#floating fern

[deathtek]

7/29/22

[vintagehomecollection]

Rooms by Design, 1989

[sailor-arashi]

[pequenosol]

[fernisworm]

I’m going to be so very extremely normal when sonic prime releases very very very normal I will be soooo normal about it you will have no idea how normal I can be until it drops

[tsunflowers]

where do maomao and fern get their references for dick size? vibes? comparing with their own dicks?

maomao grew up in a brothel so she's definitely seen guys stumbling around too drunk to put their dicks away, plus her older sisters dish about their clients. she knows the mean and mode and average dick size of everyone in town. fern I have no idea about so it's either vibes or herself as reference

[sixtymillionoverdueideas]

👶 + choose 3 sets of intended parents

//...could've either been interpreted as "one child with three sets of potential parents" but that woulda been hella confusing and tricky given how different our range of muses are;;;,, and also how most of them don't have relationships that are probable to bear in their own universes,,,;;.....

Peony/fern Name: Iris Gender: They/he/zem (agender demi-bi;;;). Appearance: Long, silvery hair touched with faint hints of lilac reminiscent of their human parent,, that slips into yellow much like the end of a petal or feather. It curls up at the edges,, a little like a long feather from a peacock's train,,,.... Their eyes are a bright soft moon-gray,, and the slight subtle scaling around their eyes makes it appear that they already have some glittery gray-lilac eyeshadowing,,,. Their scales are armour-esque,, curling out from their shoulders and plating their tail like a pangolin,,. (Their scales are marble, moon-like, edged with an arrow of gold.) Iris has scales and a tail and two sets of canines and black nails,,,. Personality: Observant, logical, tinkerer, reserved;;; -- Iris inherited indeed a high level of intelligence from their parents but doesn't think too much about it,,,. What do they like? Sweet foods, (hoarding) pretty things like pearls and marbles and scraps of silk,,, genuine praise,,. What do they dislike? Attending other people's live amateur performances on stage,,, off-pitch/key singing,, scratchy textures,,,. Who are the godparents? Slugger and Char because truly the Underground does not good monsters make,,,; Anything special about them? Iris has embroidery and sewing as a hobby,,,. They smell strongly of ice/snow/morning frost and thunderstorms,, all the electric static and rain to the point it's even noticeable to the human nose,,. What are their talents? Iris would fall under the 'aerial silks' niche for the Underground and would take formal ballet training if they were on the Surface,,,. Who do they resemble of their parents ( appearance) ? As a mostly humanoid child Iris resembles Near as a whole more,,, though the monstrous attributes they've taken from Nori can't be passed as easily passed as simply "oddities";;;. Who do they resemble of their parents ( personality ) ? Iris takes more after Near in personality,, but that's probably because of how Nori's life-experienced has been warped and adapted from the Underground;;;. A headcanon: Iris would be a very quiet baby who would eat mostly lotus seed and bamboo mash,,,. Adored pocky when they were younger though,,. Their future: Nori would feel like they needed to be instructed even if they were below the human legal age,, but would refrain from letting them actually practice with anyone so all their knowledge would be hypothetical;;;. On the Surface Iris would stay close to Near's side and not actively participate in the detectivery;; though they may choose to attend a school for the arts to actually become a performer of some kind -- ice-skater??? Faceclaim: 

??? walking-by! Name: Izanami Uchiha,, ward of the Hyuuga Clan,,,. Gender: Female (while her mother is aromantic Izanami is thoroughly bi,,, though it's a rather very very oblivious-to-emotions one she makes,,,) Appearance: Choppy dark hair in a spiky triple-rose-up-do,, stabbed through with senbon,, pens,, or chopsticks depending on the day,,,... Dark eyes like both of her mother's parents though they are a dark shade of brown;;;. Personality: Bold, analytical,, fight-happy,,, What do they like? Weapons-building,, seals and ink-script (Sai was glad to take yet another apprentice for his ninja-art;;;),,, melons,, unadon bento is her favourite;;;;. What do they dislike? Mildly dislikes red-bean and restrictions in libraries;;;. Who are the godparents? Izunagi's brother,, Kanega,, Hironori as the technical bio/donor sire,,, honestly the entirety of the Peace Generation lmao;;;. Anything special about them? Izanami absolutely cannot make tea. Always burns it,,,. It's actually kind of baffling,, especially to Hironori (very skilled at tea-ceremony;;;),,,. What are their talents? While Izanagi prefers to wear temporary seals on her skin for her weapons instead of using scrolls Izanami uses them just like her grandmother Tenten;;;. Who do they resemble of their parents ( appearance) ? Izanami resembles her mother in the strong Uchiha-ism that presents in her features;;;. Who do they resemble of their parents ( personality ) ? Izanami also takes rather after her maternal line with Tenten and Izanagi's interest in weaponry,,,. A headcanon: Izanami likes going outside during thunderstorms and identifying plants through tasting them (which is a very bad idea). Their future: Izanami is probably going to join her mother Izunagi as the inheritors of Tenten's family weapon-shop instead of staying as a full shinobi;;;. Faceclaim: 

Thauma/Eraser Name: Kimio (紀美生, 喜美生 , or 貴美雄) or Masayoshi (匡美) Aizawa Gender: Male (pan man :))) ) Appearance: Messy, natural-bedhead dark hair just like actually both of his parents down to his shoulder-blades,,, typically barely tied back into a sloppy waterfall. Kimio has dark eyes that are actually a deep shade of indigo,,,. He definitely takes face-shape and body-structure from Shouta;;. Personality: Mellow, calculative, handy -- messes around with things that use his hands like painting models and coding,,,. Likes wordplay,, enjoys a good pun,,,. Slightly manipulative;;;. What do they like? The smell of freshly fallen rain,, reading,, horseback riding (serious hobby;;;),, taking long walks actually we're not joking--. What do they dislike? Being forced to deviate from his routine,, being woken up forcefully/unnaturally,, people who abuse living things plants, humans, and animals,,. Who are the godparents? Hizashi and Nemuri to exactly no surprise,,,. Anything special about them? Kimio has a silverpoint maine coon tom that he has on campus that technically he shouldn't have reason to have,, but he claimed him to be the "class spirit animal" and got the rest of 1-c to beg Aizawa to keep,,,. What are their talents? Quirk: Can use someone else's quirk after establishing eye-to-eye (actually have to meet eyes,,) contact for up to an hour after first glance;;;. Can hold multiple quirks in this way,,, (limit at the time is four but expands to five from training,,,). His hair doesn't fly up as much as his father's would but that's mostly due to the weight of the hair itself,, his eyes do flash a peacock blue when he uses one of his stored quirks but will not constantly glow,,,. Once he starts using a stored quirk he has about eight minutes before it dissipates from his grasp,,,. Who do they resemble of their parents ( appearance) ? Kimio resembles Shouta more,, definitely,,,. Who do they resemble of their parents ( personality ) ? Kimio doesn't particularly match either of his parents strongly in personality but he does have the honesty and kindness levels of his parents,, and Shouta's "can and will drop anywhere for a nap",,,. A headcanon: Kimio constantly wears an array of mismatched hair-ties around his wrist and will give them off to anyone who asks,,,. Also his favoured breakfast is oatmeal and one of his tics is tying knots,,,;;;;. He does this absently with like the wrappers for straws or with scraps of paper or string constantly,,,. Their future: Will come to UA as a technical "Legacy" student,, but goes to gen. ed at first due to not wanting to take the Heroics exam--;;; but partway through the year gains a motivation for becoming a Hero and goes into the Sports-Festival to win;;; :))) Faceclaim: 

come judge us lmao @nearriver and @dadzxwa,,,;;;

[parkeremerson]

Gravel Landscape Houston Inspiration for a large modern shade courtyard gravel landscaping.

