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

[ufonaut]

I don’t know if I would have found the strength to come out so late in life without heroes like you and my son, Obsidian.

Highlights of Alan Scott in DC Pride (2023) #1. Art by Don Aguillo & Noah Dao.

[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

[asoiaf-bambii]

𝔇eformed 𝔇og

summary: in a strained marriage of political convenience, you and Jacaerys Velaryon are often at odds. But when Jacaerys brings a small creature as a peace offering, something the ladies at court seemed to all enjoy, apart from his stubborn wife.

paring: jacaerys velaryon x reader

The sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon, casting the Red Keep in the soft hues of evening. The large stone walls of your chambers were bathed in the warm glow of flickering candles, but their gentle light did little to soothe the irritation that simmered just beneath your poised exterior. You sat on the edge of a chaise, your hands fidgeting with the intricate embroidery of your gown, your thoughts tangled in the heated exchange from weeks prior.

It wasn’t unusual for you and Jacaerys to argue. From the moment you were wed, it had been clear that your marriage was one of convenience, not affection. You, the daughter of a powerful magistrate from Pentos, had been brought into this foreign land with the expectation of securing an alliance. Jacaerys, heir to the Iron Throne, was burdened with the weight of responsibility and political machinations. Love, in this case, had never been part of the arrangement.

Your differences—cultural, personal, and otherwise—had been apparent from the start. Where you were bold, confident, and unapologetically sassy, Jacaerys was serious, driven by duty, and far too level-headed for your liking. You had been raised in the courts of Pentos, where wealth and power meant indulgence, and you had never been denied anything. The transition to life in Westeros had been jarring, to say the least.

A small sigh escaped your lips as you stared at the fire, the memory of your latest argument still fresh. It had been over something insignificant, as most of your disagreements were, but the wounds it left behind lingered. Jacaerys had tried to apologize, of course, sending flowers and trinkets to your chambers, but you had not been so easily swayed this time. You were stubborn, after all, and you were not one to let him off the hook that easily.

Just then, a knock at the door pulled you from your thoughts. Before you could answer, the door creaked open, and Jacaerys stepped inside. In his arms was the strangest creature you had ever seen—a small, fluffy animal with large eyes and a squashed face. You narrowed your eyes at it, unsure whether it was meant to be some kind of dog or a rabbit.

“Is.. is that some sort of deformed bunny?” You asked, head tilted to the side as you state at the small mutt in the prince's arms.

Jacaerys’ smirk was apparent as he closed the door behind him. “A deformed bunny?” he teased, his voice rich with amusement. “I expected something more creative.”

You huffed and crossed your arms, refusing to meet his gaze. “I still think it looks more like a bunny than a dog,” you muttered, glancing at the animal in his arms. The creature gave a soft whine, wiggling its nose.

“I think you know very well that it’s a dog, and you’re just trying to annoy me,” Jacaerys countered, taking a few steps closer. There was a certain charm to the way he moved—graceful yet deliberate, as if he knew exactly how to play the game of diplomacy, even in your marriage.

When he reached you, he gently lifted the puppy toward you, but his other hand moved to tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The intimate gesture caught you off guard, but you refused to let it show. Instead, you shot him a pointed glare, though your heart stuttered at the sudden closeness.

“Or,” Jacaerys continued, his tone softening slightly, “perhaps there are no small dogs in Essos? You might be unfamiliar.”

You snorted, finally allowing yourself to look at him. “We have dogs in Pentos, Jacaerys. Large, beautiful ones. Not whatever this is,” you motioned to the puppy, though there was no real bite in your words. The creature was, admittedly, quite adorable.

Jacaerys chuckled, setting the puppy down on the chaise beside you. “This is a gift. I thought it might cheer you up since flowers didn’t seem to do the trick.” His voice was sincere now, and though you were still annoyed, you couldn’t help but soften a little at the thought. He was trying, at least.

The puppy immediately wriggled toward you, its tiny paws tapping against the velvet of the chaise. It nuzzled into your side, letting out a soft whimper as if begging for attention. You stared down at it for a moment, then reached out to scratch behind its ears.

“You think this will fix everything?” you asked, though your voice lacked its usual sharpness.

Jacaerys sighed, his smirk fading into a more serious expression. “No. I know it won’t. But I don’t like it when you’re angry with me.”

For a moment, you didn’t respond. The room was quiet except for the crackling of the fire and the soft sounds of the puppy. Your fingers continued to pet the small creature, and your eyes focused on the flames as you mulled over his words.

“I don’t like being angry with you either,” you admitted quietly, though the words felt foreign on your tongue. It wasn’t easy to admit vulnerability, especially not with him.

Jacaerys knelt in front of you, his brown eyes searching yours. “Then let’s stop fighting like this. I know we’ll never agree on everything, but I don’t want to spend our marriage at odds. We’re supposed to be a team, aren’t we?”

You raised an eyebrow, still hesitant to let go of your stubbornness completely. “A team?”

He nodded. “Yes. I know our marriage wasn’t exactly our choice, but that doesn’t mean it has to be miserable.”

For the first time in weeks, you felt a flicker of something other than frustration toward him. Perhaps it was the honesty in his voice or the way he looked at you now, as if he truly wanted to bridge the gap between you.

With a sigh, you finally relented. “Fine,” you muttered, though a small smile tugged at the corners of your lips. “But next time, don’t bring me a deformed rabbit.”

Jacaerys grinned, his eyes lighting up at the sight of your smile. “I’ll make a note of that.”

You reached for the puppy, lifting it into your lap as it licked your hand eagerly. “What is its name?” you asked, your tone now more playful.

“I thought I’d let you name it,” he replied, standing and moving to sit beside you on the chaise.

You hummed, considering for a moment. “How about... Bunny?”

Jacaerys groaned, though there was a laugh in his voice. “Of course you would.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the tension between you eased, replaced by a sense of camaraderie. You still had your differences, and you probably always would. But at that moment, with the puppy—Bunny—in your lap and Jacaerys beside you, the future didn’t seem so daunting. Maybe, just maybe, this marriage could become something more than just an arrangement. 

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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. 

[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."

[ssuperficialspacecadett]

Crutches and Crushes

Chapter Three of the Through the Scope series | Chapter Four

Rating: Mature

Word Count: 4.9K

TW: Unhealthy relationship and mentions of cocaine

Chapter Overview: You run into Frankie while you are out shopping.

Notes: Hey everyone ! I love that I'm still going to say no set posting schedule even though I have been consistent in my posting schedule. I just don't want to give a day and then miss it and blah blah blah. ANYWAY I'm absolutely beside myself that people wanted to be on the tag list for this series (i could cry) so thank you to the people that are investing time into this just like me (: my asks are always open if you want to chat about this series in particular or literally anything else !! happy reading <3

*no use of y/n & female presenting reader*

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

With a whole week of work at Brass Knuckles now officially under your belt, your dad wanted to celebrate. He called you and asked if you would come and eat lunch with him on Sunday afternoon. You knew that this meant you would be the one selected to go pick up and pay for lunch at some restaurant, but it was the fact that he remembered in the first place. Your dad was the kind of man that remembered globally recognized celebratory events: Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Thanksgiving. However, he struggled a bit with remembering ones that hit closer to home: your birthday, his own wedding anniversary, and any school function you had. You knew that he never did this with any malice or bad intentions, that wasn’t in his nature, but that didn’t ever numb the pain when it inevitably happened. 

“Did you really have to get me a salad?” 

You already knew that he was going to ask this. “Yes, I did.”

“Well could you have at least ordered me one that is topped with fried chicken and not this skinless bitch chicken.”

“Fried meats are one of the main foods that you have to avoid because of your diabetes,” You narrow your eyes at him. “So eat your ‘bitch chicken’ and be happy.”

“You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry, Sweet Pea. Thank you for bringing the food and for putting up with me.” 

“Of course, dad, but speaking of putting up with you…how has your physical therapy been going with Miss. Maggie?”

“I have my good days and my bad days. I actually managed to hold myself up on the uhh…what’s that thing called again? The one that has those horizontal poles on either side of me?”

“The parallel bars?”

“Yeah!” He snaps his fingers together. “I managed to hold myself up on the parallel bars, but I used all my strength focusing on not falling over which meant that I didn’t have much left in me when it came time to try taking a step.”

“I’m still really proud of you! Doing everything that you’re doing isn’t easy. All that anyone can ask is that you take it day by day and to try your best.”

“When did you grow up and get so smart?” His voice sounds airy. 

“When you blinked.”

“Is that so? Okay, smarty pants, what’s the first thing that I’m going to do when I can walk on my own again?”

You lean back in your seat and ponder his question. It wouldn’t have anything to do with playing cards, since he has that poker tournament every Sunday evening. It wouldn’t be going on a date, although you suspect he might have a little thing for Miss. Maggie. As you rack your brain for the answer a car fires up its engine in the retirement home parking lot. Got it.

“The first thing that you’re going to do when you can walk on your own is go to a car show. Then after you’re done, you’ll probably go get the greasiest burger you can get your hands on just to spite me.” 

“Fuckin’ hell. You got me all figured out.” 

“How about this? We go to the car show together, but skip the burgers.”

