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gloomwitchwrites · 2 months ago

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Devil in a Dark Wood

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader Historical AU

Content & Warnings (per the warnings MDNI): Witch AU, Historical AU, early colonial America, Puritanism, biblical themes & scripture, suggestive themes, brief descriptions of injury, arranged marriage, loss of virginity, brief descriptions of sex, horror/suspense

Word Count: 7k

A/N: Requested by @ferns-fics for 3.5k Spooky Bingo (Witch AU) A/N (2): Enjoy my religious trauma!

Arriving to new shores a married woman, you find happiness with the man you're betrothed to without ever first meeting him. But beyond the place you call home is a dark wood. And in that dark wood, something waits for the perfect opportunity.

ao3 // main masterlist // 3.5k spooky bingo masterlist

Pendle, Massachusetts, Late April, 1662

The earth speaks to you.

Back home, the ground is alive with the song of faeries, elves dwell within the trees, and kelpies call from the waters. Nature is alive there. A buzzing that wraps around all living things.

But it is different here in the New World.

Here—there is an echo. There are no nymphs. No sweet songs to lull the wayward wanderer into dancing.

There are teeth here. Teeth in the dirt. Teeth in the bark of the trees.

And a thrumming.

A thrumming that sounds like a thunderous heartbeat.

You hear your name. It is called like a command by a stern, male voice. Eyes opening, you disconnect from the unyielding noise of the ground, and focus on the man in front of you.

A man of the cloth. Reverend Shepherd—if the letter in your haversack is correct.

There is no smile on his face but a sternness etched into every crease and wrinkle. His mouth is a thin line turned downwards, with a balding head, and a slight swell to his belly that reminds you of the one your father grew when he began favoring drink.

Your father.

The reason you’re here.

The reason you stand on the very edge of the New World a newly married woman.

"Reverend Shepherd?" you ask, inclining your head in submission.

The motion is painful. You are not like him. You are not like the people who have settled here. You were raised to be wild and barefoot. Raised by a woman who taught you to listen. To put your ear to the ground. To sense the world sitting just on the other side.

“Child,” he says, gaze narrowing. “Your hair.”

Frowning, you reach up. Some of your hair pokes out from beneath your white cap. “Pray pardon me,” you murmur, discreetly tucking it back.

“I am Reverend Shepherd,” he confirms with a brief nod. “I bid you welcome to Pendle.”

“Thank you, Reverend.”

“And the journey?”

“Pleasant,” you reply, keeping your gaze downcast. “Calm seas.”

“A blessed crossing then. God’s favor came with you. Pray that it stays.”

Your stomach twists at the jab. It is clear what Reverend Shepherd means. You are an outsider. An unknown factor. A disciple that he believes may not fall in line. God’s chosen are already here, and you do not belong.

“Are you to be my escort?”

“Indeed,” he sighs as if the notion bothers him. “And we have much yet to walk. God favors a quick step. We best be off.”

Clutching the haversack to your chest, you nod. “Of course, Reverend.”

This is just an exchange, a way for your father to rid himself of you and to pay off his drinking debts. Your father is no man of God. Wives are needed in the New World. The crown paid handsomely to bring you and other women to these shores.

Grief is a sour thing.

It is a weight upon the living.

Your mother, a woman so wonderful that the world couldn’t contain her, sent herself up to the stars, leaving you with only your father for company.

He is just a man.

Simple. Kind.

And then a poison.

Grief wove its way between bone and blood until he no longer wanted to see your face. The remembrance pained him. And that pain led to long nights away, only for him to return with liquor on the breath and empty pockets.

It is why you were sent away, why you were sent far across the sea. Sold off to a husband you’ve never met. All because of a man who cannot control his grief.

How will your memory be written?

Are you simply your father’s daughter in the King’s ledger? Not even a name. Just…daughter.

Perhaps. That is how it is after all. A history of a woman is rarely written.

Reverend Shepherd turns away and starts walking. You almost slip in the mud as you follow. He passes the docks, moving further away from the center of Pendle.

“Are we not to stay in town?”

“In town?” Reverend Shepherd’s frown deepens. “No, child. Your husband lives beyond the township.”

“How far, pray tell? Are we not to take horses?” you ask, a little breathless.

Reverend Shepherd scoffs. "Why should you require such a convenience? Walking allows for reflection and penance. Do you know your prayers?"

You chew on the inside of your cheek.

“Child?” prompts Reverend Shepherd.

“I do,” you nearly bite out.

“Let me hear them. A good wife can recite the Lord’s prayers when prompted. Scripture will help us pass the time.”

As the two of you walk, your voice becomes monotone, reciting but not listening. Every word is like an empty scallop shell. Mud sucks at your boots, threatening to relieve you of your shoes. Reverend Shepherd remains ahead. Never slowing down. Always keeping a few paces forward.

“Good,” says Reverend Shepherd. “Now, I shall begin and you shall continue. I have no master but You. Now law but Your—”

“You’ve yet to speak of my husband,” you interrupt, frustration growing by the lack of information.

It’s not in you to be obedient, especially around bothersome men.

Reverend Shepherd turns abruptly, the middle of his brow creased in severe displeasure. “Prayer, child. I have no master—”

“His name, Reverend. At least allow me that.”

“Disobedience of woman is an act against God. Your father assured me of your obedience. Of your purity and piety. Is he mistaken?”

Yes. I do not belong here.

“He is not,” you mutter.

Reverend Shepherd holds your gaze until you turn yours downward. When he sets out again, you scowl at the back of his head, reciting perfectly all that you were taught before departing for different shores.

Outside Pendle, the road twists between clumps of trees. Farms stand between, but Reverend Shepherd stops at none of them. He rattles off scripture, keeping his back to you as he does so. It only dampens your mood.

"The Lord is my—"

At the bend in the road, you pause your recitations. A peaceful buzzing surfaces up from the ground, slithering into the soles of your feet, traveling upward into the crown of your head. A sturdy wooden fence lines the road, sectioning off the homestead from travelers. The main gate sits open, a dirt path leading inward toward the cottage. Corn lines the path, and you hear the gentle bleat of a goat in the distance.

Reverend Shepherd turns, his mouth pursed in annoyance.

"Pray pardon, Reverend," you say before the chastisement can leave his lips. "Is this..."

The irritation retreats slightly, his gaze turning passive. "Is it home? Indeed." Reverend Shepherd glances across the farmstead. "The Riley family owns this land. The eldest son, Simon, tends to it."

Simon.

Your husband's name.

Only a name. Nothing else.

The entire journey across the sea was rife with your swirling imagination. What kind of man did your father sell you off to? What might he look like?

Reverend Shepherd presses on. "The younger son lives in town."

You don't reply. It's best not to. Women are expected to be seen and not heard, and you have already overstepped your limits.

Following at the proper distance, you keep silent. Reverend Shepherd walks quickly, eager to be rid of you.

The thwack of an axe piercing wood echoes in the air, drowning out the bleating goats. You clutch the haversack against your chest, the weight of it finally catching up, arms heavy with the load. Reverend Shepherd moves with purpose, following the sound of the thwack and the subsequent clatter of splitting wood.

Beyond the cottage, divided by another wooden fence, is the forest. The trees are tall, towering over everything, pointing toward the grey sky like arrow points. From them, you hear whispers, faint and unclear. A soft chill cools your skin, and you shiver, the whispers disappearing as you and Reverend Shepherd walk around the side of the cottage.

The two of you come to a stop next to a large pile of wood.