[mrghostrat]

AHH SORRY I LEFT IT A WIP FOR SO LONG

but it's done!!! my character designs for @thewolveswolf's rival gym leader au!!

aziraphale's gym is a library, with steel shutters that automatically slide over all the shelves whenever a battle starts 😂 the library is managed by sinisteas and polteageists that float around to make sure everyone has what they need. his honedge refuses to go in its pokeball and he is CONSTANTLY losing it.

(his pokedex is also handwritten. his is much more meticulous than the official digital database)

crowley's gym is a greenhouse, probably very very dark because of all the huge ferns that envelope the place. his ghosts adore it in there, even in broad daylight.

aziraphale is probably in awe of the fact that crowley grows his own apricorns but do u think for a SECOND that crowley is just gonna hand them over to anybody? get ur own free pokeballs. (but he lets kids come in and pick them on the weekends and take home whatever they can harvest)

zita's teams:

crowley: gengar, spectrier, seviper, phantump, toxtricity, murkrow

aziraphale: chandelure, alcremie, rapidash (galarian), honedge, victini, dratini

[deathtek]

7/29/22

[bunnis-monsters]

Hi welcome back, hope you're feeling better! Always good to get that self care in. Anywho, if it's okay I'm going to throw an idea at you that has been floating around in my head. I've been on a smidge of a naga hyperfixation lately, plus I love your Fern series, so it got me thinking: how cute would a mini naga be? Like part of the appeal of nagas is them being big boys, but on the other hand, what if smol corn snake dude?

OMG little snake guy…

I have two ideas with this in mind!

First, let’s say he’s not absolutely tiny, but about the size of a golden retriever. Little naga!bf that’s super protective of his mate, and very strong despite his small stature. He’ll sit in your lap, nuzzling you with his lower body wrapped around your legs.

All he wants is for you to rely on him… even if he’s constantly clinging to you and wanting to be pampered. Maybe he’s got a mommy kink who knows… but he’ll still rattle his tail and act all intimidating to protect you!

And my other idea, absolutely tiny naga bf that’s the size of your palm! So cute, but also very deadly! His bite can take down an elephant, so he’s feared by all the other creatures of the forest… except you.

You love him, and god how he wants to be big so he can show you just how much he wants to breed that fat cunt of yours. He’s so damn protective, hissing and showing off his fangs to whoever gets close!

Anyways… yeah, what concept do y’all like better? Or should I make a separate post for both?

[unholyhelbig]

More Wandanat pls 😊

Title: Are you Avoiding me?

Ship: Female!Reader x Natasha Romanoff x Wanda Maximoff

Word Count: 2935

Warnings: pet names, sexual situations implied, broken glass, and horrible spelling (I don't proofread).

Summary: It's becoming harder and harder for reader to avoid both Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff. Things only get worse when they're cornered in their lab.

[A/n: This is just a little drabble, that's been sitting in my drafts for months, nothing with too much sustinance! I've been distracting myself lately with Wenclair content instead of writing]

Main Masterlist | Read my stuff on AO3 | Leave Requests

There were thousands of mugs with Shield’s logo on the side that floated around the compound, changing hands between agents and the high-ranking Avengers. It’s why you felt less bad about dropping the one in your grasp to the floor. It shattered into dozens of pieces, and the rest of the pale coffee you were drinking seeped out of the wreckage.

“Ow! Why? Why?” Clint’s voice had turned to a growl by the end of his sentence. He had righted himself and gripped his own mug to his chest, leveling you with a glare that was much too vicious this early in the morning.

The words were trapped in your throat and you dropped down behind the kitchen island, pressing yourself close enough to the wood to become apart of the grain. If you could just hide long enough for them to wander away, then all would be well.

The archer glanced down at you, and then back to the hallway that passed the communal kitchen. Natasha Romanoff had her brow furrowed, lifting a sculped eyebrow at him. She had just come back from her morning run, a fine sheen of sweat coating her muscles. He gave her a shrug and that was enough encouragement to send her on her way.

You let out a long sigh at the sound of her footsteps retreating. “Don’t look at me like that, Barton.”

“I can look at you anyway I want to, you’re the one that would rather be on the ground than talk to Natasha.”

It wasn’t just talking to Natasha. It was looking at her too; breathing the same air as her, meeting her fern-colored eyes across the room and ceasing to have a tangible thought pattern. You were an Avenger, for fucks sake, an ex-KGB spy shouldn’t make you fumble the way that you did.

“It’s not that hard, y/n. She’s harmless, really.”

That was easy for him to say. You huffed quietly and picked up the broken pieces of mug before depositing them into the trashcan. Coffee would make you too jittery anyway. So, if you really thought about it, your nerves had done you a favor.

“She’s terrifying.” You said, reaching for an empty glass. You filled it up with tap water and tentatively took a sip. It went down clunky and cold. “And gorgeous.”

“A combination that renders you absolutely useless.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

Clint lifted both of his eyebrows at you, not saying a word. He didn’t have to. And you didn’t need all of this judgement from him in the first place. He had been so scared of Natasha that he couldn’t bring her in, in the first place. He would tell it differently, but you didn’t stick around to find out.

There were other things that you had to do; like a mountain of paperwork and a few modifications to the Vibranium arm that had found its way onto your desk. A cold shower wouldn’t do you any harm either. And if your fingers were to wander? No one would know.

You flashed him the middle finger, abandoning all thoughts of nourishment for the day. Tony kept his labs stocked with bottled water and granola bars after some nagging from Pepper. That would hold you over until lunch and if you started to drift, there were plenty of electrical sources that would give you a low-grade jolt.

Most of the time, you kept your head down, earbuds in even if they weren’t playing music. It was easier not to get caught up in the fanfare of the Avengers. Most of them were human, and they made human mistakes even if they weren’t.

You answered your superiors and fixed any problems that arose with tech and machinery, sometimes even costuming. Those things were simple, cut and dry. Your feelings for Natasha Romanoff and Wanda Maximoff weren’t even slightly that.

There was admiration from afar, and Clint would even say a numbness that clouded your brain completely. That celebrity that all other agents produced around any of the spandex wearing heroes often evaded you.

But each time Wanda stepped through the doors of your lab to get a personal watch fixed, or once, a VHS player that had the scent of smoke and burning plastic. She’d jutted out her lower lip when a copy of ‘I Love Lucy�� was burnt to a crisp.

Despite your meager salary, you had found one at the thrift and set it outside her door without a word. Not a romantic gesture, Clint. You should have seen her face. It was something you’d do as a friend, a co-worker.

Your shoulder collided with something strong, yet soft. There was a small grunt released from the back of your throat. You got a mouthful of the scent of rain and vanilla tobacco. But strong hands were suddenly gripping your forearms, keeping you steady.

Your eyes widened and met with curious hazel ones. You thought you gave Natasha enough time to get back to her room. But here she was, in that tight tank top, sweat drenching the collar. She looked beautiful, the lights overhead hitting her.

Agent Romanoff reached up and pulled one of your earbuds out, letting it hang loose against your chest. “Doctor y/l/n, are you avoiding me?”