“Or we go to the car show together, skip the burgers, and get a basket of fries instead?”

You know when you're in the middle of a losing argument. A frustrated sigh comes from you as you nod your head at his counter-proposal. 

“Deal, dad.” 

***

You should have known this was a bad idea. You should have turned your car around the moment you saw how packed the parking lot was. Days like today were the reason why online shopping and curbside delivery were invented. Unfortunately for you, you had no better way to spend the afternoon of your day off than braving the hectic crowds of IKEA. Your desperate need for items inside the store outweighed your hesitation to go inside. You have only just grabbed a basket when your phone starts ringing.

“Thank fucking god you called, Robbie. I just got into IKEA and I need someone to talk to so I don’t get completely overwhelmed here.” 

You spend the next 45 minutes wandering in and out of different furniture sections while filling Robbie in about your new job and friends. You tell her about Benny and how he has become your closest friend so far down here. She audibly gags when you mention Brunson and how he acted when you first met him. Although you reassure her that Benny stepped in and shut him down, she still has a few choice words that you hope the family standing next to you can’t hear through the phone. 

By the time you finally bring up Will, Pope, and Frankie your basket is quite full. You found all the kitchenware you needed: pots and pans, cups, plates, bowls, utensils, etc. Then for your room you got a nightstand, a dresser drawer, a lamp, decorative throw pillows, and a full length mirror to hang on your closet door. You wrote down the item numbers for some of the items that are too big to cart around, kitchen table and chairs and a couch, so you could order them on a later date. 

“So, Santiago is Pope, Will is Ironhead, Frankie is Catfish, and Benny is…just Benny?” 

“It’s weird, I know.” You laugh. “They’re all really sweet, but Frankie is by far the most attractive one in the group.” 

“What did I fucking say?! I knew that you would have better luck finding a boyfriend in Florida than back home!”

“He’s not my boyfriend! I just think he’s cute, damn!”

“Tell me about him! I need a good mental image.”

“He’s a few inches taller than me, maybe 5’11? His hair curls at the end and is this beautiful brown which matches his eyes. Broad, and I mean broad, shoulders.” Robbie squeals on the other end of the phone. “Big nose and probably 10-15 years older than me?”

“I told you that you like ‘em older.”

You playfully roll your eyes at her comment as you walk into the section of the store that carries the bed frames.

“But I think you would really like Will. He’s tall, ruggedly handsome, has a sexy southern accent, and seems really smart.”

She’s quiet on the other end of the phone while you explain more about him to her. You love Robbie, but the men that she has dated in the past couldn’t match her on any level. She needed a partner that could challenge her intellectually and push her out of her comfort zone. Will is the kind of man that could do that for her. 

“Basically, what I’m trying to tell you is that you should date men that are actually men.”

“Well, it looks like I’ll have some homework to do when I come down next month for spring break.”

“Just give him a chance, that’s all I’m asking. Hey, I should probably go. I’ve already been here way longer than I intended and if I keep talking to you there's no telling when I’ll finish.” 

The two of you make plans to talk later and you hang up the phone. Now to find a bed frame and get the fuck out of here. You survey the room to see if anything catches your eye and something does. The only issue is that it's not a piece of furniture. Familiar curls peek out from underneath a black cap. He’s facing away from you which allows you to read the lettering on the back of his shirt.

B.K.B.G Sponsor of the Month

Tire Town Auto Body Repair Shop

When you first met Frankie, Benny had accidentally cut it short. You have been embarrassingly hung up on the fact that you didn’t get to talk to him the way you had with the other two men that evening. Now the universe has allowed you a second chance by placing him just a few feet away. You find yourself stuck in between feeling excitement and apprehension to approach him. Would he think you were weird if you came up and talked to him? Would he see you as Benny’s little receptionist and nothing more? These questions and countless more plague your mind as your feet guide you over to him. 

“Uhh…Frankie?”

He turns around and looks down at you with those enchanting eyes. The wrinkles that form around them when he smiles softly at you echo the photo you saw of him. The front of his shirt has ‘B.K.B.G Friday Fight Night’ written in a large font across his chest. 

“Hey! What are you doing here?”

You shily gesture to your very full basket. “Turns out that one of the many consequences of moving quickly is having to buy all new furniture because you didn’t have time to bring the stuff you already owned.”

“Oh God, I’m sorry,” he chuckles and scratches the nape of his neck. “That was a stupid question.” 

“No, no it wasn’t! At least I have a job now so I can pay for it all.”

“How is that going by the way? You just finished your first week, right?” 

You try to convince yourself that him remembering how long you had already been working at Brass Knuckles for wasn’t a big deal. He had come into the gym on Monday and since today is Sunday, a logical person could conclude that you had completed your first week. Try as you might, you couldn’t stop the balloon-like swelling you felt in your heart. 

“I did! It was pretty good, honestly. I feel like I’ve got the hang of everything I’m in charge of. Speaking of Brass Knuckles, I like your shirt.”

He looks down at the shirt he probably didn’t think twice about throwing on this morning. 

“You don’t have one of the fight night shirts yet? I think this is the one my job sponsored.” You laugh as he tries to look over his shoulder to read the back of the shirt.

“No, I haven’t been to the fights yet. You work at Tire Town Auto Body Shop?”

“For the time being.” His eyes drift away while he says. You can tell that there is more to the story than he is letting on.

“Well it’s comforting to know that you work there,” His gaze falls back on you. “I have the worst luck with cars so it’s only a matter of time before I’ll need to find a shop.”

“I hope nothing goes wrong with your car, but if it does, just bring it over to me and I’ll take care of everything for you. Wait, wait…did you say that you haven’t been to the fights?”

“In my defense I have only known about them for a week! Benny is the only one I know there, but he is either preparing the fighters or organizing the event as a whole. I would feel out of place if I went by myself.”

“Well now you know me and Will and Pope. Come with us.”

“Really?” 

“Yeah,” he rests his hand on the edge of your cart. “It’s actually a pretty fun time. I would love it if you went with me- me and the guys.” You watch his fingers pick anxiously at a piece of tape on the end of one of your boxes.

“Sounds like a plan to me, Frankie.” 

Upon hearing you agree to go with him the corners of his lips curl into a smile. It’s so infectious that you find yourself beaming in the middle of the bustling store as well. His shyness makes you yearn to know what makes him tick. Makes you want to know how to coax that coveted smile out of him. Because maybe doing that will help you smile more as well. 

It looks like he is opening his mouth to say something when he’s cut off by the blaring of his ringtone. He easily takes the device out of his pocket, but falters when he sees the name that's displayed on the screen. His once relaxed demeanor has now been replaced by something tense and foreign to you. 

“I’ve uhh I’ve gotta take this. I’m so sorry.” He hits the answer button and places the phone to his ear. “Hello?”

“No worries,” You whisper to him. “I’m sure I’ll see you later.” 

You watch as he nods and starts to walk deeper into the store. Before he gets out of your ear shot you hear him say the name ‘Rochelle’. Leave it to you to be into a man that already has another woman first in line.

***

“Why do we always have to come to this dump? They don’t have any good drinks and the music sucks.”

Frankie sits across from Rochelle at a random table in The Barrel. He knew better than to let her sit at the guy's designated table. He didn’t want her to corrode them the way she had done with him. 

“Why do you want to get back together, Rochelle? We never made each other happy. Our whole relationship was a coked out blur.” 

“But you liked it.” She places her hand on his. It was cold and wet since she had been using it to hold her beer bottle. 

“I’m not the same man I was before, Rochelle. I can’t do shit like that anymore. I don’t want to do shit like that anymore.” He forces himself to look her in the eyes. “You know what it cost me.”

She meets his plea with a scoff and brings her drink to her overlined lips. She never seemed interested in conversations where she wasn’t leading or the center of attention. 

“You were fun. I was fun. We were fun. So what if we needed a little bump every now and then to get there?” Her fingers curl tighter around his hand. “I miss you, Frankie.”

He missed having someone ride shotgun. He missed having someone there when he needed to vent about the shitty day that he had at work. He missed having a warm body to sleep next to at night. He missed having someone to care for. He just didn’t know if he missed her. She gave him a distraction when he needed it in the past, but could she give him the support he needs now? The support he would inevitably need in the future?

“The only way I would consider revisiting ‘us’ is if it's just us. No more coke.”

He can see the annoyance in her eyes as he lays out his boundaries on the table. She slowly retracts her hand from his and coils it back around her glass. 

“Fine.” Her tone is flat.

“I’m not kidding. I want a fresh start. If we are going to try again I want to do it right.”

“Then let's start with that woman’s voice I heard on the other end of your phone today. Who was that?”

“Are you serio- I ran into Benny’s new hire while I was out shopping for stuff for my place. She’s new to the area and doesn’t have a lot of friends here yet. It was just a friendly conversation, Rochelle.”

"Well,” Her voice is syrupy sweet. “You don’t need to be her friend because you’re already mine.”

He really wanted to believe her when she said that. He really wanted to believe that she cared for him enough to change and grow as a person. He really wanted to ignore the sound of the water calling his name the longer he sat with her. 

