#death row violet

[tai-janai]

these are ezekiel and alan ! a couple of guys in the midst of a series of murders. i wonder who our suspect could be?

thats zeke, he's a sociopath. he kills as a way to express himself. he is very well-liked by his peers, and has worked quite hard to be favored by everyone.

and alan. he's depressed, and he kills people he deems are bad. he was inspired by the murders in his area to enact his own crimes. little did he know, he sees the serial killer in his everyday life.

story goes: ezekiel kills. inspires alan. alan kills. ezekiel finds alan killing. ezekiel blackmails him into being an alibi. alan has never gotten attention from other people and wants to befriend ezekiel. alan likes the cool, honest, uncaring version of zeke he sees when they're alone. after a while, ezekiel realizes he's kind of happy to have someone he doesn't have to put on a mask for.

ezekiel doesn't realize alan likes him. he just thinks alan is a pushover who is easily manipulated and blackmailed. they kill people.

[qingxin-dream]

“Just One Good Thing”

summary | it’s hard to love someone who is broken, and even harder when two broken people love so deeply it hurts. (art credits: @/pastahands on twitter).

warnings | not proofread/vent writing, scaramouche lore spoilers, brief graphic depiction of death, illness, loss, profanity, TW heavy mental health topics, self-hatred, dissociation, depression, suicidal thoughts/ideation, graphic description of self-harm wounds, fear of abandonment, guilt, reader is hospitalized

genre | angst, hurt, comfort

word count | 2.5k

pairing | wanderer x reader

✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧⋄⋆⋅⋆⋄✧

This was not the first time the puppet experienced betrayal.

How could you have known? It was long before you came into existence, hundreds of years of anguish buried in layers upon layers beneath his artificial constitution. He had once been but an innocent, naive babe with the world sparkling in the reflection of his violet eyes, meant for something greater. He had once fulfilled a purpose.

To be brought into the world against your will, crafted from the divine hand of a grieving Archon, only to have every semblance of your being ripped from you and cast aside in the name of so-called mercy—is a fate akin to death itself.

You never knew his past.

How he was once an eccentric named Kabukimono who wandered from Shakkei Pavilion and made friends with the blade smiths of Tatarasuna. His first taste of human life was amid a blazing furnace and the clamoring of a hammer onto hot metal, learning what it meant to labor and create. He had grown to love the little village as his own, playing with the children and sipping on the bitter taste of tea leaves with his comrades.

The puppet who had called himself Kabukimono was painfully ignorant to the cruelty of fate.

He could have never fathomed the day he would hold the future of his village in his trembling, pale hands as the toxic Tatarigami fumes envelope him in chemicals. There he climbed deep inside the Mikage Furnace, the unique resilience of his artificial body left unharmed by the inhospitable temperatures glowing hot against his divine skin. Any normal human would’ve perished a thousand times over.

Inside the foreign device that promised to save his home lay the bloody, withering heart cut fresh from his closest companion’s chest.

“You are a human, Kabukimono,” Niwa had insisted with a soft smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, a comforting hand resting on the eccentric’s shoulder. “You just don’t have a heart.”

Yet there the puppet stood, his voice robbed from his aching throat, cradling the very essence of his friend’s humanity in his palm.

It was his fault. What a foolish creature he was to ever involve himself with humans, whom he could only bring suffering. His tears were evaporated instantly as the grotesque realization dawned on the distraught young Kabukimono. He would later discover that he had been betrayed by a man who introduced himself as Escher but was known among the Fatui as The Doctor.

The dirty pads of his bare feet had thumped through the rocky village path and down the dirt roads leading to the outskirts of the rural Inazuman wilderness. Crows rustled in the trees and flapped their feathers into the sky, jeering at the desolate and abandoned settlement.

The village should have been evacuated. All who could have been saved were rushed as far away as possible from the poisonous Tatarigami. Rows upon rows of homes and businesses were eerily vacant. Kabukimono, in his watery hysterics, had not paid any mind to his surroundings, leaving behind the only home he ever had for good.

That is, until he stumbled across a young boy who lived under an old sakura tree. Kabukimono immediately felt the void in his chest wrench with visceral guilt upon learning that the child’s parents were crafts-people. The house was utterly empty except for the lonely little boy.

For as much as the puppet wanted nothing more than to rid himself of human companionship, he felt responsible for the loss of the boy’s parents. He had an obligation to see that he was taken care of and safe from the Tatarigami. If he could not have saved his friends, perhaps he could atone for his sins in raising the orphaned child—who reminded him too much of himself.

“Promise me,” Kabukimono spoke up with a bit of a hoarse tone, his voice cracking with emotion, extending a shaky hand to the young boy. “That we can be family. I will watch over you.”

“Like a big brother?” asked the innocent boy with a hopeful smile. He wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, taking the eccentric’s hand in his own. “I’ve always wanted one… I promise, we will be family.”

For a short while, the puppet had learned to push the turmoil plaguing his conscience to the back of his mind. His focus had shifted entirely to ensuring the boy’s safety and happiness, trying to scavenge food for him and exchanging stories under the moonlight. Although, Kabukimono flinched with each cough from the boy that shattered the silence between them as they went to sleep.

He hated that he recognized the symptoms. The residue of the Tatarigami had somehow infected the child, no doubt. A dreadful thought occurred to him—perhaps he had given the sickness to the orphaned child after what happened at the Mikage Furnace. The idea was enough to eat him alive with worry. Kabukimono had secretly prayed that the boy would endure the illness.

The puppet had worked tirelessly to give him the best he possibly could. If his coughs were dry, he would fetch him water. If his stomach rumbled, he would prepare some Lavender Melons. If he needed a friend, Kabukimono would be there to hold his hand as he slept like a guardian angel.

The day the elderly sakura tree shed its pretty pink blossoms was the day the boy was found unresponsive.

Kabukimono, too, found himself hollow and devoid. What did it mean to be family? What did it mean to love? What was the point of having such worthless emotions?

A blazing inferno consumed the darkness of the night sky. Crackling embers swirled and smoke bellowed in the rural countryside as a rickety house succumbed to a hellish fate. No one was there to witness the flaming spectacle. No one to help, or save the vacant violet eyes of a nameless puppet who clutched a small doll in his lap.

It was laughable, truly, how sick and twisted the world could be. The puppet couldn’t fulfill his creator’s wishes, nor could he befriend humanity, or have a heart of his own. Oh, to perish in a fiery death would be far too simple for Celestia’s liking, wouldn’t it?

For five hundred years, Kabukimono, Kunikuzushi, Scaramouche—no matter who he became—the feeling of inadequacy remained.

His divinely-created body was an immortal prison, shackling him to his sins. As a Fatui Harbinger, no needle, blade, or poison of the Doctor could kill him. No enemy or magic of the Abyss could ultimately break him. The puppet was built to withstand the likes of the Cataclysm that had taken his creator’s sister, yet the scars of these experiments litter his fair skin are a reminder that he is indeed alive.

Wanderer vividly remembers his dark fascination with testing his limits in the depths of his dissociation. Anything to serve as penance for the irreversible destruction he had inflicted upon his friends, his family, and his home. If he was lucky, perhaps the Doctor would find a way to end his misery or the maddening darkness of the Abyss would swallow him whole once and for all.

Even forsaking his autonomy and identity as Scaramouche to ascend to godhood would be a fitting death for the puppet. After all, the Everlasting Lord of Arcane Wisdom would never bow to his emotions like a weakling. Losing himself to infinite knowledge and truth would be a good ending, despite the insanity that would befall him.

All that mattered is he would cease to exist.

But it was you who defeated him, in all his might and glory as a fake Archon pumped full of divine wisdom and the sludgy remains of dead gods. It was you who found him after he tried to erase every part of his worthless being from Irminsul, and helped him pick up the pieces of himself in the aftermath.

The reality that lies within Irminsul had given him a new perspective as the Wanderer. Though he retained the poignant memories of his sins, Wanderer made sure to carve a special space in the void of his artificial body just for you. His savior.

Not a single one of those instances—absolutely fucking none of them—could ever compare to the morbid and desperate pit of despair that ravages Wanderer at the sight of your fragile body curled up in a white hospital gown. You are hooked up to a myriad of monitors and machines, wires and tubes tangling your frame like chains. The distant beep of the electrocardiogram is burned into Wanderer’s mind.

It’s your heartbeat, and the very reason for his continued existence. You had been reduced to small blip on a computer screen.

The hospital room was otherwise silent. The windows had the blinds slightly drawn, a cool ray of moonlight washing over Wanderer’s disheveled indigo hair from behind. Even if you were unconscious, Wanderer had wanted to tuck you in for the night, but he was terrified of hurting you. The fluorescent white light above your bed was off, bathing you both in warm darkness.

In the late hours, all Wanderer could do was stare at you with eyes reddened from crying, his crimson eyeliner smudged at the edge of lashes. He would occasionally lick his dry lips, which were chapped and peeling. The sting of the dead skin on his lips being tugged between his teeth was a momentary release from the overwhelming anxiety dwelling within.

His thin fingers are intertwined with yours on the hospital bed, one of the few ways the puppet can keep himself grounded in this moment. Every once in awhile, he’ll give your hand a gentle squeeze followed by a few broken wishes for you to open your eyes again. To see the life in you and hear your sweet voice again.

Sometimes it would get to be too much. Wanderer would raise your hand and kiss your knuckles with hot, salty tears pricking at his eyes. The stinging sensation would force his eyelids closed, sorrow streaming down his stained cheeks. He was sure that this was a result of his own shortcomings.

Your arms are wrapped in bandages with a few stitches here and there lying underneath. A deathly pale color flushed your beautiful face. And oh, Archons, those eyes of yours he had always adored endlessly were sunken darkly into your face, hidden in your slumber. His gaze drifted to your lips, still full and pink, perhaps his last vestige of hope as they parted for your sacred breaths.

To imagine you’re suffering as much as he had in his past is utterly unthinkable to Wanderer.

The only difference is your fragile mortality. He knows your pain now, he can see it carved onto your wrists in what must have been a frenzied meltdown.

Some cuts are lighter and faded, meaning this certainly isn’t the first time you hurt yourself. Other gashes in your arm are deeper and swollen, each one weighs on the puppet’s heart greater than the last. He couldn’t count how many times you must have taken that razor to your wrist. Wanderer silently curses himself for letting this happen to you.

“How stupid could I be? Letting her away from me,” he quietly lamented with his head in hands, fingers curling around his indigo locks tightly. “I had just one good thing.”

Rocking himself gently in the chair next to you, Wanderer continuously tugs at his hair to an almost extreme degree, unable to handle the anger, betrayal, and sadness overcoming him. He was practically attached to you at the hip, he should’ve noticed when your voice faltered or when your eyes betrayed your words. He should’ve seen the signs of you slipping through his fingers.

Even if every day wasn’t perfect, even if sometimes you both said hurtful things to each other, neither of you never truly meant it. Wanderer couldn’t bear to imagine not waking up next to you, the morning sunlight kissing your silhouette like an angel. He never thought that he’d find his purpose in you, in the most mundane moments that he cherished so deeply.

He knew you had a history of mental health struggles. So did he. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t going to give you his everything—fingers entwined and sweat glistening on your bodies as he made you his for the umpteenth time.

The echo of the puppet’s soft sobs dissipates into the emptiness of the hospital room. His whole body is shaking with emotional agony. It’s the first time in centuries that he has allowed himself to feel vulnerable like this. How could he not when the love of his life—the meaning of his existence—had tried to take themselves out of it?

Wanderer finally releases his hair, taking your left hand again and passionately pressing his lips to your bare ring finger as an unspoken promise. You both had worked so hard to love better and be better. He wasn’t about to give you up.

There would never be another you in eternity.

He couldn’t bear the heavy burden on his heart anymore. Carefully, he pulled the thin blanket back and climbed into the hospital bed next to you. His fingers trembled at the contact, feeling your faint warmth. Wanderer gently pulled you close so that your head was safely tucked into his chest and he could rest his chin on your soft hair. He sighed, covering you both in the blanket once more.

Sobs tugged at his chest and his grip on you momentarily tightened. Though tears glistened at the corner of his broken violet eyes, Wanderer blinked them back with a shaky breath. You were in his arms and his world was made whole again.

“I love you, (Y/N),” his voice is gravely and barely audible. “I love you so fucking much… don’t you dare think otherwise.”

The puppet nuzzles his nose into your scalp, breathing in your familiarity like it’s home. He begins to play with your hair gently, combing and caressing your soft strands with his fingertips painted in black.

“You scared the shit out of me, you know…” Wanderer kisses your hair, closing his eyelids for a long moment to memorialize the feeling of your skin on his lips. “But I’m gonna get you out of here, baby. I’m gonna get you help, okay?”

His toned arms keep your body pressed to his, wanting to feel every part of your being entangled with him as it should be. The tickling sensation of your little breaths on his neck brought a small smile to his face because it meant you were sleeping comfortably and most importantly, alive. You were the missing piece in his puzzle, fitting perfectly into place with him.