“Avoiding?” You laughed with a little too much force, compensating for the lost air by snorting and instantly regretting it. A light blush fell over your cheeks. She didn’t look mad, in fact, she looked quite amused. “No, no. I’m not avoiding.”

“So, what would you call ducking down behind the counter in the kitchen?”

“How did you…”

“I’m a superspy and you’re not exactly subtle.”

Yeah. You’d forgotten about that. She didn’t’ allude to the fact, simply continuing on her way and leaving you to your horrible conversation with Clint. But then she had waited in front of your lab, her own clearance not allowing her past the sliding doors without you in it.

She lilted her head to the side “Don’t worry about it, it’s actually rather adorable.”

The heat against your cheeks started to spread down your neck and to your collarbone. If she noticed, and of course she noticed, she didn’t’ say anything. But she released her hold, and you fought back a whimper of disappointment.

“What can I do for you, Agent Romanoff?”

“Us, actually.” She responded, eyes darting towards the locked doors. “I’d rather talk somewhere a bit more private, if that’s alright.”

“Yeah, yeah, absolutely that’s alight. If this is about the Widow Bites that I redesigned then I can most definitely tweak them. We don’t want you to get a jolt every time you use them. Not that I’m saying you’re not skilled enough to avoid that,”

You kept talking as you swiped your card and it with a beep, walking into the instant familiarity of your lab. There was a coolness there for tactical purposes, but it washed over your heated skin and hopefully took some of the soft color away.

You started to flit around the lab, flicking on all the lights and the different purifiers. There was an experiment that Fitz was working on that needed a rotating heat source and that was turned on as well.

“If we remove the outer panel and with a little tweaking, we can make them non-lethal, heavy with stopping power. They can break up under the sub-cutaneous tissue-“

Again, you ran into Natasha. Her body was so warm and solid, stable compared to the way you buzzed about. The door had slid shut behind you, its frosted glass exterior shielding you from the rest of the world.

This time you didn’t’ rush to apologize, instead you pushed your glasses up to the center of your nose and stared at her in a comfortable silence. “This wasn’t about your widow bites. You said us.”

She nodded at you, suddenly seeming quite shy herself. You’d never seen her avert her gaze before and something about the reaction worried you. Your stomach was doing somersaults, flipping back and forth between pure panic and excitement. This was the longest you two had spent in one another’s space without you bolting from the room.

“For the past six months I’ve been involved in a sexual relationship with Wanda Maximoff.”

“Uh,”

It was the only word that you could muster. Thoughts that flushed your cheeks all over again ran through your mind; bare breasts pressed against each other, lips hungrily clashing, hands raking up perfectly toned muscles. Your eyes were hazy with lust, but you blinked it away just as fast as it had settled. Natasha ghosted a smirk regardless.

“It was purely sexual, we both needed to blow off some steam. I’m sure you know how that is.”

On nights when you needed to ‘blow off steam’, you went into the empty training room and ran for six miles before taking a stark cold shower to loosen your muscles. When you ran, you forgot about the dip of Natasha’s collarbone and the dexterity of Wanda’s fingers.

Now that you thought about it, there were signs that the two of them had something and why shouldn’t they? Subtle touches that led to more. The tenderness in Natasha’s eyes betrayed more. If she hadn’t noticed yet, you weren’t going to be the one to tell her.

“It was fun for a while, a supply closet here, the gym floor there. But going on month seven it’s almost losing its… spark.”

“I’m sorry?” You were cautious with your words, and she giggled, the Black Widow herself was giggling at you.

“I’m not so good at this.”

“You’re good at everything.”

She smiled “Wanda insisted that I come and talk to you first because you’re skittish. Moreso around her than me. She was upset when I told her you let me stay the afternoon in here last week, just watching you work.” 

Each move you made that day was languid. There was a nervousness to you that seemed to vanish when you could open up the back of a monitor and stare at the innerworkings. You were recruited right out of MIT, and though you had been offered more than one job, you jumped at the idea of working in the Stark tower, living here.

She worked her hand through her hair and sighed “see, not so good at this.”

“What exactly is this?”

Natasha furrowed her brow and a small crease formed between her eyebrows in response. You wanted to reach up and smooth it away with the subtle touch of your thumb. That part wasn’t complicated, not like people usually were.

So, you did just that, you touched the pad of your finger to her soft, warm skin and pressed until the tension started to leave her body. Natasha’s fingers wrapped around your wrist and moved your hand until you cupped her cheek. She sighed into the embrace; eyes closed for more than a single moment.

“I want you, y/n.” She mumbled against the palm of your hand, turning it to the side and delivering a single kiss to the pulse point on your wrist. You were sure that she could feel the quickness in which it thrummed. “So does Wanda.”

You were dizzy, suddenly glad for her hold on you. Months, close to a year, you had spent ducking behind counters and taking the long way back to your dorm. They were both stunning to an intimidating degree, to the point where it devastated you.

“Say something, please” Natasha whispered, voice breaking “I know this is a lot and you can absolutely decline. We can forget this conversation ever happened and you can go back to breaking coffee mugs.”

“No! I mean, no. I don’t want to go back to breaking coffee mugs. I think Clint is running a tab, and Mr. Stark isn’t exactly generous with our salaries.”

A grin spread across Natasha’s face. It was like being wrapped in a warm towel after a long day in the rain. You’d do anything to make her smile. You were in down bad, not that you’d admit it to Bird Boy.

She tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. “Can I kiss you?”

You nodded, not trusting your ability to vocalize anything right now. Her lips were on yours, soft and tender. She kissed you slowly, with purpose. The two of you savored the moment, a sigh of extasy escaping you, your arms winding around her shoulders, hers pressing against your spine.

Natasha broke the embrace, staring hazily at you. That cocky smile had turned into a wonderstruck and borderline goofy one. Have you broken the superspy? She’d certainly made you waver. You were effectively rendered silent.

“Oh, sweet girl, how easy it is to fluster you.” Natasha pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “But I fear that a certain witch is lurking just close enough for you to open the door.”

It slid open on its own with a dejected beep. You glanced down at the pocket of your lab coat, badge still attached. A small pout made its way to your lips but softened when Wanda stalked into the mostly empty lab, you felt your defenses lower.

The remnants of red twirled around her fingers- and god, you didn’t mean to stare, but they held a power to them. With Natasha slotted against your body, the primal scent of her, you couldn’t stop your mind from wandering. Oh, how good they’d feel on your tongue.

A pink blush crept up her collarbone and at the tips of her ears. Wanda raised a perfectly sculpted brow at you. There was no doubt in your mind that your thoughts were loud enough for her to hear them. And somehow, you didn’t mind one bit. You’d never imagine being this bold with either of them, but the kiss with Natasha had left you heady, greedy for more.

“Have you been able to do that the whole time?” You panted out, watching the door slide shut once more.

“Well, yes. But I respect your privacy… to an extent. You have quite the dirty mind, don’t you?”

“I… you… no!”

You pulled away from Natasha, crossing your arms over your chest. If you weren’t careful, your glasses would fog up just by being in the same vicinity as them both. Sure, there had been a few times where you’d let your mind wander; images of Wanda shoving you against the wall, pinning your arms above your head.

Natasha taking you over the lab table that you made sure was meticulous in every single way each night before you left. The thought of them taking control was alluring, tantalizing. You thought all the time, too much about every move you made. You didn’t want to admit that you’d welcome not thinking at all, even if it was only for a few moments.

“You’re a terrible liar.” Wanda soothed.