Before you is a man with no shirt or doublet to be seen. His back is to the both of you, and your breath catches at seeing so much bare skin. Old scars mark his flesh, yet you're unsure if they're from some accident or from grislier means. The man's shoulders are broad, giving way to muscled arms and a tall frame. Of what you can observe, his figure is thick, honed from hard labor.

Lifting the axe above his head, he brings it down on the log in front of him. The wood splits cleanly.

"Simon." Reverend Shepherd's voice is smooth with authority.

At the sound of his voice, Simon straightens as if struck. Just his head turns, glancing over his shoulder, gaze sweeping over Reverend Shepherd and then landing on you. His eyes widen slightly, and then he fully pivots in your direction, giving you a clear view of his face.

Simon has scars here but they only add to his features. He is handsome with a strong jaw and prominent nose, and his eyes are a golden brown that remind you of sun rays through amber. The hair on his head is slightly askew from the gentle wind.

"Reverend," greets Simon.

While your husband addresses Shepherd, his gaze is entirely fixed on you. There is no smile, but there isn't a frown. You're unsure of Simon's first impression or what he might be thinking.

"Your wife arrived."

Reverend Shepherd makes you out to be little more than an object. A thing delivered.

"Thank you for escorting her here," replies Simon. "Had I known, I would have fetched her myself."

Reverend Shepherd holds up a hand. "Think nothing of it. The Lord values hard work, and her delivery is but His reward for all you do."

The corner of Simon's mouth twitches. He's still holding on to the axe. "Allow me to see you off, Reverend."

"I can see myself. A blessed day to you, Simon. And to an... easy marriage."

Easy. Obedient. Subservient.

You are to bow your head and grovel at your husband's feet for the rest of your days.

"God go with you, Reverend," replies Simon, taking a step forward in your direction.

The two of you silently watch Reverend Shepherd disappear beyond the cottage and down the path. Neither of you speaks, the air heavy with an unresolved tension. The wind kicks up, and you smell pine. A goat bleats, and you shift on your feet.

"Good morrow, Simon," you murmur, arms tightening around the haversack.

Simon blinks, shoulders relaxing, a warm smiling spreading across his face. It's genuine—full of kindness. Even the edges of his cheeks darken with color.

"Good morrow," he replies. "I—" He glances down at himself. "Forgive me. My appearance is unbecoming. Not how a husband greets his wife upon their first meeting."

You take in all the exposed skin and an itch forms in the tips of your fingers. A carnal desire floods upward, seizing your heart and mind. The urge you feel begs you to touch, to step forward and run your hands over that slick flesh. This man is your husband now. He belongs to you as much as you belong to him.

The Reverend would beat these thoughts out of you if he could read your mind.

But he cannot. The Good Reverend isn't here.

And your husband is half-undressed and blushing before you.

"Unexpected," you say slowly. "But nice."

His blush deepens.

Perhaps God has sent you someone you can be yourself with. Not completely,as any mention of the voices from the trees or the teeth in the ground would send you straight to a pyre, but someone who might listen. Truly, kindness and patience are all you want. If Simon is that, then you'll be happy.

Flustered further, Simon glances around like he can't quite look at you. Running his fingers through his hair with his free hand, he finally settles, resting the axe against the stump.

"I should bathe," he says, but not in response to you, more like he's simply speaking to the air.

You take a step forward, moving toward him, taking in more of his muscles. It is clear he has not been without. His largeness isn't from hard labor alone. Simon is eating well and often.

"Allow me." In seconds, Simon is before you, hands grasping the haversack.

"Thank you," you murmur softly as he tucks your belongings under his arm like it weighs nothing at all.

"Would you like to stay here? I won't be long."

"Where are you off to?"

Simon heads for the cottage and you follow. "Just on the other side of the fence is a stream."

You glance beyond the fence line. "May I join you?"

Somehow, Simon's face grows brighter. "I—join me?"

"The ship—"

"Of course," he says quickly. "I imagine there are few opportunities to bathe aboard a vessel. Fewer even for privacy."

You follow Simon to the door of the cottage. He enters but you linger a moment, hesitation halting your momentum.

Like a thunderous stampede, reality comes crashing down around you. There is no ship take you back. No mornings spent in the mist. This place is your home now, this man responsible for you until your death or his.

Simon emerges, shirt on but doublet unbuttoned. In his arms is a small basket. "This way," he says with a grin.

At the back of the property, Simon opens up a small gate and leads you to the stream. The forest is just beyond. Now that you're closer to the towering trees, that thrumming from earlier returns, and a sense of gnashing as if a wolf nips at your heels comes with it. Your gaze narrows as a dark shape moves between the trees. It is tall, and at first, you mistake it for another tree. Whispers rise up again, and is that—horns?

"I do not know your name."

You inhale sharply, hand pressed to your chest as Simon holds the small basket in front of him. You tell him, and then glance back at the forest.

"Something amiss?" he asks, matching your stare.

"No—I." You lick your lips. "The forest feels strange."

Simon nods. "It is. Most avoid it."

"Do you?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. Rosie always wanders off. Wish she'd just go down the road to John's but she favors the forest."

"Rosie?"

Simon laughs. "Apologies. Rosie is one of the goats."

"I see," you giggle.

"She’s a sweet thing. Sanderson favors her."

"Is that another goat?" you ask with a smile, reaching back to untie your apron.

"It is. John gave him to me as a kid. Raised him myself. He's a strong buck now. Hates everyone but me." He shrugs, and then leans forward as if to tell you a juicy secret. "Once bit Reverend Shepherd in the arse."

You burst out laughing, and then quickly cover your mouth. "I should not. God will punish me."

Simon's grin is wide and sweet. "In death, maybe. But as your husband, it's my responsibility to punish you."

"And pray tell, what would befit such a punishment?" you tease, undoing the buttons of your waistcoat.

Simon's smile falters, his gaze lingering on your chest. Your waistcoat hangs open, and the ties at the top of your shift are loose, revealing bare skin. Simon swallows, clearly enraptured by this small reveal of flesh.

A nervousness slips in, but it's not fear. A desire swirls low in your belly, a feeling you haven't felt since you were a young woman and a village boy you favored gifted you flowers.

This is your husband. He will know all of you eventually. You will share the same bed and give him as many children as your body is capable of. There is no need to be nervous.

"Simon?" you prompt, removing your waistcoat.

He coughs, clears his throat. "You're correct. The forest is strange. You are not to go in unless I'm with you." His change in demeanor briefly startles you.

"Is it dangerous?"

Simon shakes his head. "No. But folks in town are…fearful of what they don't understand. I don't want—I don't want anyone believing things about you that aren't true."

Witch.

"Why would they?" you whisper.

Witch.

"There's a tree,” continues Simon. “Large. Dark bark. Not like any other tree in the forest. At least none that we've seen. Reverend Shepherd and his wife wanted it cut down. Said it was a sign of the Devil. But Pendle's blacksmith took axe to tree. The blade broke upon impact. Not a scratch on the bark." Simon sighs and offers you soap from the basket. "Rosie tends to wander near it."

"Woods always hold strange things. Might be a nearby plant she likes chewing on."

"Perhaps. But I'll go after her if she does. It's not a place for you."

The water in the stream is incredibly clear, flowing steadily. Simon produces two washing cloths, offering you one before taking his, dipping it into the stream. It is not truly bathing, but it is refreshing, the cool water a calming entity against the slight burning beneath your skin.

There is silence afterward, and once clean, the two of you return to the cottage. Simon shows you your new home, already built to accommodate a family. There is a small barn for the animals, and coop for the chickens. You meet Rosie, an all-white beauty that constantly chews on your apron. Sanderson is big, black beast of a buck with grey horns curled backward and away from his head with eyes so pale they’re almost white.