“It’ll be okay. Everything will be okay,” the puppet whispers to you, hoping you could hear and feel his love in every way, shape, and form possible. His words also served as an assurance to himself because in this moment he felt so helpless, seeing the wounds on your precious skin.

“I won’t let anything hurt you anymore,” Wanderer solemnly vows, his voice slowly but surely trailing off as he succumbs to his exhaustion with you held close to his heart.

“Goodnight, my love.”

thanks for reading! reblogs are appreciated! my masterlist.

[hedwig221b]

hiii hope you're doing well ! can we be gifted with a sneak peek of what you're working on right now ? love ya !

Hi, anon! The Midsommar au stubbornly doesn't want to be written, so here's a piece of an Outsider POV au (yes, again, yes, it's gonna be amazing) on a weird hermit witch Stiles (partially inspired by this post and also a very old bloody witchy plot bunny).

Her eyelashes stuck together as she blinked. Bit by bit, the haze lifted off her fever-stricken mind enough for her to take in the surroundings. She lay on an overly warm but surprisingly soft bed, soaking the covers under her with her sweat. The flames that danced upon the ceiling turned out to be just shadows from the roaring fireplace.

She stared at her clothes drying on the racks not far from it. Slowly, with her stomach sinking, she glanced at the man again.

He was no older than her, his pale skin splattered with moles and four ugly scars going down his cheek to his neck. Deep honey eyes and eyebrows hunched together.

He stood in front of the large dinner table, casting sharp shadows on the walls, and was busy grinding something in a mortar. The table was heavy with jars, vials, and sacks upon sacks of dried herbs. The reflection of the flames tinkled upon the glass. Everything inside seemed dark of a color.

Allison swallowed thickly.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

The man didn’t answer. He flipped pages of a book without any care and muttered something under his breath before hurrying to the right corner of the room. There, multiple feathers hung in a tight bundle; behind it, swung a single thick thread with a row of claws strapped to it by the fishing hooks.

Allison shifted her gaze, dread filling her stomach along with nausea.

Claws, feathers, eyeballs stuck together in a jar like pickled tomatoes. A deer skull in the corner with mittens hanging from its horns to dry. Jars upon jars of sealed violet flowers and a couple of cauldrons stacked together near the fireplace.

This cozy house lit with warmth and the cloying scent of drying herbs, belonged to a witch.

It would’ve been better if she died.

Allison didn’t have time to scream as the man leaned over her again.

Now that he had shed his winter coat, he looked slender but strong. He had to be fit to keep a house like this going, of course, but he also had to eat well. Was she his next meal? Was that fire for her?

A cry left her lips when the stranger grabbed her hand wrist up. She yanked it back with every bit of strength she had in her, only to yelp as his fingers gripped her wrist.

The man harrumphed as if her struggle for life was so annoying, and, to Allison’s horror, pulled out a dagger.

The diamonds glinted in the low light for a second before the blade pressed to her cheek, stilling her to death.

“We can do it two ways,” the man said quietly. “You can either stop wiggling and lose a bit of blood, or you can fight and lose it all. The choice is in your hands.”

A pearl of tear rolled off her eyes and onto the glinting blade.

The man smiled. His scars scrunched together.

God, how atrocious he was.

“Some brain left in you, heh?” he chuckled and swiped across her cheek.

Sharp pain burst through it, but then, all pressure was off her.

“See?” the man took the mortar off the floor and shook the droplet of her blood off the dagger’s tip into the mixture. “Nothing bad happened. Again, if you hadn’t fought, the cut would’ve been on your arm and not right there on your face, but…” he shrugged.

“Why?” Allison asked.

Why did you save me? Why are you doing this?

The man pretended to not hear her. He stuck his finger in the mixture, scooped up the gloopy bit, and put it in his mouth. With his eyes shut tightly, he hummed at the taste.

If only Allison wasn’t so weak, she would’ve disarmed him right there. Naked and with nothing but her hands for weapons, she would’ve won the fight, she was sure of it. Her father taught her to kill, and she learned it well.

The man’s eyes opened slowly. He swallowed and looked down at Allison, his gaze cold and calculating.

“Want soup?” he asked and jumped from the bed.

What?..

“I’ve just finished making it when I sensed you wandering around.” The man puttered around the table, closing the vials and screwing the jars shut. “I’m not giving you any meat, but the stock is delicious. Delicious!” He grinned to himself, though his smile wilted as he noticed her wide terrified eyes. “You get to live, okay? Don’t look at me like that. God!” He rolled his eyes and took out a bowl, which he promptly filled with a ladle-worth of steaming broth. “You are not a heroine in a romance novel, stop suffering.”

“I was ready to meet my death in the forest,” Allison insisted hoarsely, lifting herself on trembling elbows only to quickly fall back onto the pillows. Even that tiny bit of anger took everything from her.

“I’m not your chaperone!” the man bit out as he sat on the bed. He glanced at her weak body and, with a huff, put the bowl on the floor. Then, he took her under the armpits and pushed her into a sitting position.

Even with her head spinning, Allison tried to cover her suddenly naked breasts. A moment later, hands pushed covers up her shoulders and tucked them behind her back.

“Don’t try that with me,” the man grumbled, unfazed, and picked up the bowl from the floor. He swirled the spoon in the rich broth. “I have a mate.”

What a weird man. A mate? Like the one animals had?

She glanced at the lone pair of boots near the heavy door. One fur coat drying on the stand. One hat.

The man didn’t have anyone, did he?

Either he drove himself mad from loneliness, or his “mate” wasn’t… human.

Her gaze fell on his scars all by itself. It was the first thing one would notice about him, and then would stare at it forever, unable to tear their eyes away. They barely missed his eye, but that was a small consolation, considering how deep and white they were, how the skin pulled together and froze in place for the rest of his life.

Perhaps, Allison would’ve considered him handsome if it weren’t for the scars. His eyes were striking even with their coldness, and his nose was pushed slightly up. Despite living alone in the woods, he kept himself clean and shaven, although a beard would’ve hidden some of the scars.

“Say ‘aah’,” the man opened his mouth in example and pressed a spoonful of oily broth to her lips.

It was surprisingly nice, though very gamey. She didn’t dare purse her nose, though, as the liquid coated her tongue and soother her parched throat. By the end of the meal, her stomach was full, though unpleasantly warm, and her lips shined with the thin layer of fat.

“Who are you?” Allison tried again, her blinks slow.

“Stiles.”

She frowned. “What?”

“What?” the man mocked her in a high-pitched voice. “That’s my name, you idiot. I’m gonna call you Idiot.”

“I’m Allison.”

“And I don’t care.” With an inexistent grace of a newborn fawn, the man rose from the edge of the bed, glanced at it wistfully, and went to the kitchen area to stack up her bowl on top of the others. “Why are there always dishes?”

With her eyes closing more and more, Allison watched as the man loaded the dirty dishes into the basin, lifted it up, and walked to the door.

At the last moment, as if he just remembered Allison was there, Stiles stopped and glanced at her.

“Oh, yeah, stay here,” he said. “If you try to run, I am going to break your legs. If I break your legs, my mate is going to think I am giving him a prey to chase.” He cringed his nose in thought. “Nice idea, by the way. Nice, nice, nice…” he shoved his feet in the boots and shuffled outside, cursing at the cold.

Yes, thought Allison as the sleep forced her eyes closed, death would’ve been a mercy.

[divider source]

[thekatebridgerton]

Today on Bridgerton aus I'm too sleep deprived to write: Serial killer Prison Break au

Kilmartin high security prison, the place where evil goes to die. Has 6 highly dangerous individuals that are contained in unknown cells deep underground under strict supervision. 6 killers who happened to form the scariest family of domestic threats that ever plagued the British Isles.

Anthony, mastermind infiltrator terrorist, once held 5 international world leaders hostage in the parliament until they capitulated to his wishes. Benedict, genius artist, leader of the largest art counterfeit ring in the nation, Colin, charming butcher, brutal serial killer, (number of victims, still unknown). Daphne, high profile Jewel thief, rumored to still have the crown jewels somewhere in her possession. Eloise, prolific arms dealer and explosive weaponry engineer, (victim number still unknown) and Francesca, biotechnology scientist, responsible for the latest biological threat that quarantined the nation and surrounding areas.

It took a collaboration between all known and unknown security and law enforcement agencies to take them down but finally they were caught and buried in Kilmartin... That is, until they broke out, in what had to be the most horrible prison break of the century.

Authorities reviewed the footage from all that went down in the prison in the day and weeks preceding the incident and narrowed down the list of suspicious individuals, among them, several whom were taken as hostages.

First is detective Kate Sharma, the cutthroat officer who is in charge of tracking down the state secrets Anthony stole from the parliament and has a grudge against him for setting her sister up as a scapegoat when he committed that crime. Next, is Doctor Sophia Beckett, the struggling prison doctor who was forcefully made to take care of Benedict after several prison fights left him repeatedly wounded. Penelope Featherington, the journalist is also on the list of suspects as her investigative visits to Colin ( and subsequent articles about his killings) fell way too close to the dates where Colin would act out and get put in solitary. Then there is Simon Hastings, the business Tycoon whose visits to his death-row father got suspiciously more frequent after Daphne was moved to the cell next to his. Phillip Crane was almost dismissed as a suspect, being that he was attending a guided tour trough the safer parts of Kilmartin when the prison break happened, if not for the fact that Eloise used to have a strange flower arranging hobby, and the greenhouse Phillip owned happened to be her main supplier of plants. Finally, the least likely of suspects, Michael Stirling, director of the prison, retired army veteran, who ran Kilmartin like a tight ship, so much that only one guard noticed how he was giving Francesca more privileges for good behavior than he gave other inmates.

Out of these suspects, Phillip, Sophie and Michael were kidnapped and are still in the group of hostages taken by the Bridgertons as insurance. Simon, Penelope and Kate, were not on the premises that day, but had in fact visited in different days the week before. The question that law enforcement is asking is: which one of these suspects was the accomplice who set the criminals free, and which ones were simply innocent victims caught in the crossfire.

Ps: Violet Bridgerton, safely absconded in her private island in the Caribbean with her two teenager children (and the entirety of the fortune, weapons and international secrets amassed by her older ones) would also like to know as well... She wants to have grandbabies you see, and whoever aided and abetted that prison break might be her only chance at them.

Your turn dear reader, who do you think did it?

[hocuspocusbabyy]

A ring of bright light: Chapter 1. ‘It’s happening again.’

Eloise Bridgerton x Female OC.

Description: Eloise Bridgeton is to marry Lord Brennan this upcoming season, following a residency at her familiar home Aubery House. Their betrothal is to be announced in two months. If all goes to plan…

Warnings: None?

Word count: 1k (just an opener don’t panic loves.)

Next Chapter

Eloise tightened her gloved hands on the balcony wall, partially to resist the temptation to leap ahead and greet those who waited on the other side and partially to wake herself from the nightmare to come.

Winter air cools against her skin, the long gown doing little against the harsh country noir exterior that was Aubrey House at night. Buried deeply into the evergreen stitch of her corset, her heartbeat ragged against the confinement. If birds were not built for cages, surely the same logic would be applied to herself? Bare feet making a swift sloshing sound aggravating the gravel below, debris digging into the pads of flesh deeper than any weapon she had known before.

The gardens seemed alive with light as every inch of ground bubbled with people and for a fleeting moment, as more carriages approached the castle. A warmth raised within her chest as undeniable anxiety, familiarity. Turning her back to the on coming guests, the small of her back pressed deadly against the barrier. Shadows filtered through the historic windows, as the dust licked walls still seemed to cling onto the fleeting light of Friday as though an old friend they had yet to have finished talking to. A shaking breath escaped the mouth, caught in a brief moment of admiration towards the dripping sun - for out of all the fires she had seen this hideously biblical form was one she had grown fond of; or rather the flashes of red from within its last moments as through snippets of the passing day mere memories now. Only the future night was imminent.

She was running unusually late, she could tell by the main entrance to the building growing peacefully desolate; as the other inhibitors congregated within the ballroom. Her eyes squeezed shut, desperately clinging to those final moments of silence.

“You’re not considering jumping are you?” A voice asked the approaching footsteps drew closer, heart edging to her throat.

“What would that help? Death has no use for me yet, although I do wish he would.”

“What makes you so sure death is a man?” The voice asked again, their body finding rest beside Eloise.

“Surely only a man could be so cruel, as to hover such a fate in my peripherals.”

“I see.” The voice hummed as though mulling the conversation, “And clearly you see so much with your eyes practically melted closed.” Eloise’s laughter was a welcome sight to her visitor, the brunette's eyes finally opening as her head found rest against the woman’s shoulder. Her mother – Violet. A buoyant woman; complimented heavily by her Angelically crow-like features - coils of ash tamed in a formal updo so different to the style had grown accustomed to as she usually pottered away her hours within the castle greenhouse. Fingers never without the soil beneath them, a relationship with a ghastly old nail brush that lay upon the kitchen sink heavily established. She'd always lecture upon the importance of soil, on how each particle of the earth somehow held its own story and origins - for soil had seen more love, more pain than any human. As she'd place lumps of the material within their hands "Rub it in then the memories never leave you".

