#but its not so much for him as it is for her own conscience

[jaws-and-canines]

I held Your Hand

A Count The Days story fromThe Point AU - contains detailed depictions of medical care, references to death and a car accident, as well as some themes of ableism.

Because I’ve started this AU in the middle of the arc rather than at the start- a little context is probably needed. In every major trauma situation, thousands of variables go in to the outcome. A driver wearing his seatbelt, will have a much better outcome than a driver who wasn’t. This AU asks the question- on the night that Haskell’s escape came to an end in the accident, what if things played out differently? What if, instead of him being spared the most grevious harm by his seatbelt, he had struck his head on the dashboard of the car with enough force to break his neck, but also his skull? What if he had started to bleed into his brain? What if, despite the best efforts of the medical staff, he was destined to need round-the-clock care, destined for The Point- the Department’s secure long-term care facility? --- Despite having worked just a few floors down for several years at the start of her training, despite her knowing the Neurosciences matron who welcomed her warmly onto the ward, and passing one of her old colleagues, now a consultant in Orthapedics on her way to Haskell’s room, Ayla still feels out of place here. The orderlies that the Department sent from the Point saw her coming and left the room. She thinks, maybe, she would have rather they stayed- not to protect her from her ex-husband, because paralysed from below the armpits, he poses little threat to her unless she steps within arm’s reach- but more to break the tension in the room.

The room itself is bathed in a soft light, filtering through the closed blue curtains.  On a metal table by the head of his bed, the humidifier sits, its blue tubing coiled up around the drip stand, alongside the pump for his feeding tube. Almost every flat surface in the room is taken up with one thing or another- pink sponges for mouth care, blue sponges and tracheostomy dressings piled up beside the blue tracheostomy emergency case with his name written on the side in white paint pen, suction equipment, purple syringes for his NG tube. 

The wheelchair sits in the corner of the room. Partly why she came down today was because it had arrived a few days ago, and she wanted to see it for herself. It’s a tilt-in-place, able to be reclined at an angle, so that Haskell will be able to sit in it without slipping out. There’s a backrest with raised ridges that will sit at either side of his torso, keeping him straight upright, pressure relieving cushions so he will be able to sit in it without the need to be turned like he is when he is in bed, and a headrest. He struggles to keep his own head up otherwise. The most noticeable thing though, she thinks, are the wheels- large, self-propelled, with a power assist system to compensate for his uneven strength. The aim is, then, that he can wheel himself around independently- what little he can do for himself, they will make him, just so he retains the ability to.

Of all the things in the room, that is what makes her pause- not because she’s never seen it before, nothing in the room is unfamiliar to her- but because she remembers Haskell as he was before all of this started, and over the past few years she sees less and less of the man she married and more and more of the man she left. And now he’s changed as well, to something entirely different, yet somehow exactly the same.

She supposes that the cognitive impairment might actually be his saving grace. He can’t really grasp what has happened to him without the ability to connect the events. Right now, at least, he seems unbothered. She’s sure that changes- from what little she’s seen of his records, he’s prone to episodes of severe frustration and agitation, lashing out at staff members and those around him, breaking equipment, throwing things, pulling at his lines and tubes. The chair and computer on wheels right inside the door is usually occupied by a minder- an orderly or someone else able to intervene if necessary.

But for now, all is quiet. He’s dressed in green trousers and a green pyjama shirt, done up with poppers. His hair is combed, someone has shaved his face, and his catheter bag is draining a pale yellow instead of the cloudy amber she has seen previously. He looks like he’s put on weight, his cheeks starting to fill out a little, his body putting the fat into the areas that wasted into nothingness when he was in the coma. He looks as well as he could in the situation. 

With the head of the bed up to sit him up, he is focused on one thing and one thing only, the bowl of milk pudding on the overbed table in front of him. The occupational therapists have given him a set of adapted cutlery- velcroed to his hand, allowing it to stay put, even with his weak grasp, and requiring a much lower dexterity to use.

But still, he seems to struggle a little. He lifts the spoon to his mouth with a trembling hand and puts it in his mouth. He chews it slowly, and then swallows with a look of intense concentration. He goes to take another spoonful, and notices Ayla standing in the doorway. “Go away,” he says, looking at her out of the side of his eye.

 “I thought I’d come and talk to you,” she says. “See how you’re getting on.” The last time she came to see him, he was too unwell to speak. Now, he’s well enough to have the one-way valve on his tracheostomy all through the day. The valve lets him talk, and even with the dysphasia the accident caused him, forgetting words and phrases, speaking only in short sentences and trailing off midway when he loses his train of thought, he retains his utterly foul manner of speech.

And he comes straight out with it, looking at Ayla with a sort of disgust on his face. “Fucking go away,” he says. “I’m eating. Piss off.”

Ayla thinks the staff must be utterly thrilled to have to deal with his foul vocabulary all day now, instead of in small increments under the supervision of speech and language therapists and respiratory physiotherapists. She’s inclined to think he’s gotten worse with it- frustrated, and unable to express it in any other way, she supposes.

“I’ll come back when you’re done eating,” she says.

Haskell throws a hand out towards her. “Don’t!” he exclaims.

She realises if she does as he says, he’ll tell her to come back later ad infinitum. “I’ll stay, then,” she says, and crosses the threshold into the room. Haskell rolls his eyes at her, then goes back to scraping at the bowl in front of him, trying to get the pudding onto his spoon. “What do you want?” he asks her, pausing for a moment.

“I just came to visit you, Haskell,” she says, and walks over towards him. “I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says, giving him a hug in the same way you’d hug a relative at Christmas.

“I’m eating!” he snarls. “Don’t touch me!” He pauses. She doesn’t relent. He takes a deep breath. “Get off me!” he shrieks as he exhales. The cry is distorted a little, warped by the strange timbre the speaking valve gives to his voice. She eases back from the hug, still rubbing his shoulder. He scowls at her. “Don’t you fucking touch me, you fucking weirdo,” he snaps.

She sits in the chair beside the bed. “Do you know who I am, Haskell?” “I told you, I’m eating.”

She repeats the question. “Who am I, Haskell?”

“My ex-wife. Go away, please,” he sighs, and points to the bowl of milk pudding with his spoon. “Or help me eat. Don’t care. I just want to have my dessert without this… this shit.”

“Alright,” she says, and shuffles the chair towards his bed. She picks up the bowl and takes the normal spoon from the tray, putting a spoonful of the pudding to his lips.

“No, you stupid fucking woman, not like that,” he says angrily, and grabs at the spoon she’s holding. His grab knocks it from her grasp and it falls onto the table with a rattle, the pudding falling down onto his trousers. He ignores the mess he’s created and the crushed look on Ayla’s face. “You hold the bowl closer to me and I use my spoon.”

“Alright, then,” she says, and leans over to make sure the spoon’s velcro is done up properly. As she touches his hand, she’s reminded of why she’s here, and turns back to look at his utterly confused face, an expression she never really saw on her husband. 

“What is wrong with you?” he exclaims angrily as her hand lingers on his.

“We were married, do you remember that?”

“Yes. But I don’t mind.” He shrugs, but only with his hands.

There’s a pause as Ayla chews over what she’s going to say in her mind. “I thought you were going to die, Haskell,” she says, trying to think how to put her grief into words he’ll understand. “And I like you, and so I didn’t want you to die, but you didn’t and I’m very happy about that. So will you let me have just a moment with you without you swearing and shouting at me?”

“Okay. But after that, you have to help me. It’s only fair.”

“Alright. Alright.” She reaches a hand out to cup his cheek, a thumb trailing over the edge of the NG tube plaster, fixing it in place, and down to the green clip, the bridle cord coming out from his other nostril, to where they’ve looped it around a bone at the back of his nose and clipped it back to the tube. “Did you keep pulling it out?” “Never touched it,” he lies, oblivious to the blatantly obvious securement system. “I didn’t touch it.”

She shakes her head. “Don’t pull things out,” she scolds. “I never fucking touched it!” he exclaims. “Look!” He grabs at it and yanks. Tears rush to his eyes as the bridle tugs at the bone at the back of his nose. He waits a second before exclaiming in pain, not certain that Ayla has gotten the idea. “Ouch! See, I never touched it!”

Ayla senses that it’s not worth arguing- even before the accident, Haskell was a nightmare to persuade to change his mind. With the brain injury in the mix, she suspects that the task would now be impossible, and distressing for both of them. So she leaves the topic alone. “Are you feeling better?” she asks.

“Better than what?” he asks, giving his NG tube another exploratory tug, an expression of discomfort flickering across his face as he does so. “No. This sucks.” “Last time I saw you, you weren’t as awake as you are now,” she says. “You couldn’t talk to me, and you were only following me with your eyes, that’s the only way I knew you were awake at all.” She seems a little upset at the memory, but smiles at him, putting a hand on his. “When it happened… when the accident happened, I got the call and I came up here at two in the morning. I called your mother as I was driving down, and I told her you were probably going to die. She refused to come down.”

“My mother is a bitch,” says Haskell plainly.

“Normally I say you shouldn’t call her that,” says Ayla. “But now I’d be inclined to agree. And you had… you have nobody else. And I didn’t-” She chokes up, tears welling up in her eyes.

“Why are you crying?” asks Haskell. He wipes his nose on the back of his hand with a sniff- not because he is crying but because his nose is running, and the tissues seem impossibly far from him, set at the other edge of his over-bed table.

Ayla sniffs back her tears. “I didn’t want you to die alone and scared and confused, surrounded by police and prison officers, and doctors and nurses, so I held your hand.” She swallows sharply. “And I kept doing it. I held your hand in the critical care unit as they were draining the blood off of your brain. I held your hand whilst they tried and failed to take you off the ventilator. I know it’s normal, but you were biting at the tube with just this look of... horror in your eyes.”

“Don’t remember it.”

“Even after they did the tracheostomy you still had that horrified look. I don’t think you really understood what was going on... and you just looked so scared. And I didn’t want you to die scared. So I kept holding your hand, whenever I was there with you, I held your hand. And now look at you. You’re…” She pauses again, and wipes her eyes. “You’re doing alright.”

Haskell shrugs it off again. “I said I don’t remember it.” 

“I didn’t want you to die alone, Haskell.” “Okay.” Then, with a pause. “That’s nice of you.” Another pause. He gestures to the bowl on his table, as if he was not actually listening to what she was saying, and just waiting for it to be appropriate for him to ask again. “Can I have my pudding now?”

“Yes,” she says, shaking her head and trying to hide the tears. She isn’t quite sure why she’s crying in the first place. She picks up the bowl and holds it up a little, towards his mouth. He takes another spoonful and slowly but surely brings it to his mouth. She knows, logically she knows full well he can’t help it, that it’s not his fault the way he talks to her now, and that she’s just projecting the way he used to be onto the way he is now. But, really, truly, she can’t help but feel like he simply doesn’t care.

[euthymiya]

we’ll have a ball ft. wriothesley

in which you and your boyfriend are due to arrive at fontaine’s most prestigious event, but not before you give him a hand with a slight wardrobe malfunction

contains: female reader ; reader wears a gown ; established relationship ; quite a bit of suggestiveness but overall just fluff ; wriothesley hates fancy events he told me himself, and reader just wants to live her ballgown dreams—he indulges her because he’s a real man ; flirting with wriothelsey using his tie lol ; wriothesley has a brief jealousy induced existential crisis

despite wearing one every day, wriothelsey doesn’t know how to tie a tie.

it’s why it’s so loose around his neck—a stylistic choice, of course, but also a decision based around convenience. he doesn’t need to learn how to tie one if it’s already tied and loose enough to slip over his head. it’s easier that way, letting a complicated set of steps reduce down to just a quick garment to throw on around his neck, allowing him the ability to forgo the trouble of tying it altogether.

you think it’s a rather endearing shortcoming of his, especially when he stands in the mirror confused as he grumbles, fiddling with the material as he tries to properly tie it for once.

“you’re doing that wrong, you know,” you sing, walking up behind him in your gown as he pauses and meets your eyes through the mirror. “you’re hopeless.”

he ignores your quip, gulping slightly as he mumbles, “you look gorgeous.”

“and you look like a fool,” you snort, glancing at the messy knot at his chest.

“maybe they don’t need us,” he licks his lips, spinning around to properly look you up and down without the mirror. a reflection doesn’t do you justice, he thinks, he needs the real thing. “we should just stay here. and do other things.”

“and have lady furina behead us for canceling last minute? i don’t think so,” you wave him off, but your arms slip around his neck as soon his hands grab your hips, letting him pull you flush against his chest as his nose runs along your collarbone, inhaling sharply at the scent of your perfume.

the duke of meropide is, in its own right, a prestigious title. prestigious enough to extend wriothesley an invitation to the annual ball the hydro archon holds for the sake of extravagance. wriothesley manages to weasel his way out of it on most years—but this time, you’ve been newly added to the guest list as well, courtesy of your blossomed relationship with the warden.

you seem far too excited to attend for him to decline in good conscience. love is sacrifice, as they say—and wriothesley can happily suffer through an evening of small talk and formality while sporting an uncomfortably tight fitting suit.

the only problem he can’t manage to overlook so far is this cursed, wretched tie.

“you’re no fun,” he pouts slightly, trailing the tip of his nose to brush along your collarbone until it finds your neck, lips pressing a soft, lingering peck as you hum and play with the hairs at the nape of his neck. “i’ll show you a good time. better than a silly ball.”

“that’s a big promise.”

“well, i can think of a way or two to make it worth your while,” he grins against your neck, and you’re certain you’ve memorized that curve of his lips by heart. you can recognize it instantly when it sears against your skin.

“nice try,” you laugh, pulling away as he begrudgingly does the same. he sighs at your dismissal while you reach over to the tie around his neck. “but we’re going. and you need this tie looking…not how it’s looking right now.”

“m’trying my best,” he grumbles, looking away to the side, cheeks dusted a precious shade of crimson that you lean over to kiss gently.

your fingers undo the messy knot at his neck, expertly weaving the tie into a new and neat, flawless knot as you tighten it to fit around his neck perfectly. it’s unlike the loose, rugged knot he usually wears—much more proper, much more professional, much more formal.

wriothesley doesn’t look particularly thrilled at the adjustment, sighing as he watches you inspect his appearance and straighten his collar. your hand smooths over his chest as you give your nod of approval, and he wonders if you can hear his thundering heartbeat under your palm.

if you do, you’re gracious enough to cut him some slack from being teased.

“there,” you hum, “you look quite handsome.”

“does it have to be so tight?” he complains—and then his brows twitch, furrowing deeper as he pauses to look at you briefly with a puzzled look. “hang on. where’d you learn how to tie a tie?”

you raise a playful eyebrow, letting out an amused huffed out breath as you say, “well, you’re not the only man i’ve gotten to know.”

“so you’ve done this before? for another man?” he asks incredulously, miserably looking down at the thin piece of fabric wrapped around his collar as if it’s choked him before he adds, “i think i’ll be taking that dip in the primordial sea like i mentioned.”

“oh, quit being a drama queen,” you swat at his arm, chuckling as he gives you a theatrically pained look before burying his head back into your neck again, hand fitting in the small of your back as he rubs slowly circles into your gown.

“is this punishment for my crimes? because i’ve already served a sentence and according to fontaine laws, you can’t try a man twice for the same crime.”

“if it makes you feel better, i think you of all men pull ties off the best.”

“i suppose it minimally raises my spirits that you think i look good,” he concedes.

he does look good—whether it’s his usual loose, improperly fit tie or the fancy, silk material of tonight, you think wriothesley is most handsome when there’s a thin piece of fabric decorating his neck and chest, perfectly hanging and waiting for you to tug and pull him in.

you decide to demonstrate the wonderful opportunity his attire grants you, too, when you murmur, “in fact, i quite appreciate your habit of wearing ties.”

“oh? is that so?”

“yes,” you say slyly, pushing him back gently as you question, “want to see why?”

“do enlighten me,” he grins, eyes mischievously narrowing, a knowing glint sparkling in them as he waits for you to finish what you started.

so you do—reaching over and grabbing the silk, giving it a firm yank so he leans down, forehead pressing against yours and lips just a few millimeters away as you breathe, “i can do this whenever i want when you wear one. it’s very convenient for when i need a kiss or two.”

“i see,” he nods, his breath fanning over your lips. it’s hot and searing—you shiver at the feeling of him even when his lips haven’t even touched you yet. “well, if it keeps you satisfied, then i’ll have to make sure i’m always dressed appropriately for your needs.”

“well,” you bat your lashes, biting your lip as you give him a cheeky giggle and say, “there’s a good chance i might need something that requires very little attire, too, your grace.”

he closes his eyes, and you stifle a victorious laugh.

“you’ll be the death of me,” he says through a strained groan, leaning in to finally close the gap and kiss you deeply. his lips are hungry, pressing into you for another taste every time you manage to pull away for even a brief moment. you hum against his mouth, cupping his cheeks and holding his face as his fingers grip at your waist and feel the curve of you against him.

you always wonder if you and wriothesley were once the same person in a previous life. perhaps split in two, destined to find each other in the next. it feels like he completes you when you meet like this, pressing against you like one half meeting the other to make a whole.

it’s dizzying, maybe even downright risky the way you kiss so passionately just moments before you need to leave—you’re not sure either of you have the self control to break away if it comes down to it.

luckily, wriothesley travels his mouth to find your jaw after a few more moments, kissing through breathless pants as your eyes flutter open.

“we have to go soon,” you whisper.

“are you certain we can’t just stay here? i promise what i offer will be far more fun than listening to random wealthy folk running their mouths for a night.”

“but we get to dance,” you point out.

he pretends to think about it for a moment before offering, “i’ll dance with you here.”

“no,” you scold, swatting at his shoulder as you roll your eyes, “this dress is expensive. it needs to be appreciated.”

“oh i’ll appreciate it alright,” he drawls, grinning against your jaw as he whispers into your skin, “i’ll appreciate it all night.”

“no. we’re going, and that’s final, you sleaze.”

“hey,” he pouts, pulling away as you reach over one last time to straighten his hair and fix up his appearance, “i’m nothing if not a doting boyfriend.”

“wonderful. then i expect to have a drink in my hands all night,” you wink teasingly, patting his cheek, “you’ll be in charge of grabbing me them.”

he deflates in defeat, grumbling a quiet, “alright, fine.”

“you can appreciate my gown after,” you lean close, whispering against the shell of his ear and making him pause with a hitched breath as you press a kiss to the skin under his earlobe and murmur, “maybe you can appreciate some other clothing i’ve purchased too.”

“well,” he inhales sharply, grabbing your wrist and tugging you along as he nods seriously, “in that case, i look forward to it.”

ok so basically i went to the mall today and i walked past this store with mens suits and one of the posters on the window with the models was a woman pulling a man in by the tie and then i was like oh that’s so me and wrio and that’s how this drabble came to be 👍

[myfictionaldreams]

Light in the Darkness // Feyre/Rhysand x Fem!Reader

Summary: It wasn't just Rhys who had been caught in Amrantha's damnatation. For nearly 50 years, you'd suffered with him, in her bed. After years of enduring agony, it becomes almost impossible to resist seeking refuge in the platonic refuge of your High Lord and High Lady. However, after one night of drunken indulgence, you're left wondering if everything you've built to protect yourself is now shattered.

Requested by: ~ ☺ -- thank you so so much for all your support and the request! I absolutely loved writing more acotar/sjm!

Tags: 18+ readers only, smut, past rape/non-con elements, trauma, PTSD, nightmares, emotional hurt/comfort, fluff, angst, friends to lovers, friends with benefits, flirting, kissing, drinking, threesome (f/f/m), sex, oral sex (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, anxiety, happy ending

Words: 9.4k (lol oops)

my masterlist 📚 AO3 Link

Some aspects of life can be predicted. Happiness, sadness, heartbreak, grief. Death. Every ounce of blessings that had graced your life had repercussions and hardships, something that was always centred around the balance of the world. With good comes the bad.

Years upon years had been filled with joy, laughter, and safety with your friends and family. Naturally, being drawn into the inner circle of the Night Court would bring its hardships, but it would be nothing that your friends or your family could get you out of. From outsiders, you were ranked low within the group, not even having a title to the job you provided; however, you often liked to refer to yourself as Rhysand's conscience.

Where Amren would help make significant decisions for the Night Court as the second in command, you'd be there to offer further guidance daily. Every meeting, every decision, every single day, you would be at Rhysand's side, making sure he didn't make brash decisions and, furthermore, protecting his sanity when, on some days, the weight of the world pressed down on him.

Not only did you save Rhys with your words, but as a high fae, you were blessed by the Cauldron with healing and body manipulation powers. The healing was self-explanatory as to why it could help; there were times you'd been able to bring a soul back, even from the point of death. However, such as life, with life comes pain. A power you used so infrequently due to the distress that you'd often forgotten that it was something you could do. Only on a handful of occasions have you needed to use it against an enemy they begged for death in seconds. It was a strain on your mental health to use this, and with Rhys having his own powers, along with his shadowsinger, there weren't many reasons for you to even be needed for this.

Rhysand would never expect or ask you to use this power, increasing your adoration for him tenfold. To say the two of you were close was a complete understatement. When you both live and breathe the same day-to-day life, the form of friendship is bound to shift into something more. Rhys made you feel safe; the scent of night and Jasmine that accompanied him always wrapped around you like a warm hug.

There was no one you trusted more than him, and when the two of you stumbled into bed years ago, it only helped you discover more of yourself, especially with your powers. Pleasure. You could bestow pleasure onto a person with a single thought. Have their knees wobbling, eyes glazing over and back arching as they orgasmed in a single second. It made your nights with the High Lord all the more entertaining.

Even with the closeness the two of you shared, there was still the label of friendship. You loved Rhysand, and he loved you, but the two of you were still keeping back, aware of the possibilities of mates, and until any bond arrived, the friendship would continue with the thrill of pleasure.

As your role to be by his side continued, this was the unfortunate or devastating mistake of how you were in attendance at the ball that Amarantha had created. All it took was a gathering of high lords and a drink of the magically spiked wine, and the world of Pyrthian would be forever changed. The magic within the High Lords was leashed, and no one was safe from the wrath of the Red-Haired Devil.

You could have driven yourself mad with hindsight, regretting not listening to your gut feeling of not trusting Amarantha. Only the knowledge of being able to keep the rest of your family and friends safe in Velaris was the only blessing, even if it meant a life of agony for 50 years.

Amarantha, in all of her cruel ways, personally picked the High Lord of the Night Court with her need for revenge for Rhys' father, killing her closest ally - Tamlin's father. Rhys had always had a formal villainous reputation amongst the other courts, but now, this is further shadowed by the different courts as Amarantha uses him. To hurt others, break them in a split second, and furthermore, keep him leashed to her bed. He was simply her whore and nothing more to the others throughout Pyrthian. This mighty High  Lord, probably the most powerful High Lord there had ever been, had been degraded and dehumanised to nothing.

Nevertheless, where Rhysand stayed, you were by his side.

Rhysand had protected Velaris, the rest of his friends and family that remained at home, keeping them locked away from Amarantha using his Daemati skills, but could not save them.

The first few weeks of the new reign of the Red Devil, you'd been chained in a cell with only darkness and the drip of the waters running down the walls to keep you company. You'd even convinced yourself she had forgotten about you, willing to let you rot away. However, you were forced to kneel before her, and Rhys stood by her side.

There was never a second where you'd blame Rhys for what happened. In fact, over the 50 years, he had saved you in more ways than you could ever repay him for.

You were forced by Amarantha to admit why Rhys kept you so close by. The healing, the pain, the pleasure. Everything spilt from your lips with a single snap of her fingers. Rhysand was her whore, and you were downgraded to being her Harlot, except there was no exchange between sex and money, only sex and not being killed.

Rhy was forced to control minds and occasionally cause pain before death. You were just there to deal unimaginable pain until death, and then both crawl into Amaranthas bed and pleasure her until she promptly sleeps, wakes and starts the process again.

As the years trailed by, the only sight that would keep you going was the flickerings of stars that would light in the depths of Rhysand's eyes when the two of you were briefly alone for mere seconds.

Amarantha kept a tight leash on the two of you. When in her bedroom, you and Rhys were never allowed to touch, and most frequently, you were forced to kneel next to the bed and watch or tie to the bed with the Red Devil straddling your waist with Rhys pleasuring her from behind. You would watch and watch, and then her fingers would snap, and you were forced to make her orgasm, over and over, even with Rhys having spent hours pleasuring her.

These moments were where Rhys would provide support. Even though your eyes had to remain on Amarantha, Rhys would slip through your mental shiels and make you feel numb whilst remaining mentally close so that you didn't feel alone. Often, you would wake without any recollection of the previous night's antics, all thanks to your High Lord, and you wished and begged to the Cauldron that one day you could repay him for keeping you from slipping into the depressive pit that you would never be able to return from.

Then, at the risk of his life, Rhys admitted to having dreams. 47 years, the two of you had been trapped, and he'd been lost to the Red Devil, but hope came to him with glimpses of a woman's life. Hope. It had to be hope, and even though you could only see foggy images that Rhys would share of this person, the two of you would hope that this was a sign of someone who was bringing salvation.

Nearly 50 years had passed, and Rhysand finally admitted to meeting her whilst visiting the Spring Court, falling for the callings coming his way to draw him closer to her. Nothing came as easy as an overnight saviour, but at least you had a name. Feyre. Sweet Feyre. A human girl who had nearly stolen Tamlin's heart arrived under the mountain to declare her love for him and stand up to the Red Devil.

So young and yet defiant. Despite the pain, the torture and helplessness, she never back down. Something in your heart called to her. Maybe it wasn't right to put so much pressure on her to save Pyrthian, but even if it meant you had to take your last breath, you would try anything within your power to save this woman.

Superficial wounds you couldn't heal, but the pain you were quick to vanish as she was kept in her cell between the trials. Moreover, you were more than aware that Rhys was doing just as much to keep her from losing her sanity by having her close to his side, forgetting the world as she drank faerie wine.

The fateful day came, and so many events spiralled into utter chaos. After the final trial, Feyre figures out the riddle but still dies in Amaranthas's hand. Tamlin finally finds courage and slaughters the Red Devil and the High Lords, gathering to bring Feyre back to life as High Fae.

Freedom was unforgettable, and leaving the depths of Under the Mountain was something you'd only dreamed of, but there was now the weight of Rhys' mating bond snapping into place that had the next chapter in your lives beginning.

There was no time to be happy for your High Lord as the King of Hybern began his war whilst simultaneously trying to prove to Feyre that she was safe within the Night Court and away from Tamlin and that you were thanking Rhys and Mor for stealing her from the dreadful place.

Years continue to fly by. Wars, fights, numerous deaths, including Rhys for a moment and finally, FINALLY, the Night court could be at rest and for once indeed be happy with their High Lord and Lady protecting the lands with the inner circle close by.

Having been in turmoil for so long, adjusting to returning home, being surrounded by friends, and trying to remember what it was like to be genuinely safe was more difficult than anticipated.

It was almost like having to try and learn how to live again. What hobbies would truly distract you? What job could you do from day to day as it wasn't necessarily for you to be on Rhysands' side now with Feyre there to aid in the decision-making? There was also the destruction of having survivor guilt and horrific nightmares that had you afraid of the sun slipping behind the mountains every day and night, replacing the light. No amount of talking, counselling or breathing exercises could remind you that Amarantha was truly dead and that everything was fine.

This was how you began to depend on your High Lord and Lady.  Both of whom were closer to you than it seemed to be anyone else. Most days would be spent around either of them, whether to help with court business or simply sitting next to them as they continued their lives.

You had realised long ago that you were mostly in love with Rhys and Feyre and depended on them more than others. They never made you feel guilty for this. Neither seemed to mind and often would seek you out if you were starting to feel guilty and keep them safe; they needed comfort and support just as much as you did.

The damage and trauma from Under the Mountain also fleeted from just your mind. You couldn't train with any of the others; even the slightest touch against your skin would trigger red nightmares. You were unsure if it was the saviour complex you'd built around Feyre or Rhys, but you'd only allow them through your hard outer shell.

"Come back to me. Come back to Velaris. You're safe; I'm here; take a deep breath with me" Feyre's soothing voice drifted through your tense consciousness as she blew out a long breath so you could hear the steadiness of her slow breaths. The sweetness of her scent, lilac and pear, then licked through the wind across the skin of your cheek as she knelt in front of you, grasping your hand firmly and helping to ground you.

Your eyelids fluttered first, testing the movements as your mind and body began to return from the horrors within. The rich blueness of Feyre's concerned eyes is what you forced on first, then the rise and fall of her chest as you attempted to copy the movements. It was the first draw of breath that you realised just how long you'd been holding your breath as your lungs burned and your head spun.