Sanderson does not bite you, but he follows Simon around the homestead, lightly tapping Simon’s outer thigh with his horn like he wants attention.

The first night—that very night—Simon does not touch you. At least, not at first. He allows you your space, keeping his distance. But he observers silently, his gaze lingering on those flashes of bare skin. There is nothing harmful in his gaze, only a deep appreciation, and a longing you can’t quite place.

From what you were told to prepare you for this moment, you expect Simon to flop on top of you. For you to remain silent and still. To thank him afterward whether or not you enjoyed yourself.

Simon is patient. He is gentle. And above all, kind.

“May I touch you?”

You slip into bed in nothing but your shift. Simon is without, only wearing loose breeches that have seen better years.

You curl up next to Simon, facing him. Reaching out, Simon’s fingers lightly brush the curve of your bottom lip and then your jaw. Descending, his fingers find your throat. Then collarbone. He traces the neckline of your shift, and then his fingers tangle in the ties at the front, pulling them loose until your shift opens further.

“Do I tread too far?” he asks, softly.

His touch is awakening something. You sense a tingling, coiling outward.

“No,” you reply. “Continue.”

Simon’s hand slips between shift and your body. His palm is warm, and then he’s guiding it over one shoulder, exposing it to the cool air. Leaning in, Simon’s lips press to the curve of the joint. It is a small thing, but this one bit of contact causes you to shiver, for the tingling to further travel outward.

As he draws back, you tilt your head. Then it is Simon kissing you, and you accepting him. He is not forceful here. There is no claiming. It is exploration, and you find yourself reaching out, hands gliding over his chest.

He is all hardness, and yet nothing about him terrifies. Strength resides within him, but he is ever so gentle. Taking his time. Savoring.

The shift lowers as Simon pulls it downward. He palms one breast, and you gasp, breaking the kiss.

With a soft groan, Simon’s head dips, trailing kisses along your neck, moving over collarbone, descending down until his mouth explores the valley between your breasts, and then further still.

The tingling explodes outward into the tips of your fingers and toes. You are buzzing—the restlessness of the world coming with you.

The shift is over your hips. Down your thighs.

Gone.

Utterly gone.

Your legs part as Simon continues to trail kisses downward. His hands squeeze your thighs, and then he’s kissing you between your legs, lingering there as the buzzing ascends into a crackling that sucks all air from your lungs.

“Simon,” you gasp, fisting his hair.

He abruptly lifts his head, lips shiny in the light of the hearth. “Have I harmed you?”

Harmed you? No. Hardly.

“No,” you gasp. “I—this is unexpected.”

Simon places a kiss to the inside of your thigh before leaning on an elbow. “My understanding came from observing the farm animals.” A small smile spreads across his face. “But after service one Sunday, Reverend Shepherd rounded up all the unwed men. Told us the King was sending us wives.”

“Were you happy when he told you?”

“No,” chuckles Simon, absently stroking your thigh. “I was scared.”

“And now?”

“Still scared.”

“Do I terrify you?”

Simon gives a small shake of his head. “No. I am scared of how my heart feels.” You gently place your hand against his cheek. Simon turns into the touch. “Reverend Shepherd explained. Made this sound like a duty. A chore.” He sighs. “But I do not see how.”

Shifting, Simon drapes himself over you, gaze intense. “My heart is full but my mind is confused. God demands duty but I see no duty here.” He closes the distance, lips brushing over yours. “A wife is not a chore.”

Your fingers find the band of his breeches. They surrender easily under your touch. Legs widening, Simon settles between. There is a small tangle—a clumsy back and forth as the two of you adjust. It stings at first, but quickly fades, leaving you boneless as your bodies meet repeatedly.

You whisper his name, and Simon groans yours.

He shudders, burying his face against your next. Warmth and wetness blooms in your womb. You tangle yourself around him, holding Simon close.

Inside your chest, something cracks. Splits. Fractures.

Part of you believes it is just this moment between husband and wife, but a whisper runs beneath, and a slithering like that of a serpent. The forest is creeping in—pushing in. Making room where there is none.

But it is quick, and it is fleeting.

It is after the first night that the two of you truly begin to explore. Simon starts with simple touches, and you accept them all, wanting to understand to be close to someone. He is happy you’re here with him, and you’re happy to be his.

Unlike the rest of the men in town, Simon listens, and values your opinion. His jokes are terrible, and his willingness to subvert and ignore Reverend Shepherd’s doctrine makes him the pariah. The only time the two of you make it into town is for Sunday service, and while townsfolk are friendly, they don’t interact with him unless they have to.

Between it all, you help out on the farm, tending to the animals, and whispering sweet encouragement to the crops when Simon isn’t looking. They all flourish under your care, the land bountiful and beautiful. When others suffer, you and Simon’s land remains strong and steadfast. He is quick to share in the wealth—to take care of others.

A home is built.

Love flourishes.

And for three years, life is peaceful.

The forest hardly whispers. The teeth do not gnash. There is quiet in the wood, and you see no glance of horns.

Simon's hand rests upon your stomach. He turns on his side, pressing a kiss to a spot just above your navel. As he descends, you playfully shove his head away.

"I cannot," you laugh. "I am sore everywhere."

Simon grins and then pushes up, stealing a kiss before rolling over you and heading to the mantel above the hearth. Retrieving his bible, Simon returns, settling back in beside you. The leather cover is worn in places.

His gaze takes in your nakedness. “Stay like that for me.”

You are uncovered and bare before him. Simon’s seed rests heavy between your thighs.

Opening the bible does not result in reading scripture. Simon picks up a charcoal stick. Turning the bible vertically, Simon starts to sketch.

Neither of you read from it. There is nothing to be read. The pages are covered with Simon’s sketches. Most of them are of you—of pieces of you—even the place that is well-loved even now. There are less lewd images etches across the parchment. All of the animals are there. So is the cottage.

If someone—anyone—were to discover these drawings, they’d blame you.

A hex. A curse. A spell.

You have turned him from God.

But Simon doesn’t think so, and you care not. God has given you nothing but this man. Everything the two of you are is only because of the effort and love the two of you have brought. God did nothing but drop you at Simon’s feet.

You thank Him for it, but nothing else. And if that will send you into hellfire, then that is where you will reside.

In silence, you observe your husband. Simon’s gaze darts from the page to you and back again. His bottom lip is between his teeth, and the middle of his brow is creased with concentration. You remain as you are until he turns the bible around to show you.

There you are, sketched over a page of Leviticus.

“Your talents are lost on farming.”

Simon chuckles and then he closes the bible, placing it upon the small bedside table before returning to you. His hands explore, reaching. Then you're opening again, allowing him in.

Sleep is peaceful, and Simon does not wake you in the morning when he leaves to check on the animals.

It is his firm hand shaking you awake.

“Simon?” You rub at your eyes, yawning.

“Rosie is gone.”

“Again,” you groan, digging around in the bedding to find your discarded shift. “That’s the third time this week, Simon.” Finding it, you slip it over your head, retrieving your stockings.

“Keep finding her near the tree.”

A whisper of a voice brushes against your ear and you swat at it like a pesky fly.

You frown. “All three times?”

Simon sighs, and nods. “I’ll go for a look.” Kissing the top of your head, Simon retrieves his musket. “Be back before supper.”

Simon does not come back before supper.

The food grows cold.

And when it’s entirely dark, and the whispers from the wood become overwhelming, you take a lantern, and rush up to road to John Price’s homestead.

John takes a horse to town. Returns with a small party of men.

