#i am the queen of sore throats

[caernua]

caught a cold for the millionth time this year but this time i was a big responsible girl and went to the doctor bc the symptoms were pretty serious and had me a lil freaked out bc i weirdly have a sore throat but the pain is only on one side??????? but nope it's just a common cold but i still had to pay way too much for the medicine 🥲 also my hair gets greasy so quickly bc of the cold, i'm used to only washing it once or twice a week i can't do this fr how are there people who wash their hair once every 1-2 days

[wolfofcelestia]

S: *Picks MC up like a sack of potatoes*

MC: Do you MIND?

S: I'm tired of looking down at you. It's hurting my neck.

MC: And you think picking me up so I need to hold on to your neck would alleviate the pain? This would only cause me to aggravate whatever injury you already have.

S, sighing: I'm not as fragile as you think I am. I knew you were a doctor's girl but I didn't know you'd be as annoying as one.

MC: I will literally murder you.

S: You won’t exactly be in the mood for murder when I've got you pinned down in bed... but I like your spirit.

S: Feeling your hands around my throat doesn't sound too bad at all.

MC, squishing his face in her hands: Pain meds, a warm compress, and gentle stretches until the pain goes away.

S, is squished: Alright, alright, you win. But after I follow your orders, can I expect a nice reward?

MC: A less sore neck.

S: ...You're impossible when you're acting like him, you know that?

MC: Your neck might be sore but your knees aren't.

S, laughing: Playing doctor and now queen? Well, that's fine with me. I'd much rather be ordered around by this side of you.

[cambion-companion]

Can u imagine Aegon slapping someone's ass but then she turns around and bam, Aemond's wife 🤡 He slapped her ass. Ass of Y/N. Ass of Aemond's beloved lady wife. Aemond saw. He may not kill but that doesn't mean Aegon will get away with it

hahaha listen I had to write this Anon message into a fic it's too funny...(post writing edit) Aemond got more angry than I thought he would so enjoy him popping off I guess!

Aemond x wife!reader | Protective Aemond | Run, Aegon, run

The night was growing late, and the goblets of wine quickly emptying. Especially Aegon's, you noticed, with a roll of your eyes. You glanced over to where your husband sat at the end of the long oaken table, catching his eye and sharing an aggrieved expression as Aegon called loudly for the serving maid to return.

Aemond's angular face was set in a stern expression as his violet eye flicked back to watching his brother, half rising from his own seat as Aegon stumbled to a stand. "More wine! Bring that serving girl back...the one with the large tits!" His face was flushed, and he could barely stand for how drunk he was.

You sighed, shaking your head as you moved toward where Aemond had his place at the table. Aegon stumbled forward, still in pursuit of his favorite drink as you brushed past him. You felt a blow to your rear, sharp even through the fabric of your skirts as Aegon smacked a hand to your ass, groping you a moment before letting go.

The small dining hall fell silent, even the musicians ceased their playing, all eyes looking in shock at what had just occurred. You had to take a moment to fully register what had just happened...as did Aegon by the look on his plastered face as you slowly turned to face him. His bloodshot eyes widened as they took you in, quickly swiveling toward where Aemond was now standing.

"Aemond I-" Aegon hastily began to defend himself but was silenced when, with all the might you could muster, you smacked an open palm across his face in a stinging blow. "Fuck. Fuck!" Aegon stumbled back, clutching his cheek with both hands. "You vicious little bitch!" The drunken prince, eyes darkening, took a heavy step toward you, his hands curling into fists.

In a blur of movement that sent you stumbling to the side, Aemond was between the two of you, his hand grabbing the collar of Aegon's shirt to yank him close. "You forget yourself, brother. That is my wife." Aemond hissed into Aegon's face.

"I don't care if she's Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she hit me!" Aegon protested, trying to free himself from Aemond's iron grasp.

With an almost animalistic growl, Aemond dragged his brother across the room toward the exit. The other people in the room watched with wide eyes and whispered behind their hands as they went.

"Aemond!" You called, hurrying to catch up with the two men, resisting the urge to rub at your sore rump.

You had a very real fear that your husband was about to murder his elder brother, especially as Aemond slammed him against the stone wall of the empty corridor outside the dining hall.

"Gerroffme!" Aegon writhed, choking a little with the force of Aemond's grip.

"Aemond!" You grabbed your husband's elbow, trying to ease the pressure he was applying to Aegon's throat.

"Apologize." Aemond seethed, his teeth bared, heedless to your tugging at his arm.

"I thought she was a servant!" Aegon gasped. "I would never-you know I wouldn't touch your wife knowingly!"

"Maybe you should stop assaulting women altogether, Aegon." You said severely, suddenly thinking Aemond was applying just the right amount of pressure to his throat.

"You will apologize to my wife and every other woman you have touched against her will." Aemond pressed his brother harder into the wall. "Which is quite a long list."

Aegon was silent, weighing his options, fighting to breathe, his hands still scrabbling at Aemond's forearms. His lilac eyes flitted to your face, he fought to control the sneer that itched up his lips as he looked at you. "I am sorry."

"Aw, you mean it?" You deadpanned, glaring daggers at him.

"Touch her again and-"

"Yes yes, I will regret being born. Can you let me go now, I can't breathe, Aemond."

With a sound halfway between a snarl and a sigh Aemond turned his head to look at you. You nodded. "Let him go."

Aemond abruptly released Aegon, making no moved to help him as he almost crumpled to the ground. "Make your apologies and pray I don't catch you harassing anymore girls." Aemond spoke, his voice deadly calm. "Spend your desires in the brothels you like so much."

"Fuck you." Aegon spat on the ground at Aemond's feet. "When did you become such a champion of women's honor?"

"Since I married Y/N." Aemond took a menacing step toward him, causing Aegon to shuffle backwards instinctively.

You grabbed Aemond's hand, coaxing him back to you. Aegon looked ready to spit again but thought better of it. Instead, he shook his head, derision written all over his face as he turned and stomped back into the dining hall.

"Are you alright?" Aemond brought your interlocked fingers up to his lips. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"I...no. He just surprised me is all."

"I could kill him sometimes."

"He's your brother, Aemond."

"The bane of my existence."

You laughed. "Like I said: your brother."

He smiled at that, finally relaxing a bit, his hand still firmly around your own. He reached around with his other hand, caressing your aching backside carefully, ducking his silver head to place a kiss to your mouth.

"If he treats all maids in the Red Keep like that..." You shook your head.

"He's done much worse." Aemond nodded, face grave as he studied you. "It is passed time for it to end."

You squeezed his hand, nuzzling into the crook of his neck as Aemond drew you closer into his arms. "If there's anyone who can, hmm, convince him to stop it's you."

"I hope you're right, my ember."

The two of you remained in the empty corridor, entwined, breathing in the comforting scent of one another for quite some time. You didn't return to the dining room, instead making your slow way hand-in-hand back to your chambers where Aemond called for a steaming bath to be poured. The hot water and firelight welcoming you, but nothing was so comfortable as the feeling of Aemond's warm arms around you, always holding you close to his heart.

[nervoushottee]

Queen Alicent’s Maid 1 | Alicent Hightower x fem!reader

Summary: In which Alicent gets a maid after becoming the new Queen of the Seven Kingdoms…

Warnings: nail picking, small bleeding due to nail picking, thoughts of injuring oneself

Note: hey hottees! It’s been so longgggg. I’ve got a new job that’s full time so I literally don’t have time to even breathe yay!🫠 but I’ve been watching HOTD season 2 and I’ve been wanting to write something for Alicent since season one and I’ve been trying to find fanfics with Alicent x Fem!reader but it’s not that many. So I’m finally taking matters into my own hands!