***

By Wednesday, you felt completely at ease working in the gym. You recognized and chatted with regulars, became quite the sales woman for both memberships and Friday tickets, and were able to kick the washing machine into submission without Benny’s help. Your desk was also coming along nicely too. You had posted notes in your favorite color, a photo you and Robbie took together in a photobooth shoved into the top right corner of your computer, multi colored pens, and even a small filing basket so you could better organize your paperwork. Your new found confidence in the job gave you the push you needed to officially pitch the idea of gym wide air fresheners to Benny.

“I don’t want this place smellin’ like a fruity little spa.” 

“You do know that they make dozens, if not hundreds, of different kinds of scents right?”

“People come here to workout, not pretend that they are on a tropical vacation.” 

“People can’t workout if the smell suffocates them.” You retort.

“It’s not even that bad!”

“You’ve gone nose blind, Benny! Please know that I say this out of the kindness of my heart, but it is fucking rancid in here.” 

“Now you’re just bein’ mean.” 

“Listen, what if I buy some, only the most manly smelling ones of course, and let you test them out? It’s a win-win because you won’t have to charge them on the company card and if you hate them I can just return them all.”

“Alright, but you promise that I will get the final say?” 

“You’re the boss, Benny. Oh, what should we eat today?”

The two of you have been eating lunch together during the week. There is a good window of time right after the gym’s lunch rush and before the after work rush. You even made sure to block off at least an hour in Benny’s schedule around that time so he could have a much needed break. 

“Have you tried that burger place up the street? Goddamn, they’re so good.” 

“Burgers it is then. Text me your order so I know what to get you.”

What? Just because your dad has to be on a strict diet doesn’t mean that you have to be on one.

***

Benny had wheeled his rolly chair all the way from his back office and crammed it behind your desk. Both of you sit snugly with your feast of burgers and fries littered in front of you. The silence is only broken up by the occasional ‘can you pass the ketchup?’ or ‘are there extra napkins in the bag?’. When you have eaten half of your burger you decide to set it down and bring up what’s been on your mind. You know you can’t just come out and ask it so you opt to bring it up gradually. 

“I saw Frankie the other day while I was out and he suggested I come to the fights this Friday.”

“I’ve been askin’ you to come since you got here!” His mouth is still full from the last bite he took. 

“Gross, Benny!” You swat him in the shoulder. “I know you have been asking, but you’re busy helping organize things! You’re the only one I know here.”

You can’t tell if he chooses to keep his mouth shut because you’re right or because you just reprimanded him.

“Frankie said I could go with him and the other guys. Plus I have no social life and it's starting to feel like the walls of my apartment are closing in on me.”

“Regardless of who convinced you to go, I’m happy you’re comin’! You’re gonna have a blast! Fish and the guys throw down pretty hard at these things too so you’ll be in good company.” 

“Yeah I think I will be too.” You have to shove a fry in your mouth to hide the smile you can feel making its way across your lips. Only once you have finished chewing, you don’t want to be a hypocrite, do you bring up what you really have been wanting too. “Can I ask a question? It might not be my place though.”

The man across from you motions, burger in hand, for you to continue. You take a deep breath and rip the band-aid off.

“Well, Frankie and I’s conversation was actually cut short when he got a phone call. I wouldn’t have said anything except- except he looked so tense when he got it? I don’t know, maybe I’m imagining things.”

“No you’re definitely not imaginin’ things. I don’t want to get into Frankie’s business because that's his own shit to talk about, but long story short, a woman is tryin’ to come back into his life that shouldn’t have been there in the first place.”

You pick your burger back up and take a bite as he carries on with his story. 

“The guys and I all found ways to cope with comin’ back to reality after dealin’ with the worst of the worst in and out of the service. Mine was openin’ this place, Will’s was helpin’ other vet’s, Pope’s was bein’ a military consultant, and Frankie’s was…well Frankie’s was Rochelle.”

“Rochelle.” You wanted to feel how her name felt on your tongue. “I heard him say that name when he was walking away.”

“Damnit, Fish.”

***

“So, remind me again why we are here?”

Frankie pulls into Brass Knuckles’ parking lot with Pope in his passenger seat. He knew he should have done this without him. If anyone was going to sniff out that he had a small thing for you it was going to be Pope.

“Benny left some clothes at my place last week and since we were in the neighborhood I figured I would just drop them off.” 

“As opposed to giving them to him on Friday? Which is only two days from now, might I add.” He looks in the backseat and grabs the small cardboard box. “I think he would have made it until then without a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.”

“Shut up and get out of my truck, man.” 

Frankie takes the box of clothes out of Pope’s hands when they both round the bed of the truck and start walking towards the door. He can see you entranced by something on your computer screen through the windows. 

“I also invited her to come to the fights with us this week.” Frankie flicks his chin in your direction when Pope looks at him. 

“You already have her number? Damn, Fish. I thought I worked quickly.”

“No, man,” He groans. “We ran into each other while I was at IKEA on Sunday. I just thought it would be fun, you know? It’s not like that, Pope.” 

“Fish, you were a bad liar when we served together and you’re a bad liar now.” He turns to look at Frankie. “Come on, you think she’s cute don’t you?”

“She’s just cool.” He should have never brought Pope.

“Whatever you say.” 

The chime of the door bell pulls you from your emails. You’re shocked, but not unhappy, when you look up and see the two of them coming through the door.

“Hey guys. I didn’t know y’all were coming by today.”

“I would have texted you, love, but I haven’t got your number.” Pope flashes his signature beaming grin in your direction. 

“Well you never asked, love.” You tease. 

“We wanted to drop some things off for Benny.” Frankie says as he comes up and places a cardboard box gingerly on your desk.

“Who's ‘we’?” Pope gabs. 

Your attention stays on Frankie as you speak. “Oh, sure! He’s in the back office doing…actually I'm not really sure what he does back there.”

When Frankie doesn’t immediately move, Pope reaches over and slides the box towards himself. 

“Hey, what are you-?”

“Let me take this for you, Fish. Why don’t you stay here and get her number for me? Strictly for scientific purposes of course.” You can see a playful look in his eyes when he turns back to his clearly panicking friend. 

“Wait, no it’s-”

“It’s no big deal, exactly.” Pope whisks the box off your desk and starts walking into the gym, but not before tossing you a wink. 

It suddenly feels a little harder to breathe when it’s just the two of you up front. You want to compliment the soft, yellow jacket he is wearing, but no words come. The only thing you can selfishly focus on right now is your heart and how it's beating so hard in your chest that he can probably hear it. 

“It’s nice to see you again.” You think you can hear his voice shutter a bit.

“It’s nice to see you again too, Frankie. Still alright for me to come with everyone on Friday? I don’t want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing!” The words tumble out of his mouth. “You’re not imposing. I invited you, remember?” His tone settles.

“Thanks again for that by the way.” 

A silence falls between the two of you. You both must have been racking your brains for something to say because you speak at the same time.

“Did you-?”

“Were you able-?”

Comfortable laughter blossoms and it dawns on you that he might be just as nervous to talk to you as you were to talk to him. 

“No, no you go first!” You choke out while trying to catch your breath. 

“Did you end up getting anything else after I left the other day?” 

“I actually did; thanks for asking! I found a bed frame I liked. It took me longer than I'd like to admit to put it together though.” 

Frankie has never been more grateful for the front desk than in this exact moment. Images of your naked, writhing body cuffed to a bed frame flood his mind. God, he could do anything he wanted to you. He would take it slow at first, not wanting to leave any part of your body undiscovered by his tongue. Then, only when you were begging him, would he give you what you wanted. 

“Frankie?”

“I-I’m sorry what did you say?”

“I asked if you were able to find anything? You didn’t have a basket when I saw you.”

“No, I didn’t. The thing I wanted was just out of reach-stock! The thing I wanted was just out of stock.” He corrects.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” You pray your voice doesn’t give away the curiosity you have about his little slip up. “Here. Let me give you something to make up for it.” 

You take out a pen from its holder and move your stack of sticky notes in front of you. His eyes capture your every move. You write out your number slowly on the small piece of paper as you revel in the knowledge that you have his undivided attention. When you’re finished you sign it with your name and a tiny heart and pray that you haven’t misread this situation. 

“I know Pope was the one that asked for this, but I want you to hold on to it.” 

Your cheeks burn as you hand him your proverbial olive branch. When he takes it from you and reads what you had written he laughs quietly to himself. 

“You know, so you can text me about this Friday.”

“Not for scientific purposes?” He mimics his friend's earlier statement.

“Unlucky for Pope, I was never really that into the sciences.”

“Lucky for me then.” 

He folds up your note and carefully places it into his front shirt pocket. His timing couldn't have been better because Benny and Pope emerge from behind the brick wall as soon as he’s done. 

“I hear that you managed to convince our girl here to come with y’all to the fights, Fish! Good on you!” He comes up and claps his friend on the back. “I’m not at all jealous that you did it when I couldn’t.”

“Benny.” you chide.

“Why don’t you make it up to Benny and come to the bar with us?”

“One step at a time, Pope. One step at a time. I do have something for you though.”