It was reminiscent of her father, of his death. Violet hadn’t allowed anyone to tend to the lilacs since.

“Is everyone here?” Eloise asked after a moment, basking in the comfort of her material figure.

“All the ducks are in rows my dear, now they await a leader.”

“You’re their leader.” mumbled the familiar scent of gardenia flowing past her, upon the open air.

“Now for long my little swan.” Violet sighed, a perfectly delicate hand raising to card its way through the princess’ hair.

“Is he here?”

“Your suitor? Yes dear unfortunately for you he has shown” The queen laughed hoping to lighten her daughters mood.

"We have a nasty habit involving men in this family" her mother would often say whilst winking at her father Edmund across the room. He had passed on almost ten years ago; he'd been the best hug giver and secret magician, never failing to pull a coin from an awaiting child's ear. A sometimes overbearingly traditional yet progressive man, his head still surprisingly full of hair till the day of his early demise. Collins is seemingly thinning already.

His passing had wrecked the family. His wife, all the more scornful and ironically loving; the clone of her mothers, and the replica of herself - Lady Violet was no elementary being, her voice like bathwater, every syllable effortless and wise. She played the piano as though it were second nature to breathe air; embraced few but loved many under the guise of something to be feared. Eloise’s most loved and favoured person in the entire world… unless you asked Benedict.

Then there was Eloise, Lou and 'Flower' on the not too rare occasion, for as her mother was prone to say and the people continued, was the "one of the most precious examples of life to ever grow within these gardens.” with her uncontrollable ripples of dark hair, ill radiance and sea filled eyes, the procurement of two fine specimens to create the most poorly formed swan the world was ever to behold.

“I wish he were here.” Eloise mumbled gently, Violet’s lips falling to kiss the crown of her head.

“I know my dear, as do I.”

Father had died in these very Gardens during her seventh year. Leaving behind Anthony as the elder brother to ascend the house.

“Come now. Best to hit the ground running, keeping your guests waiting is a terrible introduction.” Violet stated, stepping towards the balcony doors.

The set of grand doors that almost shook with vigour with the level of presence behind it, the noise and voice of many locked behind it. Eloise came to her mother’s side – she could not run from this, this was her home.

The doors were opened with one swift movement of the awaiting footmen, revealing a ballroom, many familiar inhibitors of the neighbouring families huddled around in festivities, laughing. Drinks not far from hand, and children in clear scheming mode begging their respective guardians to stay up late; while others could be seen playing games in each corner, the low light shining on each face – new and old.

“Introducing The Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton and Miss Eloise Bridgerton.”

[eveandtheturtles]

Dating Advice

Ship: Leo X Reader

A/N: Leo can't catch a break it seems lol I am going to continue bully him for a lil bit more. With the help of his fam ;)

Tagging: @madammuffins @turtle-babe83 @thelaundrybitch

Anyone else want in let me know!

Recently Leo has been a bit antsy. A bit more... jumpy? But only in the presence of one person.

April noted his behaviour as you left the lair and immediately pulled him aside.

"Okay, spill." She sat him down in the kitchen and gave him her best 'big sis time' look.

"I- don't know what you mean," he said slowly, clearing his throat and looking away. "Now if you excuse me-" he started getting up.

"Sit," she ordered and he sat back down. "Come on Leo," she softened her tone. "I want to help."

He sighed heavily and tapped his finger over the table. "Fine," he sighed, finally giving in. "It's- well,... How do you ask somebody out? Asking for a friend."

April smiled and was about to answer when as if summoned Mikey popped up behind them.

"Who is asking who out?" He asked.

"No one!" Leo tried to stop the train from crashing but too late.

"I think Leo likes your new friend a little more than 'just friends'," April informed him.

"That's nothing new." Suddenly Donnie spoke up from the coffee spot. He had crawled out of his science cave to inject more caffeine in his blood stream. "You aren't that hard to read Leo," he added seeing the shocked face of his brother.

"Can we stop with the bullying?" The blue masked turtled sighed.

"Who are we bullying?" Raph asked as he emerged freshly post work out with a towel around his neck.

"Leo." All three replied.

The terrapin in question sighed again leaning his head down and rubbing a spot on his forehead. He could feel the headache coming.

"Oh, really?" Raph grinned. "What about?"

"He wants to ask Sweetness out," Mikey informed him.

"I never said I want to! It's for a friend!" Leo protested.

"Really? What is his name?" April asked with a wide grin.

Leo opened and closed his mouth. He then made an undignified noise and slid lower in his chair.

"That's what I thought," she said smugly.

"Bro, you could like make a song for her, chicks are into this kinda thing, right?" Mikey looked at April.

She made an 'eh' face. "Depends."

"Or a poem." Raph placed one hand on Leo's shoulder. "I got one for you bro."

"Don't." Leo glared at him.

"Roses are read, violets are blue." Raph ignored him and continued. "Guess what, my bed has place for two."

"Good one!" Mikey snickered. "How about - twinkle, twinkle little star, we can do it in the car."

The two hollered with laughter, even April had to bite her lips not to join them. Leo was suffering.

"Mikey, if you get anywhere near the turtle tank with that intent I will cut you off the WiFi for life and set your hover board on fire," Donnie spoke up.

"Yes, sir!" Mikey immediately sobered up. Donnie threats were no laughing matter.

"Thank you!" Leo called out, hoping the torment was over. He was wrong.

"That being said -," Donnie took a sip of his coffee and cleared his throat.

"Oh, no." Leo sunk further down.

"Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream," purple terrapin sang. "Merrily, merrily, I can make you scream."

"Oh, my god," Leo groaned. "You are my family, but you are all terrible, you dicks."

"Eh, you love us," April patted his hand.

"Hey guys," you re-entered the lair. "I forgot my bag." You took the scene in and frowned. "Is something wrong?"

Suddenly all the eyes were on Leo and he just wanted to disappear.

"Nope," he jumped out of the chair. "Everything is peachy! Let me walk you home." He rushed to your side and threw a death glare at his snickering family.

You were very confused as Leo escorted you out.

"What was that all about?" You asked. "It looked like you guys were having an intervention," you joked.

"It was nothing, they just thought they were being funny," he huffed.

"Were they giving you shit because you haven't asked me out yet?" You smirked, giving him a side eye.

Leo felt like a scratch record. "What?" He blinked at you, stopping abruptly.

"You aren't that hard to read Leo." You took his hand. "Also I was listening to the whole thing for quite a while. The sewers do carry sounds well."

His heart was about to jump out of his chest. "And um, do you, would you mind if I did?"

"Nope, so come on, shoot your shot." You nudged him gently.

"Alright," he took a deep breath in. Here it goes. He will not mess it up. "Do you take out game?"

Fuck.

"I mean - Will you check me out? No!" He pinched the bridge oh his snout.

You tried so hard not to laugh.

"I can do this," he said probably more to himself than you. "Will you. Go with me. To the Knicks game this Saturday?"

You giggled and stood up on your tip toes giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Yes, with pleasure."

"Great!!" He smiled brightly. "I can pick you up at 6?"

"Sounds perfect. See you then." You gave his hand a squeeze and exited the sewers. A smile never leaving your face.

Once you were gone he fist pumped, excited. You said yes! That was such a relief! He felt so good he was going to clean the dojo!

Figuring out how to prevent his brothers from going to the game was future Leo problem.

[iaminfourthwing]

The Generals Daughter

Chapter III

The sun is up when we stand in formation the next day while Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll. The courtyard is hollowed in almost deadly silence.

We’re all in our assigned uniforms for first years with our patches added and while some of us look like they got a decent amount of sleep last night, I didn`t and I feel like I am ready to be send to Malek. But my mind was running on high speed and I was way too paranoid to sleep, ready for the (mostly im)possible scenario someone might try to pull some shit at night, even though it would be against the Codex. Violet next to me looks like she struggles but is keeping her head high. She is strong which makes me proud.

“We command their souls to Malek.” Oh, we were at the end already.

“Hopefully you all ate breakfast, because you`re not going to get another chance before lunch” Dain says, “and I hope at least one of you first years has the academic schedule remembered.”

“And if we’re not?” someone behind us says. Is he dumb?

“Then I don`t have to be concerned with forgetting your name” Aetos shrugs. Well.

“Sawyer” he looks to the left at a first year. Ah, Sawyer Henrick, the freckled guy that repeats the first year because he didn`t bond during Threshing last year. It takes some balls to do this shit again, he has my full respect.

“I`ll get them there” he answers and turns to the nine of us first years. “Fourth floor, second room on the left in the academic wing. Get your shit and don`t be fucking late” he shouts and heads off to the dormitory.

“This must be shit, doing this again” Rhiannon states.

“Better than being dead” the guy from before claims as he walks on my right side. I think his name is Ridoc but I am not sure. I look around, not saying anything and make my way to the dorms, not noticing that Violet isn't by my side anymore. In her place walks Rhiannon. “Where-“ “Dain” she says before I can ask. Damn Aetos, so much for being subtle.

We`re off to grab our (and Violets) stuff and head over to the academic wing for history, which is going to be boring for both Violet and myself. Violet was trained to be a scribe, so she knows it all, and I had to study everything anyways, order from my father.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

“Welcome to your first Battle Brief” Professor Devera greets us. This will be the only class we`ll have every day.

She takes her time to scan the rows of first years, looking at every cadet she sees, while the second and third years are scattered behind us.

At first, she makes eye contact with Violet next to me and gives her a small smile and nod but when her eyes find mine, she tenses and stops. For around three second it`s quiet, then she nods and continues. Rolling my eyes, I look to the left at Violet, seeing a concerned frown adorning her face. I send her a reassuring smile and turn back to the front where Professor Markham stands. He looks at Violet with disappointment, not because of her personally but the lost chances with that great brain of hers. She would have been an excellent scribe.

His gaze sways over to my side and just like with Panchek, his face pales instantly and fear strikes his facial features, not because of me but the one I share my last name with. Letting out a frustrated sigh I switch my focus on my quill, distracting myself before I start to scream out of annoyance. For fucks sake, I am NOT my father. Why is everyone acting like he rules the fucking continent?

“First topic of the day,” Devera moves to the map “the Eastern Wing experienced an attack last night near the village of Chakir by a drift of Braevi gryphons and their riders.” Oh damn. I sit straighter and focus on the map. Good thing when you have an excellent working memory – you can focus more on the front, less on your notes.

She gives further information and I take it all in. It’s bad enough that dragons aren`t the only animals capable of channeling powers to their riders. But the dragons are the only ones of powering the wards that makes other power impossible within these wards. They make sure we aren`t fucked up by the gryphons and their riders.

“…What questions would you ask? Only answers from first years for the start.”

Okay first of all, why the fuck are the wards faltering and more importantly what caused them to falter in such an unlikely place? They would never answer that question because none of us is authorized in that matter.

The second question would be, why they would choose this place for an attack? The Esben Mountain Range is the highest on the eastern border and the gryphons don`t go really well with altitudes like this. Furrowing my eyebrows, I try to find a pattern in the latest attacks. It doesn`t make any sense. But maybe … maybe they were searching for something.

“Did you want to ask a question?” Devera asks Pryor, a first year in our squad, who doesn`t really knows if he should raise his hand or not.

“Yes” he nods. Then – “No. Never mind.”

“So decisive” Luca, another first year from our squad, mocks him. Aurelie tries to ease the tension but Luca is not done with her teasing.

“No dragon is bonding to a guy who can`t even decide if he wants to ask a question. And have you seen –“ I scoff loudly, rolling my eyes at her demeanor to finally bring an end to this shit, which makes her turn around in her seat a row in front of me. If some of them are already kind of terrified with my face here, why not use it?

Her eyes meet mine and she realizes who interrupted her. She quickly turns back to the map without saying anything anymore.

I hear Violet and Rhiannon whisper to each other but don`t understand anything.

“What altitude is the village at?” Rhiannon finally asks. Oh, that`s a good question, matches with mine I had in my head. It`s Professor Markham who answers, surprised by it. “A little less than ten thousand feet, why?”

“It seems a little high for an attack with gryphons.” Good safe, because now I just realized that the question came from Violet. Smartass.

“… to ask your own questions, Cadet Sorrengail.” Shit, I need to start listening and try not to zone out all the time. Seems like the girl next to me has now all the attention on her. Great job, Vi.

Violet goes on about how this altitude is way too high for gryphons and their ability to channel. Looks like a thought crosses her genius brain as her next question is based on Devera’s information that the squad of riders took an hour to arrive.

“Then they were already on their way” she says. And while I can see what she is talking about – the rest of the first years decide to judge instead of thinking, some of them start to laugh.