The air of Velaris tasted sweet, or maybe it was the lingering taste of Feyre in the air as the ache in the centre of your chest eased and you became more present. The trembling throughout your body continued, no matter how many times Fey's thumb brushed against the back of your hand.

"You're always safe here, with me. It's just us together. Look outside; the sun is still shining, and there's no darkness here". Feyre continued to gently soothe you with her elegant voice.

You'd always found it so ironic that a place called the Night Court, the power to bring forth shadows and darkness from its High Lady and Lord, was actually the brightest and most beautiful home. Free. Unlike how it was Under the Mountain.

Tension struck your spine as your thoughts drifted back to the nightmarish place. Feyre's grip on your hand loosened as she shifted closer to cup both hands around your face, forcing your eyes on her again.

"Don't go back there, stay with me. Talk to me, I want to hear your pretty voice, Honey". It was both the use of her nickname for you and the warmth of her fingers on your face that brought you back from the dizzying nightmares.

Opening your mouth to follow your instructions, you were unsure what to say at first, worried that all that would dribble out would be frightened whimpers, but then a little fleck of something at the corner of Feyre's eyelid caught your eye as your fingers hovered above the area.

"You have a freckle right here that I've never noticed before", you say in a whisper before clearing your voice and smiling at your High Lady.

Feyre matches your grin, showing her teeth whilst doing so and tilting her face so that you're not cupping her face just as she was yours. "Do I? I've never noticed before. Guess I'll have to add it to my portraits".

Your index finger stroked over the freckle as your thoughts spoke before you could probably think as you admitted, "It's beautiful". Usually, only her mate caused the pinkness to blush across her cheeks as she tried to duck and hide her face, the golden hair half drawn into a ponytail now curtaining her away.

Instinctively, you brushed the offending pieces behind her pointed ears, giving you a clearer view of the beauty of Feyre Archeron-Moonbeam. As her sky-stained eyes flicked back up to yours, she coyly softened her smile. And you're a big old flirt; she uses her daemati skills as her lips remain still so that only you can hear.

Only for you, my High Lady, you respond similarly. However, the flirtatious talk was then interrupted by a third, more silky, deep voice joined as the scent of Jasmine and the crispness of night wrapped around you in a warm hug.

I object. I, too, think you're a big old flirt to me, too. It could be my handsome good looks and effortless charm. The intense eye contact with Feyre snapped as you both turned toward the doorway where Rhys now casually leaned against the doorframe, his hands in the pockets of his black trousers and not a single hair out of place. The hypnotic violet eyes wandered over Feyre's form first before doing the same with you before the tension eased in his shoulders.

Scoffing as you and Feyre stood, releasing each other's faces and turning towards him entirely, you spoke the following words aloud. "Excuse me, Almighty High Lord. I think you'll find that you're older than me and a much bigger flirt".

Feyre laughs as she naturally falls into his side, their arms wrapping around each other's waists and his lips dipping to kiss her tenderly across the forehead before focusing his attention on you with a wicked grin.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Love. I only flirt with my darling Feyre". His mate gently slaps a hand against his chest. As you all know, that was one of the biggest lies to slip from his lips. Rhys simply grabs her tattoo-covered hand and kisses the knuckles before venturing further into the room, only stopping when toe-to-toe with you.

Your neck ached as you stared up at him, admiring the twinkle of stars in his eyes as he asked, Do you want to talk about it?

You knew he was referring to your momentary lapse in consciousness moments ago. Losing the courage to maintain eye contact, you look across Velaris, noticing how the sun reflected and sparkled against the water flowing in the Sidra.

Suddenly having no energy, your shoulder shrugs nonchalantly, even though you knew the man before you could read you better than any other. "Not really".

Warm, calloused fingers grip your chin, turning your face back towards Rhys as you find that Feyre is now by your side, her fingers interlocking with yours, both touching you, the only two to have done so since being Under the Mountain, even if they were innocent touches.

"You can always come to us, day or night. You know that, right? Just call out for us, and we will come", Rhys reassures carefully, his eyebrows drawn together with concern.

Glancing between the mated pair, you try to ignore the burning behind your eyes from the threatening tears as you squeeze the hand holding yours and smile up at Rhys. "What would I ever do without my favourite High Lady and Lord".

Rhys grins down at you, keeping his hold on your chin as he leans down to kiss your cheek, remaining there for a second longer than socially acceptable as you suck in a quick breath as Feyre copies the kiss on the opposite cheek. The two of them move away at the same time as you struggle to control your pounding heart and ignore the desperate throb that warmed your core from being between them both.

It was always like this with the three of you. The longing touches by both of them. The ones that would fuel the dreams would leave you feeling regret for thinking of your friends in such a way, even if it distracted you from your dark thoughts. 

To everyone else, it seemed that you were all close. Still, when the three of you were alone, something constantly shifted, and as much as you tried to remember they were mates and nothing further would ever happen, the lasting effects of the increased pulse and arousal remained. Even though you would never act on these feelings, they made you feel alive and safe.

You noticed it then, the shadows that creep into their eyes as their nostrils flare, smelling your dampening arousal. Like always, you take a step back and try to regain control over your actions, masking your emotions with humour.

"You two are naughty. Do you often kiss your friends like that".

Feyre's giggle only adds to your body's reaction as she links her arm through yours and shrugs her shoulder, "I don't know what you're referring to. We were just being supportive", her tone was laced with sarcasm.

Rolling your eyes, your arm taps the arm holding yours, "Of course you were". Leaning into her side, the two of you glance up at Rhysand, who is silently watching the interactions. Eventually, his eyes flicked to Feyres, who tilted her head with a knowing smile. Looking between the two, you sigh dramatically, "I hate when you both talk like that. It's like you're showing off that you can speak mind to mind. Some would call it rude to talk like that without including your company".

Rhys finally smirks as you notice the sweet and seedy tang that now invaded your scents, mixing with the smell of your arousal quickly; you take a step back from them, assuming they're both flirting mind to mind as you can now smell how horny they both were.

"Alright, well, now I know what you're both thinking. I'm going to take that as my opportunity to leave, " you explain whilst walking towards the exit like you usually did when the mated pair became obsessed with the other in similar situations. However, a shadow wraps around your wrist and halts your movements, so you must turn back and watch as Rhys' arm secures Feyre's shoulder.

"How do you know what we are thinking about?" Rhys asks casually.

Once more, you roll your eyes in exasperation, "because I can smell it, and you are both anything but subtle".

"Hmm", he contemplates for a second. "And what exactly do you think we're dreaming about?"

Your tongue suddenly lay heavy in your mouth as you look confused between them both, noting that Feyre's cheeks are once more flushed with embarrassment, or was it arousal?

"Is this a fun game for you both? I'm not sure I'm interested in guessing what you two do behind closed doors". A lie, but they don't need to know this as those thoughts had been fueling your quiet nights between your sheets.

The High Lord and Lady's eyes both lower to watch as your thighs squeeze together to ease the worsening ache there, not realising how noticeable your movements had been as you cough to recapture their attention back to your face.

"Maybe I should have phrased my question differently", Rhys begins to say as he licks his lips. "Who exactly do you think we are dreaming about?"

Your frown deepens with the confusion that only seems to worsen with each word Rhys says. Feyre takes control of the conversation as she steps forward and out of Rhys' hold until she is in front of you, looking like the beautiful High Lady that she is. Her shoulders rolled back, her head held high, and the confidence only added to the pulsing and fire between your legs.

Carefully, you watch every single flicker of emotion and movement from Feyre. From the way her lips part to take in a deep breath, the subtle hardening of her nipples beneath the thin blue shirt she wore, to the way her pupils expand to match the sweet scent in the air. "I, for one, was not and am not thinking of Rhysand", she speaks in a lower undertone than usual, not flinching from your unending stare.

It was your turn to open your mouth, licking the dryness while attempting to think of some kind of response, but it seemed that your mind was void of all conventional thoughts. So much so that the arrival of Morrigan as she winnowed into the room had the three of you flinching and jumping to face the new arrival.

The tall blonde's nose wrinkled as she glanced between her cousin and his mate, "By the Cauldron, will you two leave the poor girl alone with your nasty thoughts? It smells like a Pleasure house in here", Mor claims as she flicks her luscious hair over her shoulder.

You take a step back, thankful that Mor only thought the thick smell was from Feyre and Rhys and not you as well.

"Morrigan, a pleasure as always, dear cousin", Rhys drawls as he casually picks off some invisible lint from his shoulder. This sight has you smiling, knowing he was covering his discomfort with the movement.

Mor flicked her gaze over Rhys before dressing each of you with enthusiasm, clasping her hands together, "So tonight I've convinced the others to come to Ritas, and I need you three to also join to have the complete team there".

"I'll be there, " you say quickly, deciding you need something more substantial to drink after this conversation.

"Us too", Feyre answered as she glanced over her shoulder towards you with a not-so-subtle wink.

Hours later, after the sun had set and your anxiety had risen for a moment, you were now encompassed in the inhibitions of the alcohol humming through your veins. Ritas was as busy as always, and being surrounded by friends, good music and even better drinks, you were very much in your element of happiness.

Despite your friends being gathered around the table you always resided at or in the centre of the dancefloor, you were happy in your little corner of heaven in Ritas, where you could sway on the spot without worrying about feeling strangers' bodies knocking into yours.

The conversation continued to play over in your mind as you felt the coolness of the sweat dripping down the middle of your spine. As much as you love Mor, you could have cursed her to prison for interrupting before discovering who Feyre and Rhys were referring to because even though your heart screamed that it was about you, your mind tried to convince you otherwise. There was no way that your mated friends were turned on by you.

You're drawn away from your thoughts as a slender arm slides around your neck, and the sweet smell of Feyre wraps around you, replacing the salty sweat from the room. Her grin matches yours as she tips her head back, swaying her hips in time with yours as your fingers clasp to the thin material of her peach dress around her waist, pulling her closer.

From the way she laughed, you knew she was just as drunk as you but nevertheless still as beautiful as ever, even with the way her golden hair stuck to her face with the sweat and the glassy sheen over her eyes. You were happy to see her letting go and fully relaxing; she deserved it more than most.

You weren't sure which of you tightened your hold of the other, but now your faces are pressed together, her lips hovering next to your ear so that you could hear her say, "We didn't finish the conversation earlier".

Your feet somehow become tangled with hers as you both lose your footing, but a steady hand from behind keeps you both upright as Rhys' chest presses against your back. One of his hands remains on your waist, his thumb brushing in a circle, and the other reaches around your side to grip Feyre, pulling her even closer against your chest until your breasts are squished against hers.

"Wh-What conversation?" you pretend to forget, the rest of Ritas drowning away in the background.

"Don't play coy with us; I can smell your arousal already", Rhys growls into your other ear. You forget to breathe momentarily, so Rhys's tone calms, "Easy, breathe for us, it's ok. This will always remain a safe space". You appreciated his comfort, but for a moment, all you could think about was the way his lips caressed the shell of your ear.

I think you're beautiful, Honey. Feyre speaks dreamily mind to mind as she pulls away to look deep into your mind mesmerisingly. Her delicate fingers stroke down your cheek as her eyes flick between yours and the lips you're biting. I want you. She states this with such confidence and not an ounce of alcohol slurring her words that your knees wobble.

"I want you too", you finally whisper to her, unsure if the alcohol was giving you courage or making silly decisions on your behalf.

"And you know that Rhys wants you too; nothing about that has changed", Feyre continues as you glance over your shoulder to look up at Rhys as he kisses the side of your head. You nod, understanding that she was referring to your past with him.

"I think we should find somewhere more private, don't you?" Feyre continues as you agree with her.

One second, you're in Ritas, and the next, you're in the comforting bedroom in the townhouse of Feyre and Rhys. The instant calmness of the loud music faded, and the delicate touch of the wind as it floated through the open archway to the balcony. Sighing at the coolness as it kissed against the exposed skin of your arms, you let it distract you from the chaos erupting in your heart and mind.

Rhys moved away first, and before you turned to see what he was doing, Feyre stepped back and grabbed your hand. The two of you laughed wholeheartedly while stumbling over to their gigantic bed.

You both collapse into the centre, laughing at nothing as the springs cause you both to bounce before settling and wrapping your arms around each other.

Rhys leans against the bedpost at the base of the bed, smiling down at the two of you, especially as Feyre lifts her feet and wiggles them in his direction. "Come on, High Lord. Look busy", she giggles as Rhys smirks, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and dragging her feet into his lap. Carefully, he unbuckled the straps of her heels, dropped the shoes onto the floor and carefully kissed the top of her knee as the dress she wore now pooled midthigh no that she was lying down, and then his sights were set on you.

With long strides, he's around the other side of the bed, now closest to you, and begins to remove your shoes as well, but then your feet remain over his thighs, and the reality of the situation finally dawns on you. Like he had with Feyre, his eyes never leave yours as you forget to breathe altogether, and he kisses your knee delicately.

Feyre raised to lean on her fist so that she could look down at you as your gaze turned from one to the other.

"You'll tell us if it's too much, I mean", she asks, appearing more sober as you, too, notice the liquid courage seems to have disappeared from your system as you nod in agreement at her. She smiles as Rhys' fingers caress from your ankle up to your calf. "I've never kissed a female before", she admits as the hand she isn't leaning on reaches across to run her fingers down the side of your face.

"I think you'd enjoy it", you say, sounding breathless, becoming lost in the desire that darkens her usually bright eyes. You're encouraged to continue as her fingers continue to explore your face and linger on your lips. "Kissing a man is nice and dominant, rough. But with females, they're soft, sweet, gentle but demanding if needed."

Feyre bites her lower lip as she glances at Rhys for a split second before turning her attention back down to you. "I want to kiss you", admits eternally.

"I don't think your mate would appreciate me touching what's he", you say, trying to remain as level-headed as possible, knowing that the mind between mates should not be interfered with.

Feyre's eyes gleam with mischief as she looks down at her mate, who has remained silent so far. "My mate wants to kiss you too", she confirms.

"More than you could know", Rhys then speaks, his tone taunt and deep, like he is trying to hold back, but it is all the confirmation you need.

Reaching up to your High lady, you cup her jaw and pull her close, meeting her halfway as your lips connect. The two of you forget to breathe momentarily, simply remaining in place and allowing each of your emotions to escalate before your movements finally catch up to your pounding heart.

Your lips press more firmly, moving against hers until they relax and open, giving you the perfect position to tease your tongue between her lips. You both moan, especially now that you can taste her, feel her loosening and falling more into the kiss, finding the courage to push your head back onto the bed and become more demanding.

Your fingers slip through her hair as you greedily try to taste the other. She was sweet, oh so fucking sweet you could have drowned in her and thanked the Cauldron for giving you the opportunity. Her full lips are cushioned against yours until you're both starving of oxygen and needing to pull back to breathe.

A second, this lasted before her face wasn't above yours anymore, and your High Lord was leaning over your body, his hand now cupping the entire side of your face as he kissed you with greed. The sensation of nostalgia hit, the taste that you'd grown fond of over the years of intimacy before Feyre crashed through your senses. Yet, there was something new and exciting with this kiss, even as you continued to stroke through his mate's hair and hold her to your side as Rhysand bruised your lips, his tongue entering your mouth for a brief second as you moaned.

Then he's pulling back, and you're welcomed to the beautiful sight of Feyre and Rhys desperately kissing. You'd seen them kiss more times than you could count, but being this close, having each of them still clutching onto your body in some way.

Feyre was the first to ease away, tilting her head slightly so that Rhysands lips could move to the slop of her neck, leaving open-mouthed kisses until reaching the strap of her dress on her shoulder and easing it down. Coping his movement, you, too, moved the strap off of her other shoulder and the material pooled below her ribs, exposing her breasts to you. There wasn't a second wasted before you moved to lick one of her perked nipples as Rhys nibbled on the other.

The soft moan from Feyre lit a fire in your belly as you continued to taste the sweetness of her skin, but then your head was moved back as Feyre demanded your mouth with hers once more.

With your back pressed against the bed, Feyre attempts to move over you but then halts herself, "I don't know what I'm doing" Feyre giggles.

Grinning up at her innocence, you admire the way that her eyes are half-lidded and swollen lips are pulled between her teeth as Rhys continues to caress her nipples and breasts with his mouth and hands.

Tucking a stray curl of golden hair behind her ear, you explain, "Touch me like you'd touch yourself. Do you touch yourself?" you ask, clarifying. The apples of her cheeks had already risen from the alcohol and kissing, but now they deepened in the shade as she said yes. Rhys growls against her chest at the thought of her touching herself and then begins to remove her dress further down her body until she's naked. You see, seeing that she'd gone without underwear and reached to touch her now slightly sensitive nipples.

Once more, you admire how she hitches a breath at the touch. She still seems hesitant as her fingers draw your dress's edge against your collarbones. Rhys, also sensing her nerves, lies on the other side of you, resting his head on his fist as he wraps his large hand around Feyre's small one.

"Here, let ms show you, Darling", he explains lowly, and you notice that he's now topless, the muscles flexing with his movements and bat wings flared out behind him, hovering in the air.

You and Feyre watch as Rhys moves her hand over your chest, cupping your breast over your dress and squeezing firmly. You can't help but rub your thighs together as the low pleasure builds in your already aroused body, the air thick with seedy scents from all three of you.

Rhys then catches your eye, winking cheekily with a handsome smirk. Within a blink of an eye, all clothes that remained on his or your body disappeared, and now Feyre's hand was pressed directly against your skin.

Your back arches slightly into the touch, pushing your breast into her hand, and then it's your turn to gasp as Rhys moves her fingers to pinch your nipple fiery, tugging it away from your body and then pressing a thumb against the aching area.

It was a sight you adored watching as Feyre tentatively began to learn how to touch your body. There was so much you wanted to do to both of them, and as much as you wanted to give Feyre a chance to move lower, you didn't like the attention just on you. It was challenging to decide whether to touch him or her, but as it was Feyre's first time with a girl, you wanted to see if she enjoyed your face between her legs.

"Feyre, can I be on top of you?" you ask her with a surprisingly pitched voice.

She grins as her eyes glow ever brighter as she rolls onto her back, "You don't have to ask".

Returning her smile, you slip around Rhys and straddle Feyre's waist, leaning down to kiss her hungrily for a few seconds before moving backwards, lower down her body. "I want to taste you". Your words pressed against her skin as your mouth journeyed south, kissing the peaks of her breasts down her sternum and toned stomach. Her breaths were coming out in quick huffs as she squirmed on the bed, legs spreading as your body fit between them, your face pressing against the softness of her thighs.

Feyre's arousal was evidenced by the wetness that now caressed your cheek as you nuzzled yourself closer, resting your weight on your chest and arse perked in the air as you felt the High Lord move behind you. Blowing cool air over Feyre's beautiful cunt, you loved how responsive she already was as she shivered and gripped tightly to the sheet beneath her, looking down her body at you.

Whilst holding her eye contact, you finally lowered your mouth to her, tongue sweeping over her labia and tasting her salty but uniquely beautiful juices. The High Lady's gasp was like music to your ears, especially as you pressed more firmly, dipping beneath and stroking over her clit and feeling it throb against your tongue. "You taste so fucking good".

Rhys, who was licking his lips at the sight, began to hover over both of you, kissing down your spine, causing goosebumps to rush to the surface of your skin. He, too, began to use his tongue to pleasure as he knelt behind you, flicking his tongue into your cunt and pushing in. You groan, and in turn, Feyre does, too.

"I've missed this", Rhys admits from behind as he circles your hole with his fingers, carefully easing a single digit within. This was the first time you'd been penetrated by anything in over 50 years. Amarantha had often tortured you with your arousal, making sure you were never given anything to ease the ache, but then after her demise, even when you touched yourself, you were so sensitive it would only take clitoris to play for you to orgasm.

Your back arches, pressing your breasts further into the bed and arse harder into Rhys' face as he rocks his finger in and out before adding another and beginning to curl his fingers until your whimpering into his mate's cunt. Warmth flushed over your face as you realised just how quickly you were close to orgasm, so you moved with more enthusiasm as you sucked on her clit and then pressed your tongue firmly against it. Then, for the first time in 50 years, you used your powers because you wanted to, not because you were being forced to.

Rhys and Feyre both moan loudly enough that the bed trembles. You'd caused the sensation for him that his cock was now being wrapped tightly down someone's throat and Feyre to fill full internally, with someone caressing the sensitive nerves within her cunt, both nipples being sucked on by an invisible force.

"What was that?" she cries out as she closes her eyes, her hips now rotating on their own accord as she chases her high. You could have made her orgasm with your powers but didn't want to overwhelm her immediately, so you settled in softly as you continue to circle her clit.

Not stopping to answer her question, you match the sensations you're going through and then as Rhys' thumb pressed against your clit and the hurricane of an orgasm pulsed through your cunt and abdomen, you made sure that both mates also came at the same time.

Rhys grunted, one hand coming to rest on your hip and squeezing the flesh as he humped against the bed, staining the sheets with his seed, and Feyre coated your mouth with her arousal, her thighs almost crushing you in the process, but you would have died happy right there.

While still trying to catch her breath, Feyre suddenly announces loudly, "Sit on my face". You and Rhys' face snap up to look at her, laughing at the crudeness of her words that aren't usually that forward. She appears sheepish for once, asking, "What? Did I say it wrong?"

"Not at all", you begin whilst crawling up her body until you're face to face. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!"

With Rhys' steady hands on your hips, you moved to kneel on either side of your High Lady's face, looking down your body at her excited expression. Still reluctant, it takes Feyre's tattoed fingers to wrap around your thighs and pull your body down before her mouth is on your intimate area. You weren't sure who moaned louder, you or Feyre, as she started by licking and tasting between your folds before building more enthusiasm and dipping the tip of her tongue into your pussy.

"You're doing so good", you praise whilst holding one hand on the headboard of the bed and the other slipping into Feyre's hair. Glancing over your shoulder, you admire Rhys, who was on his knees watching the two of you, his hand wrapped around his surprisingly already hard cock. He looked almost godly in this position, the tattoos of the mountains on his knees gleaming at you for more than one reason, his wings spread wide behind him. "Look busy, High Lord; I think our beautiful High Lady's cunt is looking lonely down there".

"It would be my honour, Love", Rhys agrees, moving closer and easing his mates legs over his thighs as he lowers the tip of his cock over her clit, teasing her for a second before entering her. You could feel the rush of air against your pussy as she gasps, rotating her hips as she rocks against Rhys.

You match the movements, rolling your hips against her face as her nose knocks against your bundle of nerves and her tongue moves ever deeper. Everything felt so good; your body was alive with emotions and buzzing nerves. You could have died happy right there, especially as your face is then tilted back and Rhys' mouth is on yours, kissing whilst fucking his mate.

Even with his tongue down your throat, you wish you could praise Feyre; she makes you feel so good, even though it is her first time doing this. And Rhys, he always knew how to leave you breathless and begging for more.

You weren't even prepared as your orgasm rocked you very well. Rhys had to half hold you up as your body trembled, cunt squeezing and pulling around Feyre's tongue until the sensations lessons at you collapsed next to the pair, trying to catch your breath.

Then you watched, with awe and amazement, as Rhys fucked Feyre, their fingers all over each other, grasping and holding as both of them eased closer to their peak. But even then, when both were breathless and arching their backs, you were still being grabbed and included with kisses and touches until all three were motionless in the middle of the bed.

To say you were exhausted was an understatement, having not had two orgasms in quick successions in so long, and the thrill of emotions was enough to have you falling asleep almost immediately. Not before you're checked in by both of them, Rhys wraps an arm around your waist, and Feyre's head rests against your chest.

"Are you ok? I mean - was that alright for you?" she whispers, sounding just as exhausted as you.

"It was perfect", you respond before closing your eyes and falling asleep.

Waking up was not the blissful peace you'd hoped it would be. The thrill of the alcohol had completely gone from your body, and all that remained was a heavy sickness of guilt in your stomach. Last night was beyond perfect. Everything you could have wanted and more, but reality was your worst enemy.

Feyre and Rhys were mates, not only this but your High Lord and Lady. A fun night of relieving tensions for them meant so much more for you; emotions that had attempted to lay dormant were now screaming in your mind that you'd made one of the worst mistakes yet. They wouldn't want you. They couldn't have you anyway. No matter how deep the feelings ran, there was no such thing as a mates pair having a third join.

When the pair would wake, you knew it would be full of awkwardness and 'let's never do this again'. So, with great difficulty, you began to untangle yourself from the duo, careful not to wake either of them as you climbed out of bed.

It wouldn't happen again, and the sooner you realised this and came to terms with it, the easier the pain in your heart could ease. Grabbing your dress that was folded on a nearby chair, you slipped it on and, with your shoes in hand, left without glancing back at the sleeping couple.

You had a room in their house, much like the rest of the inner circle, but there was no way you could remain in the same room as them for a day, at least so, after changing into more comfortable clothes and hiding under a coat, you left to go to your own home.

It was on the other side of Velaris, and on the walk there, with the sun slowly beginning to rise and wake up the other occupants of your home town, you had time to overthink every single touch and moan from last night. Eventually, you arrived at your abandoned apartment, having hardly slept here since your nightmares were so crippling that you needed to stay near Rhys and Feyre at all times.

You attempted to distract yourself by scrubbing your skin raw, trying to remove the scents of both of them away, but when that didn't work, you moved to deep cleaning your home, which now had a thick layer of dust and cobwebs across the surfaces. This was until you could collapse with exhaustion into your cold bed.

The nightmares were there, so violently, in fact, that you were startled awake because you couldn't breathe. Your mouth opened to scream for Rhys to save you but stopped, biting on your tongue until blood coated your mouth. Scrubbing a heavy hand down your face as you caught your breath and eased the ache in your chest, you glanced out of the window, seeing the sun high in the sky, meaning it hadn't been that long since you'd fallen asleep.

Your stomach gave a hungry growl as you sighed, collapsing back onto your pillow, staring aimlessly towards your ceiling.

I was going to give you one more hour of rest before coming to find you, but it seems you've beaten me to it. Rhys' voice echoed in your mind in a deep drawl that had a fluttering of pain seep into your chest as you remembered last night. Deciding to do something you've never done before, you tried to ignore him, turning over and pulling your bed sheet over your head and shutting down your mental shields, but he simply pushed them aside with his talons.

Why are you there and not at home?

Without thinking, you snapped back sassily, This is my home.

He didn't comment on your tone as he continued to ask. Why did you leave?

I needed to shower. You answered simply, knowing it was a useless excuse.

We could have showered together. Rhys purred back, and even his tone was your core warming. Unsure of what to reply with, you decide remaining silent was your best option, so he filled the silence with more questions. I don't want to intrude on your personal space but don't block us out. Last night was-.

I know.  You cut off his sentence, not wanting to hear his rejections. It's fine. I'll just speak to you later, Rhysand.

Rhysand? When do you ever call me that? He sounded more urgent with his questions, so you try even harder with your mental shields until a thick wall separates the two of you, and his words are finally silenced. Your emotions finally snap as you sob until you can't breathe.

You remained in this position for the rest of the day. Your hunger is now dormant with the sickness in your chest. The tears would dry and then start again as you feel the ghost of their lips against your skin with the memories that continued to spiral through your mind over and over again. Eventually, the sunset, and you were left with the shadows from the fae lights to keep you company.

Deciding the bedroom only made you feel worse; you move into the living room, sit on the couch, and stare at the wall.

At one point, you could feel the stroke of gentle fingers against your mental shields, but you kept them in place, deciding it was best to ignore Feyre as well. However, a firm knock came on your door late into the night. You wanted nothing more than to ignore it, to leave whoever was there to think you were asleep, but as the knock came again, you decided to just get it over and done with, already knowing who was there.

Opening the door, you're greeted by Feyre and Rhys, holding a plate of your favourite food and both smiling gently towards you, their eyes searching over your body to check you're well but noticing how red and bloodshot the whites of your eyes were.

"A peace offering":  Feyre offers the place towards you, but you don't take it; you step out of the way and allow them to enter your home. Moving further into the room, you returned to the corner of the couch, avoiding their eye contact as you tucked your knees beneath you and hugged a pillow to your chest.

Feyre places the plate on the small table before you and sits to your right, while Rhys sits opposite in the armchair.

"I've never actually been here before. It's cute." Feyre continues trying to cheer you up somehow, but you ignore her.

"I'm sorry", you finally painfully say, wanting to get it over and done with.

"Sorry?" Rhys asks in confusion, leaning forward until he rests his elbows on his knees. "For what?"

You couldn't help but flinch, turning your shoulders in to appear smaller. "For last night. For overstepping in your relationship. I shouldn't have let my emotions dictate my actions. I've- I've just been so lonely, and I trust you both more than anyone, but you're mates, and I know what's happened is unforgivable and-".