“It’s best you not go with us. Won’t know what we’ll find.”

“He’s my husband, John. I’m going.”

With lanterns lit, and hunting dogs are your heels, you enter the woods.

The moon is swallowed up as if eaten by a beast, plunging everything around you into utter darkness. The only light you have is that of your lantern and of the other lanterns carried by the menfolk.

And yet, it does not seem like enough.

The darkness here is eternal, and all around you is a dreadful silence.

“Simon!”

“Can you hear us, Simon!”

The only response is the echoing of your collective voices. No insect buzzing. No owls hoot. Nothing scurries underfoot. Even the leaves and twigs you step on are absent of sound.

The forest is consuming, eating away all noise until the only thing you hear are the thoughts in your head.

At the back of the pack, you do not see the tree. Don’t hear the cries for help.

It isn’t until John is approaching you, urging you away that you know something is wrong. Dreadfully and utterly wrong.

There are teeth in the New World. Teeth in the ground.

Jaws. A maw.

It has eaten your heart.

Chewed.

Swallowed.

Licked the tips of its fingers.

The forest has devoured. Consumed your husband for a meal.

Reverend Sheperd prays for three days over Simon's body. When he leaves, the women gather around you. Each day, one or two depart, and by the end of the second week, there is no one but you holding vigil.

Simon does not stir though his breathing remains steady. The town likely whispers of the Devil's work, that Simon's long sleep is a curse.

Do they blame you?

Perhaps.

Maybe.

You cannot form enough resolve to care what the townspeople think. If they do blame you, they'd have to drag you from your home by the hair. You’ll draw blood and break bone if anyone attempts to remove you from Simon’s side.

Tucking the blanket in, you curl up next to your husband, cheek resting against his shoulder. He smells of the forest—damp leaves, crushed berries, and sharp pine. Breathing deep, you commit your husband's scent to memory.

Life is a fragile, fickle thing. The thought of growing old here, of giving Simon children, of watching them grow and have families of their own filled you with such purpose again after your father’s betrayal. It is not the future you expected for yourself, but it is the one you’ve found happiness with.

"Come back to me," you murmur, tears forming in the corners of your eyes. They fall, dampening Simon's skin. "Come back, my love. Come back."

Simon remains silent and still.

Night arrives and then departs, bringing the morning with it. No one comes to visit. No one comes to check on either of you. Responsibility is on your shoulders now. Without your guiding hand, the farm will fall into decay, the fencing will rot, weeds will overtake the crops, and animals will starve. A part of you wants to hand it over to God, to allow him to lead.

But God did not protect your husband. He looked away, leaving Simon to his fate.

A deep sigh escapes you, gracing the air with your accepted reluctance. Slowly, you lift your head from Simon's shoulder. He has not changed in these two weeks. Without food or water, Simon should show signs of wasting. But there is no hint there is anything amiss.

"I will fix this," you say, addressing Simon as if he'll answer.

You rest your palm against the side of his face. Warmth radiates from him, but your touch does not rouse him from his sleep.

A sharp howl pierces the air.

It is not a wolf or dog. This sounds like agony. Like despair. Like a dark creature pulling itself from the earth.

Turning abruptly toward the door, every limb solidifies, turning your blood to stone.

Something is out there. Something that does not belong.

Slipping on your shoes, you creep toward Simon's hunting musket. Grasping it, you reach for the blackpower and musket balls, preparing it like Simon showed you. The howl ceases, but your blood remains chilled like morning frost. The hunting musket is heavy, and the sweat in your palms makes holding it difficult. You can hardly keep it upright.

Grasping it, you hold it in the way he showed you, heading for the door. Pressing your ear to the door, you hear nothing. Not a sound.

Reaching out, you unlatch the door, guiding it open just enough to point the barrel outward and to glimpse the morning.

Nothing stirs. Nothing moves but the tall grass and the corn stalks.

Opening the door wider, you cautiously step outside. Your gaze scans the dirt. No footprints of animal or man.

The air vibrates, and beneath your feet, you sense a creeping static. Tilting your head, you listen—not with your ears but with all your senses, tapping into the ground like your mother taught you.

A tug comes. A gentle pull that lulls your attention leftward.

You take a step in the direction of the feeling, the creeping static intensifying until it suddenly disappears, as if pulled from existence.

"Child." The voice—no, voices—speak with two tongues. "How fares thy husband?"

Turning slowly, you glimpse not man or animal but a combination of the two. The creature stands at nearly twice your height on two cloven hooves. Its head is that of a black goat with red eyes and horns so dark they resemble the night sky. Draped in black robes, and hands clasped in front, you notice they aren't hands at all.

Not human hands, but claws. Talons. Long and spindly like thin twigs.

"Devil," you whisper, because what else could this creature be but a servant of Satan.

The creature only blinks. "To the Good Reverend Shepherd and his flock, I am devil and demon," it says, imitating the voice of the stern religious leader. Switching back to its natural voice, the creature continues. "To others, a guardian. A friend. A god."

You aim the firing end toward the creature. "How do you know of my husband?”

"He came to my tree looking for his goat." The creature’s head cocks to the side as if listening for something. “Rosie. That is the name he called before all went silent.”

The tree.

The one made of dark bark.

The one that breaks the axe on first strike.

"Was it you that harmed him?" you accuse, voice shaking. Sweat pools in your palms, the metal of the musket slippery in your hand.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" it purrs.

“Answer me! Was it you that put hands upon my husband?”

"It is not Godly to accuse thy neighbor of treachery when proof is lacking.”

"But you don't deny it?" you snap.

The creature is silent for a long moment as if frozen in ice. “No,” it finally says. "I did not cull your husband.”

"Who?" When he doesn't answer, you ask again. "Who?"

“A man of flesh.”

“Which man?”

"Wouldst thou like revenge?" the creature repeats, the dual voices reverberating in your chest.

“Answer me, demon. Or be gone.”

“Does my appearance offend?” it asks slowly. “You…puritans seem bent on burning.” It unclasps its spindle-fingers. “Would you prefer a change?”

"Whether devil or guardian or beast, my ears do not wish to hear more. Be gone."

"No."

No.

Startled, you hesitate. And then your resolve bleeds back into bone. Raising the weapon higher, you plant your feet into the ground, squaring your shoulders. "I said—"

The creature raises its hand, palm upward, forming a fist. The barrel of the weapon bends skyward. Fires. Smoke and ash fill the air.

Blinded, you cry out, falling upon the ground, arm over your eyes protectively. The musket falls from your arms.

"Again, child," comes its voice—a whisper in your ear. "Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You swing your arm outward and only meet air. With a touch of hysteria, you swipe your arms out and around you, expecting to meet solid flesh.

There is nothing. Nothing.

"Be calm, child. Calm."

Chest heaving, you blink through the pain, searching for the house.

Simon. You need to go to him. To protect him.

The world is in color but it is fuzzy. Unclear. The dirt beneath your palms is rough as you crawl, digging into your skin, stinging until you know blood blooms in the wounds.

"Go away," you whisper. The creature does not answer. "Leave. Leave my husband and I in peace."

As your vision clears, a dark shape steps in front of you. The creature towers, hands outstretched placatingly. "Listen, child. Listen."

"Simon," you whisper, every limb shaking as you try to push yourself up to a seated position.

"God abandoned Simon. Abandoned you."

Your arms give out, and you collapse. With every remaining morsel of resolve, you start to drag yourself through the dirt.

"Simon."

"A shadow darkens your door. Not that of any devil—but of human suspicion. Townsfolk consume gossip like plague consumes a newborn babe."

Dirt collects under your nails.

