#death has visited upon them both

[rhaenyradelights]

when you say rhaenyra is not daemon’s childwife, what do you mean?

this has been ennumerated exhaustingly by people much better with words that i, but they very very very specifically do not get married until rhaenyra is a grown woman, and that is both a result of daemon's aborted attempts at "saving her" from him, and a source of real deep pain for rhaenyra. it is so incredibly important to the crux of their dynamic that rhaenyra's childhood was marked by the euphoria of being around daemon and then long (frequent) periods of being separated from him. that's where the whole vision at harrenhal comes in....

he sweeps in and then he leaves the wreckage behind. and though a very large part of this is because of viserys, and daemon's continual banishments as punishment, it still harms her irrevocably. and even as he takes her to the brothel, he stops, and he does try to save her. it was never going to work, but it's like. very important that he tries. and not only does he try, but he leaves for a decade. and he is entirely ready to leave her again and go back to pentos with the dragon twins, before she stops him. and she, as an adult, proposes a marriage that is both politically advantageous but also an attempt to stop the constant wounding from abandonment that she carries with her. they get married in the style of old valyria, with a blood bond (are they not already bonded by blood), so that he can never leave her again in any way that matters.

but at this point. she's an adult. he's left her alone for ten years, and her childhood before then was a tapestry of dashed hopes. in all the spaces he left behind grew her fears of inadequacy, her fears of abandonment, her fierce attempts at Becoming Him when he wasn't there to be himself, an independent life carved out of a very particular cage of expectation but still, in rhaenyra's own word's, droll tragedy.

and so now when they fight, they are bringing a specific set of hurts and resentments and histories - tied to viserys of course, but also a result of the rope-burn from the stretched cord between them, and the tension between rhaenyra's current role as his queen that he must prostrate himself for, and his wife/niece, who remains, as always, the most beloved person in his life.... and rhaenyra's knowledge that even as he has married her, crowned her, and serves her, she can never truly stop him from getting on caraxes and acting of his own free will, and leaving her. he is the sword, he wants to be beholden to her and serve her, but she is not his childbride, and she never was, and that's a source of profound regret and also the site of some of their deepest pain.

[controld3vil]

here we stand

pairing: jacerys velaryon x mormont!reader

synopsis: news had broken out that the throne has been usurped. jacerys rides his way to winterfell, the end to the north where he meets cregan stark. and in evidently, you, lady mormont of bear island.

notes: first of all, HE LOOKS SO GOOD w/ long hair !! also this mentions the first scene in s2 ep 1, i just tweeked a few things where now jacerys receives the terrible news days after getting acquitted in at winterfell. and bc i wished for more jace & cregan interaction >:( no beta reading btw !!

Duty is sacrifice.

All know of it. It bypasses any blood or foe. To honor one's duty is to sacrifice one's possessions. And oaths can last long over through generations. It is bypassing children and their children. It is the utmost fidelity any honorable man should know. If for the Seven Kingdoms and everyone at stake at what's beyond the Wall. A barrier that towers over seven hundred feet from what lies more gruesome than death.

Your cousin, Cregan Stark took up the responsibility as Lord of Winterfell, sometime after the passing of his father, Rickon Stark. He's a noble lad, he took upon the role at the age of six and ten. He was young but quickly learned how to command and serve the people. Much like his House's words, he understood what was coming. Though unexpected news of an envoy from Dragonstone had landed him in monetary consideration. Of what's to come with his men and the upcoming raging war.

"This is only late summer snow, my prince. In winter it will cover all you see and all memories of warmth will be forgotten." The metal chamber that brings them to the top of the Wall stops and both men walk out into the cold winter bridge. It's desolate and high in altitude.

Jacaerys could only imagine what it would feel like in wintertime, where there is nothing else but ice. "It pleases me that over a century ago our ancestors were treated in this very place. The Conqueror and the King in the North." His brown hair, inches longer, flutters past the cold air. Even with his blood, the descendant of the ferocious fire-breathing creatures, his heart still churns with a chill.

"You at least had the mercy not to threaten me with your dragon." The Lord of Winterfell smiles, eyeing the prince's reaction to the weather. No Southerner would know the true cold past summer.

The crowned prince returns his grin, looking out into the view beyond the Wall. From seven hundred feet above, everything, even the trees and people looked small. A wall that has been built this tall must offer security for what's beyond more terrifying than wildings and foes.

"While your men stand to protect against wildings and weather, the Hightowers plan to usurp my mother's throne. It is the duty of the Seven Kingdoms, and you, as Lord of Winterfell, to uphold your oaths sworn to the heir to the Iron Throne," Jacaerys gaze moves across where his eyes can take him off the Wall. It stretches out ridiculously long with men at every post. He has passed by a few to know whether or not, it was their obligation to join the Night's Watch, it was now their vow to protect this sacred place. However, he needed to remind Lord Stark of his reason for visiting. If the realm remained unbalanced, even Winterfell would not prosper.

"Starks do not forget our oaths, my prince," Cregan restates, with a look of sympathy and seriousness. "But you must know that my gaze will forever fall between the north and south. Here, in the winter, my duty to the Wall is more dire than what I ought in King's Landing. I need my men."

The prince of Dragonstone's look flickers, questionably. Until a holler from one of the watchmen signals Cregan of a visitor. He nods before glancing back at Jacaerys to dismiss him. A soft courtesy of his name before stepping down the post to greet the newcomer.

The cranks of the elevator come to a final stop. Before a pair of boots shuffle out of the old compartment to be met with the face of your cousin. Cregan's eyes meet yours in surprise and you subconsciously feel your shoulders untensed.

"Cousin,"

"Lady Mormont," He says with utmost respect as he can decipher the faint footsteps from behind Dragonstone's envoy. "What reason may you come to visit the Wall?"

"I received word that a messenger from Dragonstone came," Your bear fur coat holds you snug to protect you from the harsh winds. And your embroidered gloves, made from leather and deer fur have kept your fingers from freezing off during the trip to the edge of Winterfell. Your hands clasp together in an assertion. "Though I can already see he has arrived." Your soft stare transfigures onto Jacaerys and the sudden attention makes him slightly step aback.

Your lord gives you a playful look before turning back. "My prince, this is Lady Mormont of Bear Island. She is a close friend of mine and cousin." As embarrassed as the prince was, he could feel heat run up his spine as Jacaerys struggled to say anything welcoming.

"It is an honor to meet you, Lady Mormont,"

"The pleasure is mine," You blink innocently before addressing yet again your reason for presence. “Come, discuss matters over the fire,” 

Eventually, a week has gone by with Jacaerys Velayron’s stay. His extended stay has left questions and concerns for the townsfolk. However, Cregan reassures them, replying to them in short curt responses. In all, he explains the prince should rest before riding back to Dragonstone as it was a few days' journey from the North. This brought no rejection from either party and allowed the two boys to catch up and take into consideration the risks. 

You were always welcome at Winterfell. When you were little, your father, Lord Mormont, visited the black castle occasionally to meet with Lord Stark. The maids and servants knew you well as well as the Starks. They treated you like their own blood despite you being a distinct relative from a faraway island. Rare at times would they come to visit your home. Your homeland was not as welcoming as Winterfell some may say. Your House resided over lone shores, topped with horrific rock structures and charcoal reefs. A ruthless and barbaric landmark for the House of the Bear. 

“I appreciate your hospitality, Lord Stark,” Jacaerys starts, holding his ale cup to drink as all of the other guests gather to feast for the night. The three of you alongside Cregan’s son, Rickon, were seated at the high table, enjoying the luxurious scene before you all.

Large condiments of meats, pastries, and wine for the people, nobles of the Northmen. Feasts were something that brought together everyone during harsh times. In times of violence or sorrow, it is the shared appreciation you all must endure to move forward. That is true of what the people of the North had that no other House had. The Velaryron prince gives you an appreciative smile. “And to you, Lady Mormont, I thank you for your sincere support of my mother’s claim.”

“Here we stand,” You raise your goblet, reciting your very House words. True to what it meant, your family stood prepared for what days would come to an end. You understood one day you have a place in something greater when the moment was right and here it was now, lying right in front of you. Mormonts are known to be willing to fight even when the odds are against them. So were you when you declared fealty to Cregan Stark, your dear cousin. Your loyalty towards him would only mean you would go to the ends of the Earth to fulfill your promise. “And here we fight for the queen.” 

Despite not having Rhaenyra, her son knew she would be fond of you. Your attitude and strong integrity were something few held at King’s Landing. He acknowledged that people may not agree with his mother’s claim. However, there will always be those who still believe and support her. You are one of those people. Despite being hundreds of miles away from King’s Landing, Cregan and you showed fealty and loyalty to the oaths sworn nearly a decade ago. Some day, he wishes his mother would meet you. 

“Of course,” Cregan begins, settling his cup down, before patting for his son to come towards him. “With the men we have, it is guaranteed they’d be ready to march the earliest as of the morrow” Rickon starts off his wooden seat and shuffles to his father’s lap. A clumsy stumble and the Lord of Winterfell picks up the child with ease with a soft smile. “From there, the men will march to King’s Landing.”

“Then I should leave by the morrow,” Rhaenyra’s son places his arms on the table.

Your heart skips a half second, knowing that the time you spent together would be short-lived eventually. The prince was sent as a messenger, nothing more. His stay was long overdue, though no word from Dragonstone has the eyes of the ravens yet. It sinks to you momentarily when you place the last piece of meat into your mouth and down the last drops of your ale. 

“Yes, your visit has been short-lived,” Your cousin sighs, too aware of how the brief meeting would be over. Jacaerys was a good friend, being the same age as him, Cregan felt well acquainted with him. He had only wished that they had met under different circumstances and times. Perhaps when war wages on, they would meet again on the battlefield or after they have won against the Greens. Speculation of what was next was unknown. “But you have our support, my prince. Do not fret, we will prepare for what the Hightowers plan.” 

Jacaerys nods, understandably. He turns to you who sweetly bobs your head in agreement. How delicate your features looked in the dim ambers of the Winter halls. He’s enamored by your presence with how often he gravitates towards your direction.

He had always assumed Northern women would be different from Southerners. They were different. Northerners were divine in their way. You excluded such poise and delicacy, Jacaerys sometimes couldn’t help but become curious of you. Your hobbies, what you liked to do, what was your favorite food, and your most desired ambitions. Southerners in King’s Landing were graceful and fragile like the summer breeze. However, you were like a chilly snow cast. The cold, it’s welcoming and he constantly feels chills running down his spine whenever your eyes meet. 

“Now what do you think of the North?” Your lord light-heartedly brings up to lighten the mood. You and Cregan enjoyed the short mornings with the prince. The limited time you shared allowed for intimate discussions and a way to become acquainted with one another. The people, how things functioned, and how you adapted to the cold. It’s far much different than what he’s accustomed to in Dragonstone, where his home echoed through miles.  Compared to the North, Winterfell was exceptionally enormous but had a sense of home and warmth. 

“It’s different from Dragonstone,” The brown-haired envoy laughs, showing quite fond forever his home. “My home resides by the sea, surrounded by the high tides and rough shores. The castle is covered in obsidian stone and is known to be indestructible. My family has lived there for centuries now.” 

“How fascinating,” Your cousin breathes, showing his teeth. “I’ve heard stories about Dragonstone. Some say you can find dragon eggs deep in the mountains.”

“That is true, our dragons reside in caves. They lay their eggs in crystallized magma. Our dragon masters look after the eggs and know when the time is right to harvest them.” 

“What happens when a dragon egg doesn't hatch?” You lean your head forward, hands clasped together again. Learning about his family and their customs kept your interest for a long time. Not many Southern Houses come to visit from King’s Landing. They rather stay where it is warm and avoid the uncomfortable weather and travel to the North. Your eagerness was appreciated when Jacearys considered your question. 

“We wouldn’t know for sure when they would or would not hatch. We simply wait it out.” He quirks a gentle smile when your gaze is sort of magnetic. It’s like you were in a trance every time he spoke of anything he was interested in. 

“How long have you waited for one to hatch?” Cregan picks up his cup again to refill while his son pivots to run to the other side of the table, only to be greeted by you. With big smiles, you gladly carried the child to your side. 

“A few years,” Jacearys remembers the day well. He remembers his brother Joffrey, struggling and whining to his mother about his egg. He was as young as four, however in the first three years of his life, his dragon had not hatched. It’s a mystery when the dragon decides to break out of its shell. He was fortunate with Vermax after months of being born, his companion was right beside him from the start. Lucerys had a similar reaction. Rhaenyra often told stories of many instances of good and bad hatchlings alongside their rider. Some may not have been awakened by its rider, for they might have been dead already. The unknown enigma of those ferocious beasts pales in the prince’s head.

“It must’ve been unpleasant,” You joked, hugging Rickon tightly, having his cheek meet with yours. The young boy giggles loudly, taking hold of both of your cheeks in excitement. 

The atmosphere felt sublime and almost too perfect. Here in the warmth and formality of the Stark Household, everyone was lively and heeded no sorrows. How the prince wished upon the same for Dragonstone. If only the realm was brought together and the Hightowers had not usurped his mother’s throne despite her rightful claim. Would his family be united and happy finally?

He wasn’t sure as Jacaerys had never known familial love on his mother’s side. Both of his uncles vexed him, Luke and Joffrey. Helaena was kind, however, never showing malice towards him and his brothers. But the Hand of the King, and Queen Regent. Quiet in their schemes and distaste for bastards. 

Affection is what fills the prince’s chest with glee. As he scans the dining room of men, women, and children, they all feast and brawl over pointless endeavors. The scent of mead and hot fresh meat fills the room with chaotic laughter and nonsensical bubbling. In another time and place, Jacaerys would have been thrilled to visit Winterfell during this time of year. 

And his gaze slowly follows the wisp of your faint figure by the fireplace. With the heir of House Stark, you blow raspberry kisses against Rickon’s hot cheeks. As the boy squeals in delight, grabbing at the ends of your hair like ropes on the ship, bouncing them back and forth. You were good to Rickon, Jacaerys knows you care for the boy like it were your son. He thinks Cregan is grateful to have someone's endearment and protection toward his son. For the lack of a maternal figure had been long gone. You would be a great mother one day, he deciphers. You constantly fiddle Rickon’s hair which reminds him of his mother when he was little. 

It was such a faint memory that stuck in his mind whenever he saw you with the children. Rhaenyra would question him if she were here. Mothers had a knack for spotting things such as things. The prince knew of his interest in you. However, would you do the same if he made them clear as day?

You never said anything to him. It makes him question if you were truly interested or not. You’ve shown fondness over meals and spoke of jokes whenever he came out to the stables, where his poor dragon, Vermax, gruntled in the snow. 

“I’m sorry the farmers could not do much to help your dragon!” You shouted out one day in the early sunrise. He takes a few steps from his companion to find you in white fur coats and boots. You looked beautiful, the color suits you. As elegant and dainty as the pigment of his mother’s hair. Your locks were braided halfway with the rest, flowing down from your ears to your shoulders. “We don’t often have dragons visit us in the North!”

The prince laughs with small puffs of his breath becoming visible. “The stable boys did a fine job in accompanying Vermax.” At the call of his dragon’s name, it slowly hovers over his dragon rider. It purrs warmly in the frost as your eyes glower in fascination.

“He’s beautiful,” Your voice is nearly breathless at the size difference Vermax has over the buildings and people. It is a creature that comes far beyond your imagination and fairy tales. It's olive green scale prickle in delight as your eyes began to wonder back and forth. Dragons were rare in the North and it must’ve been a relentless recurrence for the people in King’s Landing. 

The prince hums before kicking a chunk of frozen dirt. He makes an effort to be bold for once. “Would you like to pet him?” 

You looked shook and it made him struggle to keep a composed posture. You stumble to make any words come out of your mouth. “I- May I?” 

“Of course,” The dragon rider comes forward and grabs your hand, dragging himself closer to the beast. The sudden contact and closure make your heart beat faster than anticipated. As you find yourself glancing up at its reptilian eyes. In horror, you hold your ground, wanting nothing more than to back away. “It’s alright, he won’t hurt you.” 

Jacery’s reassurance doesn't comfort you as you resist his grip on your wrist. Vermax merely stands, grumbling in curiosity as to your stricken presence. It’s trying to inquire about your anxiety when it was the reason for it in the first place.

Taking a short take of air, you stand in place. You did your best to calm your breathing, feeling a hand on your lower back to support you. Your dainty eyes meet the prince. And within contact, it felt as though you felt everything would be alright. His touch soothed your racing heart as you excelled forward, step by step closer to the beast. For you, it must’ve felt like the clock had slowed down when you were merely inches away from Vermax. Its enormous size was breathtaking and you could make your lungs free of oxygen again. 

Yet your state of mind returns when the queen’s heir comes into view. The air felt a tension between fear and anxiety. It was both exhilarating and terrifying for someone who has never seen a dragon up close before. You took the last big step when you lifted your fingers above its nose. 

Vermax shivered and at the last minute, you wanted to back out. Until Jacaerys hand envelopes over your hand to pet his companion. With such care and attentiveness, you should have realized the prince’s advances towards you by now.

The Godswood was a welcoming pastime you’ve grown to respect. With the decline in visits, you’ve come to value the historic tree for what it stood for and the ancestral value it had over your people. Cregan did not mind whenever you went away to pay your respects. He knew how important it was to you to respect the old gods and the new. War was coming. If you were going to support Rhaenyra, you only wish for your men to come out victorious. 

You were no war-picking woman. But death was something you’ve come to accept recently. The passing of Rickon Stark brought a hole in your heart. You mourned in your ways, and so did Cregan when you had heard he had taken the mantle as Lord of Winterfell. He still is a young man, barely over six and ten. The best you could do was offer your presence and time. To him, being present with the people and acting lively was enough for him to regain his mind. Everyone looked up to Rickon for what he stood for and the House. There is no doubt Cregan would do the same in the coming time to King’s Landing. 

“It’s saddening, isn’t it?” You breathe into the crisp air, only to feel your throat grow dry. But the person behind you knows you were referring to them. “How war affects us all.” 

The prince of Dragonstone steps out from the shadows. His steps were slow and gruff, still worn out from the feast and the massive amount of ale that was offered to him. But you were the only thing that had piqued his interest. You were quiet, not expecting an answer from him. Until he stepped and stopped right beside you, shoulders nearly touching but inches apart. Your bear coat was held loosely on you as he recalled you too struggled to leave the dining table. You all drank too much tonight. 

“The Godswood know of it all. They see everything,” The bear bronze sigil shines past his peripherals when he cannot meet your gaze. You were not drunk enough to do something reckless but not too sober to do anything either. 

In return, all you could ever see was Jacaerys furrowed expression. He’s contemplating something. But you choose to stare and take in his features with such interest and curiosity. His soft and tranquil pout resembles much of a wolf you’ve seen. As though his curly strands, which you would imagine, are dim to the touch. The prince holds assertiveness in his duty, falling into the role of heir as for his queen. Perhaps he’s everything that his mother stood for. You admired it. 

“Know you and your men's contributions would be known,” He whispers, it’s clear you could feel his breath close to your neck. The dark clouds could not even hide the indisputable truth. The crescent moon gleams somewhere in the far distance you can’t seem to find. But you know what’s true. Because moments ago, you could discern his distance inches away. Now it seems that he wants to close the gap by the second. “And that…”

“That we did our duties, nothing more.” You pant, unable to keep your eyes from moving from his gaze and lips. Strands of his dark brown hair trickle against your cheeks as you take one last glimpse at your prince. If any of this was acceptable. You wouldn’t exceed further to know he’d reject your proclaimed assumptions. 

But nothing happens. It was as though the chill in the air had changed. When another figure reappears out of the shadows and into the light. Jacaerys distances himself from you. While you did your best to compose yourself for being caught red-handed by a servant boy.

“My Lady,” The innocent boy chants, as he holds up a scroll. “A message from Dragonstone.” Jacearys’s eyes shot up as you were given the letter. The moment you give the signal of approval, the servant boy leaves into the abyss and back into the cabin. 

You unlatched the curly paper and patiently read its contents. The prince carefully awaits, every so longing to catch any misdemeanor you would have upon what letter had. He hopes and wishes it is good news more than anything. But you held a stone-cold expression and when you looked up at him, he could only discern sorrow with the words that come out of your mouth.

“I’m sorry, my prince.”

[theeveninghour]

All My Dreaming

Summary: You came to the Night Court as a fugitive and quickly became a valued member of the Inner Circle. Azriel’s love for you has burned brightly in his chest for nearly two centuries now, but when an unknown force threatens to take you from him, he must fight to keep you at his side.

Pairing: Azriel x Winter Court!Reader

A/N: I don’t use Y/N here just out of personal preference, but the IC do call reader “Little One” because she’s younger than them by like a century or so. Also, slight timeline deviation? I kind of just made the ACOTAR timeline work for me a little bit but the important bits are there mostly. If it’s not totally accurate, please suspend your disbelief and go with it. I also took some serious liberties with Prythian geography and Azriel’s shadows in this. I had to force myself to stop because I could’ve written five more scenes, so let me know if you all want a part two. I got nasty Azriel thots to spare, baby! 

WC: 16.1k  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

TW: 18+, Minors DNI, violence, death, descriptive gore, lots of time jumps, torture, smut, p in v, fingering, porn with plot, mating, slow burn, angst, friends to lovers, declarations of love, loving sexy times, miscommunications abound, Azriel being a big ole softie, Azriel being a big ole bitch to bad men, Azriel really going tf thru it emotionally, and Azriel being mouthy as fuck. Just girly things. 

Part 2

Azriel hadn’t seen you in four days. Nearly a week had passed since you’d left. Rhys mentioned a mission but no additional details, Cassian avoided the topic, knowing how frustrated his brother got when you were gone, and Feyre was decidedly unhelpful the few times he’d brought you up. His shadows searched aimlessly, they’d found nothing as far south as Winter Court, daring not venture into Autumn, and knowing damn well you’d never step foot into Spring. You were slowly driving him mad; the bond in his chest aching at the loss. Even if you hadn’t recognized the golden thread linking the two of you, he felt it. 

Gods, did he feel it. He’d often lay in his bed at night, eyes tracing the intricate foil patterns of the ceiling tiles. When sleep evaded him, as it frequently did, he’d grasp the thread tightly in his minds eye and tug it experimentally, begging you to see, to notice it was him that loved you with a ferocity that rivaled the sun. Try as he might, the responding tug never answered, his call into the void not returning an echo. 

The second it snapped for him, Azriel had resolved himself as unworthy, not of someone like you. You were powerful, breathtakingly beautiful, intimidatingly intelligent, and you regularly brought men to their knees, both in political circles and on the battlefield. Rhys relied on you as much he did Cassian and Az, you were a core member of his court, a valuable asset, and the love of Azriel’s life. Azriel avoided the latter subject entirely, choosing instead to silently stoke the ember in chest with unyielding affection; his own private paramour. 

When you’d joined the Night Court, you’d been on the run from both Winter and Autumn Courts. Your father was a high fae noble in Winter that had attempted to arrange a marriage to the second youngest Vanserra of Autumn. The family’s brutal reputation was legend and you were terrified. You were young then, barely a century old, and upon your introductory visit to the Autumn Court, Beron sought to make an impression by presenting a welcome gift. That gift? The public torture and execution of a servant he’d deemed traitorous. 

His gleaming eyes remained on yours with each cast of the fire whip he’d conjured using his cruel magic. He’d cracked it again and again until blood splattered and the servant was left flayed beyond recognition, flesh searing, and finger tips twitching from the remaining neurons firing in his brain. Only after his death did Beron announce his crimes. He’d stolen a parcel of food from the royal pantry to feed his wife and small child. Your stomach churned at the thought of the now widow and fatherless child waiting at home for the male that would never return. 

It had all been a test to see if you were worthy of the most violent and petulant of the broody sons, and you’d passed, holding Beron’s stare and keeping your back straight as you faced his wrath head on. You’d cried yourself dry in your room that night though, sobs wracking your form until your chest ached, grief for the male that was lost. Fear settled into your heart, terror of the family you were set to marry into. 

You’d ran at first light, leaving with nothing but the clothes on your back. Your Winter white blonde hair streaking across the red and orange forest as you bolted. Beron sent his dogs after you. You still had the scars lining your calves from where they’d gotten too close, brought you down into the dirt, jaws snapping and tearing at the muscly sinew there. But you’d fought. You’d kicked and clawed like a feral child of the woods, screaming with a sense of self preservation you’d never known you possessed. 

Rhysand had found you half dead, starving and a little savage in the mountainous border between the Day and Night Courts. He’d made a bargain with you then; he’d save you, if you worked for him. Word had already spread of the ousted Winter female and spurned Autumn princeling and Rhysand was impressed you’d lasted in the wilds undetected for so long. The small star flecked tattoo of the Velarian night sky that lived on your wrist since was the only evidence of his deal. 

You’d long moved past such a bargain. Rhys had offered to lift it half a dozen times in your first hundred years within his court, but you hadn’t minded. A reminder, you’d insisted, a mark of your loyalty to the family that didn’t lead you the wolves with such glee. 

You’d settled into a routine in Velaris, training with the Illyrian brothers and charming Amren with your intelligence and wit.  But you’d become the closest with Mor, who felt a kinship in your shared traumas. She’d soothed you in those first years, fiercely protecting her friend when Eris Vanserra had shown up in Hewn City as an emissary to inquire on your new position in the Night Court. It was that same night that Azriel realized how fucked he truly was.

Eris smirked at you and your back straightened, face growing cold. He spoke, “My brother was wondering where you’d scampered off to.” A laugh followed, “You couldn’t stomach our court, but found yourself bound to the Court of Nightmares? My my, what a wicked turn of events.” 

Rhysand had spoken then, wearing his High Lord mask well, “Watch yourself, Eris. You know not what our Little One can do.” Eris laughed, the sound laced with the dark spark of a threat. “Little One? Fugitive and Night Court whore, I must tell your father. I’m sure he’ll be proud to hear of his daughter’s fate.” Azriel’s wings pricked, then fluttered, he would’ve killed Eris right then for you. Your hand came to rest on Rhys’ arm as you stepped around the throne to level your accuser with a look that should’ve turned him to stone. 