A delicate hand covers your mouth, stopping your flow of words as Feyre leans forward with fire lighting her eyes, eyebrows set furrowed. "Would you stop trying to say how me and Rhys feel, please? Because I think you'll find you're incredibly wrong with every single thing that you say". Her hand begins to lower, and you open your mouth to battle what she has said, so she quickly keeps her hand over your mouth. "Nope! No talking, just listen. We don't regret anything about last night".

Without using your mouth, you roll your eyes, but that only earns you a squeeze against your cheeks. Rhys then begins to talk, "She's not lying. There isn't an ounce of regret in my body" his eyes remain steady as he stares at you.

"Yes, Rhys and I are mates, and the thought of someone touching what's mine fills me with murderous rage, but when I watched the two of you touch and kiss, I felt anything but negativity. You've not just been anyone to me; you're special to both of us. More than you could ever know."

"You saved my life under the mountain. Without you, I wouldn't have survived her", Rhys admitted, referring to the one person you hated more than the King of Hybern. At seeing your relaxed state, Feyre finally loses her hand from your face as you stare at the deep, raw emotions on Rhys' face, the sharpness as his jaw tensed.

"You saved me too", Feyre continues as you look towards her now. "In those dark dungeons when you would visit to keep me company or healy my body and mind, there's no way I would have survived it all".

She takes your hand, squeezing your fingers as she talks. "You haven't just been a friend to us. Even now that I and Rhy are mates, I feel this longing to be near you. I often thought maybe we are meant to have more than one mate because the way I feel for you isn't just lust".

Your breath was out heavily, not realising you'd been holding your breath as they both spoke, a lightness filling your heart and mind. "I thought you both would come to regret what we did. That my emotions were just one way because you saved me more times than I could ever begin to list. You're my closest friends; save me from the dark each night, but after what we did, I thought I'd overstepped the boundary, and you wouldn't want to see me again".

"Well then, you don't know me then, do you? Because I don't back down from what I want, and I meant what I said when I said I wanted you," Feyre responds passionately as your gaze flicks from her eyes to her lips before Rhys inches forward until kneeling beside you both, his hand resting over yours and Feyres joined hands.

"This may be difficult to understand. Yes, we are mates, but you have always meant something close to me, and I've known for a long time that Feyre feels similarly. I want you, Love, like I want Feyre. The thought of not being able to have you or someone else's hands on you makes me want to strike everyone down" he pauses to take a deep, steadying breath as he rolls his neck to ease the tension and anger that burst from him as his jealous emotions overtake him. "If you don't want to be with us, we'd understand and return to how we have always been. But we can't lose you, even as a friend".

You scoff, unable to hold back your reaction, as you sit up with a burst of energy, looking between them. "Of course, I want you both! I thought it was obvious. There's no way I'm letting either of you go" Your fingers tighten in their hold as you finally smile. Rhys and Feyre sigh in relief. "I don't understand how this is going to work, though, between the three of us. How do we even explain this to the others?"

Rhys shrugs his shoulders, "It's not for them to get. This will be understood with time, but let's concentrate on each other, being together and learning this new dynamic. It's not anything to rush, just that we each understand that we have each other".

Life came with its highs and lows. Even at its lowest, the smudging of hope could draw you out and lead you on a whole new path. All those years ago, never would you have thought you could be with two of the most remarkable people of all of Pyrthian, but by the Cauldron, you were going to hold onto them so tight and never let them go.

[st4rgzer]

an evening with spencer reid…

your fingers laced around his wavy hair as a soft melody played in the background. his head was placed on your lap, fingers flipping through pages of a book, one in russian that would be impossible for you to understand. the smell of cookies flooded the living room, a tray of them on the counter as they cooled. you hummed along to the melody of the song. your fingers rake through his hair, messily intertwining them with his soft curls. you rub your thumb along his cheekbone, tracing his jaw before placing a kiss to his forehead.

“what’s the book about” you ask, a certain tenderness in your voice.

“its called crime and punishment, it tells the story of Rodion Raskolnikov, a destitute and intellectually gifted student living in St. Petersburg, he becomes obsessed with the idea of committing a "perfect" crime to prove his superiority and test his theory that some individuals are inherently above moral law. He meticulously plans and then murders an elderly pawnbroker, Alyona Ivanovna, believing that her wealth will be better used for the benefit of society. However, the murder haunts him, and he struggles to justify his actions to himself and everyone around him. He becomes increasingly isolated and tormented by guilt, exacerbated by the suspicions of police detective Porfiry Petrovich and the moral scrutiny of Sonya. As Raskolnikov's mental state deteriorates, he grapples with his conscience and the consequences of his actions. Ultimately, he is forced to confront the true nature of his crime and the depths of his own humanity. its really interesting!” he carried on with the storyline, explaining the complexity of the character. you listened attentively, nodding at every stop and smiling when he got so passionate and carried away. when he apologized for talking so much you just shook your head and pressed reassuring kisses all over his face. earning a smile from him and crimson cheeks.

[amjustagirl]

title: to rebuild a home pairing: kuroo x f! reader genre: angst / fluff, post timeskip! wc: 6.8k m.list

a/n: companion piece to the original love knows not its depth, from kuroo's perspective.

Kuroo Tetsuro is doing alright. 

He’s deftly juggling the roles life has handed him. His tenth wedding anniversary is coming up. He’s gotten a nice pair of earrings and a reservation at Tokyo’s hottest omakase for you to celebrate. The girls are doing nicely at school - Aiko’s grades are excellent, and Fumiko’s not gotten into any schoolyard fights unlike Bokuto’s trio of sons. His bosses seem happy with him too, paving the way for him to climb the corporate ladder rung by rung. He’s earned each promotion by burning days in the office, nights in the izakayas schmoozing with his bosses, but it’s worth it, even if it admittedly comes at the expense of being with you and the girls. 

It’s a sacrifice he has to make so he can provide you with the fairytale life he’s always promised you. Not that you’ve ever complained about the trade-off.  

“She’s the best wife and mom I could’ve asked for”, he tells Kenma, when the former setter asks about you. “I don’t know how she does it.” 

Kenma frowns. “You make her sound like a video game character.” 

“That’s cos she’s amazing -”

“Kinda sucks that she pretty much has to juggle a full time job and the kids on her own most of the time.”

“She manages perfectly well”, Kuroo enthuses, oblivious to the barb in his friend’s words. “By the time I get home, the girls are in bed, the house is clean, and there’s even a lunch box packed for me each day. She’s a rockstar at work too - should be up for a promotion next financial year.” 

“Huh”, Kenma sniffs. “I wonder when she gets a break.” 

Kuroo’s too distracted by the round of beers that’s delivered to his table to think deeply about his best friend’s apprehension. When he stumbles through the front door that night, he finds you crouched over the coffee table, frantically typing at your laptop. As expected, the girls are in bed, there’s nothing out of place. 

“All good?” he asks you in passing, his mind already filing the tasks on his plate for tomorrow - organising a publicity event jointly held by the JVA and Bouncing Ball Corporation to introduce new national team members, reviewing the proposed budget for this year’s international competitions, popping by the under-19 team to see if there are indeed any promising candidates - he’s already one foot in the bedroom, ready to call it a night. 

He doesn’t notice the violets blooming under your eyes. 

“Mm.” You don’t look up. “Have a good night.”  

Kruoo Tetsuro thinks he’s doing alright. 

Bokuto Kotaro, for some reason, doesn’t think so. “Mitsuki said you’re lucky you’re not married to her cos she’ll skin you alive”, he informs him, as if Kuroo shares his love for women capable of chomping his head off in one bite.

Maybe the Bokutos operate on a different metric - because yes, they’re the model of egalitarianism with Mitsuki the high powered general counsel for Kenma’s Bouncing Ball Corporation (based on his referral, he likes to add, cos’ it’s funny to watch Mitsuki growl) and Kotaro the part time coach, full time stay at home dad to his wolfpack of sons, but that doesn’t mean his marriage is on the rocks. 

As a child, he was the unwitting witness to his parents’ fights, which culminated in his mother walking out of the door, his father crying over a thick stack of divorce papers. His grandparents took him in, gave him stability and love and comfort but he swore to himself he’s never going to put his daughters through that. 

Sure, it’s been a while since you’ve had a night to yourself. The last time he remembers you taking time away from the girls was to go out for dinner with him to celebrate his latest promotion - his conscience stings a little that he can’t remember the last time you’ve taken a break from everything you’ve been doing for him and the girls, but he’ll make it up to you once he has time. You always understand. 

Still, just to be sure, he checks in on you again. 

“You alright?”, he reaches for your hand, when he climbs into bed that night. 

You’re lying in bed. He should find it odd that you’re still awake at this time of the night, staring up at the ceiling as if there’s something to be found there, but he falls asleep in the slow seconds, doesn't hear your response. When he wakes, you’ve already taken the girls to school. He gets himself ready for work, loops his tie around his neck, grabs his briefcase and the bento you’ve so lovingly packed for him, and hops on the train. He runs through his routine like clockwork, but there’s a niggling feeling that he’s missed something important, possibly something to do with you. 

Did you say something to him last night? 

It doesn’t matter. He makes a mental note to purchase a spa day for you - but that’s promptly forgotten when he’s greeted by a flood of emails and an invitation from his boss to go out for drinks that night. 

Kuroo still thinks he’s doing alright. 

“You’re lucky”, his boss toasts him. “Your wife doesn’t complain like mine when I go out drinking, even though I tell her I need to do it for work.” 

“She’s an angel”, Kuroo replies, quietly bursting with pride. “Never complains.” 

“Lucky man”, his boss says. “My wife is such a nag.” 

He misses the last train home that night, drops you a text not to wait up and stumbles around Shibuya trying to find a cab. It must be a busy night because by the time he manages to flag down one, it’s three a.m. and his head is pounding from the excess of alcohol and lack of solid food and water. He fumbles with his keys, almost falls through his front door when the lock gives way. “Tadaima”, he says out of habit, too-loudly, before his stomach lurches and he has to make a mad dash for the kitchen sink. 

“Tetsuro?” 

He wants to respond, but he’s too busy emptying out the contents of his stomach. He shouldn’t have woken you up. He shouldn’t greet you with a mess for you to clean up. He shouldn’t lean so heavily on you that you stagger beneath his weight. 

He shouldn’t do all of that yet he does so anyway. You tuck him, a grown man, into bed.

Tomorrow, he’ll apologise. Tomorrow, he’ll make it up to you. 

Tomorrow comes. He wakes up. 

You’re gone. 

Kuroo Tetsuro is not alright.

He’s ashamed to admit that he doesn’t even notice you’ve taken off until it’s way past lunch when your mother drops him a text to ask if he’s picking up the girls or if he intends to leave them with her overnight. 

“What d’you mean?” he texts her, confused.  

His heart stops when your mother responds to say you dropped off the girls at her place without much of an explanation, an overnight bag slung over your shoulder. You don’t pick up your phones, his calls going straight to voicemail. For the first time in forever, he sheepishly asks his boss for urgent leave from work so he can rush home to figure out what’s going on. 

You always take your laptop with you, but it’s sitting at home. He knows it’s an invasion of privacy, but he types in your password (his birthday), and your web browser reveals a booking for a ryokan in Hakone, where the both of you honeymooned almost a decade ago. It’s an hour away by train, far too much time for him to sit and stew in his thoughts. He wonders if you’ve become sick of your life with him, whether you’ve found someone new, and by the time he’s reached the ryokan and charmed the receptionist to let him into your room, he’s teetering on the edge of giving into his frustration, entertaining thoughts about yelling at you for being so goddamned irresponsible, cos how could you just walk out on him and the girls -

Until you walk in, thankfully alone. 

It strikes him that it’s the most refreshed he’s seen you look in a very, very long time. Your cheeks are glowing, your eyes sparkle, and there’s a spring in your step that he hasn’t seen since you’ve had the girls. 

Still, he can’t help but remain a little peeved. “I’ve been calling you all afternoon”, he informs you. “I was worried.” 

He immediately regrets his words as he watches the light die in your eyes. 

“Were you?”, you ask, as if you were addressing a stranger. “Really?” 

“Of course”, he frowns, slowly getting up to approach you, concerned when you start to sway. “You’re my wife and the mother of our girls, of course I care.” 

Laughter spills from your lips, an undercurrent of bitterness and contempt that’s threatening to drag you under before his very eyes. “If you really cared, you’d have noticed that your wife is broken”, you tell him between gasps, your shoulders caving in. “I tried fixing myself with a break, but you can’t even give me that.”  

He’s starting to realise that things aren’t alright at all. You flinch when he takes a step towards you, an action which stabs him clean through his heart because he’s your husband, your Tetsuro, your person. Tea, then, a neutral offering that manages to calm you down enough to take a seat, even if you’re still shaking, falling to pieces while laughing, laughing -

“Tell me what’s wrong”, he begs. “Tell me what I can do to fix you.” 

You take a sip of tea. It’s hot enough to burn you, but you don’t seem to notice. 

“I can’t do this anymore, Tetsuro.” 

“Don’t say that”, he snaps, his inner child recoiling because he can’t bear to have his girls go through what he went through, wondering if it was his fault, his very existence that caused his parents to split up. “The girls and I need you -” 

You don’t seem to hear him. 

“Princess”, he falls back on his pet name for you, rusty from lack of use. “Come back to me.” 

You’re unmoved, your eyes unseeing, deaf to his pleas. Sip after sip, you gulp down scalding tea, each action jerky, mechanical. Frozen, in an impenetrable placidness that he can’t read. You’re sitting right in front of him but you’re not really there at all.    

“Let’s talk when you’re back home”, he finally says. “Have a good break.” 

The immature little boy that still lives in his psyche is still unconvinced that it’s a bad idea to drag you back home with him posthaste, but you asked for a break, and it’s the least he can give to you.

You allow him to roll out your futon for you, to swaddle you in layers of blankets as if that would keep you from falling apart any further. As he kisses your forehead to bid you goodnight and goodbye, he feels the brittleness of your bones, the thinness of your skin beneath his palms and he spends the hour-long train ride home wondering how he managed to look away long enough for you to turn into a shadow of your past self.   

He goes straight to your mother’s house to retrieve the girls. As penance, he stands at the front door, head bowed, letting your mother yell at him in front of the neighbours for being a useless husband and an irresponsible father. After all, he deserves every word she flings in his face. He’s just thankful that she doesn’t ream him out in front of the girls. 

“Where’s mama?” Fumiko mumbles half asleep into his neck. “Want mama.”

He cradles her closer. “She’ll be home tomorrow”, he tells her, hoping with every fibre of his being that that does not turn out to be a lie. Aiko, older and wiser, just stays quiet, so he forces a smile on his face for her sake.  

Kuroo Tetsuro is far from okay.

The strain of the day wears on him and he’s sure there are burning emails in his inbox for him to firefight, but there’s a long list of chores to be done in your absence. The girls’ school bags need to be packed (in the case of five year old Fumiko) or checked (for ten year old Aiko), their uniforms to be laid out, the laundry sorted and folded. He barely gets any sleep before he has to hop out of bed to throw together a cold breakfast of milk and cereal that makes Fumiko burst into tears and Aiko’s face droops. By the time he shuffles his two cranky children out of the house and into their respective schools, he’s late for work. 

He meets Bokuto and Kenma for lunch since there’s no lunch bento waiting for him in the fridge, though he regrets the decision to leave the refuge of his work desk for the boardroom of Bouncing Ball Corporation when Mitsuki joins them and, sharp-eyed as ever, sinks her talons into him. 

“You look like shit”, she says to him as a greeting. 

“Thanks”, he grounds out. The girls demanded he work their hair into the neat braids they insisted you always do, so bedhead would have to do for him today. 

“I’ve never seen you without hair gel before”, Bokuto marvels. “You look weird.” 

“I had a crap morning, okay”, he snaps, biting the head off the karaage fish in his store bought bento, which he resents for tasting worse than those you usually make for him. “So I’m sorry if I look slightly less than presentable -” 

“You look like a man whose wife just left him - “ 

Mitsuki’s just stepped right on the wound he’s tried to keep hidden, festering and bleeding beneath his skin, so like an animal lashing out when it’s hurt, Kuroo slaps the table with both palms and snarls. 

“Don’t - don’t fucking say that, okay? She’s just taking a break. She’ll come home.”

He can’t stand to see the shock and pity on his closest friends’ faces. “She’s coming home today”, he repeats softly, almost to himself, as if he’s little Fumiko in need of reassurance that the person she needs most in the world hasn’t just abandoned her. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Perhaps it’s the maturity that comes with fatherhood, because Bokuto is the first to react. “That’s right, you’re gonna be okay”, he soothes, pulling Kuroo into his seat. “Kenma’s gonna call your boss and tell him that you’re gonna spend the rest of the afternoon here to plan some event - “

“Sponsorship for the Under-19 team, done”, Kenma snaps his phone shut.

“Guys, I’m fine - ” 

“Pretending everything’s okay isn’t going to help.” 

Kuroo deflates. “Thanks, Kenma.” 

Shelving his worthless pride to lay bare the situation he’s found himself in, that by neglecting his duties as a husband and father, he’s forced you to the brink of a mental breakdown, bad enough that you’ve left him - temporarily, he hopes. In the span of a few hours, he’s already found himself at his wit’s end, struggling to handle both the demands of the kids and his job, something that he realises he’s left you to bear, alone. 

“But I can’t figure out why she didn’t just tell me she was feeling overwhelmed”, he says, pulling at a fraying thread in his shirt. “I would’ve listened. I would’ve done better.” 

“She shouldn’t have to tell you to do your part”, Mitsuki waves away Bokuto’s desperate gesture for her not to kick a man when he’s already down. 

“But I didn’t know -” 

“Y’know, I really can’t stand men like you. You guys are amazing at work, able to anticipate your bosses’ and clients’ needs. At this point, you don’t even need to be told by your bosses  to jump, you don’t even ask your clients ‘how high’ - yet, for some reason, you manage to turn off your brain the minute you walk in through the front door at home.”

 “Maybe I should ask her for a list of things I can help her with -” 

Bokuto claps his hand over Mitsuki’s mouth. “Ehhh..you might not wanna finish your sentence or Mitsuki might really bite your head off.” 

Kuroo winces, snapping his mouth shut. 

“Maybe you can think of it in a different way”, Bokuto says. “Instead of ‘helping’ her - cos that’s just placing the mental burden on her - at least, I think that’s the term Mitsuki-chan used when she explained it to me -” the affronted lawyer nods begrudgingly, and beaming, he continues - “you gotta do your half of the work!”

“Level up”, Kenma provides, rather unhelpfully.

“Open your eyes and use your brain”, Mitsuki says bluntly, rolling her eyes, though her tone is less sharp.

“Where do I start?” Kuroo asks. 

Step one. 

He picks the girls up from his mother in law’s place, bears with the lecture that’s awaiting him, and sheepishly asks them what their mama usually feeds them for dinner and breakfast, making a mental note of it. Tonight, he’ll cheat by feeding them gyudon at Sukiya, but he drops by the supermarket to procure the ingredients he needs for tomorrow’s breakfast and a bouquet of pink roses, even though he knows it’s probably too little, too late. He counts himself lucky that Fumiko loves bathtime, only needing supervision to wash and dry her hair, and Aiko’s responsible enough to work through her homework without prompting, but he’s still exhausted by the time they both head to bed. 

His job doesn’t end there. Running through the checklist Mitsuki begrudgingly allowed Bokuto to give him, he surveys the apartment, comparing it against the mental image of how everything was before you left it. Toys scattered, to be put back in place. Dust on floor, to be vacuumed up. A heap of laundry in the basket, to be hung, dried, ironed. 

Just as he finishes all these tasks, the front door swing opens. 

“Tadaima”, you call out, voice hushed. 

He nearly trips over his feet in his haste to relieve you of your luggage, usher you into a seat by the kitchen counter. “Okaerie”, he breathes, 

“The girls?” you ask. 

He’ll buy Bokuto lunch next time. “I picked them up from your mom”, he responds. “Don’t wake them up, I just put them to bed.” 

You peek into their rooms nonetheless. “Thanks”, you say, heading next to the fridge. “By the way, I’ll pay you back for the hotel room from my own money, don’t worry.” 

That’s the last thing on his mind. Besides, his sin is being a neglectful husband, not a miser. “It’s fine, I’ll cover it”, he scratches his head, embarrassed that you’re even bringing it up. “I should’ve realised you needed a break.” 

That makes you frown, but you accept anyway. He watches you stack bread, eggs, ham, cheese, and it strikes him that you’re already worrying about the girls’ breakfast when you look as if you haven’t even had your own dinner. 

“You haven’t had dinner?” he asks. 

You reply carelessly that you’ve had a bento on the train back. You don’t even bother to look at him. 

“I’ll take the girls in the mornings from now”, he tells you. “Sleep in and take a break.” 

That gets your attention. 

“Really?”

He plasters a confident smirk on his face to reassure you that he’s got it all in hand. 

“Oh”, you’re adorable when you’re confused, but he hates that he’s given you reason to doubt him. “Wake me up if you need my help?” 

“I won’t”, he promises. 

It’s time for him to level up.  

Step two. 

He’s not going to lie to himself that he finds it difficult to do even half of what you used to do. Taking over the responsibility of wrangling the girls out of bed and into school, coming home early enough for dinner with you, that requires him to have hard conversations with his boss about not being able to go out for drinks or come in early anymore which probably hurts his chances for his next promotion, forces him to give up an hour or two of sleep, but it’s worth it if it allows you to heal. 

“Don’t expect a gold star for your efforts”, Mitsuki warned him. “It’s just what you should’ve been doing before, so it’s time for you to go above and beyond.” 

He takes her words to heart. You deserve to go to work well-rested, to wind down at night with a hot bath. He’ll buy a robot vacuum and pour over its manual that’s thicker than a textbook, do laundry loads while hopping on and off conference calls, wrestle the iron to press down his own shirts. 

You seem baffled by the sudden shift in the winds, but he just pretends everything is normal. Business as usual. Things are just as they should’ve been. 

In his next push to right his wrongs, he organises a Saturday dinner date with you. The girls are packed off with your mother, he makes the reservation, books the cab, compliments your dress. He asks you about your work (tiring), your boss (a micro-manager), the books you’ve read recently (nada, zilch). In the uphill battle to keep the conversation from being stilted, he makes a fatal mistake. 

“We can make it work if you want to quit your job and stay home full time with the children.” 

In his mind, that was a reasonable suggestion to make since you seem to hate your job and boss with a fiery passion. But you stare at him wide-eyed, your initial confusion hardening into anger. 

“Did the guys at work tell you it’s easier to have a housewife instead of a working wife? Are you saying this because you don’t think I’m a good enough mother to our girls?” 

You don’t give him a chance to backpedal, shooting a sarcastic apology for being selfish enough to refuse to be reliant on him, so he just slumps back in his chair in defeat. 

“I just want you to be happy”, he murmurs. “Forget I ever said that.” 

Step three. 

To figure out step three, he schedules an emergency lunch meeting on Monday. The troops convene in Kenma’s boardroom to listen to his sorry tale with Mitsuki in charge of the post–battle analysis. 

“And remind me again, where did you two meet?” 

His face lights up at the memory of his first meeting with you. “Finance 102”, he replies. “We used to be academic rivals turned teammates after I convinced her I was smart enough for her to work with on projects.”

“What made you fall in love with her?” 

“As much as I hate it, I have to admit she’s probably smarter than me”, he says, though the fond smile that creeps onto his face betrays the fact that he loves that about you. “She’s just - her, she’s headstrong and funny. Did I tell you how she tried to stab me with her fork when I stole food off her plate -” 

“Only a million times”, Kenma interjects. 

“She’s always been independent and ambitious, with big dreams and an even bigger heart.” 

“Well”, Mitsuki says, adopting the mildest tone she’s used on him this month. “Does that sound like a woman who’d choose to stay home and depend on her husband? Not that there’s anything wrong with being a stay-at-home parent - Koutaro makes my career possible, and I’m the luckiest woman in the world to have him as my husband.”

“Babyyyyy.” Bokuto bawls, looking at MItsuki as if she hangs the moon in the sky. 

Gross. Kenma seems to agree. “Let’s get back to Kuroo’s failing marriage”,

“So I shouldn’t bring up the suggestion that she quit her job again?” 

His three person council shake their heads in unison. “Just keep what you’re doing”, Bokuto pipes up. “Sounds like you’re already doing the right things! Just gotta keep making sure she’s not holding up the sky herself.” 

He can do that. 

“And maybe talk to her?”, Kenma offers.

That’s the suggestion that he wants to dismiss right off the bat because he’s too much of a coward to even face the possibility that you might leave him. He doesn’t want to become his dad so he resolves to keep his head down and continue pushing ahead with his efforts to prove to you that he can be the husband you deserve, so you won’t wake up one day and decide to walk out on him again. 

But his subconscious fears force his nightmares into overdrive. Dreams of packed bags and stacks of divorce papers makes him yelp loud enough for you to roll over and shake him awake. He’s a terrible husband for disturbing your sleep, but in his sleep-dazed state of confusion he just sinks back into the pillow, exhaling a sigh of relief. 

“Thank the gods you haven’t left.” 

“Why would I leave?”, you mumble, turning away again. “It’s my home, isn’t it.” 

He sits up, rubs the nightmares away from his eyes. “I was afraid you left me.” 

The silence nearly suffocates him. The sudden need to know exactly where you stand eats away at him and he crawls towards you. “Are you going to leave me”, he asks, praying to all the gods in the universe that you’ll reassure him otherwise. 

His heart breaks anew when he hears a small sob, buried in the bedclothes. “I don’t know, Tetsuro”, you finally say. “I’m tired of being alone in a marriage when it’s supposed to be us working together.” 

“I’m sorry.” There’s nothing much he can say. 

A broken whisper. “I’m tired”, you exhale. “I think I deserve better.”

“I’ll make it better”, he promises. 

He will. He will. 

Kuroo Tetsuro is trying his best. 

He takes a cooking class on the weekends to learn how to prepare bento boxes that are nutritious and easy on the wallet. He takes over the ferrying of Fumiko to her swimming lessons, work on Aiko’s art projects with her. He hires a part time cleaner to pick up the deep cleaning, so you and he have time to take the girls out on weekend outings instead of spending all day on a week’s worth of cumulated chores. A dishwasher appears in the house. He makes it a game for he and the girls to load and unload dishware each night. 

“There’s a networking wine night for finance next Wednesday”, he tells you casually. “I’ll make sure to be home so you can go, if you want.” 

You goggle at him. 

“Go schmooze so the world knows you’re as amazing as I know you are.” 

You trust him enough to leave the girls behind in his care and go. He counts that as a win. 

Some nights he still can’t get home in time for dinner, but he always makes sure he’s home in time for a bedtime story and a goodnight kiss. Aiko avers that at the grand old age of ten, she doesn’t need her papa to tuck her to bed anymore, but she sidles into Fumiko’s room everynight and sits in the corner of her little sister’s bed as the littler girl listens to his tall tales. 

“I met a princess when I was eighteen”, he says with a grin when he notices you listening in. “Instead of a crown, she armed herself with a fork, ready to cut down anyone who’d cross her.” 

His heart skips a beat when he hears your voice from the doorway. “Don’t be dramatic”, you interrupt, a small smile growing on your face. “You were trying to steal my food and didn’t stop ‘til I stabbed you.” 

Fumiko huffs, unhappy that her story’s being interrupted, but he can’t seem to tear his gaze away from you. “You left it on the table, princess. I consider that fair game.” 

“Let ‘to-san tell the story, ka’san.” Aiko grumbles. 

He savours your laughter. It tastes better than the finest wine. 

“I can’t believe I have to fly all the way to Italy just to meet Kageyama-kun”, he huffs. “At least Hinata is meeting us there, I’ll revolt if I had to go up to Brazil as well.” 

“You know it can’t be helped”, you reply. “The promotional activities planned need your presence, and it’s only for a week.” 

“Will you be okay when I’m gone?” 

His fears melt away when you hand him his suitcase, a flask of his favourite tea. “I’ve always managed fine. Nothing’s changed.” 

His little monsters, realising that he’s about to leave, decide to launch a synchronised attack on him. Aiko throws herself at him in a bear hug. Fumiko yanks at his sleeve demanding a thousand kisses. 

“Yes, well. I’ll be home soon. Please wait for me” he says to you when the girls finally release him. The expression on your face is unreadable, but you don’t pull away when he takes the liberty of taking your hand in his. 

He feels your heartbeat accelerates. You glance up at him, almost shy. “I’ll see you soon.” 