“Yeah, because that makes sense” a blonde guy turns around in his seat to laugh directly in her face. Jack fucking Barlowe, the asshole that threw a candidate down the Parapet tried to kill Violet and still has it out for her.

“General Melgren knows the outcome of a battle before it happens, but even he doesn`t know when it will happen, dumbass. Am I right, Melgren Junior?” His eyes find mine when an evil smirk finds its way onto his face. Don`t fucking tempt me, asshole. I am not interested in a conversation with you.

My lack of response seems to annoy him because he tries it again. “I said, am I righ-“

“There is no need to repeat yourself. I ignored you just fine the first time.”

Stunned silence from Barlowe, startled gasps from other cadets, choked laughter from Ridoc. “Oh shit, that was good, Arya!” he laughs next to me and clasps his hand on my shoulder. Yeah no, I don`t think so Ridoc. I should try to keep my mouth shut with that one before I'll regret it.

Violet ignores my remark and continues with her theory and it seems like she is right, because Devera and Markham both look proud and with a knowing smile on their face. “Because they somehow knew the wards were breaking” she finishes.

“That`s the most-“Jack argues. Does he ever know when to stop?! “She`s right.” HA! I have a proud grin on my face, I love her brain!

“Cadet Melgren” I am called by Devera. Startled I raise my head, brow hitting my hairline.

“What would you ask in aspect of the attack?” she asks me. For a moment I study the map again, trying to sort my thoughts.

“What were they looking for and most importantly, did they find it?”

A slow smile spreads over Deveras face and even Markham looks intrigued by my question. “What makes you think they were out looking for something?”

“Well, it just makes sense they searched for something. Like Cadet Sorrengail said, the attack took action at the most illogical place for a drift of gryphons.” I pause, bringing my thoughts into formation. “The wards failing was not a coincidence and even though it seems like they were just passing by, they weren`t. They somehow knew the wards would falter in that specific moment. But whatever they were looking for, it must have been really important if they risk their drift to attack this high up in the mountains.” I finish.

I can hear Ridoc next to me cheering quietly in his seat. And while the first and some of the second years don’t think that far yet, I am pretty sure some of the third years had a similar question in mind, because I hear approving whispers behind me. Years of learning and studying are finally paying off.

“Just like your father. Always thinking ahead and seeing the important aspects. Good job, Melgren.” Everyone else would see it as a compliment but … 

I hate it, with all my heart, because I desperately want to be everything but like my father. Violet takes my hand, knowing how much I hate to be compared to the General.

[marshmellowrio]

Semblance of Control | Chapter 3

Word count: 1.5K

Semblance of control Masterlist

After the cadets receive their standard uniforms, they’re shown to the dormitory’s and left to their own devices. Colette makes sure to grab one of the beds near the wall, with 155 other cadets on the same floor, it will give her a sense of security, maybe a false one. No, she wouldn’t put it past any of the other cadets to murder her in her sleep, but this way she would have one less side to protect in case of an attack.

She sees Violet and Rhiannon coming in to claim the beds on her right, right next to each other. She quickly puts all of her stuff away and walks up to the two of them, still talking quietly while dumping their bags.

“Violet and Rhiannon, right?” Colette hoped she had paid enough attention to Nyra when she called out Rhiannon’s name and that she wasn’t saying the wrong name to the dark woman.

Rhiannon looks her up and down. “Who’s asking?”

“Someone who wants an ally or two, and you guys are in my squad, so…” Colette trails off, not really having any other reasoning. The two woman across from her look at each other with distrust written on their faces. “My name is Colette, Colette Wilder.” She tries to meet them halfway. “And I want to help you,” she nods at Violet, “learn to protect yourself.”

“What makes you think I can’t protect myself?” Violet retorts. Fair question.

“You probably have a trick or two up your sleeve, you’re a Sorrengail after all, but I’m certain it can’t hurt to learn a few more. Especially if you have to go up against someone like, let’s say… our wingleader?” Colette answers.

Violet’s eyes widen and she opens her mouth to say something, but Colette’s already talking again. “Oh come on, the Marked Ones already have it out for you and even a fool knows that a Sorrengail and a Riorson is a bad combination.” She makes sure to keep her voice slightly hushed as she says this, keeping half an eye on the people around them, making sure no one’s listening in on their conversation.

Violet ponders for a moment while Rhiannon narrows her eyes at Colette. “What’s in it for you?”

Colette breathes out a little laugh, “ You’re smart.” She purses her lips and nods. “As I said, I need allies in this death trap.” She shrugs and continues, “ I also don’t like people holding children accountable for the actions of their parents.”

Rhiannon gives her a small nod, “Doesn’t mean I trust you, though.”

Colette looks down at her feet with a small smile playing on her lips, “Good,” she catches Rhiannon’s eyes with her own, “I wouldn’t trust me either.” She sees Violet frown in the corner of her eye and turns to her. “I wouldn’t-,” Colette stops for half a second, “I don’t trust anyone here, you shouldn’t either. Keep her close.” She nods to Rhiannon while speaking to Violet. She walks off to get ready for bed, leaving the other two to ponder over her proposal to be an ally.

★・・・・・・★

After Captain Fitzgibbons, another name Colette learned yesterday, reads through all of the names on the death roll, Squad leader Aetos takes over, “Hopefully you all ate breakfast, because you’re not going to get another chance before lunch.”

Colette is positioned in the back row again, she sees the two women she approached yesterday whispering to each other but keeps her attention on her Squad leader.

“Second- and third-years, I’m assuming you know where to go,” he continues. He receives some non-committal noises of agreement from the front rows. “First-years, at least one of you should have memorized your academic schedule when it was handed out yesterday.” It’s a statement, one Colette can agree with, it’s the first thing she did when she woke up this morning. “Stick together. I expect you all to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym.”

“And if we’re not?” Colette snaps her head to the first-year next to her and rolls her eyes at the question, before focusing on Aetos again.

“Then I won’t have to be concerned with learning your name, since it will be read off tomorrow morning,” their Squad leader answers with a shrug. “Sawyer?” He looks at a first-year next to Violet.

“I’ll get them there.” He’s tall, Colette notes, as he nods tightly at Aetos.

Dain orders us to get a move on and the whole squad breaks up, similar to the other ones around them.

“We have about twenty minutes to get to class,” Sawyer shouts at the nine first-years left before him. “Fourth floor, second room on the left in the academic wing. Get your shit and don’t be late.” He doesn’t wait for a reply and heads toward the dormitory.

Colette hears Rhiannon say, “That has to be hard.” She catches up to her and Violet, following the crowd toward the dorms. “Being set back and having to do this all over again.” Colette receives a smile from the two as she reaches them, seems like they’re warming up to her already.

“Better than being dead,” the smart-ass from next to her says as he passes the three of them.

“That’s true,” Violet replies as they head into the bottleneck in front of the door. Colette makes sure to stay on the outsides of it.

“I overheard a third-year say when a first-year survives Treshing unbonded, the quadrant lets them repeat the year and try again if they want,” Rhiannon adds. Colette cringes at the thought of completing her first year twice.

A bird whistle sounds from the left and Violet stalls, fixing her eyes on the door to the rotunda as it sounds again. Colette and Rhiannon follow her line of sight as she says, “I’ll be-”.

“We’ll grab your stuff and meet you there. It’s under your bunk, right?” Rhiannon asks before she can finish.

“You don’t mind?”

“Your bunk is next to ours, Violet. It’s not a hassle. Go!” She bumps her shoulder with Violet’s.

Violet is off with a thank you as Rhiannon turns to Colette and they share a conspiratorial smile.

“So, I’m assuming Violet knows our Squad leader?”

“You would be correct.” Rhiannon answers with a little laugh.

The two women make their way to their bunks along with the rest of the first-years on their floor. Rhiannon looks back and forth from Colette and the path in front of her. “So, why didn’t you cut your hair.” She tries to start a conversation to make it less uncomfortable.

Colette brings a hand up to her tight, low bun, brushing away the stray hairs that aren’t there. “It’s not that long, but I actually wasn’t aware of the fact that women cut their hair to join the rider’s quadrant.” She smiles awkwardly as they reach the bunks. “I mean, I’ve never had any problems with it while sparring so why would I?”

Rhiannon nods in understanding, grabbing her stuff and Violet’s. “I’ve always had mine this short or even shorter so I wouldn’t know what’s it’s like fighting with longer hair.”

“Maybe I’ll think about cutting it if it causes me to lose my matches, otherwise it’s not happening.” Colette laughs softly and Rhiannon joins in as they head back towards the academic wing.

The two of them keep chatting on their way to the doors to the rotunda and start to warm up to each other in the meantime. They step inside the rotunda and Colette’s breath catches. “Wow.”

Rhiannon stops a few steps ahead, feeling Colette lagging behind. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” She looks at Rhiannon, “You go ahead, I want to take this all in for a second.” Rhiannon nods slowly and continues on towards the academic wing.

Colette turns back to the six marble statues of the dragons, not having passed through the main rotunda yet. Her breath got taken away by the dragons instantly, she marvelled at the sight of them. Wandering closer to the black statue, she cranes her neck to look at it more properly.

The light filtering through from the glass dome, glitters on the black marble.

“I already knew you’re parents are tight,” Colette hears a voice call out from up above. She shifts her gaze a bit to find Riorson standing on the balcony, staring down. “But do you two have to be so fucking obvious?”

Colette frowns at his words and follows his line of sight, down to the middle of the rotunda where Violet stands with Squad leader Aetos at her back.

“I expected you to do a better job of hiding where your affections lie, Aetos.” Riorson starts walking down the steps. As he does, Colette starts walking to the space between them. His eyes brighten when they find hers, watching him closely. Monitoring him as he moves closer to Violet.

His focus shifts to Violet again as she bolts for the doors to the academic wing. Colette startles at the sudden movement, she casts one more glance in her wingleader’s direction before following after her… ally?

A/N: Let me know what you think of this chapter in the comments! There is a taglist for those interested in joining, leave a comment below and I'll add you for the next chapter.

Chapter 4 click here.

Taglist: @siobhanbooks @bada-lee-ily

[tai-janai]

silly little things. two murderers not taking murdering seriously. Blue Light and Red Dancer

[fourthwingfan]

Madness - Chapter 4

Warning: It's a war college so don't read it if you sensitive to violence death etc.

Note: We have finally a "decent" conversation between Xaden and Aelin. And guess what? We have a new nickname. From Xaden. Soo goood. 😍

Enjoy :)

The sparring ring is where riders are made or broken. After all, no respectable dragon would choose a rider who cannot defend themselves, and no respectable cadet would allow such threat to the wing to continue training.

-Major Afendra’s guide to the Riders Quadrant

(Unauthorized Edition)

“Elena Sosa, Brayden Blackburn.” Captain Fitzgibbons reads from the death roll, flanked by two other scribes on the dais as we stand in silent formation in the courtyard, squinting into the early sun.

This morning, we’re all in rider black, and there’s a single silver four-pointed star on my collarbone, the mark of a first-year, and a Fourth Wing patch on my shoulder. We were issued standard uniforms yesterday, summer-weight tightfitted tunics, pants, and accessories after Parapet was over, but not flight leathers. There’s no point handing out the thicker, more protective combat uniforms when half of us won’t be around come Threshing in October. The armored corset Mira made us isn’t regulation, but I fit right in among the hundreds of modified uniforms around me.

After the last twenty-four hours and one night in the first-floor barracks, I’m starting to realize that this quadrant is a strange mix of we-might-die-tomorrow hedonism and a brutal efficency in the name of the same reason.

“Jace Sutherland.” Captain Fitzgibbons continues to read, and the scribes next to him shift their weight. “Dougal Luperco.”

I think we’re somewhere in the fifties, but I lost count. This is the only memorial the names will get, the only time they’ll be spoken of in the citadel.

There are a hundred and fifty-six of us in the first floor of the dormitory building, our beds positioned in four neat rows in the open space. Private rooms are like flight leathers - you don’t get one until you survive Threshing.

“Simone Casteneda.” Captain Fitzgibbons closes the scroll. “We commend their souls to Malek.” The god of death.

I blink. Guess we were closer to the end than I thought.

There’s no formal conclusion to the formation, no last moment of silence. The names on the scroll leave the dais with the scribes, and the quiet is broken as the squad leaders all turn and begin to address their squads.

“Hopefully you all ate breakfast, because you’re not going to get another chance before lunch,” our squad leader says. His name is Theo as we learnt after yesterday’s events. For first impression he seem to be a pretty calm guy. He talked about the rules but not like Dain based on what Violet said last night. I swear the rules are his gods.

In our squad there are third- and second-years besides us, marked and non-marked ones. We’re a really mixed group.

Yesterday I didn’t have a chance to observe our squad mates because when Theo’s briefing was over I went to find Violet. We succeeded securing beds next to each other. Rhiannon too. We talked about a lot of things due to the fact that we’re not in the same squad. I can’t be with her for every lesson, our schedule is different. Vi helped me memorising the order of my lessons. It’s a luck that at least I have good memory.