“Suspicion. Godly suspicion. Devil-spun no doubt but by human tongue.”

You drag yourself a little further.

“Witch.”

“Leave us,” you murmur, voice weak and cracked.

Your vision clears a bit more—the sting receding. It is enough to push up to your knees.

“I hear all,” the creature says. “No wooden board or stone or packed dirt can hide a whispered word.”

Witch.

“There is nothing the Godly despise more than a woman alone in the world.”

Its words cut deep. They tear into you, ripping out the dreaded truth. The townsfolk will lay blame. And what a perfect perpetrator you are. Why would Simon Riley, one of their own flock, befall such a fate unless someone had done it to him.

Witch.

On shaky legs, you face the creature before you. Its red eyes have softened. Pity rests there, and you do not know what to make of it.

The goat head shifts, gaze moving to somewhere within the house. You glance behind you and only see the open door. When you glance back, the creature is gone.

"Wouldst thou like revenge?"

You spin and find the goat standing inside the doorway. He's too large to fit. He's bent in half, peering out at you.

"Get out of my home, demon."

It only blinks, and steps out of view. You rush toward the door, charging inside, finding no one. The room spins as you head for Simon. All you want is to be beside him. If this is a punishment, then so be it, but you will weather it at his side.

Kneeling beside your bed, you grasp Simon’s hand. You bring it to your lips, placing a kiss against his knuckles.

"I'm seeing things, Simon," you whisper.

Spindle-fingers slide over your shoulder, the creature’s palm coming to rest against the joint. It is no hallucination. There is no iciness, but warmth. Not hot—not an inferno as Reverend Shepherd always preaches—but a comforting one. Like a burning hearth in the middle of winter.

Closing your eyes, you listen.

There is no static. What assails your senses is this creature’s age. There are stars and dust in his aura—of sleeping beneath mountains—of a time before trees when there were only teeth.

“I can heal him,” comes its two-toned voice. “Make him whole.”

In this, you hear the truth. There are no lies. The words weave around you, spinning and encasing you like angel wings.

“Pray tell me, stranger. What price for such an offer?”

“Stranger,” muses the creature. “Thou hast named me.”

“What price?” you prompt.

A beat.

“You.”

“Me?”

Stranger bends until it’s crouched next to you. “I shall heal your husband. Ward him from harm and illness. He will live to an old age. Pass peacefully in his sleep.”

“A nice thought,” you murmur, gazing on Simon’s face.

“But in return, you shall come with me.”

You turn to face Stranger. It gazes at you intently, waiting for a response. As you peer into its red depths, something dark—tentacle-like—slithers in the red and promptly disappears.

“I have nothing to offer.”

Removing its twig-like claws from your shoulder, it presses the point of one to your forehead. At contact, the air comes alive, coursing through vein and bone until your skin glows with a deep radiance of brilliant white light.

“A blessing doth dwell,” its two voices sing. The power surges and then recedes as Stranger removes its claw. “Join me. Be my bride. Walk the forests.”

“Agreements are not freely given. I come from a world where the Fae walk. Bargains favor wing and wit. Not mortal flesh.”

“I am Elder,” purrs Stranger. “Trickery is foul tasting.”

“But after you heal him? After I agree to go with you? What then?”

“You shall see him not. Never know his touch. All memory of you will be erased. He nor the townsfolk will remember you. A hint, maybe. A feeling. But it shall always slip away.”

A life without Simon. A life without his gentle touches and drawings by candlelight. You will bear him no children. Never again enjoy the carnal rite that is your most sacred vow.

Yet, he will live.

Simon will thrive.

You detect no deception. The air is still and calm. No tension.

“What must I do?”

Stranger turns and you follow its gaze.

Upon the table is a large book. Ornate. Shiny. Gold-plated. Open.

You swallow. “I’m…poor with my letters.”

“It needs not names but blood. Just a drop.” Stranger elongates. Still too small for the space, it bends its upper half to accommodate, its back scraping against the ceiling. “Sign the book,” he prompts.

“Forgive me, Simon.”

Pressing your lips to the back of Simon’s hand, you send forth a silent prayer. Pushing up, and leaning over him, you place a second kiss to his forehead. You breathe him in, infusing the memory until it resembles vines, tangling the essence of Simon into your brain.

Retreating, you offer up your palm, splaying your fingers in extension.

Stranger gently takes it, bringing it over the golden book.

Pointed claw meets human flesh.

A sharp sting.

A pause.

A bead of blood wells.

Hovering. Hovering.

Then—

The dark bead lingers on the blank page.

Silence.

And then a sucking sound as the parchment absorbs the blood.

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highladyandromeda · 8 months ago

Text

Shadows of the Heart

Prologue

Azriel x Reader

Summary: After years apart, Y/n returns to Velaris, bearing the weight of sacrifice and secrets from her past. Reunited with Rhysand and his Inner Circle, she navigates the complexities of rekindled friendships and unresolved tensions.

Y/n’s powers are inspired by Scarlet Witch from Marvel. She is a sorceress living in Vallahan, with her family hailing from the night court.

Word count: 1k-ish

Warnings: mentions of blood, wounds, but nothing particularly graphic

Azriel stood off to the side, quietly observing the cozy scene in the House of Wind's living room. There was Feyre, nestled comfortably on Rhys's lap, her giggles echoing softly as she leaned in to catch his whispered words. In the corner, Amren made an art out of lounging, a smirk playing on her lips as she peered over her wine glass. Cassian had wrapped an arm around Nesta, her head bent together with Gwen and Emerie, engrossed in a lively discussion about their latest read. The ambient buzz of conversation, punctuated by the occasional clink of glasses filled with Rhys's impressive wine, created a backdrop of contented harmony.

Azriel tried his best to shove aside the twinge of jealousy that crept up on him, watching his brothers and their bliss. He didn't want to feel like just an onlooker, basking in the warmth of their happiness, yet here he was. His mind wandered to Elain, who had opted for an early night. Would her presence have allowed him to drift away from this feeling, to find solace in her gentle smiles and tender gazes? It seemed chasing fae after fae with hearts as bright as the sun was his lot in life. Yearning for a sliver of light in his shadowed existence, a beacon like Elain, or Mor, someone to take him out—that's when he noticed it—his shadows, usually so still, began to stir anxiously around him.

In danger, in danger, they whispered, urgency threading through their murmurs.

In pain. Falling, falling, the ones closest murmured, their voices escalating into a desperate shout.

Springing to his feet, Azriel scanned the room, brushing off the puzzled glances thrown his way. Then, a sharp thud echoed, quickly followed by a cry that cut through the relaxed chatter. In a heartbeat, he was dashing towards the balcony, with Rhys and Cassian hot on his heels, all three propelled by the sudden urgency to uncover the source of the disturbance that had just intruded upon their peaceful evening.

Bursting through the balcony doors, Azriel was met with a scene that defied all expectations. Chaotic runes smeared across the floor in hasty, overlapping strokes forming an intricate magical circle. At its heart lay two figures: a faerie kneeling, her skin so pale it shimmered with almost ethereal light, ebony locks sprawling untidily about her. Her eyes, aglow with an intense crimson, matching the runes surrounding her, pierced through the night. Dark stains marred her robes—wounds, he realized, still seeping blood from her arm and leg. She cradled Mor’s head in her lap, their gazes locking in a moment so profound, that Azriel felt the world around him come to a standstill. He swore he felt his heart stutter, a memory long forgotten trying to urge its way out. Mor, his attention snapped to, was equally pale, her lips tinged a sickly shade of blue.

“What did you do to–” Just as Azriel began, he saw the female look behind him, exclaiming, “Rhys!