*I AM TEAM BLACK! But I love Alicent (in the show) I think she is so misunderstood and such a complex character*

Enjoy! Not edited

It was an exhausting day to say the least, it had been such a stress and agonizing week. From her father’s pushing in her ear, the hateful gaze of her now ex bestfriend and now being queen. Alicent thought if there was anything else the she would probably explode. But she knew, even if she felt all of these things, she could never voice it. She didn’t want to disobey her father, she only wanted to be a good daughter. So she she followed the rules.

Alicent wanted to scream. She wanted to stand out onto the balcony and scream her lungs out until her throat was sore.

She didn’t want any of this. She didn’t want to show such affection to the King let alone be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She never wanted to wear her mother’s dress that hugged her body in places she never wanted them to. Consoling her best friend’s father as he mourned. She didn’t want to do any of these things her father demanded of her.

But how could she voice those wants without being hurt? Without being laughed at or scolded? She knew there was no use, she knew in the end her father would get what he wanted. Alicent never wanted to disobey him, all she wanted was to be a good daughter to both of her parents. And ever since her mother’s death, her and her father got closer with each year that passed by. But now, as Alicent stares at the heavy ring on her finger, she’s starting to get the feeling that her father hasn’t really thought about her needs and only his own.

The sound of the chamber door opening alerts her thoughts. Turning around to see King Viserys come into the room with a small awkward smile. She swallows the bile in her throat as she thinks back on the night before, her back against the cold bed as she stared at the ceiling with him on top of her. She smiles. “Hello dear husband.”

Viserys smiles softly and nods his head, “How did you sleep?”

“Quite well thank you.” Alicent would rather smash her head into the wall than sit here and go back and forth with awkward small talk of a man twice her age, perhaps even more than that.

“I have something for you.” Her eyebrows raise in interest at his statement. Alicent hopes it is a knife to gouge out her eyes and ears.

“With hope and time, you will soon be with child. After the great loss I’ve had, that would bring me such joy.” Viserys begins. Alicent thinks back on Rhaenyra telling her how it was her father's choice to cut Queen Aemma open for the chance of having a son. Her stomach sinks at the thought of her best friend who won’t even glance in her direction and the woman who she looked up to so kindly that died so painfully.

“I wish to give you a few things. The first is your own room. I know we are man and wife and there are duties that we must fulfill and such, but I thought it would be a nice gesture to have your own chambers.”

Alicent’s eyes light up in relief but her face remains stoic. She smiles softly, and nods her head. “Thank you my King. That is greatly appreciated.” She hopes he can’t hear the relief in her voice.

She already knows what her father would say. That she should deny the room and be a good wife. Technically she was being a good wife, she was simply accepting the gift she was given from him.

“It is connected to mine from a long corridor, so if I need you I can always come get you.”

Alicent can already imagine when it is time for those nights to “fufill their duties” where she would have to walk back and forth from his chamber to hers. At least she had her own chambers so she would not complain.

“I was promised another gift? You said a few things.” Alicent says jokingly.

Viserys laughs, “Yes I did.” he walks over to the chamber door and knocks on it before turning back to Alicent with a smug smile.

“Every queen should have their own handmaiden. Aemma had one who was a very big part of her life, she was a wonderful woman and I saw how much Aemma truly trusted and respected her.” She could see the sadness in his eyes as he spoke of his past wife.

“So, I wanted to do the same for you, dear wife. This is your very own handmaiden.” He extends his hand as he says your name. You walk up with your head down and bow to Alicent.

“It is an honor, your grace.” You say to her.

“Now you will still have other maids of course but she will be the one that helps you the most.” Viserys explains to her. “She will also show you to your new chambers.”

Alicent thanked her husband for the gift with a peck on the cheek and a bright smile. He excuses himself to let you show Alicent to her new room. You quietly walk towards one of the big doors in the king’s room and once you open it, it leads to a dark hallway like Viserys had said. Alicent follows you down to the only door at the end. You push the door open and urge her to enter.

The room was beautiful. It looks similar to Viserys', only a little smaller. There was a beautiful bed and sitting chairs and pillows. A desk that overlooked the outside and a few shelves that could be held with books.

“This door goes to your bath. This one for your clothes and this door is the entrance to your chambers. So you will not need to come through the King’s to get in.” the handmaiden explained as she walked to each door before stopping at the last one.

You wore the usual handmaiden dress, this one in a dark color of black and brown. Your hair is tied away from your face so it doesn’t get in your face while doing your duties.

You were…pretty.

“Thank you kindly. I hope it wasn't much trouble to make you my new maid.” Alicent says apologetically. You immediately shake your head, looking up at Alicent before putting your head back down. Eyes gazing down to the floor before speaking. “It’s no trouble at all your grace. I’m honored to be given such a task. I simply hope that my services please you but if not, I will not feel bad if you wish for another.

Alicent feels awkward. This space between them is suffocating, despite being so far apart. You are at the far end of the room, a few feet from the chamber doors. Alicent’s back was still against the door from where they had came from. She wonders why you haven’t really looked at her. ‘Maybe it’s because you’re the new queen of the seven fucking kingodms and that probably makes her nervous.’She thought to herself.

With a breath of confidence, Alicent begins to walk towards you. Stopping a few paces away, keeping her distance so she doesn’t make you more nervous than you already were. She clears her throat making your head lift up and your eyes meet. She can already feel her hands itching to rip her nail beds raw.

“I do not know what they say about me,”Alicent begins, as she thinks back on the people she’s seen that whispered about her when Viserys declared to be wed to her. She hasn’t heard the whispers, thank the Seven Kingdoms, but she already has a big assumption of what they say.

Based on Rhaenyra’s absence alone, she doesn’t need to think too hard.

“But, I would like you to know that I will not be harsh to you or think of you as lesser.”

Alicent realizes mid-speech that this is the longest you have looked at her since Viserys brought you here. Your eyes never leaving hers, your hands clasped together behind you, back standing still as you dutifully listen. She doesn’t know why looking at you like this, so…forced. Made her heart break, it made her think of her own position. Being forced into being queen.

“If I’m being honest, this betrothal has left me more alone than I thought. King Viserys is off dutifully taking care of the realm. My father, his Hand, standing right beside him and giving advice if need be. And Rhaenyra-” She stops. It hurts too much to think of Rhaenyra’s absence. Of her avoidance, let alone to her new maid. She didn’t even know why she was telling you all this. But her mouth made no move to stop talking, almost as if it had a mind of it’s own. Alicent feels her hands grasp one another as she secretly tries to pinch the delicate skin.

“What I’m trying to say is that it would be nice to have someone around. I don’t want you to force yourself into laughing at my jokes or agreeing with everything I say just because I am queen. And yes, I know I am queen of the seven kingdoms, but I’m still me. I’m just the girl just like you and I- I would like us to be friends. Or at least something similar.” Alicent feels like all the air is out of her lungs when she finally finishes speaking. She pricks and pinches at her nailbeds as she waits for your reply. And you don’t reply immediately.