He comes over to you as you start writing your number out again. Out of the corner of your eye you see him give Frankie and Benny and thumbs up. Oh you poor, sweet, incorrect bastard. You nonchalantly pass it to him and hope Frankie see’s that there is no heart drawn on this time. 

“Your reward for being such a big helper today by returning Benny’s clothes. If you text me in the middle of the night and wake me up I swear to God I’ll kill you.” 

“What bliss that would be.” 

“Hey! Unless y’all are gonna workout y’all better get a move on. Just because we are friends doesn’t mean y’all can take up valuable lobby space in my gym.” 

“We’re going, we’re going.” For a man that is getting ushered out of a building, Frankie sure looks happy. 

“Bye, guys!”

They both wave and say ‘bye’ to you and Benny as they open the door and head into the parking lot. Benny heads back to his office before they reach their truck, but you keep watching. As Frankie’s hand curls around his truck door, he looks back at you, and pats over his shirt pocket. Then he disappears inside and drives off with Pope. 

Frankie could feel the note he placed in his pocket burning a hole through his chest the whole ride back to Pope’s place. It made it hard to carry on a simple conversation with him because that fiery sensation was all he could focus on. It was the type of heat that seeped into his very bones and made him feel as if he was glowing from the inside out. He knew you had unknowingly seared yourself onto his heart and that feeling scared him.

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

{tag list: @pimosworld @c-justhere @javicstories @saltybutteredtoast @hoeslingz @avastrasposts @bitchwitch1981 @smol-beb @cutesyscreenname }

[evita-shelby]

No one but you

Or Buck and Diane won't leave me alone and they demanded an au of them getting together.

Cw: unplanned pregnancy, mentions of illegal abortions, cheating, spoilers for Masters of the Air (and some for Peaky Blinders since Diane is a Peaky Blinders OC)

Link to No one has to know

They shouldn’t have let come this far, and yet they are meeting up in a hotel room because neither can stop themselves from this. They loved each other, they were each other’s peace in this hell and yet, there was no guarantee this would change for the better tonight.

She waits for him on the bed that might as well be theirs considering how often they come here. She’s nervous, she’d broken up with Tom last time he was on leave because she knew he would never raise a baby that wasn’t his. It had hurt, she loved him, but she loved Gale, and it was his baby she was having.

He didn’t know yet. He would leave this room knowing that but whether he is willing to leave his Marjorie to raise a child with her is another thing entirely.

Diane had known of someone here who could take care of it before it even showed, and yet, she hadn’t wanted to erase a future with a blond-haired baby boy that was a perfect mix of them both.

John Gale Cleven, blonde haired with his smile and her mismatched eyes. Conceived in love and sin under a tree.

“Are you feeling better, Di. Helen said you weren’t in today because of it.” He asks with concern as he left his jacket on the hook and, for a moment, became Gale Cleven, not Major Gale Cleven with a sweetheart back home.

“Yeah, just needed some time off.” She smiles nervously and hates herself for not being careful. This was the last thing they needed, but she doesn’t want to get rid of it, and it’s better if she tells him now. “Actually, I need to talk to you about that.”

Buck knows exactly what she means and goes through every stage of grief--- except anger----as he crosses the room and joins her on the bed. “How far along are you?”

“A month, maybe more.” Diane answered avoiding his eyes, she has no idea why she’s bracing herself? Rejection? No, Gale Cleven isn’t the type to do that. Shame? Actually, both were already keeping their entire relationship a secret because both had someone waiting for them, so it could be that.

“Does your Tom know?” Gale held her hand in comfort, and she shook her head. He knew she’d ended things with Tom, but never the specifics of it.

“He thinks it’s just the guilt of our arrangement that led to me breaking things off with him. I didn’t want to make it worse when I still wasn’t sure if I was pregnant.” Diane leaned against his shoulder knowing her fears about him tossing her out like last week’s trash for getting pregnant. “You don’t have to do right by me, I have enough money to not care what people think of me as an unwed mother,”

That is a lie, the word whore will be thrown around enough for Gale to feel the insult all the way in America.

“I’d marry you even if there was no baby, Diane. At least we won’t have to hide any longer.” A small consolation even if it means setting themselves on fire to make this wrong into a right.

“A small consolation, isn’t it?”

And it is.

While what men did off the clock was no one’s business, Gale’s reputation of an honest and principled soldier does take a hit.

Bucky is angry on Marjorie’s behalf, and angry at him for not listening to him. Even worse for not telling him.

“I love her, Bucky, and she’s having my baby. I feel terrible for what I did to Marge, but its too late for that now.” He can’t just abandon his own child, and even if everything’s gone to hell, Buck can’t regret choosing Diane over Marge.

She understands what he’s going through, she is here and perfect and this was their only chance to be together.

“Can’t argue with that, Buck. So, when’s the wedding?” he gives him a pat on the shoulder, still smarting for this betrayal of their friendship and yet still there for him as always.

“As soon as her folks come from Birmingham, and we get a license. I don’t want to risk the baby being born on the wrong side of the sheets if I don’t come back.” Buck answered getting to the good part. “I was thinking of you being my best man.”

“Only if I can sing at your wedding.”

Even with Bucky’s caterwauling and the night bombings, it’s one of the happiest days in his life.

It’s September, when Gale Winston Cleven marries Diane Elizabeth Shelby a month and two weeks since they made love under their tree.

She looks beautiful, in a plain white dress and whatever flowers the children at the base managed to make into a bouquet for her.

He gets three days in London as his honeymoon, three days and two nights in a townhouse owned by Diane’s father, a man who understands why he can never accept a medal in this godforsaken war.

“I’ll come back; I promise. Take care of yourself and the baby, Di.” He said before every mission and kissed her goodbye because now she was Mrs. Gale Cleven not the nurse he pretended was only his friend.

The letters from home had come, angry, disappointed, and resigned. Marge’s had tearstains from crying, his mother was happy for him even if she compared him to his father, but they understood why he did this and wished them the best.

If she makes you happy in ways I couldn’t, then I hope the two of you will be happy together, Marge had written and with that her letters ceased all together, her photograph sent back and replaced with Diane on their wedding day.

When he asked her what she thought Tom did with his picture of her, she shrugged and answered, Tom had torn it up, burned the pieces, and tossed the ashes in the shitter.

But Tom and Marge were their past, Buck and Diane were now each other’s present and future.

“I love you.” The words still come as whispers, and yet they no longer carry the guilt or shame they used to come with.

He has six more missions to go.

Six more and he will get to see the mysterious Arrow House before going to train boys in the States. They’d have to face his family and friends sooner or later, sooner seemed better if it took them away from the bombs.

Being Mrs. Cleven is great, they are out in public as husband and wife with nothing to stop them. Some dirty looks are there because everyone knew about Tom and Marge and yet none of them can truly judge them because everyone sought comfort any way they could.

They are given a tiny house on the base because, they do provide space for married couples serving together. She does her work he does his and at the end of the day they are each other’s peace here.

Gale kisses her hungrily when he comes back from his missions, seeking release from his torments in her and relishing having no reason to stop loving each other anymore.

“Twenty-two. Three more and we get to go home.” Buck trails his fingers on her arm and kissed her shoulder so sweetly Di wished he didn’t have to go.

She had a bad feeling; she’d seen the results in the cards and felt a stab in her heart when Gale’s card came next in the sequence and known this was a mission he wouldn’t come back from. The young witch had told him about it, but he assured her he’d always come back to her.

He loves her and she loves him even if death tries to part them.

“I know, can’t wait to see where you grew up.” She pushed back the preemptive grief and smiled through it. She has good news too, something that will give him some bit of joy before everything goes to hell. “The cards say it’s a boy.”

He smiles broadly, almost silent in his joy as he embraces her tightly as they lay in bed. “Would you mind if we named him John?”

“Not at all, love.”

They decided on John Egan Cleven when he leaves for Bremen. Bucky would be his godfather, of course, and the godmother would be Janey Dogs, one of Diane’s best friends who happened to be Romani as well. Janey’s father, Johnny, had two wives even if it went against tradition and the law, but he was the exception amongst the families they traveled with, something Buck still couldn’t wrap his head around.’

“I’ll come back; I promise. Take care of yourself and the baby, Di.” Those are the last words he says before he goes on the mission he did not come back from.

No one save for Bucky understands the pain she feels and promises he will be avenged when they part ways, Bucky to Germany and Diane to her parent’s home in Birmingham.

Bucky’s captured two days after.

She writes to his mother to comfort her; she promises to use her dad’s and her own money and influence to find out what happened and if necessary, demand they return his body home.

He's not dead, Di feels it in her heart that he’s alive and tells his mother so.

They begin corresponding, taking comfort, and learning every little thing they can about Gale’s life before the war, during the war and now as he is held in a German Prisoner of War Camp.

Diane writes letters to him the moment she learns where he is, assures him they are fine here in Arrow House. She tells him about the estate, the gardens, about her family and how well she gets on with his mother through letters.

All of them holding anything that can help them survive long enough to escape the Germans. It takes a while for him to write back and sends Bucky’s apologies for getting captured too and asks her subtly what they should do next.

“You used to do the same with Marge’s letters,” Bucky points out as Buck inhaled the still fresh smell of Diane’s perfume in her letters.