“Y/n?” Rhys ran to her, his hands frantic, unsure of whether to hold her or lean for Mor.

“Rhys” She began again, her breaths coming out in spurts. She grabbed his hand as he leaned down to hold her, “Poison…she’s been poisoned, needs tonic–”

Barely finishing her sentence, her eyes rolled back and she collapsed, Rhys’s hands halting her from hitting the floor.

“Call for Madja” Rhy yelled. “Mor’s been poisoned and perhaps Y/n as well.”

Before Azriel could react, Cassian stepped up, carefully lifting Mor, while Rhys carried Y/n, both moving swiftly back into the sanctuary of the house.

They found a bedroom with two twin beds, laying one on each.

Madja, a whirlwind of expertise, raced around both, focusing her skills on stabilizing Mor's precarious state. Meanwhile, Rhys was tasked with a grim duty, pressing down on Y/n's wounds, which despite the salves and a plethora of cloths, continued bleeding relentlessly.

"It's the runes," Amren interjected, her voice slicing through the turmoil like a blade. All eyes, save for Madja's, who momentarily lessened the fervor of her tonic mixing, turned to her.

"She utilized ancient magic," Amren stated, her declaration hanging in the air, dense with implications, yet devoid of further explanation, prompting Rhys to press for clarity.

"And that means?"

The urgency lacing Rhys's voice caught Azriel off-guard. Who was this female, who seemed so familiar and why was she so important to Rhys? He felt a spark of anger at the way Rhys held her, despite knowing Rhys's heart belonged to Feyre.

"It means she offered her blood as a sacrifice. Likely to transport herself and Mor here. Inspect Mor for runes," Amren directed without pause.

Before Amren's words could fully settle, Madja cut through the sleeves of Mor’s dress, revealing an arm ensnared by crimson runes, mirroring those that marred the balcony.

It was then that Azriel's senses sharpened, recognizing the scent that pervaded the air—a metallic tang he had initially overlooked in the chaos. Blood. Those runes, those symbols, all wrought from blood. Recollections of the massive circles they had traversed to enter this scene played back in his mind, causing his stomach to churn. It was reflected in Feyre's gasp as she rushed to aid Y/n, while Rhys was overtaken by a wave of nausea.

The room, already tense with fear and uncertainty, was engulfed in a silent horror as Madja's voice, though trembling, broke through the silence. "She's correct. The blood serves as an anchor for Morrigan's soul. The runes must bind Morrigan to..."

"Y/n's," Rhys provided, his voice steady in the thick silence.

"Yes, to Y/n's very essence," Madja concluded. "This means Y/n will continue to suffer, to bleed, until Morrigan shows signs of recovery. In exchange.”

A heavy silence settled over them, punctuated only by the rhythmic thud of Madja grinding her herbs, as the gravity of their situation unfolded.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Author's note: Hi everyone! I’ve been a lurker in the acotar fandom for ages, this is my first time writing, so do let me know what you think. I'm not totally sure how far I want to take this series, but I do have longer chapters planned ahead.

#azriel au #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #azriel x y/n #acotar series #acotar #acomaf #acowar #azriel x oc #rhysand #morrigan #acotar fanfiction #azriel acotar

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hanniebaeee · 4 months ago

Text

The Deal

Fae! Hyunjin x fem! Reader

Warnings: illness, talking about baby making

Genre: fae au, fluff, suggestive?

Summary: Your best friend Jennie is sick, and all the healers have given up on her. And you make a hard choice of bargaining with a fae to save your friend.

a/n: My entire body is still buzzing with the energy from last night and I don't want this to ever stop 😭 I love these boys so much!!!

You knew that they were irresistibly beautiful, but you didn't think he would be this irresistible. The fae stood in front of you, his dark eyes and golden hair glimmering under the moonlight. He looked way too arrogant, not something you would normally like, but this one was just....irresistible. Ok sorry.

But the situation was such that none of these things actually mattered. Your best friend Jennie was dying. She had a disease that none of the village healers could understand, and so none of them could help her. She was in a lot of pain and seeing her suffering day after day was torture. Her family has already given up, but not you.

This was your last resort. This just had to work.

This particular fae, Hyunjin, as he told you his name was, had a mischievous smile on his face as he studied you. His eyes swept your body shamelessly, and you want to punch his beautiful face, but you were the one in need here. And beggers can't be choosers.

'Please.' You beg, holding your mother's ruby ring in your hands as an offering. This was all you had of her. Giving it away was hard. But if it would save Jennie, then that's ok.

'I'll do anything. Please save Jennie. She's dying, and the healers say only fae magic can help her now.' You plead.

Hyunjin leaned casually against a gnarled oak tree and eyed you. That smile was still there, as he asked, 'Anything?'

You nod eagerly. 'Yes, anything.'

With sly grin, Hyunjin stepped closer. And you didn't miss the way his eyes twinkled with mischief.

'Very well, Y/N. I'll save your friend, but in exchange, I require your firstborn.'

There was a pause, as you started at the fae in front of you with wide eyes. Your mouth fell open, and your heart raced. Deep inside, you wanted to scream, but then Jennie's cries of pain echoed in your ears.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you whisper, 'Deal.'

Hyunjin nodded in acknowledgment and snapped his finger. And he was gone in a swirl of faerie dust.

You stood under the moonlit clearing in the woods - with hope.

When you saw Jennie the next day, your heart squeezed in pain. She didn't look any better. And her small whimpers of pain only made you weaker. You never cried over her, but that day you did.

But all of a sudden, she wasn't crying as much as she did before. You watched the color return to her pale cheeks and she was standing on her two feet. Then, taking small steps. And then one day, she was your old Jennie again - with that playful smile and her jokes. You couldn't thank Hyunjin enough.

And when you thought of Hyunjin, it was difficult to think of your deal. How were you ever going to do that?

Unless.....

You walk back to the clearing in the woods on a full moon night. And there he sat, on a tree stump, looking as ethereal as he did last time, a small smile playing on his plump lips. He had a firefly perched on his fingertip and he held it out towards you.

And just as you took one step closer, he blew. And there were a hundred fireflies all around you. It was the most magical scene you've ever seen. You watch with wide eyes, as they start disappearing one by one, until it is just the two of you again.

'Thank you so much!' You say, your voice, respectful.

Hyunjin just nodded and tilted his head sideways, just watching you.

'Jennie is well now. So now let's talk about our deal.' You say, holding your head high. 'So, when do we get started?'

Hyunjin looked amused and confused altogether.

'Started? Started on what?' He asked, and you wanted to laugh at that look on his pretty face.

'Well, you wanted my firstborn.' You say with a shrug, but Hyunjin doesn't miss the mischievous glint in your eye. 'You didn't expect someone else to do all the hard work, now, did you?'

The fae's expression faltered for a moment there. His frown relaxed, and he gave you a blank stare.

'You actually meant...Oh.'

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth with your hand. You wish that Jennie was here to see this. Oh no, you can't tell her though, she would murder you for doing this in the first place.

'Do you even understand what you're saying, human?' Hyunjin asked, his cheeks colouring, but a hint of arrogance creeping in.

'Made you a deal, didn't I?' You ask, folding your hands against your chest. 'What do you want me to do?'

'If you haven't noticed, there are plenty of good men in your village.' Hyunjin pointed out.

'None I'm interested in making a baby with, sorry.' You say, pursing your lips and shaking your head.

Hyunjin sighed.

'Quick question, what exactly are you planning to do with my baby anyway?' You ask.