You slowly walk toward her, each step causes Alicent’s heart to beat faster. When you’re finally at arms length, Alicent sees you pull out a small cloth before taking her left hand. Alicent’s eyes widen and her breath hitches at the sudden touch. Your warm hand in hers as you move her hand to the cloth. She watches you wrap her now bleeding thumb, Alicent didn’t even know she had scratched it that hard for it to bleed. Didn’t even feel the cool liquid as she spoke to you. She moves her eyes from her hand till in yours but now wrapped in the cloth.

“I would really like that, your Grace.” You say with a smile.

Alicent lets out a breath of relief.

“Alicent. Call me Alicent.”

[sunflowersandsapphires]

Shadows of Fluttering Leaves

When Skies Are Gray, Chapter 7

Series Masterlist             Next Chapter

pairing: Frank Castle x fem!reader 

summary: Frank’s life has reached a crossroads: he can either continue to seclude himself and pursue a dark, lonely future, or he can open himself up to connecting with someone again and maybe achieve happiness. Being the grump that he is, Frank has already committed to the lonely path, but his curious new neighbor might just turn that around. 

warnings: depressed reader, grief, victim blaming, implied history of sexual assault/harassment, bad parenting, not super healthy coping mechanisms

a/n: I am so sorry I've updated everything sporadically this year, y'all. I've been working really hard to stockpile updates so I'll be able to post at least biweekly for the rest of the year (if everything goes to plan!) As always, please comment/reblog to leave feedback. And a giant thank you to @gracethyomen for helping me plan this arc and make their fight more cruel. She is the queen of angst, go follow her.

w/c: 4.8k

You didn’t recall much from the past three days, but that was because there wasn’t anything to recall. After your conversation–if it could even be called that–with Frank, it was as if your soul had unstitched itself from your body. You went through your days as an emotionless husk. Your creative spark extinguished, your joy unreachable.

The walls in your building were thin enough that you could hear him moving around. Going to work and returning home to Max as if you'd never existed. Perfectly fine without you. Every heavy footfall that penetrated the rotting drywall brought a fresh sheen of tears to your eyes. 

The burly marine had become such a welcomed part of your life, losing him was like losing a limb. His absence felt like a bad dream. If you focused hard enough, you could still feel his calloused hands, smell the cheap soap and spicy clove aftershave he used. But a simple exhale would wash the scent away, and you were alone again–tired, anguished, and unloved.

You drifted through the day, unsure what to do with yourself. You couldn’t bring yourself to go into work, or even communicate with Leo and Stacy for more than a brief text to prove you were still alive.

While this evening hadn’t been much different, the sight of your mom’s name flashing across the top of your phone screen as it buzzed had caused enough of an adrenaline rush to force you to chat with someone. Your throat felt sore after talking for the first time in nearly 72 hours, your vocal chords still recovering from their sudden overuse. Shuddering as you willed the memory of the call to fade, you felt the tell tale prick in the corners of your eyes.

Staring down at the damp concrete, you blinked frantically in an attempt to keep the endless tears at bay. The tilt of your head caused raindrops to drip off of your hood, rolling down your forehead. Around you, the slam of water against pavement and steel drowned out the thud of your determined footsteps. Blowing out a breath you slipped an unfeeling mask onto your face as you continued your walk to the bakery.

It wasn’t more than a few blocks from your apartment to the Rainy Day, but the beams of street lights would draw attention to your glassy eyes, and you didn’t need to highlight your fragility for any creeps that might be lurking at this hour. You'd had more than enough unwanted male attention for the week. Once you were safely behind the locked doors, you could look as broken down as you needed to.

Though you were exhausted, your confusion-and-betrayal-addled brain was still unable to rest and your hands itched to do something. Wallowing in your bed wouldn’t quell the uneasiness that speaking with your mom had ignited mere hours ago. But cooking might. At least, you hoped that was the case.

A crackle of lightning illuminated the bakery as you approached; the strike of light refracting through the windows made the place look rather sinister, draping it in oddly shaped shadows. Slipping the keys from your pocket, you tried not to cringe at the cold rain as it splattered against your exposed hand. Thunder rolled overhead as you waggled the key in the lock, finally getting the damn thing to budge enough for the door to shove open.

Stepping inside, you bolted the door behind you, using your phone flashlight to maneuver through the stacked tables and chairs as you moved to the kitchen. Before getting to work, you stripped out of your semi-drenched top and slipped into a clean t-shirt adorned with the logo of the cafe. Flicking on the overhead lights, you threw a hand up to shield your sensitive eyes as they strobed briefly before steadying into their normal bright rays. Taking a place by your preferred station, you took a moment to reflect on the tasks you had cut out for you.

Though Leo was more than capable of replicating your work if you detailed the recipes, they were happy to let you be the creative lead in your shared kitchen. As they’d mentioned multiple times over text the past few days, your absence from the space meant less variation in pastries for the bakery, and more for Leo to do. If you weren’t so emotionally depleted, you would have felt more guilty about abandoning them so suddenly.

Apparently, the emotional turmoil that talking to your mother always stirred was good for something. It had gotten you here, at least. Coating your station in a thin layer of flour, you ran through the motions of a basic croissant recipe.

You weren't quite feeling up to experimenting yet, but croissants you could do.

Soon enough, the smell of salted butter and yeast engulfed the room and your fatigued mind began to wander. Despite your best efforts to forget the comment, your mother's voice echoed in your ears.

“Really, sweetheart, what did you expect?”

The condescension in her tone clung to you like the barbs of an untrimmed rose. Your brain feebly tried to reassure you that she had no idea what she was talking about. To remind you that she didn't even know his name, that you'd told her—at most—three sentences about the whole situation.

But the majority of your brain was still reeling from the abrupt collapse of your relationship with Frank. And it was far too weak to not spiral at the implication of your mom's question.

Because, while she wasn't fully aware of who Frank was and what he meant to you, she was intimately informed of your history with men–hence her thoughtless words this evening.

Your dating history was...pitiful, to say the least. You tended to draw attention from the wrong men. Bosses, teachers, even your own relatives.

It had been your reality for as long as you could remember. As a child, whenever you'd come to your mother with another sob story about attention that you hadn't meant to attract, the blame was always placed squarely on your shoulders. Your outfits were too provocative, your actions too enticing. It didn't matter that they were the ones misunderstanding your kindness as an open invitation. It was still your fault.

Expecting her to sympathize with you when you told her you'd been grabbed by a stranger as you left the construction site was foolish. But it still hurt to know that she didn't.

What hurt more was the little voice in the back of your head that agreed with her. Knowing damn well that you'd chosen that outfit to fetch the gaze of a specific man. That the low cut neckline was meant to be provocative. That it was your fault that you'd been humiliated. That your own desperation had led to the continued phantom sensation of a large hand gripping your arm against your will. 

“If you dangle bait long enough, something will bite.” She reminded you. It wasn't the ocean's fault that you'd been hoping for a specific fish.

“But I didn't want them.” You'd lamented to her. You were tired of being a plaything, a quick fuck. You wanted something more, something real. And it had turned to ash in your delicate grasp before you could so much as appreciate it.

She wasn't sympathetic. Chastising you for forgetting your place, for getting attached, for seeking love in places it didn't exist.

“Love is harder to come by when you're, well...you know.”

You slammed the ball of elastic dough onto the bench, kneading it aggressively as tears poured down your face. Your stomach twisted as it heaved with sobs, the sentiment from your mother sounding eerily similar to the curt observation that Frank had hurled at you.

You ain't my wife.

He was right. You weren't his wife. His wife was beautiful, and caring, and patient. She'd loved him, had children with him, made a home for him.