“That’s why Stark keeps me in the basement.”

She’d gotten impossibly close. You could smell the lavender shampoo that often accompanied her. They were both taller than you, though, not by much. Your breath still hitched in your throat at her proximity. Wanda tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, lilting her head to the side in a way that made your knees feel unstable.

“Is this okay?”

You nodded, and a smile moved across her lips. “You need to use your words, sweetheart.”

“Oh, don’t be mean, Wanda.” Natasha wrapped her arms around your midsection, resting her chin against your shoulder. You felt the incredible warmth she provided, nearly sighing into it. “This is a lot to take in. Baby steps.”

You couldn’t tell which of the two held more control over the situation, but didn’t much care when you felt Wanda’s breath hot against your lips. She closed the distance and you kissed until it stung, until your lungs were begging for air. A desperate noise that you had never made before escaped you when she broke the embrace.

All the while, the calloused pads of Natasha’s fingers were running softly over the expanse of skin between your waistband and shirt. Her touch was so delicate and impossibly warm compared to the coolness of the lab.

Natasha hugged you closer, and you allowed her to. Everything about both women surrounding you screamed control. The darkness that settled over Wanda’s stare made a wetness pool between your thighs. You squeezed them together in an attempt of subtly.

It was like fooling a seer. They could read your body like an open book and you clenched your eyes shut but could still feel the grin that stretched across Natasha’s face in the crook of your neck. It would be so easy to give up control to them.

“Does anyone else have the key to your lab?” Wanda purred, her hand splayed on your chest in a startling grounding motion. Your eyes snapped open, hazy with lust.

You were breathless, stunned. “Just you.”

Wanda’s head tilted, her tongue darting out against her bottom lip. Chills pushed down your spine, Natasha’s hold tightening around your center. You were sure that you’d catch flame right there and wake up from this dream. But neither of them vanished when you blinked.

“Good. What’s your safe word, darling?”

Natasha’s grin was nothing short of wolfish. She squeezed both of your hips possessively, hauling you with a spy’s quickness onto the nearest counter. You nudged a white mug with a SHIELD logo on the front. It fell to the floor, shattered into a million different pieces.

 None of that seemed to matter.

[pricegouge]

hi hello just wanted to tell you that the wellies story with gaz and price is such a delight, everything about it is *chef's kiss*

I think Price would keep the hat, though, and wear it to the bar where Reader is having her date/make up date. Because then she HAS to storm up to Price and demand it back??? HOURS of handcrafting, Gaz unhelpfully being like "the color suits him :)" Price not-so-subtly delighted at ALL of this (also he does kind of like the hat. Maybe he can convince you to make him one in a different color?)

Gaz asks you to point out your date (someone who immediately clocks as ick. Like a stock broker finance bro type?) and Gaz immediately vetoes that. That guy isn't your date anymore. He and Price are! Now, about this camera they owe you....

Price in a knit fuchsia cap got me fuckin' good. Sorry this took so long! Even more sorry I'm posting unedited, but if I look at this any longer I'll blow up so here we go

(follow up to this)

The worst part is, once you see him in it, shining like a neon sign from clear across the bar, you understand completely why they'd had to unceremoniously rip it off your head that day. Even here, surrounded as he is by the general visual noise of the city and patrons who are by no means dressed to blend in, the man sticks out like a sore thumb. (Made no better for the fact that he still stands head and shoulders above all those around him, of course, but that's beside the point.) You can only imagine how garishly you'd stood out among the stretch of that green meadow, how much you'd jeopardized not only their mission but their very lives by simply being there.

Of course, that knowledge does nothing to soothe the anger that rises within you when you see the men responsible for ruining your last (better) dating prospect waltz in on your current one as if their only new objective is to ruin your night again while wearing the handmade hat you're now realizing they'd stolen from you. (You'd thought you'd misplaced it on the bus last week. One moment it was there, the next gone. Now you wonder how you could have missed either of them sitting aboard public transportation, or how long they'd been following you to now conveniently show up in at least two of the same places you were.)

You stare daggers at the two of them. John ignores you, pink cap bobbing through the crowd as he makes his way to the bar. Kyle posts up at a booth and smirks at you openly, unabashedly. He's impossibly more attractive outside of the grease paint and twig mass. You ignore the delightful flip your belly does when he clocks the way you take in the breadth of him, how he tests the seams of his button down, and his smirk turns to the kind of smile that should require a legal registry.

"What are you looking at?"

You startle a bit when a big head floats into your field of vision, Jeremiah's frown completely obscuring the much better view you'd just been staring down. He swivels to look behind himself, head rotating like an automatic, unmanned security camera. Observing, but not seeing anything. 

As far as prospects had gone, Jeremiah had been one of the least favorite matches you'd made on your little dating app; but after the failure from a few weeks past you'd been getting desperate, and his nice hair combined with his clever sales pitch tongue had eventually wooed you after enough messaging. Unfortunately, thirty seconds after meeting him in person you'd realized your initial instinct had indeed been right when he'd tried negging your outfit in the same breath he'd used to greet you at the door. He hadn't even chosen a good place to meet. With the way he dressed and spoke, you'd almost been looking forward to the novelty of some swanky bar uptown, but the pub he'd given you the name of was barely better than a hole in the wall. A dying fern stood in the corner, its only source of sustenance the light up dart board on its right, and the empty mugs surrounding it, the tacky puddle in its water pan suggesting it was a popular place to pour one's dregs out into. The sticky table felt like a fly trap, suggesting either years of buildup which had grown resistant to bleach, or a general incompetence on management's part as to how proper cleaning worked. You've no idea why you'd even stayed. Perhaps just a desire to stay out of the house. Part of you knows it's actually a desire to get laid so strong you're willing to overlook his shortcomings so long as you can clamp a hand over his mouth later and ride him until you're satisfied, but you don't want to look too closely at that part of you.

"Apologies. There's a man over there I recognize."

"Oh? Should I be worried?" His expression is genial enough when he asks, but his eyes keep something slightly colder at bay. Annoyance, perhaps. Not jealousy, you don't think. Not yet, at least. Probably hasn't actually clocked Kyle yet.

You should soothe him, you know. Coo reassurances, stutter through excuses and make up lies about just knowing them from your uni days or something. But then you remember Kyle's clever tongue, his blatant flirting. You remember John's heavy hands on you and the way they'd joked about keeping you all night. You're annoyed with them, more so when you remember how they'd left you high and dry after handing you off to the wolves back at base to tear into and question. But they're here now, have been for days, potentially, you're reminded when John ducks his head back into the booth, the subtle streaks of tinsel in the yarn you'd used glowing under the pendant light. He's got three drinks with him, sends you a casual wink when he spots you staring.

"Yes."

Jeremiah sputters. "Sorry?"

"Yes. You should be worried," you clarify casually. "Excuse me."

The boys aren't subtle about watching you as you approach, though Gaz leans into his captain's space to whisper something in his ear which makes his mustache twitch distractedly. It takes you a minute to pick your way over to them. You don't have much of a game plan beyond demanding your hat back, and hopefully garnering some insight as to why they're following you, but that doesn't explain the thrill you feel when their eyes trail you, or the way your mouth runs dry when you realize you're going to have to talk to them this time, no convenient excuse of situational silence keeping you from putting your foot in your mouth. You tell yourself you're at least not likely to drift off under one of them this time, and then suppress a heavy swallow when you realize you don't actually want that to be true. It's why your voice isn't quite as strong as you'd hoped when you approach their table, skipping formalities and demanding to know what they're doing here.