“Second- and third-years, I’m assuming you know where to go” Theo continues as the scribes wind their way around the edge of the courtyard to my right, headed back to their quadrant.

There’s a mutter of agreement from the senior cadets ahead of us. As first-years, we’re in the back two rows of the little square that makes up our squad.

“First-years, at least one of you should have memorized your academic schedule when it was handed out yesterday.” Theo’s voice booms over us. “Stick together. I expect you all to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym.”

We only have the gym twice a week, so there should be time to help Violet learn a little more self defense. She’s smart and quick. She can do it.

I’m more worried about my own lessons. I have to put in so much extra hours to be up to date in our reading materials. Before Basgiath, Violet helped me to study. She often read aloud the texts while I tried to memorize its content. It’s easier. When I’m trying to read, it often makes me so frustrated. I’m trying to read, but I can’t. It’s a really slow process. But because of this I’m good at making notes. I only write down what is really important ‘cause later I have to read it again.

I hope the lessons will be tolerable. I can’t have Violet with me all the time. It’s same for her. She needs to practice her skills before we’ll have to handle the Gauntlet - the vertical obstacle course they told us we’ll have to master when the leaves turn colors in two months.

If we can complete the final Gauntlet, we’ll walk through the natural box canyon above it that leads to the flight field for Presentation, where this year’s dragons willing to bond will get their first look at the remaining cadets. Two days after that, Threshing will occur in the valley beneath the citadel.

I glance around at my new squadmates and can’t help but wonder which of us, if any, will make it to that flight field, let alone that valley.

Don’t borrow tomorrow’s trouble.

“And if we’re not?” One smart-ass first-year behind me asks.

I don’t bother looking, instead I turn to Liam and roll my eyes at the stupid’s girl comment.

He snickers but doesn’t say anything.

“Then I won’t have to be concerned with learning your name, since it will be read off tomorrow morning” Theo answers with a shrug.

A third-year ahead of me snorts a laugh.

Yeah, I totally understand you. It was funny. Or just my sense of humor is sucks.

“You have about twenty minutes to get to class,” Theo says to the seven of us first-years. “Fourth floor, second room on the left in the academic wing. Get your shit together and don’t be late.” Our squad breaks apart around the same time the others do, transforming the courtyard from an orderly formation to a crowd of chatting cadets. The second- and third-years walk off in another direction, including Theo.

“Go, grab your stuff and meet me here okay?” Liam says

“You’d be lost without me anyway.” I reply while heading to the doors.

“And here I thought you’d be kinder with a good night sleep, Snappy.” He sighs.

“Damn, I told you to drop this ridiculous nickname.” I hiss at him.

“Or what? We’re squadmates, you can’t hurt me” he winks.

“No. I can’t kill you. It’s completly different.” I say smiling.

“Whooah look at that. You can smile.”

“Shut up. Go grab your pack or I leave you here.” I roll my eyes.

I go to the dormitory where my bed is, and pick up my rucksack from under it.

When I walk out the door I see Violet at the center of the courtyard and her expression make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. She’s looking at somebody.

Oh shit.

Xaden Riorson is watching her with narrowed eyes, the sleeves of his uniform rolled up his massive arms that remain folded across his chest, the warning in his relic-covered arm on full display as a third-year next to him says something that he blatantly ignores.

Garrick was he?

There’s maybe twenty feet between us. My fingers twitch, ready to grab one of the blades sheathed at my ribs.

His head tilts and he studies me with those impossibly dark eyes, like he’s deciding where I’m most vulnerable. So he noticed me when I exited the dormitory. Interesting.

He smirks then his attention shifts to Violet, and Dain who emerges from behind the pillar.

Shit, do they have to be so obvious? Someone might misinterpret it.

Violet says something to Dain, then his gaze snaps up as the crowd thins out around us.

„I already knew your parents are tight,” Xaden calls out, a cruel smile tilting his lips. „But do you two have to be so fucking obvious?”

I told you, I sigh when the few cadets who are still in the rotunda turn to look at them.

„Let me guess,” Xaden continues, glancing between Dain and Violet, „Childhood friends? First loves, even?”

„I expected you to do a better job hiding where your affections lie, Aetos.” Xaden moves, walking down the steps.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I need to do something.

„Come on Riorson, you have eyes, now use it. You really think that Violet and Dain? I thought you’re smarter than that.” I sigh with feigned disappointment.

„Melgren?” He turns to me. „What are you? A watchdog? Always at Violet’s legs?”

Fucking asshole.

„Now you’re trying to insult me? How kind of you.” I smile at him sweetly. „And no. Violet can protect herself. I just don’t like the fact that now everybody thinks that they have something between them because of you. I didn’t know you liked to gossip.”

„With this attitude you won’t last long, Melgren. Throwing insults at everybody who dares to talk to you or Sorrengail.” He tilts his head to the side. ��It’s like you’re a fucking ray of sunshine.”

„Then forgive this little Sunshine and her friend because we’ll have a lesson soon, and it would cast a really bad light on us if we were late. Don’t you think wingleader?” I gesture toward Violet to come with me.

„Hm. Then we should continue our interesting conversation later.” He says slowly with a smirk and I have a bad feeling about it. „And don’t forget to watch your back, Sunshine.” He turns and walks away.

Sunshine? A nickname? Really?

Damn, he’s handsome for sure but at the same time an enermous prick.

[luxudus]

    Took me long enough but heres the sequel to the september cutting room floor. Ending this series for good. Staring in order by their number Starting with the entries made for 2022

    1. A mammaloid alien native to a dangerously cold planet iconic for it’s red and blue plantlife. They are skittish herbivores. Grazing along its planet’s “grass” by grabbing handfuls of plants with its oral tentacles and brought it to a mouth located in a hollow space in between its oral tentacles and head. And would sport vibrant patterns to blend in with it’s equally colorful forests

    2. Originally a suggestion by my friend Lemuel. They were a descendent of pill bugs/roly polies that evolved powered flight. They soared through forest understories with three sets of flattened legs and held onto branches with their hind pairs of limbs. In spite of the radical change to their movement, they would still act and eat like any other Armadillidiid Isopod. Only now they could get to their food much faster

Now onto the entries made for 2023.

    3. An alien predator that has all of our senses, but none of the familiar organs. They see the world with an organic sonar dish so powerful it could see colors as good as any eye. They smell and feel heat through heat pits on the sides of their body. They hear sound through sensitive whiskers on the feet of their hydraulic legs. And they eat and taste with a liquivorous proboscis.     And on top of their unique sensory organs and a testament to their overwhelming success, they are also freakishly intelligent. Not fully sophont, but still able to run circles around earth’s smartest life aside from humans.

    4. An orbital view of a carbon planet. A hypothetical world where it and the rest of it’s star system formed with much more carbon in its composition than standard oxygen. In place of water would be oceans and clouds of hydrocarbons. And nestled right in between the crust and mantle would be a hundred-kilometer-thick layer of pure diamond.     Sadly how life would evolve and take advantage of such a world was never conceptualized before spectember ended. Maybe someday this idea can be covered again and be brought to justice.

    5. A descendant of azhdarchid pterosaurs from the same world (or at least set of timelines) as the aforementioned Dinosauroids. They live in hierarchical herds where the strongest males have ownership over the herd’s female members.     They are also extremely violent, capable of killing their own predators if a hunt goes slightly wrong, And changes in power often escalate into bloody fights that could end in death. Some members are even willing to kill their herd mates' children if it means they get a chance to continue their bloodline.

6. A descendant of the golden snub-nosed monkey that has evolved to mimic the violet deathhead from my last official september post. Their fur is a speckled brown to blend in with the trees it lives on. The structure mimicking the deathhead sail is derived from nasal flaps once used to attract mates. The primate’s blue skin paired with clusters of veins within the nasal flaps create the iconic purple hue.     High concentrations of melanin along the tip of the nasal flaps mimic the black stripes. And even the orange spots are recreated by rows of unusually thin skin refract sunlight the same way the webbing between our fingers turns orange as a close light source passes through it

    7. A dinosauroid microbiologist who lived in a time when their people colonized the solar system. A Chia’J-di ecologist who lived in a time when their species’ industrial revolution provoked an equally powerful environmentalist counterculture, the globe they are holding is earth 500 million years in the future and long after pangea ultima split, the version of earth their species hails from. And a masculine female human sophontologist who lived in the aztec empire during it’s height. All pose for a picture.     Despite their different walks of life and origins of separate timelines. They are all heads of research within the earth division of the Inter-Timeline Evolutionist Union, better known as the ITEU

The ITEU is a non-profit, nongovernmental secret organization spanning the entire multiverse. With the goal of documenting and archiving the evolution of every species and civilization that has ever lived and will ever live across every possible timeline.     Their employee count ranges in the quantifiable infinity, and the division of a single planet is still big enough to utterly dwarf the largest and most technologically advanced civilizations ever documented. And their membership program accepts anyone from individual sophonts like you and I, galaxy spanning gestalt super-intelligence, to even celestial deities that create their own worlds and galaxies and seed them with life.  

    The symbol above the heads of the earth division is the logo of the ITEU as a whole. Surprisingly very little is known about the meaning behind it. Theories range anywhere from it representing the multiverse as a stream of timelines. The evolutionary tree of life, the infinite fractal-like scale of life and the multiverse. To possibly even the form of the ITEU’s founding species.     There’s a very good reason why the logo is a mystery to all. The ITEU has some pretty big flaws in spite of their noble goal. The organization is very secretive, even to it’s own members. Nobody outside the ITEU knows it even exists. The organization’s founders and early history remain a complete mystery. And despite its multiversal span being common knowledge. no one truly knows the full scale of this organization or the multiverse. 

    They are also very non-interventionist, and will stop at nothing to not leave a mark on the natural world and make any irreversible changes to the course of time. Even if it means never sharing their knowledge with the multiverse’s most advanced civilizations. Allowing interdimensional atrocities to keep going despite having the power to stop it. Or even keeping their own members from ever returning home.     This whole entry was meant to be a bigger grand finale to 2023’s spectember instead of the Batesian mimicry ring or the neurodivergent posthumans. And was meant to be a meta look at 2023’s entries and the genre of speculative evolution as a whole before spiraling out into its own thing entirely.

(i apologize if the aztec woman appears culturally and/or racially insensitive, if anyone who's an expert on aztec culture wants to give feedback I'd appreciate it a lot i want to improve more on illustrating other cultures)

[qininqinin]

delta x dust because i think it's quite interesting how they're both the heavy hitters of the team basically. they both like fighting too, i guess. fighting kink would be appropriate in this scenario.

[Cw: Delta x Dust, fighting kink, blood kink, breathing kink (unintentional and all from Dust), Dust is a fucking weirdo and Delta is not matching him, death threats… ]

As common as it was to feel his own blood dance across his tongue, Delta still felt a shiver pass through his bones, his vertebrae trembling with the delight of the metallic liquid flowing back and forth through his throat. "You little shit," he growls as Dust gives him a wicked smile, decorating the darkness of his face with a row of bloody teeth.

“You think you’re so smart, don’t you? Jumping and hopping around like a little bunny.” Delta doesn’t hesitate to climb on top of Dust, preventing any movement from the smaller skeleton. “Maybe I should break your legs to stop you from running around.” And before Dust could counter with his sharp wit, a punch landed on his face.

Their blood decorated the floor, a red pool spreading wider and wider beneath them.

“How do you feel?” Another punch, “So close to death?”His glove was already torn and stained with the crimson fluid; sticky, smelling of rust.

"The world would be better off without bastards like you." The disgust on his tongue came not just from the blood. That deep-seated hatred, so well hidden even from himself, suddenly surfaced when, even on the verge of passing out, Dust smiled.

What the hell? Delta questions in his mind, his hands gripping Dust's neck tightly — barely noticing the lack of resistance from the skeleton, even as Dust's small hands rested on his. Why are you smiling, you sicko? Delta’s pupils narrowed, finally focusing on the scene in front of him.

Dust, the sick and twisted Dust, smiling like a maniac; the little red lights in his eye sockets rolling up, his face flushed a deep violet.

And Delta couldn’t help but notice the slight push beneath his pelvis.

"You weirdo..." he murmurs, as disgusted as before. "Are you excited by this?" Delta pulls his hands back, his body finally coming out of instinct mode.

Breathing heavily, he delivers one last punch before watching Dust finally lose consciousness.

[tunaababee]

we will be everything we say - Chapter 6

masterlist // fic playlist // read on AO3 // overall rating: e // wc this chapter: 3.5k // updates Mondays (aest)

Feyre Archeron has been best friends with Rhysand Sterling ever since she moved onto the same street when they were kids - the two became absolutely joined at the hip, with nothing able to come between them.

As they get older, life gets more complicated and things get harder. Not everything comes as naturally as it once did. People change, things happen, friends... drift.