Think I'm your little boyfriend or somethin'?

Biting your lip to stifle a sob, the feeling of foolishness crested in your chest again. It was humiliating to be called out like that,  especially when your naive little heart had been convinced he felt the same way.

I never wanted that.

Those words still hit you like a sock to the gut. He never wanted a relationship. He never wanted you.  Your stupid feelings were clearly unrequited, but how were you supposed to know that?

Was your childhood so deprived of love that simple acts of kindness had your heart doing backflips? Were his pet names and compliments just his gentlemanly nature because he was afraid to offend you?

This was a mistake.

His sweet remarks, calling you beautiful, the constant teasing—the relationship you once had with Frank began to play in your head; the muted colors of the picture doing nothing to make your chest ache less when his face sprang to mind. Your brain continued its depressing montage: Frank smiling at you, his gruff voice lifting around the word “sunshine”, his genuine interest in your work, his daily visits to the cafe, the way he leaned into every touch you offered him. All meaningless. Just another regret.

Exhaling forcefully, you flapped your hands in an attempt to stop their trembling. If the fragile dough ripped between your fingers, it would ignite a full meltdown. Clenching the muscles in your hands, you relaxed them as you forced every thought from your head, focusing on the pliant mass beneath your rolling pin as you mashed it into a lopsided rectangle. Carefully lifting the edges of the shape, you tossed it onto the sheet pan you'd prepared as tenderly as you could.  Using your fingertips to stretch it into a more appealing shape, you nodded in satisfaction, shoving the tray onto a cart and picking up your rolling pin again.

Each extension of your forearms, pressing the wooden cylinder into the raw pastry, condensing and lengthening the blob with small, stiff movements. Your elbows creaked with every stretch of the elastic dough, the swing of your arms feeling almost foreign despite being a common practice in the kitchen. A 72-hour break was too long, apparently. Any other day, you'd dance through this recipe effortlessly; Today though, every step felt choppy and hesitant, as if your brain expected you to fail again and again.

You hadn't felt this hopeless in a kitchen since the last few weeks of your atrocious entrepreneurial experience years ago. Yet another example of you being too trusting, too optimistic.

Your mouth flooded with the metallic tang of blood as your teeth dug into the flesh of your cheek, halting the choking despair that threatened to drag you down to the linoleum floor. You wanted to give in; your brain was still a ball of exhausted mush incapable of handling your day-to-day tasks.

Sloppily prepping a few more trays for their initial rise, you shoved the croissant dough onto the proofing cart and out of sight. The smell of yeast usually made you happy, but the biting edge of the scent was turning your stomach. It was becoming increasingly clear that you'd thrown yourself into your work without the stability to handle the sensory input of the bakery. Your head was pulsing because of the fluorescent lights, the whir of the electric mixer rattling your ear drums. Once the sticks of butter you'd added to the stainless steel bowl of the machine were smooth, you shoved the lever to shut it off—letting out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

Slapping heaping scoops of the creamed butter into a half-sheet pan, you set the pan in the fridge to solidify and shuffled blearily into the break room, collapsing onto the worn leather couch.

“You are such an asshole.”

Gritting your teeth as the words ripped you from an uneasy sleep, you peeled one eye open reluctantly. Two shadowy figures swayed in your field of vision, neither looking particularly happy with you.

The taller figure marched towards you. ”Three days? THREE DAYS? No calls, only a single fucking text,“ The annoyed voice grew closer, making you curl in on yourself.

”'M sorry.“ You mumbled, tears springing to your eyes.

”You better have a better apology than that. They were worried sick.“ A blurry image of Stacy manifested against the doorway to the breakroom, her arms crossed. Standing in front of your shoulders, hands firmly attached to their hips, was Leo.

”We were worried sick,“ Leo corrected, throwing Stacy a look.

Not denying the allegation, Stacy's cheeks dusted pink.

Crouching in front of you, Leo gave you a once over. Their furious expression quickly morphing into one of concern. “Did you sleep here?”

“Didn't mean to, the kitchen was just,” You gave a limp shrug, avoiding their piercing gaze. “Too much.”

“How long have you been here?” Stacy asked, striding over to drape her legs across the arm of the couch.

“Since midnight-ish.” You muttered, shame pitching your voice lower.

“Babes,“ Leo sighed, running a palm over your exposed arm as you tried to shrink into the couch cushions. ”What happened? Was it your mom?“

You should your head, tears pooling in your eyes. “Pete.”

“Pete?” Stacy raised an eyebrow, looking at Leo with wide eyes.

“What did he do, hun?” Leo plopped into a cross-legged position, leaning against the couch with an expectant look.

“Did you break up?” Stacy's voice was uncharacteristically soft, but the words were still teasing.

You burst into tears.

“Stace!” Leo scolded, climbing onto the couch and hefting your torso up so that you could lay in their lap as you bawled.

“What? It seemed impossible!!” Stacy said, mortified. She absorbed Leo's vacated spot, hands hovering apprehensively in front of you. “Shit. Please don't cry.”

“It's a bit late for that.” Leo huffed, cradling your cheek with one hand. “What did that bastard do to you?”

Gulping in air, you cowered against Leo's thigh. Your friends sat quietly, patiently awaiting your story. With a stuttering inhale, you wiped the newest round of tears from your face and pushed yourself into a seated position—gratefully leaning into the arm Leo threw around your shoulders. Looking up at them wide-eyed, you waited for their encouraging nod before speaking.

“Um..” Your voice was hoarse, words shaky. “So three days ago, I tried to bring him lunch...”

As if your consciousness was sparing you from the depressing events, the words tumbled from your lips instinctively, thoughtlessly. The story pouring directly from your torn heart, accompanied by a few stray tears.

Throughout your ramble, your friends remained silent–sandwiching your body between them. Leo's sturdy frame was a comforting weight to your left. Stacy had migrated to your other side, tentatively resting a manicured hand on your shoulder. They were both eerily still as you caught them up on the implosion of your relationship with your neighbor.

Eventually, you sighed, your body sagging with exhaustion. Briefly lifting your hands, you gestured to the small, bare break room you'd passed out in. “And then you found me in here, and that's it I guess.”

Your mouth snapped shut, your eyes flinging the final few droplets of saline off of your lashes as you blinked at your lap. There was a beat of silence. Two. Three.

Then all hell broke loose.

“Is he fucking serious?“ Stacy bit out, retracting her hand to cross her arms. Her brows were raised, jaw clenched as she looked at Leo.

”He told you that you were a mistake?“ Leo squawked, clearly fuming.

“I mean, that's not—” You began to reason, words dissolving on your tongue as Leo grabbed your hand with a glare.

“Absolutely not. Do not start that bullshit.”

Frowning, you averted your eyes. ”I'm not doing anything.“

“Princess, we love you, but don't pretend you're not blaming yourself.“ Stacy scoffed, standing from the couch and tugging at the roots of her hair.

“And defending him while you're at it.” Leo gently prodded your side with a knuckle, giving you an all-too-knowing glance. At your resulting pout, they sighed. “I know that hearing your mom blame you again and again is hard to unlearn, but she's wrong. So is Pete and all the other men who have done this to you. You deserve better.”