Hyunjin looks so done with you already, but he sighs and says, 'That's none of your business. But if you must know, I intend to raise them in the fae court and -'

'You want to raise my baby in the fae court?' Your question has him sighing again. 'Don't you hate humans or something? Then why raise a human baby?'

'Not just any human baby.' Hyunjin muttered under his breath.

'Sounds like you've got it all figured out.' You tease. 'Except for... you know what.'

Hyunjin just glared at you and you laughed again.

'Usually people would cry and beg to let them off the hook for such a deal.' He pointed out. 'You seem surprisingly relaxed about this.'

'Like I said. If you're gonna contribute, I have no reason to keep your child from you.' You say and Hyunjin just laughs.

A beautiful beautiful sound. He starts walking away and you jog to keep up. And as you walk, the fireflies are back again, casting a gentle glow around you.

'So.' Hyunjin began after a moment, his tone teasing and incredibly sexy. 'What does this mean? You want to stay till the baby arrives?'

You glance at him, eyes wide. You didn't really expect him to agree. Seeing you falter had Hyunjin grinning.

'What?' He asked, stopping suddenly and stepping in front of you. 'You wanted this.'

'Of course.' You said, trying to regain your composure. 'You would send me away after the baby arrives?'

'Darling, what do you expect? Hm?' Hyunjin's voice is surprisingly soft and his eyes are fixed on your face.

'Maybe you don't send me away and let me help raise our child. Maybe.' Your own voice is so soft and low, Hyunjin had to lean forward, his face so close to your's so that he could hear.

'Is that what you really want?' He asked. 'Do you understand that once you cross over to my realm you can't just return to your human life? It's complicated and I will not be able to help you come back if you change your mind.'

You nod slowly, trying to get this into your head. So, you will never see Jennie again. Your father won't even notice that you're not there anymore. Just like he doesn't even seem to remember your mother anymore. And the thought of your mother had your heart squeezing. There is nothing in that village for you, except Jennie. She would understand.

Hyunjin seemed to know what you're thinking because he steps closer.

'Are you sure you want to be thinking like that, sweet thing?' He asked, placing a hand on your shoulder.

'Jennie would understand. She knows I'm... with my mother gone...' You stutter, and Hyunjin just slips that arm around your shoulders.

'Ok.'

That's all he said. Your head snapped up, searching his face for mischief.

'Are you serious right now?' You ask, narrowing your eyes at him.

Hyunjin's laughter rang through the trees, echoing magically.

'I suppose so.' He said with a shrug. 'Why not.'

'Do you do this often?' You ask, your heart stopping for a second at that thought.

'Excuse me, who do you think I am?' He asked, looking embarrassed.

'I just want to know what I'm looking at. I'm not great at sharing.' You grumble and Hyunjin laughs again.

'You're something else!' He said, eyes wide with surprise. 'And no. I don't go around picking humans to make babies with, ok? You're the first. And last. No sharing. Happy?'

'Happy.' You confirm and he just shakes his head in disbelief.

You glance back to look at the fireflies hovering around you and Hyunjin as he takes your hand and leads you deeper into the forest.

'Is there a reason you asked me for my firstborn?' You ask suddenly. 'Or, you would've asked this to any woman who may have approached you?'

Hyunjin turns to look at you and says, 'I've had my eyes on a pretty human girl for a while now. I saw her one night, as she came into the woods to cry. And I've seen her almost every day ever since. And then imagine my surprise when she calls out for help.'

You stare at him, shocked.

'It's just my lucky day.' He said with a chuckle and you blush.

'Come on my princess. We have work to do.' He whispers, and you feel goosebumps all over your body as you let him lead you into his world.

#skz #stray kids #skz stay #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin #hyunjin x y/n #hyunjin x you #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin fluff #hyunjin smut #hyunjin fic #skz x y/n #skz x you #skz x reader #the deal by hanniebaeee

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plushie-neopet · 10 months ago

Text

Teald: I think we're going to have to kill this guy, Heiden. Kaferheide: [badly hiding how eager he is to do so] Aw drat.

#my art #my ocs #friend oc #teald #teal #kaferheide #heiden #faerie #lenny #starry #buzz #silly sketch #not putting this in the main tag

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littlest-w01f · 3 months ago

Text

Enchanting

Eris x Witch!OC (Anastasiya)

ERIS MASTERLIST

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: Rhysand betrays the female who thought he loved her, she leaves to find comfort in Autumn

Cw: Pregnancy, Rhys cheating

part one

Anastasiya was nearly bouncing on the seat she was sitting in all excited, Madja had taken her blood to test her, she felt it in her, but she wanted it to be confirmed by a healer. She'd asked Azriel to accompany her who watched her with a smile.

She'd been with Rhysand for a couple centuries, he'd asked her to marry her before he'd been held prisoner in Under the Mountain, and now that he'd been back for a couple of months. Anastasiya and Rhysand had resumed the wedding planning in full force, and she was excited to marry the male she loved.

As they waited anxiously for Madja's return with the results, Azriel reached over to gently squeeze Anastasiya's hand, offering comfort and reassurance. His hazel eyes sparkled with warmth and affection as he gazed at his oldest friend.

In the brief time since Rhysand's return, the Velaris court had buzzed with renewed energy and joy. The Night Court's High Lord and his bride-to-be were the epitome of star-crossed lovers, their bond stronger than any curse or darkness. Their upcoming nuptials promised to be a spectacular celebration, blending the elegance of Faerie with the passion of the mortal realm.

Anastasiya's mind wandered to the lavish preparations underway - the intricate lace adorning her wedding gown, the fragrant blooms that would adorn the ceremony space, and the delectable feasts planned for the reception.

In recent weeks, Rhysand had started to spend a lot of his time with Feyre, the female who had helped free them, Anastasiya was thankful to her for bringing her fiance back and she just hoped Rhysand would be as happy with the new development.

"It's positive, Ana," Madja smiled, walking into her room, "You're with child."

"I knew it." Anastasiya squealed, a wide smile full of happiness spread across her face, jumping up to hug Azriel, his wings and shadows wrapping around her in comfort and almost in protection, she rested her hand on her abdomen, stroking her soft stomach slightly, "Rhys would be so happy!"

The news brought a wave of euphoria to the usually composed female. Her heart swelled with joy, her future filled with hope and promise. A baby, a tiny piece of herself and Rhysand, growing inside her womb, it was both terrifying and exhilarating.

Azriel pulled her closer, his strong arms enveloping her as she leaned into him. He could see the love and fear flicker in her eyes, a reflection of the myriad emotions coursing through her veins. But he was there, steadfast and unyielding, a pillar of support.

"You will make a wonderful mother, my love," he murmured softly, his voice carrying a gentle undertow of pride. "I'm going to be an uncle." Azriel chuckled, hugging Anastasiya tight, chin resting on the top of her head, "Mother, that's amazing."

Madja smiled, handing Anastasiya the results she got from her blood, she was healthy and pregnant. Pregnant with the heir of the Night Court.

"Don't you have someone to tell, Stasiya?" Azriel smiled softly, watching her giddy with happiness.

"Rhysie! Gotta tell Rhys!" Anastasiya nodded, wearing her heels and rushing out

With a final reassuring pat on her back, Azriel watched as Anastasiya rushed off, her excitement palpable even from afar. It warmed his heart to see her so happy. Azriel turned to Madja to pay her.

Anastasiya's mind was filled with ways she could tell Rhysand as she looked everywhere for him. She reached close to the cabin by winnowing when she'd decided she would tell him face to face normally.