“I am no male’s whore and I belong to no court except Night. Report what you wish to my father, to your father, your brother. May you all rot.” You’d spat at his feet then, and the room heated twenty degrees, Eris’ barely kept rage simmering under the surface, fire blooming on the fringes of his figure. 

He stepped forward and Cassian, Azriel, and Mor all shifted, prepared to take out the threat. Eris’ eyes tracked their figures, gauging the situation. He knew better. Any attack here would mean war on his court and his father have his hide for that. You stepped forward to meet him, knowing he could make no move without endangering his position. You kept your spine straight and narrowed your gaze at him with such contempt he would’ve been impressed at the show had you been anyone else. 

“I will say this once Eris Vanserra,” you held up one long manicured finger, and Azriel traced the action with thinly veiled obsession. “Leave my court or I will be the one to kill you. I’ll rip your spine from your body and I’ll do it with the same glee in which your father,” you’d spat that word, the hatred you held for Beron burning your throat as the words exited your mouth, “killed that male for feeding his family.” You took a step closer, summoning a dagger in your left hand, and rolling it your palm. “Trust that we have no tolerance for your family or your bullshit in these lands.” 

Eris had good enough sense to step back then, peering around your form to where Rhysand sat, legs spread, slouched in the throne, smirking at your display of dominance. Azriel to his right looked on in pure male satisfaction, you were a powerful little thing and he was rather fond of you in that moment. Eris spoke up, “Should I note that the Night Court threatens other Courts for sport?” Cassian and Azriel rolled their eyes in synchronous fashion, but it was Mor that spoke with the dark edge of a threat, “Only ones that deserve such brutality.” Her father, Kier, stood in the gathered crowd and sneered at the tone of her voice.

You’d done the unthinkable then, winnowing behind Eris, grasping the male by his red hair and dragging the dagger to his neck, digging in enough to cause the male’s heart to speed, a line of scarlet leaking from the press of your blade. You could feel the heat in his skin, the flame licked at your hand as you released him with a shove. 

You brandished your dagger as if it was an extension of your hand, the tip of the silver blade glinting with red from the now healing cut at Eris’ throat. “Come for me again and I’ll kill you.” It was then that Azriel noted the slight tremble in the hand at your right side and he wished on some distant star that he could reach out to you, soothe you, tell you that he was proud and you defended yourself and your court beautifully. 

As if his wish was granted, he felt his chest give way to a canyon of emotion, heart stuttering as the bond fluttered and snapped, thrumming with affection for the female standing at the center of the room. He had selfishly allowed himself to hope it would be you, in the dark of the night when he was alone and his shadows whispered to him of your whereabouts. Since he’d met you, he fostered that small romantic notion of soulmates. His most private desire. 

Eris whirled on you with a roar, grabbing your throat with hands of fire. Azriel felt the breath leave him, and he took two then three steps forward before he could think, hazel eyes alight with a fierceness you’d not yet witnessed. Your eyes found his and you held up your hand to halt his movements, the one that had trembled seconds earlier, now steady as a stone. You’d looked at Eris then, raising your chin defiantly, a slow smile overtaking your face as you once again spit at the Autumn male before winnowing back to your place in front of the dais. Rhysand raised to his feet then, taking steps down to meet you. His hand grazed your arm this time and his mind reached out, “Very good, Little One, very good.” 

“As the lady said, Eris, come to my court in search of her again, and she’ll be the one to kill you.” Rhys circled Eris, tracking like prey. “But not before I sanction it for laying your hands on a member of my house.” Rhysand spoke with such quiet cunning, it was no wonder he excelled as High Lord. Eris snarled then before winnowing out of the Hewn City and Azriel quickly set his shadows to following him, ensuring he was actually gone. 

You returned to Mor’s side and the shameless pride that set on your face the rest of the night made Azriel want to kiss you. Gods, he was fucked.. 

You’d flirted with him constantly in the first century you’d been in Velaris. You had laid it on thick too, dragging a long nail up his arm, your mouth sliding into a smirk after one too many drinks at Rita’s. Azriel had always feigned friendly indifference though, a mask he slipped on that was equal parts protection as it was self soothing. His only crack coming in the form of a slight tremble in his pinky as he tried to gather himself to avoid closing the space between you, touching, grasping, feeling.

He’d worn black leather gloves around you in your first few decades with them. His hands always held the most insecurity for him, the silver scars and warped skin a brutal reminder of his childhood. It was after training one day, as you all packed your small bags and threw towels into bins that you’d asked about it. 

“I don’t mean to pry, and feel free to tell me to fuck off, but why the gloves?” You asked quietly leaning against a wall less than ten feet from him. He’d stiffened and breathed tightly, “it helps with the work.” That had always been his excuse, wearing gloves when killing helped reduce the touch memories associated with the act, and it was partially true. But he wasn’t on a mission right now, and you called him on that, “are you spying right now?” Your lips quirked, “should I tell Rhys?” Your words were mirthful, but your eyes held nothing but empathy for the Shadowsinger, sometimes Azriel wondered if that was your Cauldron blessed gift. 

You’d reached down then, rolling up the left leg of your training leathers. You’d resumed your full height and rotated your calf outward for his eyes to survey the damage there. Ragged silver keloid scars marked the skin from your ankle to the soft back of your knee— a knee he’d admittedly fantasized about many nights in a row now. He’d selfishly thought about trailing kisses up your leg, pausing to nip playfully at the soft skin at your knee as he made his way north, up your thigh. He breathed deeply banishing those thoughts as he took in the site of your marred skin. Judging by the heavily keratinized markings, the injury had no doubt been painful when incurred originally. Azriel’s fingers twitched again, wanting to touch your face, hold you as he kissed away your grief. 

“From Beron’s dogs,” you breathed, rolling you shoulders, as if shaking the memory from your mind. “They wouldn’t heal when I was out there,” you clicked your tongue, “granted I was starving,” you sighed, “but that’s a story for another day.” You looked at him then, and he had to steady himself at the emotions pooling in your eyes. 

He’d already planned on killing Beron if the opportunity presented for what had happened with Mor, but for you, he’d make it hurt. He’d drag it out and make it slow. He’d torture him for days, flaying skin from bone, taking fingers then limbs and when at last he begged for death, Azriel would set the dogs on him and laugh as they tore him apart. He felt a long repressed need for vengeance creep up his spine, and he hated to acknowledge what its presence meant in regards to you.

“It’s okay, you know,” you’d said, head lolling to the side as you watched him, eyes swimming with a gentle affection, “I’ll never judge you for something like that.” Azriel squeezed his eyes shut as he turned his head from you and breathed in tightly. How did always manage to be so fucking disarming and vulnerable? That must’ve been a gift too.

He pinched the middle finger of the right glove and pulled it from his hand, grasping his now exposed fingers into a fist, knuckles cracking. He extended that arm out, palm up as he let you view his deepest insecurity, the thing he hated most in his appearance. 

You’d stepped forward, looking at his palm. Your hands went to reach but you’d paused, looking to his eyes as you silently asked permission to touch. He nodded stiffly, watching you with the same intensity of an animal being hunted, prey ready to bolt at any moment. 

Your fingers touched his hand, and he felt the connection race up his arm and to his chest, settling in his heart. Your eyes studied, and you rotated his hand, fingers gently tracing from his wrist, to knuckle, to fingernail in reverence. You covered his hand with your own, moving your eyes to his hazel ones. “Are they dead?” You’d asked seriously, and he stuttered a shocked laugh. “Yes, Little One, they are,” he answered, a small smile playing at his mouth. The two of you far too similar it seemed. “Good,” you’d said simply before kissing his knuckles and pulling the glove back on for him. The action was quietly intimate, and Azriel should’ve kissed you then. Mother knows he considered it, eyes watching you with rapt attention as his heart sped up and breathing shallowed. 

“If you two are done flirting, lunch is ready,” Cassian announced from the doorway, breaking the spell you were both under. You’d jumped and laughed freely at the large male smirking at the entrance. You grasped Azriel’s hand tightly in affection before releasing it to turn on your heel to exit the room, passing by Cass with an eye roll, thumping him square in the chest.

Cassian looked to his brother as he walked into the room and his face split into a shit eating grin. “Let’s go, loverboy,” he said, crossing his arms over his chest. Azriel glared, scoffing as he followed behind you, praying to whatever Gods were listening that he’d get you alone again soon. 

In your second century with the Night Court, you’d lessened the blatant flirting and settled into loving, easy friendship. You regularly attended balls and galas in Hewn City, fitting into such pomp with practiced ease, but always with a dagger strapped to your thigh, ready to cut a male down in seconds. Those events were almost routine at this point: Azriel would save you a dance, and you’d move together in a slow ritual that you’d both perfected over the years, he’d bow as the violinist played their final note and resume his place on dais at Rhys’ right. His eyes would follow you the rest of the night, as you spoke in an airy manner to various high fae, glaring at any male whose hands ventured too close to his mate. 

Nights when the Court held parties at the House of Wind were different though. You were far less rigid, finding it easy to exist without scrutiny. Those were the nights Azriel’s eyes rarely left your form as he watched obsessively from the corners of the room. 

“You’re staring,” Rhys chimed from his place next to Azriel, eyes not leaving the crowd as he spoke to the Shadowsinger, mouth smirking. Azriel was staring. You’d worn cobalt blue tonight, a lovely color on your skin. His color on your skin. Mother above, the male possessiveness that crawled up his spine was unreal. Mate, mate, mate, his shadows had sang in his ear. He wanted to pluck the eyes from every male in the room for even glancing in your direction. He wanted so much more than that too. Your breathy sighs as he marked you, your moan as he made you come undone, his name crying from your lips as he ate his come from your cunt after. Azriel had a million and one scenarios running through his head. He yearned to make each one of them come to fruition too.

He hadn’t answered Rhysand, so the High Lord tried again, “you really should tell her, but please,” Rhys closed his eyes with a grimace, “quiet your thoughts first, for Cauldron’s sake.” That got Azriel’s attention, his back straightening and mental shield slamming down. His eyes squeezed shut, almost as if he was in pain. “I cannot burden her with that now,” he said, “not with war at our doorstep.” Indeed, the second war with Hybern creeped ever closer, disappearances of other high fae occurring daily. Whatever they were planning across the sea, it was going to bring Prythian to its knees. 

Rhysand sighed then, feeling older than his 500 years. “Be that as it may, we should hold those we love tighter.” Rhysand looked to Feyre at that moment, his eyes meeting his mate’s, as he sent a strum of warm affection down the bond. She smiled and returned it cheerily. He turned back to Azriel, “if it all ends tomorrow, I know my love and she knows me. That’s all we can ask for in this immortal life.” Azriel looked back to you, and your eyes were already on him, tracing the shadows that wound around his chest. You met his eyes and winked, before turning back to Mor and laughing freely.  

“I thank the Cauldron daily it was you that found her in those mountains, Rhys.” Azriel spoke quietly, admitting a small secret he’d not told anyone. Rhysand softened, and clapped his friend on the shoulder, “As I am, brother.” Azriel nodded, letting the conversation die between himself and the High Lord as he drained the drink in his hand and moved down the steps in your direction. 

You’d been in conversation with Mor when he approached. She was telling you of the seamstress she’d been seeing, and how happy she was. Azriel cleared his throat from behind the two of you and you turned to meet him, taking in his appearance with wide eyes. “Ladies,” he started, bowing to you and Mor, who snorted at the silly formality. “And that note, I’ll be taking my leave. I’ve got a lady to see,” she said with a wink and a flourish of her red dress. You laughed and shook your head before turning back to the Shadowsinger. He’d caught you staring earlier and your heart had nearly jumped into your throat, before Mor mocked you lightly, diffusing the tension. 

“Hi Az,” you greeted softly, before dropping your empty glass on a passing waiter’s tray and thanking them. Azriel watched you closely, noting the revealed skin that shifted with each movement, committing every angle and freckle to memory.

“You want to get out of here?” He dared ask, jerking his head toward the private balcony on the House of Wind. You raised a brow, Azriel? Asking you to leave? Together? You heart was back in your throat and you thanked the Mother that you’d taken your time getting ready that evening. Nodding, you grasped his arm as he offered it to you like a proper courtier. He walked the two of you up a round of stairs and away from the eyes he’d threatened earlier in the night. Voices dulled the more space you put between yourselves and them and you couldn’t help but start to sweat a bit at the thought of being alone with Azriel. 

You’d been friends for nearly two centuries, but you’d always felt a connection with the male. Your heart thrummed with a warm, golden affection when he got close. It made keeping a clear head during training hard. It made sitting next to him at dinner difficult. And when he’d looked at you like you hung the moon as you danced earlier in the night, it made you want to take him to bed and ride him until he moaned your name. You breathed deeply. ‘Focus,’ you chided yourself, ‘he is your friend, for Cauldron’s sake.’

He led you out onto to the balcony and stopped at the railing before looking up at the star flecked sky. “This is my favorite part of the House,” he said eyes scanning the sky before looking back to you as you watched him. A blush crept up his neck, before he cleared his throat again. 

“I’ve always wondered what it was like to be able to fly, you know,” you said quietly, removing your hand from his arm, rolling up onto your toes, leaning against the stone railing, and looking out on Velaris before scanning your eyes up to the three stars that shone brightly overhead. “When I was a child, I met a Peregryn from the Dawn Court and thought she had the most beautiful wings I’d ever seen.” You chanced a glance his way, “I’d not met an Illyrian yet.” You reminded with a smirk, bumping his arm with fondness. Gods, he was in trouble.

“I asked her what it was like and she said it was the purest sense of freedom possible.” You glanced down at your feet, “I spent the next year wishing for wings.”  He mulled on your words. He wanted to say something cheesy as Cassian would, like ‘I’ll be your wings’ but he couldn’t, so you continued on. 

“When I was a little older, I witnessed a blue skinned lesser fae’s wings ripped from his body as punishment and it was the most gruesome thing I’d seen at that point.” You took a shuddering breath, “I cried for him that night. The lost freedom. How maddening it must’ve been.” You looked at him then and he watched you with furrowed brows. “How does it feel for you?” You asked softly, eyes tracing the shine of his wing. ‘Magnificent things,’ you thought. You remembered seeing his wings for the first time and thinking the Peregryn had finally moved to second place in your mind. 

Azriel had to gather himself as he spoke, “It’s… everything.” He said quietly adjusting his body to extend a wing. “My ability to fly came in late,” he said, and your eyes widened, you hadn’t known that. “My childhood was… rough and I didn’t learn to fly until I was nearly grown.” He laughed, scuffing the toe of his boot, wings folding in behind him. “It was a lot of crash landings those first months.” You snorted, mental image of a younger Az, landing in a puddle of mud crossing your mind. 

“I was never a proud Illyrian, not like the others,” he continued, “it was hard for me to reconcile my heritage and our traditions.” He looked to the cityscape then, “but the stronger I got, the more I understood why flight was so crucial to my people.” He looked to you, eyes shining, “it’s the closest we can get to the stars.” 

You leaned over the railing again, staring wistfully at the night sky, the moon reflecting on your skin. “Will you take me someday? Flying, I mean.” Did you not know Azriel would give you the world? Of course he’d take you flying. He’d give you the moon, the stars, walk through fire and back, anything. He nodded, “you say the word, and I’ll fly you the the ocean and back.” The smile that broke across your face crippled him, his knees threatened to give way. 

“Yours are my favorite,” you murmured softly, eyes glancing from his wings to his face. Azriel blushed in full, pink speckling his neck and cheeks as he laughed. “Don’t let Cass hear you say that, he’s got an ego,” he said, a smile remaining at his lips. You liked him like this the most. Loose, smiling, free. You reached up then, cupping his reddened cheek, thumb stroking. “I don’t care,” you said smiling, “it’s the truth.” Azriel swallowed roughly, staring at your eyes swimming with an emotion he knew, but was much too stubborn and scared to name.

Just as your hand went to retreat, he grasped it between his own. “You can touch them,” he offered, knowing damn well the implications, “if you want,” he added. Your eyes widened. Mor had mentioned once that Illyrian’s wings were ‘sensitive,’ was the word she’d used. It was a sign of great intimacy and trust to allow another to touch them. You felt the air shift between you two then, as you nodded.

He extended a wing toward you. This felt so much like the first time he’d shown you his hands all those years ago. Your hand crept forward and gentle fingers met the red gold membrane that stretched between two metacarpals. Your fingers traced the membrane in smooth circles, then traced up to the crest. Azriel felt his breath gutter out of his mouth in a loud, choppy exhale, and he felt himself harden at the sensation of your fingers against the most sensitive portion of his wings. You gasped and jerked away at the sudden noise, before apologizing. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have gotten carried away.” 

Azriel shook his head, “It’s not that, they’re sensitive.” There was that word again, only it made you think of how they’d been shredded before the King of Hybern, and you opened your mouth to apologize again, but he stopped you short. “I haven’t allowed another to touch them freely since my mother.” The admission floored you, your gut giving way with a breath.

You looked to his eyes then, the air between you had shifted again and you knew this was it. This was the moment you’d waited for, he was going to kiss you. Mother, it felt you’d waited a millennia, and he felt just the same. But that kiss never came. Instead, Azriel went stock still, his eyes now on the House behind you. 

“Azriel?” You questioned. “It’s Rhys,” he said tightly, “he’s summoning me.” You understood then. He looked to you desperately, eyes a little wild and apologetic. “I’m sorry, I have to go to him.” You nodded, you both worked for the High Lord, you’d never get in the way of Azriel’s allegiance to his Court. “Of course,” you said quietly, taking a step back and swallowing down your disappointment. 

Azriel took three steps towards the entrance then stopped. “I’ll take you,” he turned around, backing his way to the arched stone, but keeping his eyes on you for a moment longer. “When I get back, I’ll take you flying,” he offered. Another smile etched its way across your face and Azriel took a long moment to memorize it greedily. “It’s a date,” you said confidently. He beamed then, turning on a heel to pick up into a jog, Rhys no doubt shouting to hurry up. 

That date hadn’t happened though. The second war with Hybern broke out days later and you both barely made it out alive. 

When Feyre had come to Velaris after Amarantha’s defeat, you’d accepted her with easy friendship. You saw Rhysand, your longtime friend, overcome with love for his newly found mate, and you couldn’t help but love her as well. You’d shared your story with her and the two of you bonded deeply over her art. She’d offered to teach you to paint, and you began taking lessons in your off time. Rhys had been Cauldron blessed with her and you reminded him daily. 

Later, when Feyre’s sisters joined their little unit, you’d been the first one to break Nesta’s tough exterior. The female saw parts of herself in you and you’d gotten her to crack a smile when you mocked Rhys’ High Lord voice at dinner one night. Elain had been a tougher sell, but you’d tried, along with Azriel, to bring the female out of her shell. The day she joined you in the library to read, you knew progress had been made, even if you two had only sat in silence a few feet apart, a small smile gracing her features. 

You left her book recommendations with small notes and she began to do the same. Your friendship playing out in the margins of the library’s tomes. You won her over with silent conversation. Nesta noticed, of course, and she looked to you with gratitude as she saw her sister’s eyes brightened and skin began to return to its normal, healthy color. The night Azriel mentioned it as you walked down the hall toward the dining room for the family meal, you’d shrugged. “I met her where she needed me to,” you’d said quietly, glancing to your feet. Azriel smiled, a Cauldron blessed gift indeed. 

Dinners at the House of Wind were by far Azriel’s favorite version of you. You’d laugh with abandon, smile splitting your face, showing every tooth as Mor cracked a joke and leaned against you for support, one too many drinks in her system. The first time he’d seen that smile, it blinded him, and he’d gone a little dazed, staring at you in wonderment. Rhys had interrupted his train of thought with an invasive insertion of “How quickly she reduced you to a puddle, brother.” Azriel had scowled at Rhys then, mental shields firming up, but not before he heard the distinct sound of his High Lord laughing at the Spymaster’s defensiveness. 

Indeed Azriel was gone for you. When Cassian finally confronted him last year about the truth of his feelings, Azriel saw no point to avoid it any longer, not after his brothers had also found their mates. “Our souls are one in the same, she’s my mate,” he’d said pensively, as if he was letting his deepest secret breath in the light for the first time in centuries. Maybe he was. He’d made Cassian promise on his life not to tell anyone, and despite being the biggest gossip in the Inner Circle, he kept his promise. He was thrilled for his brother, knowing you were the perfect match.

Little did Azriel know, everyone else was already more than aware of his affections. Amren had figured it out a century prior when Azriel had tended your needs as you’d recovered from an injury sustained during a mission. He’d fretted around you like a mother hen, buying you flowers, sweets, and books while you were bedridden. The female had watched and hummed with a raised eyebrow as Azriel exited your room for the fifth time in one day, wringing his hands with worry despite Madja’s clean bill of health.

Feyre had figured it out the same year she’d returned from the Spring Court, just before the second war with Hybern. She’d seen the way his eyes had followed you in the war room Rhys had created to host strategy meetings. Saw him lean towards you when you spoke, saw his wings flutter when you finally cast your gaze to him, eager for your attention. More than anything, she’d seen his shadows, desperate little things, sneaking across the floor each night, sidling up your ankles and wrists, begging for your affection. You always laughed and nuzzled them as the wound their way to your hair and Azriel went a little soft at the sight. 

When she told Mor, the blonde had laughed, “They’ve been circling each for two hundred years now, eventually one of them will cave.” Mor leveled a sardonic look at Feyre then, “and when they do, we’ll all have to relocate to the River House for a year lest we be subject to the frenzy.”

This mission should’ve been simple. Rhys had asked you to check out reports of rogue soldiers spotted making their way towards the border of the Night Court from the Day coastline. The intel he’d received had mentioned three to four maximum, all of them drunken ex-Hybern loyalists. It should’ve been a matter of locating them, spying for a day or two, then winnowing in to neutralize any threat. Gods, this was far from simple. 

When you’d arrived in the region, the hairs on your neck rose, the air itself feeling off. As you tracked them, you’d noticed intentional attempts to throw you off course. A carelessly trashed map, crudely laid tracks in the opposite direction, Dawn Court wine bottles that had been emptied and tossed about. They knew you were there, and you quickly realized that a trap had been laid. You backed off them then, staying further than you’d have liked, but trying like hell to make them think you’d given up. 

On your fourth night following them, you’d drifted away to an inn two towns over, desperately seeking a place to bathe and rest, even for a few hours. As you bathed, you felt watched in a way that discomfited you to your core, and your dagger stayed within arms reach the rest of the night. Suddenly, the role you’d played for the last two hundred years had left you entirely ill equipped for whatever was happening here. 

You’d left out before dawn, refusing to lose an ounce of daylight, but as you hit the tree line, readying yourself to winnow out, you’d noticed it. Hanging from a tree, a hundred yards away was a piece of clothing, your clothing. Clothing that should’ve been in the pack at your back. Your breath shuttered out of you as you opened your mind to Rhys, asking for back up. You were in over your head and you knew when to admit it. There was no pride in getting yourself killed. 

As you turned to move back to the inn where you could wait out contact from Rhys in a public location, you were met with a pair of shining blue eyes. You stepped back, keeping your grounding, readying for a fight. “You’ve been following us,” the stranger said calmly, beginning to trek in a slow circle around you. You opened your mind to Rhys again, “Help,” you called. Rhys answered this time, “Where are you?!” It was a frantic response, you never asked for help, Rhys knew this. “Just off the coast, beneath the mountain range, Day court border, 400 hundred paces from the inn” you spoke to Rhys in choppy thoughts, trying to establish a location before all hell broke loose. 

“I have,” you finally answered the stranger, whose lips quirked at your voice. He stopped circling and resumed his stance in front of you, blocking passage to the inn. “Why?” He asked and you tried to keep your mind steady as you answered. “You’re trespassers in these lands” you stated simply, shrugging a shoulder up. He grinned then, “had your lot not gotten in the way of our King’s plans, these would be our lands. We were promised them. I was personally promised the Court of Nightmares.”

“Well,” you shrugged feigning indifference, “that’s not how the war played out, so I will have to ask you to leave,” you offered in your most bored political tone. The same tone you’d used with High Fae that ran off at the mouth in Hewn City. The stranger cocked his head the side then, eyes twinkling, “I don’t think I will.” At that moment, one by one, additional soldiers appeared from the forest line. One, then four, then ten, until near twenty stood around you, looking on with hatred. 

Shit. 

“We’d hoped for the Illyrians, but it seems your High Lord sent us a treat instead,” the stranger said with mirth. You steeled your spine, looking down your nose at the stranger, “They’re going to kill you, you know.” He’d laughed at your threat. “I think not,” he said as as arrow was released from your left, finding purchase in your shoulder. You folded over on yourself at the blow, and looked up baring your teeth, before drawing your dagger and rushing the stranger with a feral sound.

Five more arrows hit you before your blade could find its target. One into your hip, two in your back, a fourth piercing your in your upper thigh, until the last burrowed into the back of your knee, bringing you down in front of him — forcing you to bow to the stranger. The arrows were laced with faebane you realized as you’d begun to feel its effects in your blood. Your power waning quickly, thoughts becoming murky. 

You released another shattered thought to Rhys then, “Tell him, please,” you begged raggedly. Rhysand came back with a rushed and tight, “Hold on, Little One, we’re coming.” You shook your head, there wasn’t time. “Tell Azriel I love him if I don’t make it, Rhys, promise me.” He responded but it muddled out, sounding like words shouted through a pool of water, then your brain fell quiet. The line severed. 

The stranger lifted your head, hand wrapped around your throat, as he bent to meet your crouched form. “I’ll be sure to savor this,” he smiled and the hilt of his sword came in fierce contact with your forehead. 

It was the early morning on your fifth day away when Rhys heard you. “Help,” it had come through so clearly that it startled Rhys awake and set his heart to racing. You’d only asked for help once, during the war when you were overrun and near death. You were in danger.

He’d sat up straight in bed, Feyre still sleeping silently at his side, hand resting on her pregnant stomach. “Where are you?!” He’d asked down the line, a little frantic, remembering the state he and Azriel had found you in last time. Gods, you’d been run through on a Hybern soldier’s sword, the damage was astronomical. Azriel had nearly killed everyone within a mile radius at the sight of you.