He’s so tempted to call his boss and pretend that he’s too ill to get on that damned flight, but he’s pretty sure that would get him fired. Instead, he calls you and the girls every day, and brings home a luggage full of presents for all of you. 

When he’s home, he celebrates by putting on the frilliest pink apron he’s ever seen (courtesy of Yaku, who sent it to him all the way from Moscow as a joke) and throwing an elaborate takoyaki party, replete with customised toppings - octopus, cheese and shrimp, which the girls enjoyed even if he burnt the first batch and had to call Fukunaga frantically for tips to rescue the rest. It turns out to be such a success that he makes it a weekly event. Okonomiyaki is next, which he flips with expert confidence on a hot plate to the applause of you and the girls. 

“Itadakimasu”, you clap your hands together. “It tastes good.” 

He nearly melts into his pan. “Thank you”, he replies. “It means a lot, coming from you.” 

His nights are still plagued by nightmares.

Things are better with you, he likes to think. The violets beneath your eyes are replaced by roses in your cheeks. He hears you humming about the house again. You pick up reading again,  the shelves in the house start to groan under the weight of books belonging to the girls and you. You’re as eager as the girls to go on the next adventure, whether it be a summer night out in the park with sparklers, or a nerf gun battle at home on rainy days. 

Still, he doesn’t know for sure what he’s doing is enough for you and he’s too much of a coward to check. So he’ll wake up almost every night, fumble in the dark just to make sure you’re there. 

You’re there, until you aren’t. 

It’s three in the morning. The space beside him is cold and empty. 

He throws off the blankets, trips on his bed slippers. He crashes through into the living room and oh, there you are - sitting at the dining table, typing furiously at your laptop while mouthing off to yourself about the ridiculous demands your client makes. 

“What’s wrong?” you frown. 

He walks towards you, trying to discern that you’re real, you’re there, not some trick of the light.. 

“You’re - you’re still here.” 

You nod slowly, eyeing him strangely. “My boss called and asked me to send out an urgent email. I was just about to go back to bed.” 

He exhales, tries to force his trembling heart back into his chest. He thinks he’s doing a good job trying to act nonchalant, smoothing back his frazzled mane of hair, but you see right through him as you always do. 

“Tetsuro”, you say slowly. “Is everything alright? 

The truth tumbles out of his mouth. “I thought you were gone.” 

Then he hangs his head, looks at his feet, afraid that he’ll only see rejection in your eyes. He’s a pathetic failure of a husband who has a decade’s worth of sins to make up for, and there’s no justification for him to selfishly to seek your absolution. 

It comes anyway, in the form of soft hands pulling him forward. 

“I’m here”, you say, pulling him into your embrace, letting him rest his heavy head in your lap.

He doesn’t allow himself to sink into your warmth. “Are you happier now? Are things better for you?” 

“Yes”, he hears you say. The tension he’s been carrying around these few months lifts. “Thank you, Tetsuro. I appreciate it. I really do. You don’t have to work yourself to death - that’s never what I was asking for. If you’re tired -”

He shakes his head at your suggestion. He’s got a long way yet before he earns any reprieve. 

“Tetsuro -” 

He sits up abruptly, takes your hands in his. 

“Promise you won’t leave me”, he pleads. “I know you’ve had to carry what must’ve felt like the weight of the entire world on your own, and I don’t have any excuse for that.”

“You don’t”, you agree. 

He accepts the blow but he takes comfort that you don’t pull away. “I know that now. I know now how fucking hard it was to do it all alone.”

“It was hard. It was so, so hard, Tetsuro. I became numb to the pain. I don’t think I was functioning, I haven’t been for a while. For a long, long while.” 

“I’m sorry”, his voice cracks. 

“I know.”  You cup his face in your hands, offers him comfort he doesn’t deserve. “That’s a chapter of our marriage that’s past, that can’t be unwritten. But the past few months have been different. You’ve shown me that you’ve changed.” 

The first glimmer of sunlight after a long, dark winter. Hope blooms with your smile. 

“I think”, you say. “I think we can make this work again.” 

He stares at you, dumbstruck. Then the fact that you’re giving him another chance dawns upon him, and he crashes forward to rest his head on your shoulder, unashamed to cry tears of relief. 

“Thank you”, he exhales brokenly. “I won’t fuck this up again, I promise.”

You press a kiss to his forehead, curl up trustingly in his arms. “Don’t thank me”, you laugh. “Thank yourself for making me believe in you.” 

 He drinks up each drop of your affection, falls asleep in the cradle of your arms. 

“Is this what flirting is like?” 

He wakes up to Aiko’s impertinent question, her hands on hips looking distinctly unimpressed at finding her parents asleep on the sofa, entwined together. 

“Who taught you that word?” Kuroo asks, aghast that his ten year old daughter even recognises the existence of the opposite gender. 

Aiko sticks her tongue at him, and he’s too distracted by Fumiko taking a flying leap onto the sofa with them, chattering a thousand miles an hour about what’s for breakfast and whether they can go to the zoo this afternoon - though he pins his suspicions on Bokuto’s trio of sons. 

“Monsters”, he says. “Can’t even give your to-san a break to snuggle up to your pretty ka’san.” 

The girls shriek in dismay - Aiko, at being a witness to further gross displays of affection between her parents, Fumiko, at being called a monster despite being a self-proclaimed princess. You prod at the soft flesh between his ribs. 

“Don’t be mean”, you admonish him. 

He sniffs, taking the chance to draw you closer. “I’m cranky in the mornings unless I get a morning kiss.” 

You snort, swatting at him. “You make it sound as if kisses contain caffeine.” 

The girls giggle, but he protests. 

“Full of nonsense”, you tease, but you kiss him, again and again and again. 

Things settle into a steady, sustainable pace. 

You refuse to allow him to bear the weight of the household on his back alone. There are frank conversations to be had about what each of you can realistically handle without burning out. He leads the charge in the mornings, whipping up breakfast with the aid of his two sous chefs, building an expertise in braiding and french twists that could possibly allow him to moonlight as a hairstylist. You, on the other hand, take charge of evening pick-ups, cooking dinners, supervising homework and art projects until he comes home and tags you out. 

Chores are evenly split. He doesn’t allow you to assume the mental load of organising the household by yourself. “We both have a degree in business management”, he likes to remind you, because he now knows that remembering to run errands, scheduling appointments - all of this is work too. 

You force him to take breaks. If you get to relax with your friends, so should he. “If you get too stressed, you’ll lose your hair and we can’t have that.” He yelps when he imagines himself bald and obediently complies when you call Kenma up, talk him into getting him and Bokuto and Akaashi (when he’s feeling less morose about his singlehood) to go for a round of pick up volleyball. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself”, you note wryly when he returns home crowing about how he stuffed an Olympic player with a kill block. 

“I did”, he replies, catching your hips to pull you in, cheekily ignoring your complaints that he’s sweaty. “But I enjoy coming home to you even more.”

“Gross”, you grumble, but you seem content to remain in his arms. 

It’s another small moment he treasures. Life, he learns, is made of moments, both big and small. He’d made the mistake of only focusing on the big ones - graduation, playing at nationals, the day he was lucky enough to marry you, each of his daughter’s birthdays. Now, though, he cherishes each moment, each second he has with you and the girls, no matter how little, no matter how small. 

He likes to come into the bathroom each night, leaning his elbow on the edge of the bathtub as you chat to him about your day, luxuriating in the bath he drew for you. You and he take turns to complain about life’s inconveniences as you clear emails once the girls have gone off to bed- colleagues who shirk their work, bosses who nitpick overmuch, washing everything down with steaming cups of herbal tea. 

“Are you happy?”, he asks you, night after night. 

“Mm”, you say with an impish grin. “I’d be happier if you let me put my toes on your calves.” 

“They’re freezing”, he groans but scoots over anyway. “Better?” 

“Much better”, you hum, content. “Life is good.”

He’s not remiss in planning the big moments too. 

A year passes quickly to your wedding anniversary. He packs your suitcase, books the train tickets and whisks you back to the ryokan in Hakone, though this time he upgrades you both to their largest suite. “I feel like a princess!” you exclaim, twirling about the room. 

Your happiness is worth every yen he spent. 

You spend the day strolling down avenues lined with cherry blossoms, Mount Fuji looming in the backdrop, the evening exchanging heated kisses in the private onsen he booked. You’re older now, with laughter lines creased into your forehead, grey streaks in your hair, but you’re still the same girl he fell in love with all those years ago. 

“And you couldn’t wait ‘til we got back to our room?” you smack him. 

He also loves how there’s fire burning bright in your eyes, the way it always used to. “You kissed me first!” 

“You kissed me second!” 

“I don’t hear you complaining”, he cackles. 

You try to shush him, to no avail, as he draws the attention of everyone around him.

“What a happy couple”, an obaa-san remarks out loud. “They must be newlyweds.”  

Well, she’s not wrong. You’re as radiant as you were fifteen years ago, his spring bride, but he’s an old man doddering on, hopefully with his edges sanded off with time. “Just your regular old, married couple”, he chortles when you’re safely back in the room. 

“A happily married couple”, you reply, serenely sipping your tea. “That obaa-san definitely got that part right.” 

There’s a lump in his throat that he can’t swallow. “Are you happy?” he manages to ask anyway. 

“With you?” Your smile is warm, bright. Always.”

Both of you are doing alright.

a/n: it's been a while, hasn't it. i've been alright - how are you guys doing?

[dyeher]

“Gentlemen,” Mikey says.

His voice doesn’t rise above its regular volume but the single word is enough to quiet the room of executives settled around the conference table.

He's standing at one end, a hand in the pocket of his slacks, the other tapping a random rhythm into the mahogany surface of the table as he regards his...what did you say these men were to him?

They're your friends Mikey.

His friends. Right.

He eyes Ran Haitani who balances on the back legs of the chair he's sitting on precariously. His loafer-clad feet crossed at the ankles on the table. Next to him, his brother sighs deeply, his thumb and forefinger massaging circles into the bridge of his nose.

Opposite them, Kokonoi and Kakucho appear deceptively calm. Kokonoi is chewing diligently on a piece of gum. His attempt at quitting cigarettes. Kakucho has one arm slung along the back of Koko's chair, his legs spread as he slouches in his chair. His eyes are closed, his head tipped back against the headrest. If Mikey didn't know better he'd think Kakucho was recovering from a night out drinking.

Of course, the truth is much wilder than Kakucho spending a night on the town.

Takeomi is absent. Naturally. Sanzu is sprawled in his own chair at the other end of the table. His guns are on the table as he shines his katana.

Mikey considers everything he's been through with the men in this room.

If you can let me in, then you can let them in.

He shudders as your words wash through him. You're like his fucking conscience. It's simultaneously the most unnerving and wonderful experience he's ever had. A voice of reason that isn't being paid in his blood money. He glances at Kakucho again quickly.

If you think these men have stuck around because you're paying them then you're dumber than I thought, Mikey.

Sanzu gently places his katana on the table and shakes out the little cloth he was using to shine it. He gives Mikey his full attention. the action seems to stir the others who also turn to him. Kakucho lifts a single brow at him in question.

And the action sets of something akin to...gratitude in Mikey. It's a wildly unfamiliar sensation and he has to quell the urge to rub his chest.

They would die for you, Mikey.

Yes, they would. He catches a glimpse of a cut running along Rindou Haitani's chest as the man shifts in his chair. The skin is shiny and puckered from healing and a pang goes off in his chest that almost knocks him on his ass.

These men would die for him.

A sudden clarity comes over him and he has to blink several times to reorient himself. It feels almost like someone has ripped whatever ill-fitting glasses he was wearing before off and he can see clearly now. Jesus Christ, these men would die for him.

He sinks heavily into his own chair. The weight of his previous oversight anchors him to the cushion.

"I have news," he blurts.

The words suck the air out of the room. Silence ensues for a handful of seconds and then...

"Oh my God, you knocked her up!"

Rindou reaches Ran before Mikey can react to his exclaimed words and slaps his brother in the back of the head.

"I-" Mikey starts, blinking in confusion. What?

"Jesus Christ Ran, so what if he has?" Rindou interrupts, glaring at his brother.

"I di-" Mikey tries again, his brows furrowed.

"That actually...that makes sense," Kokonoi says slowly, nodding. "I saw her eat half a cake by herself the other night."

Kakcuho is gaping at Mikey. But there's a twinkle in his eye that makes Mikey nervous.

"Wait a min-"

"I thought you'd never notice," Sanzu laughs from the other end of the table and Mikey's skin chills.

What?

"What?" He zones out. Something in his voice must get the others attention because the room goes quiet.

"That's not...the news?" Ran squints at him, his chair making a thudding sound as he settles onto all four legs.

Mikey swallows around a ball of spit that seems to be stuck in the back of his throat. Pregnant.

No- she can't be- she- but- but the crying...and the sensitive breasts. the cravings.

"I was going to say I'm getting married," he says, hollowly.

"Oh shit," Sanzu breathes.

"Fuck, Mikey."

"I thought it was obvi-" Kokonoi shrugs.

"She agreed to marry you?" Ran interjects. "Without-" he pauses to glance around the room quickly and then lowers his voice as he finishes his question "-putting up a fight?"

That gets the rooms attention.

"What the fuck kinda question is that?" Kakucho frowns. "She's in love with him."

That seems to throw Ran for a loop. His eyes narrow on Mikey who's still stupified by the realization that he might become a father and husband in the same breath.

"Maybe there is hope for me," Ran says.

Sanzu snaps at him. "Are you implying Mikey doesn't deserve her?"

Ran splutters. "What? No- Why the fuck would I-"

"Just be quiet," Rindou sighs.

"You really think she's pregnant?" Mikey asks, interrupting their squabble.

"Yes," Koko nods.

"Absolutely,” Rindou agrees.

"Half a fucking cake Mikey...in a single sitting."

Mikey blanches. “She’s pregnant.”

Koko chuckles.

“She’s fucking pregnant,” he repeats. There’s a note of distress in his tone. “With a baby. A child!?”

Kakucho gives him a knowing look. “Congratulations, Manjiro.”

Sanzu, who has been uncharacteristically quiet stands. “This means she can’t say no to a protection detail anymore.”

Mikey’s brain stutters. Protection. Because shes pregnant with your child and about to become your wife. She’s singlehandedly the most important person to Bonten. And to him.

“Oh fuck.”

Rindou shakes his head. “We need to start personally vetting Bonten members now.”

“Why did it take a child and a marriage to convince you of that and not the two times we’ve been double crossed?” Kakucho questions.

“Do you want to deal with a Mikey whose wife and child are hurt or murdered?”

The room falls quiet as all eyes fall to Kokonoi. A heavy tension settles on Mikey’s shoulders. He’s having a child. Maybe. And getting married. Definitely.

And he runs one of the most dangerous organizations in the world. With over a hundred thousand employees worldwide. And stakes in every major and even some minor pies, in every industry.

He’s not sure of much except his own success and frankly, inhuman work ethic. But as the realization that his life is changing. Developing into something better, something more. He’s sure that if anything ever happens to you or his unborn child…he would unravel.

“Can we circle back to her wanting to marry him?” Ran asks, breaking the tension. “Without being coerced?”

[thisblogisaboutabook]

Rainy Season - Part 7

Final Chapter and Epilogue

Everybody’s Got Somebody but Me

Azriel Eris x Reader

Azriel pleads his case to his mate before the Inner Circle, an unexpected interruption sheds additional light on the situation, Y/N makes a decision.

Part 5 Part 6

Warnings: Language

The room thrummed with erratic energy as everyone awaited the arrival of the Shadowsinger. Eris watched intently as Y/N kept a collected facade before the present group, but behind her eyes a tumultuous storm raged. She hadn’t seen her mate since she’d left - since he’d betrayed her - and maybe she was a coward for facing him before an audience of his loved ones but she was done tip-toeing the line, done praying that the words falling from her mate’s lips were truth when he’d done nothing but spin ugly lies from that beautiful mouth. She wanted the real story, the whole story, and Truth Teller itself couldn’t extract it better than the audience before them.

Her gut-wrenched with his nearing presence, the doors would open any moment as guards would bring him in, before her, before his family, before Eris and her sister.

The only missing parties in the space were Amren who had stayed behind in Velaris to keep a presence in place and Nesta who had other matters to attend to. Mor’s attendance was welcome but not required, given the obvious histories between she and Eris - her mate.

Eris kept an amused facade beneath his own surface, though he was anything but. Y/N looked resplendent seated at the lone chair at the head of his table. Seated to her right, he kept a respectful distance, fighting the overwhelming urge to reach out and warm her shaking hand under the table.

And Eris couldn’t be certain by the flat expression on his face, but he could have sworn the slightest gleam of amusement glimmered in Lucien’s eye as the mechanical one focused in on a clearly unimpressed Camila who was unabashedly taking stock of the middle Archeron sister at his side.

The door unlatched, all traces of civility falling from Rhys’ face as Azriel stepped into the now darkened room.

Azriel looked terrible, the purple bruises and dark circles under his eyes draining the remaining life from his sallowed skin, eyes red and puffy.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat, burying down the instinct doing its damndest to get her to run to her dejected mate.

Azriel looked straight past every single person at the table, not even sparing a glance to the seething High Lord staring daggers in his direction. His hazel eyes blew wide as they honed in on his mate. His perfect fucking mate. He truly had drained so much from her, hadn’t he? Never once stopping to notice the signs.

Now, before him was a divine female - full in all the places he’d once gripped so fervently, her complexion radiant, hair lustrous, lips so delectable he wanted to bite them. There was no broken female here, this was a female who has been living a life of love and joy. The only thing missing was her bright smile, now absent in his presence.

Another thing he’d taken from her.

“Y/N”, Azriel mouthed, no sound coming out as the guards kept the cuffed hands he tried to outstretch in her direction restrained.

Her pointed silence and the clunk of the guards boots filled the room as Azriel was lead toward his space between Cassian and Rhys at the table. Y/N now noting the correlation between the bruises on Azriel’s face and a few scattered on Cassian’s.

Rhys’ voice entered her mind. “Azriel started a fight with Cassian that led to us finding out about he and Elain. When Cassian realized, he went feral on him. It’s been centuries since I’ve seen those two fight like that. By the time Cassian was done with him, I couldn’t in good conscience lay a hand on him.”

“They shouldn’t have fought over this. But I bet you not laying a hand on him though he knew you wanted to hurt his ego more than any punches would have.”

Feyre joined in the mental conversation, adding “He’s just lucky Nesta wasn’t there when they found out.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow, assuming that Nesta would have remained neutral in the ordeal. Not out of cruelty, but given her love and protective tendencies toward Elain as well as her friendship with Azriel and their Valkyrie training.

Azriel looked to his mate, once again wordlessly mouthing. “Y/N, please.” Finally taking in the crowd before him, he paled further.

“Cat got your tongue, Shadowsinger?” Eris mused. Fury lined Azriel’s features at the smug tone. Rhys only let out a bitter chuckle though he found nothing funny about the predicament they’d found themselves in, his violet gaze narrowed in on his brother. “You found a work around with our bargain by finding your mate outside of the Summer Court, but couldn’t find a work around on the matter of being barred from communicating with her? Just how did you expect this whole plan to work out?” He didn’t wait for a response to the question as he waved to the bargain tattoo. “I rescind the bargain tattoo, you may speak to her for as long as she’ll allow it.”

Azriel paid no mind to Rhys, his chest heaved as he frantically spouted out, “Can we speak in private, my love? Just you and me.”

Eris bristled internally at the pet name but Y/N didn’t falter as she replied “You lost the right to call me that the moment you took another female to bed.”

Elain fidgeted in her seat, eyes downcast. Camila bouncing her murderous gaze back and forth between she and Azriel.

To his credit, Azriel took the blow. This was a bed of his own making and he knew it, they all knew it. There was no sense in trying to deny it.

His mate’s head remained held high as she continued, “By the grace of the High Lord of the Autumn Court, the consequences of your attempted infiltration of this keep have been resigned to your own High Lord.“

Shame flooded Azriel’s face but he let her continue.

“As for me? All I ever wanted was your love and commitment. I gave so many chances and when it finally seemed like you might get it - you’d squandered that opportunity as well. I am before you right now because I want to know why. And because you have not given me a reason to trust you, I have brought this council of individuals who have somehow found themselves so intertwined with our relationship when it should have only been you and me.”

Azriel spat the bitter words before he could stop them from leaving his mouth. “If Eris is not issuing consequence, there is no need for him to be here.”

Despite his exceptional ability to bait, Eris remained silent. A show of respect to the female at the head of his table.

“I was a guest in his keep when you decided to make our separation everybody’s problem and breached the wards.”

Azriel, damn him, couldn’t stop the next hateful words either. “I hardly call emissary business the equivalent of being a guest.”

Eris forwent anger over the blatant disrespect already rolling off of Azriel’s tongue when she didn’t owe him a second of her time, he knew this force of a female by his side well enough by now - biting the inside of his lip to hold back the involuntary smirk creeping its way up to the corners of his mouth as he sensed the words before she spoke them.

“You’re right, Azriel. But I am not here on emissary business, I am here as a personal guest of Eris, who has found himself intertwined in this relationship.” She then looked to her sister “Along with Camila, as they BOTH found themselves putting in considerable time and effort helping piece back together the parts of me that I couldn’t quite place myself. Do you have further question on the members in attendance today that you’d like for me to elaborate on?”

Camila, seated to the other side of Y/N, gave her sister a reassuring squeeze of the hand under the table. Silence once again filling the room, Azriel’s shadows in conjunction with Rhys’ raging darkness rendered him barely visible.

Perhaps her words to her mate were harsh but they were far kinder than the venomous “I’m here on the business of fucking the brains out of the Autumn Court High Lord who, by the way, is just as well endowed and far more bendy than you.” that she wanted to spit back at him.

As if Eris read her thoughts, he loosened the reign on that wicked smirk he’d held back.

“Now that the matter of why we’re all here is settled,” Y/N continued, “I will hear you out, Azriel. If at any point I do not wish to continue this discussion, you will leave immediately. Do you understand?”

Her stoic mate, the revered Spymaster, simpered at the words, giving a slight nod. “Yes.” Eris thought to himself in that moment, heart filled with pride, “She would make a fine High Lady.”

“Great. We have a bargain.” Her fist clenching as the tattoo formed on the back of her neck. “Please proceed.”

Azriel stood, looking to his mate. Crestfallen he began. He held himself in submission to his mate but with enough confidence for her to see that he was sincere in whatever he was about to say.

“Y/N. I love you. I have loved you since before the bond ever snapped. You are - You’re everything. Fuck, I know that what I did was terrible but, it’s not what it seems. You were so good, too good, I didn’t deserve you. I never have. You are everything good and I do nothing but bring pain and hurt to others, and now I’ve done the same to you. Words can never express how sorry I am but… I can at least share what happened.”

He looked to her, praying she’d speak, give any encouragement. Her bright eyes only stared through him, straight into the tattered soul he’d tried so hard to conceal from her.

The table remained silent. Camila biting back a scoff and Elain fidgeting with her dress.

Realizing she wouldn’t speak until he’d told her everything he continued.

He began speaking of how insignificant he’d felt in comparison to her. How he’d buried himself in work, in training with the Valkyries, helping Elain recover. He then pleaded to her, giving recollection of how he’d stopped feeling her through the bond. Giving account for everything leading up to the night he’d slept with Elain.

He recounted how he’d just wanted to get through the night, how he’d chosen to go to dinner instead of staying in, drowning himself in alcohol in an effort to get through the night, how he’d planned to tell Elain that he could no longer spend so much time with her.

It was then that he turned a violent glare to Cassian. “Tell her. Tell her, Cassian.”

Cassian let out a sigh. “Y/N, I am so sorry for the mistake I made. Nes and I, we’d stopped into a new apothecary along the Sidra and found a unique new aphrodisiac. We’d done a parting shot with Azriel and Elain after everyone else had gone out and I -“ his cheeks flushed with embarrassment, “I accidentally gave the shots we’d mixed the powder into to Elain and Azriel instead of Nes and I. I had no clue until yesterday, we just assumed it was a faulty batch.”

Azriel’s shadows swirled with rage as he picked up where he’d left off. “I went to find Elain afterward, to break things off but the aphrodisiac hit so hard, so fast, and I was so terribly intoxicated. One moment I was trying to speak, the next she was kissing me.” He shook, choking on the next words. “The next morning, I knew I could either tell you, inflicting more pain upon you, or I could carry the pain myself and make sure it never happened again.”

Lucien gritted his teeth at the admission. He’d known they slept together, she’d come straight to him afterward. Choosing to make his best effort to do right by his mate, telling himself that what had happened evened out the playing field between them. Of course it hurt, and hell, he was livid. He found himself fond of the Shadowsinger’s mate, forming a comfortable acquaintanceship with her the few times they’d attended the same events with the Inner Circle. She deserved so much more than a mate that cheated on her.

But Elain was his mate, he needed to at least try with her now that she’d finally shown up. He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat and had spent the past six months spending what time she deigned to give him with her. He’d hoped at the very least it would keep Azriel away from Elain and with his own mate. He’d felt awful when he heard she’d left.

He was drawn from his thoughts by Azriel’s next words and the corresponding pained gasp from Elain, and the thrumming power of Feyre as she seethed from both embarrassment of the ordeal and the careless words about her sister. “Y/N, Elain means nothing to me. She was a mistake. I don’t care about her beyond the fact that she’s my High Lady’s sister, I don’t love her - I only love you. I only want you. She is nothing.”

Elain clutched her chest, eyes welling with tears as she let out a whisper that may as well have been a damning scream. “But - you’re my mate.”

Time stood still as everyone turned to her in shock. Everyone, except for Rhys whose raging power dimmed momentarily, heads turned from Elain toward him as he let out an incredulous laugh. “You idiot.” Feyre turned toward him. He’d pay for that comment later, though only mildly as she was inclined to think the same of her sister. “That aphrodisiac that you were given, it is designed to imitate the mating frenzy. He’s not your mate, you were just horny.”

Elain turned ghostly, sinking in her chair at the revelation. Y/N felt sympathy for Lucien as she noted his gritted teeth. Apparently whatever she’d told Lucien, she’d left out the important detail that she thought she had another mate.

Camila’s body shook, fighting back laughter, and failing. Her laughter filled the space. “Oh my gods!” She wiped a tear from her eye. “I don’t mean to… but this, this is too good.” Her laughter only increased. “How humiliating!”

Even Y/N bit back a smile. Camila never was good at hiding her emotions, laughing in the most unstable of circumstances. And she couldn’t stop. Finally she placed her palms on the table pushing herself up. “I’m so sorry. I’ll excuse myself.” Lucien was next to stand, Elain tightly grasping his wrist. “Lucien” she whispered.

It was Lucien’s turn to let out a small laugh. “I suddenly find that I am not at all intertwined with this mess. Enjoy your mate!” He mused, a saccharine smile forming on his face as he pulled his arm away, catching up to Camila. His footsteps and the distant sound of “My lady” as he extended an arm to her, which she gladly accepted.

Elain stood eyes darting between Azriel and the door. Taking far too long to come to the decision to chase after her actual mate. Her foot moved out, pivoting her toward the doors when Rhysand commanded, “Oh no, you will stay here and finish this discussion.” She gasped looking to Feyre who only gave a solemn nod of solidarity with her mate.

Elain fell back into her seat, crossing her arms across her chest, glaring daggers at Azriel.

As the room once again settled, aside from the roaring heartbeats at the table, Y/N spoke impassively, “If there’s anything else you wish to say, now would be the time, Azriel.”

He stared wide eyed, clearly still blown away by the bullshit with Elain.

“Y/N, I am so sorry. I know that what I did was wrong. I never meant for any of this to happen. I never would have slept with her had it not been for the aphrodisiac. I never meant to hurt you. I have so much darkness within me to reckon with, so much that I’m terrified to bring up, so much I never wanted you to see. I need you to understand that. You were never the problem. It was me. It was always me. I can tell you how sorry I am, I can tell you how much I love you, but it won’t matter unless I can show you. Please give me that opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

Y/N sat still. Processing all of the details Azriel had given her. She felt his desperation barreling through the bond. Her hands again began shaking under the table without her sister there to steady them. Discreetly, Eris reached his hand to Y/N, the quivering receding at his warm touch.

Azriel’s shadows rose to whisper in his ear, his eyes instantly honing in on where their hands were joined, as if he could see right through the table.

And Y/N didn’t know if it was by a stroke of luck or the absolute lack of it but at that moment, the doors flung open and Nesta. Fucking. Archeron. stormed in.

“You.” She pointed to Azriel. One word. One action. So much damnation behind it.

Rhys’ darkness flared in the presence of his wild card sister-in-law. Cassian merely raised an eyebrow, the slightest upward curve tilting his lips as he took in his mate who could command a room full of power.