It was as comforting as Marge’s had been back at Thorpe Abbotts, he had almost forgotten that. He still felt guilt for hurting her that way, but Gale couldn’t say he regretted choosing Diane and his son that day.

“I know. If I hadn’t fucked it up, they could’ve been friends.” The blond admits to seeing the similarities in the two women.

“What does Mrs. Cleven say?” Bucky asks as the most trusted of their men gather pretending to listen go on about his wife.

News from the front and what her readings say they should do are hidden in meaningless phrases, made up gossip and anything she can make up under the guise of a lovesick young bride. He writes back in a similar code asking her to ferry the information they manage to hide in love letters to anyone important enough to be of use.

Gale sees his twenty-sixth birthday at Stalag Luft III. He doesn’t tell her what he did to stay healthy enough to live, as far as she knows he’s being kept well. She tells him his namesake, Winston fucking Churchill, has put her in contact with Allied Intelligence to come up with a fool-proof escape plan when the invasion begins.

Stay put, stay safe, we will be waiting for you as we always are, she wrote.

Winter of 1943 turns to the spring of 1944 and on May 14th of 1944, John Egan Cleven is born in great health contrary to the lie of him being premature like they told his family.

On June 18th of that year, as his Father’s Day gift, Buck receives a photograph of his son and a lock of blonde hair wrapped in a thin ribbon with a code.

While the invasion of Europe had begun that summer, they couldn’t escape safely until 7 pm, January 27th, 1945.

“Di says evening of January 27th of next year. Do you think we can stay put until then?”

“Gives us enough time to plan this shit right.” Bucky lights up at the news and quickly forgets all the times he doubted Diane’s abilities for telling them to stay put. “Nurse, heiress, psychic and spy, you sure know how to pick them, Buck.”

“Meatball picked her, if anything I should be thanking DeMarco for the mutt.”

Seven months to have the allies close enough for them to escape safely.

And they do, with minimal casualties they reach allied soldiers after escaping during the Moosburg March on January 27th of 1945 at seven in the evening just as Diane had said.

“I told you; I’d come back, I always do.” Twelve days later, on February 8, 1945, he is reunited with his wife and his son at the same tree they fell in love under.

[minecraftbookshelf]

Yoinked

An in-universe idea for what Ren is doing instead of Limited Life

On AO3

-

Falling hurts.

Landing hurts more.

Ow

"It worked!"

Ren spits out a mouthful of dirt and rolls over onto his back. He really should be on his feet now, scanning for danger, but he's winded and wobbly and his vision is swirling with purple particles.

He thinks he might throw up actually.

"Ren?"

He really doesn't want to throw up. Throwing up sucks.

"Ren, can you hear me?"

He manages a wheeze in response to the vaguely familiar voice.

"Are we sure it worked right? I don't think he's supposed to be that color."

"That's probably just a side effect, Lizzie."

"Oh, yeah. That would make sense."

Ren gasps in a breath. And another. It's easier now, though he still feels like if he moves at all his stomach will come up out his throat, dragging all his entrails along with it. His vision is less blurry now, he can see the...ceiling?

It's the ceiling of a house. Out of the corner of his eye he can see bright curtains hanging on a day-lit window. It seems oddly incongrous, given the violent tingle of magic shivering through every atom of his body. Does whoever this is have no sense of appropriate theatrics? Whatever this is should be happening in a basement at least.

It's a lot of magic actually. Now that he's thinking about it, he can't really feel his fingers. Or his hands. Or like, his body.

His vison is suddenly obscured by pink. A lot of pink.

Pink hair, specifically, and a very familiar face.

"Hello, Shadow Knight!"

"Shadow Lady," Ren manages to gasp back out and she grins at him. All sharp teeth and carefully controlled anger.

She smells different, then she had on the Game Server, Ren notices. She had smelled like the forest there, gradually becoming part of it as the games progressed. (That happens sometimes. The Game Servers decide to shape them for its own purposes. The way your body began to disintegrate on your red life in the first one. The way Ren went through several full moons with no more than a distant ache in his bones.) Here she smells...not quite human. A step to the left in a way that raises the hair on his arms. Ozone and ash and saltwater and blood.

"Give him room to breathe, Lizzie. We did just yank him through the Void with no warning."

Ren decides not to think about that right now and just focus on breathing and convincing his internal organs to stay put.

Eventually he is able to sit up and look around.

He's in what looks like the sitting room of a perfectly normal house (if it werent for the ripped up carpet and the sigils scorched into the floorboards.)

The curtains are pale blue and the carpet (or what remains of it) is black and white and there are photos hung on the wall, tournament trophies above the fire place.

LDShadowLady sits criss cross on the floor across from him, staring at him intently. Behind her is another familiar face and Mumbo waves almost sheepishly from his awkward perch on what looks like it was once a pristine sofa but at some point it had caught fire and the side nearer Ren is little more than a singed frame and piles of soggy ash.

The photo on the wall directly behind ShadowLady is of her in a wedding dress, spinning hand in hand with SmallishBeans in a suit, Solidarity in the background making a face at the camera.

"Welcome back," She sounds appropriately ominous at least. Always a pleasure to work with someone who understands drama.

"Why have you summoned me, Lady."

He's not 100% sure that's what has happened, but it seems a safe bet and it sounds good either way.

She cocks her head to the side and smiles. "I didn't. She did." And gestures grandly to something behind Ren's head.

It's another woman. A hybrid of some kind, Ren isn't sure what exactly but she smells like primate and her ears and eyes are large and the dappled fur at her temples is a soft grey that is almost lavender purple.

"Hello Ren," The mystery woman greets him. "My name is Netty. Netty Plays. I believe you know my husband."

Ren has no idea who she's talking about but before he can respond Mumbo leans forward on the sofa, working clay mixed with redstone through his fingers, back and forth, kneading it. It's a common stress response Ren has observed in him.

"There's another Game Server happening." Mumbo tucks the red-clay away in his inventory and stands, almost hitting his head on a ceiling beam. (If this is ShadowLady and SmallishBean's home that makes sense that their ceilings are not very tall.) "Would you like to join us for an interdimensional jailbreak?"

[cambria-writes]

it certainly is december 24th! sorry for taking so long to update; i’ve been in a writing slump for a few weeks, and though the next few chapters of honey are already written, i just. completely forgot about them?

anyways i’ll be posting a nice lil winter/holiday special later today or tomorrow, depending on how i feel. for now at least you have the next chapter!

pairing: patrick jane x reader word count: 2,852 rating: T, each chapter rated individually warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader goes a bit heavy on the wine lmao, implied homophobia

PreviousNext

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕱𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖙𝖊𝖊𝖓: 𝔐𝔦𝔵𝔢𝔯

It’s simple enough: have a nice dinner, get drunk (or, at least, look very drunk), approach the broody paranoid-looking rich boy, get him to follow you...

And then it gets a little vague.

“You’re still worrying about it,” Jane comments, sipping at the same glass of wine he had twenty minutes ago.

“Whatever gave it away, darling?” The smile almost hurts your face. It’s a struggle to keep your voice just this side of sickly-sweet. Jane gives you a toothy grin that nearly makes you shiver. The resemblance to a starving fox isn’t lost on you.

“Just use your womanly wiles. You’ll be fine, you’re not at all hard on the eyes.”

He takes a careful sip of his wine while you nearly spit out the mouthful of salad you’re trying to choke down. You can feel the burn spread from your face to your chest. You hate it.

“Don’t do that,” you mutter, washing everything down by finishing whatever wine was left. You wave down your waiter; you’re far too sober for any of this. You ask for a cocktail; you don’t care what it is as long as it’s sweet and strong. The waiter gives you a look but walks off to a small bar somewhere off to your left.

“Do what?,” Jane asks, and you hate the innocence in his tone. Everything about you says what.

“Fli-flirt with me,” you whisper, stabbing the remains of your salad with more vigor than necessary. You keep your eyes down. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Ah, but you don’t dislike it.” The victory is his voice makes you want to scream. You look up at him incredulously. There’s a retort, but it dies on your tongue when the waiter drops a crystal blue highball glass in front of you.

He rattles off its name and contents but you don’t care. Chug half of it in one go and finish your salad. You can feel the alcohol singing in your veins like fire. You raise your hand to down the rest of it, but... stop.

Sharpen your fear into a knife. That means you need fear to sharpen. Though arguably you are slightly inebriated, you are still a good, healthy measure of terrified. You’re in a restaurant too nice for your bank account. You’re sitting with a man you hardly know pretending to be his newly wed wife despite the fact that his actual wife is Very Dead. You’re expected to approach the handsome and paranoid son of a Russian mob boss like you have no idea who he is.

And you got shot at for knowing a dog a few days ago. Terrified probably doesn’t actually cut it.

The more you think about it, the more paralyzed you feel yourself become. Jane places a hand over your glass and forces you to lower your arm. The look he gives you is confusing.

“All you need to do,” Jane begins quietly. He never breaks eye contact. Somehow that unnerves and challenges you to do the same. “Is bring him to an empty table and talk to him. See the most you can in him.”

You notice that he noticeably doesn’t remove him hand from yours in a noticeable way. You start to think maybe you drank too fast.