You recited your location in short bursts and Rhys focused on the bond of your bargain, using it to locate you with more precision. He reached out to Azriel then, “Get Cassian and meet me downstairs. Be ready to fly.” Azriel responded an affirmative and Rhys rushed around his room, grabbing his dagger lined belt, and using his magic to dress in his leathers quickly. He winnowed to the base of the stairs and was glad to find Cassian and Azriel waiting. 

“Tell him, please” you begged into Rhys’ mind then, words growing ragged. Rhys’ eyes slammed shut with a wince and he attempted to reassure you, “Hold on, Little One, we’re coming.” Rhys opened his eyes and looked to Azriel, who was watching him with anticipation. You responded again, words growing murkier, a little warbled. “Tell Azriel I love him if I don’t make it, Rhys, promise me.” Rhysand felt sick. “We will find you and you will tell him yourself,” he spoke but the bond was dead, silent, foreboding. Rhys thought he might vomit. 

He looked to Azriel again, “It’s her. She’s in trouble. We have to go.” Azriel’s face darkened with a thunderous ferocity. Mother help the males who’d harmed you. “Where?” He asked, voice deep with the threat of murderous violence. “The wilds on the border, off the coast of Day. I’ll winnow us as close as possible.” Azriel nodded his acquiesce and lifted a trembling hand to his hair, running scarred fingers through the strands. Cassian spoke then, “we will get her back,” he’d said softly as Rhysand put his hands to the two of them, preparing for the jump. “And we will kill every last one of them,” Cassian added darkly as blue-black shadows encased them and they disappeared. 

You awoke with a start, gasping like you’d been underwater. Your shoulders ached from your position. You pulled on your hands only to realize you were shackled to a tree somewhere deep in the forest, the same forest you’d been on the outskirts of earlier. You looked up to the sky, trying to find the sun to gauge how much time had passed. The sun had long moved past midday and was sinking towards the evening horizon. Your throat tightened. Where was Rhysand? 

“Nice of you to join us,” a voice spoke. It was the stranger again, he emerged from the camp set two hundred paces to your left, hidden by shrubs and underbrush. You got a good look at him this time. He was tall, leanly muscular in a way that reminded you of Lucien Vanserra. His hair was a dishwater blonde and lacked any sheen, falling in choppy dry waves around his shoulders. His face was gaunt, eyes sunken, bruised with a lack of rest, and his cheekbones were sharp, giving his face an angle that made him look harsh and unforgiving. Though he carried himself with confidence, you noticed a slight, barely there limp in his right leg, an old wound perhaps, one that never healed correctly. You noted that for later, if you ever got out of these shackles. 

You leveled a glare at him that you hoped looked more fearsome than you felt. Mother, your bones ached and your wounds throbbed. “I left the arrows in, but broke off the shaft. Didn’t want to have you healing too quickly.” He spoke with nonchalance, while polishing a dagger, your dagger, you realized as your eyes focused. You pulled at the shackles above your head, and the stranger chuckled at your attempt. 

“What do you want?” Your voice croaked, mouth dry from disuse. The stranger laughed, pointing the blade at you, “I want my fucking court and you’re the key to getting it.” You shook your head then, “I am nothing.” The words sounded foreign on your tongue, a lie on some level, you knew this, but you would be damned before you gave up your family. The stranger clicked his tongue at your response, shaking his head. 

“Surely you don’t believe that? The High Lord doesn’t trust easily, you’ve been seen with his entourage. The Shadowsinger’s whore.” He squatted a few feet from you, eyes tracing from your tied hands down to your face, pausing at your breasts, before trekking down your stomach, thighs, and calves. He was sizing up how much fight you had left.

Your brain had short circuited though, the Shadowsinger’s whore. Mother above, you’d never even kissed. How long had this male watched you and your family? How had none of you seen it? A bitter laugh wretched from your lungs, “sorry to disappoint, but the Shadowsinger isn’t mine.” No matter how desperately I’ve wished it so, you added silently. 

The stranger grinned then, “if you are truly nothing, then I’ll make this a little sweeter.” He took steps towards you, raising the dagger to rest at your chin, the blade pressing to the underside painfully. “You’re far too pretty to be nothing.” He ran the blade along the column of your throat, resting it against your sternum, between your breasts. You pushed yourself further into the tree, back protesting as the arrows burrowed deeper with the movement. You didn’t like the new angle this interaction had taken and your fight or flight instincts were screaming. 

You attempted to reach out to Rhysand, but the bond was dead silent. Your breathing hitched at the realization that you were truly alone in this. The stranger chuckled, dragging the blade down your chest, slicing the leathers, letting the fabric fall open and reveal your undergarments to his greedy view. Your legs moved to kick, but you realized quickly they too were tied. The blade came to rest at your bare stomach, and the stranger dug it in below the navel, causing blood to pool there. You winced, but made no sound. 

“Ah, I was hoping you’d be louder than that,” the stranger smirked, “I’ll have to try harder.” He backed up then and pulled a whip from his back pocket, unfurling it with a crack. Your eyes widened and you brain went silent, fear overtaking your senses. “There it is,” his smile gleamed with violent delight, “there’s the reaction I was hoping for.” He reared an arm back before cracking the whip in your direction. The leather made contact with your torso, a stinging slice appearing along your rib cage. You jerked, but bit your tongue.

He cracked it again and again until you were bloody, slices in your leathers, festering wounds along your breasts, ribs, and stomach. You’d counted to 25 lashes before your brain gave out and your vision blurred from the pain. You looked up to the sky wearily. The sun was gone and the stars were slowly appearing. You smiled at them, remembering Azriel’s words from that night all those years ago. 

You hoped he’d forgive you for not telling him. You hoped he’d understand your fear in revealing that secret, that the bond had snapped for you during the war. When that Hybern soldier’s sword pierced your armor, running through your body to the hilt, and he’d let out a fearsome bellow from across the field at the sight. You felt it then, the golden strumming taking the form of a fated thread linking you two. You been near death when he and Rhys had found you and the only thing you could do was smile. Such an ironic thing it was to die in the arms of your mate. 

Your head lolled to the side as exhaustion threatened to overtake you. “Azriel,” your thoughts ventured, calling down the bond he didn’t even know existed, “I love you.” Darkness swam in the corners of your vision but you swore you felt his responding tug. The Mother was kind for granting that hallucinative mercy in your final hours. Your body gave out, slumping against the shackles and darkness overwhelmed you. 

Azriel was furious. No, furious wasn’t the word, he was a walking time bomb. You were gone. His mate was missing and he was going to explode. As he’d arrived with Rhys and Cassian to the location you’d given them, he could smell you. His eyes searched frantically around the scene before him until they zeroed in on an item hanging from a branch a few dozen paces out. Cloth of some sort? He approached and could detect your scent on it, realizing quickly it was your clothing. A ripped cotton blouse. His fists clenched and he vaguely heard Rhysand speaking to his left. “They must’ve captured her here.” Rhys crouched down to the ground, two fingers swiping the dirt there, before bringing them eye level to examine sample. “Blood,” he muttered, rubbing the hand on the leg of his pants, “she was injured.” Azriel’s heart thundered, he was going to fucking explode. 

He set his shadows work, surveying the forest with rapid precision. They’d cover more ground this way, an army of three operating like a whole infantry. By the time the sun rose to midday, Azriel was ready to begin screaming. They trekked further into the forest, following a line of smoke that was miles deep, originating at a camp somewhere far into the wilds. His shadows murmured to him of a small band of males there, of you, shackled to a fucking tree, arrows buried in your back. He’d nearly lost the contents of his stomach at the information and set to a run alongside Rhysand and Cassian. 

As the three approached the encampment, the sun was nearing dusk. Rhysand had commanded the halt and strategize. There were roughly twenty-five men, all armed. They couldn’t enter this blindly and infuriated, they would lose if they weren’t careful. Azriel hated admitting he was right, his instincts screaming otherwise. Mate, mate, mate, his heart pounded. 

They backed off to a thousand paces out, close enough that they could hear if the troop vacated the premises. As Rhysand and Cassian spoke quietly, Azriel felt his heart thrum. The golden thread there had pulled him closer to you and he could tell you were still alive. Though Rhys couldn’t reach out through your bargain, Azriel’s bond was still alight and warm, he stroked it with gentle affection. You might not feel it, but Gods he would try. 

As the trio retraced their steps to the camp, stars were just beginning to light overhead and Azriel grasped his daggers tightly, knuckles cracking around the hilt. He was going to kill them. Kill them all brutally for taking you, for touching what was his. When they were within a stones throw from the camp he heard it, heard you. “Azriel,” you whispered into his mind. He went stock still, spine ramrod straight, fingers trembling as they gripped his knives. The golden bond vibrated in his chest, and he felt you reaching out through murky waters, against all odds. “I love you,” you said with a soft exhaustion before your side went dark. Azriel’s breathing guttered and he felt high on mirthroot, sick from fae wine, and enraged to the point of explosion all at once. His blue siphons flared brightly from the surge of power. He closed his eyes and reached out to you through the bond, tugging on the thread connecting your souls. He was coming. He was going to save you. 

Rhysand looked to him then, curiosity swimming in his eyes as he took in the Shadowsinger’s sudden stop. Azriel opened eyes, irises alight with fire and shadow, voice grinding with dark threat, “Let’s go.” Rhys nodded and Cassian drew his knives. 

They moved with brutal efficiency, killing male after male until none remained alive. Some had begged, others shouted and scattered their belongings as they set into a run. His shadows had caught them, twisting around their ankles and dragging them back to meet their fate, daggers slicing throats from ear to ear until blood poured like a prized hunt being slaughtered, the Illryian’s hands grasping and snapping necks like twigs. It was a practiced routine for the three of them, who’d trained since they were teens. 

As they stepped through the shrubs to find you, Cassian gasped and Azriel felt his lungs threaten to collapse at the sight. You’d been shackled to a tree at the wrists and ankles and whipped within an inch your life. Wounds glistened with blood along your thighs, soft stomach, ribs, breasts. There had to be thirty lashes. A knife wound was visible at your exposed navel. Your head hung forward unconscious and Azriel’s heart pounded. He wanted to vomit and his hands shook. 

“She said you’d come,” a voice said, emerging from behind the tree you were bound to. The male held a dagger to your throat. This new stranger had to be the leader of this band of idiots. Azriel’s eyes followed the tip of the blade up his arm to the male’s eyes and a growl escaped him as he bared his teeth. The male laughed, “to think she said she was nothing and yet I have both the Shadowsinger and the Lord of Bloodshed before me to save her.”

Azriel’s mind latched on to that piece of information, turning it over in his head. You’d told this male you were nothing? Did you not know Azriel would do anything for you? You were everything. You were his love, light of his life, keeper of his soul, his mate. How alone you must’ve felt, how scared. Azriel’s eyes narrowed, he was going kill him. 

Rhysand spoke then, emerging from behind the two Illyrian brothers, “And may I ask why you’ve abducted a member of my court?” He was in High Lord mode, tone bored, fingers picking at his sleeve. The Hybern male’s smile gleamed at the introduction, “just who I was hoping to see!” 

“Hybern, the old fool, made a few promises in his last days as King,” the male spoke, digging the blade down to your chest, where it rested over your heart. Azriel stared at the blade, eyes tracing to the the hilt. That was your blade, the one he’d given you when you first arrived in Velaris, the one you wielded against Eris, the one you kept strapped to your thigh. Your own knife had been used against you.

“One of which was that I would inherit these lands after your lot were annihilated.” Azriel wanted to laugh at the male’s words, was he serious? “A dead king cannot honor empty promises,” he ground out eyes shifting to the male’s blue eyes. “A dead and headless king cannot gift you shit,” Azriel spat. The male smiled then, a feline grin growing on his lips. “Precisely Shadowsinger, a dead king cannot give me my due, but this little thing can help.” You’d made a noise then, something akin to a whimper as you came to. Eyes wincing then fluttering open as your irises found Azriel’s immediately, some preternatural magnetism existing between the two of you. Then you looked to Cassian and Rhysand, and your eyes swam with apology.

“She awakens!” The male sang, looking to you. Azriel jumped at the opportunity to send his shadows out while the male’s attention was elsewhere. They traced over the ground to you, circling the tree and working at your binds. He sent two others towards the distracted male. “Who knew the Night Court was so attached to a whore,” the male laughed, “I want my lands,” he fixed Rhysand with a glare, “you can have your plaything back in exchange for my seat, High Lord” he sneered. 

Rhysand looked from you to the stranger to the shadow now creeping ever closer to the male. “You must be mistaken,” Rhys said then and Azriel’s shadows wrapped around the male’s neck and wrist simultaneously, whispering violence for touching their mate, forcing the dagger from his grasp and air from his lungs. Azriel tightened them until they heard bones crack in the male’s arm and choked sounds exit his throat, face reddening as oxygen was cut off. “I do not make deals with dim witted cunts,” Rhysand said darkness beginning to surround him, High Lord voice encroaching, “I do not entertain terrorists and I do not take kindly to threats on my family.” 

‘Finish him,’ Rhysand said darkly into Azriel’s mind and the Shadowsinger moved with lightening precision, dagger find purchase as the male’s neck was sliced open and his right hand was removed from his body. The male’s body toddled forward with a choked gurgling, before falling to the ground, lifeless, blood pooling.

Azriel’s gaze fell to you and he softened. His shadows finished picking the lock of the shackles that held your arms and they clicked open, allowing your body to fall into his. “Azriel,” you breathed, voice weary with exhaustion, “I didn’t— I—“ you stuttered, pulling a shaking hand to his face. You swallowed, tracing his cheek with trembling fingers, “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” you murmured, your watery eyes searching his face, memorizing the details of his visage.

Azriel picked you up in his arms and unfurled his wings protectively. “I will always come for you,” he said vehemently, eyes watching your face with intensity. You smiled, a weepy trembling smile as you nodded. Rhysand reached the Shadowsinger’s side then and your eyes moved to his violet ones, “Hi Little One, I’m so sorry we’re late.” You let out a single watery laugh before wincing as the sudden expansion of your chest burned the wounds littering your chest and back. 

“The arrows,” you gasped, “at my back,” you twisted in Azriel’s hold, “please get them out.” Rhysand leaned down to inspect the wounds. “Faebane,” he surmised, that’s why his connection to you had been severed. “We need to get her to Madja, now.” Azriel nodded, allowing Rhys and Cassian to move closer so the High Lord could winnow them home. 

Landing back at the House of Wind had been chaotic. Rhysand shouted immediately to get every healer available and the dining room table had been lined with a sheet, turning the warm family room into a medical ward. You were laid facedown on the table and Azriel took to your side, scarred hands touching your face, keeping you awake as Madja worked to remove the six arrows burrowed in your body. 

You’d screamed. The sound would haunt Azriel for centuries. You begged to make it stop and Madja had apologized softly as she worked faster to remove them while minimizing damage. “I’ve got you,” Azriel said softly, “eyes on me, alright?” He rubbed the hollow under your eye with a scarred thumb and you opened your eyes to lock on his. “No gloves,” you said, smiling tightly, before wincing as Madja applied local anesthetic to an arrow wound. Azriel smiled, eyes a little watery. “Not with you,” he whispered shaking his head, “never with you.” You smiled at him and the sight set Azriel’s heart to fluttering.

Later, after the arrows had been removed and wounds bandaged, you’d been given a strong herb tonic for pain that set your head swimming as exhaustion overtook you. Azriel carried you his room, laying you gently onto the mattress and covered you with the duvet. He leaned down then, breathing in your scent as he placed a kiss to your forehead, nuzzling his nose to the Winter white hair there. He would tell you. When you awoke, he would bare his soul to you. 

You woke with a groan. Fucking Gods, your body ached with the effort it took to roll over. “Easy,” a voice came from the corner of the room. Your breath gasped out of you as your eyes raced to the figure there. “Azriel,” you breathed. The male smiled warmly at you and stepped forward to rest at the edge of the mattress. You pushed up in the bed, the wound at your shoulder screaming from the exertion. Once in a sitting position, you rested your back on the headboard as you looked at him. “For taking out a small militia, you seemed to be decently uninjured,” you said smiling tightly, memories of the stranger and his whip haunting your mind. He snorted a small laugh, “Yes well,” he looked down then, thumbs fiddling with each other, chest heating, “I had something worth fighting for.” 

He looked back to you and your cheeks had grown pink, a small pleased smile at your lips. “I heard you, you know,” he said softly, turning enough to rest a hand on your thigh, thumb drawing small, soothing circles there. The heat generated in the touch sent a spark to your belly. Oh, you were fucked. “I heard you in my head, through the bond,” he said eyes watching his thumb as it traced on your bare skin hypnotically. 

“You know then?” You whispered, breath skittering out of you. You were scared to death of the trajectory the conversation was taking, your heart preparing for the best and the worst simultaneously. Azriel’s eyes dragged up your form to your face and a smile broke over his lips, one that caused your heart to ignite. Your Mother had once told you the heart was an organ of fire and you’d laughed, never having cause to believe such a statement. You understood now. 

“I—“ Azriel started, before clearing his throat, turning his body to face you in full, a knee pulled up on the mattress, touching yours. “In the whole time I have known you�� two centuries, Little One,” he looked at you pointedly, “you have been my dearest friend, my greatest comfort, my confidant, and the person I admire most in this Gods forsaken world.” He breathed deeply, a whoosh exiting his lips as his hand tightened around your thigh. “The times when you were lost to me have been some of the most painful moments I’ve experienced.” 

Your eyes began to water, and you moved a hand to rest atop his own, thumb circling the scarred skin at his wrist. He took a breath then and the air shifted between you, his mouth opening and closing, as if he was gathering his confidence for what he was about to say next. “I have loved for you so long that I’d given up all hope of reciprocation.” The words shattered through you as all air escaped your lungs, guts swooping down as heat alighted there. “I felt the bond the night Eris came for you,” he continued, eyes watching your entwined hands. Your body went still and a startled laugh exited your mouth. Azriel’s eyes flew to yours questioningly. 

“Sorry,” you chuckled again, “I’m just realizing how fucking stupid we’ve been.” You lolled your to the side, watching him with loving eyes. “I’ve been in love with you for almost two centuries, Azriel,” you smiled, “I thought you wouldn’t want me.” Azriel’s eyes widened, his mouth opening and closing in disbelief, two then three times. You thought for a second to compare him to the guppy fish that swam in schools along the banks of the Sidra but refrained. 

He pushed forward then, hands coming to cup your face, pinky and ring fingers resting in the hollow below your ear, thumbs stroking your cheeks. “How could I not? You’re everything,” he whispered, searching your face, conviction showing in his eyes. You couldn’t stop the smile that overtook your mouth as you spoke, “and you’re my mate.” His eyes moved to your lips, glazing before they moved back to your eyes. “As you are mine,” he spoke confidently. 

Your eyes watched each other for a long second, “I really hope you’ll kiss me this time,” your hand trailed up his arm, fingers teasing. “Mother knows I’ve been dreaming of it for far too long.” He surged forward, lips meeting yours and you thought you might float away. You gasped and his tongue moved in, claiming your mouth, your taste with his own. 

He pulled away minutes later, a little breathless, “Sorry to have kept you waiting, my love,” he spoke, resting his forehead to yours with a smile, watching your dazed expression, pink cheeks, as your lips split into a grin. Your hand moved to the front of his button down, fisting in the material there, giving an experimental tug. “Kiss me like that again and I’ll consider forgiving you.” 

The laugh that came out of him was golden, and you pushed yourself to memorize it. Azriel, Lord of Shadows, Spymaster for the Night Court, Rhysand’s right hand and Illyrian warrior was soft for you. He loved you. He was your mate. You’d be giddy about it for the rest of your life. 

Your healing had been slower than you would’ve liked. The faebane had done serious damage but with Madja’s help, the scarring was minimized. The lashes at your front took two weeks to heal, the arrow wounds took three. Three fucking weeks. Meanwhile all you could think about was your mate. He hadn’t left your side in the interim. Helping you take steps, applying the wound creams that Madja had left in small glass pots, keeping you fed, making you laugh, telling you how much he loved you daily. Mother above, you were going to ruin this male. 

You walked into the kitchen at the end of week three, the only evidence of your wounds now in the slight limp of your right leg and twinge in your left shoulder. The marks at your stomach and chest had diminished into barely there, silver scores. Cassian was sitting at the small table in the corner as you entered. “Hi Cass,” you greeted, “seen my mate around this morning?” It was fun calling him that, a small part of your chest swelling with pride each time. 

Cassian smirked, “He’s been…… out.” Your eyes narrowed, he was being evasive. “Out where?” You asked, grabbing an apple and hopping up on the counter to watch the male. He shrugged, “No idea, Little One.” You smirked, “I know where you sleep Cassian,” you started, “is it really wise to lie to me?” Nesta strode into the kitchen, “What’s he done now?” She asked laughing. “Hey! I’ll have you know I’ve done nothing!” The male exclaimed, “She’s interrogating me on the whereabouts of her maaate.” He dragged out the vowel of the last word mockingly. Nesta took her seat next to Cassian and laughed, “Ah, him.” She looked to you then, “he’ll be around to collect you soon.” 

You looked between the two, suspicion dripping from your features as you took another bite from the apple in your palm. “You two are being weird,” you stated. Nesta shrugged, nudging Cassian who smiled at her. “Just wait,” she said softly, “maybe cook yourself a meal.” Cassian’s mouth quirked with a laugh he restrained. “Right, I’m leaving, cause whatever this is,” you waved a hand at them, “is deeply odd.” You hopped off the counter and strolled to the exit.  You heard them laughing softly once you were out of the room, making you roll your eyes at their antics.

You’d gone to the library after leaving the kitchen and found Elain already there. Her eyes moved to you upon your entrance and she closed her book, middle finger marking her spot. “How are you feeling?” She asked softly, eyes surveying your body for lingering damage. You sighed, falling into the sofa across from her. “I’m better,” you said quietly, “the pain is gone, scars are minimal.” You turned your eyes to her, she looked brighter than the last time you’d seen her. “How are you?” You asked in return. She smiled sweetly. “Better,” she echoed you and you wanted to laugh. “I’ve been exchanging letters with Lucien,” she added and your ears perked up.

“That’s great, Elain,” you rest your chin on a closed fist, watching her. She shifted and sat her book to the side, page forgotten. “I want to tell you something,” she said quietly, fingers twiddling with each other. She looked... nervous? “I’m all ears,” you said softly. 

“I had a vision while you were gone,” she started and took a deep breath. “It was so muddled at first, I couldn’t tell who it was, but then I saw you. Your hair was longer, you stood taller, and your belly was round.” The breath left your body in a powerful exhale. She looked to you again, eyes watching yours, “You were pregnant and happy and in love,” she said quietly, as if the words in themselves were fragile. Your hands trembled and you moved them under your thighs, her eyes didn’t miss the action. 

“I couldn’t understand why the Mother would send me a vision like that, I saw Feyre’s pregnancy, but we’re sisters, you know?” You nodded. “Then I realized I recognized the tattooed arm I’d seen wrap around you, knew it was Azriel.” Your eyes watered, and you hiccuped out a small laugh. “I’ve known for a while you two were fated, but the Mother was telling me for certain. I hope you know how happy we are for you.” She finished and moved to sit next you, small hand touching your knee. 

“When they brought you in that night, I thought the Mother had lied to me, that it was a vision of what could have been, that you wouldn’t make it.” You’d never heard Elain speak at length in this way, and you thought you might stop breathing. “I’ve never been happier to see you than when Azriel brought you in to read days later, my sweet friend.” You surged forward, throwing your arms around the female and she returned the gesture warmly. 

You sat back and looked at her then. “Thank you,” you said, voice small, a little watery. She nodded before turning to resume her original spot at the end of the sofa, picking up her book and opening it to the page she’d left off. 

In the hours that followed, you’d returned to the kitchen, grateful to find Cassian and Nesta had left. You took Nesta’s advice, gathering the ingredients to build a small berry tart. It had just gone in the oven when your mate appeared in the doorway.

“Hello love,” he said casually, leaning against the door jamb. You startled, turning on your heel to find him smiling at you. “Where have you been?” You asked walking towards him and running your hands around his midsection in a hug, head resting against his chest. His arm came around your shoulders as he pressed a kiss to your hair, breathing in your scent. “That, my dearest one, is a surprise.” 

You looked up chin resting against his chest, watching his face. “It’d better be good, I baked for you,” you said, smiling softly at the Spymaster. His eyes moved to the oven then and back to you, irises darkening, as his pupils blew a little wide. “You… baked?” He asked disbelieving, “didn’t know you knew how to bake,” he followed up playfully. You gasped and shoved him, “for that, you can starve, have fun finding another mate to bake for you.” He laughed heartily and caught your hand, bringing your knuckles to his lips, eyes swimming with warm affection as he pressed a kiss there. Gods, the action made lust swoop in your stomach, heat spreading. 

“The fool I’d be to turn away such a female,” he said, voice deepening, lips running across your knuckles with each word. “Azriel” you breathed. “Yes?” He offered in return, still smiling, moving your knuckles back and forth against his hot mouth. “Please tell me this surprise involves you bedding me.” A growl creeped out of his throat, the thought of you under him sending lust racing down his spine and to his groin. 

“It might,” he said quietly, lips resuming their exploration, tracking small kisses from your knuckles, to the joint of your thumb, the inside of your wrist where Rhys’ tattoo lingered, up the soft skin of your arm, to your elbow, until he reached the skin of your shoulder. His lips traced over the raised skin there, a small nip above the scar as he traced north to your collarbone. You’d gone to putty in his hands, head rolling to the side to bare your throat. He pressed soft kisses there, pausing at your pulse point to trace the area with his warm tongue, a whimper escaping your mouth. 

“If this is going to become a regular thing, I’ll need you two to relocate to the River House,” a voice came from behind you and you jumped in shock, but your mate, he let out a possessive growl before turning on the intruder. Rhysand laughed airily and folded his arms over his chest. “Easy, brother,” he smiled, causing Azriel to roll his eyes. You blinked a little dazed, and pulled away from the Shadowsinger. “You’re gonna make me burn my fucking tart,” you shoved him with an arm and laughed as you turned to resume your place at the oven. 