She looked over both High Lord’s at the table with an unimpressed sneer before turning that deadly, piercing gaze toward Azriel.

Azriel’s eyes widened in surprise at the Valkyrie striding toward him. “What. The. Fuck. Is. This?”

His brows knit and she opened her fist, grasping a chain with two of her fingers to display a dangling necklace.

Azriel’s face paled.

“You know, the strangest thing happened this afternoon. I was talking to my friend, Gwyn. We got to talking about flowers and Elain’s garden. Gwyn began speaking of how she loves roses, clutching at a lovely little pendant around her neck.”

“And I thought to myself, something about this necklace seems so familiar.”

“And then I recalled a solstice not too long ago where my sister came crying to me over a male who had given her a lovely necklace of the same description. How they’d pined for each other, never going further than a brush of the hands. Until the night they almost kissed, the scent of his arousal heavy in the air between them, then pulling back from her and stating ‘this is a mistake’ and leaving.

At the point Rhysand turned to his brother. “You’re fucking joking, Azriel.”

Y/N looked to them beginning to anticipate where this was going.

“When asked who gifted it to her, she stated that Clotho told her it was left for her from an anonymous admirer. So, I went to my friend Clotho, who keeps to her word very well. She’d sworn to the source she wouldn’t tell. But you know, the House of Wind is a sentient entity. Persistently tugging me toward Rhys’ belongings that remain scattered around the house.”

Nesta turned her glare from Azriel to Rhysand. “So, Rhysand, something tells me you know about this.”

Rhys lowered his head with shame hesitating as he searched for the right words.

“Y/N…. I’m so sorry. A couple of years ago, on Solstice, I caught Azriel placing a necklace on Elain.” He looked to Elain and then back at Azriel again. “I monitored the situation, hoping I was wrong, but as their lips were moments away from touching, I used my daemati abilities and summoned Azriel to my study. I truly thought whatever happened was over between them as the tension between the two seemingly faded in my presence. Until yesterday, when we found out about he and Elain sleeping together.”

Cassian glared to his brother with rage, “You gave a necklace meant for Elain to Gwyn?”

“She wasn’t supposed to know.”

Before he could dig the hole further, Elain whispered, those doe eyes peering at Azriel through her lashes, “So, you didn’t really think it was a mistake?”

Feyre broke her silence letting out an audible groan of exasperation. And Azriel broke his own silence,

“It WAS a mistake, Elain. All of it. Rhys tried to stop it. I should have listened. You were a mistake.”

Elain gasped, tears lining her eyes. And if looks could have killed, the glare Nesta gave Azriel would have ended him on the spot. But it was Elain who made the mistake of reading her sister’s rage toward Azriel as sympathy toward herself, leaning into her sister, turning her head into her side to catch her dramatized tears.

“No, Elain. I am so disappointed in you. You were completely wrecked when Graysen left you and you were only engaged. Imagine the pain Y/N felt losing her MATE.”

Eris who had been taking in the cluster fuck surrounding them mused, looking toward the door Lucien had earlier exited, “Oh, I don’t think she’ll have to imagine much.” Earning a laugh disguised as a cough from Cassian, another sigh from Feyre, and a scowl from Nesta as she chose to ignore the barb - looking again to Azriel, “You have a lot of amends to make.”

She looked to Elain, “You do too.”

With that she grabbed Elain by the arm and drug her out of the room. With a wave over her arm and a shout of, “You deserve so much better than what you’ve been through, Y/N!”

Y/N took a breath as the room regained its composure, the tension again thickening. “Is there anything else, or are you done making excuses, Azriel?”

“They’re not excuses. Y/N. I love you. I was wrong. It’s always been you.”

“I’m tired.” She spoke softly. And it was the truth.

“I spent so much time waiting for you. Praying that one day it would all become ‘right’ again. I dreamed that you���d come walking through the door, and remind me what it was like to feel your love. My Azriel, my mate, all I wanted was you.

But, this, Azriel. You are not the male I fell in love with. And I think… I think the most heartbreaking part of that is that what I loved most was those dark depths of your soul that you tried so hard to hide. You were never a monster, you were always worth loving. You wouldn’t have broken me. Shutting me out is what broke me. And I told you that, so many times, in so many ways. But you never listened.

And the reason you couldn’t feel me through the bond? The further you pulled away, the more I closed it off from my end. I hoped that it would give you time to work through whatever it was you were facing and refused to share despite my pleas. Until I eventually grew so numb that I just shut it down completely. A courtesy you never once extended to me during my time away. Do you know how hard it was to recover after I left? I felt your guilt and rage barreling through me at all hours.

And you fucking Elain? Nobody but you and Elain are responsible for your actions. Cassian is not your excuse. You chose to go that night, you chose to drink all evening, you chose to wait until that night to tell her you wouldn’t be spending time with her like you had been. You had the entire week away and chose to wait until the last minute.

The affair started long before then. I think we can agree that despite your cold treatment of her before me today, that you two were engaged in an emotional affair long before you ever went to bed with her.”

She reached into her pocket pulling out a piece of parchment.

“And then, you attempted to court Gwyn in my absence - which, fair, because I’m the one who left. She really is a lovely female. Although, I hear it didn’t quite work in your favor.”

Azriel’s eyes grew wide in panic. “The necklace didn’t-“

She laughed. “I’ll save you time and effort of your excuses, Azriel. Gwyn may not have known the necklace was from you but she did extend the courtesy of writing to me and I was rather surprised by the details of the demise of our relationship that didn’t quite line up - specifically the cheating aspect.”

She placed her hands on the table, looking her mate directly in the eyes. “I made my decision long before your attempt to break into this Keep, before the truths were unveiled today. I appreciate everyone for coming but I have heard enough. I ask that you leave now, Azriel.”

Tears filled his eyes. “Wait! Please, Y/N.” His brothers began to pull him away but Azriel fell to his knees.

“Please, baby.” He begged. “Just come home.”

She stared at the pleading male before her. A pang of sympathy for her broken mate ran through her. She wasn’t cruel and sympathy was not a weakness. This was her choice to make and nobody would blame her if she went back to her mate.

“Come home, please.”

Holding her head high, she stepped around her chair.

Eris sat expressionless, carefully avoiding any inclination of the devastation he’d feel if she chose to leave. He would support her either way.

Azriel remained focused on her every movement, his erratic breathing the only sound cutting through the tension of the room.

She took a step, and one more, before halting. Gently taking the hand of the red-headed male beside her whose eyes lined with silver as he looked up to her.

“I am home.”

EPILOGUE

The time he showed up:

Lucien suffered when his bond with Elain was severed. She did not agree to breaking the bond which left slim to no opportunity to move forward with the breaking of it. After months of intense research, Helion was able to find a tricky workaround that did not require both parties to be present. It was incredibly painful due to the negative effects being concentrated to one individual instead of split between two but fortunately not lethal.

Eris never pushed me to sever my bond with Azriel but as time went on it felt important to put that part of my life behind me. I’d extended the courtesy of writing to Azriel regarding my intention to sever it, informing him that I would be going through with the incantation that Helion had conjured. He did not reply but I knew he received the letter based on the muted feelings of grief that seeped through crevices of the walls I had placed against his end of the bond for several days afterward.

Eris traveled to the Day Court with me, having decided nobody could aid in my recovery better than he. To my shock, upon arriving, Azriel was there. Demurely, he stated that it was only right for him to share the weight of this burden. I was inclined to agree but only thanked him for showing up. He bristled at the sight of Eris but the males said nothing to eachother and we went our separate ways until Helion was ready for us. With Azriel’s presence and the pain being shared, the physical recovery on both of our ends was expedited and manageable for both of us.

We were both held in separate suites to recover until Helion gave the all-clear to leave. When the pain became less debilitating, I decided to take a stroll through an exterior walkway, soaking in the sun while Eris bathed. Apparently Azriel had the same idea as I turned a corner to find him sunning his wings, head hung low.

Right as I made to pivot, his head whipped in my direction, eyes locking with mine. Even without the bond I could easily read the pain in his eyes, the grief that surrounded him. His shadows fought to come to me but he kept a tight reign on them. His breathing was rapid, his eyes fighting to turn away but his gaze lingered.

He opened his mouth to speak, a weak sound escaping his lips before he clamped his mouth shut, jaw tensing.

I kept my gaze soft, maintaining eye contact for another moment but he didn’t try to speak again. With that, I walked away and we did not encounter eachother again during the stay.

It was later I realized that he likely wanted to say something, anything, but there was nothing left to speak between us.

The sister-in-law:

After recovering fully from the severance of his bond, Lucien cryptically invited Eris and I to a lakeside home in the Day Court.

“Dress for merriment.” His only details.

Upon arriving, we found a couple of beloved faces from my life, along with Feyre, Helion, The former lady of Autumn (now the lady of Day), Jurian, Vassa, and even Tamlin at the home. We were all escorted to the grounds where an absolutely beaming Lucien stood at an altar beside the most radiant female I’d ever seen.

That was the day my sister became also my sister-in-law. It’s a very strange thing to say aloud but makes sense if you think about it.

The first heir:

Eris cried the day our son was born. Not from the relief of having an heir, not from any upset due to the child being male, certainly not from any disappointment of being a father.

The birth was as smooth as one can be, he held my hand throughout, praising me, and whispering words of love. He didn’t even mind the curses I threw his way as I pushed. He only let go of my hand once the babe was carefully handed to me by the midwife, allowing me those first precious moments to cradle our little flame to my chest and relish in the life our love had created.

Eris cried when that tiny babe was finally passed into his arms and the little red-haired beauty grasped his finger. That touch immediately tethering a connection straight from the child in his arms delicate soul to Eris’ heart, the heart that once beat beneath layers of armor now laid bare before his son.

Never would this child know pain at his fathers hand. Never would he limit the love he could show for fear of being seen as weak. And never, ever would he question his fathers love for him.

The coronation

Azriel

Sitting here lonely at a table for two, watching lovers being lovers

Azriel sat shrouded in shadow in a quiet corner of the decorated throne room. Happy chatter rang throughout the room as attendees anxiously awaited the crowning of the High Lady of the Autumn Court.

Feyre and Rhys; Cassian and Nesta; Helion and the former Lady of Autumn; Emerie and Mor; Tamlin and his new wife, Briar; Lucien and Camila; and even Gwyn and Tarquin sat cozied up in pairs throughout the crowded throne room. Nyx had seated himself next to his best friend Alex, Camila and Lucien’s son.

From what Azriel had heard Lucien treated Alex as his own from the moment he met him, adopting the boy immediately after he and Camila married. He seemed to be a fine young man and a positive influence on Nyx, who kept Rhys and Feyre on their toes these days. Perhaps karmic justice for the hell Rhys, Azriel, and Cassian put Rhys’ mother through in their youth.

Three little girls ran through the room, two with vibrant red-hair, tan skin and freckled golden cheeks; one with dark hair, fair skin, and her mothers eyes; their giggling rang out above the chatter filling the room as an older child, a boy of eleven years old - Azriel still remembered the day the announcement arrived to the Night Court of the birth of the first Autumn Court heir - walked in a straight backed, lordly posturing behind them, a crease forming between his brows as he focused intently on his little sisters.

The boys long strides kept up with his little sisters as he reminded them to mind their paces. Lost in their merriment, the girls ignored his warnings until the boy finally let out an exasperated sigh. Stopping for a moment with his arms crossed, he raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as he shook his head, murmuring gods knows what frustrated curses. Knowing his mother, it was not the typical frustrated language of a child.

Azriel gave a small, sad smile at the memories elicited.

When the boy looked up, the girls had disappeared from his sight. He grew frantic for a moment until his Uncle Lucien walked up to him, pointing to his wife and the three girls pressing kisses and talking animatedly to her round, very pregnant belly. The boy gave his uncle a smile, shoulders sagging in relief. Lucien bowed down, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. The boy took his hand and walked back toward Camila and the sisters.

Azriel placed a hand to his chest at the wave of grief that rang through him. The mating bond may have been severed but he never could get over the love that he squandered. The family that could have been his.

“You don’t have to be here, brother.” Rhysand’s voice invaded his mind.

Azriel swallowed, willing his thoughts to a tone of neutrality. “She’s the High Lady of the Autumn Court, we’re immortal, we will have to be comfortable in spaces together. It comes with the territory.”

I miss you. Without you I just don’t fit in.

He didn’t have to say what his brother already knew. That yes, he was broken when she left. Broken further when she confirmed he was no longer her home. He’d hated himself for what he’d done, for what he put her through. For a long time, he’d been a shell of the shell of himself that he’d already become. Eventually, he’d taken to seeing one of the counselors in the House of Wind’s library. He was too far gone at that point to consider such an option but Rhys had coordinated with the priestesses and mandated it. Either he got help or lost his position in the Night Court.

Even after the countless hours of counseling sessions he’d attended over the years, that “savior complex” of his remained. Seeing Y/N thriving with someone else was fucking hard but not as hard as living in a world where he never looked upon her face again. As she assumed the title of High Lady, a target would lay on her back, just as one was on any other High Lord or High Lady’s back. He’d never forgive himself if his stubborn pride kept him from attending any court events she attended and something happened to his own High Lord or Lady… or if something happened to her.

I don’t know if I’ll ever find another you.

So here he was, alone at a table, in a now quiet throne room, watching the love of his life step out onto the dais in all of her resplendent glory, kneeling down before the male she loved. Eris’ eyes lined with silver as her own lifted to meet his gaze, her chin held high as she awaited his next move. Carefully, he lifted the emerald and ruby crested crown, with one large diamond centered between two golden leaves, off of the plush pillow it sat upon. Eris’ previous words rang true through Azriel’s head “Diamonds don’t crush under pressure.” The people of this court were truly fortunate to be under the rule of such a resilient and kind ruler. The shining diamond of Autumn. She would love them deeply and do right by them in a way so few leaders were capable of.

Azriel couldn’t contain the pride that welled up in his chest, tears threatening to spill over his thick lashes as the crown was placed upon her head. And yet it was Eris who looked at her like she was the very air that he breathed, as if nothing existed in that moment but the female at his fingertips, like the only reason he himself was brought into existence was to find and cherish her for eternity. And despite his disdain for Eris Vanserra, Azriel finally understood that this was where she belonged.

Everybody’s got somebody but me.

————————————-

A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read this series! I loved writing it and I hope you are pleased with the ending. Some may ask, “What about Elain?” and to that I say, “What about her?” I find great satisfaction in the fact that she didn’t get either male, was embarrassed in front of the IC, and became so irrelevant that she was barely mentioned in the epilogue (aside from Lucien breaking the bond). Clearly, she’s still bitter considering she refused to sever the bond with him but he still found a way out (albeit painfully) and got his dream girl! Stay mad, Elain.

ACOTAR Tag List:

@lilah-asteria

Eris Tag List:

@angiedsv

Rainy Season Tag List:

@going-through-shit @kalulakunundrum @lisanna2000 @fxckmiup @sheblogs @emryb @one-big-fangirl @historygeekqueen @isa1b2h3 @bigcreatorwombatdreamer @theravenphoenix26 @sidthedollface2 @i-am-infinite @caraaaaugh @evergreenlark @darkbloodsly @piceous21 @anxious-study @chessebookgirl @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @crazylokonugget @mysticalfuncollectorus @starsinyourseyes @b0xerdancer-writes @inloveallthetime @thegirlinshadows101 @viistrength @grunchwench @starryhiraeth @macimads @feiwelinchen @acourtofbatboydreams @nebarious @haechansleafblower @melsunshine @thegirlintheshadows101 @plsfckmern @existingthroughwords @mybestfriendmademe @strangersunghoon

[ratatouillewastakendammit]

HAIII :3 I absolutely loveddd the love quirk fic you wrote for Hawks and I was wondering if you could make part two but it's Hawks that gets hit this time🗣️

Enjoy 🫡

I’d never mind

Pairing: Hawks x Reader

Warnings: Language, slight smut/suggestive, Hawks gets supperrrr clingy

Word Count: 3.5k

Click click click

The keyboard chirped as your fingers glided over its surface, lowering themselves just slightly every so often on a specific key. Almost like magic, the letters appeared on the screen, each one following the other in tandem as they melded together and formed the sentences you desired. 

Click click click

You paused, eyes grazing over the screen in contemplation, your thumb slowly finding its way to your pointer finger to fidget in the short spout of reprieve.

Writing emails had never been very interesting, especially since most of them consisted of you attempting to come up with the most creatively professional ways of conveying ‘screw off.’

Although not unusual, the shady paparazzi sending in emails for a much too personal interview always left your boss annoyed. He had actually given you the go ahead to tell them to mind their own business, an opportunity that had unfortunately bothered your well-mannered temperament far too much, so you were left to do the proper tweaking. 

After years of schooling, you would have been perfectly content to avoid writing anything longer than a paragraph all together. Regardless, the unusually high pay tethered to the application for the number two’s secretary was much too alluring to pass up.

Working for Hawks had been surprisingly enjoyable, although you did have to get used to the smell of fried chicken wafting through the lobby every afternoon. 

And the quiet attraction you held for him gnawing at your conscience.

Without mentioning his level of physical appeal, which was most definitely high, he had been quite friendly and kind to you, a far cry from what you had to endure from previous employers.

Seeing as you had found yourself working predominantly in the customer service industry, though, maybe that wasn’t so impressive. 

Each flirtatious remark he shot your way left you craving more, although you were determined not to let it get to your head, especially with all the tabloids going on and on about his playboy lifestyle. 

It wasn’t like it made you important.

With a sigh, you pressed the ‘period’ key, sitting back to inspect your work with a thoughtful eye.

After taking a moment, you found yourself fairly satisfied with the contents, clicking send and slouching into your chair with another breath. 

A peaceful silence echoed through the agencies entryway, wrapping its arms around your mind and weighing down your eyelids with a gentle pull. 

It was nice, tranquil.

The doors burst open. 

You stood, fully expecting blood or a broken bone to come along with the gaggle of yelling. There had been a few times where an upcoming pro had entered through the door with battle injuries, and if this was one of those instances, you were sure it wouldn’t be the last.

Today, though, everyone seemed fine.

Hawks, along with the small group of heroes behind him, appeared to be absolutely unharmed.

Hands in his pockets, he walked backwards, words geared towards the long, white eared woman yelling from behind him. “-worries too much.”

“Uh,” you cleared your throat. “Is everything okay?”

Mirko scoffed. “Yep. I just work with an idiot.”

It hadn’t taken long to adjust to the woman’s straightforward attitude, especially since most insults weren’t directed at you. Surprisingly, the hero seemed to have taken a liking to you, something strikingly close to what you may have defined as friendship, so you were content to sit back and watch her quarrel with Hawks instead.

The man in question threw his coworker a vulgar gesture before turning around to face you, freezing as his eyes met yours.

You shuffled your feet, becoming self conscious as his full attention seemed to pierce through you.

“Are you oka-”

Pushing off the balls of his feet, Hawks shot forward, clearing the large expanse of the lobby within seconds.

The action barely registered in your mind before he reached you, hands sliding underneath your back and knees as he pulled your body into his, lifting the two of you in the air.

Instinctively, your arms wrapped around his neck, tightening as your stomach dropped.

It wasn’t until your shoes touched the marble that you loosened your grasp. The one Hawks held on you didn’t seem to waver, however, his biceps pressing you into his chest.

He pulled back enough to face you, sporting an exceedingly charming grin that had your heart thumping. “Fine, just missed you is all.”

You paused.

“Huh?”

Somewhere in the background, Mirko let out a sigh, the sound fuming with a mix of relief and pride. “I fucking called it.”

“I’m sorry?” You called, attempting to withdrawal out of Hawks’ hold, your strength doing barely anything against his.

“Nothing.” The pro lifted a hand to her mouth, concealing what you could’ve sworn was a laugh. “He got hit with a love quirk.”

“He what?”

“I’m fine.” Hawks waved her off, golden irises still locked on you.

“He was helping some civilian out of a car accident and go hit with it,” Mirko replied, itching the back of her elongated ear. “They said he should be fine by tomorrow, and since it hadn’t taken effect yet, we figured it be fine if he brought him here.”

She bent at the waist, inspecting the way you were still attempting to wriggle from his clutches before continuing. “Maybe not.”

“So… what am I supposed to do with him?”

She sighed. “Not sure. Good luck, though, I have to go write some reports.”

And with a small wave from Mirko, you were left alone, regardless of the pleas that followed her down the hall.

Surprisingly, it had taken a mere polite request from you to get Hawks to detach himself. He definitely wasn’t as compliant when you pulled a spare chair next to yours before attempting to finish your work for the day.

He watched you, face contorted in thought for a few moments before a grin fell over his features.

You hadn’t noticed what he was doing until his arms snaked under yours, lifting you up as he slid into your spot and plopped down. Next, he grabbed your waist, pulling you forward into a sitting position, thighs straddling his.

Warmth blossomed in your face as you tried to slide off, the hands pressed firmly on your hips easily denying you the escape.

“Oh, come on, sweetheart. You don’t have to be shy,” he chided, nuzzling his face into your shoulder.

“It’s just, uh…” you craned your neck to the side, trying to take a look at the front door. “Anyone could walk in, ya know?”

“So?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Whoever doesn’t know you’re mine yet is an idiot.”

You remained silent, heart jumping at his words, but continued to wait for any moment that his grip would loosen, giving you a chance to slip away.

Still, you had no doubt he would be quick enough to catch you again.

Not that you would particularly mind.

At some point you gave up, shuffling the chair around and starting your work once more, pretending to ignore the way your body fit into his, or the soft, affectionate way he was playing with a strand of your hair.

The two of you fell into a quiet lull, the sound of your fingers against the keyboard the only noise. Thankfully, the back of your chair was short enough for you to see your computer, making for a surprisingly straightforward setup.

“Do you like someone else?”

His works made you pause, hands hovering above your desk. “What?”

“I’ve liked you for months and you barely give me any attention,” Hawks huffed. “Is it that dumbass pro from the next town over?”

“No, that’s because I-” The words made you pause, words faltering as your mental gears began to turn.

Months.

That doesn’t make any sense.

The quirk made him like you, sure, but was it messing with his memories as well?

You glanced down at him, ignoring the small laugh bubbling up your stomach at how dejected he looked, a far cry from the usually cocky attitude you had come to know and enjoy.

Still, the statement led to far too many things not adding up, the dissonance boggling your train of thought until the rest of your productive workday became impossible.

“I need to go talk to Mirko." You pushed the chair away from your desk, pleasantly surprised when Hawks agreed to let you go.

Regardless, it didn’t take long for him to lace your fingers through yours, guiding the both of you to the first floor elevator.

You entertained him for the ride up, the skin of your palm tingling against his.

It was when you arrived to the doorway of Mirko’s office, however, that you had a problem.

Bringing your pointer and middle finger to your temple, you massaged the skin in exasperation. Hawks had become quite adamant on not leaving your side, despite your exasperating protests. “Can you just wait out here for a few minutes? Please?”

It took a few moments but the look of distress slowly morphed into one of wicked glee, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Alright, fine. But you have to give me something first.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. “Okay… and what would that be.”

“I think you can guess.” His eyes flicked down to your lips.

Oh shit

You swallowed, almost fearful if you opened your mouth to speak, he would hear your heart beating up through your throat.

It’s just a kiss, right? No harm done?

The words seemed useless amidst the power of your nerves, the best course of action fighting its way to the forefront of your mind.

No way no way no way no way

Lifting up your heels, you took a sharp breath, pressing your lips against his for a mere moment before pulling away, scurrying past the doors to Mirko’s office and shutting them with a slam.

The woman looked up from a stack of paperwork, eyes shining in excitement at the distraction, and probable drama you were bringing. “What can I do for ya?”

There were a few seconds of silence, those in which you used to collect yourself, before you answered. "I was wondering if the civilian, the one with the love-quirk, I mean, told you anything else about it? Besides how Hawks will be better tomorrow and stuff."

She cocked an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"Well," you hesitated, taking a moment to remind yourself that it was alright to tell her, a woman who had become dangerously close to your friend, despite the warnings that came along with close relationships with heroes. "He said that he's liked me for months and that just doesn't make sense, especially if the quirk only really affected him a few hours ago, right?"

“I was just…” you sighed, taking a moment to compose your words before continuing. “Did you ask the quirk user if his memories would be influenced at all? Like would they be different than what’s really true?”

“Nope.” The lack of knowledge left your chest heavy, pulling your face downwards to focus on your wringing hands. “They did say that Hawks would only be affected if he looked at someone he had feelings for, though.”

Your eyes shot up. “Huh?”

Miraculously unbothered, she was now inspecting her nails, currently painted a soft gray and shaped into points that you couldn't imagine would be practical. "Uh-huh."

“And you didn’t think to say anything?”

“I figured it would be best to let him tell you himself, even though I only really had a half guess that he liked you,” she replied in amusement. “And since he technically did tell you, I’m off the hook. Figured I’d let you two weirdos work it out.”

She propped her left foot on the edge of her desk, using the momentum to push her chair backward before standing. With a wave of swagger, she made her way over to you, placing a hand on each of your shoulders before spinning your body around and prompting you towards the exit.

Squirming away didn't seem to make a difference, especially considering that her left bicep seemed to be about the size of a tree trunk.

"Wait-"

"Have fun!"

Opening the door, she pushed you out before locking her office, leaving you to glare at the foggy glass.

Are all heroes this manhandle-y?

An arm snaked around your waist, the sudden contact making you jump. "How'd it go? Figure out what you needed?"

Taking a moment to slow your heart, you turned around to face Hawks. "I, uh... yeah, I did."

Looking up at him now was an oddity you weren't sure you were ready for. You were almost sure he didn't reciprocate your feelings, the actual possibility being something you had pushed away in fear of rejection, the concept becoming foreign to you.

Now, it was hard to believe you weren't dreaming, almost as if the soft smile and longing glance he was giving you would slip through your fingers if you didn't hold on tight enough.

The thoughts infiltrating your mind had you distracted, a soft sting of embarrassment hitting you when you realized you both were dangerously close to one another in the middle of the main office floor.

Regardless, when you glanced around, you were met with a quiet destitution, a stark difference to the usual business the agency saw on a Friday afternoon.

"Um, where is everyone?"

He cocked his head to the side, a small chuckle erupting from his lips as he took your chin between two fingers and pushing it slightly toward the left. At first, you weren't sure why, but the clock sporting a 7:27 fell into your line of sight. "Only the workaholics stay this late and we don't have many of those here."

Guess I was going through emails for longer than I thought "Oh. I suppose I should be going home too, then."

"Can I come?"

You almost laughed at his question, the thought of someone of his social standing, and economic one, asking to come to the small apartment on the edge of the city you called home. "You definitely wouldn't want to."

"Then why don't you come back to my place?"

The request made you pause, drawing a feeling of unease into your system despite the lightheartedness it was delivered with. At this point, you knew he liked you, but the idea of going to his house left you anxious.

As far as you were aware, he was an individual of solitude, not even Mirko, whom you perceived to be a fairly close friend, had been to his abode.

For some odd reason, the idea made you feel icky. You sure as hell wouldn’t want to wake up surprised to someone sleeping next to you in your home, someone who you had unknowingly let in while under the effects of a quirk no less.

Seemingly able to notice your hesitation, Hawks offered you his hand. "Follow me."

He didn't exactly wait for a response, lacing your fingers through his and tugging you towards the elevator with a gentleness you wouldn't have believed to be possible with him.

With each button lit, a floor fell beneath your feet, every ding bringing you closer to what you were sure was his office.

It was quite large, the metal doors opening directly into the fully windowed room. White and gold furniture lay atop the marbled floor, polished to a shine.

The birch desk and swivel chair took of most of the space, but he had some other things laying about, such as the mini-fridge and air fryer to your right.

You were almost positive what went on there.

An ivory couch, just about the same width as a twin sized bed lay along the left wall, its creamy pillows and a lusciously looking soft blanket thrown on the side.

A moment passed before you understood what was happening. "Are you… are you sure that's even big enough for both of us?"

"Don't worry about it, songbird." He shrugged his jacket over his shoulders, grasping your arm and pulling you towards the sofa. With exhausted grace, he fell over it, tugging you with him until your body lay over his.

Fuck

With the outer layer off, the fabric of his shirt was just thin enough to feel the ripple of his muscles between your fingers. The soft heat radiating off his skin was nothing short of addictive, the warmth something you were tempted to bask in forever.

And the thing was, you were sure he would let you, if he asked.

The thought was sweet, but it didn’t take long for your mind to wander, to imagine what else he would do for you; would do to you.

"Are you turned on?"

That sure broke the peaceful daze. "What?"