“Seconded.” Stacy nodded firmly, pointing a finger at you. “The next time I see him, I swear on my grandmother—”

The petite brunette was pacing, fists clenched in her fury. Leo looked equally angry, though they were much less obvious about it. Smirking at Stacy's empty threat, they finished it for her. ”We'll beat him senseless with a baseball bat.“

Giggling, you leaned into the hug Leo offered, exhaling into their shoulder. ”I appreciate you both, but I'd rather just move past it.“

”Deal.“ Leo kissed the top of your head, holding out a hand to help you stand from the couch.

”Speak for yourself, I am not willing to let this slide.“ Stacy called with a huff, stalking out to the counter to begin prepping for the morning rush.

”Should I be worried?“ You bit your bottom lip, eyes following her out of the break room.

”Nah, you know her. It'll pass, this is just how she shows her love.“ Leo reassured you, striding into the kitchen at the ambling pace you set. ”We would do anything for you, you know.“

Smiling bashfully, you nodded. “I appreciate it, Leo. Thank you.”

Though you were still dead on your feet and reeling from the emotional whiplash you'd been put through, an odd form of peace had engulfed you. Talking things out had taken a massive weight off of your shoulders.

You felt heat prick your cheeks as you sheepishly recalled the way you'd isolated yourself after leaving the construction site. At the time, it had felt like the natural path forward. But it clearly hadn't done you any good.

Your coworkers were eternally patient as you fumbled your way through your daily tasks, your brain still a glob of jelly after being berated by both Frank and your mother.

Gritting your teeth in frustration, you collapsed onto a bar stool. Kneading your forehead with one hand, you inhaled deeply.

Peeking around the corner of the walk-in, Leo frowned. “All of them?”

Nodding miserably, you forced a response around the lump in your throat. ”Every. Single. One.“

”Aw, babes.“ Leo pouted, coming to inspect the trays you'd thrown around your station as your defeat grew.

”They're all flat. How did it slip my mind that the rain would throw off the humidity in the main room? That's, like, proofing 101.“ You moaned, prodding one of the dense croissants with a finger. ”Christ, I feel like I've lost my mind. It should not be this hard to do something simple.“

Patting your back reassuringly, your best friend ignored your protests, lining your ovens with the ruined croissants and setting a timer. “Do you remember the first time Ez and I broke up?”

Ezra, Leo's on-again-off-again partner, had broken things off for the first time right before you both took your final preparation exam for your first pastry class in school. Leo had nearly flunked the course after they used salt instead of sugar in every dish.

Stifling a chuckle, you fiddled with the strands of your apron. “I seriously think Allard was reconsidering his decision to teach. His face!“ You and Leo snorted in tandem, picturing the old french man's grimace.

”Oh he definitely had regrets. My point is, the brain works in mysterious ways when you're grieving.“ Leo stated matter-of-factly.

”Grieving?“ You asked. “Frank didn't die–”

“I know that, smartass. But you still lost something, did you not?”

Pondering for a moment, you conceded. “I suppose.”

“So, your brain is handling this just like any other loss. Grief processing is its current main priority, remembering how to make picture-perfect croissants is not even in the backlog.”

“It should be, given that we operate a bakery.” You grumped, watching the pitiful slabs of dough puff slightly in the oven.

Smacking you gently over the back of your head, Leo's expression turned endearingly stern. “You, my dear, need to be kinder to yourself. Something huge and incredibly hurtful just happened to you. Give yourself a moment to breathe.”

Their soft command gave you pause. They weren't wrong. You'd jumped from escaping, to wallowing, to working without so much as a millisecond to relax. Had this bullshit happened to anyone else, you would've been much more understanding. But being kind to yourself was never your strong suit.

Mulling over the possibility of granting your brain a smidge of grace, you watched the flat pastries expand ever so slightly as they began to brown under the yellow oven lights. Realization finally striking you, you turned to Leo with a quizzical expression.

“You put them in the oven.” You stated simply, mind not quite forming a question to remedy your confusion.

Chuckling, Leo nodded. “I did.” They leaned against your station with a smile.

“Kitchen adaptations, hun. What did we used to do with pastry dough that didn't rise properly?”

Understanding dawning on you, your lips parted. “Croissant sandwiches.”

Squeezing your shoulder, Leo hummed in confirmation, striding back to their station to finish shaping bread loaves. You continued to watch the thin crescents puff, reminding yourself that the mistake was fixable. Sure, they wouldn't be the gorgeous, fluffy pastries you'd envisioned—but they could still be made into something delicious. For today, that was enough.

Feeling less hopeless, you wiped your hands on your apron and strolled over to the lines of proofing bread, moving them to the proofing cart easily. ”What are we stocking today?” You asked, hoping they'd notice the hidden meaning of the question.

“Let's stick to simple comfort foods. The weather is nasty, we probably won't be too busy. After we finish the staples, we could make some baguettes and a soup or two? Maybe some kitchen sink cookies and brownies too. Those won't take much effort.“ Leo tapped their chin thoughtfully, looking to you with a soft expression. ”Sound good?“

Smiling, you nodded–glad that Leo was willing to take charge for the day. Sliding your arms around your best friend's waist, you squeezed them tightly before bustling off to prepare some yeast.

Over the next few weeks, your mood improved significantly. Out of concern for you, and more than likely out of concern for the bakery, Stacy and Leo had spent a handful of nights at your place–helping you wind down after work, and motivating you to get up the next morning. Their presence and constant glares towards your and Frank's shared wall made it easier to move forward without him. You could feel your consciousness wading through the stages of grief, rapidly approaching acceptance.

For now, though, you were still moping–much to your friends’ dismay.

”C'mon, Princess! Live a little!! You haven’t gone out with us in forEVER“ Stacy whined, pinching your arm as she took a seat on the counter you were cleaning.

Scowling at her, you switched your rag out for a broom, determined to keep tidying around the obstruction she presented. ”I already told you. I don't feel like going out tonight, Stace.“

Sweeping stray coffee beans from under the machines, you fought back an eye roll at her snort. ”Oh, I'm sorry, did you have plans besides crying on your couch while watching rom coms?“

”Christ, Stacy, I told you to invite her, not insult her!“ Leo scolded as they exited the kitchen.

”Someone needs to say it!“ Stacy threw her hands in the air, looking at you pointedly. ”Being sad has its time and place, but the only way to truly get over a man is by going out and getting wasted, you both know I'm right!“ She huffed in frustration as both you and Leo opened your mouths to protest.

Scratching the back of their neck sheepishly, Leo raised a brow at you. “She actually might have a point.”

Pumping her fists victoriously, Stacy leapt from the counter. “See? It'll be good for you!”

Glancing between her and Leo, you sighed. Pouting in distaste, you knew you had been outvoted. If you refused to go, they’d drag you out anyway. “Fine.”

Your friends cheered, high-fiving their success. Stacy danced over to you. “It's gonna be great, princess. You'll see!”

“Oh, I’m sure.” You snarked, dipping the formerly abandoned rag in a bin of bleach solution and resuming your afternoon disinfecting duties in the front of the cafe while your coworkers plotted the outing.

“What are you going to wear, hun?” Leo called over their shoulder to you, after complaining to Stacy about their lack of cute clothes.

“Considering I am only going to please the two of you? I'm not quite sure.” You snorted, tone still sharp with irritation.

“Well, since you're clearly in such a great mood,” Leo giggled, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Maybe we could get ready together?”

“We totally should! While blasting EDM really loudly in your living room!” Stacy grinned, feigning innocence despite her clear intentions to make Frank's life a living hell.

“Ok now you are definitely not invited.” You frowned, imagining how much he'd curse at you if you became a horrid neighbor on top of all your other faults.