Azriel instructed you to dress comfortably and be ready in a hour as he kissed your knuckles one last time and exited the kitchen. Butterflies roamed freely in your stomach at the thought of what he had planned. You’d returned to your quarters after removing the tart from the oven and portioning it into a small travel sized container. You were going to accept the bond, and your nerves were alight with anxious excitement. After you dressed in a lightweight linen dress, you packed a small bag with your remaining creams, and the boxed tart you’d prepared earlier. 

You descended the stairs to find Azriel waiting at the base, his wings standing proudly behind him, shadows skittering around his feet. At the sight of you they raced to meet on the bottom step, running up your legs, around your waist and into your hair. A laugh escaped you as one nuzzled into the space behind your ear. Azriel watched fondly. “They love you,” he said smiling, taking a step to meet you, “ever since the bond snapped, I’ve had the hardest time reining them back from touching you.” 

You reached a hand out to meet his, interlacing your fingers. “They’re cute, but you’re cuter,” you said with gentle affection. A shadow pinched at your waist and Azriel’s cheeks went a little pink as he laughed. 

“Will you tell me what the surprise is?” You asked as he walked you toward the training balcony. “I’m afraid I’m very poorly dressed for training,” you joked. He snorted, “no, we’re not training.” He came to rest at the railing and then turned to you, running a hand up your arm, fingers moving to hold the back of your neck, warm palm heating the skin there, thumb grazing your jawline. “Amongst many things I’ve been terribly late for recently, I realize I owe you a date.” 

Your face went a little puzzled and you looked to his eyes. “A date?” You questioned. He nodded, “I was supposed to take you flying.” Realization dawned on your features and a smile overtook your lips, each tooth shining in the setting sun. “I wanted to kiss you that night too,” you admitted laughing, remembering how desperate you’d been for his touch and attention. He smiled softly, “you have no idea how angry I was with Rhys for calling me away.” Your eyes widened, still in disbelief that this male wanted you return. It seemed both a millennia in the making and still so new and fragile. 

Azriel snuck an arm around your waist and brought you up into the stretch of his firm body. His other hand tracing down your hip, then thigh, to curve under your knees as he picked you up. His wings unfurled and he shot into the air. A shaky laugh startled out of you and you gripped him tighter, your arms winding around his neck. His wings flapped in thunderous bursts, taking you higher, until you could see the entirety of Velaris spread below, the Sidra flowing like a snake through the winding city. Your breath left you in awe. “The Peregryn was right,” you said loud enough for him to hear and he smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple.

The flight was short, but it took you to the rural banks of the Sidra on the outskirts of the city, just before it emptied into the sea. You could see ships sailing into the harbor, moonlight beginning to trickle across the water. This was undeniably special, you thought, no one would see you up here and you felt like this was the edge of the world itself. You turned to Azriel, finding his eyes already watching you. “Thank you,” you said softly, leaning into him, his chin meeting your forehead as you moved your body to rest alongside the length of his. His hand came to rest at the small of your back, pinky stretching to graze the curve of your bottom. Wherever this was going, you were very interested. 

He turned and grasped your hand, pulling you back up the hill and away from the view, towards a field of wildflowers and grasses. There, in the middle, a blanket had been laid out, small candles lit to illuminate the setting. A basket sat in one corner, a bottle of fae wine held within with an assortment of pastries, breads, and cheeses. You realized quickly that your mate, the male you’d loved for damn near two centuries, was courting you. The thought thrilled you. 

He led you to the blanket and motioned for you to sit next him. “I must confess, I never took you for a romantic,” you said looking from the candles, to the basket, and then to him. He was watching you again. He smiled, laughing a bit nervously, “I’m a lot of things,” he said and your eyebrow quirked. “Oh yeah? Like what?” You challenged him and he loved you for it. You made him feel easy to love, you made loving fun and freeing. Azriel had once only thought freedom could be found in fucking and flying, then he’d found you and he knew it was there too. In the smile of your lips, in the thrill of your touch, in the ease of your love. 

“Well,” he started, moving his wings to lean into you, pressing a kiss to your exposed shoulder. The action caused you to shiver. “I’m a spymaster.” You snorted, “no shit.” A laugh rumbled in his chest. “I’m a bit shy as you well know, I’m quite fond of dancing, I’m—” he hummed the last letter, pausing his thoughts and moving his lips up your neck. “I’m in love with you,” he said biting into the flesh at the juncture of your collarbone and throat, cock hardening at the sound that rolled out of your mouth. “I’m going to take you right here, on this blanket, under the stars.” 

You gasped, your hands moved find purchase in the hair at the back of his head, fingers winding through the strands, nails dragging at his scalp. His nose ran the length of your jawline before his lips found yours. He rumbled a small hum the instant his mouth touched your own. At first it was a gentle press, teasing you as he had done today in the kitchen at the House of Wind. The adrenaline racing up your spine made you feel like you might vibrate out of your skin. His hand reached up then, threading broad fingers into your hair as he took the kiss deeper. Tonguing the bottom of your lip until your mouth opened, his tongue stroking your own. Humming with contentment, he tilted your head, deepening the kiss at a new angle that had heat swooping down to your core. 

You brought your left hand to his shoulder, fisting your fingers in the fabric there and pulling him closer. He understood your intention and leaned you back into the blanket, pleasure alighting each nerve as his body pressed into your own. He eased up on your lips and began a slow trek south, pulling the strap of your dress down the curve of your shoulder, leaving a love bite there that had you gasping. He kissed down the bust line of the dress, laving his tongue at the swell of your breast. Your breath was coming in pants and you pressed yourself up on your elbows as he moved further south, fingertips tracing the hem of your dress that had risen to the middle of your thigh. 

He looked back to you and smiled, mischief playing in his eyes as he ran his hands up your thighs, the slow drag pulling the dress with it. “I’ve been thinking about your cunt for centuries,” he said, his lips on your knee, pressing insistently as they moved north. “I’ve been dreaming of making you come on my tongue since I met you.”

Your breath leaves you in one fell swoop as you feel his tongue at the juncture of your hip and thigh. His mouth was insistent at skin there, tonguing the lace of your panties before pulling them down your legs and off entirely. He picked up a foot, placing it to his chest as he traced the long line of your body with hungry eyes. You were panting already, dressed rucked up around your waist, straps fallen down your arms and breasts heaving. His gaze flowed south and landed on your pink cunt, glistening, begging for him. His eyes went back to your face then, and his titled his head to the side, “Will you let me eat your pretty little cunt?” He asked fingertips tracing the scars of your calf with reverence. He brought your foot up, kissing the inside of the ankle, then nosing his way over your scarred calf, suckling at the skin there. “Please,” he added, eyes moving back to yours as his mouth continued his ministrations. 

“Mother above, Azriel,” you breathed and a laughed startled out of you, “you are mouthy.” He chuckled darkly then, nipping at your knee, taking special care to press a gentle kiss at the new scar there. “Is that a no then?” He said softly and your head fell back with a groan, exposing your neck to his view. “As if,” you said, head pulling back up and lolling to the side to rest on your shoulder. “I’ve thought about it too, and if you back out now I will explode.” He laughed again, freely this time, forehead resting on your thigh. 

His eyes find yours again, and he kept them there as he traced his lips north. He nosed the juncture of your cunt and inner thigh, running a tongue along your mound. You gasped and eyes narrowed, watching him with rapt attention. He pressed a kiss to the top of your slit and his hands come up to open you to him, pulling the lips apart and tonguing the collected moisture there. Your head fell back as your elbows gave way, falling flat against the blanket. 

“You taste better than I imagined,” he said before wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking. The moan that left you had his hips pushing into the ground to find relief as his cock begged for release. His tongue flicked against your clit as he sucked and hummed. He thought this might become his favorite place in all of Prythian. He thought that every bad thing that had happened in his life seemed insignificant now that he was able to worship freely between your thighs. He traced fingers up and paused to wet them on his tongue, before pushing his middle and ring finger in to the second knuckle, pulling them out and scissoring them back in again. His tongue found your sweet little button for a second time that night and he laved at it, listening to your cries as he pushed you to the brink. Azriel’s life had been a nightmare, but between your thighs, mouth on your cunt, walls fluttering around his fingers, he thought he’d been blessed by the Mother herself. 

Your hips rocked up in time with his fingers and you cried as your gut twisted, the coil there tightening. “Az-“ you gasped. “Azriel,” you went a little whiny on the vowels of his name, and your hand reached down to thread your fingers into his hair, nails scratching and tugging the strands. He hummed, the vibration sending shocks up your spine. “Azriel, baby,” you gasped, coming up on an elbow again, rutting your hips into his face as he took you higher. He didn’t let up, suckling at your cunt, fingers finding the spongy spot on the backside of your clit that made the world go blank “Azriel!” you gasped again, hips stuttering out, “Fuck, fuck— oh.” In seconds you were reaching your peak, hips faltering, thighs twitching, toes curling into the hard planes of his back. 

He pulled his mouth off of you, pressing kisses to your pubic bone as he moved north up your stomach. He eyes were alight with desire, the male was pure want and you were his last meal. He pulled his fingers from your cunt and trailed them up to rest at your neck as he slotted his body between your thighs and kissed you. The hedonism of tasting yourself on his mouth made you wetter, cunt pressing into the hard line of his cock, still restricted in his trousers. He moaned at the contact, mouth leaving yours to rest his head against your chin and gather himself. The sound sent a pleasurable shock directly to your core. You grasped the hand at your throat and brought his fingers up and to your mouth, tongue laving at them before taking them to the knuckle, and pulling back slow, hollowing out your cheeks and sucking, keeping your eyes on his. He bared his teeth the sight and ground his hard cock into you, the friction on your clit making your thighs twitch. 

“My sweet little mate,” he cooed. “Love of my life,” he nosed your cheek, his fingers still in your mouth. “All my dreaming has been put to shame it would seem,” he pulled his fingers from your mouth and replaced them with his tongue, his hands flying to his belt. He growled in struggle and you ventured a laugh. His eyes found yours and his jaw ticked, “keep laughing, sweet girl, I’ll fuck your throat next and you won’t come.” Your eyes went a little wide and a feline grin appeared on your face. “Mouthy indeed,” you said with glee as he finally got the buckle undone and pushed the pants down and off. 

His shirt went next and your fingers traced up his exposed arms to his shoulders. “I’ve seen you shirtless a dozen times, and you still take my breath away,” you said softly, a hand resting on his pectoral. He laughed and went a little pink, before he pushed your dress up your body and over your head, leaving you bare. “I’ve always been impressed by your ability to so disarming,” he said, mouth finding the space above your breast as his hands came to cup them, fingers toying with the nipples. “It’s my favorite thing about you, you see me in a way I can’t even see myself,” he followed up. 

Your eyes watered at the admission and your hands found his face, bringing his mouth back to yours as you kissed him again, tongue entwining with his. Your hands grasped his shoulders, as your leg found his hip and you pushed him over, onto his back. Your hands came to rest on his chest as you settled your weight on his lower abdomen. You could feel his manhood standing to attention, insistent at the curve of your ass and you reached around to grasp it, pushing your chest out for his greedy eyes. Taking him in long strokes, you ran your hand up and down, circling your thumb around the head. His eyes screwed shut as his breathing shallowed. 

“Wanna know a secret, baby?” You offered, rocking your hips in time with your strokes. He whined then, the Lord of Shadows keened a little whine for you that had you ready to come right there. “Last time we hosted a gala, that night before Hybern,” you were panting, “all I could think about was taking you to bed.” His eyes opened and hazel was gone blacked out in pure desire. His hands found your hips and his own began to move in time with you. “I thought about riding you,” you said, twisting your hand in a way that had his breath guttering out of him. “I thought you might love me in the way you looked at me.” His eyes softened and he leaned up, hands tracing up your spine as he pressed kisses to your chest. 

“I loved you that night and every night since,” he said before tonguing a nipple and sucking it into his mouth. “That dress you wore, my color, had me hard for a week.” You laughed then removing your hand from his cock and bringing both to his face, so you could kiss him. His hands slipped to your ass then, palming the cheeks as his tongue moved in tandem with yours. When you moved back from him, a string of salvia still connected you two, you reached up to comb fingers through his hair gently.

“I brought you something,” you said quietly, looking to the corner of the quilt where your bag had dropped ages ago. His brow furrowed, confusion showing in his features. “You don’t have to, but I brought some of that tart. If you want,” you offered the statement nervously, as if there was still a chance for rejection. Azriel’s heart went soft and his brain turned to mush.

“You want to accept it?” He questioned, hands sliding up your back and to your waist. You smiled and looked at him incredulously, “Of course I want to accept it, it feels like I’ve waited a millennia for you.” You’d laughed a bit and that feeling of home raced through him again. Gods, he was fucked. 

You leaned off his lap, pulling the strap of your bag to you and unzipped it. There, packaged in a little glass container, lay a small slice of the berry tart you’d fretted over earlier in the day. “Nesta made some stupid comment about ‘cooking’ when I’d asked where you were,” you laughed in hindsight at the female’s leading words. “She knew because Cassian knew, he helped me with the food and candles,” Azriel murmured pushing your hair up and over your shoulder. 

He pulled the container from your grasp then and opened it before picking the pastry up with his fingers, the same fingers that had been inside you minutes ago. Eyes on yours he took the first bite, your heart thrumming as the golden thread of your bond lit up like the sunrise. His eyes never left yours as he consumed the pastry in four bites, swallowing and pulling his fingers into his mouth at the remaining sweetness there. 

The bond between you two was shining, strong and thrumming with love. ‘Hi,’ you tried, your thoughts reaching out to him. He smiled, laughing freely, and his voice came through clearly, ‘Hi, Little One.’ You choked out a laugh, eyes watering as you leaned forward to kiss him, tasting the berries on his tongue. ‘Can I make love to my mate now?’ He questioned down the bond and you laughed again. His hands were already tracing your hips as you leaned forward, hand reaching underneath to guide him into your cunt. Lowering yourself down, you rocked forward once then twice in order to take him to the hilt. 

Mother above, he was big. His cock was thick and filled you wholly, pushing against your cervix making your eyes flutter in pleasure. You thought of the comment Mor had made about wingspan once decades ago and you heard him laugh, “I’m flattered, truly,” he said playfully, reading your thoughts and nipping at your shoulder.

You rose up again and set to riding him slowly, hips moving in long strokes as his hands traced your ass, pulling at the flesh there in time with your movements. You gave a experimental squeeze of your walls, and he keened a loud moan that had you speeding up your flow. “You keep that up, Little One and I won’t last,” he panted at your throat. “That’s rather the point,” you laughed breathlessly, your own hand moving to cup your breast, the other sliding down to circle your clit. His eyes traced the view greedily, moving down to the point where you connected, watching your cunt take him in full, his cock glistening with your shared wetness. He bared his teeth at the sight, a rumble lighting in his chest. 

Just as your walls began to flutter with your impending orgasm, he grasped you and flipped you to your back, pulling your hands from your body and entwining your fingers with his own on each side of your head. He ground his pelvis in deep and your legs hitched higher around his waist. “Azriel, fucking Gods,” you called out at the switch in angle, the tip of his cock grinding into your cervix. He hummed at your throat, teeth marking you there as his hips pulled out and pushed in, grinding each time he bottomed out into you. His wings flared behind him and you thought you’d never seen a more beautiful sight. 

“You take me so well, my love,” he panted, “you were made for me.” You whined then, cunt fluttering around him as he bottomed out deep and held it there, grinding his pubic bone into your clitoris. The pleasure raced up your spine and you thought you’d never be able to leave this place, might have to keep him inside you forever. He growled, reading your thoughts. “You want me to fuck this cunt forever?” He asked aloud leaning up, pulling his hands from yours. 

You whined at the loss, but the sound died as he pulled your legs up his waist to his shoulders, kissing the scarred calf. He drew his cock out, only to slam back in. “Fuck,” you moaned out, voice going up two octaves. “You want me between your thighs for the rest of my days?” He said again, hips moving faster, your hands moving to your tits as they bounced from the impact. His eyes watched the movement and he bared his teeth again, turning his head to bite into the flesh of your calf. 

“Azriel!” You called out again, pleasure zipped up your spine and you felt your stomach tighten. “Az, baby, I’m so close.” He chuckled darkly. “Be a good girl and come on my cock,” he said as his fingers traced down your leg to find your clit, rubbing the bundle in quick, timed circles. “Az- I-,” you barely got the words out before your orgasm overtook you, a long moan exiting your mouth as your cunt tightened around him, he ground into you and worked you through it, before dropping your legs back to his hips and pistoning deeper.

“My sweet mate,” he gasped at the skin of your throat, mouth tracing up to find yours, hands finding purchase on your thighs as he pulled you open, allowing him dive deeper. “My darling love,” he moaned and his tongue moved with yours, your hips pushing up to meet his thrusts, walls fluttering against his velvet length with the remnants of your orgasm. 

You ventured your hand up his shoulder to the base of a wing and traced your fingers up the membrane to the bone. His eyes twisted shut, and he keened a low primal whine that had your cunt ready to come again. At the tightening of your walls, he groaned dark and deep, shadows seeping from him, as he pushed in, grinding against the innermost portion of you. His hips pulled out slightly and then pushed back in as his cock kicked, come spurting against your walls. He panted against your throat as his hands released their hold on your thighs and moved up your body before grasping your throat. He moved up to lean over you and his eyes found your own. He gave an experimental thrust of his hips and your eyes widened. Fucking Cauldron, he was still hard. 

He laughed then, nuzzling at your mouth as he nipped at your bottom lip. “I’m giving you five,” his voice was deeper than you’d ever heard it, “and then I’m eating my come from your cunt and fucking you until the sun comes up.” 

You gasped out a laugh as your arms wrapped around his shoulders. ‘They call it frenzy for a reason,’ you thought, kissing along his cheekbone and to his mouth. Gods, you were fucked. 

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi Drabbles,

I wanted to ask if you still do prompts and if you do can you do the one below?

So Danny is the Ghost King and was friends with Bruce’s parents so he felt when they died. They could become ghosts but I’ll leave that up to you. But either way, Danny feels their death and assists Alfred when he can to raise Bruce. Due Danny’s visits and Bruce’s holidays in the infinite realms they (Bruce and Alfred) became very Liminal. So they have slight powers. One day, Danny comes over with Ellie and Dan (who are like siblings to Bruce as both we deaged/destabilised and Danny raised them) but Bruce forgets he never told the newer kids about them as Danny hasn’t come over in a while. Dick has meet them, Jason has heard about of them but the rest don’t know about them.

There were three strangers in their house. Usually, that would be okay, as multiple people came and went through Wayne Manor. It was customary to hire random crews to help set up for a Gala, or maybe some representatives from the various charities they helped would come over for dinner or a meeting.

Sometimes, a few of Bruce's old party buddies would pop up to get him to stop being a dad and return to his party boy days. They've all learned how to dance around visitors and hide their identities.

The thing was, these strangers were kept from the main parts of the manor. Their rooms, the sitting lounge, Bruce's Office, Damian's art studio, Jason's library, Tim's game room, Cass' dance studio, and Duke's music record room were all inaccessible.

Bruce would always ask if someone attempted to sneak away and stop them. There was a time when paparazzi disguised themselves as crew members—the three idiots even got jobs at the cleaning company—and tried to see if they could find a scandal on the children.

Brucie Wayne was seen crying hysterically on the news that night for accidentally pushing down a piano on them. He was trying to take it up to the Music Room as a surprise for Duke and wanted to avoid bothering the cleaners to have them help him. He had no idea the rope he was using to drag the grand piano up the stairs would have snapped and rolled backward onto the paparazzi, who had previously been taking pictures of Cass practicing without her knowledge.

People told him not to feel bad, as Bruce had cameras in the hallways of his home due to the last time someone broke in, and it was obviously not his fault. Some people said they deserved it, but Bruce wouldn't hear it. He paid for all their medical bills and gave them enough funds to tie them over for three weeks while they recovered.

Everyone shook their heads at poor Bruce. After all, the piano had fallen so far that the only real harm was that each of them got a few bruises and a broken arm, but that was all.

The point was that no one went up there that shouldn't be.

Yet here, standing in the middle of the Gaming room, were three strangers who were all aggressively battling it out on an old remaster shooting game.

"This is way harder than I remember," said the oldest one, who seemed to be Alfred's age.

"That's cause you always sucked at games," The woman taunted, but her words were countered by the other man shooting her down. "Hey!"

"Ha!" Barked the last man from where he was twisting his elbows, moving alongside his running character. "I'm unstoppable!"

Tim turns to his siblings, about to ask them how they want to play the dramatic scene where they would throw these people out, but his words catch in his mouth upon spotting Cass' expression.

Her narrowed, guarded eyes watched the three with the same amount of steel she had reserved for only the worst of their enemies. Whoever they are, they set off so many alarms in her. She knows they're dangerous.

At once, this minor inconvenience turned into a severe risk to his health. He snaps back towards the strangers, tense and ready for battle. Around him, the rest of his siblings are in similar stances, quickly signing how they would attack.

What kind of message were they sending if someone on Cass's danger scale was able to break in undetected and choose to play with their things? Was it a show of what they could do? Claim that they could beat the Bats without really trying?

The woman's eyes snap towards them so fast she could have been a speedster. He had even noticed her turning around; one second, she was back to them. The next, she was half-turned, staring at them. It looked like a poorly edited video. Everyone jumps, but all she does is smile. "Hey, it's Bruce's kids! Anyone want to call the winner?"

The older gentleman drops his control, turns around to fully face them, and gasps. He puts one hand on his chest and the other right above his mouth. "Look at them! There are so many! Alfred must be so excited to be a grandfather. Why aren't you two giving me grandbabies?"

"Ugh, not this again." The man sighs, continuing to play despite the fact that the other two are no longer paying attention.

"It's fine time you find someone nice." The other protested.

"I'm not nice," Countered the player. "I highly doubt someone would want to find me."

"That's not true, Dan. Most of my co-workers want your number, " the woman chirps. "Also, stay away from my office. It's gross."

"Aren't half of your office married?"

"That's why I said most, you idiot."

"Just for that, I'm going to your office dressed like a romance novel protagonist. The modern professor who goes home for the holidays and finds his humanity again. I'll have a trench coat and everything."

"How dare you. Then I'll strut by your friends in a bikini."

"That's mean. It's not Halloween; there is no need to scare them."

"I'll kill you-"

"Enough! Honestly, you two, you're in your late thirties. Stop bickering."

"No matter how old we are, Dani will always be my little sister."

"Aw. " Dani poses the same as the older man—hand on chest, hand over mouth—and looks close to tears. "I love you too, you big waste of space."

Cass creeps into the room, somehow vanishing from view as the three strangers chat. Tim is still determining where she is, but he figures she'll strike when she has the opening. He feels Duke palm the knife in his pocket, and Damian lowers himself in preparation to throw a ninja star.

Dan snaps his head up with a laugh. "Wow, you're fast. A little too loud, though. Make sure to flatline your heartbeat when sneaking up on people."

Cass drops down over him, but Dan only laughs. Her blade goes right through him, and her fast place kicks do nothing. She accidentally cuts the controller in half, stopping the man's laughter.

"No! I was winning!"

"Ha!" Dani barks, uncaring the ninja star that goes through her right shoulder and flies through her body to exit on the other side. "Dan forfeits!"

"How does this count as forfeiting-"

"Guys, the children are trying to kill us." The older man cuts in. He levels the Waynes with large, grandfatherly eyes. "Children, why are you trying to kill us?"

He says it the same way someone would as a child why they were putting things in their mouths.

"Not kill. Just harm," Duke responds, voice low and dangerous. " Why don't you answer our questions. How did you get in here?"

"Alfred, let us in. He said we could make ourselves at home while he stepped out." The old man frowned. "He went to get Bruce from his office."

"Who are you?" Tim demands next, filing away the claim that Alfred let them. The butler would have told them days in advance if someone would have access to the game room.

"I'm Danny Fenton. These are my children, Dani and Dan." Danny introduces, eyeing the crowd. "We're close friends of Alfred and Bruce."

"How-"

"It's so good to see you all again!" Dick cheers, running down the hallway and still in uniform. He jumps over his siblings in an impressive flip, not breaking stride to race into Danny's arms.

The older man holds them open seconds before they crash together. "Dick! Look how big you've gotten. Oh, it seems like only yesterday you were waist-high!"

"Ha ha ha, it has been a few years, Granpa Danny. Hi Auntie, Uncle! How are you?"

"Dickie, my sweet pea, look at you!" Dani squeals, leaning in for her own hug. She passes through a confused Cass like a ghost. "So handsome! And Tall! Who told you that you were allowed to grow taller than me?"

"Seeing that you are barely over five' six, everyone," Dan laughs, clapping Dick on the shoulder. "It's a shame we're twins, so I'm no taller."

"Um, Dick?" Tim calls as his brother breaks in fast-paced, reassurances that no matter how tall he is, he will always be open for hugs from the shorter adults. "Who are they?"

"Oh these are Fentons. Danny helped Alfred raise Bruce, so their like our extended family."

Tim blinks, wondering if this feeling of confusion is what his classmates mean whenever they joke about being at family functions and people who last saw them as babies walk up to them like they should know them. It's an odd feeling.

"Oh, them?" Jason says from behind the hallway. He peeks in casually, lowering his gun and raising the soda can in the other hand. "I heard about them but never met them. They have level purple clearance."

"Of course we do! We build that stupid cave for Bruce." Dan scoffs. "He got stuck down there as a kid and thought it was safe just to make an entire headquarters in a hole. Honestly."

"At least Bruce has a career and children," Danny says pointingly.

"Please don't compare me to my cousin." Dani groans. "It's exhausting."

Yeah, this is definitely extended family.

