when Azriel's shadows confirmed that the information I'd gathered was correct—at the very least, I'd saved us time trekking through the woods. I wasn't useless, hadn't been brought here for nothing after all.

Once the first war-band had been hauled back to Windhaven, Rhys wanted me to stay there. I didn't mind. Another set of eyes and ears on the camp was prudent, and I was still technically his emissary.

It was barely even noon when we returned. On Rhys's orders, Devlon's men had set up a line of wooden poles at the center of the camp, the area used for public gatherings. A small crowd had already begun to form. Among them, I spotted Devlon and the warriors who'd been flanking him earlier.

Cassian had wanted those poles burned. And after this, they would be. For the last fifty years, females had been tied to them when their wings had been clipped. The sight of them alone turned my stomach.

Rhys loosened his grip on his power, and from my place next to him, I could feel the magic radiating off him like heat. A gust of night-kissed wind had every member of the rebel war-band silent and tied to the posts.

"There is no tolerance for treason in the Night Court," Rhys said. His voice cut like a knife through the murmuring of the crowd. Pure command—the voice of the High Lord of the Night Court. "And to bow before an invading general who would butcher and enslave humans is particularly heinous. It spits on the graves of the soldiers who died for the mortals' freedom during the War. I'll leave your fate up to the human in our midst, Feyre Cursebreaker."

Every single set of eyes slid to me. The attention had my heart hammering in my chest, but I forced myself to mimic the small, cold smile I'd seen on Amren's face from time to time. When I'd yanked the ash arrow out of the dead warrior's eye, I hadn't bothered to clean it off, just returned it to my quiver.

The gore peeking over my shoulder was message enough.

"I'll make a final decision when the rest are captured. Flaying their skin from their bones seems merciful, but perhaps there's some creature in the Middle that might enjoy hunting them for sport," I said, making myself sound bored and aloof.

The spark of Rhys's approval down the bond bolstered my confidence for what I'd planned to do next. I stepped closer to one of the bound Illyrians and circled my hand around the thin, delicate bone at the edge of his wing, then snapped it in two.

I'd know that cracking sound anywhere. The air reeked of Wyrm shit again, mud clung to my skin, and the slithering behind me was getting closer and closer.

I was running, and—

It's over, Feyre. We got out.

Rhys's voice in my head jolted me out of the memory. I gripped one of his talons and pulled myself back to the present.

I'd survived. And no matter how much of a monster it made me, I'd ensure that no one, not even the most powerful faerie, would hurt me or anyone I loved. Not again.

Before Rhys could fuss, I was breaking the bones in the next Illyrian's wings. I gritted my teeth and ignored their cries of pain until I'd rendered every single one of them incapable of flight.

We locked eyes when it was done, but Rhys's beautiful face was an impenetrable mask I still hadn't learned to see past. "I'll be waiting here for you to bring me the rest," I said. No title or honorific—I'd let them all wonder why he hadn't misted me for speaking to him like that.

Rhys nodded once. He said nothing, but there was a question in the hesitant brush against my shields.

I'm fine. Really. Just bring me the rest so we can finish this quickly.

For a moment, the bond thrummed with wicked delight. Try not to burn down Windhaven while I'm gone.

He took to the sky. Without carrying a passenger, the movement was all perfect, lethal grace, and sometimes I wondered how I could possibly forget that Rhys was anything but an absurdly beautiful predator. I watched until he was out of sight, marveling that he was mine.

The crowd dispersed, and for a moment, I just stood there, unsure what to do with myself. Perhaps I'd spend the rest of the day being ignored by Illyrians. I wouldn't blame them for that—as faeries went about their business, I caught a few wary glances in my direction.

But I supposed I should probably clean off the bloodied arrows in my quiver. And my hands were badly in need of washing.

I made my way to the water pump at the center of the camp. An Illyrian female—around my age, if I had to guess, though it was impossible to be sure with immortals—had just started using using it. Large, brutal scars ran down both of her wings.