“It's cute that you think you have a choice!” Stacy laughed evilly, rubbing her hands together in a movie-villain-esque motion.

Groaning miserably, you stiffened as Stacy padded over and held a hand out for the rag.

Making a grabby hand gesture, her other palm landed on her hip. “Hand the towel over, princess. You and Leo can head to your place to get you all fixed up and I'll finish cleaning.”

“I'm not sure whether I should be offended that you're implying I don't look stunning like this,” You circled a hand around your unwashed face. “Or worried that you're offering to lock up. You hate closing.”

“Exactly. That’s how much I want you to have a good night out, dude!” Stacy gave you a stern look, flicking her eyes between the damp rag and your stubborn expression.

Sighing heavily, you tossed the rag to her and slipped out of your apron. “If this place isn't gleaming tomorrow–”

“Yah, yah.” Stacy waved you off, putting earbuds in as she walked to the other end of the room.

“The disrespect.” You muttered, turning to Leo who was clearly amused at the fact that you'd been outwitted by the other girl.

“C'mon, sweets. We'll need to stop somewhere for drinks unless we want to go into debt to get drunk tonight.” Grabbing your hand, the two of you left Stacy and the bakery behind as you braved the heat outside.

Slogging up the stairs, arms laden with a paper bag filled with the cheapest alcohol the three of you could stomach, you adjusted your center of gravity to avoid toppling down the stairs. It felt like you were swimming upstream, given the weight in your hold and the immense humidity of the stairwell. Finally reaching the landing, you scrunched your nose as a bead of sweat dripped from it.

“Took you long enough,” Leo remarked, smirking at you from your front door, having made it up the stairs long ago. 

“Not all of us have a lithe athletic build and the heart rate of an Olympian.” You huffed, shuffling toward them with a small smile. Despite your initial apprehension, excitement had started to build in your chest at the thought of the night ahead of you. As you were about to express that much to Leo, the click of a doorknob stopped you in your tracks. 

Stepping out of his apartment, adorably happy pitbull in tow, was none other than your neighbor, Frank Castle. 

Frozen in place, it was a miracle you didn’t drop the bag in your shock. You’d assumed he’d avoid you just as you’d avoided him. Apparently you weren’t that lucky. 

Looking a bit surprised himself, Frank hesitated for a minute before plastering a scowl on his face and tugging at the leash in his grasp. “C’mon Max.” 

Watching Frank stalk past you without so much as a glance in your direction, your mouth dropped open with indignation. Poor Max was dragged to the stairs behind him, despite the dog’s efforts to greet you on the way down the hall. 

Gritting your teeth, you marched to your own door and unlocked it. Carefully depositing the bottles on the ground, you grabbed a handle of cherry vodka, cracking it open and taking a swig as you stomped into your apartment. 

“I suppose that’s one way to handle whatever just happened.” Leo murmured, studying you with a concerned frown. “Wanna talk about it?” 

“Nope!” You grinned, pulling another gulp of liquor from the bottle. “Care to help me pick an outfit? I’m hoping to drink for free tonight.” 

Striding into your room with Leo on your heels, your gut burned as the lump of despair you’d been clinging to for a week burned red hot with rage. Your friends were right. You deserved better. 

If Frank Castle didn’t want you, then you sure as hell didn’t want him.

Taglist: @cheshirecat484 @xxdrixx @smhnxdiii @mattmurdocksstarlight @danzer8705 @mjsvinyl @softieekayy @sweetpov @dreamtofus @zomtart @mjsvinyl @senjoritanana @marytheweefrenchie @siampie @gracethyomen @pone21 @ignore-mp3 @screechingphantommaker @fireeyes-on-teller-dixon-grimes @paradox-brody-chase @msjb2002

[makethatelevenrings]

Rest // D. Grayson x gn!reader

Requested? Yes!

Warnings: illness, mentions of child assassins, not Titans!verse I just think Brenton is pretty

Summary: You’re feeling sick but refuse to admit you are. Damian intervenes and makes sure Dick is aware of the problem.

This is apart of Assassin!verse that you can read here

You had been shot, stabbed, poisoned, thrown through windows, and broken numerous bones, but for some reason, this sore throat was going to be the end of you. When you woke up that morning, it started as a simple scratchy throat that had bloomed into some demonic rash of pain that coated your throat and made every swallow feel like knives scraping against your skin.

“You are unwell,” Damian observed. You ignored him in favor of jabbing the small needle through the taut fabric and tugging it down. Cass had recommended embroidery as a hobby you should try out and you found that it was soothing, fun, and an outlet for you. After spending years surrounded by silence and met with anger if you spoke out of turn, sometimes you needed to retreat from the constant noise of the Wayne Manor.

While you had your apartment in Bludhaven, some problems in Gotham required the both of you, and Haley of course, to stay at the Manor for a few days.

Where two of the family members attended school and the others interacted with the public every single day.

So, of course, you got sick.

You stabbed the point into the fabric once more and pulled it taut. You hoped that Tim would like the screaming possum design you were making for him. He loved sending you those memes and delighted in the fact that he gets to teach you about memes and pop culture.

“I’m fine.” You internally winced at how rough your voice sounded. Nothing screamed “picture of health” more than sounding like you were choking on gravel. Your head pounded, the ache radiating at your temples and along the sides, and your nose felt like cotton was shoved up there. All in all, you felt miserable. All you wanted to do was go back to the queen sized mattress shoved in Dick’s old bedroom and sleep for a thousand years.

But Dick, Bruce, and Tim were all making appearances at a gala to collect intel and you needed to stay awake so you could assist if something happened. What if the gala was under attack? Or what if they needed a quick getaway? Or what if-

The couch dipped as Damian crawled onto the cushion next to you. He settled in comfortably, Alfred the cat resting comfortably in his arms, and blinked up at you with those wide eyes of his. You set your embroidery down and gave him your full attention.

While Dick was your closest friend, companion, and lover, Damian understood you better than anyone aside from Cass. Damian knew what it was like to be trained from a young age. When Dick first brought you to Wayne Manor, bloodied and weak and still as fiercely on guard, Damian was the first person to gain your trust aside from Dick. And if this kid was your boyfriend’s brother, then dammit, he was your little brother too.

“When I first came to live with Father, he sat me down one day and told me that it is one thing to know when to be on guard and ready. But it’s another thing to live your life always on edge waiting for the next attack. Father helped me realize that I was living my life feeling like I was never safe made me sure that I would never be safe. He assured me that he and the family would never let anything happen to me.”

Your mind was cloudy with fatigue and fever, but you nodded slowly as you tried to grasp what he meant. “Okay…?”

Damian turned to face you fully, the little tuxedo cat in his lap snuggling in closer to his owner’s arms. “We would never let anything happen to you or to one another. You can rest.”

You swallowed painfully against your aching throat and offered him a tight smile. “Thank you, Dami. I’m fine.”

He huffed and climbed off the couch. “You’re not fine. I am telling Pennyworth.”

“Don’t!” The exclamation left you so quickly that he looked at you with more concern than before. “He’s busy right now. He doesn’t need to be bothered with a little sniffle. Please don’t tell him. I swear I’m fine.”

He stared at you, doubt written all over his face, and then sighed. “You are more stubborn than Richard. It’s a miracle the two of you get anything done.”

With that, Damian and Alfred the cat exited the room. Silence fell over the leather furniture and aging books once more. You inhaled deeply, fighting against the stabbing pain of your sinuses, and focused on your embroidery once more.