But after drifting apart, maybe life can push them back together again, in time.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

a/n: TW for mentions of parental death and abusive behaviours. if you're unable to handle that right now and would like a chapter summary, head to AO3 and look at the chapter's end notes! please look after yourself.

Chapter 6: twenty-three and twenty-four

Tension lingered in the air like a heavy fog, accompanying the grey clouds overhead that helped set the incredibly morose atmosphere. It was fitting, considering what was happening today.

Feyre sat with her sisters, side by side, in the front row of the funeral home. It was a small, simple service - their father had never been a very outgoing man, and it had only gotten worse after their mother had died. Elain had been the one to handle all of the correspondence with the florist, a blend of tulips, carnations, and baby’s breath all stark white in large bunches over the casket. Elain barely looked like herself, with the long-sleeved black dress seeming to drain her of life so much so that she seemed to rival the lifeless body of their father in the coffin at the front of the room. It didn’t help that Elain probably took his passing the hardest. Nesta, on the other hand, looked like she was in her element. Cold, sharp, all angles and precision. Her outfit looked like she was ready to go to a board meeting or an interview, all practicality and projecting that strong visage she held so deeply on to. Both sisters knew there were a lot of complicated feelings towards their father that were simmering just barely underneath the surface of that tailored coat and her a-line skirt, but nobody dared speak it. They just wanted to get through today and put it behind them. The three of them could unpack their own baggage at a later date.

Today Feyre was nervous for a couple of reasons - she’d never been very good at public speaking, and yet she was the one who was giving the eulogy. She heard the funeral officiant say her name, rising from her seat and moving to the front of the room like a ghost of herself, hands shaking slightly. Her hands smoothed out her dress anxiously, fingers moving to fiddle with the oversized sleeves of her long cardigan before she gripped the cistern. Her eulogy was true, but simple - he was a caring husband, a father who loved his daughters, a man who never quite recovered from his demons. The details of what she wrote were merely a haze in her mind as she read it off of the paper she had prepared. But that wasn’t the main reason she was nervous.

What really made her nervous today was the pair of piercing violet eyes looking straight at her from the very back of the room, feeling as if they were piercing her right in the gut.

He had shown up. She had been the one to invite him, after all, but she’d be lying if she said a part of her hadn’t wanted him to come simply to avoid having to talk to him at all. How do you pick back up where you left off with your best friend when you hadn’t talked to them in two years?

She already had to pace the apartment for an hour or so as she tried to send the text to him in the first place to let him know, to get the wording and the tone right, to hope to every god known to man that he still had the same number. To hope that he would come at all. She kept it clinical, at the end of the day.

“Hi there, Rhysand. I know it’s been a while, but I wanted to let you know that my dad passed away a few days ago.

The funeral is next week to the day at 11:00am if you’d like to attend and pay your respects. Prythian Funeral Home.

I hope you’re well.”

It was anxiety-inducing enough to have sent the text in the first place that she hadn’t even bothered to see if Rhys had replied. Instead, Feyre threw herself into funeral preparations - inviting all of her and her sisters’ close friends who had known him and any of his previous business associates he had left. It didn’t fill the room, but it made it feel less pathetic than just the three of them, and that’s all that mattered to them.

The whole time Feyre was up there, it was a pointed effort not to meet Rhys’ eyes. If she did, she felt like she was going to break. So her eyes kept flickering around the room. From Cassian to Amren, from Vassa to Lucien, to anyone but him. Him in his immaculate dress shirt and perfectly tailored trousers, his artfully arranged raven-black hair and his hands adorned in a smattering of silver bands he fiddled with out of the corner of her eye.

The rest of the service after that was a blur. Most people had cleared out of the funeral home to head to Elain’s for the wake - she had tried to offer to cook for everyone, but Feyre and Nesta insisted on catering as Elain had already done so much, was always doing so much. She was already letting Feyre live with her for the time being and it made her feel awful asking for much else. Feyre opted to linger behind, talking to almost each and every person who had come. She gathered up the flowers, made sure that they knew exactly which plot to bury him in - right with their mother - and that there was nothing else to be tended to. Really, she was using it as an escape and a moment to breathe. A moment to delay the inevitable.

And yet, Rhys had always had impeccable timing for better or worse. Today was no different.

He caught her sitting outside on the concrete steps of the funeral home, gazing listlessly into the near-empty parking lot. She didn’t turn to meet his eyes, couldn’t bear it, but was so acutely aware as he sat down on the steps with her. Rhys pressed his side into the wall, Feyre pressing into the railing, a gap that lingered heavily between them. Two years of self-imposed exile that she couldn’t help but feel ashamed about, and this is what it amounted to - two people who knew each other so deeply pretending like they barely knew anything anymore on the steps in a town they’d both called home. She could hear Rhys inhale, ready to break the silence, but she raced to go first. She was the one who had pushed him out in the first place, it was only fair that she had to be the one to try and let him back in.

“Thanks for coming today. You didn’t have to.” Feyre’s eyes were trained firmly on her hands folded into her lap. She could hear his breath hitch slightly, whether it was in relief or confusion or something else, she couldn’t tell.

“Of course I had to. Even if he wasn’t always the most… present person. He was still like a father to me. Still let me in his home, eat his food, stay over. It wouldn’t be right to miss it.” Rhys’ eyes flicked up to Feyre’s face and she could feel them practically burning a hole in her temple, her cheek, her eyes, everywhere she knew he was observing. Trying to get a read on her, trying to ask without being demanding.

“That… means a lot, Rhys. I know it’s been a while.”

A dry laugh escaped him. “Yeah, that’s, uh, that’s an understatement. But I can’t blame you for it.”

Feyre’s heart twisted in guilt and hurt at that. She deserved it - while he had been the one to kiss her, she had been the one to force that distance no matter how much she just wanted her best friend back. It wasn’t a stretch to imagine that Rhys would have probably been in a similar way. A heavy sigh passed her lips, turning her head to finally face him properly after two long years apart. He was very much the same, yet different. The same slant of his jaw, the same expressions she had known since she was young. But he was slightly taller, hints of tattoos peeking out beneath the collar of his shirt, a mild weariness about him that wasn’t there before. Maybe it had been hidden by his confidence the last time she saw him. It didn’t matter now - all that mattered was that he had shown up.

“Yeah, well… You weren’t the only one that fucked up that day. Don’t shoulder all of that on your own. God knows we’ve all made enough mistakes over the course of our lives, can’t keep beating yourself up for every slight you’ve made.” Not that it was going to stop her from beating herself up about it, but Rhys didn’t need to hear that part.

“I don’t know, I feel like I fucked up pretty bad. Lost my best friend a couple of years ago because I wanted to make things easier for her. Read the room wrong and ended up hurting her instead, it’s probably one of the biggest regrets I’ve ever had.” He turned his head to meet her gaze, eyes full of hurt and regret, yet an ever-present hope lingered behind them regardless. Feyre struggled to keep looking at him without faltering from nerves.

“What a coincidence, I lost my best friend a couple of years ago, too,” Feyre said, a dry chuckle escaping her. “I thought I knew exactly how my life should go and that he was a little bit insane. Pressure from my fiance didn’t help, so I iced him out and now I’m basically at rock bottom. I miss him a lot, but I don’t know if I can get him back. I hurt him pretty badly.”

“Feyre, I-”

“Rhys, if you’re about to apologise, I don’t want you to because you shouldn’t have to. I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t want to be friends or didn’t ever want to see me again after this-”

Before she could continue, Rhys’ hand darted out to grab a hold of both of her own, folded in her lap anxiously until he had bridged the gap between them.

“Feyre, I can’t imagine a world where we’re not in each other’s lives. Living through it was hell, and I’d rather die than experience that again.”

She could feel the dam of emotions she’d been holding inside of her heart begin to crack, tears welling up until they spilled over her cheeks and Rhysand was pulling her into his side, legs pressed together as they gave each other the first hug they’d shared in two whole years. Feyre’s arms squeezed around his waist like her life depended on it, his arms wrapped around hers like a comforting blanket. Like home.

“I missed you so fucking much, Rhys. I’m so sorry.”

“Hey, if I’m not allowed to apologise right now, neither are you.” Amusement had snuck into Rhys’ voice, and despite her tears and sniffles she couldn’t help but laugh a little. As her head moved to his shoulder, he moved his own head to rest on hers. Relief and catharsis thrummed through her veins all the way through to her toes.

“God, we’re fucking idiots. I can’t believe we let this go on for so long.”

“Tell me about it. I have no fucking clue what you’ve even been up to for the past two years.”

Feyre broke from the hug, wiping at her eyes with a small frown on her face as she sat up. “Wait, not even from Mor or anybody else..?”

“Not a peep. You said you wanted space, so I tried to respect your privacy.”

She couldn’t help but wheeze dryly a little at that. “So you don’t know? NIce of you to be so chivalrous, but even I’m surprised this didn’t get back to you. Fucking hell, okay.”

Confusion contorted Rhys’s features. “Feyre, I can’t emphasise enough how much I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A tense moment of silence passed between them, Feyre taking a breath as she let the pause hang in the air for just a moment.

“...Tamlin and I split up. Probably about six months ago, now. Wasn’t exactly amicable to say the least.”

His hand came to rest on her shoulder softly. “Oh Feyre, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay, you don’t have to pretend to be sad about it. I know how much everyone else couldn’t stand him.”

“I mean… Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you to be happy. Run me through the past two years, tell me how this happened. We have a lot to catch up on anyway, right?”

“That's true. Were you after the full spiel or the summarised version?” She laughed slightly as she turned to him with a small smile. It was nice to be able to sit with him again, feeling at ease for the first time in a long while.

“Whatever you're willing to give me.”

“Well,” Feyre started dramatically, placing her hand over his on his knee. “About six months after we saw each other last, Tamlin and I ended up moving to Seattle so he could do… Business bullshit, I don't know. He very deliberately never involved me in the brewery stuff more than I needed to be, which was usually just as a pretty little toy. I mean, at the time I felt so special, y'know? All these trips, the move, the dresses. Really, it was the smaller things that got me - the food, the comfort. Things that I had to work for before. He told me so many wonderful things and that I was soooo perfect, so it was easy enough to fall into.

“It was kind of a whole ‘boiling a frog’ situation. He would make me feel so safe and loved before slowly coaxing me to do different stuff. Tamlin certainly didn't like me talking to you before all of this.”

“Of course, it's hard not to be intimidated by all this latent natural charm.” Rhys postured, fussing with his collar in a flair of dramatics that made the both of them giggle like they were back to being kids again.

“Of course! But, haha, he definitely wasn't enthused. So he let up for a bit after that. But soon it was getting me to dress up a little more each and every day, even when I was ducking out to get groceries or something. Phasing out things that we had in the pantry or the fridge - snacks would go missing, judging looks, shit like that. Then about a year ago we moved. It got worse after that.

“Literally the only people I knew after we moved were Tamlin and Lucien. Even Lucien didn't wanna be around him more than he had to by the end of things because it was getting unbearable. He could dress how he wanted, eat how he wanted, act how he wanted. He'd be perfectly content. But the minute I questioned things, it was like a fucking heel turn. Sometimes asking who he was on the phone with prompted him to start blaming all his problems on me. Telling me I was nothing but a piece of shit who made him feel depressed and awful. Every time I stepped out of line in his eyes he just got… angrier. Never hit me or anything, but fuck, I think he got close some days.”

She felt his hand on her shoulder tug her in close once more - the warm tears spilled reluctantly down her cheeks, though she'd be lying if she said she was surprised she was crying about it. The only other person who had heard about it until now was the therapist Lucien and her sisters had all pitched in to get her a few sessions with - she didn’t end up sticking with them, though. Not that Feyre hadn’t appreciated the gesture, but she didn’t feel quite ready. But with Rhys? She couldn’t help but spill her guts bare. She gently wiped at her eyes, taking a heavy breath before resuming.

“Anyways, uh… Finally got sick of it a little while after trying to cover up some of the mirrors in the house. I wasn’t painting or drawing anymore, he said that it was a dumb hobby and that it was beneath me. Didn’t have any hobbies anymore, really. No job, either. My entire wardrobe was full of these designer labels and uncomfortable dresses - piles of heels and bags and accessories. Gaudy, flashy jewelry as far as the eye could see. I was so gaunt, I didn’t have any life left in me. I dressed how he wanted, looked how he wanted, talked how he wanted, ate how he wanted. Thought how he wanted me to as well, that I wasn’t worth anything unless I was by his side,” She scoffed slightly, looking up at the sky a little as her head came to rest on Rhysand’s shoulder.