It's like they can smell your apprehension, John content to just keep smirking at you while Kyle responds with the kind of cocky voice you would hate on anyone else, but just serves to remind you how much the tone is earned when he uses it. "Can't a captain treat his favorite sergeant to a drink after work anymore?"

It's the phrasing that catches your attention, momentarily distracting you from reaching out and ripping your hat off John's head. It's too familiar to Jeremiah's own proposition for the evening, too jarring when used in relation to military work. "You've been following me," you state bluntly, wondering if it's possible they've even bugged your phones.

"Only a lot," Kyle agrees cheekily.

"Why?"

"Had to make sure you weren't going 'round telling everyone what you'd seen, petal," John grumbles, voice just as deep and dark as you remember. It's hard to hear him over the din of the pub. You tell yourself that's why you lean into him a bit when he speaks, though you turn it into a snatching motion easily enough.

"That why you stole my hat?" 

John deflects you casually, turning your hand away somehow both deftly and gently. His grip changes once he has you under control, turning instead to guide you into the booth next to him. His arm finds the seat back behind you, but you stubbornly remain leaning forward, refusing to ease into him this time.

"Cap didn't steal it," Gaz corrects, eyes lingering on the captain's hand where he still grips your wrist. "I did."

It's hard to accept the fact that Kyle could ever escape your notice, but you suppose he's earned his position in life for a reason. "Right." You round on John, "So did you lose a bet?"

The captain chuckles. His thumb smoothes along the heel of your hand and then is gone, tipping the amber whiskey of his drink absently. "Won one, actually. Gaz here wanted to be the one to wear it."

"Would've looked better with my complexion," the other man reasons, batting his pretty eyes at you exaggeratedly. Far behind him, you spot your date sputtering indignantly to a waitress, the poor girl's face clearly disinterested. So much for your shoe-in. You refuse to acknowledge why that doesn't bother you as much as it would have even just five minutes ago.

"Yeah, well, if I only got to wear the things I wear better, I'd be walking around naked," John gripes goodnaturedly. "Isn't that right, flower?"

Kyle saves you from sputtering out an answer by sighing wistfully. "If only."

John smirks indulgently at him and you blink away, feeling like an outsider when you see the older man's hand disappear under the table, movement suggesting he's rubbing Kyle's leg. You try not to remember how it felt to have those heavy hands on you. "Can I get my hat back, please?"

"Well, at least you remembered your manners this time," John grumbles. You'd try snatching it off his head again just for the commentary, if you weren't becoming increasingly certain it would land you sprawled across his lap.

"Where you rushing off to anyway?" Kyle adds. He slides the third drink in front of John your way. "Drink with us."

You eye the fruity, fluorescent monstrosity before you skeptically. They don't seem the type to meet barely legal ladies out for a drink in a tiny place like this, but you can't imagine they'd had anyone else in mind when John had ordered whatever this was. "You expecting someone younger?"

John's low laugh makes his mustache twitch. "Heard once that a good rule of thumb if you don't know someone's drink order, is to try and match their outfit." He ducks his chin, looking you over from under his brow. In theory, it should seem more judgemental than appraising, but you still feel like he's assessing your outfit by removing it first.

Self consciously, you run your hand over the flowery blue dress you have on, distracting yourself from thinking too hard about what it meant that he'd bought you a drink. You suppose the color is a bit electric, but the way it fits more than makes up for its flashiness. Or at least, you'd thought it did. Now, seeing it paired with some stomach turning blue curaçao concoction, you feel much less certain about that. "You heard wrong. Besides, I can't stay. I'm on a date," you sniff. You probably shouldn't drink anything handed to you by men you knew were stalking you anyway.

Kyle shrugs agreeably, swapping your drink for his simple rum and coke as he asks who you're out with. You eye it warily, but spot the smudge of Kyle's own lips on the edge so you figure it's safe enough to drink, though you make a point of wiping it off, sneering at Kyle when he laughs at you. 

"Stock broker Jeremiah," you recite, trying to keep the jeer from your tone. You motion back behind yourself. "Over there." 

"Stock broker?" John repeats, voice so thick the words fall from his lips like smoke. You think you spot a smirk hidden in his chops. 

"That your type, luv?"

"Not particularly," you admit. "But he'll have to do, seeing as the last one didn't take too kindly to being stood up."

Kyle tuts, tone too amused to be sympathetic. "Didn't believe you'd been laid up?"

"Should've had him call us, flower. We could've vouched for you," John suggests. Somehow, you know introducing these two to any prospective partners would be a terrible idea.

Still, it sounds amusing.

You shrug, wishing you had a beer bottle to peer the label off of. "Jeremiah makes good money," you offer, the only thing you can really remember from Jeremiah's profile. John hums, lower than the din of the room. Kyle's face is too blank, the same strict discipline he used with his cheek glued to his rifle. Briefly, you're back under John, the din of the surrounding crowd swallowed up by your twin heartbeats. Your eyes flick between the two, take in the tight control of their expressions. It would probably fool most, but you've spent your fair share of time studying the minutiae of faces, the way muscles twitch under stimuli no matter how properly trained the model. Even dead tissue will contract when properly motivated. "He's just bought me a new camera, in fact."

Gaz scoffs. John's eyes narrow. The two exchange sidelong glances and you sip your drink. You'd believed John when he'd said he'd replace your camera, but after being split up at base he'd never located you again and no one had been very forthcoming with information as to how you could contact your new friends to collect. A week after the incident, a cheap, basic camera and a base model macro lens had appeared on your step, the packaging cold and impersonal, shipped direct from the warehouse. No new boots ever came. The camera hadn't been anywhere near as nice as the one you'd lost, but it wasn't like there was a calling card you could air your grievances to so you'd cut your losses and just thanked whoever was listening that you'd even made it out of that valley alive. Now, however, watching the men who'd promised to take care of everything have their pride bruised by some asshole in a button up too expensive to deign resting his silken elbows on the dirty table of the bar he'd decided you were fit for, the weeks of frustration almost seemed worth it. And so what if it wasn't true anyway?

"Excuse me." 

Your date's sudden appearance nearly makes you jump out of your skin, the prospect of introducing him to these men suddenly far less appealing when John rumbles, "Don't think I will."

Jeremiah sneers at him before turning to you. "I'm heading out. Don't think this -," he motions between the two of you, lets his finger swirl around the table to include the boys when the motion peters out, "- is for me. Have a good one, yeah?"

"Oh, um, okay. Sor-."

John stops you. "Don't apologize to him, petal. It's him there owes you one."

"And why would I need to apologize?" 

"Existing?" Kyle suggests.

"Wasting her time?" John tacks on. 

"Insulting my dress," you decide.

Kyle's tsk noise draws your attention. When you look, he's got those exaggeratedly huge eyes darting between you and your date. "When it fits you like that?" he clarifies, making you blush.

"Right wanker," John agrees. His voice is still playful, but the look he's leveling Jeremiah with is anything but. 

"It's - it's -. It's blue!" your date sputters, waving at you as if your offense should be obvious.

John leans close, mustache tickling your ear. "Sounds like a man who can't appreciate a good pair of obnoxiously yellow wellies."

"You threw my wellies in the creek," you counter, too amused to muster much anger.

"Bought you new ones," Kyle offers and you narrow your eyes at him because, following you or not, there's no way they could know -.

"What size?"

Kyle just grins. "On the first date?"