"Morri!" Anastasiya smiled seeing Mor, but when Mor smiled, it didn't reach her eye. "Do you know where Rhys is? Is he inside? He told me he'd be in Illyria... I've been everywhere." She spoke fast.

"Ana..." Mor looked at her with alarm in her eyes, "Come on, honey, Rhys is back in Velaris."

Anastasiya looked at her with confusion, "No, he's not...? I searched for him everywhere there, he's got to be around here."

Mor grabbed her hand to pull her away, not wanting to see what was happening inside the cabin, "Come now, Ana, let's go to the townhouse."

"Mor is something wrong?" Anastasiya tilted her head at the frown on Mor.

"Nothing, everything is fine, we should go." Mor tried to pull Anastasiya but it was futile, her body didn't move an inch.

All the joy the news of being pregnant had made her died the second she ignored Mor and looked through the cabin windows and saw them, Rysand was inside, cuddling Feyre from behind while Feyre was cooking.

Anastasiya stood frozen, her world shattering around her as she witnessed the intimate scene unfolding before her eyes. The man she loved, the father of her unborn child, cradling another female in his arms with such tenderness and affection. It was a sight that seared itself into her memory, each detail etched with agonizing clarity.

The once vibrant colours of the world seemed to fade, replaced by a dull, aching grey. The joyous news of her pregnancy now felt like a cruel joke, a mockery of the life she thought she had built with Rhysand.

Tears streamed down her face as she stumbled backwards, unable to tear her gaze away from the betrayal playing out before her. "What... What is that?"

The love and tenderness between Rhysand and Feyre, once a mere acquaintance, now blossomed into something deeper. A pang of betrayal and hurt coursed through Anastasiya's veins, threatening to consume her.

Her initial elation at at starting a family with the man she adored, crumbled beneath the weight of this revelation. Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes as she struggled to comprehend the magnitude of the situation.

Mor's attempts to guide her away only served to fuel Anastasiya's anguish. She couldn't tear her gaze from the window, transfixed by the sight of Rhysand's hands caressing Feyre's waist, his lips trailing kisses along her neck.

"Ana..." Mor began softly, still keeping a distance.

"What's that," She asked again, tears stinging her eyes, "Don't lie." Anastasiya's chest tightened, each breath becoming more laboured as she grappled with the reality of the situation. Her world seemed to tilt on its axis, the ground shifting beneath her feet.

She blinked away the tears welling in her eyes, trying to focus on Mor's concerned face. Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms as she fought against the rising tide of despair.

"This isn't what it looks like, Ana," Mor said, her voice laced with empathy. "Feyre saved us all. We owe her our lives."

"But…" Anastasiya's voice trailed off, the word caught in her throat. She couldn't deny the evidence staring back at her. Rhysand's hands on Feyre, the way he looked at her, it was clear how he felt about the female, because it was exactly how he looked at her.

"They're mates..." Mor whispered softly, "Rhysand asked us to not say anything, I didn't want to hurt you."

The words hit Anastasiya like a physical blow, knocking the wind out of her lungs. Mates. The bond that transcended all others, the connection that bound two souls together for eternity. It explained the intimacy, the familiarity between Rhysand and Feyre.

A bitter laugh escaped her lips, tinged with a mixture of disbelief and pain. "Mates," she repeated, the word tasting like ashes on her tongue. "And here I thought I was his, that we were building a life together."

The realization that she had been nothing more than a placeholder, a temporary comfort until his true mate came along, cut deeper than any blade ever could. Tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision as she stumbled backwards, away from the cabin and the shattering of her dreams. "I need to leave."

"Please, let him explain. Let me explain." Mor reached out for her but Anastasiya recoiled.

Anastasiya shook her head, tears streaming down her cheeks as she backed away from Mor. The very thought of listening to explanations, of hearing Rhysand justify his actions, was unbearable. "I don't want to hear it."

The Night Court shook with the cry of the furious little witch that stood in the townhouse, Anastasiya sobbed, filled with anger more than sadness as she pushed her things into a bag, her mind racing to where she could go, she wanted to disappear, never see any of the people who had lied to her ever again.

Rhysand was currently cheating on her, cheating on her with Feyre, his mate. He hadn't told her he had found his mate. Anastasiya felt stupid, all his claims of love were fake, she shouldn't have believed him when he said he would love her if she wasn't his mate.

He'd been courting her behind everyone's back. Cassian and Amren knew too, she and Azriel had been kept out of the loop. The revelation that her closest friends had known about this secret, yet chose to keep it from her, only added salt to the wound.

With trembling hands, Anastasiya zipped up her bag, the sound echoing in the empty room. She cast one last glance around the space that had once been filled with laughter and love, now tainted by the bitterness of deception.

As she stepped out into the hallway, ready to leave this place behind forever, a sudden wave of dizziness overtook her. The room spun, and she reached out to steady herself against the wall, her free hand instinctively cradling her stomach. The reminder of the life growing within her, a product of her love for Rhysand, only intensified the ache in her heart.

"Stasiya..." Azriel moved from his shadows behind her, she'd always been able to tell where he was but this time she didn't have a clue this time.

"Why would he do this to me?" Anastasiya sniffed, turning on her heel to press her face into Azriel's chest, holding him tight.

"I'm so sorry, darling..." Azriel comforted her, hand stroking her hair, "How can I help?" he cupped her cheeks, wiping her tears away.

"I... I need to get out of here..." Anastasiya's lip quivered, feeling a sudden flip in her emotions. "I... Need to go to Autumn... I have friends there, I want them."

The Autumn witches, Anastasiya had been friends with them for a long time, and only Azriel was the one who knew that part of her life, the only one she had told she was a witch. He was the only one who knew her.

Azriel's heart broke seeing Anastasiya in such distress. He held her close, letting her cry into his chest as he stroked her hair soothingly. "Shh, it's alright, I've got you," he murmured. "We'll get through this together."

He understood her desire to escape, to surround herself with familiar faces and comforting memories. The Autumn Court held a special place in her heart, a sanctuary untouched by the recent revelations.

Azriel cupped her face tenderly, wiping away her tears with his thumbs. "Of course, darling. I'll take you there myself. You deserve to be surrounded by those who truly care for you." He picked her up, one arm under her knee and the other her neck to pick her up. His shadows supported her things in the air.

Azriel flew fast, court to court, over the waters till the Autumn trees came into sight, he landed between where Autumn met Spring, a quick loophole to avoid detection by either High Lords, in the time he'd been flying, Anastasiya had fallen asleep. He momentarily walked around the woods, trying to find the hut his friend had described plenty of times.

While he was looking for the hut a female appeared in front of him, "By the Cauldron, is that Anastasiya?"

Azriel watched the female, his shadows hissing at her power but not approaching her, he noted her unusual green eyes, bright red hair, and the way he could sense her power that his friend always talked of, "Are you Aradia? My friend need you, please."

"Yes," Aradia nodded, flashing before him, glowing red, sensing something that wasn't right, demanding. "What happened to her? WHO HURT HER?"

Azriel couldn't help but flinch at the powerful tone, he'd never actually felt a witch's power over him, "She'll tell you that herself, but she wished to be with you, please help her."

It was his genuine tone that softened Aradia, "Of course, I will." She took Anastasiya from him, "Do not tell anyone she is here now."

"I wasn't planning on it... Thank you." Azriel nodded in his farewell before he flew out.

Aradia cradled Anastasiya in her arms, her keen senses picking up on the faint aura of pregnancy surrounding the younger woman. A pang of protectiveness surged through her veins.

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{Eris Taglist- @fxckmiup @slut4acotar @secret-third-thing @shadowsingers-mate @fieldofdaisiies @st4r-girl-official}

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