"I'll be a while. You can go first," she said, sliding her empty bucket out of the way with her foot. Now that I was closer, I spotted a bruise darkening her cheek, too.

"There's no need. I wouldn't want to waste your time if there are chores to be done," I said.

"You'd be doing me a favor—I'll take any excuse to be out of the house for a little while longer."

I understood—there had been countless days I'd dragged my feet because I hadn't wanted to face Nesta's barbed insults, my father's sad eyes, or Elain's clueless whining. And none of them had even raised a hand to me.

I gave the female a nod, pulled the bloody arrow from my quiver, and rinsed it off under the stream. Silence fell. The female said nothing else, and perhaps it would have been best to let the quiet stay unbroken. The chances were high a trip to gather water was a rare respite for her.

But I could feel her assessing gaze, and I struggled not to squirm under it. "Illyria is very beautiful," I blurted out awkwardly.

"It's a shithole."

"My shithole across the Wall didn't have mountains. It's prettier here, at least," I shook the excess water off the newly-clean arrow and slid it back into the quiver.

She snorted, lips tugging upward at the corners. "I'm Emerie."

"Feyre."

"I know. You're the Cursebreaker." Not awed, just matter-of-fact, which was a bit of a relief.

I scrubbed away the last of the dirt, dried off as best I could, then offered a hand to shake. Emerie took it, and I wasn't surprised that her grip was like iron, not with that straight-backed posture and sharp stare of hers.

I stayed while Emerie filled up her bucket, just talking a bit about Windhaven. She didn't offer up much about herself, and I didn't pry. But by the time she returned home, I'd learned what spices were in the Illyrian dish Cassian had brought to the townhouse the day I'd first trained with Rhys. Emerie had barked a laugh when I told her not to bother with advice on preparing it because I was an utterly hopeless cook.

Maybe I'd made a friend. But I'd also thought Lucien was a friend and he'd turned out to be assisting my kidnapper—I wasn't sure I trusted my judgement on that front anymore.

By the end of the day, Rhys, Cassian, and Azriel, had rounded up the rest of the rogue war-bands, and I'd broken the wings of the survivors. And as much as I wanted to go straight to the Weaver's cottage, I knew it was foolish to go so close to dark. Cassian planned to stay in Illyria, and Devlon was loyal enough not to release the prisoners under his nose in the dead of night or allow anyone else to manage it.

Rhys and I returned to the townhouse in need of a bath, so we took one together. We were both utterly exhausted—his eyes roved over me as I shucked off my leathers, but for once, he was silent.

I'd still snatched the long-handled sponge out of his hands and washed his wings for him. Even drained of energy, I wasn't about to forgo an opportunity to get my hands all over them. I took my time, appreciating the way the powerful muscles in his back rippled with every brush of my fingertips.

And once we were clean, he laid me out on his bed and licked until he'd wrung so much pleasure from me that I drifted into an easy sleep in his arms.

It had been exactly what we both needed. I could guess how he was feeling about a trip to Illyria with still-healing wings, and my mind was unable to keep replaying the sound of bones cracking when Rhys's tongue was sliding inside me.

My dreams were still horrifying—a bone-spear lancing through Rhys's eye, my hands covered in his blood—but I slept through the night and kept my dinner down. I woke alone in Rhys's bed that morning, which meant he'd probably slipped out once I'd drifted off. I suspected he'd had nightmares of his own, too.

I was pulling the belt of knives from my dresser when he winnowed behind me. "Allow me," he purred, right into my ear.

"I can do it myself," I said. After I'd mentioned chucking that knife at Tamlin, Azriel had showed me how to strap it on as part of my training to go Under the Mountain.

"I'm aware. That doesn't mean you have to."

He had a point, so I let him take it from me. I turned, and for a moment, we were chest-to-chest. He inhaled, drinking in my scent, and I lifted a hand to touch him.