"On our first date," Jeremiah reminds you.

You ignore them both, rounding on John. "And you ripped off my hat!" To illustrate your point, you attempt to snatch it back again, but the captain ducks it just as easily as he did the first time.

"I'll give it back when you make me a new one."

"Wait, I stole it fair and square," Kyle counters. John doesn't dodge him as easily, the silver streaks of his dark, mussed hair catching the light just like your yarn did. He doesn't even bother trying to snatch it back, watching with fond eyes as Kyle replaces his hat with your own. He'd been right, he does wear it better.

"If I make you one too, will you give it back?"

"Fat chance," the sergeant scoffs, and with an expert toss, he saucers his own hat onto your head, grinning like a fool when you let John tug it more firmly on. 

A scoff behind you draws their attention. John glares over your shoulder again, but Kyle just waves, cheeky enough to elicit another humorless laugh. Byt the time you turn around, your date's already on his way. You're not particularly upset by it, figuring even if… whatever this is… doesn't pan out to anything, at least you'll have spent the evening in better company than originally planned.

The boys are both staring at you when you look back. You don't bother acting disappointed, though you know there's a version of this evening that sees you spitting mad, being soothed and gentled like a finicky horse with big hands and hushed tones. As appealing as it sounds, you'd rather spend your time actually talking, making up for your first meeting with them when you couldn't do much beyond gripe about your position, or whine about being bored. So instead you shrug, and the boy's smirks turn leery, and you suppress a shiver when Kyle leans across the table toward you, voice low when he asks what kind of camera 'the suit' bought you.

You panic in your response a bit, all higher end models you've had your eyes on for weeks fleeing your brain. Instead you tell them about the cheap thing you'd received in the mail and John scoffs.

"Got you something much better," he promises, pulling his phone from one of his many pockets and flicking through it. When he turns it toward you, an email confirmation tells him his package has been delivered, the details of the order showing the next model up from the very one he'd thrown in the brook. The description of the lens is cut off at the bottom, but you've no doubt you'll be happy enough when you see the pricing details. "You'll forgive the delay, of course. Man's gotta do some research, after all."

You'd even forgive the wellies continuing to go unreplaced, though in your excitement you forget to express that. "Of course. Of course! Thank you so much, John!" You're still gushing gratitudes when you slip out of the booth, turning to excuse yourself so quickly you even forget to snatch your hat back.

"Where do you think you're going?"

"To go get -?" You stall, taking in their confused - even slightly miffed - expressions. "Look, if that package sits on my stoop too long, my neighbors will -."

Kyle laughs, crooks his finger at you. It's embarrassing how quickly you oblige, slipping right back into your seat just because his eyes are too warm and inviting to disappoint. 

John's voice is much closer than you remember it being before you'd stood, the low rumble in his chest a physical thing you feel against your shoulder when he leans close. "No need to worry, petal. It's back at mine. Safe as houses."

"Didn't have your address," Kyle winks. 

It's weird, the way you can laugh at jokes about being followed. You decide not to think about it too much. "Sounds more like an elaborate plot to get me back at yours."

"Well, we're unused to not getting our mark," John confesses, "had to have another shot at it."

Kyle's cheeky when he responds, his boyish grin enough to have you settling against John before you even know what you're about. "For the record, I never did take a shot the first time."

[scarfscrawls]

Some freaky ferns,

Whirlifern and Ferneurosis!

Believed to be the ancient ancestor of Hoppip and Sunkern. It floats around without a care, and its small, springy root will propel it back into the air should the breeze cease.

Being around this 'Mon too long causes those nearby it to experience vivid hallucinations and intense dizziness.

[taro-pdf]

HaSO: Not all humans are the same Humanity, neurodiversity, and connection in space

[Fern (human) walks through the break room of a spaceship. Two minutes later, she passes through again.] Egor [bromid]: what is the human doing? Vuna [bromid]: I do not know. We are just transporting her. Human Jeffery? Jeffery [human]: I don’t know either, Vuna; we call that pacing, but who knows why she’s doing it. 

V: but you’re a human. J [shrugs]: I’m not a human expert. [Fern enters the room] V: Fern? F [not stopping]: Vuna? V: Where are you walking? F [at the door]: Just walking. E: I’m going to join her! [F and E exit. Two minutes later, they walk through again, giggling together] V: Well, whatever floats their ship, to use the human phrase. J: Boat. But yeah, happy to see them happy.

[florencemtrash]

The Artificer: Part III - Azriel x Reader

Warnings: More torture, violence, and death

✨Based on this ask ✨

Masterlist of Masterlists

But… memories of you rose higher than his nightmares... Memories of your gentle hands caressing every one of his scars reminding him what it meant to be gentle. Memories of your hands grasping at his back, nails scraping down and reminding him what it meant to be strong. 

Azriel kept close to the walls, feeling his boots sink into the soft soil that tinged the air with dampness and the heavy weight of decomposition. It was a miracle the walls didn’t crumple in on themselves, propped up by some magic that allowed the tunnels to sink deeper and deeper beneath the hill like they were sliding down an animal’s throat.

Azriel’s knees remained loosely bent, poised to pounce, fingers drumming against the hilt of Sunseeker in one hand and Truth Teller in the other. 

He hated this kind of darkness. It didn’t taste of freedom like the crisp, clean winds of the night sky did. It tasted like a torturous childhood and the film of medicine that had never been enough to heal his hands. He bristled with every flicker of torchlight that waved dangerously close to his face, casting a warmth and light that was just a little too hot and a little too harsh. 

Even Eris, who’d been born in flame and heat, seemed unnerved by the slithering tunnels that burrowed beneath the hill. But maybe that’s because he was unnerved by the dark Shadowsinger that walked five paces ahead and the equally imposing Illyrian that followed five steps behind. 

Eris ran through calculations in his head, sifting through the probabilities that they would all die here, and how, and in what order. His lips flattened. He didn’t like his odds. But there was still a sliver of hope that he would defy all the poor cards he’d been dealt and end up on top. Even if it took some manipulation and careful maneuvering… starting with taking advantage of the Shadowsinger’s obvious care for you. 

It was clear from the tightness in the Shadowsinger’s shoulders that he was still reigning in the fury he’d displayed outside, and Eris only hoped it would be properly redirected towards a more deserving figure when the time arose. 

Azriel didn’t hide the breath of relief that exited his body when the tunnels gave way to a larger cavern. Moss and ferns dripped from the ceiling, clinging on to strips of exposed stone overhead. Here he could stretch his wings and fly if necessary. But the relief of that knowledge quickly died out when the stench of your blood hit him. 

Cells, dank and grimy, were carved out of the walls, wandering bodies trapped behind like offerings to an ancient god. But that wasn’t where Azriel’s focus was. No. His eyes were focused on the single cell in the center of the room with only a thick, metal grate for an opening… and the High Lord leaning over with a crooked smile on his face.

Cassian swore, whirling upon Eris like a crack of thunder ready to break. The fucker hadn’t warned them that his father would be here tonight. Maybe he hadn’t known. Cassian might have been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. But that disappeared the moment his eyes fell on the empty space between them. The Lordling had slipped away when their attention was elsewhere, hurrying down any of the half-dozen tunnels that spanned the walls. 

“Fuck.” He hissed, grabbing Azriel’s arm and thanking him back before he could float too close to the edge and expose them both. 

“He’s coming for me.” Your voice called out, worn and rough and deep. 