He sat up, golden irises burning in excitement. "If you wanted to do something, you could've just asked."

"I'm not." The words came out exceedingly more nervous than you anticipated.

"Liar." A wicked grin laced his features. "I can tell, ya know, when you're in the mood."

Heart dropping to your stomach, you blinked up at him. "You... you what?"

"Mhm." Hawks placed a hand on your chest, fingers toying with the top of your shirt. "Your heart speeds up just so. I can hear it.”

“You’re bullshitting me.” Somehow, you suspected he wasn’t. The details of his quirk were unknown to you, but you had heard of the heightened senses tethered to those feathers he possessed.

“Ouch, so vulgar,” he waved off the assumption, using his left hand to draw gentle circles on the skin of your stomach. “But keep telling yourself that. I can be patient.”

Your brain filled in the blanks.

I'll wait until you’re begging for it

You tried desperately to ignore the thought, to quiet your frenzied mind and think of something, anything else. Curiosity, it seemed, was your saving grace, another question blossoming in your mind. "So, if you knew about... ya know, why didn't you say something.”

"Liking someone and being horny for them are two different things, gorgeous." He flashed you another grin, identical to the ones on the tabloid covers that inspired thirst tweets and tumblr stories. "Besides, I’ve heard it isn’t very hard to want me in bed, figured my sweet little receptionist wouldn’t be any different."

You snorted. "You're an idiot."

"But you don't mind, right?"

The question came across as playful, but there were wisps of insecure longing strewn amidst his tone.

"No, I definitely don't."

Your affirmation seemed to meet his standards, the man burying his face in your shoulder and pulling you back down onto the couch. Golden locks tickled your cheek, the soft hum of the air conditioner lulling your eyes to a close.

Minutes passed before the two of you fell asleep, surprising seeing that you were usually quite the night owl. Regardless, the way his wings enfolded around the both of you, blocking out the remnants of the evening sunset and any other distractions made you feel disturbingly safe. You would have been content to die here, his arms wrapped around your torso, shielded from the rest of the world within the scarlet plumage.

Chests moving in tandem, each breath undisturbed and hushed as the hours ticked by.

Upon waking, the first thought that entered your mind was how cold it was. That plush blanket you had been eyeing earlier was wrapped snugly around your form, but the fabric seemed to pale in comparison to what you had enjoyed last night.

Your eyes flickered open, straining under the sun streaking past the windowed walls. It took a moment for them to adjust under the harsh lighting, but you jumped when you glanced around to see two golden irises staring back at you.

Hawk's head was propped up on his arms, each balancing on the side of the couch, a few centimeters away from you. A smirk twitched at the corner of his lip at your reaction. "Good morning."

"What the hell are you doing?" You groaned.

An unbothered shrug tugged his shoulders upward. "You look pretty when you're sleeping."

Sitting up, you rolled your joints, stretching the rest of the tiredness away. "Hasn't anyone ever told you watching people while they sleep is creepy?"

"I've never found anyone else as good looking to feel the need to do so." He tilted his head to the side, flashing a boyish grin. "Besides, I thought you ladies liked that sort of thing. Isn't there a movie about that or something?"

You rolled your eyes, sitting up with a yawn. “So… uh, I’m guessing you’re back to normal then?”

"Yup," he replied, popping the 'p' at the end. “Why? Miss me hanging off your shoulder twenty-four seven?"

Yes.

“Shut up.”

He grinned, seemingly unaffected by your fatigued harshness. “So, are you gonna let me take you out today or what?”

“You still want to?”

“Well obviously,” Amusement laced his tone, a quiet ardor brewing among his features. “Unless you’d just like to skip all that and fuck.”

The thought had heat blooming in your cheeks, “You’re so vulgar.”

“And you love it.”

“Maybe.”

You did.

[thefanficmonster]

Love in Color

Benedict Bridgerton x Reader (Female)

Warnings: None :)

Genre: Rivals/Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Romance

Summary: Nothing speaks to the soul quite like expressive art. Or maybe the even more expressive artist behind it.

The spring breeze wafts in through the open windows of the small room, curling the curtains to its will. The pleasant smell of freshly bloomed flowers lingers in the air although one could hardly sense it over the suffocating tension that's settled in the room ever since Benedict entered to find Y/N already in there.

Although not a word was exchanged between the two, just her gaze was more than enough to let him know she'd rather be anywhere but in the same room as him. Still, her stubbornness overpowered her distaste for her fellow up-and-coming artist and she remained seated even after Benedict decided to make himself comfortable in front of the canvas farthest across the room from the one she'd taken up.

They are just a couple months away from the mandatory presentations of their final pieces and not a single artist in The Academy can rest easy until they perfect their art. Some have approached the situation as much more dire than others would perceive it but that is simply the burden the so-called greats have to carry.

Y/N and Benedict are prime examples of those artists.

For the amount of disagreements and stubbornness that resides between them, it's quite the miracle they are so alike in nature. And, dare I say, in talent as well. Of course, artists and their art are not meant to be compared but you could never miss the similarities. Not in their pieces, per se, but their personalities.

Competition comes in conjunction with the acceptance letter to The Academy. It comes as no surprise that this place is not exactly a breeding ground for friendships but this headbutting between these two exceeds all limits.

"I sure hope that is mere practice." The mockery in Benedict's voice almost makes Y/N's eye twitch as it echoes off the walls of the silent drawing atelier.

He'd been keeping a watchful eye on her work this whole time, even sacrificing a few important brushstrokes due to his divided attention. Good thing this is just a perfecting attempt on his understanding of anatomy, otherwise he'd be far more upset.

She's become well versed in his game by now. He simply cannot withstand the thought of being in her vicinity without provoking her in one way or another. Although she knows better than to feed into his entertainment, she'd also rather pour ink over a canvas of hard work than take his teasing laying down.

"Very like you to not be able to distinguish practice form a developed piece, Bridgerton." The bite to her words is not at all softened by her leveled tone. If anything it packs that much more of a punch.

One that provokes a smile from Benedict.

"I fail to see how that is my fault. You clearly have made very little effort with this piece but the same could be said for many of your previous ones." He's in no way sincere. In fact, he is openly lying on a dime. He adores her art. All games and personal biases aside, as someone with a distinguished taste in art with a high standard for beauty, he cannot, in good conscience, say her art isn't exceptional.

"Paying more attention to my art than your own, are you?" She doesn't bother turning her head his way, offering him nothing more than a view of her side profile.

"Nothing worth of my attention." He muses, almost forgetting the stool has no backrest as he leans back, catching himself just in time to not topple over and give her the satisfaction she most definitely would've held over his head till the end of time.

She hums knowingly, almost humorously, "That misshapen attempt you have over there says otherwise." She isn't far off the mark. His gaze has been more entranced on each brushstroke of her hand rather than his own. He's missed far more marks than he'd like to admit.

She has him there. But Benedict Bridgerton is nothing if not quick on his feet, "That is certainly one way to admit you are unfamiliar with abstract art. How embarrassing on your part."

A scoff parts Y/N's lips, her head finally snapping in his direction, their eyes meeting with a fiery flare. The tension is so potent a flick of a lighter and the room could be set ablaze.

The temperature only keeps rising when she stands up from her chair, crossing the distance between her canvas and his with three long strides as she comes to stand beside him. Sweat beads form on the back of his neck as a chill rushes down his spine. It is a common reaction his body exhibits whenever her proximity breaches the limitations of scandalous.

They're alone. Unchaperoned. Too close to keep the ton's mouths shut if they were to be seen.

His hand comes up to tug at the collar of his shirt in desperate need for more breathing room. He unbuttons the top button on instinct only to realize how inappropriately the action could be perceived. To his relief, Y/N doesn't seem to notice or care. In fact, she's incredibly disinterested in him at this moment, instead offering her whole attention to the painting in progress.

"Abstract, you say?" She muses, reaching down to toy with one of the paint brushes laying in a small blue pain puddle on the palette. "Allow me to fix it for you."

Before Benedict has even had time to process her words, with a swift snap of her wrist the canvas has now been unflatteringly stained with a blue splatter across it that makes his jaw drop.

"You vixen...." He mutters, eyes wide in absolute bewilderment as he watches the splatter drip paint down below it, coating the previously warmly colored drawing with blue streaks.

"My most sincere apologies, Mr. Bridgerton." The faux remorse in her voice raises his blood pressure a whole lot higher, causing him to gulp down his frustration. "It appears I really lack the understanding necessary for abstract art." If looks could kill, she'd be dead. But that glare, that very glare right there provides her such entertainment.

Having expressed her remorse, she slyly goes to make her way out of the atelier, hoping for a celebratory cigarette outside in the garden now that darkness has enveloped the horizon. However...

Before she has even made it halfway to the door, the loud thunder of quick footsteps shake the walls and marble floor. She's barely had time to turn around to witness the most childish retaliation of all time - Benedict has resorted to smearing the entire palette of colors on Y/N's canvas.

I believe this is an appropriate time to mention that they are both aware of how ridiculous this is. It's not even about the pieces, they were mere attempts. Practice pieces, if you will. It's not about them whatsoever. It's the principle. The disrespect, the mockery.

The need to retaliate for every small comments and remark has now become war, fighting fire with fire. Or rather paint with paint.

With redness clouding her vision and practically all rationale having left her mind, Y/N reaches over to grab the small bottle of ink on the professor's desk. A couple steps later and she's dowsing the canvas with it. She hasn't finished spilling the bottle when a hand engulfs her wrist. In a futile attempt to put an end to her offense and save what's left of his painting's dignity - not much, to be honest - Benedict moves her hand, redirecting the stream of ink so now it splashes on them.

His white shirt and her silver dress are now a quarter black in the front.

That realization brings on a brief moment of peace and silence. No movement, no sound. They're just staring at each other in complete and utter disbelief.

A beat later, they burst out into laughter.

"Oh now you're getting it." He warns her, his words breaking them away from one another like opposite charges of a magnet.

They both hurry to arm themselves with paint they can smear on the other but Y/N unfortunately is beaten to it. She's still in the process of gathering ammo when something cold hits the exposed skin of her upper back.

"Purple goes rather well with your dress." His comment boils her blood, making her immune to the cold paint she's now coated with and fueling her into counterattack resulting in red paint drowning out whatever white parts were left on his button-up. She even got a good splatter on his cheek.

Her cocky smirk speaks volumes as she observes her latest art piece, "Red brings out the color of your eyes quite nicely."

Although he's acutely aware of her comment being nothing more than a tease - as is she in her entirety - he can't help the way the breath was knocked out of him

"Is that so?" He muses, slowly crossing the distance between them as if taunting her to run away.

She doesn't. She doesn't move an inch from her spot, instead crossing her arms over her chest as she hums an affirmation that doesn't even fully leave her lips before they're engulfed by his.

If he was worried about their earlier proximity being considered scandalous, he's clearly lost all rationality now considering their bodies are practically molding together, paint-stained hands roaming previously unexplored territory, fingers tangling in each other's hair, exhales mingling in a single breath.

Suddenly, neither of them seems to mind the mess they've made of themselves. They've been wreaking havoc on the other's composure since the day they met, a couple ruined garments and canvases is nothing.

Some things are so much sweeter when you're not supposed to want them, let alone have them. Taking them despite potential repercussions is a thrill that can't match a single high. So, scandals and the ton be damned, he's taking her. Here and now. Paint and all.

* * * * *

The following morning, upon returning to her room from a lecture she cannot remember whatsoever, Y/N finds quite the surprise awaiting her.

~ Forgive me for ruining your dashing gown, Miss L/N. I unfortunately never got to tell you how greatly I like seeing you in it before I ruined it. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I didn't redeem my actions. So, I beg of you to accept this gesture as both a peace and courtship offering. ~

~ Benedict ~

She rereads the note atop the gown laying on her bed at least three times before she realizes she's smiling and blushing - a reaction she would've condemned herself for just twenty four hours ago. Now, with the, um, new developments, being taken into consideration, she allows herself to revel in this unfamiliar feeling that has filled her with a sense of joyful giddiness she can't recall ever feeling before.

As she falls onto her bed, still grinning from ear to ear, she allows her mind to toy with the idea of giving this offered courtship a chance.

After all, no one has ever brought so much color to her life quite like Benedict Bridgerton.

[sicklyseraphnsuch]

Simon is sad.

Ice King is a joke.

Winter King is a threat.

So, I kinda love how much further we explore into the differences between Simon and Ice King and all the parts in between.

With the Crown, Simon's personality gets injected with boundless, reckless, thoughtless confidence - which appears to have its roots in Evergreen or specifically, Gunter's perception of Evergreen.

However, Simon also infused the Crown's influence with his weird quirks, his desperation for love, and his immeasurable grief.

In a different post, I wrote that the root of the Crown's curse latched onto Simon's love, which in its own way is his grief as well. These powerful emotions were decentralized so that even if Ice King couldn't quite understand the source of them, he felt them hard. And moreover, these emotions clouded his capacity to function.

So aaaaaall that infinite confidence tempered and sabotaged by Simon's sorrow, making Ice King into a joke. Oh, sure he's manipulative liar like the way he lied to Finn when he was trapped in the spirit world. But he's quite incompetent.

His intentions aren't any less selfish or destructive but he's just So Bad at the follow through. Absolutely dysfunctional. That makes him easier to laugh at even when he's doing stuff like slapping tape on PB's mouth as she's sleeping because he "breaks up with her" in the next minute.

Winter King wouldn't need tape. That's the difference. Winter King is frightening because he can in fact follow through on all of his selfish and destructive impulses. When he lies, he can get away with it because he's a *good liar*. He's charming without being sad. He's confident without being annoying.

Winter King has Evergreen's strengths and Simon's charisma and wields it with deadly intent because he also lacks Simon's conscience and Simon's fixation on love and connection - true love and connection that isn't something he made in a lab. The fact that Winter King can be satisfied with hollow dolls that resemble his loved ones is TELLING.

Winter King and Ice King are fundamentally separated by their levels of lucidity and competence. And that's pretty much it. Even Winter King's memories remain frosted over and nothing like the original Simon Petrikov's

Which leads me to the original Simon Petrikov. I truly enjoyed the way Simon is differentiated from Ice King and Winter King simply by showing his compassion - which both lacked. Simon immediately plead for Bubblegum's life whereas Winter King was like Nope.

That was so good. Just emphasizing how the Simon and Ice King aren't a 1 to 1 reflection or transformation. Or in other words, that Ice King is not entirely Simon and Simon isn't entirely Ice King.

Also the subtext of Simon secretly resenting Winter King, being unsure if he wanted to be just like this weirdo who just goes around calling himself radical. This chuunibyou motherfucker. He really wants to be that? Really?

But again! Simon's vindication at learning that the Crown can't be fought! Because also fighting is such hardwork and he spent a thousand or so years trying to do it, failing to do it. The way he almost whined at the Winter King, "but it's just so hard to fight the Crown", and he's just so tired. He's just too sad.

In the same way that Fionna wanted an easy, fun, no consequences adventure - Simon wants an easy, quiet, no consequences solution to all his depression. Simon doesn't want to be happy because happiness takes hardwork. All the shit that the Winter (Willpower) King was shilling? That's a lot of elbow grease.

Simon just wants to opt out of existence. Let the Crown take the wheel. He's done driving.

But therein lies... his curse. Winter King is euphoric because it came at the cost of the compassion that defines Simon Petrikov. Love and compassion is at the root of Simon's sorrow, but it's also the thing that keeps him here. Because Simon simply can't *not* help someone - even Fionna who has been a straight up dick to him this whole time.

Simon thinks that there's a "right way" to be cursed because he's holding onto the belief that he could stop existing and not hurt or harm anyone by choosing to do so. And this will keep him on the search. This will keep him as himself for another sad and hurting day, until he can find a way to run - flee without hurting anyone.

Spoiler: It's impossible.

[lordgrimwing]

How Elwing Lost A Silmaril

The first letter—sealed with an eight-pointed star pressed into red wax and delivered just before dawn—left Elwing trembling in her small office, stomach rolling and the taste of bile thick on her tongue. What was she to do? What could she do? Her parents’ murderers were coming here.

The letter didn’t say as much outright. The writer (Maedhros, she’d learned his name eventually, but he would always be the red-haired orcish monster that took her home away and haunted her worst nightmares) veiled every threat behind eloquent lines of meaningless placations and enteritis for the silmaril. He asked her, granddaughter of a thief, to return it to him, eldest son of its maker and rightful heir. But she could read what he did not say: that if she did not bend to his will he would do to Sirion as he did to Menegroth. He would come with his fell army and slaughter everyone in his way.

But how could she give up the jewel? It protected them, kept the forces of darkness at bay just enough for the refugees to eke out a living on the shores. And should Eärendil, her dear, brave husband, find a path to Aman, its light might be the only thing that could stay the Valar’s Doom long enough for them to listen to him. She could not give up their hope.

The second letter—sealed in red wax and delivered as the barley fields were harvested—brought more promises of horrors unnamed falling upon the settlement. She wept after throwing it in the fire. She could not do this on her own. The city council was terrified into inaction at the thought of what lay before then, and Eärendil was still out at sea. She missed him. She missed him so terribly when the councilors looked at her with fearful eyes and asked for her decision.

The fifth letter arrived in the hands of an underfed Mannish girl as the first winds of winter blew in from the sea. Elwing gave her food and a family offered a spot in their home, but the girl said her lord instructed her to go nowhere else until she had a reply for him. Elwing thought of banishing her from the city unanswered, of telling the guards with their rough-made weapons to see that the Fëanorian did not return. She regretted the thought nearly as soon as she had it. The girl was young and it was not her fault that her parents joined themselves to a mighty Elf lord. She could stay for a day.

Tell me whatsoever you desire, the greatest or smallest need of your heart. 

The letter said in handwriting that was fast becoming too familiar. 

I will give unto you that thing and greater still if you would part with my father’s Silmaril. I would bring you all the provisions of my camp, all the weapons of my army, every other precious thing of power left in this land if you would but willingly part with that one small thing that I must otherwise be driven to take by force in the spring. Tell me your desire, and I will give it unto you. Let this not end with blood.

She fumed in her office, angrily pacing the thin rug gifted to her by the weary-eyed wife of one of her father’s guards who fell in the tunnels of Menegroth. She does not need anything from the murdering bastard! Sirion has all it requires. They would be safe if only they were left alone. How can Maedhros think that he could ever give her anything to make up for what he’s done, to convince her to do what he wants? He’s a monster and a coward who wishes to soothe his conscience by acting as if the attack is all her fault, an inevitable consequence of her resistance. He wishes to absolve himself of yet more evil.

She will not let him. If it is the only thing she can do, she will defy him.

Elwing takes up precious ink and paper. She throws herself into her chair and leans over the beaten desk, pouring her anger and helplessness into the words she scratches across the page.

You’ve taken everything from my people. You wish to take everything from me again. You are monstrous, servant of Morgoth. May the Valar stand against you as I cannot. What would I have, you ask? I would have what you’ve taken from me restored: I would have Dior, my father, and Nimloth, my mother; I would have Eluréd and Elurín, my brothers, alive again and in my arms. But I shall never have them for they died at your hands and at your command.  You cannot give me my parents. You search for my little brothers but still cannot give them to me.  So, what would I have? I would have your brothers. Give me your two youngest. I have lost my twin brothers for this gem. You must do the same.

She signed the bottom with a vicious strike that split the quill’s nip, blotting the page with ink as dark as orc blood. Her heartbeat in her chest, thumped against her ribs under her breast as though it would escape fate. Her letter would change nothing and she hesitated for a moment before dripping wax from a flickering candle for the seal, tempted to throw the paper to the fire. 

She’d written in a tantrum, a final kicking of her feet against what would come in an impotent rage. But what did it matter? Did she not deserve to beat her fists against the Doom once? Everyone looked to her for leadership and guidance as Dior’s heir but she felt like little more than a child. This would be so much easier to handle with Eärendil at her side but he still had not returned and at times she doubted he ever would (what Doom had befallen him on the waters? What lonely fate for him and the crew on the waves?). She would send this letter then say goodbye to all childishness and face what came bravely as her parents and grandparents did. 

Resolved, she dripped the wax and sealed the letter. She’d give it to the messenger tomorrow with what small food they could spare so the girl did not starve on the journey. And then…

And then all would be out of her hands and fate would fall as it would.

The sixth letter came in the hands of two red-haired Elves on tall horses. The men sat straight and tall in the saddle, their heads held high. Elwing would have called them haughty if they hadn’t dismounted and bowed deeply before her, falling to one knee as one might before royalty. A third Elf, dark-haired and somber-eyed, rode with them, though he kept himself aside and astride his steed.

“Queen Elwing,” one of the red-heads said, his face fire-scarred. He paused, waiting for permission to go on.

She nodded and waved her hand impatiently, wondering what new trick Maedhros was playing or if this was how he announced an impending slaughter.

The speaker went on, looking up slightly though he stayed kneeling. “We are Ambarussa–” he gestured to the other– “youngest sons of Fëanor. We give ourselves up at your request in exchange for the silmaril.”

Elwing stood in frozen silence as he continued, icy sea breeze biting at her fingers and face. 

[aechii]

getting into a argument w jude before a big match and him thinking you two aren’t on good terms but before the game starts he spots you in his jersey in the crowd and has that extra boost of confidence to do well bc he considers u a good luck charm

₍⁠₍ DRiViNG FORCE ₎⁠₎

A/N ?! nothing much to say, other than, expect ALOT of jude works this next week heheh 🤭

in retrospect, jude's frustration was justified. blinded and consumed by workload- both her own and favours [y/n] had hesitantly agreed to take on- which had ultimately caused her deathly amounts of stress, she had missed jude’s past 5 games. it was something both her and him found distasteful, and after a long conversation, they had come to the (forced) agreement that she would show up to his next one, no questions asked.

so, of course, when she had informed him that she was due in for an extra day of work, unprecedented, jude’s uplifted mood and focused mindset merged into a catastrophic ensemble as annoyance and disappointment took over. and as she rushed around the kitchen to gather her things, jude remained stagnant and stood by the table as he watched her, frowning. 

“you’re really not coming?” jude questioned indignantly. it came out harsher than he intended, but with all due candor, he didn’t have the heart to care. 

[y/n] hurriedly leaned over the counter to grab her keys, but her boyfriend beat her to it, swiping it into his hands before shoving them into his pocket. 

“what the hell, jude?” 

“are you not listening to me? i asked you a question.”

jude’s stubbornness triggered [y/n] as she threw her arms up in the air. 

“what does it look like?” she retorted, annoyed, “i’m sorry but i really have to go.”

she attempted to reach for her keys, but was stopped by jude. his face turned frigid and a tide of disbelief succumbed him, “are you being serious right now? [y/n]- you haven’t been to any of my games for weeks!”

she checked the time, getting more desperate as she noticed it was 5 minutes past the time she was supposed to leave the house.

“jude, i’m sorry, okay? but i'm going to be late, we can talk about this later.”

he didn’t move, but rather stayed rooted in his spot, arms crossed as he glared at the girl before him. he was swallowed by fury, his mind trailing off on its own, and his mouth just let angered words tumble out.

“you’re so selfish. fucking go then.” his hand digs through his pocket, hurling the keys on the table before shoving his way back to the living room. 

[y/n] stood there, stilled with bewilderment as she attempted to process jude’s outburst. she understood that he had been m.i.a for the past few weeks, and hadn’t shown her face in support of jude. so much so, that fans started speculating that they had broken up, forcing them to reach dire needs of posting travel photos to compensate for her absence. 

but he needn’t call her that. they had talked about it many a time that [y/n] wasn’t ready to give up her job any time soon, and jude, albeit reluctantly, agreed for her to continue going. she knew it would be hard for him to understand as her work involved shifts and being called in spontaneously to fill in missing staff. 

[y/n] faded out of her shock, scoffing as her frustration lead her conscience, “if you want to be like that, then be like that jude,” she shouted to him, snatching her last belonging off of the table and heading to the door. 

she would've cared if she wasn't so pissed at jude, but she instead slammed the door behind her after jude slipped in his last attack. 

"i'll just find somebody else to wear my shirt then!"

+_-

jude could already feel how skewed his mind was the second his cleats sunk into the grass. he felt guilty, in all rights, for what he had said, but he truly was upset for the lack of [y/n]'s support. he realised that his game had dipped just bit, whether they lose or win, and consequently, his name was losing its shine on the scoresheet. 

everyone knew he performed better when she was there. gio had called her his 'good luck charm' to which jude replied with a sound of agreement because he thought so too. jude always had the urge to impress her even more, as if she wasn't vehemently aware of his talent, and it had him dominating the attacking line.

he could excuse 2 games maximum of no show, but now that this was turning into her 6th disappearance, he was getting fed up. 

"you look like there's a stick up your ass, what's wrong?" 

gio had commenced a side step circle around jude, in an attempt to dizzy the boy. it evokes a light look of judgment instead, but jude said nothing. 

"[y/n] isn't coming today… again."

his friend's face turns sympathetic and he stops his ministrations, walking up to him, "man, really?"

jude nodded, "yeah. and even if there was a slight chance she could, i've fucked that up too."

gio rolled his eyes, exhaling melodramatically, "what now?"

"i said that if she doesn't come then i'll just find someone else to wear my shirt." shame riddled his being, and his words progressively depleted in volume as gio looked punched by shock. 

"jude, what the fuck?" he tsked, "and how did she react to that? pissed? because it's very much deserved. matter of fact, i would've broken up with you."

jude's face turned hard, yet he felt his heart drop at the possibility. what he'd said was absolute shit, and it had given his girlfriend options, one of which was to leave him.

over his dead, fucking body.

"don't say that and no, we didn't break up. she just slammed the door and left."

"as if that makes anything any better, jude," gio retorted, arms crossed. he knew jude was quite an amateur when it came to gripping the reins of his feelings, but more times than not, it seemed like it was vice versa. 

marco noticed them slacking off, running up to them before they were being forced into a couple more training drills. jude knew that his playing headspace had to be on, but his conscience dallied between that and pondering over his fallout with [y/n] and he gave up, knowing that he was going to have another off-game. 

+_-

by half time, jude wanted out. they were 2-0 down, and marco was completely livid. his coach had watched them with complete confusion, trying to find the break in the circuit. if he had, and noticed that it was, in fact, jude himself, it was as if he was sworn to secrecy because most players but him were subbed out. 

jude had spaced out during the locker room talk, and his legs were on autopilot as they walked back into the field. his eyes were trained on the mass of black and yellow, in an attempt for a last string of hope, before he's interrupted by gio's voice. 

"jude, look!"

he pointed to the vip box, and jude squinted before his eyes set upon the undeniable stature of his girlfriend, dressed in his shirt. 

"no way."

his mind failed at formulating words, and the second they made eye contact, jude smiled and blew her a kiss. she didn't catch it, but rather gave him a humorous look that said, 'impress me'. 

gio watched the whole ordeal with a grin, hooking his arm around the boy before whispering in his ear, "fix the game, loverboy!"

jude snickers back, feeling his limbs light with exhilaration, "bet."

and the second he scored, he ran up to the stands, hands structured in his girlfriend's initial before making a heart. 

the smile she gave her would remain in his memories forever.

[rpmemes-galore]

Jane Eyre ... sentence starters

"Do you doubt me?"

"Are you mocking me?"

"Do you think me handsome?"

"You won't be persuaded to stay?"

"So, you and I must say goodbye?"

"Just one last kiss before you leave."

"I need not sell my soul to buy bliss."

"Don't leave me. I like to have you near."

"And what is hell? Can you tell me that?"

"You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all."

"She's dying. I can't ignore her dying wish."

"All my heart is yours, sir: it belongs to you."

"Even for me, life had its gleams of sunshine."

"You're a strange and almost unearthly thing."

"He made me love him without looking at me."

"I hardly know. I have little experience of them."

"I would always rather be happy than dignified."

"thought you said you didn't have any relatives."

"Sometimes I have the strangest feeling about you."

"I have as much soul as you… and full as much heart!"

"You are my sympathy, my better self, my good angel."

"How can you be so stupid? How can you be so cruel?"

"I do not think, sir, you have any right to command me."

"Flirting is a woman's trade, one must keep in practice."

"Remember, the shadows are just as important as the light."

"I was wrong to deceive you. I see that now, it was cowardly."

"Who would you offend by living with me? Who would care?"

"Do you think I am an automaton? A machine without feelings?"

"You've saved my life. Don't walk past me as if we were strangers."

"I am not an angel … and I will not be one till I die: I will be myself."

"I shall never leave. You will never be alone for as long as I shall live."

"I have for the first time found what I can truly love; I have found you."

"can live alone, if self-respect, and circumstances require me so to do."

"You would rather drive me to madness than break some mere human law."