“But I had a kind of lucid moment where I was covering up those mirrors, not wanting to even be here anymore where I was just like, what am I even doing here? I was in such a gilded fucking cage and so sick of it. Tamlin was on one of his rare solo trips at the time so I just… left. Texted Lucien - he’d seen me deteriorating for a while and tried to get me to see things differently before, but it was hard when I was so isolated, y’know? He helped me get all my shit out. Left Tamlin with nothing but a note and that ugly fucking ring. Blocked him on everything. Let Nesta and Elain know, and the rest is history. Been living with Elain back in Prythian since, teaching nighttime painting classes and working as a cashier to try and save up enough money to move out.” Feyre sniffled a little before putting a big smile on her face and turning to Rhys, bringing her hands under her chin to frame it in an effort to lighten the heavy atmosphere. If she didn’t try to take it at least a little less seriously, then she was just going to get in her head about the whole situation all over again, and that’s the last thing she wanted. Not when she had come so far already.

“Shit, Feyre… Can’t say I can beat that in terms of a one-eighty.” Rhys smiled at her slightly, a smidge of sadness mixed with a dose of pride in his stare. She let out a little laugh in turn.

“Hey, go big or go home, right?”

“You never did anything half-assed, that’s for sure.” Rhys took her hand resting upon his knee into both of his, squeezing gently. “I’m just glad you’re happier. That you’re safe. We have plenty of time for all of that ‘I told you so’ type of shit later.”

Feyre simply rolled her eyes, nudging his side with her own. “Thanks, Rhys. But what about you? I can’t just dump all of the ways my life temporarily turned into a tire fire only to not hear about you in return.”

Rhys shuffled a little uncomfortably beside her - he always had trouble when the focus shifted to him in anything more than a surface level, necessary capacity. It was his turn to sigh heavily, looking down at the ground. His head tilted to rest on top of hers, like not a second had passed between when they had been thick as thieves up to now.

“Well, it’s kind of weird. I mean, I’ve done a lot but at the same time not a lot has changed. I’m still close with everybody, especially Cass and Az, but I know that wouldn’t surprise anybody.”

Feyre chuckled slightly. “Well duh, you guys are brothers at this point. It’d be weirder if you weren’t still close.” 

As soon as the words left her mouth, the two paused for a moment. There was a sentence unspoken between them that they both knew deep in their bones, hanging in the air like a sword of Damocles - it wouldn’t have been as weird as when the two of them stopped talking. But neither of them needed to tell the other that. That fact was as true as the sky being blue or the grass being green. Rhys broke the tension first, not wanting to linger on it any longer than the two of them had to.

“I ended up leaving Prythian about a year ago, though. Dad had died - he hadn’t been in good health for a while, so nobody was surprised. I finally fully inherited the business instead of just being a figurehead beneath him, but I never really had any interest in it. I did well in my business degree but it just… never quite clicked with me the way I think he hoped it would. It wasn’t exactly a huge emotional loss to me when he went. Ended up selling the whole thing and moving to New York, actually.”

“Makes sense - you always struck me as a city guy.”

“What can I say? I have very particular taste.” The two chuckled in tandem, the warmth of it rumbling through Feyre’s throat and chest.

“But anyway, I actually ended up putting my degree to use and started my own business. I picked up tailoring and design from Mom way back when and I always enjoyed it, so why not, right? It felt good - feels good - to still have that connection to her. Started out just selling stuff online before I moved into some actual brick and mortar stores. There’s not a lot, but they’re going well at least.”

Feyre sat up, surprise and delight written all over her face at the news. “Holy shit, that’s amazing Rhys! I’m so proud of you - ‘not much has changed’ my ass! You’re like a big business mogul now.”

Rhys raised his eyebrows at her. “Feyre, I’m literally just a small business owner.” “Yeah, now, but you’ve always been ambitious. You’re gonna be some thriving CEO type in no time.”

“Sure, whatever you say, Archeron.” Rhys smirked, mussing up Feyre’s hair a little while taking care to make sure the silver rings he wore didn’t catch in the strands. She didn’t hesitate to mess his own hair up in return, mock offense spreading over his features before melting into a laugh.

“But seriously, I meant it when I said not much has changed, in a way. I live in a new place now and I’ve got a business going, but I still talk to the same people. I don’t go out much, I’m a pretty big homebody unless it’s for any of our inner circle. It all feels so… the same. But not, if that makes sense.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that.” With that, Feyre pushed up and off of the stairs, brushing down the back of her dress and cardigan to neaten them up as she stood. She turned to Rhys, reaching a hand out to help him up. It was a handy excuse to touch him again anyway, to feel some of the closeness she had been missing for so long.

Sitting and talking with Rhys so casually felt like a puzzle piece she didn’t entirely realise had gone missing clicked back into place. Everything felt so right and comfortable - like her world had been spinning on a slightly wrong angle, only to be righted with a gentle touch again. He took the hand she offered as he stood up - not that he needed the help. Rhys looked down at her with something that Feyre couldn’t quite pick, something between reverence and relief. She would take either. It didn’t matter so long as they could be in each other’s lives again.

“C’mon, we should head to the wake. If we’re overly late, I think Nesta might lose it a little.” Feyre cocked her head in the direction of her car, a small black thing in the back corner of the parking lot.

“...As in, we go to the wake together?” He almost looked like a lost puppy as he posed the question. Feyre rolled her eyes with a little smile and dragged him by the arm towards her car.

“No shit. You’re my best friend, and I’ve missed you. I’m not gonna have you wasting money on an Uber when we could spend more time catching up on the way there. If I can’t spend my days beating myself up for shutting you out, then I can at least make the most of letting you back in.”

Rhys nodded almost dumbly as he climbed into the passenger seat, looking over at Feyre as the two buckled themselves into the car.

“...I’d really love that, Feyre. I’ve missed you too.”

The feeling that washed over Feyre’s bones was something that she didn’t think could ever be beat - that things would work out and be okay after all, in the end.

[geeks-universe]

Kiss of Death

Anthony Bridgerton x Assassin!Reader

Society has certain expectations of you. If only they knew of your nighttime activities…

The prestige and promiscuity of London’s high society had never been intriguing to Anthony. He was proud of his place in the world, and would defend his family’s name to his last breath, but he cared not for the bonds of propriety he couldn’t quite seem to slip.

His sister, Daphne, was quite the opposite. She was made for the social elite, like a warrior in a battlefield full of inexperienced children. Sure, there were moments she stumbled, but as much as he wanted to deny it, she was fully capable of navigating the bloodied waters herself.

He watched from afar, a small frown on his face, as eligible bachelor after eligible bachelor approached, only to scurry away a few short minutes later, forlorn expressions born of disappointment. Simon, it seemed, was the only one able to keep her attention, and it bothered the eldest Bridgerton more than he cared to admit.

“That scowl doesn’t suit you,” Violet commented softly, as if she were afraid her voice alone would pull his sister’s affections away from Simon.

“And he doesn’t suit her,” Anthony shot back, not needing to elaborate.

“Must you continue being so negative towards the pair?” His mother sighed, the weight of an exhausted topic between them.

“You don’t know him like I do,” he reminded her, shuffling his feet, debating whether to intervene or not.

“No,” his mother relented, “but I do know love.”

Anthony scoffed, but offered no further comment. He left the remainder of his thoughts unspoken to simmer in the air between them as they watched Daphne and Simon dance with two starkly different expressions.

“Lady Bridgerton,” an unfamiliar maid approached, her voice hushed. “There is a matter that needs attending at your estate.”

Anthony’s brows furrowed. Why would his mother be addressed, and not him? Moreso, what could possibly be important enough to interrupt the evening?

Violet’s gaze flicked over to Anthony, as if she were wondering the same thing, before she nodded solemnly.

“Might I inquire as to the nature of the matter?”

“His majesty, King Aldrich Lancaster of Windhaven, has requested your immediate attention.”

Anthony stood a little straighter at the mention of royalty, but his mother seemed unbothered by the title. An old friend then, he could only guess.

She nodded curtly, excusing herself before Anthony could even begin to protest and offer his company. Whispers began to spread like wildfire, turning a curious event into a fantastical one by the third row of listeners. It reached Daphne before he could, and the questions she wished to ask were echoed in the now suffocating presence of his other siblings.

“King?” Benedict raised a brow.

“What does a king want with our family?” Eloise huffed, rather annoyed at the entire prospect of having to entertain a guest of that caliber.

Anthony rounded the family up before too many acquaintances could set their insatiable nosiness on the Bridgerton children. The carriage he procured soon turned as loud as the party they cruised away from.

“She said King Aldrich?” Daphne asked, emphasizing the name with wide eyes.

“That’s the name,” Anthony confirmed, narrowing his gaze, hoping that his sister might have some inkling on what could possibly be transpiring at their family estate at that very moment.

She hummed, ignoring her two other brothers and Eloise as they loudly proclaimed their thoughts on the matter.

“Mother was good friends with the Queen before she passed,” Daphne offered. “They have one child, if I recall correctly. There have been rumors of the Princess debuting this social season, but not many people believed them to be true.”

“You think the King might have dropped his spoiled Princess off to find a suitable husband?” Anthony repeated grimly, unable to help the small bit of annoyance that had quickly seeped into his tone.

The last thing he wanted to do was act as a chaperone for some outlandish Princess who probably couldn’t see anything past the size of her ego.

Daphne shrugged.

“It’s as plausible as any theory, I suppose.”

Eloise must’ve been mirroring Anthony’s expression, because she loudly proclaimed, “I do not want a Princess in our house.”

“Nor do I,” he echoed the sentiment. “But, we are still a respectable family, so if we must, we will host our childish snob with grace.”

“Since when have you ever been graceful?” Benedict teased, dodging Anthony’s frown as he hopped quickly from the carriage.

Colin wasted no time following him, eager to see what the excitement was all about. Anthony let the others exit first, dreading whatever might be waiting for him behind the door of his family home.

“It won’t be that bad,” Daphne promised, nodding her head to press him forward.

It did the trick. He followed closely behind his sister towards the sound of hushed whispers. One was his mother’s, no doubt.

And the other…

The voice was accented, so lightly he had to strain his ears to hear the occasional lilt, and spoke with more grace than he thought a child capable of.

The Bridgerton children paused outside of the drawing room, too cautious to invade the space, too curious to leave it be. Even at his age, Anthony could not say he did not fear his mother’s reprimands.

“You may enter, if you wish,” his mother called out to them.

He did so.

And the room froze the moment he did.

Sat across from his mother was not a spoiled child, not even a child at all. Your eyes were quick to lock on his- sharp, piercing, yet gentle. Down the soft slope of your nose to the small smile on your lips, there was a kindness about you. Even so, the rigidness of your posture, and the tightness of your flexed fingers showed an alertness Anthony couldn’t quite grasp. Your hair, which shone with the roaring fireplace, was tied back in an intricate style of braids he couldn’t follow. The dress you wore was simple, far too simple for a Princess, and he still found it difficult to take his eyes from your form.

He had all but forgotten to breathe until Daphne nudged his ribs, reminding him of the years of etiquette training he’d undergone.

The steps towards you felt heavy, too heavy, like the sudden fast beating of his heart was begging him to turn around and flee.

“I-” His voice was too high pitched, he decided, and cleared his throat before trying again. “Your majesty,” he bowed, holding his hand out for yours.

Something rose in his throat when you granted him his unspoken wish. Your touch was featherlight, and even still, Anthony was sure it was suffocating him. He tried to touch his lips to your gloved skin, but he could not. The thought was maddening, his heart threatening to beat out of his chest, and as he pulled away from you without actually kissing the back of your hand, he couldn’t help but wonder if you noticed.

The glimmer in your eye told him you most definitely did.

“Lord Bridgerton,” you smiled, the barest upturn of lips. “Please, formalities can be saved for the judgemental eyes of society. Your mother was my mama’s closest friend. Call me (Y/N).”

He heard Daphne’s nervous chuckle from somewhere behind him.

“I must apologize for arriving unannounced,” you continued, leaving the direct vicinity of Anthony. There was an elegance in each step that you took, but the way your gaze spread across the room was calculating. “I have business in London, and my father thought it would be a good chance for me to meet prospective matches.”

“My daughter, Daphne, debuted this season. I am sure she would be happy to discuss potential suitors.”

“Thank goodness, I can’t imagine having to sit through such a dreadful evening without good company.” Your eyes shined with a bit of hopefulness, and Anthony decided right there that you were impossible to read.

Eloise let out a very loud snort, followed immediately by a desperate attempt to visually cover her face.

The rest of the Bridgerton’s froze, unsure what to expect of their guest, and just as Anthony, and his mother no doubt, were about to profusely apologize, you let out the most melodic giggle.

Anthony’s stomach flipped at the sound.

“Please, do not let me intrude on the comforts of your own home. I do not enjoy the royal charade anymore than you do.”

Still, there was uneasiness in their actions.

“Well, I must retire for the night. I do hope you will all relax in my presence with time. It’s dreadfully exhausting to act as a proper princess all night.”

And with that parting statement, you left the room with suspiciously quiet footfalls.

“What just happened?” Benedict voiced his thoughts.

Colin couldn’t help but let out an excited laugh.

“We have a Princess staying with us,” Daphne added, both anxiety and elation lacing her tone.

“Well, so much for spoiled Princess,” Eloise muttered, earning an instant glare from Violet Bridgerton. “What? Don’t look at me, Anthony was the one who said it.”