I’m here! Azriel wanted to scream. He hadn’t left you. He would never leave you. Never again. 

Beron circled like a vulture, ready to split you in two. Azriel’s eyes went black when Beron took out a battle cane strong enough to shatter bone, and crashed it against the gate, tongues of flame licking out and sending you cowering as you pressed yourself into the dirt, desperate to escape the unbearable heat. 

Azriel sprang into action, Cassian following close behind without hesitation. Somehow, the Lord of Bloodshed had known this was how tonight would end. He whispered a quick prayer to the Mother, sent one last burning message of love to Nesta across the bond, and then slammed down his mental shields.

Shouts of alarm were quickly snuffed out as Azriel’s shadows flew out from his wings, trailing behind him and engulfing the cavern in darkness. 

Cassian dove to the right, narrowly missing the onslaught of arrows that sailed past his ears, whistling as they streamed around him. They followed the curve of the wind around his strong body but never hit true.

A flash of red broke through the darkness, followed by screams of pain as Cassian threw another burst of his power and took out the snipers. The hill rocked, dirt falling down on their heads like hard rain.

You gasped, your face still half buried in the ground as the flames retreated with some mixture of shock and satisfaction. The hill rocked again and you had to roll out of the way as a chunk of the ceiling came crashing down and burst into a black cloud reeking of rot.

Beron was a beacon of light, a tornado of flames spinning around him. A casual flick of his wrist transformed the cane into a battle axe that glowed as hot as the sun, but never buckled under the heat. 

Azriel’s eyes flickered with fear just once, memories of burning and pain rising like a flood in his mind. He’d never told anyone this, but his disdain for the High Lord of Autumn was only matched by his fear of him. Because who else had the power to make his worst nightmares come true? Nightmares of being doused in oil and set on fire with no amount of writhing on the floor able to save him. 

But… memories of you rose higher than his nightmares. Memories of the forge that cast warmth upon your skin when you were pressed together with nothing but the tangled sheets between you two. Like rose petals preserved between the pages of a book. Memories of your gentle hands caressing every one of his scars reminding him what it meant to be gentle. Memories of your hands grasping at his back, nails scraping down and reminding him what it meant to be strong. 

He roared, loud enough that the hill shook again. Blue light crackled out from his chest, filling the cloud of black shadows like lightning cutting through the dark, and slammed into Beron’s fire. 

You fell back as the thin squares of sky above you filled with light and darkness, beating at each other unrelentingly as flickers of Azriel’s blue power carved out his silhouette. 

A well placed shot to Beron’s chest sent him sailing across the room and crashing through the rusting metal of a cell. 

Azriel dove down, grabbing hold of the grate to slow his momentum instead of using his wings. The bars were ripped out of the ground like the felling of an ancient tree. 

“Az!” You shouted, scrambling to your feet. 

“Y/n!” His face swam into view, eyes like perfect stones made of seaglass. 

You stretched onto your toes, ignoring the pain in your back as Azriel reached down, shadows filling the empty space and linking him to you. He began to haul you up, eyes shining and desperate. 

You caught the flicker of movement from Azriel’s left before he did.

“AZ LOOK OUT!” 

Light exploded into being and Azriel roared with pain, burning heat flaring over his wings as Beron stalked forward with his hands outstretched. 

You were dropped back to the floor, landing with a grimace on your shoulder. Shadows still clung to you, wrapping around your body and shielding you from the worst of the fall. 

“Az.” You croaked. “Az.” Dust and debris coated your throat as you staggered to your feet. Corrosive bangs sounded above you, flashes of blue and orange setting the air alight with power. 

Warm hands grabbed your shoulder from behind, a pale face sprinkled with freckles like copper dust coming into view. You flinched at the sight of him. 

Eris. 

He looked too much like his father. 

But his voice was softer, kinder. That was some consolation at the very least. “We need to go. Now.” 

“How did you get in here?” 

A sickening crack exploded above, bursts of Cassian’s power joining the fray. It sent a rain of dirt onto both your heads. Eris smirked, pointing to the hole in the wall he’d crashed through. He’d dug the tunnel to the cell with his bare hands fifty-three years ago while Beron had been trapped Under the Mountain. He’d left many of his personal changes to Autumn in Beron’s absence, some of which had been discovered, most of which remained secret. He was glad this piece of work was still standing. 

You looked back at him in surprise.

“You can thank me later by convincing your mate not to slaughter me.” He said, holding onto your arm and tugging you towards the tunnel. 

You were so wired up that his words didn’t register at first, chugging through your brain at a snail’s pace. 

You can thank me later by convincing your mate not to slaughter me. 

You gasped, “Wait. What?” 

But Eris ignored your sounds of surprise and slipped into the tunnel.

You had no choice but to follow, the sounds of battle behind you transforming into a dull bass that sent your heart pulsing. Eris’s hand turned to flame, lighting the way for you both as you steadily climbed your way up through the layers of stone and earth to freedom. 

Cassian careened to the right, leathers and the skin beneath smoking. He nicked the side of a stone outcropping, talons snagging on the rock and pulling sharply so he had no choice but to crash into the wall and clatter to the floor with a groan. He rolled to the side, tucking his wing in tightly enough that the swing of a guard’s axe met limestone in a shower of gray crumbs. 

Shadows coated the weapon like a pool of quicksand, swallowing it with a hiss of warning as the male jerked back. His eyes blew open, a choked gurgle escaping his throat at the blade that burst out from his chest. The body sank to the floor to reveal Eris’s towering above. He tipped his head to the side, bits of grime and blood dripping off his scarlet waves and tracing the smile lines on his face.

You stood beside him, steely hands gripping a war hammer equally doused in red. You’d snatched it off the body of a soldier while following Eris through the chaotic fray, and it was comforting to have such a familiar weight in your hands.

“Who’s the useless one now?” Eris crowed, sneering down at Cassian. But he still extended a hand, heaving a bruised and exhausted Cassian onto his feet and propping him up on his shoulder. 

Prick, Cassian thought first, leaning against him with a groan, Azriel, Cassian thought secondly, Where’s Azriel?

The explosions of power had dimmed down, shadows eating away at flames like starving men upon a dead animal. But Beron remained unperturbed as he lifted the flaming axe above his shoulder and cut through the air in a burst of heat that scorched brighter than a million suns. 

Cassian wrapped his wing around you, bringing you to the floor and shielding you from the worst of it. Even from this distance you saw the light growing behind your eyelids, bright and blinding.

Eris was the only one who remained standing, staring down at his father with unflinching eyes. Whatever was to come next, he’d either emerge the victor or he’d be dead. Either way, Beron wouldn’t be able to hurt him any longer. At least there was that. “Cassian,” He called out. It was the first time he’d ever used his real name, “Have you got any fight left in you?”

Cassian rose to his feet with you, grumbling about the charred smell emanating from his smoking wings. “It’s in my blood. So long as my heart’s still beating, I’ll keep on fighting.” He vowed. “To the bitter end.” 

He peeled himself off your side, rolling his shoulders back like he hadn’t just held off the power of a High Lord and survived. So this was the Lord of Bloodshed everyone talked about. 

You couldn’t help but stare in awe as his wings flared out in a show of power, the faint tendrils of smoke lifting off of them completing the epic picture. 

“Always so dramatic.” Eris muttered, rolling his eyes. But he had to admit, if he was to die tonight, dying alongside a magical artificer and two powerful Illyrian warriors would not be such a terrible ending to what had otherwise been a tragic, forgettable existence. 