But he dropped to his knees before I could. Flashing me a roguish grin, he spread open the web of leather and steel. My toes curled in my boots.

"Remind me of what you've been briefed on," he said as I stepped through the loops.

I did my best to ignore the steady brush of his hands as he set about adjusting and buckling and tightening things. "Knives only—no sword or bow or arrows. Don't touch anything that doesn't belong to me. Take my time to think about loopholes before agreeing on a bargain. Call for help if I need it. And stay alive before everything else," I recited.

"Precisely." He braced those strong, capable hands on my thighs and looked up at me. "You are more valuable than any treasure the Weaver could ever posses. If you need to leave the ring behind to come home to me, then that's what you do."

"I won't let it come to that."

Rhys got to his feet and kissed my cheek. "I believe you."

He winnowed us into a wood that was older, more aware, than any place I’d been.

The gnarled beech trees were tightly woven together, splattered and draped so thoroughly with moss and lichen that it was nearly impossible to see the bark beneath. The trees groaned—though there was no breeze to shift them. No, the air here was tight and stale.

So this was the Middle.

I followed Rhys through the trees, and the only sound was our footsteps. No birdsong or the snapping of twigs, nothing I was used to hearing in a forest. Just unnatural, ancient stillness.

We stopped before a clearing. A small, whitewashed cottage with a thatched roof and half-crumbling chimney sat in the center. Ordinary—almost mortal. There was even a well, its bucket perched on the stone lip, and a wood pile beneath one of the round windows of the cottage. No sound or light within—not even smoke puffed from the chimney.

I could hear faint, pretty humming coming from the cottage. Soothing, almost mesmerizing—it would have set me at ease if I didn't already know it was coming from the monster within. The sort of thing that might lure quarry into a snare.

But I was not prey. No—I was a huntress. A wolf. It took much more than that to fool me.

I started down the mossy earth path that paved the way to the door and didn't look back once. When I reached the threshold, I could hear her voice through the door. The Weaver's voice was sweet, clear, and beautiful.

“There were two sisters, they went playing, To see their father’s ships come sailing… And when they came unto the sea-brim The elder did push the younger in.”

I'd heard the song before, from humans. It was a favorite of the traveling musicians who sometimes passed through our village. And perhaps…she knew that, and the familiarity was intended to lull me, too.

I stayed perfectly still on the threshold for a long moment, the same freeze-watch-listen pattern I fell into as I hunted in the woods. Along with her voice, I could only hear the clatter of some device. So she was alone, then.

“Sometimes she sank, and sometimes she swam, Til her corpse came to the miller’s dam.”

I raised a hand to knock, but the door swung open on silent hinges, as if she'd rolled out a welcome mat just for me. I didn't move, just peered inside. My chest went tight, and I forced myself to keep my breathing even.

A large main room, with a small, shut door in the back. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, crammed with bric-a-brac: books, shells, dolls, herbs, pottery, shoes, crystals, more books, jewels…From the ceiling and wood rafters hung all manner of chains, dead birds, dresses, ribbons, gnarled bits of wood, strands of pearls…

A junk shop—of some immortal hoarder.

I waited to feel power calling out to me, but…nothing happened. Perhaps, as part of the bargain, I'd need to ask her to hand the ring to me directly. If she even remembered where it was.

The Weaver of the Wood herself sat with her back to me. In the gloom of the cottage, I could just make out the ancient, cracked spinning wheel I'd heard along with her singing. In the cottage, it was far too dim to make out the thin white thread she was spinning. Was she blind, like the Wyrm….or could she see in the dark?

My eyes drifted to the soft fiber she was feeding into the wheel. It looked like wool, but some deep-seated instinct in the back of my brain told me it was not. The question wasn't what she was spinning, but who.

The shelf above her head was filled with cones upon cones of thread, and large bolts of woven fabric filled up the space next to her. Mother above, she must have made it from entire cities, whole armies or even nations. A handful of rebel Illyrians suddenly seemed like a pitiful offering.