It wasn’t a half hour before the door to the library flew open. Dick strode in, impeccably dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo. Damian. That little rat.

“I’m fine!” you insisted. Damian peeked out from around the doorframe and you, the adult, stuck your tongue out at him. He merely smirked and disappeared, probably to go find his next victim.

“Richard, I am fine,” you snapped. He ignored your protests and laid the back of his hand against your cheek before doing the same to your forehead. You shuddered at the cool touch of his skin against yours and he immediately stepped back.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dick demanded.

“Because I knew you would blow it out of proportion and make a big deal out of nothing,” you retorted.

“You’re burning up. And Damian said your lungs rattled a bit when you took a breath.”

“Damian’s a trained liar.”

“Stop with the bullshit!” His outburst caused you to pause. It really wasn’t that big of a deal. You had been in much worse condition than a little cold.

“I don’t understand what I did wrong,” you said quietly. Therapy with Dinah was helping you express your emotions, as she said. It helped in times like this. Dick’s face crumpled and then he pulled on the mask of assuredness that you were used to seeing. He crouched down so you were face to face rather than him towering over you.

“You don’t have to act like everything is fine, Buttercup. You’re allowed to let your guard down. You’re allowed to get sick.”

“But I can’t,” you blurted out. “If I’m sick and you or one of the others needs me-”

“We have legions of people that can help us,” he interrupted. Dick reached up to gently cup your cheek in the palm of his hand. “You are allowed to rest.”

“My head hurts,” you admitted.

He smiled that crooked grin of his and you shut your eyes, inhaling deeply. He stroked gentle lines across your face and of course he was still there once you opened your eyes once more.

“I’m tired.”

He stood, his hand falling from your cheek and entangling itself with your free hand. You set the embroidery down on the coffee table and stood. Before you could take one step, Dick swept you into his arms and started down the hall towards the bedrooms.

“You realize that I’m going to coddle you until you’re back to normal?”

You tightened your grip on his neck and grinned. “Can we watch Riverdale?”

“I’m going to throw Timmy off of a fucking roof for introducing you to that show.”

Tag List: @someoneimsure​ @perpetual-fangirl900​ @visagebrise​ @cursedandromedablack​ @alexxavicry​ @the-wayward-daughter​ @raging-trash-of-mind​ @bunny-kawa​ @khaylin27​

[thewitchandtheassassin]

A Pirate's Life for Me Finale (Wanda M x Reader x Natasha R.)

Summary: There was something odd about the dark void you found yourself floating within.

Words: 1305

Warnings: Language, mentions of near death.

A/N: We say goodbye to our dear pirates. This story... started something amazing for me. I found my partner because of it. So this is very bittersweet and wonderful at the same time. All of this was written for her and in the end, I'm just excited to keep writing things like this for her and for everyone to enjoy. So this is its final sendoff. I hope you all loved it the way I did.

Taglist: @natasharomanoffswife​ @natasha-danvers​ @aaron-despair​ @username23345 @xjiasx​ @nowthisisliving27 @higherfurther-romanova​ @summergeezburr @imnotasuperhero @miscmarvelwritings @captain-josslett @onlyafewfindtheway @hayleyokami @b-5by5 @lostandsearching @evilcr0ne​ @nightingalexx​@suki-is-a-queen @kaosrsing

-X-

There was something odd about the dark void you found yourself floating within. It didn’t have the finality you expected and truthfully, everything still hurt. You had expected death to wash away the aches of life and yet every breath made you want to cry out in pain.

Another sharp feeling within your chest forced air from your lungs and you jolted headfirst out of the darkness. Into… something, with light far too bright and an overbearing heat that left your stomach rolling like waves in a storm.

Where am I going?

-X-

The first thing you noticed as consciousness began to dawn was how fucking cold you were. It felt like it was burrowed deep into your very soul, freezing you from the inside out.

And then you discerned twin flames burning into your front and back, the heat almost agonizing as it attempted to drive out the chill. It was as though your body had been placed upon a lit campfire and for a moment, you expected to smell burning flesh and hear the crackle of your skin but you didn’t. All you could hear were low voices, trapped in the fog of pain and delirium.

“She is so cold,” one of them murmured weakly, a profound sadness in their words and suddenly there was a fire settling upon your chest, just above the heart.

“She is alive. That is all we could ask for. She needs our warmth and our love. She will return to us, my love,” another voice responded, the pressure on your chest growing intense.

You could recognize them, just barely. The flames that often set your heart ablaze whenever they were near. Instinctively, you wanted to curl into them but the overwhelming heat left you wanting to squirm away.

It was quite the cacophony of warring emotions and you disliked it significantly.

There was a long, pained moan and it took a moment to realize it had come from you. The voices around you went silent, only the sounds of bated breath reaching your ears and you moaned again, shifting slightly away from the warmth that was beginning to leave your bones aching.

“No, malysh, don’t move. You need to warm up or you could…” Wanda’s soft words trailed off as her hands rolled you closer.

“Hurts,” you croaked, the salt of the sea having left your throat cracked and sore. “Hot.”

One bleary eye drifted open, exposing the red-rimmed eyes of Natasha as she stared at you with barely controlled joy. A strong hand landed on your shoulder, keeping you firmly in place. “I know, honey, but you cannot move. Your body needs to warm up. You were in the water too long. You were nearly frozen when Yelena found you and brought you to the surface. Your...” Natasha released a shuddering breath. “Your heart had stopped beating. We did not know if we could bring you back.”

Slowly taking stock of your pained body, there was an undeniable ache in your chest and you remembered the black void of nothingness. How weightless you’d felt, despite the agony wracking through you.

“Oh…” you exhaled sharply, wincing at the tug of your lungs.

Wanda’s body trembled against your back, her anguished sobs escaping in harsh pants as her face pressed between your shoulders. It was horribly tender, the skin raw from stone and brine and muscles taut with the stiffness of a corpse, but you wouldn’t deny her this comfort. Your unsteady hand lifted to pet the hand resting on your hip, “We thought we had lost you!”

Bile drifted up your aching throat. They had, if only for a moment. No longer attached to your flesh, you had accepted your fate, intending to let the void swallow you whole. But you couldn’t admit that, not now.

“I’m here,” you whispered reassuringly, your weak squeeze of her hand only spurning the sobs on. Peering at the redhead before you, you watched similar tracks begin to form on her cheeks. “I’m here.”

-X-

The first week of your recovery was a haze of consciousness. You’d find yourself drifting in and out, the lull of the waves rocking the ship dragging you back into a needed rest. Galaxies were painted across your ribs and torso from your descent into painful waters; at first a grizzly reddish purple splatter that slowly drifted into a smattering of greens and yellows.

A parting gift from Rumlow, you supposed.

You could still feel the ache and shift of your bones whenever you moved, but it had transformed into a dull throb instead of the daggers being shoved into your chest cavity. What drove you crazy was how your two lovers treated you. As if you were made of glass. As if one wrong touch would forge spider webs into your reflection and shatter you across the bedroom floor.

It was truly maddening.

Eyes narrowing as Natasha coolly stalked about the room, bringing you a full waterskin and a plate of fruit, you gripped her arm with surprising strength as she got closer.

“I am perfectly capable of joining the crew for a meal, you know,” you huffed, feeling your heart twinge at the brief flicker of hurt in her eyes. “I appreciate that you care, darling, but I cannot spend the rest of my life in this bed. My body is healing, but staying trapped in bed all day is driving my mind to the brig.”