[hoaxghost]

Mouthwashing has been on the mind cause the intentionality and execution of its concepts make me dive further into it than I normally would otherwise. Haven't seen as much discussion on it but one aspect I super like is the theme of children/offspring. Heavy spoiler discussion

Like there are so many parallels you can draw between Daisuke and the unborn baby. The way Daisuke was a last minute addition to the team despite the ship only having enough resources for four members (and four cryosis pods), the way he's seemingly a burden upon everyone because he's a nepotism hire whose new to the whole job, and especially the way Jimmy's selfishness kills Daisuke in the end. Like there's a reason the fetus was located in the vent system along with all the hibiscus flowers you can find scattered throughout the section. Just as how a baby is loud, disruptive, and immature, so is Daisuke in contrasting against the rest of the team with continuous optimism, much more colourful (and childish) attire, and fondness for sweets. It's worth noting he's the only one to really mention his family back home.

It's also worth noting how both Daisuke and the unborn baby had to be 'put out of their misery' by their 'parents' (Swansea being a clear father figure and well Anya is self explanatory) despite their harm/existence being caused by Jimmy. It's the way Jimmy has convinced himself that responsibility means the 'burden' of ordering others to their deaths that makes it all the more gut wrenching. He didn't want to take on the responsibility of the unborn baby- so it led to him crashing the ship and dooming everyone to their deaths. He didn't want to go in the vents to visit the med bay so he used 'captains orders' on the one person in the crew whose too naive to refuse them. Also the whole thing with Swansea too- how the old man expresses near constant frustration throughout the game with him but then its revealed its more of a frustration with himself and his difficult relationship with taking responsibility with his family back home. How much easier it is to fall into hedonistic pessimistic alcoholism and involve his intern when faced with 99.99% guaranteed doom. At the end, it's too late for him to change anything. The only thing left he can do is to put Daisuke out of his misery cause he let his intoxication be manipulated by Jimmy. There are other facets to Daisuke's personality too I think are interesting to explore but those are more fitting for a different post... stares off into the fake sunset sky...

[bet-on-me-13]

Captive AU

So, the GIW has been around for a while.

Ghosts have been a problem for centuries, the US Government wouldn't have waited until the 21st Century to figure out a way to deal with them, so the GIW has been around for years. And the general Public knows about them, it's a common household name like the FBI or the CIA. They are simply seen as another government organization doing its job, no need to care about the Ghosts they capture, they're Non-Sentient anyways.

Over the years of their existence, they have acquired their own little prison full of Ghosts. And among that collection of Ghosts, 4 stand out.

Because they are somehow Ghost-Human Hybrids.

The first was captured a while before the others. A College Student studying Ectology had been admitted to the Hospital after a Lab Accident, where he had been diagnosed with an, as of yet, unknown and incurable Disease. He had Green Boils popping up all over his Face, and he was in excruciating Pain.

The GIW had sent a team to investigate, and they had found that the College Student was slowly transforming into some type of abomination. He was still partially human, but he was also partially a Ghost. They had him declared Dead and shipped him off to a Blacksite Facility to be experimented on.

...

The Second One came about 10 years later. Coincidentally, it was very similar circumstances. The very same pair of scientists who had been acquainted with their previous subject had just admitted their 5 Yr old son into a local Hospital. He had been in a Lab Accident that had stopped his Heart for a few minutes, and out of curiosity the GIW had sent a Team to investigate.

And what did they find, but a perfect recreation of their favorite Test Subject.

They declared the Child Dead, and sent him off to the same Facility they kept the other one in.

...

The 3rd of the Hybrids was actually created in a GIW Lab, 3 Years Later. In an experiment to see if the Hybrids condition could be recreated, a GIW Scientist had taken the DNA of the 2 existing Hybrids and had cloned them.

Of the Test Batch of 15, only 1 Subject survived. It was deemed only a Partial Success, because while they did manage to create a New Hybrid, it was Unstable and prone to melting if overexerted.

They placed it in the same Containment Unit as the other 2, and left it at that. No more Cloning Experiments had been conducted afterwards since the project was deemed an overall Failure.

...

The 4th and Final Hybrid was found in Gotham City of all places, 2 years later.

A GIW Operative had been visiting Family when their Van's Ecto-Detector had gone off. Soon after that they found the Subject in an Alleyway, seemingly disoriented from its recent awakening.

DNA testing had revealed the Hybrid to be deceased Jason Peter Todd, the adopted Son of Bruce Wayne who had been killed 6 Months Prior while studying in Ethiopia. By the Scientists Best Guess, an Anomoly in Space-Time had caused a Natural Portal to open right on top of the Teenagers Corpse, fusing his Deceased Body and nearly formed Ghost into One.

They shipped the Teen off to the Blacksite, and placed him in the same Containment Unit as the others.

...

So now the GIW have 4 Hybrids, all created from different circumstances, all different ages.

One was formed from the Slow Death of a College Age Student, after a Lab Accident had flooded his system with Pure Ectoplasm.

One was form from the Instant Death of a 5 yr old Boy, after a Lab Accident had flooded his Body with a dimensions worth of Ectoplasm.

One was created in a GIW Lab in a Cloning Experiment. She was created to be 3 Yrs Old upon Birth, and was Unstable as a Result.

One was created from the Fusion of a Long Dead Teenage Corpse and a nearly formed Ghost, in a random Space Time Event that forced both together.

...

All the Halfas are basically a Family together. Vlad is the oldest, at around 35, and takes the Paternal Role.

Danny and Ellie are the Kids, and are 10 and 5 respectively.

Jason is the Oldest Child, and takes his Older Brother role very seriously. He is 15 when he is brought in.

They all take care of eachother, through all the experiments and tests the GIW force them through.

One of the most common experiments is to have them battle the other Ghosts in Captivity. Although that is just a thinly veiled dog fighting ring that the GIW scientists like to Bet on. Sometimes they are put up against eachother, but they refuse to fight until they are electrocuted into submission.

They were also forced to Push all of their Powers to their Limits every day, just so the Scientist can see how they are growing. This had drained them, since they only got the absolute minimum amount of Ecto to survive off of, and they were forced to use it all up every day.

This goes on for 3 more years.

...

Until the day when the GIW messed up.

During one of their Constant Dog Fights, they had made the mistake of putting two Electricity Core Ghosts against eachother. The resulting battle had created an Electromagnetic Wave that fried all systems in the entire Facility.

It was a Disaster. Dozens of Scientists were killed when the Door Locks failed to contain the captive Ghosts, and even more were injured when a few of the Ghosts managed to break into the Armory on Base.

It was only hours after the whole ordeal was Finally quelled that they realized that their most Valuable Test Subjects were missing.

Vlad, Danny, Jason, and Ellie had taken the chance to run away during the commotion. Vlad had unfortunately been injured during the escape, and Ellie had been forced to use her powers causing her to destabilize a little, but all in all they had managed to escape on one piece.

But now they were fugitives on the run from the Government, with an injured adult and a sick child.

Jason had an Idea though. While he didn't have very clear memories of his life, a side effect of his late resurrection, he did remember that he used to live in Gotham. And they all remember researchers grumbling about how their scanners always malfunction when they passed nearby Gotham.

So, Jason led his little Family to the most Familiar place in the city he could think of.

Crime Alley.

[trulyumai]

Protector of his Woman

Pairing: Messmer the Impaler x Reader

Synopsis: Leaving the kingdom was a choice, but leaving his wife? Out of the question.

Warnings: Talk of violence/Death.

Enjoy!

“Does thou take me for a fool?” 

The pale flame stood tall, beside him his wife gripped onto the forearm placed in front of her frame. She stood just behind said man, looking away from the escalating scene. Too distracted by the swiveling trees and smell of pine wafting through the air. 

“Of course not, your grace! Its, well, your mother thought it best-”

“My mother disgraces me with such a request, yet is unfit to be present?” 

The golden soldier gulped, a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his brow, illuminating his face with a light sheen. 

“N-no, she traveled to the capital today, y-your grace.” 

The knight squinted. His posture was rigid and offended by the mere man's presence. 

He stood on their porch, by their house and demanded his attention to the capital? 

How offensive, how misinformed how- 

“Husband?” 

The burning flames hushed beneath his palms as the attention diverted from the man, to the small women beside him.

“Wife,”

With half lidded eyes, the man moved a hand towards her backside and rested it upon her lower spine. The aura shifted, the heat died down and the ambiance of nature could once more be heard. (Rather than the sizzling of a flame that grew onto the man's digits.)

“Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad visit. It has been a while since our last outing.” He felt the strokes upon his arm, soothingly moving up and down, up and down. 

“Leave us,” Messmer didn’t need to look up once more, as the soldier fled down their stone walkway. 

“She insults us, thou knows of her intentions.” 

His gaze stuck to her lucky honeydew on bread, it stayed there globbing onto each detail. Her eyes were bright today, full of light and love. Yet there was also worry there, and Messmer bit his tongue for placing such a feeling onto her. Her form sagged beside his, most of his arm held her body up, halting it from falling upon the rocks.

“She does,” a pause

“But she’s your mother, to not make an appearance would surely soil your reputation, my love.” 

“Have I not done enough? The bodies that lay upon the mountains, are they not proof of my unwavering loyalty?” His voice raised, startling the shorter woman, moving forward he gestured his hands around their vicinity. 

“All of this, all of it! It's safe because I deemed it so. Not the lord Godwyn, Not the unbeatable Melania. Me. The beholder of flames! Yet thee can be ruined- butchered, for not returning to an unloving kingdom?”

Mouth dry, she tried to speak- to comfort the rising temper of the man but no words budged. His eyes burned bright, they looked right through her. 

“No. I will not be returning, dear wife. For my place is here, by your side, in this house that I built for us,” Cautiously the knight placed himself back in front of her, and to her surprise, bent down on his knees. 

“Messmer! Get up this instant, your knees-”

A big palm covered her lips, its texture rough and calloused. It was so warm compared to the nipping air around them. And although she tried to be mad- she really did, it was hard when such a warmth was comforting to the girl. 

“My wife, I will protect thy until the flames of this land die out, until there's no one left but us to occupy such a fool of a kingdom,” 

“However,” 

The bigger man's hand dropped from her lips, both of his limbs instead wrapped themselves around her being, until his elbows molded together. 

“Do not ask me to leave your side again. Promise me.” 

“Husband… I simply canno-

“Promise me!” The man shouted, his grip tightened fastly around her.

Her nails dug into the man's wrists, and although she wasn’t in pain, his fervent yet fierce attitude scattered her mind. She wasn’t used to such a ferocity of emotion emitting from the man, aimed at her no less.

“I- I promise, I promise my love!” 

As if those were the words he was waiting for all his life, the man crumpled beneath her frame, his head buried between the ripples of her dress, with his nose digging into her stomach. 

She didn't know just how far such a devotion could- would go for the maroon knight. 

For how could she see the future, wrapped in nothing but flame and immorality?

“I  adore you, little wife,” Yellowed iris’ glanced upon her delicate ones. 

A laugh broke out between her lips, enchanting the man entirely.

“And I you, Husband.”

As if starved the man leaned up quickly; hungrily, to lock his lips against hers. Broken skin connected with softened and smooth, Messmer moaned out in content. 

If his wife was to be the end of the world, he would be her weapon. His flames would bathe her with as much loyalty he could give. 

What would he need a broken kingdom for, when such a devoted wife lay in his arms?

[amomentsescape]

hello! Are you ok?, I hope so ❤️ (by the way, your writing is wonderful)

I would like to make a request for Yandere Slashers with an S/O who is a mermaid, who usually kills people who dare to invade her lakes, and she kills these people by drowning.

(I'm sorry if there are any writing errors, English is not my first language, and I'm writing this using Google translate)

Slashers with Mermaid! Reader

Yandere! Slashers x Reader

Includes: Freddy, Michael, Jason, Thomas, Bubba, Brahms, Norman, Billy, Stu, Vincent, & Bo

A/N: I'm doing good, thank you <3 I hope you enjoy! (Also, I decided I'm going to remove Lester from the Slasher requests. I'm still very much open to writing for him when specified, but I feel like he doesn't quite fit in with all the other Slashers).

Freddy Krueger

Meeting you was quite literally the best thing to ever happen in his undead life

He likes to team up with you, constantly coming up with different ways you both can contribute to someone's death

You pull them under, and they suddenly wake up in Freddy's world

Your dynamic is pretty ideal too

Whenever you sleep, you can visit him

And he has no issues with popping into your waters just to say hi

He does this quite often, in fact

He is very aware you can take care of yourself, but he still gets worried

You're his

He doesn't trust anyone being around you

Even if your only intention is to kill them immediately

He understands that where you are now is your home, but that won't stop him from doing whatever he can to have you live in his world

He can create the perfect environment for you

Miles and miles of nothing but water if your heart desires

Which hopefully it does

Since he isn't willing to wait much longer

Michael Myers

He never thought creatures like you actually existed

But the moment he saw your strength and darkness, he was immediately drawn in against his better judgment

He visits more often then you think

He's always around, watching

You can feel eyes on you almost 90% of the day, but you never really know where it's coming from

He enjoys watching you swim and just relax

But he especially loves seeing you drag poor souls into the tide with you

There's something so twisted and yet magical about watching you kill

But this fascination is also paired with extreme jealousy

He hates seeing you touch other people

And he almost envies the way they get to be so close to you, even if it means their demise

He hopes to find a way to take you home with him for good one of these times

You told him you loved him, so you'd be happy as long as you're by his side

Right?

Jason Voorhees

Out of all places to meet the love of your life, this one seemed especially unfortunate for Jason

But his feelings for you were strong enough to overrule his fear

He'll sit by the shore with you, hearing you talk and sing old tunes he's never heard before

He loves listening to your stories about the world underneath the current

But this always leaves him with such a deep feeling of sadness

He wants a life where you both can live together and share those memories

But he knows that's nearly impossible

He starts spending more time by the water side than the camp, finding that irresponsible teens like to be by the beach even more than the forest

You lure them in with your beauty and your words, and Jason finishes the job

He'll let you kill too if you really wish to, but he doesn't like the idea of those types of people being so close to you

He barely gets to touch you, so why should they get what he so desperately wants instead?

Thomas Hewitt

In this desert like area of Texas, Thomas has to travel quite far to see you

But the one time he accidentally stumbled upon you, he was smitten

And you surprisingly didn't turn him into another victim like all the others

He was kind to you

And now, he brings you food and stops by as often as he possibly can

You've made him little necklaces out of bones and shells

He wears every single one of them

Your bond only gets stronger each time he comes to see you

But Thomas can only take so much

Why can't you be closer?

He knows the family would love you

And he could make you so happy

His bathtub is big enough for you, he's sure of it

He knows that you won't want to leave your own home for his, but he loves you and knows what will be best for you

He's just got to be patient

Bubba Sawyer

His own family had to go on a search for him after he disappeared for a couple days

But he just couldn't help it

You make him so happy, and the more time he spent with you, the more difficult it became to leave your side

He's tried to jump in a few times to be with you, but you always persuade him out of it

He doesn't know how to swim, and you don't want him to end up like everyone else

That's when he decided that the best option would be to create your very own pond in his backyard!

That way, you could be with each other, and he would never have to say goodbye again

He hasn't told you this idea yet, but he's sure you'd be happy with it

This would also keep you from needing to kill anyone else

You're too beautiful to get your hands dirty

And it's unfair that they get to join you in the water when you won't let him do the same

He can make you super happy with his family, he's sure of it

Brahms Heelshire

He hates this dynamic between you two

He wants you at home with him so you can take care of him, and he can keep you away from everyone else

No one should get to touch you or look at you besides him

He's actually tried to drag you out of the water before, but the prospect of accidentally killing you was enough to make him stop

He never knew he could envy a body of water as much as he does

It gets to hold you, touch you, and be with you at all times

He wants that too, so desperately

Because of you, he's gone from house dweller to nature enthusiast in just a matter of days

Even when you think he's at home, he's stalking around, watching you

He insists it's to keep you safe

In fact, you haven't had to drown anyone in quite a while

And you can thank Brahms for that

The moment he sees a single soul in the area, he drags them off and disposes of them before you even have a chance to see them

He wouldn't dare let you touch another being that isn't him

Norman Bates

It honestly took him a really long time to believe that you were even real

He didn't think mermaids or sirens actually existed, so seeing you for the first time made him pinch himself to make sure this wasn't some weird dream

He also took a while to trust you since he didn't want to fall victim to your treacherous waters

But once he realized you were genuine, he dove straight in all at once

He visits you whenever he can for however long he can muster

Someone needs to run the motel, but God he wishes he could be with you 24/7

He's "jokingly" brought up the idea of you staying at the motel in a pool he could install for you

He just wants to keep an eye on you at all times

He constantly dreams of finding a way to make you human so you two can truly be together

Until you have two feet like him, it will never be enough

Billy Loomis

Doesn't tell a single soul about you

Not even Stu

And it's not because he's embarrassed or wants to see other people

He's honestly just scared that others will either think he's insane or try to capture you

Visits you every day and makes sure to pack his swim trunks so he can join you in the water

Constantly admires you and wants to run his hands along your scales

He just thinks you're all around incredible

But he has this hidden level of anger towards the situation

He wants to walk around town with you, show you off

He wants you to join him on his sprees so you can see just how powerful he can be

And he hates the idea of not having eyes on you at all times

He knows you kill anyone who isn't him, but he doesn't want you getting that close to anyone in general

He spends his nights studying ways to get you to live with him

He'll find a way to have you all to himself, even if it ends up being the death of him

Stu Macher

He actually first met you while you were seducing some poor soul to their death

And Stu was immediately enamored

He comes to see you whenever he can

He sometimes spends the weekend camping out along the shore just so he can spend more time with you

He thinks you're beautiful of course, but he can't help but fantasize what it would be like if you were human like him

You two come from very different worlds, but there's nothing that could keep you away from him

He likes to bring up the idea of mermaids and mythical creatures in casual conversations with people

How they react to it will determine whether they make his hit list

He likes to bring you jewelry and pretty objects from his victims, showing you items that you've never seen before

He talks about how one of these days, he's going to have a house built on the shore so he can be with you

And if you argue against it, he will shut down

The pent up frustration of not getting to sleep next to you every night makes his killings more brutal and his fantasies all the more darker

Vincent Sinclair

Every time he comes to see you, he brings a new portrait or wax figure of you that he made

You flood his dreams and his mind 24/7

He honestly thinks he's under some sort of spell

He doesn't mind that you aren't human like him

He's always felt very different from everyone else, so it's nice for him to have someone he relates to

But his jealousy constantly gets the better of him

Anytime you tell him of some poor soul you drowned, he can't help but feel his blood boil

Even if it ends in their death, he hates the idea of you flirting or seducing these people

The only one who should be receiving that attention is him

Barely sleeps at night

He has snuck to the shore countless time without your knowledge, just watching you and making sure your stories line up with what he observes

Is overall obsessed even more than you know

Bo Sinclair

If anyone saw you together, it would be enough to make them blush

The way you two can constantly flirt back and forth without any hesitation is otherworldly

You could have sworn he must have been a creature like you in a past life

He's so touchy when he's with you, not afraid to get his clothes wet in an effort to just be closer to you

He truly makes you feel accepted as you are and with where you live

But little do you know of his darker nature

He stalks the shore and kills off anyone that trespasses before you even have a chance to get to them

He doesn't need you looking at anyone but him

And he's already been renovating an old abandoned pool in Ambrose for you

You're going to finally be living with him like he's always wanted

You don't know this yet, but he's sure you'll be happy with the idea

It will be a great surprise

[saphronethaleph]

Legally Mandated Vacation Days

The holoprojector in Palpatine’s private quarters activated, an image shimmering to life, and Palpatine smiled in anticipation of seeing Vader kneeling before him.

That lasted approximately half a second, until he saw the actual image.

“Your Majesty!” an extremely nervous Imperial Navy lieutenant said, saluting. “It’s an honour to-”

“Where is Vader?” Palpatine asked. “This is his personal hologram frequency!”

“Ah… Lord Vader assigned me to take his calls while he was away,” the lieutenant explained. “It’s, ah… an honour to be speaking to you… do you have a message?”

“Away?” Palpatine repeated. “Why is Vader away?”

“I don’t know!” the lieutenant protested. “Your Majesty, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve told you – he just told me to take his calls and said he was using up some annual leave, since he hadn’t taken any since the year one.”

It took Palpatine a fraction of a second to actually calculate what that meant, because replacing the calendar when he came to unquestioned power had been what the youth called ‘a flex’ but it had also caused significant calendrical chaos and he personally still thought in the old system at least half the time.

Eleven years, then. Vader had eleven years of stored up annual leave, and he was choosing to expend some.

“Where did he go?” Palpatine asked.

“I didn’t ask!” the lieutenant replied. “Your Majesty, I didn’t want to die, and also I don’t think I’m allowed to ask anyway…”

Palpatine glowered at the hologram, then untensed.

Marginally.

“Inform Vader that I want to speak to him as soon as possible,” he said, then ended the call before the lieutenant could start fawning again.

“Uncle Owen!” Luke called, running down the steps of the homestead. “Aunt Beru! Someone’s coming!”

“We’d better see what this is about, then,” Owen Lars decided. “Did you recognize them?”

The pre-teen looked thoughtful.

“Don’t think so,” he said. “Whoever it was, they were wearing black. Not sure why.”

“Black robes are just as cool as white,” Beru commented. “I know black gets hotter, but it doesn’t reach the skin.”

Luke frowned.

“It might have been robes,” he said. “Don’t know.”

“Well, let’s see who it is,” Owen decided.

Beru’s gaze darted to where one of their blasters was hidden, as Owen headed up the stairs.

“Oh kriff,” Owen said, in a tiny voice.

Then a black shape, like death, came down the stairs.

The figure in the armoured suit and cloak wasn’t really forcing Owen to retreat, not really.

Not through any physical means, or otherwise.

He was just… walking, and Owen was responding in an instinctive sort of way to get out of the way of Darth Vader, the Emperor’s Enforcer, the sign of death across the whole of the known galaxy.

Upon reaching floor level, Vader examined Beru, then Luke, then the room around them.

“So,” Darth Vader said, in a dread but awkward voice. “How have you been doing?”

It took all those present several seconds to find their voices.

“...what?” Owen asked, eventually.

“I know it has been a while,” Vader went on, then stopped. “…ah, of course. It is unsurprising you fail to recognize me. I… was not wearing this, before.”

“Then who are you?” Beru asked. “You’re acting like you know us, but… you’re Darth Vader.”

“Yes,” Vader agreed. “I… have had a complicated last few months. I ran into someone from my past. We fought. I was seriously injured, and it gave me reason to consider what I have made of my life. About the relatives that I have failed to visit.”

Owen and Beru exchanged glances, then both looked at Luke.

“Are you really Darth Vader?” Luke said, sounding fascinated. “Everyone says you’re really scary, but you’re in our kitchen and I don’t know if that means you’re scary.”

“I am extremely scary,” Vader replied, in tones of either great seriousness or impressive deadpan. “I have killed people for annoying me. I have killed people who did not have the time to annoy me.”

“Did you cut their heads off?” Luke asked, in that way that children can. “I’ve never seen that happen but it sounds like it’d be really messy. There’s two bits of person then.”

Vader made a sound that, charitably, could be interpreted as chuckling.

“It appears I have been remiss in not talking about my work to my step-brother’s child,” he said. “I approve of you, child.”

“Step-brother’s child…” Owen said, then his eyes went wide. “You’re – you’re Anakin!?”

Vader tilted his head slightly. “Who else would I be?”

“I’ve got relatives,” Beru pointed out. “I wouldn’t have thought any of them was Darth Vader, but… we thought Anakin was dead.”

Vader appeared to think about that.

“I can see why you would think that,” he admitted.

“Does that mean you’re my dad?” Luke asked.

Vader did a double take.

“What,” he said.

For a moment, simmering anger filled the room, then it faded away.

“I suppose if you thought that I was dead, then taking in my child would be reasonable,” he conceded. “As my only surviving relatives of any sort.”

“I’ll get some water for us to share?” Beru suggested, falling back on basic hospitality. And on a way to get out of the sight of the others for a minute.

She was going to need to comm Ben Kenobi to stay the absolute kriff away from the homestead for now.

It was at least possible that Vader – Anakin – whichever would be more interested in his very much alive and present son he was reconnecting with than a mention of an absent Kenobi somewhere else on the planet who made Luke toys.

Kenobi here? The fight would destroy the homestead, and that would make it considerably more difficult to keep Luke safe… even with how the difficulty of that had jumped significantly in the last ten minutes.

[novaursa]

In the Wake of Fire

- Summary: Aegon and you lay broken together in the aftermath of the battle of Rook’s Rest.

- Paring: reader (twin!wife)/Aegon II

- Note: reader is referred to as Y/N. There is mention of reader's and Aegon's children, but they are not named. The reader is bonded with a dragon called Starfyre. For full chronological order of these works visit my blog. The list is pinned on the top. Or, you can read it as a one-shot.

- Rating: Mature 16+ (there is no adult content in this one, but the rating is higher just to be sure)

- Word count: 3 114

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff

The air in the royal chamber is thick with the scent of incense, mingling with the metallic tang of blood and the faint, acrid smoke from the battlefield still clinging to the corners of the room. The heavy curtains are drawn, casting the bedchamber into a dim twilight, where the only light comes from flickering candles set around the bed. You lie there, utterly still, your breath shallow, as if any deeper breath might shatter your fragile form.

Your consciousness hovers in the darkness, not quite tethered to the world of the living. Flashes of the battle—of Starfyre's furious roar, of the searing heat, and of the sky filled with fire and fury—pierce through the fog of your mind. But now, there is only silence, a stillness that feels both eternal and fleeting. You are aware of the weight of the covers on your body, of the softness of the pillows beneath your head, yet your mind drifts, caught between life and death.

At the foot of the bed, Queen Dowager Alicent stands, her face pale and drawn, her eyes dark with worry. She clasps her hands tightly, knuckles white, as she looks upon you and Aegon, her twin children, both lying side by side as if in death. Aegon's hand is wrapped around yours, his grip firm despite the ravages his body has suffered. His pale blond hair, usually so lustrous, is matted with sweat and dried blood. Burn marks and bruises mar his skin, yet he clings to life with a determination that only a king could muster.

Alicent’s voice, trembling with fear and desperation, cuts through the heavy silence. "They have not moved... neither of them."