“If I recall, you were not happy with the arrangement either,” Colin added helpfully, giving his sister a wide smile.

She stuck her tongue out at him in a way that was decidedly unladylike.

“You will not disrespect our guest,” the mother of the house stated firmly. “Any of you. She is to be treated with the utmost respect.”

“Why now?” Anthony mused to himself. It seemed that he didn’t do so quietly though, and his mother was quick to reply.

“She is of marrying age,” she shrugged, “And a beauty, at that. I’m sure her father believes now is as good a time as any for her to find a match.”

“I think it will be wonderful,” Daphne finally proclaimed. “Another woman in the house who will enjoy the same fineries as I do.”

“How splendid!” Eloise sighed dramatically, holding a hand to her chest in mock enthusiasm.

“Enough with the mockery, Eloise.” Violet sighed. “Her mother was a dear friend, and I think our family could benefit from having someone so well versed in eloquence.”

Anthony could see the small smile she’d given him clearly in his mind, like the image itself had been burned into his thoughts. Perhaps, it had been too long since he’d called upon Siena. He was getting worked up over practically nothing.

He would see her tomorrow, then, and rid him of his mind perverting innocent memories of a stranger.

He cleared his throat.

“I have business I must continue, I shall see you all in the morning.”

If his exit was abrupt, his family did not comment on it. In fact, they left him alone the entire night, and he didn’t hear so much as a peep out of them until morning.

[hlizr50]

It's been a long time since I posted something here...

So how about a Fourth Wing oneshot????

**SPOILERS FOR FOURTH WING!!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!!**

Read on AO3

Violet Sorrengail.

But it couldn’t be.

She was supposed to be a scribe, safe and sweet and sequestered in the archives. A girl — young woman — like her would be broken by the Riders Quadrant. Hell, seeing how small she was, the Parapet alone could be lethal.

Did Brennan know?

Xaden looked the youngest Sorrengail over, appraising her from head to toe as he struggled to maintain that mask of calm. She was so petite. Thin. Her body was clearly lacking the years of training that the other cadet hopefuls had completed: even the slightest among them was lean with muscle. Violet Sorrengail’s body was that of a scribe, and the wing leader could only wonder what had changed.

Had she decided to honor her late brother’s memory?

Did she feel a pressure to follow in the footsteps of her sister of her mother?

Or did she just have a death wish?

Regardless, she was fucking exquisite. There was silver winding through the braided coronet that crowned her head, drained of color from the illness she’d suffered as a child. Xaden’s fingers twitched with the desire to feel the silver strands between them.

Fuck, life just got a lot more complicated.

“Sorrengail?” His voice rumbled with his best intimidating growl.

When she stepped forward her crown didn’t even reach his collarbone. She was tiny , but she still lifted her chin and fixed him with a stubborn glare.

Adorable.

Little Sorrengail nodded once, but didn’t speak. They were locked in a moment of grim recognition, and Xaden saw the hate that darkened her pretty hazel eyes. He could imagine why.

“You’re General Sorrengail’s youngest.” It was less a statement and more of an accusation. It would be expected that he would loathe any connection to the general with the same intensity that burned in Violet’s gaze. And though this was a massively unexpected circumstance, he had too many secrets that had to be kept.

“You’re Fen Riorson’s son.” The girl lifted her chin a little higher — a show of bravado, though she held her body so rigidly he thought she might snap in half.

What the fuck was she doing here?

Xaden took a deep breath. “Your mother captured my father and oversaw his execution.” And his mother’s. And the parents of all the other marked ones.

And it would have been all of the children, including himself, had he not thrown down his desperate deal. He would carry the marks of that burden until he took his dying breath, but it would be worth it to give them all a fighting chance.

“Your father killed my older brother.” Oh, if she only knew. “Seems like we’re even.”

“Hardly.”

Not even fucking close.

Xaden made a show of trailing his onyx eyes down her torso, judging her with a barely-contained sneer. But his scrutiny yielded some interesting results. A scaled leather corset hugged her ribs, highlighting the curve of her hips.

“Your sister is a rider. Guess that explains the leathers,” he quipped. 

“Guess so.” She stubbornly held his glare, so determined to stand up to him and establish her strength. The marked man couldn’t help but appreciate it. That hubris may well save her life in the quadrant. Or mark her doom.

The thought made his whole body go rigid as he clenched his fists.

“You all right?” A new voice drew his attention. It landed on a young woman with smooth, brown skin and rows of short braids atop her head. The newcomer looked between him and Violet, though her concern appeared focused on Sorrengail’s obvious discomfort.

“You’re friends?” He asked, hackles rising. Trust was dangerous in the Riders Quadrant, and Violet Sorrengail was out there making fucking friends.

“We met on the stairs.” The girl’s dark eyes hardened as she straightened and squared her shoulders.

Picking a side.

A few stone steps and they were ready to trade blows for each other. How cute.

Looking her over, as well, his gaze landed on her feet. Two mismatched boots. When his eyes slid over, he found Violet’s shoes in a similar state. One pair of boots was standard issue for riders — obviously from Mira Sorrengail. Xaden cocked a brow and looked back up at the tiny woman with the silver-streaked hair, lips twitching.

“Interesting.”

Taking obvious offense to his expression, Violet lifted her chin another inch. Any higher and she might dislocate something. “Are you going to kill me?”

What an odd question.

Rain roared in a deluge as their gazes clashed, speckled hazel and gold-flecked midnight. The water soaked her through almost instantly, leaving strands of chocolate and silver sticking to her brow in delicate curls as droplets fell from the tip of her pointed nose.

He wanted to catch them with the tip of his tongue.

A scream shattered the air, drawing the women’s focus to the parapet. From the corner of his vision he saw what had ripped horrified gasps from their lips: the blonde boy had fallen. Violet’s friend was yelling as her hands flew to her mouth, but Xaden’s attention was intent upon the flush of Sorrengail’s paling cheeks and the twist of those dainty fingers.

She was so lovely, even in that moment. The flecks of color shimmered in those wide eyes, her devastation only highlighting her beauty in the midst of hell. Someone so bright and clever and hopeful didn’t belong in the Riders Quadrant. It would destroy the light that warmed him, even then.

It was wrong. So incredibly wrong.

But Xaden channeled the wrongness into something he could use. He let it fan the flame of ire within him as Violet Sorrengail turned back to face him. All she would see would be a scowl, cold and calculated, with a glimmer of devious knowing.

“Why would I waste my energy killing you when the Parapet will do it for me?” He forced his lips to curl into a wicked, cruel smile. “Your turn.”

He could only pray to see her on the other side.

~~~

“Riorson? What are you—“

“We have a big fucking problem.” Xaden shouldered past Brennan Sorrengail into the dim amber light of the tiny room. His quarters were small, even by the standards of Basgiath.

But what did a dead man need with a large bedroom?

“We must, if you’ve flown here mere hours after the crossing.” Brennan’s grin was mischievous as he made his way to his desk chair. The marked man paced the length of the floor, likely wearing a valley into the smooth stone.

The eldest Sorrengail was the opposite of Xaden Riorson in so many ways. Where Xaden was serious and intense, Brennan was carefree, always wearing an easy smirk that was reflected in the playful glint in his hazel eyes. Somehow, in spite of everything — his mother’s deception, his father’s death, the need to live in secrecy away from everything he’d ever known, including the two sisters he adored — the demons never seemed to creep into his gaze. Brennan was happy to be where he was: skilled in combat and poised to make a difference in the world.

But… this news might crush him.

Rubbing his hands over his eyes, he took a breath that burned his lungs with dread.

“Violet crossed the Parapet today.”

Xaden’s expression must have been grave, because Brennan’s face fell and his eyes widened.

“W-what?”

“I stood face-to-face with your sister before she stepped out onto the Parapet. She was wearing a rider’s leathers — I’m assuming from your other sister.” Xaden ran ringers through his tousled hair in the silence that swallowed the two young men. Everything felt tilted and wrong, as if the world was shifting beneath them and they had no power to stop it.

The oppressive quiet stretched between them for what felt like hours.

“It can’t be. That doesn’t make any sense.” And there it was, the darkness that Xaden rarely saw in his comrade. The shadows darkened his eyes as his brows furrowed, trying to understand. “She’s been studying to be a scribe since she was a child. She would never have dreamed of riding dragons. She’s not… built for that.”

“I know. I don’t understand it, either. Based on everything you’ve told me, there was no reason for her to be there,” Xaden answered, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His focus remained upon his friend, whose expression morphed from confusion to concern… to a cold fury the marked man had never seen on the handsome face.

“It has to be my mother’s doing. There’s no other explanation.” Brennan looked up at him, eyes glinting like shards of ice. “Violet is smarter than Mira and me put together. If she became a scribe, she would find out everything that our father suspected and then some.”

The implication was staggering. Infuriating. Xaden scratched at the stubble dotting his chin. “By forcing Violet into the Riders Quadrant, with almost zero preparation, she’s condemning her to almost certain death.” How could a mother do that to her child? How could anyone want to extinguish the fire of that clever, beautiful woman? It made his gut churn as his teeth clenched.

The next moment, Brennan was upon him, his hands gripping his shoulders like a vice. “Xaden,” he murmured, wide-eyed gaze wild with desperation. “You have to protect her, Xaden. Please. Promise me you’ll take care of her. Promise me she won’t die there.”

The crack in his friend’s voice might as well have broken him, as well. This was all so wrong. So terribly complicated. Of course, Xaden had been contemplating how to keep Violet safe the moment he met her at the Parapet. But how was he supposed to protect her if she hated him? If he was supposed to hate her? Nobody could know that he’d been enamored with her, simply from the stories her brother would weave about her.

Nobody could know that the real thing was even sweeter and brighter and more exquisite than he could have ever imagined.

“Promise me, Xaden. Promise me I’ll see my sister again.”

The marked man lifted his hands and placed them on Brennan’s shoulders, comforting him with his strong hold as he nodded once.

“I swear it, Brennan,” he rasped. “On my life.”

[reine-du-sourire]

Amaranthine

Cheslock's in the library when Edward finds him, standing on tiptoes to reach a gilt-edged blue tome with golden letters dancing along its spine. With a soft grunt, Cheslock manages to tip it down and turns, triumphant, tucking the book under his arm. "Hiya, Ed." "Hello, Cheslock." Edward can't help a smile. "Are you busy?" Cheslock looks curiously at the elegant rectangular parcel that Edward is holding. "I can spare a minute. What have ya got there?"

Edward opens the box. "Some new inks. I only ordered black, but I received this set as well- it might have been an accident, or maybe they're just complimentary samples. I thought you might like to have them. I don't use colored inks."

"So send 'em back," Cheslock shrugs. His eyes scan the row of little jars nestled in black velvet lining, and he selects a bottle of deep reddish-violet ink, turning it over in his fingers. "It's nice stuff. Or save 'em."

"Or I could give them to you. It's hardly worth the bother to return them."

"Why would ya give 'em to me?"

"I thought you'd like them."

Cheslock picks up a midnight blue ink and rolls it back and forth between his hands, allowing it to clink gently against the purple-red one. "Where'd ya say you got 'em from?"

"Antoine & Fils," Edward replies. "My father's favorite manufacturer."

"Oh. Pricey." Cheslock passes the ink back. "Nah."

"As a gift, Cheslock! You don't have to pay me for them!"

"Not into gifts."

"As a favor to me, then? So I don't have to return them?"

"Not into favors either. I don't like owing people."

"It's not owing-! And- and it's not like you don't do favors, you've done favors for me, you gave me a massage last week-"

"That's 'cause ya squeak like a sick mouse, and it's funny."

Edward flushes. "I do not!"

"Yeah, ya do," Cheslock says lazily. He picks up the purple-red ink again. "Think the teachers'll have a fit if I hand in essays in this?"

"Cheslock, you shouldn't do that." Edward shakes his head. "You can use it to write your music. Or your letters home."

"Or I can make tattoos."

"You definitely shouldn't do that."

"You're the one who wanted me to take 'em."

"Yes, but not for tattoos!"

With a grin, Cheslock replaces the ink and takes the box from Edward, tucking it under his arm with the book and leaning forward to whisper directly into Edward's ear. "Maybe I'll give you a tattoo."

"Cheslock!"

"There's that sick mouse again. Is that why ya bought me fancy inks, 'cause I gave ya a massage? See? You can't stand owing anyone either, I bet."

"I said it's not owing! And I didn't buy them, they were complimentary!"

"You're such a gentleman, Midford." Cheslock's hand comes up to tug gently at Edward's earlobe. "Your ears go all pink when ya lie."

The rest of Edward's face goes vibrantly red as well. "Cheslock!"

"Thanks for the inks, Eddie. I've gotta go now. See ya 'round, okay?"

"Of course," Edward mumbles, and wonders whether his munificence will be the death of him.

The spring in Cheslock's step as he leaves the library suggests that it might not be, though, and Edward smiles.

Link to AO3