"I know you; you're thinking. Talking is of no use, you're thinking how to act."

"Life appears to me too short to be spent in nursing animosity or registering wrongs."

"Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain, and little, I am soulless and heartless?"

"I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being, with an independent will."

"I am not deceitful! And I am not a liar. For if I were, I should say that I loved you. I do not love you. I dislike you more than anyone in the world."

"I do not think, sir, you have any right to command me, merely because you are older than I, or because you have seen more of the world than I have."

"If all the world hated you and believed you wicked, while your own conscience approved of you and absolved you from guilt, you would not be without friends."

[quiteliterallyilliterate]

Could you write a yandere FD where reader finds his mask and accidentally frees him? I find the idea of him stalking reader after his freedom and reader being helpless to get help due to what he is.

Order up!

There really isn’t enough FD stuff (that isn’t smut) ((but also in general)) So here you go!

Edit: Part 2

tw: yandere, murder, slaughter of animals, blood/gore

𓆝 𓆟 𓆞 𓆝

The deity despised what he had come to. A being of such pure power, capable of ripping Termina away from Hyrule thread by thread, was now bound to not much more than a piece of wood. The feeble fears of incapable gods now made a mockery of who and what he was. His prison was bleached and painted with the same war patterns that defined his godliness with the eyes empty for its wearer. Two blank spots —weak spots— in the mask. For when they bound his form to such fragility, there was something of a loophole left behind. The hallowed eyes allowed the wearer to see, and believe they had some control over their actions as his consciousness began to muddle with their own. You see, within the mask there were no holes allowing them —the wearer— to breathe. Because while they wore the mask, likeness of his own face, they didn’t realise the rotting wood begin to mingle with their skin. None of them did. Too hungry for more of the power he could provide and blood he could spill they hardly realized what they were becoming. The paint was always the first to merge with the new wearer, the pigments staining the skin as a faint, ever fading —but never truly gone— reminder of what he was. The hair came next. Silvery white strands mixing with their own around their fringe, framing their face, much similar to his own now. Last was the eyes. Not many kept the mask long enough to ever really hand themselves fully over to him, but his conscience would continue to invade nonetheless. No one held the power to hold him captive in their minds, so a corpse they were rendered. Their eyes would lose their iris, and as the wearer weakened, their eyes would become vast pools of stark white. He heard in the travelers’ wisdom that eyes were the doorway to the soul. Perhaps that was why the eyes were the last part of a person he was bled into. His final act to them was conquering their souls. Where once, double helix sword in hand, he would have slain any thing —living or otherwise— where once he could’ve conquered anything, now he was left to the slow trickle of energy from collected souls.

He’s first made aware of you by your gentle touch. You fingers cup the edge of his face —what was of it now anyway— and attempt to make sense of who it was you were looking at. Perhaps is was they no longer worshipped him in Termina. Centuries could slip by him in this form and he’d not know better. Hand in hand with that, the paint on his mask could very well be greyed and chipped beyond recognition. Immortality was always more faulty than the mortals made it seem. While boredom could be sated with bloodshed and war, it was aging that couldn’t be so simply ignored. Despite the fact his consciousness was as it was from the second he was bound into what he was, it didn’t stop the wood from rotting nor the paint from chipping and fading. Much he was like the warrior constellations in the sky. While consistent across the birth and death of many civilizations, slowly he died with them. Not in the final splatter of blood like the matter of mortality, but it was death in all the way that matters. Perhaps Hylia proved that you can kill a god. Sure, she may have ‘killed’ demise, but cyclically, he was still her tormentor. With Fierce, his form was weak. Too weak to hold him further. Much like the mortals who believed they could shoulder the weight, this form would too crack and rot beneath the earth. His point still stood that in spite of every possible factor that your serenity shouldn’t have met with his ruthlessness, you’d defied fate nonetheless.

By your grace he loved to watch you. Mounted on the fireplace, he could see everything in your tiny cabin. He could watch you cook food for yourself, sing as you cleaned the dishes afterward, and especially the fact you often would fall asleep on the couch meant he could spend even longer admiring the curves of your face. You were incomparably precious to the world. He remembers the days of his youth in divinity, freshly given his purpose. He’d killed many in those days, like an executioner who’s axe discriminated against none. The worship he once had, the temples he’d once been graced with, the concubines left for him… Perhaps he wanted more than to watch you. Being so close to what he wanted, truly wanted, made him antsy. And you’d live through life like you’d not known better. You’d talk to people where he couldn’t monitor to keep you safe, you’d leave the protection he offered. He’d long for you while you sat just out of reach, tempting him to try something. And so he did. It seems years of rot made the wood fragile.

You were honestly quite disappointed the mask had broke. The wood was splintered across the floor, and with how old it was, it really wasn’t worth saving. Still, you collected the bits from across the floor and kept moving. The forest was still and quiet as you traveled, the wind would whistle in the trees and a murder of crows crowded around you. Unfortunately, you had no bread or shinies to spare aside from a small green rupee, which they normally would’ve cawed and kicked around. Instead, their beady eyes watched you, huddled high in the trees as you waded through the forest. You could feel their eyes on you the whole way past.

The dead animals on your doorstep are not only mildly concerning, given their split open ribs, but incredibly creepy the longer it goes on. Clearly whoever was doing this was stubbornly persistent given their notes in a not very decipherable language. At first they left you a crow, the day they watched you. It had a small ring in its leg you didn’t bother to touch. The next was a badger, followed by fox, then an elk. Now, it was entirely beyond you who’d collect that many animals carcasses —you’d doubted they were hunted, given the large lacerations across their torsos— but it wasn’t much flattering. It wasn’t until you’d caved and cooked one of the elks and they’d kept giving you more that you’d considered they were trying to feed you. Sweet as that was, no one person had a use for that much elk. No one person could hunt that much elk. No person would see it right to draw a sigil in blood on the back wall of someone’s house in elk blood. No one person would help you.

You were still beautiful as you slept. He was glad now you were his spouse, though it did take you a while to get used to his courting. It was for the best though, you were well fed and protected now, more than any mortal man could hope to provide you with. He did enjoy killing all your other suitors. That tradition was always entertaining.

[ieatangstforbreakfast]

Pairing ೃ⁀➷ 𝐄𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝟒𝟐! 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 x Fem! Reader

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Lovers have secrets of their own, no matter how much they come to trust each other, whether it be a past mistake or an unspoken trauma. For you and Miles, however, your secrets came in the form of hidden identities— one being a masked vigilante, and the other a mastermind.

Genre ೃ⁀➷ Forbidden love, mutual pining, angst♡

Tags ೃ⁀➷ Both are artists, reader is from a very wealthy family, both are living double lives, underaged smoking, reader is female and uses she/her pronouns, forbidden love (ish?), swearing, daddy issues, mommy issues, reader is unhinged, both are mentally unstable, lots of flirting.

Author's Note ೃ⁀➷ l went through like a fuck ton of shit [Broke up with my boyfriend of two years, entrance exam, and uh I lost some friends] and 2024’s barely started lol sorry for the late update, i am,,, extremely deep in hurting 👍

Tag list ೃ⁀➷ @sakura-onesan @coffeeandtealol @luvjunie @noetophat @proudgojofucker @depresssedcowboy @adorefavv @l0starl @your-girl-mj @nyumeii @iheartamajiki @yoluv-tiannaaa--212 @bakauwu @callsignwidow

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐: 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐎𝐧 𝐎𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬

Summary ೃ⁀➷ Miles and Eddie make an exchange. A certain nightmare plagues his thoughts. Your insanity unfolds, and so does Miles’ suspicions.

[Warning: Blasphemy, mentioned of fucked up things and crimes, deranged thinking]

MASTERLIST

Previous chapter || Next chapter

“Miles, what would make you hate me?”

The memory was so long ago. Well, to be exact, perhaps it’s been a month or two since it happened. Miles could still so clearly remember the way you leaned your head against the damp wall, your eyes far off into the void of whatever haunted you. At that time, his feelings had been but a spark budding within his chest ever so delicately, a butterfly ripping out of its cocoon in his stomach.

“I don’t know.” Miles whispered into the air. “I don’t think it’s possible to truly hate a person when you know them personally.”

At that moment, you looked at him, with your head half-buried within your hood.

“Why’s that?” You asked, fiddling with the ends of your hoodie.

Miles took a moment to think about how to word his answer.

“When you recognize someone enough to know that they’re not evil people who’d do random shit for shits and giggles, you learn to realize that they’re not really a monster.. At least, not as much as they seem.” His lingering gaze travels towards the ample of your cheek. “I can’t hate you when I know you. You’ve got a name, and you’re somebody’s sister, daughter.. Well, you don’t have to be all that. You just need to be somebody, and you’re somebody to me, and that alone’s the reason why I can never hate you.”

“That’s.. Interesting.” You whispered. “So technically, you humanize your enemies.”

“That’s one weird way to put it, but yeah.”

“But what if it’s a façade?” The words rolled off your tongue seamlessly. “What if.. They’re not exactly the person you thought they were. What if they’ve done more harm than good?”

He thinks about it for a moment.

“It’s not my job to humanize people. People humanize themselves.” Miles answered. “If there’s truly nothing at all about this person that makes them human, or makes me feel like they still have a relatively active conscience inside of them.. I can’t.”

“So you’re saying thay if they’re not human, you’ll hate them?”

“No!” He rapidly shook his head.

“No, ‘cause Miles, I’ll be fair with you. Ion think there’s anything more monstrous than humanity. We are our own enemies. Nothing else causes more pain to a human other than its own body or its own kind, which is why hatred is such a natural thing.”

“Hatred is a natural thing for you, because you grew up only having to think about yourself.”

“Because if not me, then who would?” You spewed. You didn’t mean to sound overtly bitter, but you were. “Unlike you, Miles, my family ain’t the shit. It’s me against the world always— I-If, had I gotten a remote opportunity to care about anyone other than myself, maybe I wouldn’t be this hateful.”

“Well, you got a chance now.”

“How so?”

“You got me.”

You paused, wondering if you’ve heard correctly.

“… I’ve got you?”

Whatever did that statement mean? You’ve heard about a million pick-up lines, but what the hell was this?

“F’course you do. We’re friends.”

Friends.

“Friends?” Just friends?

Miles hums. “Buddies. Amigos.”

Ah, right, that’s how it always starts. Just friends.

Miles snuck his hand into one of his pockets, plucking out something round that you were too lost in your haze to even notice. He seems to fiddle with it for a moment, digging his fingers into its plush before nudging it towards you.

“You want some?”

You turned around and realized he’d peeled you an orange. “.. What.. These are so expensive these days. How’d you even get one?” Your hand reaches out for the fruit, examining its tiny size. You’d heard about the sudden inflation of prices, so fruits inevitably turned into a luxury for most. Miles parts the mandarin and places the larger half on top of your hand.

“.. I stole one from my neighbor’s garden. God did say generous people prosper, so I did him a favor.”

“I’m pretty sure there was a ‘thou shall not steal’ in one of the commandments, Miles.” You laughed, plopping a piece atop your tongue. The tangy, sweet, yet sour flavor bursts right in, making you grimace ever so lightly. “Oh, that’s sour.”

Miles took after you, similarly cringing. “Eugh.”

“It’s probably not all that ripe yet. It’s fine though,” You plopped another into your mouth. “I like oranges— sour things as a whole. They snap me back into life.”

“That sounds sad.” He mumbled, turning to look at you. “Kinda worrying, if you ask me.”

“Well, I wasn’t asking.” You plucked out one of the seeds from your teeth.

“Right, ‘cause you never ask.” Miles took another bite. “You only answer.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know.” Miles shrugged. “I like saying random shit to tick you off.”

You rolled your eyes, trudging your way up from the floor as you staggered from the cold. “Thanks for the orange, Miles.” Running a hand through your hair, you looked out and sighed. He couldn’t help but feel surprised at the lack of your sass.

“You’re welcome, princesa.”

Your brow cringed. “Don’t call me that.”

His finger twitches. He watched as you froze for a moment, turning to look at him. With gentle steps, you approached and leaned down— tufts of your hair brushing against the temple of his forehead. At that moment, he swallows while taking in the scent of your perfume and its ridiculously sweet stench. How could everything about you be so sweet?

You plucked your pen out of his hands. “This is mine.” You reminded of him. Miles didn’t utter a single word til’ your eyes met. Even in the darkness, you saw, but you ignored— well, rather, you tried to ignore it, but it stung.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

Miles turned his head, forcibly pushing down the butterflies fluttering like haywire in his stomach.

Hands clammy, heart haywire, eyes unable to meet yours.

“Sure, whatever.”

That day ended there, but Miles knew then. He knew.

Eddie Brock couldn't look past the television store, as his eyes were drawn completely to the news. Not that he couldn't afford a paper, or a gadget of his own— he was simply nervous, figdety, and this ominous pit that holed itself into his stomach unnerved him like a pig carved up for the butcher. He'd known of the news already, honestly, something along the lines of the daily murders and crimes that weren't all too unusual to be fair, and rather than the screen's bright technicolored themes, he was hyper focused entirely on one thing.

The face of Will Barlowe, the almighty senator. Eddie had long been staring at that man's creased, brown skin and slick, blonde hair that was fading into this falsified shade of platinum all because of his whitening strands.

Damn the rich, all of them.

Eddie was no one, like everyone else. A drop of water in the ocean, a needle in a haystack. He was one, like the rest, with the hard workers who carried the economy with their white, blue, pink-collared jobs. He thrived, initially, three years ago. He was an activist then— a journalist in a crisp collared shirt and black dress pants, warning the young about the dangers of climate change, and speaking outwardly in regard to politics.

Now, he was nothing more but a wrinkled jacket-wearing, eccentric and amusing conspiracy theorist scraping the tiniest bits of his dignity to post videos on Facebook or Youtube shorts about how fucked up and dystopian America's grown to become.

When the Prowler, the younger one, decidedly linked him a location allegedly shared by the elites, Eddie wanted to think of it as a chance to shine, to end everything once and for all, and to avenge Anna. For Anna, and for what could’ve been their happy, serene life. But when he arrived, painstakingly clad in plaid while forging the identity of a lost tourist, he was disappointed entirely to find out that the warehouse had been burnt down.

He could still recall the charcoaled crevices of what could’ve been his salvation— that masked boy, the Prowler, promised him salvation in a what-could’ve-been some rich guy’s attempt of a house barbecue.

“Did I make ya wait long?”

A voice reminiscent of a growl. That same shade of neon magenta lingered, popping like a change of color in the melancholy of great Harlem. Eddie tries not to look, but the presence of the boy simmered like fire even as he hung like a spider from the ceiling. He was always like that— the Prowler. The boy was a tall, lanky thing who walked and talked suave. Dominican, he initially assumed. Eddie figured this little vigilante was likely a high schooler with hopes consequently dimmed by the recession.

“Nope.” Eddie attempted to appeal cooly, instead, he only crumbled more. “I’d been watching the news this whole time, tryna check if there was anything about the fire.”

He hears a metal click. “They prolly wouldn’t say nothin’. See, if they didn’t wanna hide it, it’d be all over the television. But it ain’t there, so that means the Chávez’s are hiding the fire from the other families. They prolly paid the witnesses to keep their mouths shut or bribed all the television networks to say it’s some barbecue party gone bad.”

A few passersby couldn’t help but squeak at the sight of the infamous vigilante hanging from a store sign, but they all seemed to know better than approaching him. Trouble was wherever he was, after all, or something the daily bugle said along those lines. They shared glances, sure. Curious, amused glances like how people would marvel at a lion in a zoo.

“It’s,” Eddie finally looked at him. “it’s something ‘bout the Chávez’s?”

With a momentary pause, the Prowler released his grip from the metal poles and dangled down for a second before decidedly letting his feet hit the ground. He was tall— truly, around an inch or two taller than grouchy Eddie. His braids seemed much longer than he’d last seen them. Did he recently get them redone?

“.. That’s right.” Prowler hummed. “.. But we might wanna move some place else to have this conversation, Mr. Brock.”

And where the cat went, curiosity followed down as it made its way to the dark alleyways.

Eddie had a million questions, like any other normal being. The Chávez’s, the Primos, the Barlowes, the Fisks, the Osborns, and all of the other wealthy families connected to one another were all listed down on his kill bill naturally, and he’d been dreaming about the day of crossing out their names with ink made from their blood. Cliché, but a threat either way. Eddie wasn’t a writer, but a journalist anyways. Creativity in terms of wording his hatred was limited and it wasn’t his forte.

“In your past facebook post, you mentioned the Chávez’s briefly,” The boy began, halting by the corner dampened by rain. “I need information about the whole family.”

“… Aren’t you supposed to know the basic information about your enemies?”

“If it were that easy, I wouldn’t be needing your help.” The two white shapes that proxied as his eyes narrowed, grimacing ever so lightly. “There’s little information about them in the black market, and within the scarcity, most of them aren’t factual.”

“They’re rich enough to be able to squander their wealth on silencing people,” Eddie kicked at a can. “Of course no one knows, but I do.”

“How so?”

Picking at something in between his cheek, Eddie sighed a long sigh.

“… My wife worked as their private attorney.”

He watched the boy take a step back. “.. Your wife?”

“Yeah.” Eddie nodded. “My wife, Anna. She was taught to keep silent about their crimes, and to find a loophole in every case.” A lump formed in his throat.

The Prowler stared. He couldn’t make out whether it was an empathetic or judgmental one. “.. So your wife covered up the Chávez’s crimes?”

“A part of it.” Eddie mumbled. “There’s more to the elite than we know, Anna had to burn her files after every case, so she couldn’t snitch or post them after she quits.”

His head turns. “… I see.”

He sees the boy shift, weirdly, fidgety. He couldn’t particularly describe the unease this young vigilante conveyed. It was almost like he was on the verge of asking something, but his mask made it harder to read what he was desperate to know about.

“.. So can you tell me?”

A simmering silence sunk into the gaps of their conversation.

“What’s in it for me?” Eddie asked, knowing he shouldn’t have, as it was obvious and painstakingly accusatory.

“Why do we have to have transactions when it comes to justice?”

Eddie paced. “Capitalism.”

“Fair point.” The Prowler sighed, rocking on the ends of his neon shoes. “Well, what d’ya want?”

Eddie thinks, and thinks. What could a conspiracy theorist— no, a journalist want? Could he ask for a man’s death? The head of Barlowe? The head of Chávez? Or could that only be achieved after this gamble? He looked at this boy, and Eddie pictured this teenager basking his hands in blood.

What would make him any different from the elites?

“… When you went to the warehouse, you guys.. Took evidence? Even a USB, right?”

He stared. “Yeah, we dug it up and we tried sending it to every news outlet we could find.. All of them rejected the information.”

“Why?” Eddie furrowed his brow. “Was the information incomplete? Did you send the evidence beneath a credible name as a source?”

“Credible name?”

“Yeah, if the information comes from a credible source, they might do something about it. Likewise, if the information is complete, they might take the risk, after all, the Chávez’s are old money, and they have a lot of influence in regard to politics. If they publish anything against them, without complete information, or if you’re just a bunch of trespassers regarded as criminals by the media,” Eddie held out a finger. “Someone will get shot.”

The boy swallowed.

“If not you, if not your partner, it’s the journalist. Always the journalist.”

And Eddie’s seen too much of his co-workers wound up as mere victims in a headline. ‘Journalist shot dead.’

And he didn’t want his name to be reduced to a John Doe in one of the many causes people are too afraid to fight for.

“… I’ll tell you all about the Chávez’s, if you give me the records you stole from the warehouse.”

The Prowler stood, seemingly caught up in his thoughts for a moment. “.. Okay, but I’m telling you, don’t make a large move without consulting me first.”

“I still want my head attached to my head, of course I’ll consult y’all first.” Eddie chuckled, his fingers pouring into his pockets. “Then, what do you want to know about the Chávez’s?”

Without missing a beat, he answered.

“You can give me all you got. Recent scandals, fuck ups.. Perhaps, you got anything from the collapse of the Aureum building three years ago?”

“The Aureum building,” Eddie echoed, reminiscing like a veteran released from war. “That was the messiest thing I’ve ever witnessed in the last ten years. The lawsuits, the bribes, and the social media mayhem—“

“The deaths.” Miles cringed, remembering his father. “Surely, that was the most fucked up thing.”

“Aside from the architecture? Sure.” Eddie pulled out a box of cigars from his pocket, wringing out a single stick. “Weak scaffolding, quick-dry cement.. Put two and two together, and everything collapsed as soon as the opening began.”

Miles wallowed, grimacing at the sight of the habit. “Could it have been planned?”

With a flick of his lighter, Eddie took one breath in and sighed. “Could? There’s no ‘could’, boy, it was planned.”

Planned? Planned by who?

Were the Chávez’s really masters at self-sabotage? Or were their enemies really just each other?

“You see, the Chávez’s specialize in human trafficking, slave trade, and child labor. The people they ship work tirelessly for other businesses without a fee— because we, you and I and the rest of us who had the freedom to earn education, refused to work under hellish circumstances and poor environments. Without us, precisely, without the poor, the rich are nothing.”

“Then the Aureum building?”

“The Aureum building was a cover-up for a bigger scandal.” Eddie tilted his head. “The people inside were likely witnesses, or people who knew about the human trafficking.. And when the building collapsed, they sued the construction companies involved, got the money, but damaged their reputation.. And I don’t see why they’d do all of that just to damage their reputation.”

Miles pondered and pondered.

“.. It was probably someone from inside the family who planned everything.”

“That’s what I think so too.” Eddie added, blowing off another puff of intoxicating smoke. “Someone who won’t suffer from the damaged reputation.. Yet someone who still manages to benefit from it all financially.”

“… Could it be.. Any one of the siblings?”

Eddie takes a step back, likely thinking about it. “.. Well, the other one’s in London, the other one’s too stupid, and the last’s a minor.”

“Minor?” Miles repeated. “How young are we talking?”

“.. Well, the last time I heard about the girl.. She was thirteen, and it’s been three years since then, so she’s probably fifteen to sixteen.”

It’s not as though a thirteen year old could possibly plan out such a meticulous plan… Well maybe, or maybe not, it’s not as though Miles was the only genius capable of great things.

“You know any of their names?”

“Names.” Eddie furrowed his brow. “The last girl’s protected by the law, since it’s illegal to paparazzi minors.. But the first two are Montrell and Anthony.”

Montrell. Mon. Three children. Two older brothers. One girl. Sixteen, sixteen years old just like you.

Miles swallowed.

It’s as though he could feel your hands blocking your vision, whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

He falters, alerting Eddie. “What’s wrong?”

“.. My head just hurts.” He mumbled, turning his head. “I think I kinda overworked myself. I still got a date.. Need to.. Rest.”

“Date?” Eddie blew. “That’s right. You’re quite famous, ain’t you?”

Miles rolled his eyes, able to freely express his distaste for the supposed compliment behind his mask. “I try not to be, don’t wanna make her think about it too much. The broad shoulders don’t help as much, though.”

“She know all ‘bout your..” With his cigarette squeezed between his ring, Eddie gestured at him. “Your little vigilante thing?”

Leaning his head against the brick wall, Miles crossed his arms and shrugged. “She better not. Don’t wanna make her daddy even madder.” He lowers his gaze a bit, his mask naturally zooming into the title of Eddie’s cigarette box. It was the same brand as your brother’s, likely a different flavor. Mint or something. Everyone around him smoked too much.

“She from the finer part of York or what?”

“The finest.” He recalls your brother’s luxury car. “.. But I think she’s tryna hide it.”

Eddie plucks the cigar out his teeth, a sort of accusatory yet mundane expression scribbled all over his scruffy face. Eventually, he laughs it off. “That’s all of what’s wrong with our society. The poor pretend to be rich and the rich pretend to be poor. They like romanticizing poverty but likely won’t be able to find comfort if they walked in our shoes for ‘bout a damn mile.”

“She ain’t nun like that.” Miles butted in. “She’s sweet, my girl. Cruel, sometimes, but that’s how ladies gotta be from time to time— seeing as how the world fucks them up every now and then.”

“.. That your first date?” Eddie asked.

“I guess. We’re kissing, but we got no label.”

Eddie scoffed an old man’s scoff. “Your generation’s got me fucked up. Y’all and your situationship bullshittery.”

“It ain’t like that.”

“It’s always like that.” Eddie narrowed his eyes. Miles similarly cringed, wondering how Eddie could be so bitter— having to remind himself seconds later that the man’s poor wife was dead. Dead as hell. As dead as his father. “If she can’t even be upfront about her wealth, she’s likely hiding something from you.”

“My man, I’m lucky she even looked my way. You know nun ‘bout her, don’t be like that.”

“And what if she’s from the oligarchy, huh?” Eddie exaggerated. “What if she’s a Fisk? A Barlowe? Hell, even worse, what if she’s a Chávez?”

Miles didn’t reply.

As the puff of smoke emanated through the damp air, suddenly, Miles pictured you holding a cigarette while grinning at him wickedly— and somehow, that tantalizing air.. Suited you like the slip of a glove.

“I’m just kidding w’ya, man.” Eddie laughed, flicking the cigarette away, crushing it with the sole of his wrinkled boot.

“Ain’t funny, Ed.” Miles grumbled. “People I loved died in Aureum.”

“But she’s still rich, though. You can never be too sure ‘bout the kind of secrets her family’s keeping. If push comes to shove, will you still be able to love her if you do find out that her family’s fucked up?”

“Stop it.” He angrily seethed. “Stop.”

Eddie watched with a certain stank in his eye.

“… Y’know, there’s a rumor that one of the Chávez kids are illegitimate.”

.. Miles left seconds after.

It’d not been his greatest day, and earnestly speaking, his gut’s been clamoring at him to listen, only for him to reject its pleas. He’d thought about listening— to whatever higher being was calling upon him to stray away from you.

His Mama told him to pray throughout his struggles. She’d not been a zealot, his mother. But she was no stranger to the novena, to pray and to call for help in such long days. He’d been subjected to it early on: the novenas, the masses, the lingering of frankincense in the air. Though she never truly coerced him to participate in the church, Miles simply titter-tottered throughout those dull Sunday evenings.

He didn’t want some higher being to stop him from becoming a horrible person; Miles wanted to be good on his own accord.

But you.. You made him question. Not you, but himself.

Though his dad always told him to question everything while he’s young, Miles couldn’t question you. How could ever question you?

An illegitimate child. Which one was it?

Your brothers, who had everything?

Or you, who had nothing?

And although Eddie left the alleyway unscathed, Miles felt that blood had stained his hands.

And you could still taste blood in your mouth.

You could still hear the crunch of that man’s neck echoing in your ears, his tiny pleads of self-preservation before the snap to his death. It rang and rang behind your eyes, between your ears, like a haunting melody you couldn’t help but repeat.

The memory of his fear merely energized your veins, but left you gawking in dauntness even as you worked your way through the hotel— showing Montrell the ropes and tending to the preparations for the upcoming charity event. The snap, the way it snapped— the way his neck snapped was a musical lyric that pulsed and pulsed in your mind.

Snap.

Snap.

ＳＮＡＰ.

The idea of fear intrigued you, cannibalism, however, not so much. The symbiote immensely argued with you, that it wasn’t your body in particular feasting on human flesh, but the symbiote itself. It needed to be fed, and it needed sustenance— but you didn’t know where else to find that sustenance.

“Miss?” Charlotte, the head housekeeper called out to you, snapping you back from the profanities of your mind.

Suddenly, you’re back staring at the new, tall, stained-glass windows— basking you in the glory of pale lights in shades of ethereal yellow and blue. It’s been under construction for quite a while now, but after your father had approved of the idea, you were willing to wait long enough to see its outcome. You’d only gotten the news just a few hours ago in regard to its completion, and now you’ve been staring at it for a while now.

“Yes?” You stifled airily, wallowing in a hundred emotions.

Charlotte bows her head for a moment, unveiling an approaching guest.

Before you could even process to question who it was, Montrell and his gentle eyes appeared before you. He seems to marvel at the windows before you as he takes another step up the stairs.

“Wow,” He huffed. “Is this.. Your design?”

You simply looked at the window with crossed arms and a smile. “I couldn’t forget about the windows when we went to Veronica’s wedding. I liked.. The colors and the drama it endowed.” You smiled, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear. “.. This was my final project in the hotel.. I’ve done so much to rebrand everything, but we still can’t do much ‘bout what happened in the past.”

The lights dawned upon the both of you.

“Does it hold any special meaning?” He asks.

You shrugged. “It varies on the person, I guess. I think, those who don’t really know me will try to put meaning into all that I do, but those who really know me know that my art is plainly.. Meant for aesthetic.”

Montrell frowned. “How can you make art without passion?”

“.. You pick up a pen.” You carved a smile. “And you just draw.”