Grand Maester Orwyle, his face solemn beneath the shadow of his hood, approaches the bed with careful steps. Behind him, Aemond, your younger brother, enters the chamber, his one good eye blazing with an emotion he would never openly admit to—fear. He steps closer to Alicent, speaking in a low voice, though the concern in his tone is clear.

"The children," Aemond says, his voice strained. "They are asking to see them, Mother. They are frightened... confused. They need to know their parents are—"

"No," Alicent interrupts sharply, her voice cracking with the weight of her anguish. She closes her eyes, gathering herself before speaking again. "No, Aemond. I cannot allow it. Not yet. Not until we know they are stable. I will not have them see... this."

She looks down at you, her daughter, her queen, and a single tear slips down her cheek. "They should not see their mother like this... nor their father." Her gaze lingers on Aegon, and her expression softens momentarily before hardening with resolve.

Orwyle moves to your side, his hands gentle yet firm as he examines you. He frowns deeply as he checks the wounds that lace your body, his fingers brushing over the burns and cuts that speak of a battle fought with ferocity and desperation. He looks up, meeting Aemond's gaze, and shakes his head ever so slightly.

Aemond, ever the stoic warrior, feels his heart sink, a cold dread settling in his chest. "And my sister? How is she, Maester?"

Orwyle hesitates, the weight of his words pressing down on the room. "Her condition is... dire. Worse than the King's, despite appearances. The internal bleeding runs deep, and the exhaustion has taken a terrible toll on her body. Her breathing is faint, her pulse weak." He pauses, his voice dropping to a whisper, as if the very act of speaking might tip the scales. "We must pray for her, my lord. That is all we can do now."

Alicent lets out a sob, a raw, broken sound that she quickly tries to stifle with her hand. "You cannot let her die, Maester," she pleads, her voice barely above a whisper, as if the admission itself could break her. "It will break him. Aegon... he will not survive losing her. She is his light... his other half. Without her, he will be lost."

The room falls into a heavy silence, punctuated only by the faint, uneven breaths you and Aegon draw. Orwyle nods solemnly, his eyes filled with a quiet sorrow. "We will do all that can be done, Lady Alicent. But... some things are beyond our power. It is in the hands of the gods now."

Aemond places a hand on Alicent's shoulder, a rare gesture of comfort from him. "We must have faith, Mother. She is strong. She has always been strong." His voice wavers slightly, betraying his own uncertainty, but he presses on. "And Aegon... he holds on because of her. As long as he breathes, she will fight to stay with him."

Alicent nods, though her eyes remain fixed on you, her heart breaking with every passing moment. She steps closer to the bed, reaching out to brush a lock of hair from your face, her touch as light as a feather. "You must come back to us, my love," she whispers, her voice filled with a mother's desperate hope. "You must."

The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of uncertainty hanging heavy in the air. Outside, the world continues to turn, but in this room, time seems to have stopped, as all those within hold their breath, waiting for a sign, a miracle.

And so, you lie there, suspended between life and death, your hand still entwined with Aegon's, your fate intertwined with his. The battle may be over, but the fight for your life—and the lives of those you love—has only just begun.

The dim light of the room seems to flicker with an otherworldly intensity as Aegon stirs beneath the covers. His breath comes in ragged gasps, a sharp contrast to the eerie stillness that had pervaded the chamber moments before. Pain radiates through his body, a searing agony that courses through every limb, but it is not the pain that drives him to consciousness. It is something deeper—a connection that transcends flesh and bone.

His eyes flutter open, and for a moment, they are glazed with confusion, disoriented by the lingering remnants of unconsciousness. But then, with a sudden clarity, his gaze sharpens, wild and frantic, searching for you—his twin, his wife, his other half.

"Y/N," he croaks, his voice barely more than a whisper, yet filled with an urgency that sends a chill through the room. He tries to sit up, but the pain is too much, and he falls back against the pillows, his chest heaving with the effort. "Where is she? Where is Y/N?"

Alicent, who had been hovering by the bedside, rushes to his side, her heart pounding in her chest as she sees the fear and desperation in her son's eyes. "Aegon, my love, you must stay still," she urges, her voice trembling despite her attempt to remain calm. She reaches out, gently pressing him back against the bed. "You are grievously wounded... you must rest."

But Aegon will not be soothed. His hand, trembling with weakness, reaches out, seeking yours. When he finds it, limp and unresponsive beside him, a wave of panic washes over him, greater than any physical pain he endures. His grip tightens around your hand, as if by holding on to you, he can anchor you to this world.

"She’s not moving," he gasps, his voice breaking. "Why isn’t she moving? Is she…?" His eyes dart to Alicent, wide with fear, his breathing growing more labored as his panic mounts. "Mother… is she…?"

Alicent feels her heart shatter at the sight of her son, the King of Westeros, reduced to this terrified, broken man. She quickly shakes her head, her voice firm but laced with sorrow. "No, Aegon. She is alive. But she is... she is unconscious. The Maester says she needs time to heal. But she is with us, Aegon. She is still with us."

Aegon’s eyes search Alicent’s face for any sign of deception, his grip on your hand tightening as if he can pull you back from the brink with sheer will alone. His voice is raw, pained. "She has to wake up. She has to. I can't... I can't lose her, Mother. She’s my life... without her, I am nothing."

Alicent feels a lump rise in her throat, her own anguish threatening to overwhelm her. She sits on the edge of the bed, her hand gently caressing Aegon’s brow, smoothing back the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead. "You must have faith, Aegon. She is strong, as strong as you are. You both survived... you will both survive this."

Aegon’s eyes flicker with doubt, his face contorted in pain, both physical and emotional. "She was always stronger," he mutters, his voice barely audible. "Always braver... more than I ever was."

Alicent’s heart aches at the raw vulnerability in his voice, so unlike the proud and stubborn son she has always known. She leans closer, her voice taking on a steely edge, one that Aegon recognizes from the times when she had guided him with an iron will. "You will not lose her, Aegon. I swear it. She will return to you. And when she does... we will make sure that those who have brought you both to this will pay. Rhaenyra will pay."

Aegon’s eyes flash with something dark at the mention of his half-sister’s name, the mention of the woman who has torn their family apart. He clenches his jaw, his grip on your hand turning almost painful in his intensity. "She will suffer," he hisses through gritted teeth. "For this... for all of this... she will suffer."

Alicent nods, her own grief turning into something harder, something forged in the fires of her own pain and loss. "Yes, my son. She will. I will see to it. The Iron Throne will not fall to her treachery. Not while I still draw breath."

She looks down at you, her daughter, lying so still and pale, and then back at Aegon, her son, whose very life seems to hang by the thinnest of threads. "But first, we must be strong. For her. For your children. For the realm. You must recover, Aegon, and she must as well. The gods will not abandon you... nor will I."

Aegon closes his eyes, drawing in a shuddering breath as he tries to calm the storm of emotions raging within him. His thumb gently strokes the back of your hand, a gesture so tender it belies the fury burning in his heart. "Come back to me," he whispers, his voice breaking with the weight of his plea. "Please, Y/N, come back to me."

The room falls silent once more, the only sound the faint crackling of the fire in the hearth and the soft breathing of those who hold vigil. Alicent watches as Aegon drifts back into a restless sleep, still clutching your hand as if it is his lifeline.

She stands slowly, her own body trembling from the weight of her sorrow and resolve. She looks at the two of you, her twins, her king and queen, and she swears silently to herself that she will see this through. That vengeance will be theirs. And that one day, you will both rise from this bed, stronger and more united than ever before.

But for now, all she can do is wait. And pray that the gods will be merciful.

The world beyond the veil of your closed eyelids is a distant, foggy place. It’s as though you are floating in a sea of darkness, where time is both infinite and meaningless. But somewhere in that endless void, a flicker of light pierces through—a warmth, a presence, something that pulls you from the abyss.

You become aware of the softness beneath you, the heaviness of your limbs, the dull ache that pulses through your body. The scent of herbs and medicine hangs in the air, mingling with something familiar, something comforting. Your breath comes in shallow, weak gasps, but with every inhale, you begin to feel the edges of the world around you.

Slowly, with a monumental effort, you force your eyes open, blinking against the dim light of the room. The ceiling above you swims in and out of focus, the shadows dancing like specters in the corners of your vision. It takes a moment for your surroundings to come into sharp relief, and when they do, the first thing you see is Aegon.

He is lying beside you, his pale hair dull and matted, his face set in a painful grimace. Grand Maester Orwyle is at his side, carefully changing the bandages that cover the burns marring Aegon’s body. The sight of him so still, so broken, sends a sharp pang of fear through your heart.

You try to speak, but your throat is dry, and the words catch like thorns in your throat. With a tremendous effort, you manage to whisper, “Aegon…”

Your voice is barely audible, just a breath of sound, but it is enough. Aegon’s head snaps toward you, his eyes widening in disbelief as he sees you awake. The pain etched on his face is momentarily forgotten as he stares at you, his breath catching in his throat. Orwyle immediately stops his work, his hands stilling as he watches the scene unfold.

“Y/N,” Aegon whispers, his voice filled with a mixture of relief and desperation. He tries to move, to reach out for you, but the pain from his broken hip and leg forces him back down with a hiss of agony. His hand, however, manages to find yours, and he clutches it as though it is the only thing keeping him anchored to this world.

You can see the strain in his eyes, the battle between his overwhelming pain and the sheer joy of seeing you awake. “You’re… you’re awake,” he breathes, his voice cracking with emotion. “Gods… I thought… I thought I had lost you.”

Tears well up in your eyes, both from the pain that still lingers in your body and from the sight of Aegon in such a state. “I’m… I’m here,” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling. You can feel the weakness in your limbs, the exhaustion that weighs down every part of you, but none of it matters now that you can see him, now that you can feel his hand in yours.

Orwyle steps forward, his expression a mixture of relief and caution. “My queen,” he says gently, his voice steady and reassuring. “You must not strain yourself. Your injuries are severe… you need time to recover.”

Aegon’s eyes never leave yours, even as Orwyle speaks. His grip on your hand tightens slightly, as if he fears that you might slip away again. “I can’t believe you’re awake,” he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion. “I was so afraid… so afraid I would never see your eyes again.”

You try to smile, but the effort is too great, and it comes out as more of a weak twitch of your lips. “I… I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper, though the words take every ounce of strength you have. “Not… without you.”

Aegon’s eyes glisten with unshed tears, and for a moment, he looks like the boy you grew up with, the boy who always found his way back to you, no matter what. “Thank the gods,” he breathes, his voice so full of relief that it almost breaks your heart.

Orwyle interrupts gently, his tone soft but insistent. “My king, my queen, you both must rest. The healing process will be long and difficult. But now that you are both awake, there is hope. That is what matters.”

Aegon’s gaze finally shifts to the Maester, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “Leave us,” he commands, though his voice lacks its usual authority, weighed down by exhaustion and pain. “I need… I need to speak with her. Alone.”

Orwyle hesitates, his concern evident, but a single look from Aegon is enough to make him bow his head in acquiescence. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he says quietly. “I will be just outside if you need me.”

As Orwyle steps back, giving a respectful nod to you, he gathers his instruments and moves toward the door. The moment the door closes, sealing the two of you in the chamber’s intimate silence, Aegon’s eyes return to you, filled with an intensity that makes your heart ache.

“I should have protected you,” he whispers, his voice choked with guilt. “I should have done more… I failed you, Y/N. I failed as your husband, as your king.”

“No,” you croak, shaking your head ever so slightly, the movement sending a wave of dizziness through you. “You didn’t fail me… we fought together. We survived, Aegon. We’re still here.”

Aegon’s hand trembles in yours, and his gaze drops to where your hands are joined, his expression tormented. “But at what cost?” he murmurs. “Look at us… we’re broken. And it’s because of her. Rhaenyra… she’s taken everything from us.”

You see the darkness in his eyes, the simmering rage that has been kindling in his heart since the war began. “She will pay for this,” he vows, his voice a low growl. “For what she’s done to us… to our children… she will pay.”

You close your eyes for a moment, the weight of his words pressing down on you. The thought of more bloodshed, more pain, fills you with a sense of dread, but you know that vengeance has become a fire burning within Aegon—a fire that will not be easily quenched.

“Aegon…” you whisper, your voice faint, “we need to heal... For our children. Please… don’t let this consume you.”

His eyes soften at your plea, and for a moment, the fury ebbs away, replaced by the deep love and concern he holds for you. “I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says softly, “to keep you safe… to keep you with me. I can’t lose you, Y/N. Not now… not ever.”

You squeeze his hand weakly, your heart aching with love for this man who has been your other half since birth. “We’ll face this…,” you whisper, and as the exhaustion pulls you back into the dark embrace of sleep, you know that no matter what comes, you will always find your way back to each other.

Aegon watches as your eyes flutter closed once more, his heart clenching with the overwhelming need to protect you, to keep you safe from the horrors that still loom over you both. He presses a gentle kiss to your hand, his lips lingering on your skin, and vows silently that no one will ever tear you from his side again.

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Plot Structures

A Quick Reference to 5 Plot Structures

8-STAGE PLOT STRUCTURE (Nigel Watts)

Stasis: once upon a time

Trigger: something out of the ordinary happens

Quest: causing the protagonist to seek something

Surprise: but things don’t go as expected

Critical Choice: forcing the protagonist to make a difficult decision

Climax: which has consequences

Reversal: the result of which is a change in status

Resolution: and they all lived happily ever after (or didn’t).

HOW TO TELL A STORY (Peter Rubie)

Once upon a time, something happened to someone,

and he decided that he would pursue a goal.

So he devised a plan of action,

and even though there were forces trying to stop him,

he moved forward because there was a lot at stake.

And just as things seemed as bad as they could get,

he learned an important lesson,

and when offered the prize he had sought so strenuously,

he had to decide whether or not to take it,

and in making that decision he satisfied a need

that had been created by something in his past.

MONOMYTH / THE HERO'S JOURNEY (Joseph Campbell)

Separation

The Call to Adventure

The Refusal of the Call

Supernatural Aid

The Crossing of the First Threshold

Belly of the Whale

Initiation

The Road of Trials

Meeting with the Goddess

Woman as Temptress

Atonement with the Father

Apotheosis

The Ultimate Boon

Return

Refusal of the Return

The Magic Flight

Rescue From Without

The Crossing of the Return Threshold

Master of Two Worlds

Freedom to Live

22-STEP STRUCTURE (John Truby)

Self-revelation, need and desire - combination of steps 20, 3 & 5

Ghost and story world - the hero’s counterdesire

Weakness and need* - the hero’s flaws are keeping them from having the life they desire

Inciting event - outside event that spurs the hero to action

Desire* - the hero’s story goal

Ally or allies - the hero gains an ally

Opponent and/or mystery* - an opponent or mystery that keeps the hero from reaching their goal

Fake-ally opponent - a shapeshifter or false friend

First revelation and decision: changed desire and motive - a revelation causes the hero to make a decision that results in a change in direction

Plan* - the hero’s plan to overcome their opponent and reach their goal

Opponent’s plan main counterattack - the opponent’s plan to overcome their opponent and reach their goal

Drive - increasingly desperate (and possibly immoral) series of actions the hero takes to defeat the opponent and reach the goal

Attack by ally - an ally confronts the hero about their increasing desperation and immorality

Apparent defeat - lowest point when the hero believes they’ve lost; for fall arcs, this may be an “Apparent victory” instead

Second revelation & decision: obsessive drive, changed desire and motive - the hero receives a new piece of information that allows them to continue towards their goal

Audience revelation - the audience learns a vital piece of information that’s kept from the hero

Third revelation and decision - the hero learns something about the opponent that will help them win

Gate, gauntlet, visit to death - pressure on the hero grows and they’re forced to face difficult trials

Battle* - a final (violent) conflict that determines who wins

Self-revelation* - the hero learns who they truly are

Moral decision - a decision that proves what the hero has learnt in the self-revelation

New equilibrium* - the need and desire have been fulfilled and the world goes back to normal, though the hero has changed

Stars (*) mark the minimum 7 steps that, according to Truby, are essential to every story.

ONE PAGE NOVEL (Eva Deverell)

Brainstorm 3...

...names:

...wants/goals/needs:

...locations:

...objects:

...obstacles:

...things lost/sacrificed:

...occupations:

...things on your mind:

Plotting Order

Resolution

Stasis

Shift

Trigger

Quest

Power

Bolt

Defeat

Story Order

Stasis: character isn’t living to their full potential - opposite state to Resolution.

Trigger: an internal or external impulse (or both) forces the character to take the first step towards their Resolution state.

Quest: character enters the new world of adventure, meets mentors or allies and makes a (bad) plan to solve the problem the Trigger created.

Bolt: (bad) Quest plan inevitably goes wrong.

Shift: character makes the paradigm shift necessary for them to inhabit their Resolution state.

Defeat: character makes the ultimate sacrifice.

Power: character finds a hidden power within themselves that allows them to seize the prize.

Resolution: character is living up to their full potential in their Resolution state.

NOTES

Choose a plot structure that works best for you.

Deviate from it as needed. It is a guide after all.

Some writers and editors advice you stick with a plot structure you have chosen:

Don’t look for an alternative as soon as you start to become frustrated with your first choice. You’ll only end up wasting time.

As with everything else, there is no single perfect choice.

And it may be the case that different projects need different methods.

Keep experimenting. Keep writing. Keep improving.

Source ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

[gretavanlace]

Hush

Josh Kiszka x reader

18+ only Minors do not interact

Warnings: graphic sexual content, dirty talk, choking, light degradation, praise, slight dom/sub/switch dynamic, language, etc

Josh is vocal.

That is certainly no secret.

Anyone who has watched him strut about a stage, microphone in hand, knows that.

Off stage, he talks incessantly about both the things that matter to him, and the mundane. Things he is passionate about. Things that light fires within him and drive him to create and pack this world as full of his heart as he possibly can. Arbitrary ideas and notions. Strange ponderings.

Pontification, he likes to call it.

He’s also vocally boisterous when agitated. He loathes waiting, and will mutter complaints near your ear in line until you’re willing your eyes not to roll. A phone call to vent about the antics of one brother or another from the studio is a regular occurrence and can be counted on just like death and taxes.

“Samuel was even later than I was,” he might huff, “and now Jake’s guitar needs to be restrung because fuck this whole world if he has to use a backup. I hate them, and I want to come home to you, light of my life, keeper of the stars, goddess of all that is— oh, we’re ready…gotta go.”

Josh murmurs in his sleep, sings in the shower, talks himself through menial tasks, hums in the grocery store, carries on one-sided conversations with the cat who simply chirps along while swirling around his ankles.

At least twice a night he snatches you from drifting off to sleep with a question: Do you think I should call my mom more? If I miss her, she must miss me. Or, Did I ever tell you about that time that Jake ate shit and fell in the lake? I was thinking about it today, and…

Random thoughts and idle musings he can’t help but verbalize, you hear them all. Mostly. The ones you aren’t privy to, fall upon the nearest ear - but he’s so fucking charming even a stranger is happy to play sounding board.

Josh is also expressive when you’re wrapped up in soft, linen sheets…or wherever else he’s decided he can no longer wait to have you.

Whispers of devotion swelling like a gentle breeze across the hum of your pulse when he makes love to you. Filthy, dirty, blush-inducing declarations when he’s fucking into your trembling body like he’ll never touch it again.

And you love it…all of it. But now - with your visiting sister slumbering in the guest room on the other side of the wall - is certainly not the time.

“Baby, please…” his mouth is sucking gently along your collarbone as he grinds into you slowly, friction hard and constant against your greedy, swollen clit, “let me fuck you faster…c’mon, I need it.”

”What you need, is to be quiet,” your voice is a stern whisper, but your hands are tender in his hair.

He could easily set a pace as brutal as he desired if he felt inclined to disobey…but, ever the sweetest switch, he has opted to play nice tonight.

”I’ll be quiet,” he promises. It is a lie he truly believes, and to prove that point, you clench around him and draw forth a pitiful groan from deep within his chest.

A swift pinch at his side serves as punishment ”Shut. Up.”

”Fuck you,” he sounds deliciously desperate, “You did that on purpose. Squeezing me with that beautiful pussy…goddamn.”

”What’s going to happen if I let you make me cum? Hmm?” Your mouth falls into a delicate pout as if you just feel so sorry for him, “You know how tight I get. How I just hug your cock all snug and wet…”

”And warm,” he adds, lost in it, daydreaming in the dark of night and twitching inside the embrace of your cunt, “Soft as satin, sucking me right in…oh my god, baby, please.”

He begins moving with more purpose, dragging the head of his cock against that lovely little spot that will render you incoherent if you allow it to.

”Oh my god, please,” you mock quietly, “Look at you Joshua, what a whiny baby. What are you begging for? Pussy? Is that what you need?”

He nods frantically against your sternum, as though he doesn’t trust himself to look up at you.

You feign confusion wickedly “But you’ve got that. You’re already inside me…”

“Faster,” he breathes, biting and mouthing at your shoulder now, “Need it faster, and harder. It’s too slow, I need more.”

Clicking your tongue like he is a poor, pathetic sight to behold, you shake your head, “Slow down.”

”No, please don’t make me,” he slows, as instructed, but trails off with a whimper.

So, maybe there’s no ‘like’ about it, maybe he really is a poor, pathetic sight to behold. Yes, you decide, that’s exactly what he is…

…so why not push him even further?

With a swift tug on the roots of his curls, you issue an order ”Stay still.”

Despondent and mournful, he groans into the crook of your neck and grabs at your hips so tightly you’ll be admiring raspberry bruises in the mirror come morning. “C’mon, baby girl…lemme take it. I fucking want it.”

If he were looking at you, he’d see the devilish gleam in your eye. Aren’t you an awful witch tonight? “What? Don’t you like it when I keep your pretty cock warm for you?”

He flexes hard inside of you, simply to gain even a hint of friction. “You’re being so fucking mean.”

”Mean?” You coil around the throbbing length of him and he shudders out the tiniest sound, “If I was mean, I’d lock your pretty cock in a cage and fuck your face all night.”

For a moment, he shirks his submissive edge and hisses in your ear, low and slow, “Liar. Not with little sister in the next room…you couldn’t keep quiet with my face between your legs if someone fucking paid you to.”

In response, you shove him back and roll until your thighs are locked around his waist, the crown of his cock nestled against your clit as your hips swivel heated circles.

”Does that feel good, baby?” You’re taunting him cruelly while, in contrast, lovingly reaching up to smooth the furrow from his brow. “Does that just feel so good?”

”Wanna put it back inside,” his eyes squint shut and anyone who didn’t know better might think his expression is that of suffering. “Perfect fucking cunt, so tight, so…”

”Shh,” you quiet him with a hand wrapped around his throat, relishing the way his adam’s apple slides against your palm when he swallows hard, “shut your mouth for once.”

He’s staring up at you, wide-eyed and needy, like you painted the stars in the sky, gorgeous and glittering, just for him…and how you wish that were true. How you wish you could give him something so profound. Something worthy of his light.

”I won’t make a sound,” his vow sounds out, a cross between the honesty he wishes it to be rooted in, and the lie he knows it to be. “C’mon baby, please…fuck me sweet.”

Does he really want it sweet? Or is he simply aware that that’s all he is capable of quietly handling?

Likely the latter.

Your fingers have found your nipples, twisting and tugging on them as they tighten into pink pebbles that send shivers crawling down into your stomach with every pull. His eyes lock in on you, watching you tease them as his breathing kicks up into a frenzy.

“You’re pushing it,” he warns, grip pulling you down closer as he rocks his hips up to meet you. “Keep it up and I’m gonna fucking take it. Be a good girl now, baby…I’m done with your shit.”

”Yeah?” Your eyebrow raises in silent challenge. Does he have it in him tonight?

“Yeah.” He nods, licking his thumb to swirl much too gently across your clit.

”I think you should just behave and be grateful for what you’re—“

Stunned and dazed, the room blurs around you as you’re flipped and tossed until your cheek is pressed against the cool, crisp sheets. They smell of him, and you breathe Josh in until your lungs ache while his cock teases at your entrance from behind.

His body folds over yours until his lips sweep the shell of your ear, “You’ve done it now, baby girl. Better be quiet, yeah? Not a sound.”

With a swift snap of his hips, the silken glide of his cock fills you full as his palm presses against your lips to muffle the high-pitched moan that gasps out of you.

”Now who’s the whiny baby?” his perfect teeth sink into your earlobe and tug until it blooms with heat. The moan that seeps into his soft skin causes his lips to curl into a smirk you can feel. “This is what you wanted, you think I don’t know that?”

He has begun moving at an excruciatingly slow place, the head of his cock dragging gently inside you just right…but you need more.

”You think I didn’t know that you wanted me to just fucking take it all along?”

You nod urgently, tangling your hair against the pillowcase. Of course he knew, he knows you better than you know yourself. There are no secrets to be hidden away when it comes to Joshua. He hunts each and every one down like glittering treasure with ease…your body his map, the pools of your eyes ciphers he decodes without even trying.

His tongue is dancing its way along your jaw now, springing chills to life upon your flushed skin ”Tell me how good my cock feels and I’ll fuck you full.”

Another woeful sound shakes out of you and a rumbling, gravelly laugh huffs warm against your cheek, “My poor, sweet baby can dish it just fine tonight, but she can’t take it? Is that it?”

With a shhh that makes you feel weighed down heavy with lust, he lifts his palm away from your mouth. “I can take it,” you promise in a hush, “Please…I can take it, I swear.”

He is so still inside you, but the familiar stretch is enough to send a tremble tripping up your spine, spider-cracking like a jolt of electric pleasure. “But can you take it quietly? Can you be a real good girl or should I gag you like a whore?”

”I’ll be a good girl,” you breathe, relishing the sound that slips out of him, a cross between famished desire and worshipful devotion.

“Yeah?” He’s enjoying this little game too much to wave goodbye to it just yet, “You’ll be a good girl if I give you this cock?” He presses in so deeply there’s nothing left for him to give, “You’ll take it quietly and squeeze it nice and tight? Soak it with your little wet cunt when I make you cum?”

He can feel you clenching already, twisting around him like a fist, milking him, pulling him in, starved for more.