But I still, I had to try. And if there really were some power for me to detect, perhaps I needed to be a bit closer. Out here, nothing was pulling me towards one object in particular.

As silently as I could, I took a step into the cottage. I froze, waited, breathed. Nothing. I took another, and then the door slammed shut.

The Weaver turned her face toward me.

Above her young, supple body, beneath her black, beautiful hair, her skin was gray—wrinkled and sagging and dry. And where eyes should have gleamed instead lay rotting black pits. Her lips had withered to nothing but deep, dark lines around a hole full of jagged stumps of teeth—like she had gnawed on too many bones.

Her nose—perhaps once pert and pretty, now half-caved in—flared as she sniffed in my direction. "Well met, High Lady."

[stellar-solar-flare]

From the wip ask!

7. What is your favorite scene you’ve written so far?

I'm answering this on For Centuries since that's the one I've most recently worked on.

Spoilers for chapter... 12 of Centuries, if you haven't read that, under the cut.

So I love the entire scene of Steve and Archduchess having their peace talk and finally communicating and trying to see things from the POV of the other.

But the scene of Archduchess finally being comfortable enough to tell Steve what she really thinks to his face has to be my favorite; it's also a very important scene for the future.

⚔️.

He looked at you for a brief moment, and you could tell from the clouds gathering on his brow that he was wondering of unpleasant things, of the people and their reasons of being in your bedroom. He took another breath, and the tone was almost comically official considering the words:

“That reminds me; I would be… pleased, if you would reside on the upper level with me, after we have been wedded. But if you wish to keep these rooms, if you wish for some marital… arrangement of looking the other way to be established, then —“

Fire leaped in you at his words; you could almost feel the flames licking your insides, and if this was one more line of proper crossed piled on top of every other breach of etiquette, then so be it.

“Stop it!”

The scalding words had already left your tongue before you truly realized that you were commanding your husband-to-be, and by then it was too late for regrets, so you continued:

“I do not want an arrangement of any sorts,” you said, stepping back even as you kept your eyes in his. “I want a husband. I want someone who cares whether or not he’s married to me, someone who wants me to be his wife. And if I have misread your every deed, if you truly consider me such an unfortunate consequence of falling into whatever trap King Stark set for you in Ridgeshire, at least have the guts to break the betrothal off yourself instead of repeatedly attempting to push me out the door! If you don’t wish me to be yours, truly yours, then please do that and save us both from the misery of some arrangement!”

The flames didn’t burn you; no, their crackling hunger was comforting, and you could feel them spreading onto the restraints you’d let yourself be bound by all these years, the sound of the ropes snapping almost audible in your ears. Whatever had escaped from its cage when you’d allowed yourself to show your teeth at Sir Barnes, you weren’t so interested in catching it and shoving it back into its cage.

Was this how it was to want, to desire, to reach, to take what you wanted regardless of what the world thought of it? Was this the sweetness of the wine Emperor Rogers had drunk with his blade when he had decided that the world had nothing to offer him, so the world could burn?

Gods, you would lick its taste off his sword when the time was ripe.

Just like Sir Barnes, Emperor Rogers was staring at you like you’d suddenly gained another form, and finally, he swallowed, shaking his head as if trying to drive away a ghost he thought he’d seen. For a brief moment, you thought about the gross overstep you had just made, and yet, the knowledge didn’t quite seem to reach you through the fire that had ignited.

“I didn’t…” he whispered, more to himself, and then he was moving.

With two long strides, Emperor Rogers was standing in front of you again, and his hands cupped your face. His bare hands, on your bare skin. Cradling your jaw from both sides, tilting your head gently up.

He was touching you, standing so close that it certainly was the furthest thing from appropriate, his head slightly nodding down as if he wished to kiss you. His eyes were riveted on your face, and it was obvious you weren’t the only one having trouble controlling your emotions.

And gods, you didn’t want to. You had had enough of that.

⚔️.