“...I can do that,” you say slowly, losing track of the words as they exit your mouth. Your resolve doesn’t solidify so much as it coagulates. You look back to the paranoid brooding man by the window. Look back to Jane.

This’ll be fine. You’re technically single. You’re playing house with a handsome not-detective. And you’re closer to drunk than you’ve been in a while.

It’s fine.

There’s an extra sway to your hips as you make your way to the Window Man. His family eyes you cautiously but otherwise say or do nothing. You’d sigh if you had the presence of mind to. As it is, you feel nervous and flushed and a little bit breathless. You look over your shoulder to Jane, whose face displays everything from “look at my beautiful wife” to “look at all these sheep thinking there isn’t a wolf in their midst”. You swallow the bubbling giggles rising in your throat.

You stop a few feet away from Mr Brooding and lean forward to the side a little. Thank your stars you chose to wear the dress that shows at least a little cleavage. You don't touch him, and firmly hold your hands behind your back.

"Excuse me..?," you ask tentatively, and almost jump out of your skin when your target does. He whips around to glare daggers at you. Until he isn't, and his eyes follow your dress' straps down your neckline. Could use more class, but it's all whatever at this point.

"Wha—,” The man starts, but his voice sounds choked. Clears his throat and starts again. “What do you want?”

Can’t help but notice that most of the tension has left his shoulders. Was it really as easy as playing the part of the drunk bimbo?

“Sorry, gosh, I didn’t mean to scare you!” Place a hand low on your chest for emphasis and lean back on your heels. Ignore the slowly growing soreness in your feet. “My name’s Magda Wi—ah, Stephens!” Pretend to forget that your maiden name is gone. Seems to work; Brooding Man doesn’t seem to catch it.

The fake names roll off your tongue better with the alcohol. At least you hope; sounding believable while drunk is hard. How were you expected to ace this, again?

Brooding Man still eyes you suspiciously. You look over your shoulder and wiggle your fingers at Jane. He wiggles his fingers back at you. He makes a good show of looking far more inebriated than you know he is.

Turn back to the man in front of you with a dumb, apologetic grin on your face.

“Truth is, we just got married right? But I’ve always been kind of wild, you know, and he lets me get really crazy, bless than idiot, but—I’m sorry, geez, I’m rambling. Do you mind if we sit down? The wine’s getting to my head a bit but I really hope you can hear me out. Please?”

Clasping your hands right under your chest seems to work a charm; Brooding Man can’t help but look back down before looking back up at your face. Your very flushed face. It’s a miracle the people of Singapore can’t hear how hard your heart is beating.

“Sure,” Brooding Man answer’s smoothly. His entire demeanor changes. He offers you his arm to guide you to one of the few empty tables. The wait staff give you a look. The Family give you a look. Jane looks on wordlessly but with the starved attention of a predator.

“My name’s James Madore.”

James—Jim, Jimmy, Jamie—takes to you like a fly to honey. He hangs after your every word like they’re gold as soon as you mention you and your “husband” are looking for a +1 to your first honeymoon night. You rattle off the name of a hotel Jane had given you, and James seems pleasantly satisfied. Must be high-end, then. Not like you’d know.

You talk about yourself like the most self-absorbed, vapid girl on the planet. Your work in PR, you’re, like, so good with social media. You’ve worked with the Kardashians and Kanye and even Madonna for a little bit. You like the modest ring your husband have you because the chunky garbage is so overrated. You like indie music like it’s your lifeblood.

You make yourself sound like the worst hipster you’ve ever heard. And for whatever reason, it’s actually working. James is absolutely enthralled—both by whatever incoherent mess falls out of your mouth and by your cleavage.

You place a chilled hand over his on the table. He doesn’t flinch or pull away. He leans in closer. You’d almost be attracted to him if he wasn’t so, just. So arrogant.

“But geez, Jamie! You’re letting me do all the talking here!” Laugh like you’re pretending to be self conscious. You’re still not sober enough to know if you’re doing a good job of it. “What about you! What do you do? Is that your family over there? They look nice!”

They don’t look nice. When you wave at them, the older woman—presumably James’ mother—looks three seconds away from murdering you just for thinking about touching her son. Tough.

James tenses. Oh, that’s new.

Tilt your head to the side to feign ignorance rather than sudden intrigue.

“They’re alright,” James starts slowly, looking quickly over his shoulder before turning back to you. “Family business is rough though. My dad’s been trying to groom me to take over for years and my mom’s already decided who I’m supposed to marry. Can you believe that shit?”

A gasp. “Oh no! You’re kidding me! Seriously? Arranged marriages in this day and age?”

“Christ, right? It’s like they live in the 1700s!” James throws his head back in what looks like pure, unadulterated relief. You almost wish you could say you understand. When he bring his head back down, he looks... dismayed. You’d even say hopeless.

“Oh no,” you start, look around and lean in. Lower your voice. “You got your eyes on another girl?”

James looks stunned for a second, and then slowly shakes his head. You’re about to ask what, then, when it clicks.

Oh. Oh no. There’s a clear picture forming in your foggy mind and you’re not sure you like it. Force yourself you grin like a Cheshire Cat through your empathy and lean back in your chair.

“Well, if you don’t mind it, I’m sure you and my husband would get along just fine.”

James actually looks like he’s considering it for a minute. Looks back at his family—barely a fraction of a second—and then snatches his hand away from yours like it’s made of burning embers. Hide the confusion under a layer of what you hope is carefully crafted concern. You open your mouth to ask what’s wrong, or offer reassurances, but silence yourself when you see James’ hands. His fingers are nearly white from how hard he’s gripping he table.

“Look, no offence, I’m sure you’re some decent folk, but I’m not interested,” he says sharply. You can’t help yourself from grabbing at his sleeve as he gets up. Do your best to shake the wine from your head long enough to think before you speak.

“Please. I honestly started out just wanting to pick you up for a threesome—“ James’ face turns about five shades of crimson. “—but you seem like a good kid. I just—I want to help you. Even if it's just giving you a night to relax, no strings attached. Just one night of fun where you can forget who you are.”

James' face is impassive for a little bit, but you think you can see him considering the offer. Considering you, at the very least; his eyes are fixed on your face. It's a little unnerving, honestly. The more you watch him, though, the more he seems like he's faltering. And somehow, though your mission wasn't really to woo him or even reel him in, you find yourself determined to do something.

You catch yourself fidgeting with the pendant around your neck when the young man's eyes drift down to it. He has the decency to snap his gaze right back up to your face. Your hand wraps around the teardrop pendant—clear and blue—and move to take it off.

"How about this," you start carefully. "I'm kind of a fortune teller on the side sometimes. How about you ask some questions and I try and get some answers for you?"

Jane's grip on your hand is almost bruising as he pulls you along behind him. You don't really have the time to say anything. You don't really breathe, either. Your hand comes up to your bare neck. You kind of wish you hadn't dropped your pendant in Jane's haste to get you out. You kind of liked it.

"Quick, come on, get in," Jane orders calmly, but his tone betrays the set of his eyes. You swallow thickly. You don't even have time to buckle up before Jane tears out of the parking lot. Confusion, mild panic and inebriation make it impossible to actually tell and remember which direction he's heading towards.

"Okay," you breathe, finally snapping your seat belt in place. You let your head fall back and stare blankly at the car's roof. "Can you tell me exactly what just happened? Because I think I'm still too drunk to actually process."

Jane makes an ugly sound that's probably somewhere between choking and laughing. Great. Fantastic. This is absolutely not how you'd planned your evening and night to go.

"The Madore family's been linked to some pretty shady stuff for the past few years," he starts explaining. You vaguely notice that this is the first time he refuses to tear his eyes off the road while driving. You don't comment on it.

"James isn't so keen on following in his brothers' and father's footsteps. He's been trying to distance himself from the family business for a while now."

"Yeah, okay, makes sense that his family would seem like god damn flies in a soup then." Jane chuckles and continues.

"Exactly. They're trying everything to make sure James keeps the family business going, but he keeps sneaking right past them every other time. Like when he was spotted with a 'guy friend' at a bar last week."

You snort. "It's a dude in his twenties going to a bar with a friend, wha—," I cut myself off when I turn to look at Jane. While he's got half of a smirk plastered on his face, he looks... almost sad? Apologetic? "Oh.That kind of guy friend. The kind of guy friend who makes a man turn down a drunk girl propositioning him."

Jane laughs out loud and throws his head back. Your mind goes blank for a second; the column of his neck when he laughs is... You shake your head and shudder. Not entirely sure you like where you mind is wandering right now.

"Right, exactly. James hasn't been able to get a single minute to himself since that photographer caught them. Those pictures haven't been made public either, so you can guess what happened to the one who saw them." You make a face; yes, you can guess, and you would much rather not. "It's James' boyfriend who send me an email a few days ago to try and find out why he hasn't heard from James since their last date."

You make a sour face. The boyfriend has no idea, then? Who James Madore is? Did James lie about who he is? Or did it just never come up in conversation?

"Wait." You grab Jane's right arm in sudden realization. You don't mean to stun him the way you do but the way it makes him look at you makes your mouth go dry. The words get stuck in your throat. He's quick to look back at the road ahead.