You shoved Eris to the side, any awe replaced by fury as you saw Beron march towards Azriel’s dark form. 

The Shadowsinger rolled onto his feet lightly, picking up a glowing sword that you recognized as Sunseeker. If you had any doubts about Azriel being your mate, they disappeared as Sunseeker and Hellraiser clashed for the first time. 

You sprinted across the cavern, soon falling behind Eris and Cassian with your shorter frame but chasing after them nevertheless.

Fuckers. 

You gritted your teeth, hands gripping onto the ugly war hammer so tightly you felt the metal buckle beneath your fingers with a groan of protest. 

Come on, come on. You hissed to the metal, commanding it to do what you pleased with whatever meager sprinklings of power you had left. With a little encouragement and much frustration you finally felt the weapon conform to your will, twisting its shape to become denser, more aerodynamic, and easier to throw in your hands.

Perfect. 

Your magic wasn’t flashy or flamboyant. You had no sparks, or rolls of thunder, or bursts of light to display like a brightly feathered bird. But you didn’t need all that to look impressive, not when your war hammer sailed through Beron’s flames where Cassian and Eris’s melted, and struck the High Lord hard enough to dislocate his jaw. 

That’s my mate. Azriel thought proudly, rolling out of the way just in time so only the tips of his black hair caught on fire. 

Beron at least had the humility to look surprised as he gripped his chin and forced the bone back into place with a dribble of blood. 

Eris jumped on the opportunity, shooting forward in a blur of orange flame and concentrating all his power on the space right below Beron’s sternum. It wasn’t enough to knock him off his feet, but he still staggered back in Cassian’s direction.

Cassian didn’t waste his chance, taking his spare sword in hand and plunging the blade as far through Beron’s chest as he could. 

Beron stilled.

And everyone held their breath.

It happened faster than an arrow shot from a longbow. Beron twisted around and grabbed Cassian’s arm, snapping it out to the side with a horrifying crack of bone you’d never be able to forget. 

Cassian roared in pain, dropping to his knees. The sword fell from his hand and clattered to the ground. Or what remained of it at least. The blade was nothing more than a pathetic, molten pool dripping off the hilt.

You darted forward, slipping into the space in front of Cassian’s chest.

“Y/N!” Azriel screamed out, dashing forward as quickly as his wings and shadows could. No. No. No. No. No. He’d come all this way to find you. He couldn’t lose you like this. 

Beron’s eyes flickered with something like disappointment, but there was no hesitation as Hellraiser came swinging down with a death sentence.

You called out to the metal. You are mine. You reminded him. I made you. And you cannot hurt me.

You weren’t proud of Hellraiser. He’d been forged out of desperation, not love, as you sought to please the High Lord for long enough for Azriel to come find you.

 You’d told Beron the weapon would be able to withstand any amount of heat. Any amount of power. It would serve him well, even if it wasn’t bound to him as a servant to a master. 

You hadn’t lied about any of that. 

What you had kept a secret was that Hellraiser did have a master: You

And you’d made certain that no weapon of yours could ever be used against you. 

You cannot hurt me. You said again and the air around the battle ax began to rattle.

Hellraiser blew apart in a crack of thunder and lightning, shooting through Beron’s flesh and dotting his trousers and bronzed vest with scarlet blossoms. 

This time you were the one to shield Cassian, throwing your body over him as flecks of burning hot metal fell in a neat outline of your cramped silhouettes. But not a single molten drop fell on you.

Now it was Azriel’s turn. And this time, he was going to finish things once and for all.

His eyes turned into chips of ice cold steel, flat and unforgiving and malicious. He became the fabric that nightmares were carved from.

The next time Beron shot out his wave of flames, Azriel didn’t dodge them, slicing through the heat like a blade through water before bursting through on the other side with Sunseeker gripped in his hands. She sang a triumphant and vengeful ring when Azriel pushed her into the flesh beneath Beron’s rib cage with a scream of fury, plunging her up so far up through his chest and throat, that the High Lord’s tongue was severed and fell out of his gaping mouth. 

But that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more. No, he needed more. He braced one foot on Beron’s chest, unsheathing Sunseeker with a wet, thick gush of scarlet blood. Then he swung again, this time severing Beron’s head from his body. The body and the head that had once belonged to it toppled over, turning the ground below into a mud slick.

Icaryon Hill fell into silence, flames flickering out on an invisible wind that swept across all of Prythian. The kind of wind that only arrived when a new High Lord was coming into power. 

Eris breathed in the cold, feeling power pour into him so rich and decadent that he groaned. Some new feeling erupted with life in his chest - something warm and safe and his - and it had nothing to do with the body of his father cooling ten feet away. 

He was free.

He was finally free.

When he opened his eyes Cassian saw they burned like amber in sunlight. His scarlet hair pulsed with flames, skin shimmering like moonlight as he held his hand over Cassian’s broken arm and pushed the bone back into place without pain. 

“Az!” You cried out, sprinting towards him. 

Azriel’s eyes snapped up and he staggered to his feet, blood dripping down his arms and chest with the steady beat of a church bell. 

His eyes turned hazel again and the bloodlust left him, replaced by a sinking feeling of dread and hope. He didn’t want you to see him like this. He didn’t want you to see him for the monster he was. It had been easy to forget what he did - what he was capable of - when he was wrapped up in your arms by the light of the forge. It was easy to forget that he didn’t deserve you when you were alone and warm and softer than any bed he’d rested on. But even so, he couldn’t stop his feet from moving forward in a stunned daze. Sunseeker slipped out of his hands without protest.

If he’d learned anything in your absence it was that he was far worse than he could have ever believed. Capable of more danger, more cruelty, more fear, more-

You sailed into his arms, slamming into his chest so hard that he rocked back on his feet, forced out of his mind and back into the present. He wound his arms around you, holding you to him. Desperate to hold onto a dream he didn’t want to wake up from. 

“Y/n.” He gasped, “Y/n.” Buried beneath the blood, sweat, and dirt you were still there smelling of something warm and clean and pure. 

His hands flowed over you like water. His eyes stripped you bare under their intense gaze as he searched for injuries. You grasped at his arms with-

“Your hands.” He said, the words coming out strangled and dead. 

Angry marks, red and black and scabbing over, criss-crossed over your palms and over the backs of your hands. You flinched when he held them, trying to ignore the throbbing of the matching marks on your back.

“You’re here.” You whispered, tears streaming down your cheeks. You hoped you weren’t still dreaming. You’d dreamed of him so often these last few months.

“Did you think I wouldn’t come?” He asked with a voice full of pain. 

You shook your head passionately, “No. No. I knew you would come.” 

You dared to look to the side. The High Lord looked pale in death, that glow of power sapped from his skin. 

I told you I’d have your head. You thought bitterly. You searched inwardly for any remorse and came up satisfyingly empty.

Tendrils of shadow cradled your chin, gently turning you away from the gory sight and back to Azriel’s tortured hazel eyes. 

“Good.” He whispered, “Never forget that, Y/n. Never.” He held your hands in his own, gentle but fierce, touching his forehead to yours in a gesture full of soft reverence, “I’ll always come for you, Y/n. Always.”

You swallowed thickly and felt your legs begin to tremble. And then the rest of your body was shaking as well. The only thing keeping you upright was the firm press of Azriel’s body against yours.

“Take me home, Azriel,” You whispered, burying your face in his shoulder and slowly letting the horrors of what you’d endured catch up to you. “Please take me home.”

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