You draw, and you draw. Carved it in, like how a knife would pierce a sack of flesh. Murder the canvas with each stroke, and if they ask you ‘why?’, answer with ‘why not?’.

“I think.. Only Miles can place meaning in my art. After all, my passion resides in him.”

“Like a proxy.” Montrell darkly laughed, shaking his head. “.. I wonder how hard you’d break once you lose him.”

You turned your head to look at your brother’s charming face.

“Is that a threat?”

“A warning,” He remarked. “After all, how could he ever love you once he realizes that our family’s responsible for his father’s death?”

You turned your head back to the windows. “… I feel guilty, actually. I don’t really know how to approach Miles if he ever comes to realize my identity.”

“.. Don’t you feel lonely having to constantly push away the people you love?”

You shrugged. “I’m a pretty girl. Pretty girls are never lonely.”

“Sure.”

Montrell looked at you. To be precise, he eyed you, and he looked at the way you casted your eyes downward. From a mile away, one would believe you fostered insecurity and shame in the way you’d stare, but knowing you and the way you were, that downcast gaze of yours imbued disinterest and a heightened sense of.. Superiority.

No matter how hard you try to appear empathetic, you were always and inevitably still a Chávez. Even in the way you pursed your rouged lips, or spoke with eloquence, or held your head high.. You and your siblings, who were forged to become heartless from the beginning, were never bound to be kind.. Or good.

But could Miles do it?

Could he actually change you? Humanize you?

Make you kind and loving, and normal?

You tightened your grip over your arm. “I.. Was going to escape tonight, originally.. For our date. He wanted us to have a halloween date. It’s so dorky. He’s so dorky.” The way you fawned was genuine, though. He could see it so clearly. “But after daddy mentioned the USB, I didn’t know how to face him without feeling guilty.. I came to meet Miles with the intention of using him to get his dead dad’s stuff but I ended up.. Falling for him. I never knew I was capable of feeling like this.”

“.. When we’re too busy to survive, it feels frustrating to have to care for someone else. That’s why our family doesn’t feel like one.” Montrell whispered.

“We’re not a Greek tragedy.”

“Exactly, which would mean,” He turns to you. “You’re likely still savable, [N/n].”

You lightly winced. “.. I haven’t heard that nickname since I was twelve.”

Your brother chuckles at the reminder. “.. We called you that since you couldn’t pronounce your name when you were three.” Montrell heaved a long breath, as though he were a dreamer reminiscing the times. Ah, he truly is a sucker for what’s long gone, huh? “Antonne and I were so excited to have you. Your first word was my name, actually, Mon. I had to sneak up into your cradle every night just to make you practice say my name. Mama used to hold you in her arms whenever I got home from school, and she used to read out my cards with you in her other hands ‘cause you were one energetic kid.”

Oh, so like a normal family?

We were capable of having that this whole time?

…

“[Y/n]?”

You snapped yourself back to reality, Montrell’s voice leading you out of your internal monologue. “Did you hear my question?” He queried. “You kinda zoned out there.”

“Sorry, I was thinking ‘bout something. You were saying?”

“Once you get the USB.. Are you going to leave him?”

The question seemed far fetched from the previous topic, which caught you off-guard. You turn your head. “.. I don’t know. I’d rather make him hate me, and have him leave me first, because I don’t think I can ever bring it upon myself to leave him.”

Such a romantic.

“Do you think you can handle it?”

“.. It’s not a question of whether I can handle it, it’s a question of whether Miles can handle it.”

Montrell murmured. “.. What if he gets revenge?”

“Revenge?” You repeated, the idea sounding funnily dramatic. “Revenge on me? I didn’t throw that building over his father’s head.”

“Ah, yes, but there’s a thing called karma.” Montrell spoke as thought to remind you. “It’ll be out there to get you, or at least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

You couldn’t help but aimlessly ponder. “… Why do poor people believe in futile things such as karma?”

The way you worded it, and the way it exited your tongue seemed unusually natural. Montrell, who’s been too used to such words, only shrugged. “Cause there’s nothing else to save them. That’s why they have a god, [Y/n]. They can’t save themselves, and so that’s why they believe something otherworldly will.”

Before you could speak, Montrell looked out into the glass windows before turning to you.

“Speaking of which, I think you should use daffodils for the upcoming party.”

“.. Daffodils?” You repeated.

Your brother nods. “Yes. I find them to be quite lovely.”

Since when did he have an interest in flowers? You internally squirmed. “Where the hell am I going to get daffodils in autumn?” You groaned. “We can use other yellow flowers for the golden theme.”

“Well, you’re not in charge anymore.” Was his attempt of a tease. “Surely there are still daffodils here in this season. We’ll have to find the best greenhouse in town.”

“But why?”

“Because I said so.”

You sweetly casted a glance at him, smiling as a thought crowed at you.

A sharp pain shoots through Miles’ head. A pulsing, familiar pain— resembling a bullet, dove straight into his subconscious.

He stumbles back as darkness clouds his vision, a sort of slithering and slimy feeling coursing through his system like a snake seething beneath his skin. His heart was hammering against his chest. It was like that time during the warehouse, where he felt genuinely uneasy and unsettled. The eyes of that figure behind the window, watching him tremulously stare back.

In the cage of his mind, Miles finds himself inside a dark void— where the silence was loud enough to hear the sound of a pin drop.

Then there was this drumming.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The melody was unfamiliar, but the voice nostalgic. Miles crawled amidst the darkness, searching for the voice, only to look up and catch the sight of a pristine, delicately made shoe. It kicked against the front of a desk, making a rhythmic pattern. Thump. Thump. Thump. With each passing moment, his eyes continued to linger upward, from the shoe, to a leg, to a waist, to your pretty face.

You sat there, above the desk, with your pretty hair and your pretty eyes, puckering up your pretty lips along with the song. You were so idly calm, so leisure while singing so softly, he could hardly make out the words exiting your mouth. A dim, green light cascaded against the silhouette of your figure, further accentuating the pink of your lips and the darkening of your gaze.

You smiled, but your eyes held nothing. Like you never knew what kindness was, even in his presence. You never looked at him like that before— like you hated him enough that you wanted him to die.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The thumping was growing faster and faster with each second. Upon seeing his struggle, a stifled laugh laces the lyrics.

Miles tried to move, but his whole body writhed in pain— like he was beaten, defeated. His arms itched in burns and scars. With the sound of your hum, Miles looks up, only to see you cross your arms before your chest, the tip of your shoe gently grazing against the skin of his temple. He feels as though he was being watched, idly, by an audience that had no interest at all in intervening. Like everyone was amused to see him.. Kneeling before you.

Click. Click. Click. The cutter clicked in your palm as the blade rose higher.

It’s like your presence alone was enough to blind him, and his conscience kept crawling back to you no matter how hard it tries to stray.

Really, who are you, [Y/n]?

Why was it whenever you lingered in his dreams, you were the cruelest person to exist?

And why was it that Miles knew that he’d probably still adore you with your hands around his neck?

“.. Miles?”

From a gentle shuffle, Miles awoke to the sound of his mother’s voice.

Miles jolted up, his skin half drenched with cold sweat. Unfortunately enough, his awakening was nothing avian. On the contrary, his awakening felt like a somber chore. The material clung onto him like glue, making him utter a groan. For a while, he helplessly looked around like a child lost between rows of linoleum aisles, his mind hopping from question to question. 'What just happened? What was I dreaming of?'

Like some hungover drunkard, he gently peeled himself away from the sweat-stained sheets and begrudgingly sat upright. Rio’s gentle hand cradled his aching head.

“Rest, mijo, you’re exhausted.”

“Mama, I—“ He broke, running a damp hand over his head. For a moment, he flinches, checking to see if his hands were covered in blood. “What happened?”

His mother’s dark curls lightly brushed against his temple. Her eyes were just as exhausted as he was, with dark circles rimming the doeness of her gaze. “I got home to you taking a nap but you kept squirming. I was so worried. Que paso?”

He looked around, realizing he’d dropped himself unconscious atop the sofa.

“.. Nightmare.”

Night terrors, to put it precisely. It’s been haunting him since the death of his father three years ago. He thought they’d long vanished after meeting you, but after his suspicions arose, his anxiety came crawling back like a dreadful stench.

Rio handed him a glass of water, to which he gulped down to its very last drop— like he’s been thirsting for all his life.

“Mama,” He called out. “… What do I do?”

His loving mother creased her brow, shaking her head. “What is it, mijo? What’s wrong?”

He runs his hand over his face, wondering how to begin. At that moment, Miles recalls your sweetest smiles, your loudest laughs, and your warmest hugs.

You held his hand, dragged him out of that maze, and you vandalized the hotel together. You tore yourself away from the expectations of your family, and went to him.

You chose him.

But could he go so far to assume that you loved him?

Rio shifted comfortably, trying to appear more welcoming to whatever catastrophe Miles was about to unleash. “What’s wrong, Miles?”

Miles couldn’t even admit it to himself, though he’d long noticed, he preferred to remain ignorant ‘til the truth was spilled from your own lips.. But he didn’t know how much longer he could last. Blood runs thicker than water, but both feel the same when your eyes are closed— and that could mean many things.

“A lot, ma.” He buried his head into his hands. “And Ionno if I could deal with it all.”

“You don’t have to deal with everything, Miles.” Rio frowned. “You’re only fifteen. Eres demasiado joven. Con el tiempo todo se arregla.”

“Me duele la cabeza.”

“Ponte vaporub.” Rio stood to grab the small, blue ointment. As she unscrews its green cap, Miles was immediately hit with its loud, minty scent. Digging her fingers into the substance, Rio smears the vaporub all over Miles’ forehead. “Sana sana colita de rana, si no sana hoy, sanará mañana.”

He lightly moved away with a sigh. “I’m not a kid anymore, ma.”

“I’m your mother, you’ll always be my kid.” As the cooling sensation sunk into his skin, he felt his mother’s palm cup his cheek. “And since you’re my kid, I always get worried about you. I know we ain’t got nothing much, but we got each other, Miles. You’re a great kid bound to achieve great things.”

He wasn’t too sure about that. That whole great kid thing. You had your fingers entangled all over his puppet strings, and it made him hesitate.

But what if that was exactly your plan? To ruin him entirely for your benefit?

“.. Ma, what would you do if the person you liked lied to you about their identity?”

Rio sat in silence.

“.. Que?”

Ah, fuck. That’s a stupid question.

“Nothing.” Miles turned his head. “Sorry, that was a stupid question—“

“No, Miles. I didn’t mean to— I just, you like someone? A girl?”

Miles shifted uncomfortably. Rio softened. “A boy?”

“No, ma!” He exclaimed, embarrassed. “I-It’s a girl. I like a girl.. Por los clavos de Cristo.”

“Oh, I was preparing myself.” Rio placed a hand over her heart. “Don’t get me wrong, I’d accept you no matter what, I just didn’t have a long wonderful speech prepared for it.. But what’s wrong with the girl?”

“Well, ma, it’s just..”

“Did she cheat on you!?”

“No! We’re not even together yet, ma. We were gonna have our first date today, but.. But her family’s been treating her horribly, and her older brother picked her up while we were out buying costumes for our halloween date only for him to directly tell me that it ain’t happening.”

“And then?”

“She talked ‘bout her dad throwing a fit, and now she hasn’t replied the whole day.” He slipped his fingers through his hair. “I even woke up at six in the morning just to get my braids redone at Tasha’s… And they invited me to a party at their house on Sunday.”

“Sunday? Then— that’s great!” Rio exclaimed, placing her hands over her son’s shoulders. “That would mean they’re open to getting to know you. Well, I think you can borrow some of your dad’s old clothes for the party, you two look great in suits anyway.”

“W-Well, ma, that ain’t entirely the problem, she’s..” He swallowed. “Ma, I think she comes from a very rich family.”

“Okay, and?” Rio raised a brow. “Did she ever make you feel inferior for having superior wealth?”

“.. No? Well, she’s been trying to keep it on the down low this whole time, but.. Whenever I see her, she acts so.. Proper and polite when she don’t even notice it. And her brother’s British too, and I— Ionno how the hell that happened, but he sound like the type to spit out tap water if I ever brought him to a restaurant.”

“Well, you’re dating the girl, Miles, not her brother.” Rio sighed. He thinks of it for a moment, then shrugs. Only then he notices his mother’s wide smile, her shoulder nearly glued onto his.

“So.. Who’s the girl?”

Miles fiddled awkwardly, unsure how to answer. Rio seemed adamant for an answer, so, after a while of internally mustering up sentences, Miles replied. “Her name.. [Y/n].”

“Mhm.”

“She uh.. Sixteen. I-I met her three months ago.. And we started doing graffiti together since then.”

“Oh, so she’s an artist?”

Miles gaped. “S… Sum like that, yeah.”

Your art varied. Your colors were blander while his, more vibrant. But there was something about the way you drew, that was so meaningfully realistic that it captured entirely how your mind pondered in its darkest moments. An art style that captured entirely the darkest of what life could bring.

He remembers going through your sketchpads, how your dabbles consisted of dull realism. Maybe it was only dull because it was exactly what New York’s become— cold and calloused.

But in contrast, you were able to set his world on fire in a way he’s never seen. Only you could paint over the dullness with scarlet, in a way that had him choking from the smoke emanating from your fire.

But he couldn’t tell his mother the way you’ve worsened him.

His mother wouldn’t let him get too close to someone as bright and dangerous as you.

“Why haven’t you mentioned about her before? I could’ve helped!” Rio tossed her dark curls to the side. They’d always reminded him of the dark sea. “Es puertorriqueña? Puede hablar español?”

“No,” Miles thinks about it for a minute. “I-Ionno, actually. She never told me anythin’ bout it, but she can’t speak Spanish so I ain’t sure.”

Rio attempted, no she really did try to attempt— to hide her disappointment. Were her grandkids bound to forever be free of her culture? How saddening.

“Pero creo que ella está estudiando español.”

“Oh?”

“Sí.” Mile seemed to lightened up. “She’s so cute. She can’t even pronounce ‘roja’.”

“But she’s trying.” Rio could not be any happier. “She’s trying! Eso es bueno! Ella ya me gusta. Not everyone tries these days, you know.”

He wondered if his mother was faking her enthusiasm just to ease him. He’d expected her to be more.. Angry about it.

“.. I’m surprised you’re not upset, ma.”

“Upset?” Rio furrowed her brows. “Miles, how could I get upset? You’re experiencing what every other teenager experiences, that’s great!.. I know you’ve been trying to act like an adult to help us, and you’ve given up so much just to keep us afloat. I’ve been getting worried that you’ve been focusing too much with adult responsibilities that you’re forgetting that you’re just a kid. You’re allowed to go around and be a kid. You’re allowed to like a girl— so long as she’s not a bad influence.”

Miles pushes back the thought of you being a smoker.

“She’s not a bad influence. She’s.. Just going through a lot.. She makes me happy, ma.”

Rio looked at him proudly. Only then, she wondered if her dearest husband ever brooded like this too upon realizing his feelings for her. She wondered if Jeff ever pouted the way Miles did, and looked out into the world with such admiration in his eyes as though he were shaping the void into an image of her.

Jeff loved, and thus, Miles could love too.

“If she makes you happy, then I’m happy.” She beamed. “So long as she’s not a brat or an alcoholic, or a racist, or any of those bad people, I’ll accept her.”

The mother shared a loving glimpse of her son, making out an image of her late husband in the way he smiled. Suddenly, she pats her lap and stands up. “Bueno, I’m making adobo.”

“I can help—“

“No, sit down, you’re tired.” Rio held out a finger. “Take a rest, Miles.”

“But Ma—“

“Rest.”

And he did.

Well, he tried. It was a subtle attempt. A poor one, at that. He sat upright by the sofa, listening to his mother chop up the potatoes. He tries to discreetly look into your messages, only to find you’ve finally texted back.

her ♡ || two minutes ago.

sorry i haven’t texted!! 😭😭

remember the party this sunday? my dad is making me help with the preparations so i couldn’t go to our date

i’m really sorry 🥺 don’t get mad

if you want, we can do it tomorrow.

Miles pouted. He didn’t want to reply immediately. He didn’t want to look desperate.

So he waited for another five minutes.

.. Even though you made him wait for six hours.

He switches the television on in attempt to distract himself from your message.

‘Last night, a horrific murder happened within Brooklyn, as the body of a beheaded man was discovered outside of a local bodega. Witnesses claim that an alien disguised as a teenage girl had ripped off, and eaten the man’s head.’

“The hell?” Miles burrowed his brows upon being greeted with the news on television. “An alien?”

He watches as the screen switches over towards one of the witnesses, a scruffy man with reddened eyes— evidently too lost in whatever he was taking to speak too calmly.

“.. They’re prolly high as hell.”

‘I’m ain’t even [censored] with y’all— some [censored] ripped off Kyle’s head— it was a horrific looking piece of [censored] made out of black goo or whatever the [censored]. The government’s [censored] making alien [censored]!

‘So far, there have been no records of the scene, as the cameras had been blacked out.’

“What the f—“ Miles grew mindful of his language upon realizing his mother was in the other room. “How the hell did that even happen!? Blacked out my ass.”

It was more or less, likely a murder related to the elites. One of their kids must’ve been hanging out with those junkies and killed a man for fun.

A phone begins to ring. Miles turns his head.

“Miles, can you get that for me?” He heard his mother, who was too busy chopping up something, call out.

He turns off the television, hops out of the sofa and heads straight into his mother’s room. As he flicks the light open, a king-sized bed greets him with its gray, large glory. He used to jump on that bed too much when he was a kid. Now, it looked.. Desolate, and almost deserted. With how large the bed was, he couldn’t help but ponder how lonely his mother must’ve felt, sleeping in a bed less warmer than three years ago.

Miles passes by the closet, and after foraging for a bit, he manages to find his mother’s phone atop a drawer— swiftly grabbing the gadget before turning to leave.

As he turns, his foot accidentally nudges against a box.

He peers through it, before kicking it away.

Making his way back to the kitchen, he hands the ringing phone over to his mother before curtly returning to the room to close the lights.

But as his hands reached out towards the switch, his eyes were drawn back to the sight of the box.

It looked like it’d been cast aside beside the closet.

Hearing his mother speak over the phone lightheartedly, something about something. Miles trudges towards the orange, cardboard box, kneeling by the floor with a single knee down on the wood. His hand curiously glazes over the top, feeling a pile of dust collect over his fingers.

Hesitantly, he takes off the lid, finding a familiar white, collared shirt. He pulls it up to the ceiling light and watches as it unfolds into a larger sheet.

This belonged to his father’s.

He looks right back into the box, finding a pair of black, dress pants neatly folded into a square. Meekly, he tugs on it, hoping he wouldn’t uncover anything sinister like a severed hand or an eyeball. After pulling the whole thing out, a longer line of black unravels.

A strange array of emotions lingered inside him.

Nostalgia. Wrath. Happiness.

It smelled like dust, and it was forever devoid of its owner’s scent and warmth.

“Miles, do you want juice?”

“Huh? Y-yeah.” He stammered. “Grape juice would be nice.”

His mother’s comment slips past his ears. For a moment, he pondered about wearing this to the Sunday party, but he couldn’t help but think how it likely wouldn’t fit him. His father was a giant, and he was quite lanky.

Upon hearing his mother’s footsteps, Miles hurriedly and clumsily attempts to refold the clothes, only then hearing a soft clatter. He pivots his head to the side.

There was a USB.

“For the florals, I think daffodils would be great.”

Your hands skimmed across the air in attempt of drafting an idea. From afar, you manage to earn a wider view of the banquet hall. Workers left and right helped with tidying up the refectory, scrubbing up windows and mopping up the floors. “It would match the golden theme, don’t you think?” You asked of Charlotte, who nodded wobbly with her dire age.

As of that moment, you’d been preparing for the layout of the party. As much as you didn’t want to listen to Montrell’s suggestion, you figured getting on his bad side would be a bad move.

The fundraiser, originally hosted by your aunt, was planned out to gather enough money to support Senator Barlowe’s projects. Your family was to auction off high-priced materials such as clothes, jewelry, paintings, and even estates for the sake of meeting the goal. Which would also mean that the highest of the elite would be attending the party.

And you were less than thrilled to be its co-host.

Charlotte marvels at your suggestion, taking it with a smile but a pique. “However, daffodils can’t usually be placed with other flowers, so I’ll have to make a special request to the florist to do the preparations extensively.”

You raised a brow. “Why can’t they be placed together with other flowers?”

One of the maids carrying a porcelain vase walk past you, making you gently remind her to put it aside.

Charlotte parts her palms. “They secrete toxins into the water. So whenever it’s placed among other flowers, the rest die.”

“Oh,” You widened your gaze, processing this newly found information. “How did you know that?”

Charlotte blinked, trying to think back. “.. Well, daffodils were used for your mother and father’s wedding. It was a struggle, since the day of the wedding, half of the bouquet had already wilted.”

You stood back in surprise, crossing your arms before your chest. “Mama must’ve been furious.”

Charlotte shook her head. “Your father plucked flowers out from the gardens and made her a bouquet himself.”

Wait. What? WHAT?

Wow, who knew your daddy was quite the romantic?

I’m just as shocked as every other person.

“M-My father?” You dumbly repeated. “My father plucked out the flowers himself? Or was it Mr. Nigel?”

“Your father, himself, Miss.” Charlotte laughed, finding your shock to be quite amusing. “He’s quite great at it too— flower arrangement. Your grandmother taught him from an early age.”

“My father truly arranged the bouquet for him and mama’s wedding?” You couldn’t believe your ears. “He has that sort of talent?”

“Why, of course!” She beamed a warm beam. “Like you, he used to oversee the interior of the hotel. He has great taste when it comes to color, and you’ve inherited that side of him.”

You tried to think about it, your father— who was now an old man with a permanent sneer on his wrinkled lip— arranging flowers in his youth, picking out pastel and cream curtains for the parties, and overseeing the menu. It didn’t seem like something he’d do, at all. Then again, your mother used to describe him in a way that made it tragic.

A good man, never a good father. Torn between yearning to be held in arms that never welcomed him and finding his worth beyond the standard of his own father.

You tried to sympathize with him. Your father.

Though he was who he was, he cared about you, in a twisted, fucked-up way. Your engagement with Richard Fisk was privately decided after the hotel went near-bankrupt had it not been for the Fisks and their mystical talent for cover-ups— and your father simply took most of your managing rights away just so the family you’d marry into wouldn’t use you for their own greed.

The fate wasn’t entirely horrible either. You’d marry into new money, sure, but their wealth would most definitely preserve the comfortable life you’re living right now.

It was your own greed that was worsening you.

Your desire to have a tantamount of power.

But what if you never needed it?

“Miss!”

What if all you needed was a peaceful life? Marry into the Fisks, host parties, and care no more about anything?

“Miss [Y/n]!”

.. But what about Miles?

He hadn’t answered any of your texts yet.

“Miss [Y/n], a call.” One of your secretaries came crashing through the doors with his phone. How you hated that word. Call. A signal of what would definitely exhaust you. Where was Montrell? Why weren’t they calling out for him? Were you really the only one able to handle all the messes in here? Workers left and right stopped as he trudged up the stairs, nearly tossing the phone over to you. You slip it close to your ear, making your way down with each click of your heel.

Charlotte watches as you listen to the caller with such intent. Silently, you eyed your surroundings before heading out.

As you reached the patio, you looked out into the dimming violet evening that was fading out along with the scarlet of the sun. The caller rambles on, something along about the recent incident.

“I’ve bribed the higher-ups to rush the investigation and to arrest the witnesses. We’ll release the story that they had murdered their friend after taking drugs.”

“Good.” You plucked out your vape from your pockets. “Report to me immediately once you find all the records about their families and their identities.”

“Understood.” You hear the sound of Morrison’s computer typing. Likely writing up a list. “I’ve also halted the investigation of the fire. I’ve told your father the information was tracked from an accidental leak after a delivery of the samples to one of the families had the address exposed. Sir Anthony will have to take up the blame since it was his idea.”

You took a long huff. “Good job. You did well.”

The smoke lingers, and you close your eyes.

Sorry, Antonne. You’ll live, I guess.

“Morrison,” You called out to him. “.. How’s Miles?”

The typing comes to a halt. For a moment, the two of you shared a moment of silence. You picture him pushing his glasses up higher off the bridge of his nose.

“.. I’ve spent most of my attention on other things, so I haven’t been able to check up on him yet.”

“Ah, is that so?” You mumbled. “Never mind then, just continue on with halting the investigation. I’ll take care of the rest, and remember, if any of the witnesses start describing my face—“

Clack.

You turned your head.

What was that?

ＳＯＭＥＯＮＥ‘Ｓ　ＨＥＲＥ

No shit.

Beyond the gardens, the skies were beginning to dim. That familiar shade of magenta, it lingered like a ghost and it haunted you like your past. There was a click that set your mind off, and suddenly you couldn’t help but feel like the world was integrating itself into a technicolor, dotted comic.

Then and there, spying on you from the top of the six Corinthian columns of the garden, sat the young Prowler.

“Miss [Y/n]? You were saying?” Morrison pried from you.

You parted your phone from you ear, a side of your grin heightening into a catty smirk.

“… If any of them start describing my face, take care of it.”

Then and there, you ended the call with one light tap. You remained stubborn with your posture, seemingly amused and befuddled by it all while keeping your head high. The boy watched you curiously but stiffly, as if he were unsure of what to do. You were mutually frozen, but you couldn’t allow any sort of weakness to seep through the cracks of your confidence.

You took a step close, and he tenses. The sound of your heel clicking against the tiles sends an echo into the garden.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” You greeted of him with sincere politeness, placing a hand over your hip. Was it an attempt to appear idle or what? “… It’s quite an honor to have you here as a guest.”

“Who are you?” The boy growled, voice delved baritones deep. “Really.”

You tilted your head.

“Who would you like me to be?”

His gauntlet unfolds, and suddenly, he launches himself at you, grabbing you by the neck.

[A/n: I PASSED MY FUCKING ENTRANCE EXAM GUYS]

[bloodscribed]

PROMPTS FROM VARIOUS LITERARY SOURCES.

I have not broken your heart — you have; and in breaking it, you have broken mine.

I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.

Since we're all going to die, it's obvious that when and how don't matter.

When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where the madness lies?

To dream the impossible dream, that is my quest.

When we set the carriage afire, her flesh will be roasted, her bones will be charred: she will die an agonizing death.

What isn't part of ourselves doesn't disturb us.

I have been and still am a seeker, but I have ceased to question stars and books; I have begun to listen to the teaching my blood whispers to me.

The bird fights its way out of the egg.

I have no right to call myself one who knows.

We who bore the mark might well be considered by the rest of the world as strange, even as insane and dangerous.

I have no idea whether parents can be of help, and I do not blame mine.

At one time I had given much thought to why men were so very rarely capable of living for an ideal. Now I saw that many, no, all men were capable of dying for one.

I will not make a gift of myself, I must be won.

Examine a person closely enough and you know more about him than he does himself.

One cannot apologize for something fundamental, and a child feels and knows this as well and as deeply as any sage.

The tree does not die. It waits.

Fate and character are different names for the same idea.

As soon as you trust yourself, you will know how to live.

A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart.

All theory is gray, my friend. But forever green is the tree of life.

I am not omniscient, but I know a lot.

Everything transitory is but an image.

One mind is enough for a thousand hands.

Man errs, till he has ceased to strive.

Words are mere sound and smoke, dimming the heavenly light.

But you will never know another's heart, unless you are prepared to give yours too.

The Devil's in the house and can't get out.

Men's wretchedness in soothe I so deplore.

To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's.

It takes something more than intelligence to act intelligently.

Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing.

When reason fails, the devil helps!

A hundred suspicions don't make a proof.

The man who has a conscience suffers whilst acknowledging his sin. That is his punishment.

The fear of appearances is the first symptom of impotence.

Break what must be broken, once for all, that's all, and take the suffering on oneself.

Have you ever heard of 'a genius who had been stuffed and preserved'?

Every day I am fated to die.

All the activities of life seem unbearably dull to me and I have renounced them.

 If you would be nice to me, I would gladly die for you this moment.

Having made an utter failure of my life, I found myself one day in the midst of my poverty and wretchedness, thinking about the female companions of my youth.

So, surrender to sleep at last. What a misery, keeping watch through the night, wide awake -- you’ll soon come up from under all your troubles.

Man is the vainest of all creatures that have their being upon earth.

There is a time for making speeches, and a time for going to bed.

For there is nothing better in this world than that man and wife should be of one mind in a house.

I swear by the greatest, grimmest oath that binds the happy gods.

Few sons are the equals of their fathers; most fall short, all too few surpass them.