”Yes, yes, yes,” you chant softly, begging for him to get on with it, “Just fuck me, Josh…please,”

There’s that sinful mouth of his again, ghosting over your ear, “Just fuck me Josh,” he mocks in a velvet whisper, “Please.”

A sob escapes you and turns the apples of your cheeks pink…he echoes the sound back to you and fans the flames of your delectable shame.

”Quiet now, baby…” he reminds you, tone taunting and laced with self-satisfaction, “You just bite down on the pillow if it gets to be too much, and I’ll bite down on you.”

You tighten around him at the mere thought of it and tug an achingly gorgeous grunt from deep within his chest, “You like that? You want me to bite you to keep quiet? Mark you up all pretty?”

”Fuck…” you reach back and grab for him, fingers sinking into the curve of his waist, begging for it with your entire body.

You can’t seem to manage much more, but it’s enough for him, and with a swift pull back, he snaps his hips hard and fast and sets a relentlessly feral pace in motion.

The head of his cock, thick and suede-soft, kisses your cervix with each inward push, driving a wild sound out of you that you smother into the pillow, tongue dragging against the worn cotton as though it were his mouth.

His teeth are peppering your back and shoulders, gnashing his own moans way down deep into your flesh where you will secret them away forever. He gifts each sound to you on a gorgeous, stinging platter and you only want more, more, more. It is never enough with him…you are gluttonous for whatever he sees fit to offer.

”You feel so fucking good, baby,” it comes undulating across your cheekbone like a warm, languorous breeze, “So fucking wet, I can feel you all over me. You’re gonna make me cum.”

He grows impossibly hard within you and that, along with the filth he is sighing into the night and the drags of his teeth, sends you careening over the edge you had no idea you were so close to. You explode around him, and his weight grows heavier atop you as his thrusts lose rhythm.

“That’s it,” his praise is clipped and winded, “just - fuck - just like that. Keep going, so tight, messy pretty fucking pussy, make me cum, baby, please…make me fucking cum.”

He’s babbling like a brook you want to lie beside and listen to for the rest of your life. So beautiful. So Josh. But so quietly, and you know how difficult it must be for him, how hard he must be trying, and you love him all the more for it.

With a final, vicious bite, he coaxes a hiss out of you that makes him see stars as he lets go, fucking himself deeper and deeper as he rides it out, moans pressed into your glazed, shivering body like flowers in between the pages of a book.

And still, you only want more. You want his jaw to lock, his teeth to break the skin, to draw blood, to scar you…soft pink, raised marks tattooed by his kiss to remind you.

A long sigh flutters your hair, and your eyes drift closed at the soothing lilt of the sound as his fingers begin to card through your hair.

”You thirsty, baby?” His nose nuzzles at you, drawing forth a lazy smile that is half smashed into the pillow.

“Yes, but stay a little longer.”

He cuddles down into you, cheek to cheek, the weight of his body keeping you warm and safe in the silence.

Taglist: @gretasintrees @greta-van-chaos @celestialfauna @s0livagant @groggyvanfleet @kiszkathecook @brokenbellz @llightmyllovee @doodle417 @seventieswhore @jake-kiszkas-smirk @weightofdreams-gvf @imdepressedaf1996 @alisonwonderland29 @gretavanfleas @gretavangroove @sparrowofthedawn @profitofthedune @xserenax-13 @tbagggvf @obetrolncocktails @tripthelightfandomtastic @tripthelight-fanfic @jakeslovehandles @jakesgrapejuice @poofyloofy @70sgroupielovr @heatmyfleet @age-of-nyahh @sammiboo162 @spicedandicedtea @jakekiszkasleftnutsack @saoirsemaeve @mywickeddivinity @lvnterninthenight @paintmyhouse @mckenna4 @sarakay-gvf @theweightofjake @thewritingbeforesunrise @joshsmama @sammysvanfeet @rhythm-of-space @highladyofasgard @calumspretty @sad1lynn @demolitionndann @gvfpal @starcatcher-jake @gretavangroupie

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

1968 [Chapter 6: Athena, Goddess Of Wisdom]

Series Summary: Aemond is embroiled in a fierce battle to secure the Democratic Party nomination and defeat his archnemesis, Richard Nixon, in the presidential election. You are his wife of two years and wholeheartedly indoctrinated into the Targaryen political dynasty. But you have an archnemesis of your own: Aemond’s chronically delinquent brother Aegon.

Series Warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, character deaths, New Jersey, age-gap relationships, drinking, smoking, drugs, pregnancy and childbirth, kids with weird Greek names, historical topics including war and discrimination, math.

Word Count: 5.2k

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Here at the midway point in our journey—like Dante stumbling upon the gates of the Inferno—would it be the right moment to review what’s at stake? Let’s begin.

It’s the end of August. The delegates of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago officially vote to name Aemond the party’s presidential candidate. His ascension is aided by 10,000 antiwar demonstrators who flood into the city and threaten to set it ablaze if Hubert Humphrey is chosen instead. At the end—in his death rattle—Humphrey begs to be Aemond’s running mate, one last humiliation he cannot resist. Humphrey is denied. Eugene McCarthy, dignity intact, boards a commercial flight to his home state of Minnesota without looking back.

Aemond selects U.S. Ambassador to France, Sargent Shriver, to be his vice president. Shriver is a Kennedy by marriage—his wife, JFK’s younger sister Eunice, just founded the Special Olympics—and has previously headed the Office of Economic Opportunity, the Peace Corps, and the Chicago Board of Education. He also served as the architect of the president’s “War on Poverty” before distancing himself from the imploding Johnson administration. Shriver is not a concession to fence-sitting moderates or Southern Dixiecrats, but an embodiment of Aemond’s commitment to unapologetic progressivism. Richard Nixon spends the weekend campaigning in his native California, a gold vein of votes like the mines settlers rushed to in 1848. George Wallace announces that he will run as an Independent. Racists everywhere rejoice.

Phase III of the Tet Offensive is underway in Vietnam; 700 American soldiers have been killed this month alone. Riots break out in military prisons where the U.S. Army is keeping their deserters. The North Vietnamese refuse to allow Pope Paul VI to visit Hanoi on a peace mission. President Johnson calls both Aemond and Nixon to personally inform them of this latest evidence of the communists’ unwillingness to negotiate in good faith. Daeron and John McCain remain in Hỏa Lò Prison. The draft swallows men like the titan Cronus devoured his own children.

In Eastern Europe, the Russians are crushing pro-democracy protests in the largest military operation since World War II as half a million troops roll into Czechoslovakia. In Caswell County, North Carolina, the last remaining segregated school district in the nation is ordered by a federal judge to integrate after years of stalling. On the Fangataufa Atoll in the South Pacific, France becomes the fifth nation to successfully explode a hydrogen bomb. In Mexico City, 300,000 students gather to protest the authoritarian regime of President Diaz Ordaz. In Guatemala, American ambassador John Gordon Mein is murdered by a Marxist guerilla organization called the Rebel Armed Forces. In Columbus, Ohio, nine guards are held hostage during a prison riot; after 30 hours, they’re rescued by a SWAT team.

The latest issue of Life magazine brings worldwide attention to catastrophic industrial pollution in the Great Lakes. The first successful multiorgan transplant is carried out at Houston Methodist Hospital. The Beatles release Hey Jude, the best-selling single of 1968 in the U.S., U.K., Australia, and Canada. NASA’s Apollo lunar landing program plans to launch a crewed shuttle next year, just in time to fulfill John F. Kennedy’s 1962 promise to put a man on the moon “before the end of the decade.” If this is successful, the United States will win the Space Race and prove the superiority of capitalism. If it fails, the martyred astronauts will join all the other ghosts of this apocalyptic age, an epoch born under bad stars.

The night sky glows with the ancient debris of the Aurigid meteor shower. From down here on Earth, Jupiter is a radiant white gleam, visible with the naked eye and admired since humans were making cave paintings and Stonehenge. But Io is a mystery. With a telescope, she becomes a dust mote entrapped by Jupiter’s gravity; to the casual observer, she doesn’t exist at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

What was it like, that very first time? It’s strange to remember. You’re both different people now.

It’s May, 1966. You and Aemond are engaged, due to be married in three short weeks, and if you get pregnant then it’s no harm, no foul. In reality, it will end up taking you over a year to conceive, but no one knows that yet; you are living in the liminal space between what you imagine your life will be and the cold blade of the truth. Aemond has brought you to Asteria for the weekend, an increasingly common occurrence. The Targaryens—minus one, that holdout prodigal son, always glowering from behind swigs of rum and clouds of smoke—have already begun to treat you like a member of the family. The flock of Alopekis yap excitedly and lick your shins. Eudoxia learns your favorite snacks so she can have them ready when you arrive.

One night Aemond takes your hand and leads you to Helaena’s garden, darkness turned to twilight in the artificial luminance of the main house. You can hear distant voices, chatter and laughter, and the Beatles’ Rubber Soul spinning on the record player in the living room like a black hole, gravity that not even light can escape when it is wrenched over the event horizon.

You’re giggling as Aemond pulls you along, faster and faster, weaving through pathways lined with roses and sunflowers and butterfly bushes. Your high heels sink into soft, fertile earth; the air in your lungs is cool and infinite. “Where are we going?”

And Aemond grins back at you as he replies: “To Olympus.”

In the circle of hedges guarded by thirteen gods of stone, Aemond unzips your modest pink sundress and slips your heels off your feet, kneeling like he’s proposing to you again. When you are bare and secretless, he draws you down onto the grass and opens you, claims you, fills you to the brim as the crystalline water of the fountain patters and Zeus hurls his lightning bolts, an eternal storm, unending war. It’s intense in a way it never was with your first boyfriend, a sweet polite boy who talked about feminist theory and followed his enlightened conscience all the way to Vietnam. This isn’t just a pleasant way to pass a Friday night, something to look forward to between differential equations textbooks and calculus proofs. With Aemond it’s a ritual; it’s something so overpowering it almost scares you.

“Aphrodite,” Aemond murmurs against your throat, and when you try to get on top he stops you, pins you to the ground, thrusts hard and deep, and you try not to moan too loudly as you surrender, his weight on you like a prophesy. This is how he wants you. This is where you belong.

Has someone ever stitched you to their side, pushing the needle through your skin again and again as the fabric latticework takes shape, until their blood spills into your veins and your antibodies can no longer tell the difference? He makes you think you’ve forgotten who you were before. He makes you want to believe in things the world taught you were myths.

But that was over two years ago. Now Aemond is not your spellbinding almost-stranger of a fiancé—shrouded in just the right amount of mystery—but your husband, the father of your dead child, the presidential candidate. You miss when he was a mirage. You miss what it felt like to get high on the idea of him, each taste a hit, each touch a rush of toxins to the bloodstream.

Seven weeks after your emergency c-section, you are healing. Your belly no longer aches, your bleeding stops, you can rejoin the living in this last gasp of summer. Ludwika takes you shopping and you pick out new swimsuits; you’ve gone up a size since the baby, and it shows no signs of vanishing. In the fitting room, Ludwika chain-smokes Camel cigarettes and claps when you show her each outfit, ordering you to spin around, telling you that there’s nothing like Oleg Cassini back in Poland. You plan to buy three swimsuits. Ludwika insists you get five. She pays with Otto’s American Express.

That afternoon at home in your blue bedroom, you get changed to join the rest of the family down by the pool, your first swim since Ari was born. You choose Ludwika’s favorite: a dreamy turquoise two-piece with flowing transparent fabric that drapes your midsection. You can still see the dark vertical line of where the doctors stitched you closed. Now you and Aemond match; he got his scar on the floor of the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, you earned yours at Mount Sinai Hospital in Manhattan. There are gold chains on your wrist and looped around your neck. Warm sunlight and ocean wind pours in through the open windows.