"Yes?"

"I—you had asked me to—I never got him? To come back with us?" You're starting to think that maybe you aren't as drunk as you think and maybe there's something else entirely wrong with you. Your hand is still wrapped around Jane's elbow. You try desperately not to notice how his arm feels deceptively muscular.

"I didn’t, actually," he replies with a smirk. It almost makes you want to scream. “But don’t worry about it. I got what I needed from watching you.”

Oh come on, there has to have been a better way to word that. You can feel heat scorching your cheeks and neck. That's just not fair. You take your hand back like the contact with him burned you.

It probably did.

"Okay, so, what now then?" There has to be something else to be done after this, right? It can't just end with a single night of pseudo-investigation and being chased out by an angry mob family because you tried to touch their son's face after having answering a particularly sensitive question, right?

Jane shrugs like doesn't care. "I have some ideas, but it's not something you need to bother yourself with."

You let out an indignant scoff; all of this so you don't need to bother yourself with the end result?

"Beg your pardon, but what the fuck?"

"Language," Jane gasps, putting a hand to his chest in mock offence. When he turns to look at you and notices that your face still clearly displays shock and anger, he makes quick work of backtracking.

"I'm sorry, what I meant to say is that I have a backdoor for James if he wants one. There's just a lot of questionable paperwork and people involved, so..."

"Plausible deniability, huh? How kind of you," you mutter, shifting in your seat to rest your head against the window and watch the road go by.

The rest of the drive goes by in silence.

𝓣𝓪𝓰𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

please comment to let me know if you’d like to be added!

@fucklife-or-me @yearningforsappho @mamacakeishereforfun @newavenger

[sixminutestoriesblog]

tanzanite

While December babies share topaz with the November babies, November's topaz being golden-brown while December's is blue, December also lays claim to the newly discovered excitement of tanzanite.

Tanzanite, so the legend goes, was discovered by Masai herders in the Merelani Hills near Mt. Kilimanjaro. A lightning strike set the grasslands around the area on fire, forcing the herders to flee with their animals. When the fire had burned itself out and the Masai returned with their herds, they found the ground littered with beautiful dark blue stones (the government of Tanzania recognizes Jumanne Mhero Ngoma as the official discoverer of the gem). The rest of the world wouldn't find out about these stones until 1967 when a Indian prospector named Manuel de Souza, hunting for sapphires or gold depending on which story you go with, either stumbled across some of the blue gems himself or was directed there by the locals. At first he assumed they were olivine but something about them struck him as unique and so he sent some samples to a gemstone dealer friend of his and from that point on things took off. It wasn't long before the gem was discovered to be a brand new jewel. While the official name of the stone is blue zoisite, jewelry dealers knew better. In 1968, the gem was marketed as 'tanzanite' by Tiffany and Co. with the slogan that the rare new gem could only be found in two places in the entire world: "Tanzania and Tiffany's".

And Tiffanys was right. To this day, the rare stone is only found in Tanzania, in the same foothills that it was originally discovered in. There is no where else in the world these gems turn up. While I found 'lab created tanzanite' on etsy, I couldn't find any actual confirmation that the stone has ever been replicated in a lab, just that it has been imitated there. Right now, the entirety of this jewels deposits all exist in one single point, a stretch of land that's four miles long and one mile wide. This area is broken up into four sectors, half given to corporate mining and half to locals. In fact, Saniniu Laizer, a local man, mined the two largest tanzanite stones to ever have been found at 21 pounds(972 kg) and 11 pounds (5.1kg). He sold them to the government for 3.35 million USD.

Tanzanite is measured at 6.5 on the Mohs hardness scale. It is a member of the zoisite family with its natural color being a reddish brown to clear. Heat brings out its blue color which can dip almost into purple with some stones. It also shows different shades of color when viewed from different angles from red-violet to deep blue to yellow-green, though heat treatment will all but eliminate everything but the blue and violet colors and the cut of the gem can enhance a specific color as well. When viewed under cool lighting the gem appear more blue while warm lighting brings out its purple.

As a fairly new stone, to the west at least, tanzanite doesn't have much folklore to go with it. But there is some.

Tanzanite is considered a stone that brings good luck, new beginnings and prosperity. Which, yeah, that makes sense considering. In Tanzania, women that have just given birth wear blue, both their clothes and their jewelry, to give their child a healthy and positive life. Since tanzanite both changes color with heat as well as while it is turned to catch different angles, it is know as 'the stone of transformation'. Feng Shui believes that a tanzanite stone can promote peace, tranquility and open communication. It is the gift for 24th wedding anniversaries.

It is also very, very rare and limited. It has the moniker of 'the gemstone of a generation' because when the mines run dry, some guesstimates give less than twenty-five years, the tanzanite we have will be the only trace of it left.

[potatoesandsunshine]

Hello! For the fic ask, this passage from and you can use my skin to bury secrets in:

Coruscant is so crowded, so bewildering and asocial and unfamiliar, that Tay welcomes the flashes of jealousy in Perrin’s face when he’s talking to Mon and the raw vulnerability when he’s speaking to her alone. Off of Chandrila, Tay is unanchored from his usual responsibilities—and what he is getting into now dwarfs them all, besides. His normal concerns suddenly seem much smaller.

   So he is not as cautious as he ought to be, and when Perrin sends the invitation Tay goes with him to his tailor, to stand on a small platform and be measured by brusque, professional assistants who disappear into the workroom with the tailor himself. 

   They emerge with a set of robes in brown and blue, a few shades off of the colors of the Fertha crest—Perrin’s colors, but reversed. The brown is the inner lining, and the blue faces the world. Tay is at once looking at a man in pale blue, atop neutral Chandrilan ivory. He almost never wears blue. He looks like a stranger.

   Perrin stands behind him, smoothing proprietary hands across Tay's shoulders, ostensibly to make sure the robe is hanging correctly.

   "It suits you," he murmurs, breath hot on the back of Tay's neck—and it is a bit of an oddity to be seduced so effectively. When they were children Perrin was driven and proud and never would've lowered himself so, save the momentary insanity of the wedding. He would’ve seen himself as the one to be seduced, the prize. And now here he is, close enough that Tay imagines he can feel the heat of him through all four layers of robes, and there's a spark in his voice that Tay had thought long burnt-out.

   The assistants and the tailor are gone, having left so discreetly Tay never noticed it happening, and he wonders how many other people Perrin has brought here and put on this plinth.

   Coruscant is so, so cold. 

   Perrin hates him, or is at least madly jealous, but Tay catches a flicker like fire in his eyes, catching him in the mirror. And it feels so good to be caught by someone, to be wriggling on the hook and reeled in, after weeks buried beneath numbers and calculations and banking code that is all balancing out to mean Mon is ruined, unless she is willing to do something terrible. 

   The realization is colder than Midwinter, every time, failure freezing him no matter how he tries to find a different solution.

   “Hey,” Perrin rasps, horrifically intimate, striking in its informality, “eyes on me.”

   And Tay is back in the tailor’s with warm hands on his shoulders again, grounding him in the moment. Perrin slides one across his back, coming to caress the back of his neck, and Tay nearly keens at the relief of it. Perhaps he has not quite left that houndlike instinct in the past. 

   Perrin squeezes, barely, clasping him like Tay belongs to him for just one moment.

   It is easy to want him. Coruscant feels perilously far from Chandrila, the Kolma estate and his family there fading into a distant dream. Tay's children are grown and his marriage is far easier than Perrin and Mon's; they keep separate houses and work with their respective causes and see each other perhaps four times a year, for the holy days. 

   Here on Coruscant, with his heart aching for the soft lavenders of the sunset sky at home, none of the rest of the galaxy feels real.

   “Look at you,” Perrin laughs, meaning, I see you.

---

Thank you again for introducing the Mon/Tay/Perrin ship to this fandom, I adore it.

thank you so much!!!!!!! literally nothing makes me as crazy as mon/tay/perrin. first, the general philosophy that guided me to this point: 1) it is always fun to make characters more complicated 2) it is always fun to make situations worse for everyone involved. that is the core appeal of mon/tay/perrin to me. i know what was happening in the party scene, okay? i know what i was meant to get from it. but i watched it so many times that this took root in my brain and i do not want to pull it out. i only want to spread it. like weird sexy mold.

Coruscant is so crowded, so bewildering and asocial and unfamiliar, that Tay welcomes the flashes of jealousy in Perrin’s face when he’s talking to Mon and the raw vulnerability when he’s speaking to her alone.

this is tay’s pov, but i still think i managed to convey it pretty well. it’s like this: perrin wants tay because he wants to pull him down into the dirt with the rest of them, mon wants tay because she wants a shining ideal to believe in/savior to pull her out of the muck, and they both think he’s very attractive in general. tay is suffering from ‘being on coruscant’ sickness, which induces things like Making The Stupidest Possible Choices and Unreasonable Things Suddenly Seem Reasonable. he doesn’t think he’s hungry in the way mon and perrin both know they are—but he’s wrong about that, because he’s starving, he’s just not used to being this kind of animal.