Aemond appears in the doorway and you turn to show him, proud of how you’ve pulled yourself together, how this past year hasn’t put you in an asylum. His right eye catches on your scar and stays there for a long time. Then at last he says: “You don’t have something else to wear?”

~~~~~~~~~~

It’s Labor Day, and Asteria has been descended upon by guests invited to celebrate Aemond’s nomination. The dining room table is overflowing with champagne, Agiorgitiko wine, platters of mini spanakopitas, lamb gyros, pita bread with hummus and tzatziki, feta cheese and cured meats, grilled octopus, baklava, and kourabiethes. Eudoxia is rushing around sweeping up crumbs and shooing tipsy visitors away from antique vases shipped here from Greece. Aemond’s celebrity endorsers include Sammy Davis Jr., Sonny and Cher, Andy Williams, Bobby Darin, Warren Beatty, Shirley MacLaine, Claudine Longet, and a number of politicians; but the most notable attendee is President Lyndon Baines Johnson, shadowed by Secret Service agents. He won’t be making any surprise appearances on the campaign trail for Aemond—in the present political climate, he would be more of a liability than an asset—but he has travelled to Long Beach Island tonight to offer his well-wishes. From the record player thrums Jimi Hendrix’s All Along The Watchtower.

When you finish getting ready and arrive downstairs, you spot Aegon: slouching in a velvet chair over a century old, hair shagging in his eyes, sipping something out of a chipped mug he clasps with both hands, flirting with a bubbly early-twenties campaign staffer. Aegon smiles and waves when he sees you. You wave back. And you think: When did he become the person I look for when I walk into a room?

Now Aemond is beside you in a blue suit—beaming, confident, his glass eye in place, a hand resting on your waist—and Aegon isn’t smiling anymore. He takes a gulp of what is almost certainly straight rum from his mug and returns his attention to the campaign staffer, his lady of the hour. You picture him undressing her on his shag carpet and feel disorienting, violent envy like a bullet.

Viserys is already fast asleep upstairs, but the rest of the family is out en masse to charm the invitees and pose for photographs. Alicent, Helaena, and Mimi—trying very hard to act sober, blinking too often—are chit-chatting with the other political wives. Otto is complaining about something to Criston; Criston is pretending to listen as he stares at Alicent. Ludwika is smoking her Camels and talking to several young journalists who are ogling her, enraptured. Fosco and Sargent Shriver are entertaining a group of guests with a boisterous, lighthearted debate on the merits of Italian versus French cuisine, though they agree that both are superior to Greek. The nannies have brought the eight children to be paraded around before bedtime. All Cosmo wants to do is clutch your hand and “help” you navigate around the living room, warning you not to step on the small, weaving Alopekis. When Mimi attempts to steal her youngest son away, he ignores her, and as she begins to make a scene you rebuke her with a harsh glare. Mimi retreats meekly. She has never argued with you, not once in over two years. You speak for Aemond, and Aemond is a god.

As the children are herded off to their beds by the nannies, Bobby Kennedy—presently serving as a New York senator despite residing primarily on his family’s compound in Massachusetts—approaches to congratulate Aemond. His wife Ethel is a tiny, nasally, scrappy but not terribly bright woman, five months pregnant with her eleventh child, and you have to get away from her like a hand pulled from a hot stove.

“You know, I was considering running,” Bobby says to Aemond, chuckling, good-natured. “But when I saw you get in the race, I thought better of it! Maybe I’ll give it a go in ’76, huh?”

“Hey, kid, what a tough year you’ve had,” Ethel tells you, patting your forearm. You can’t tear your eyes from her small belly. She has ten living children already. I couldn’t keep one. What kind of sense does that make? “We’re real sorry for your trouble, aren’t we, Bobby?”

Now he is nodding somberly. “We are. We sure are. We’ve been praying for you both.”

Aemond is thanking them, sounding touched but entirely collected. You manage some hurried response and then excuse yourself. Your hands are shaking as you cross the room, not really seeing it. You walk right into Lady Bird Johnson. She takes pity on you; she seems to perceive how rattled you are. “Oh Lyndon, look, it’s just who we were hoping to speak to! The next first lady of the United States. And how beautiful you are, just radiant. How do you keep your hair so perfect? That glamorous updo. You never have a single strand out of place.” Lady Bird lays a palm tenderly on your bare shoulder. She has an unusual, angular face, but a wise sort of compassion that only comes from suffering. Her husband is an unrepentant serial cheater. “I’ll make you a list of everything you need to know about the White House. All the quirks of the property, and the hidden gems too!”

“You’re so kind. We’ll see what happens in November…”

“Good evening, ma’am,” President Johnson says, smiling warmly. He’s an ugly man, but there’s something hypnotic that lives inside him and shines through his eyes like the blaze of a lighthouse. He pulls you in through the dark, through the storm; he promises you answers to questions you haven’t thought of yet. LBJ is 6’4 and known for bullying his political adversaries with the so-called “Johnson Treatment”; he leans in and makes rapid-fire demands until they forget he’s not allowed to hit them. “I have to tell you frankly, I don’t envy anyone who inherits that den of rattlesnakes in Washington D.C.”

“Lyndon, don’t frighten her,” Lady Bird scolds fondly.

“Everyone thinks they know what to do about Vietnam,” LBJ plods onwards. “But it’s a damned if you do, damned if you don’t clusterfuck. If you keep fighting, they call you a murderer. But if you pull the troops out and South Vietnam falls to the communists, every single man lost was for nothing, and you think the families will stand for that? Their kid in a body bag, or his legs blown off, or his brain scrambled? There’s no easy answer. It’s a goddamn bitch of a quagmire.”

Lady Bird offers you a sympathetic smirk. Sorry about all this unpleasantness, she means. When he gets himself worked up, I can’t stop him. But you find yourself feeling sorry for President Johnson. It will be difficult for him to learn how to fade into disgraced obscurity after once being so omnipotent, so beloved. Reinvention hurts like hell: fevers raging, bones mending, healing flesh that itches so ferociously you want to claw it off.

LBJ gives Lady Bird a look, quick but meaningful. She acquiesces. This has happened a thousand times before. “It was so nice talking to you, dear,” she tells you, then crosses the living room to pay her respects to Alicent.

The president steps closer, looming, towering. The Johnson Treatment?? you think, but no; he isn’t trying to intimidate you. He’s just curious.

“Do you know what Aemond’s plan is for ‘Nam?” LBJ asks, eyes urgent, voice low. “I’m sure he has one. He’s sworn to end the draft as soon as he gets into office, but how is he going to make sure the South Vietnamese can fend off the North themselves? We’re trying to train the bastards, but if we left they’d fold in months. It would be the first war the U.S. ever lost. Does he understand that?”

“He doesn’t really discuss it with me.” That’s true; you know his policies, but only because they are a constant subject of conversation within the family, something you all breathe like oxygen.

“We can’t let Nixon win,” LBJ continues. “It’s mass suicide to leave the country in his hands. The man can’t hold his liquor anymore, getting robbed by Kennedy in ’60 broke something in him. He gets sloshed and shoves his aids around, makes up conspiracies in his head. He’s a paranoid little prick. He’ll surveille the American people. He’ll launch a nuke at Moscow.”

You honestly don’t know what he expects you to say. “I’ll pass the message along to Aemond.”

“People love you, Mrs. Targaryen.” LBJ watching you closely. “Believe it or not, they used to love me too. But I still remember how to play the game. You’re the only reason Aemond is leading the polls in Florida. You can get him other states too. Jack needed Jackie. Aemond needs you. And you’ve had tragedies, and that’s a damn shame. But don’t you miss an opportunity. You take every disappointment, every fucked up cruelty of life and find a way to make it work for you. You pin it to your chest like a goddamn medal. Every single scar makes you look more mortal to those people going to the ballot box in November. You want them to be able to see themselves in you. It helps the mansions and the millions go down smoother.”

“President Johnson!” Aegon says as he saunters over, huge mocking grin. He thumps a closed fist against the Texan’s broad chest; the Secret Service agents standing ten feet away observe this sternly. “How thoughtful of you to be here, taking time out of your busy schedule, squeezing us in between war crimes.”

“The mayor of Trenton,” LBJ jabs.

“The butcher of Saigon.”

Now the president is no longer amused. “You’ve never accomplished anything in your whole damn life, son. Your obituary will be the size of a postage stamp. I’m looking forward to reading it someday soon.” He leaves, rejoining Lady Bird at the opposite end of the room.

You frown at Aegon, disapproving. You’re dressed in a sparkling, royal blue gown that Aemond chose. “That was unnecessary.”

Aegon is wearing an ill-fitting green shirt—half the buttons undone—khaki pants, and tan moccasins. “I just did you a favor.”

“What happened to your new girlfriend? Shouldn’t she be getting railed in your basement right now? Did she have a prior commitment? Did she have a spelling test to study for? Those can be tricky, such complex words. Juvenile. Inappropriate. Infidelity.”

“You know what he brags about?” Aegon says, meaning LBJ. “That he’s fucked more women by accident than John F. Kennedy ever did on purpose.”

“That sounds…logistically challenging.”

“He’s a lech. He’s a freak. He tells everyone on Capitol Hill how big his cock is. He takes it out and swings it around during meetings.”

“And that’s all far less than admirable, but he’s not going to do something like that around me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because he’s not an idiot,” you say impatiently. “He was perfectly civil. And I was getting interesting advice.”

Aegon rolls his eyes, exasperated. “Yeah, okay, I’m sorry I crashed your cute little pep talk with Lyndon Johnson, the most hated man on the planet.”

“I guess you can’t stop Aemond from touching me, so you have to terrorize LBJ instead.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Aegon hisses, and his venom stuns you. And now you’re both trapped: you loosed the arrow, he proved you hit the mark. He’s flushing a deep, mortified red. Your guts are twisting with remorse.

“Aegon, wait, I didn’t mean—”

He whirls and storms off, shoving his way through the crowd. People glare at him as they clutch their glasses and plates, sighing in that What else do you expect from the worthless son? sort of way. You’re still gaping blankly at the place where Aegon stood when Aemond finds you, snakes a hand around the back of your neck, and whispers through the painstakingly-arranged wisps of hair that fall around your ear: “Follow me.”

It’s not a question. It’s a command. You trail him through the living room, into the foyer, and through the front door, not knowing what he wants. Outside the moon is a sliver; the light from the main house makes the stars hard to see. “Aemond, you’ll never believe the conversation I just had with LBJ. He really unloaded, I think the stress is driving him insane. I have to tell you what he said about—”

“Later.” And this is jarring; Aemond doesn’t put anything before strategy. He grabs your hand as he turns into Helaena’s garden, and only then do you understand what he wants. Instinctively, your legs lock up and your feet stop moving. Aemond tugs you onward. He wants it to be like the very first time. He intends to start over with you, the dawning of a new age in the dead of night.

Hidden in the circle of hedges, he takes your face roughly in his hands and kisses you, drinks you down like a vampire, consumes you like wildfire. But your skull echoes with panic. I don’t want him touching me. I don’t want another child with him. “Aemond…”

He doesn’t hear you, or acts like he doesn’t, or mistakes it for a murmur of desire, or chooses to believe it is. He has you down on the grass under the vengeful gaze of Zeus, the fountain splashing, the sounds of the house a low foreign drone. He yanks off your panties, but he doesn’t want you naked like he always did before. He pushes the hem of your shimmering cobalt gown up to your hips and unbuckles his trousers. And you realize as he’s touching you, as he’s easing himself into you: He doesn’t want to have to look at my scar.

You can’t ignore him, you can’t pretend it’s not happening. He’s too big for that. It’s a biting fullness that demands to be felt. So you kiss him back, and knot your fingers in his short hair like you used to, and try to remember the things you always said to him before. And when Aemond is too absorbed to notice, you look away from him, from the statue of Zeus, and peer up into the stone face of Athena instead: the goddess who never married and who knows the answer to every question.

“I love you,” Aemond says when it’s over, marveling at the slopes of your face in the dim ethereal light. “Everything will be right again soon. Everything will be perfect.”

You conjure up a smile and nod like you believe him.

“What did LBJ say?”

“Can I tell you later tonight? After the party, maybe? I just need a few minutes.”

“Of course.” And now Aemond pretends to be patient. He buckles his belt and returns to the main house, his blood coursing with the possibilities only you can make real, his skin damp with your sweat.

For a while—ten minutes, twenty minutes—you lie there on the cool grass wondering what it was like for all those mortals and nymphs, being pinned down by Zeus and then having Hera try to kill them afterwards, raising ill-fated reviled bastards they couldn’t help but love. What is heaven if the realm of the immortals is so cruel? Why does the god of justice seem so immune to it?

When at last you rise and walk back towards the house, you find Mimi at the edge of the garden. She’s on her knees and retching into a rose bush; she’s cut her face on the thorns, but she hasn’t noticed yet. She’s groaning; she seems lost.

You reach for her, gripping her bony shoulders. “Mimi, here, let’s get you upstairs…”

“No,” she blubbers, tears streaming down her scratched cheeks. “Just go away. Leave me.”

“Mimi—”

“No!” she roars, a mournful hemorrhage as she slaps your hands until you release her.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you tell her, distraught. “You can give up drinking. We’ll help you, me and Fosco and Ludwika. You can start over. You can be healthy and present again, you can live a real life.”

Mimi stares up at you, her grey eyes glassy and bloodshot but with a vicious, piercing honesty. “My husband hates me. My kids don’t know I exist. What the hell do I have to be sober for?”

You weren’t expecting this. You don’t know what to say. “We can help make the world better.”

“The world would be better without me in it.”

Then Mimi curls up on the grass under the rose bush, and stays there until you return with Fosco to drag her upstairs to her empty bed.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next afternoon, you’re lying on a lounge chair by the pool. Tomorrow the family will leave Asteria and embark upon a vigorous campaign schedule that will continue, with very few breaks, until Election Day on Tuesday, November 5th. The children are splashing and shrieking in the pool with Fosco, but you aren’t looking at them. You’re staring across the sun-drenched emerald lawn at the Atlantic Ocean. You’re envisioning all the bones and splinters of sunken ships that must litter the silt of the abyss; you’re thinking that it’s a graveyard with no headstones, no memory. Your swimsuit is a red one-piece. Your eyes are shielded by large black Ray Bans aviator sunglasses. Your gaze flicks up to the cloudless blue sky, where all the stars and planets are invisible.

Jupiter has nearly a hundred moons; the largest four were discovered by Galileo in 1610. Europa is a smooth white cosmic marble with a crust of ice, beautiful, immaculate. Ganymede, the largest moon in our solar system and the only satellite with its own magnetic field, is rumored to have a vast underground saltwater ocean that may contain life. Callisto is dark and indomitable, riddled with impact craters; because of her dynamic atmosphere and location beyond Jupiter’s radiation belts, she is considered the best location for possible future crewed missions to the Jovian system. But Io is a wasteland. She has no water and no oxygen. Her only children are 400 active volcanoes, sulfur plumes and lava flows, mountains of silicate rock higher than Mount Everest, cataclysmic earthquakes as her crust slips around on a mantle of magma. Her daily radiation levels are 36 times the lethal limit for humans. If Hades had a home in our corner of the galaxy, it would be Io. She glows ruby and gold with barren apocalyptic fury. You can feel yourself turning poisonous like she is. You can feel your skin splitting open as the lava spills out.

Aegon trots out of the house—red swim trunks, cheap red plastic sunglasses, no shirt, a beach towel slung around his neck, flip flops—and kicks your chair. “Get up. We’re going sailing.”

“I don’t want to talk to anybody.”

“Great, because I’m not asking you to talk. I’m telling you to get in my boat.”

You don’t reply. You don’t think you can without your voice cracking. Aegon crouches down beside your chair and pushes your sunglasses up into your Brigitte Bardot-inspired hair so he can see your face. Your eyes are pink, wet, desperately sad. Deep troubled grooves appear in his forehead as he studies you. Gently, wordlessly, he pats your cheek twice and lowers your sunglasses back over your eyes. Then he stands up again and offers you his hand.

“Let’s go,” Aegon says, softly this time. You take his hand and follow him down to the boathouse.

Five vessels are currently kept there. Aegon’s sailboat is a 25-foot Wianno Senior sloop, just roomy enough for a few passengers. He’s had it since long before you married into the Targaryen family. It is white with hand-painted gold accents; the name Sunfyre adorns the stern. He unmoors the boat, pushes it out into the open water, and raises the sails.

You glide eastbound over the glittering crests of waves, slowly at first, then faster as the sails catch the wind. Aegon has one hand on the rudder, the other grasping the ropes. And the farther you get from shore, the smaller Asteria seems, and the Targaryen family, and the presidential election, and the United States itself. Now all that exists is this boat: you, Aegon, the squawking gulls, the school of mackerel, the ocean. The sun beats down; the breeze rips strands of your hair free. The battery-powered record player is blasting White Room by Cream. When you are far enough from land that no journalists would be able to get a photo, Aegon takes two joints and his Zippo out of the pocket of his swim trunks. He puts both joints between his lips, lights them, and passes you one. Then he stretches out beside you on the deck, gazing up at the September sky.

You ask as your muscles unravel and your thoughts turn light and easy to share: “Why did you bring me out here?”

“So you can drown yourself,” Aegon says, and you both laugh. “Nah. I used to go sailing all the time when I was a teenager. It always made me feel better. It was the only place where I could really be alone.”

You consider the math. “Wow. You haven’t been a teenager since before I was in kindergarten.”

“It’s weird to think about. You don’t seem that young.”

“Thanks, I guess. You don’t seem that old.”

“Maybe we’re meeting in the middle.” He inhales deeply and then exhales in a rush of smoke. “What do you think, should I get an earring?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“It might shock Otto so bad it kills him.”

“I’ll get two.” And then Aegon says: “It’s not cool for you to mock me.”

You are dismayed; you didn’t mean to hurt him. “I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were. You were mocking me. You mocked me about the receipt under my ashtray, and then you mocked me again last night. I’m up for a lot of things, but I can’t handle that. Okay?”

“Okay.” You turn your head so you can see him: shaggy blonde hair, stubble, perpetual sunburn, the softness of his belly and his chest, flesh you long to vanish into like rain through parched earth. “Aegon?”

He looks over at you. “Io?”

“I don’t want Aemond to touch me either.”

He’s surprised; not by what you feel, but because you’ve said it aloud, a treason like Prometheus giving mankind the gift of fire. “What are we gonna do about it?”

If you were the goddess of wisdom, maybe you’d know.

[virgo-dream]

The New Inn trough the ages ✨

circa 1901

during WWI

during WWII

circa 1960

october, 2022

After the wonderful @cuubism posted some photos of the New Inn (and pointed me in the direction of more) I ended up stumbling upon their instagram page, and they had these wonderful photos of the Inn through the ages! Other cool info:

The pub has existed since 1642 and it was originally called The White Hart! Here’s a transcript of the text on the plaque next to the entrance:

“In 1642 the original Inn was known as The White Hart, but when the present building was erected in 1756, it changed to The New Inn.

From 1780 to his death in 1822, it was called The Hobart Arms after the Hon. George Hobart who lived in Ham Common and was related to the Duke of Buckinghamshire.

It has remained The New Inn ever since, and was renowned as one of the best sites for both travellers and local traffic, always employing at least one ostler.

Today, our fine historical inn offers the warmest traditional hospitality.”

All photos were taken from their official instagram, which you can find at @thenewinn_hamcommon. Drop them a follow and visit if you can! ✨

[heliads]

'homesick, but not for home' - kaz brekker

Based on this request: "y/n finally gets to visit their home country after years away in ketterdam with the crows. a sweet little slice of life with kaz finally getting to be kaz rietveld"

masterlist

merry christmas everyone! my present to you is kaz

Receiving a summons from Kaz Brekker usually means one of two things:  either you are about to be murdered, or he is going to ask you to do something before he murders you. Usually, that task involves the distribution of funds from your ledgers to his. However, as one of the bare few who has the privilege of making it to his inner circle, you would wager that there’s a third possible outcome from hearing from him:  he still wants you to do something, but you’ll be killing someone else.

Nonetheless, judging by the expression of the courier who tells you that Kaz is expecting you in his office, even being spared an imminent death doesn’t mean that this meeting will go pleasantly. Dirtyhands has a reputation around here, one just as dark and choking as those black gloves he so loves to wear. No one here knows Kaz as anything more than a shadow of a man, a killer, a convict. To learn that he wishes to speak to you is akin to hearing that Death itself is knocking on your door.

You, however, just smile and turn your feet towards the stairs leading to Kaz’s office instead. The Slat, home of the Dregs, is a rickety ramshackle of a building. Kaz has been doing his part to fix it up as he can, but the floorboards are still masterfully creaky and the oil lamps flicker ominously from their resting places beside each looming door. The stairwell is worst of all, a towering, beckoning talon that delivers you to your fate at the very top. 

Sometimes, you swear Kaz put his office on the top floor just because it would give his victims more time to contemplate their quickly approaching demise when they had to climb all the way up. Other days, you just assume that he was sick of the noise and wanted to find a place where nobody would bother him unless absolutely necessary. Knowing Kaz, both rationales are probably sound.

You knock once on the door to his office and, upon hearing your name called to come in, twist the doorknob and let yourself inside. Gathered in a loose semicircle on the few available pieces of furniture as well as leaning against the wall are Inej, Jesper, Wylan, Matthias, and Nina. Kaz sits, as usual, ramrod straight in a chair behind his desk, and gestures for you to take the final open seat.

“Looks like everyone’s here,” you note. “Should I be worried about missing anything?”

“Not in the slightest,” Jesper chirps. “Only that Kaz has been saving that chair for you this whole time. He keeps glaring at us whenever we so much as look towards it.”

Jesper looks as if he’d like to gossip about this a little more, but Wylan digs a sharp elbow into his side, causing the other boy to complain heartily. 

You just grin, sliding into your seat. “Good. I deserve luxury. I was never made to sit on the ground.”

Kaz coughs pointedly to disguise what you’re sure is a smile. “Now that we’re all in attendance, we can get started. I’ve heard news of a prospective business deal happening off the coast of the Southern Colonies. Expensive materials are being exchanged. Jewelry, artwork, the like. It’s all being conducted by Kerch merchers, but they took everything offshore to avoid the chance of getting caught. If we swoop in the night before and take all their bargaining tools, we’ll be richer and they’ll have to cave to our demands.”

“Of course, our demands,” Nina says, nodding. “What are we demanding, again?”

Inej smiles. “For them to stop breathing down our backs, for one thing. Also, they keep trying to cut into business. They needed this deal for an alliance between some of the wealthier merchers, but if each party thinks the other stole their riches before the swap, they’ll be so busy with infighting that they won’t bother us for some time.”

Kaz inclines his head gravely. “Precisely.”

Inej taps her fingers silently against her leg. “My question is when we’re going to stage the attack. We can attempt to hijack the ships before they leave the harbor, but I have no doubt that they’ll be crawling with stadwatch.”

“That’s why we’ll be sailing along with them,” Kaz clarifies. “The heist won’t happen until we’re on the shores of the Southern Colonies. That way, they’ll have let down their guard.”

Immediately, everyone reacts. Leaving the Barrel is an invitation for everything to go wrong. If rival gangs like the Dime Lions or the Razorgulls find out that Kaz’s inner circle isn’t in town, they’ll hasten to loot the place or kill your foot soldiers before anyone gets back.

“We have to leave the country?” Inej asks doubtfully. “That’s a tremendous risk.”

Kaz’s expression doesn’t shift a second, but you can still sense him tensing somehow, all too aware of the extra burden on his staff to maintain decorum and avoid attracting threats from his many enemies. “Think of it as a vacation. You’ll be able to get out of the city and go somewhere nice. Maybe even get some seaside air.”

Jesper snorts. “Kaz, your idea of a vacation is locking the door of your office and not running your numbers for five minutes. I didn’t think seaside air existed in your vocabulary except as a potential source of weakness.”

Kaz frowns. “Of course seaside air exists in my vocabulary. How else would I know to say it?”

Jesper rolls his eyes and looks as if he’d like to counter that with an equally terrible argument, but you cut him off. “I’d like to go,” you say suddenly.

All eyes turn to you. “Why?” Wylan asks.

A faint smile plays upon your lips. It’s easier to look at the ground than face all of their inquisitive stares, so you do just that. “I’m from the Southern Colonies. Used to be, at least. I’d always planned on going back at some point, but never got the chance until now.”

Truth be told, you were assuming that you would never get that chance. Your parents moved your whole family down to Ketterdam when you were about ten years old, drawn by the call of a quick profit. They were able to eke out a few tentative years, but the city swallowed them like it does everyone else. It’s just you now, you and the Crows and the dream that at one point, you might be able to revisit the place you once called home.

Even connecting ‘home’ and the Southern Colonies in the same sentence seems like something out of a dream. You’ve lived in Kerch for so long now that you can hardly imagine being anywhere else. The Crows are your family, the Barrel your home. It’s a strange life, certainly, but it’s yours.

Kaz’s face closes down. “I’ll go with you. Inej, you and the rest will maintain the Crow Club and its affiliates until we return. I don’t want to risk all of us on one endeavor.”

Matthias arches a brow. “You are willing to brave the risk of splitting up, though?”

Kaz turns a bemused expression his way. “Are you worried about me, drüskelle? And here I thought we’d never see eye to eye.”

Matthias snorts. “Don’t go that far, demjin.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” Kaz muses. “The plan is set, then. We’ll have three weeks to plan, and then Y/N and I will set off.”

He allows the rest of the Crows to leave, but gestures for you to stay. You pull your chair closer to his desk, sensing that the discussion will shift into more details of the mission at hand.

Once the last of your friends have gone, Kaz turns his gaze to you. His eyes seem to stare straight through your skull, and you get the strange feeling that he could read every thought created inside your mind if he just bothered to listen a little closer. 

“You said you were born in the Southern Colonies. I need to be certain that there will be no distractions for a job like this. Can you swear to me that you’ll be focused?” He asks you.

“It won’t be an issue,” you assure him. “I’ll see the countryside and then move on. Honest.”

“Well, I should hope you won’t be completely honest,” Kaz murmurs, the corners of his lips pricking up into a slight shade of a smile. “We are still robbing people, of course.”

“Of course,” you laugh. His eyes jerk up when you do, his gaze hungry for the sight of it.

And– see, this is where you start to get into trouble. You are a criminal, a member of a gang. Every day is a fight. You know that survival is the thing that matters most in the Barrel, survival and how much money you can make off of delaying your last breath. You need to have single-minded focus totally centered around how you are going to make it through each day, but instead, your brain has started drifting to unreasonable topics like the precise shade of Kaz’s eyes or all the techniques he uses to hide his smiles.

It won’t serve you well, this feeling like a slow burn in your chest. Kaz would be the very first to tell you that weakness will only get you killed. People are a weakness. Is Kaz, though? Sometimes, in vague moments in between the times when reality comes firmly back to ground you, you can almost imagine that he might feel the same way. Would he really entertain this idea if he didn’t feel something for you? Would he leave the Barrel to go all the way to the Southern Colonies with you if he could easily send Jesper or someone else?

In the end, all you can ever do is push the thoughts from your mind. The scheming and planning period has got to be your least favorite part of a heist, but unfortunately, it’s also the segment that takes the longest. Every detail has to be perfect or all involved will be caught in the act.

Eventually, though, you find yourself shipping out on a fine sea morning, headed towards the country that hasn’t been yours since you were a child. You and Kaz are pretending to be business partners, which is true enough. His cabin is next to yours. You’re fairly sure he already knows the identity of every other traveler on the ship, just in case.

Standing on the deck and watching Ketterdam retreat into a nameless speck on the dark, vast ocean, you can’t help but wonder what the Southern Colonies will bring your way. Your heart is surprisingly light in your chest at the thought of it. You have dim recollections of the rolling hills and drifting tides, although even these memories have grown hazy with time. You can’t wait to see it again.

By contrast, Kaz, standing by your side, seems far less thrilled about the whole idea. His black gloves are clenched tightly around the railing, his grip hardening whenever the ship tilts too much. You glance around to make sure no other travelers are within earshot, then ask him with a questioning glance, “Why would you make this trip if you don’t like the ocean?”

Kaz shoots you a wary look. “I’m perfectly fine with it.”

You scoff. “Nonsense. You look as if you’d like nothing more than to drain the entire True Sea and simply walk to the Southern Colonies on foot. You could have sent Inej or Jesper in your place, you know. Why’d you want to go?”

“I have to make sure the job goes smoothly,” Kaz informs you. “Business is best handled by myself.”

You arch a brow. “Lovely. Good to know that you’ll never let something pesky like sea travel stand between you and your ambitions.”

Kaz snorts. “I should hope you’d already know that. And to answer your unspoken question, you’re here too because it’s foolish to take international jobs without someone at your back just in case of trouble. I trust you to not let homesickness for the Southern Colonies get in the way. I would advise you to stick to that.”

You smile. “Goodness, Kaz, you trust me? No wonder you didn’t want anyone else with us, if the rest knew you were shelling out compliments this easily they would have teased you for years.”

In the corners of your peripheral vision, you swear you can see a matching smile slide onto Kaz’s lips, but it’s gone the second you turn to look at him. “Precisely my thinking.”

The journey takes shorter than expected, or maybe that’s just your restless thinking. In no time at all, your ship is docking at a port of the Southern Colonies, and you’re turning in a slow circle on the coast, taking in every single sight you can.

“Careful,” Kaz tells you, “You don’t want to come across as too strong of a pigeon. We don’t want to attract any new friends who anticipate stealing something off of us.”

He’s smiling, though, and you swear there’s something a little lighter in his expression than you usually see. Maybe it really is the sea air getting to him, or maybe the fact that he’s out of Ketterdam’s grimy clutches lets Kaz relax even a fraction.

Regardless, you’re happy for it. “Ridiculous,” you say, laughing slightly. “Not all the world is like the Barrel, you know. We don’t do that sort of thing in the Southern Colonies.”

“We?” Kaz asks doubtfully. “Three steps you’ve taken off the ship and you’re already a proper citizen again, are you?”

You just grin. “What, are you jealous? Scared I’ll leave the Barrel?”

He doesn’t answer, but quickly changes the topic towards finding accommodations for the night and planning out an intelligence trip near the location where the jewels are being held. Even walking through the portside town and crossing the streets feels like magic, in a way. You lived not far from here, and everything from the curve of the avenues to the bright sun in the sky feels like coming home.

As it turns out, you and Kaz aren’t the only ones affected by the easy way of life in the Colonies. The two merchers you’ve been tracking are discussing business in broad daylight, obviously not anticipating anyone to have followed them. The job will be easy, and the few days you gave yourselves for extra planning are largely useless since no more details are relevant.

Instead, you take it upon yourself to explore the surrounding countryside. You tell Kaz that he doesn’t have to accompany you every time, of course, he can stay back in the portside town if he pleases, but he still goes with you. It’s funny, the more time you spend away from the city, the more you watch the burdens slowly lift from his shoulders, the light return to his eyes.

One time, while walking through a wooded path, Kaz tells you it’s because this reminds him of his home, as well. He grew up on a farm, once, under a different last name and in a different life. He’ll never have that time of his life back again, nor, you think privately, will you have yours, but it’s still lovely to wander around here and pretend that you could.

The job goes off without a hitch. Soon enough, you find yourselves sitting pleased with jewels and artwork hidden away in your luggage, all items recovered without their owners batting so much as an eye. You’ll leave early in the morning before they can notice you. You feel a pang in your heart at the thought of leaving already, but you hadn’t realized you weren’t the only one thinking about it until Kaz visits your room at the inn late that final night.

You had known it was him at your door from the moment you heard his crisp knock against the wooden paneling. No one else moves or lives like Kaz, with so much precision. When you let him in, though, he looks more wild than you’ve ever seen him. His hair, for once, has lost its impeccable style and gone wild and unkempt. His shirt is wrinkled and rolled up to the elbows. It would still be a good look on him were it not for the fact that you’ve never seen him so little put together in the entire time you’ve known him.

Kaz doesn’t say a word until he is certain that the door is shut and bolted behind him. Then, all of a sudden, the words burst out of his throat, so beseeching that you have to wonder how in Ghezen’s name he managed to keep them from you for so long. “Don’t stay here,” he says. “Come back with me.”

You frown. “Who said I was staying? We’ve both got tickets on the ship departing next morning, Kaz.”

He waves a hand frustratedly to signal his disbelief in this statement. “Tickets don’t mean a thing. I need you to say it.”

“I did,” you frown. “Where else would I go?”

“Here,” Kaz says heatedly. “I’ve seen the way you look at the buildings, this place. You want to say here. Don’t you do it, Y/N.”

You shake your head softly. “I love it here, yes, but it’s not my home anymore than Ravka across the sea. I’m going back to the Barrel, Kaz.”

“With me,” he says uncertainly.

“With you,” you confirm. “Goodness, Kaz, did you really think I would stay? How could I do such a thing?”

“It’s very easy for people to leave,” he tells you. There’s a heaviness in his eyes that reminds you of brothers that have been buried, of farms that have long been sold to undeserving families that were not his.

“Not me,” you whisper. “Not if it was you I was leaving.”

His eyes, which have been sweeping your figure this entire time, looking for some twitch of a finger or jump of a pulse to betray you for lying, leap up to yours again. “Okay,” he says at last. “Okay.”

He leans back slightly, wavering on his heels. “I– I’ll go back to my room, then.”

Kaz doesn’t look as if he much savors the idea, and you decide to spare him from his thoughts, just in case. “You can stay here, you know.”

A soft breath is released. “That would– I could do that.”

He does. And, as your candles burn closer to the quick, as the night settles over this city, you cannot help but be glad for the time when you’ll find yourself in a different one. It has been nice to be here, but you would like to go home. And, most importantly of all, you are glad that Kaz will be there with you.

grishaverse tags: @rogueanschel, @deadreaderssociety, @cameronsails, @mxltifxnd0m, @story-scribbler, @retvenkos, @mayfieldss, @eclliipsed, @gods-fools-heroes, @bl606dy, @auggie2000, @baju69, @crazyhearttragedy, @aoi-targaryen, @budugu

all tags list: @wordsarelife

[lizdive]

Sunday who finds out his older sibling is a trailblazer and later gets to hang out with them more once he joins the Astral Express (^-^)

and the nameless sunday series continues !! i <3 all the older sibling requests people are sending KEEP EM COMING GUYS 🗣️🔥💯‼️ i did this in 90% head canon format because I couldn’t properly brain storm a good fic-esque formatted beginning and I have a lot of ideas for this,,, i’m sosososo sorry,,,, thank yew for the request :3 if you are not satisfied just tell me and i’ll redo it !! <33

notes 𐙚 gender-neutral reader — "you" + "older sibling" used to refer to reader ,, reader as an older sibling ,, platonic relationships ,, this isn’t proofread ,, ignore typos

⭑ I’d like to start this by saying that childhood was probably not the best part of your life. It wasn’t horrible, but it wasn’t the best part of your life story. You had to fend for yourself and your siblings before Gopher Wood came in and adopted you three, and even then he would probably try to manipulate you into his perfect pawn by using your siblings against you.

⭑ For a while you just.. went with it because while you had a dream, you didn’t know how to accomplish it unlike Robin. And so, you and SUNDAY, the perfect dreamless children that you both were, were perfect for Gopher Wood to manipulate and isolate.

⭑ But since you were older and had a bit more life experience, you knew not to trust his every word. You tried to help SUNDAY, you really did, but you also needed to help yourself. There is definitely some older sibling guilt in this.

⭑ It wasn’t until you heard of the Astral Express that you finally realized how to accomplish your dream. Join the express and finally be able to see the cosmos while escaping the grasp of Gopher Wood. To abandon the path of harmony and order and join the trailblaze — that was what you wanted.

⭑ How you managed to join is up to your interpretation.

⭑ You told SUNDAY you were going to accomplish your dream before you left, and you offered him to join you — you almost begged him to join. But he stood firm in his decision to stay and wished you well on your journeys. You knew you couldn’t force him, and so off you were onto the Astral Express without him knowing the means of how you would accomplish your dream.

⭑ You kept in touch with SUNDAY and Robin of course, and you visited Penacony every chance you got. Watching your little brother grow up from afar hurt a bit, and as he matured with the mindset that was forced upon him, you wished you had taken his place. But SUNDAY is a man of his word, and you know the promise he made to you and Robin will not be broken so easily.

⭑ But you always supported him, because at the end of the day he was your little brother. You may or may not have a soft spot for him.

⭑ SUNDAY is smart and perceptive, so when you showed up at the same time the Astral Express did during the Penacony quest, he quickly connected the dots. So that’s how you did it — hopping from planet to planet so easily without struggle and without running out of money.

⭑ Initially, he’s a bit hurt you never told him and you kept such a secret for so long, and he’ll give you silent treatment for some time until you apologize with sweets and a looonggg explanation with detail. It’s like those reddit stories.

⭑ The halovian is a bit protective of his older sibling, so it’s no surprise he began asking you if they were treating you well and that if you ever want to leave them but continue traveling he can give you all the credits need and more.

⭑ He does not question you on switching paths. He would never question his older sibling who has doted on him and cared for him and Robin and who he loves so so much. Also he knows he isn’t innocent, either.

⭑ He appreciates the offer of him joining, but he would never do that. As head of the oak family, he needs to fulfill his duties.

⭑ When Robin’s 'death' occurs, SUNDAY finds himself swarmed with horrible what-ifs. No longer will you be with your Astral Express friends during your stay. Please just stay close with him, he can’t bear the thought of losing you, too.

⭑ And when the Charmony Festival comes and he is forced to fight against you, he tries to take the easy route. Why fight you when you can be put in the order’s dream once more? He knows you and your weakness. He can lull you into slumber once more.

⭑ Please fall for it… he just.. he doesn’t want to hurt his family. If you’re a support unit during it all like Robin, please stay far away from the fight.. and most importantly, please don’t hate him.

⭑ During his fall from grace, he expects a gaze of hatred from you. He who has hurt your team and put you all through an endless amount of hardships. He who has deceived not only the crew but you as well. You, who has been nothing but supportive of him.

⭑ But your embrace that follows Robin’s makes him feel all the more horrible. Because you have forgiven him despite him not deserving such a blessing.

"I… think I’ll take you up on that offer…" SUNDAY’s voice is faint as he looks down in embarrassment and shame. His wings subconsciously hide his lower face and his gaze is downcast. For once, he is not the elegant and mysterious SUNDAY that the world knows him as.

Right now, he is SUNDAY, your little brother that you used to share your books with and show him all the various planets you’d visit one day. He is SUNDAY, your little brother who would do the most just to impress you.

March wants to protest, and so does the Trailblazer. But before they can speak, Himeko holds up a hand to keep them silent. This is not their decision to make, it’s yours. Because Himeko knew that you offered him to join many times and she was okay with it — Pompom, too.

Penacony needs him no more. He serves no purpose other than to live now. To exist and find the path he wishes to tread. And if he has decided that the trailblaze is that path, then who are you to deny him of his wish? The one wish that was his.

A step, and then another. You take his gloved hands into yours. He flinches, hesitantly looking at you. Your gaze is tender and welcoming. "You’ll have a lot of fun, I promise."

⭑ I’ve said this in my other nameless SUNDAY posts: The crew would not want to interact to him too much. But I think in this scenario Himeko would be more open, and the crew would be more understanding of why you’re so kind and gentle with him.

⭑ Sleepovers!! SUNDAY will room with you for the first few months nights. He had nightmares of what happened to Robin and he’s very anxious so you being in the same room as him is very comforting. May sleep in the same bed as you, too, if the nightmares get too bad.

⭑ Honestly if you don’t mind this arrangement he’ll probably room with you forever. It doesn’t inconvenience him too much. It all just depends on you.

⭑ Your solo vacations have become duo vacations. He’ll rarely ask you directly to join but he will hint at it. He understands if you don’t want to take him, though.

⭑ If you do, however, take him, it’ll be a very fun time! SUNDAY will make a list of activities so the trip seems much more organized which then leads to less stress and you’ll be able to do everything you want and more!

⭑ Trust that 99% of your time on the Express will be spent with SUNDAY. So much time missed out during childhood,, doing 'childish' activities with SUNDAY !! Coloring with crayons, messing around with stuffies, etc. would be very fun, especially playing with stuffies and dolls because he takes his roles 100% seriously.

⭑ Likes being held in your arms. Not in a weird way, he just likes feeling like a kid again when you used to hold him whenever he’d get upset. Whether it’s cuddling or hugging, SUNDAY just really likes to be held in his older sibling’s embrace and be comforted.

⭑ Likes playing board games with you. Also collects them.