Off of Chandrila, Tay is unanchored from his usual responsibilities—and what he is getting into now dwarfs them all, besides. His normal concerns suddenly seem much smaller.

tay seems like a guy who has a whole life back home, but i think one of the things that dooms mon/perrin is their forced proximity. it’s sooo much harder to be married to someone you hate when you can’t just go to the summer estate on the other side of the planet. this is also a real ‘fuck it, it’s fine’ moment for tay.

So he is not as cautious as he ought to be, and when Perrin sends the invitation Tay goes with him to his tailor, to stand on a small platform and be measured by brusque, professional assistants who disappear into the workroom with the tailor himself.

he knows exactly what he’s getting himself into with this, he just hasn’t admitted that to the audience or himself yet. 

They emerge with a set of robes in brown and blue, a few shades off of the colors of the Fertha crest—Perrin’s colors, but reversed. The brown is the inner lining, and the blue faces the world. Tay is at once looking at a man in pale blue, atop neutral Chandrilan ivory. He almost never wears blue. He looks like a stranger.

on one hand, plant a flag on the man, it’d be subtler than this. perrin is showing off! if mon sees tay in this, it’s a poke in her eye. it’s also a moment of ‘everything familiar is turned a little sideways, even your reflection’ for tay—and again, this whole fic is about things turning over until a very bad idea seems like a valid course of action.

Perrin stands behind him, smoothing proprietary hands across Tay's shoulders, ostensibly to make sure the robe is hanging correctly.

from the paper notes: DRESSING = INTIMACY. HOT. PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME. PUT YOUR COLORS ON ME. MINE MINE MINE.

"It suits you," he murmurs ... and there's a spark in his voice that Tay had thought long burnt-out.

this is a practiced maneuver, but perrin does feel something for tay. it’s very ‘you’re not like the others’ of him, but it’s there—a slice of real, genuine emotion is a rarity in his life, even if the emotions are bad. i do think perrin is the worst. i like that about him.

The assistants and the tailor are gone, having left so discreetly Tay never noticed it happening, and he wonders how many other people Perrin has brought here and put on this plinth.

more than three but less than ten

And it feels so good to be caught by someone, to be wriggling on the hook and reeled in, after weeks buried beneath numbers and calculations and banking code that is all balancing out to mean Mon is ruined, unless she is willing to do something terrible.

mon wants tay to catch her hand and pull her up, tay is experiencing the pleasure of someone else pulling him. i also wanted to show how much despair tay feels about the financials; he spends this whole story trying to convince everyone he doesn’t want to be the gallant knight, when that’s what he wants more than anything. but he can’t do that, and here perrin is, offering him something he can do.

“Hey,” Perrin rasps, horrifically intimate, striking in its informality, “look at me.”

mon mothma cannot say ‘hey’. i don’t know why that’s a rule in my head for her but it is. perrin can! he gets to bring tay out in public and dress him up and do whatever he likes, because his reputation is already what it is—this was a huge advantage in the early mon/perrin fights about this, but once he realized he wanted tay to like him after they were done, the two of them had to work together. nothing in this fic happens between two characters without me thinking about the third one too.

Perhaps he has not quite left that houndlike instinct in the past. / Perrin squeezes, barely, clasping him like Tay belongs to him for just one moment.

YOU’RE AN ANGEL I’M A DOG OR YOU’RE A DOG AND I’M YOUR MAN

Here on Coruscant, with his heart aching for the soft lavenders of the sunset sky at home, none of the rest of the galaxy feels real.

fun moment to say that my personal headcanon about coruscant is that it’s just absolutely riddled with dark side radiation or something. something something the crushing weight of suffering/standing in the eye of the hurricane but the people in it with you are controlling the hurricane and making it worse on purpose/empire evil, get unglued from everything you are in the face of it. i don’t really care about the hypothetical mechanics of this. it is true to me.

“Look at you,” Perrin laughs, meaning, I see you.

what if you felt like you weren’t real and someone looked at you and saw you. wouldn’t you love them a little bit just for that.

WHEW sorry this was so long, i wasn’t joking when i said nothing makes my brain itch like these three. i’ve got an idea for a perrin pov in the works but it’ll probably be a while before that sees daylight. he sucks. i like that he sucks. something something familiarity and marriage and fifteen years of knowing each other something something i hate you so much it wraps back around sometimes.

[atherix]

Soo, A few more characters description questions

In midnight what do Scott and Jimmy look like (like what do they normally wear)

And. What do the watcher gods look like or are they just kinda shadowy thjngs?

Also, could you give some character descriptions of Joe, lizzy, bdubs, doc and cleo, if you don't mind. And heights of the characters?

*I know I'm probably forgetting g someone and I need to reread midnight but I've been super busy

Hmmmmmmm this is a long post so I'll put it below the cut <3

Jimmy is "from a farm in Tumble Town" (supposedly) so likes to dress the part... though he does it, uh. Badly. Think button up, bluejean jacket and bluejeans that clash horribly, brown cowboy boots with the stirrups removed, a ten gallon hat that Scott is constantly hiding so he won't wear it in front of people, a red handkershief around his throat- he's an absolute mess, not a shred of fashion sense to him. Scott, on the other hand, is absolutely fabulous. He wears colorful clothes, semi-formal style. Think suit without the jacket in shades of purple, and black dress shoes that are always shined to perfection. He also has his pale blue hair (ofc, he's Scott Smajor <3) and heterochromia, with an amber eye and a blue eye. They have matching wedding rings, gold <3 Jimmy is, of course, short as most Avians are- he's a few inches taller than Grian, at least. Meanwhile, Scott is around the same height as Scar, maybe just slightly shorter than him.

Watcher gods are.... in a way they're shapeshifters. We haven't seen their true forms but we will one day, but there's a reason in Grian's POV I describe him as "feeling like his skin is turning to molten glass." Watcher gods typically wear purple cloaks that completely hide their features, and will often hide in a humanoid facade (just as Grian is doing now), but their true forms are... unfathomable. I actually described one in Midnight Alley as;

" He doesn’t really know what he’s seeing. It’s unexplainable- incomprehensible, even. It’s not human though it wears long, flowing robes, and its four, six, nine wings are made of feathers that are both fire and ice, sharp yet flickering. They drip like liquid- like ichor- and are black and white and gold and violet all at once yet not at all. Crowns, many crowns, dance around and eyes- eyes, so many eyes- stare back at him, so many eyes he can’t figure out where the eyes end and the being begins.

It has two, four, seven arms yet none, shifting and malleable as it moves closer. It reaches out a hand, slowly- a hand that melts into a human-like shape, like spun glass and flowing magma. "

Joe... how to even describe Joe. He's Joe. I mean- like. Yeah. Joe is Joe. I don't even know how to describe him. He's the most human human to have ever human'd while somehow being so completely not human. Like. He's just a Dude™ but like. To the left. He's pretty average height, a bit shorter than Scar I'd think- so about Scott's height.

Lizzie has a few different forms, as a shapeshifter, but her human form is just... Lizzie. She has pink hair and more often than not her ears are cat ears, hidden under her hair. She likes to experiment with her style, though she likes Cute styles. As a humanoid-cat she's a pink, black and white calico! Of course she's also a pink, black and white calico in straight-up cat form but still. She's also pretty short, being a cat shapeshifter, somewhere between Jimmy and Scott's height. Bonus Joel, Lizzie's changeling husband. He's tall. Like not quite Mumbo tall but pretty close. He's a button-up and dress pants type man, wanting to look good for his wife and all that. He sometimes has a beard, sometimes he shaves it off.

BDubs is, again... he's BDubs. His style changes day to day, shifting between traditional Elven and traditional Vampire and then sometimes he's a T-shirt and jeans type of guy, but he always- ALWAYS, no exceptions- has his moss-woven cloak. Oh! He also has semi-long hair, nowhere near as long as Scar's but definitely around his shoulders, but even so he generally keeps his hood up when not at home. He's short, which is EXTREMELY abnormal for an Elf. No one knows what happened (that's a lie, I know and Belle knows if they remember). BDubs is just as short as Grian, if not an inch or two shorter.

Doc is Doc! He's a creeper hybrid (I may also allow him to be a goat hybrid as well, so maybe a creeper-goat hybrid) with prosthetics. While he was in his coven he was forced to dress in traditional Vampire clothes- like basically mourning suit, pretty much. Once he's out of there and recovering (in Xisuma's Coven, btw) and finding his own style again, he experiments but is almost always found with an open lab coat. Because I love him for that. He's around the same height as Scott, I believe.

Cleo... Cleo my queen... she's a Zombie hybrid Vampire so she has her classic green skin and red eyes, with fiery red hair that may or may not change into snakes when her Vampire magic starts to take over and changes her into her less human, more monstrous form :) But they definitely have a super classy classic Vampire style; beautiful, stunning gowns (some ripped almost to shreds in very aesthetically pleasing locations, some sleek, all beautiful) and stunning, absolutely gender-envy-inducing suits.... I am love they. Also, they are tall. Like. I mean tall. They're taller than Mumbo, in fact. Not by much, mind you, she's maybe got two inches at best on him but by god I fucking love tall Cleo and y'all can pry them from my cold fingers <3

That is perfectly understandable, hope you get through everything you need to do!! <3