Slowly settling on the mattress beside you, Natasha’s head bowed as she stared at your hand as it drifted down to hers, fingers tangling together.

“We almost lost you. I almost lost you. And I cannot bear that thought. I always believed Wanda to be the only person I would need in this life… until we met you. Now I cannot stomach the idea of losing either of you. The two of you have become the center of my universe. The glory and the gold is all fine and well but to lose either of you would break me.” She sniffled, a lone tear falling onto the back of your combined hands. “I know you are capable. I know that you are not made of parchment or glass. But I just… need you to be safe. I need to know you are alive. That we… did not lose you and this is all some desperate dream.”

Twisting in bed, your free hand lifted to her cheek and tilted her head in your direction. Glistening eyes met yours and you surged forward, ignoring the brief shock of pain. Your lips found chapped flesh but you didn’t care, pouring your love and warmth and life into the embrace.

“You did not lose me,” you promised breathlessly, mouth repeatedly pressing into hers. “I am here. With you. With Wanda. With the women I love and want and need. You need to believe that or you will send yourself into the gallows of darkness and despair.”

Incessant hands wound their way into your disheveled hair, dragging you closer. It hurt but this was the firmest anyone had been with you in weeks and you hadn’t realized how desperate you’d been for such a touch until now. Teeth sunk into your lip and tugged, pulling a whine from deep within your throat.

“You’re here,” she whispered, pushing her forehead against yours. “You’re alive.”

“Forever,” you swore, knowing deep within your heart that you could never leave their sides; for as long as you had breath, it was theirs.

“Always. I have found my treasures and I intend to keep them with me for as long as I live.”

Chuckling lowly, you slowly fell backwards, yanking the fierce pirate with you. “What a pirate’s life for you then, I suppose.”

Capturing her smile with yours, you knew this was exactly the life for you.

[the-desilittle-bird]

Can u do a pt. 2 of the fic whit female Lucerys Velaryon? It would be wonderful see a description of their wedding nights (smut pls if u feel comfortable, if not avoid ❤️❤️

AN- This is the first time I am writing smut so pardon me if it's not upto the mark. Also, I went quite filthy I guess but it's Aemond we are talking about...

Being Rhaenyra's Daughter and Having to Marry Aemond...

Part 1

Warning- Smut [Non-con to Dub-con, Fingering (fem!receiving), Breeding Kink, Pinning, Loss of Virginity, Choking, Dirty Talking!], Forced marriage.

GIF Credits to @terendelev

You woke up with sore muscles and to a strange chamber. The bed was fluffy and soft; pillows fluffed and cozy.

What caught your eyes was the colour green; everything from the bedsheets to the curtains and the few tapestries which depicted Aegon the Conqueror and his wives.

The panic was setting in your bone and before you could do anything, the door opened and in came the Green Queen. Alicent Hightower.

"I am so glad that you are awake, my dear."

The panic turned into anger which soon turned into desperation of freedom when she decided to speak again.

"The Small Council has decided that it shall be perfect to marry you to Aemond; to try and unite your family with ours."

Only three days later, you were sat on the vanity; being pampered by the handmaidens, decked in dozens of jewel and hidden behind the silks of green.

The marriage took place in the throne room, with all the houses favoring the Greens present.

Otto Hightower escorted you, walking you down the aisle, to the boy you had once maimed.

Only then you were regretting not slashing both of his eyes.

But it was too late.

The marriage took place as is accepted in the Seven; instead of the traditional Valyrian marriage sealed in blood and fire.

But you were glad it happened that way.

Because a marriage in the Seven can be annulled.

"I am his and he is mine, until the end of his days."

No body but Aemond noticed the modulation in your vow.

The feast following it was small.

And it ended with Aegon drunkenly announcing the start of Bedding Ceremony.

"No man shall touch my wife except for me."

You were escorted to your new chambers by your new husband.

Once inside, the seriousness of the matter heightened until his fingers found the lace holding your dress together.

You had squealed, trying to escape the tight grip of his hand on your waist as he unlaced her dress.

"I am not going to bed you!"

"No one asks for your permission."

Once in your chemise, you were thrown on the bed, with his weight caging you between him and the bed.

You tried to push him away but his hand quickly found yours, pinning you down either your hands above you.

His empty hand raised your chemise to your waist, revealing your lower body to his prying eyes.

Long fingers found your core, a long stroke evoking a sharp breath and a choked gasp.

"Stop!"

"If I did, then the deed would be even more painful."

Rubbing the center of your pleasure, unwantingly moans escaped your throat, pleasing Aemond a lot.

His finger dipped inside you, burying it in your heat and stretching your tight hole.

"Relax yourself and you might like it as well."

As much as you wanted to remain unfazed, it was hard with a burning pleasure coiling inside your lower stomach.

The add of his second finger burned, his thumb continously rubbing her clit; pulling out moan with every single thrust of his fingers.

You came on his fingers; ashamed of yourself.

And then, you saw Aemond undress himself; a perfect chance to run if you used your agility

But the immense pleasure left your body exhausted and granted your lower body inability to walk.

The struggle returned to your body when you realized what was to happen.

And noticing it, Aemond's one hand pined you to the bed with a hand around your throat, which applied enough pressure to cut of half of your breathing; getting rid of his breeches quickly.

Your body tensed as the pain coursed through your veins, only for you to realize that the true torture has just began.

He was big and hard to accommodate.

"You are mine now."

Your virginal blood coated his cock; forever spoiling you for any other lord.

His thrusts were slow and calculated at the start and quite uncomfortable for you.

But soon the pain turned into pleasure and moans spilled from your lips before you could catch them.

And Gods! Did your husband had a dirty mouth.

"I will make you mine. Spoil you for any lord."

"My sweet little whore, aren't you like your mother. So wet, even for your enemy."

"What would your family say when they see you, carrying my child."

"Gods, you are so tight for me. Just perfect. And how beautiful, befit for a prince like me."

His fingers balled in your brown hair, pulling them ever so slightly as he forced you to look him in his eye.

The eyepatch wasn't present and you were met with the glistening sapphire.

His lips groaned and grunted near your ears, speaking filthy words which only seemed to turn you on.

"I will spill in your sweet cunt."

"You will give me heirs and let me fucj you as I see fit."

"I will make such a good whore of you that your mother would be proud of you."

That night when the boy was done, you were barely able to speak and a limp in your walk for the entire week that followed.

And soon enough, you were indeed with a child.

[axelsagewrites]

Hey can you make some Jealosy stuff with aegon? I actually have a prompt list of you would like it, I used to write so it helped me alot

Aegon Targaryen*Noticed

Pairing: Aegon x f!reader

Word count: 3125

Warnings: jealousy, slightly drunk aegon

A/N: so sorry this took so long but i think i'll be making another post soon of jealous aegon headcannons so keep an eye out (also i would love to see your prompt list if you wanna tag me in it or send it to me <3)

Masterlist Here

Being a lady in waiting to princess Heleana was one of the biggest honours queen Alicent had bestowed on your family. when the day came just weeks after your thirteenth nameday for you to leave the goodbyes were tearful but filled with promise. you would serve the princess and your family and bring honour to your house. this is what your father told you. this was your job.

you remember the day you met the princess clearly. you approached the queen with shaking knees and a thin layer of sweat down your back with your deepest curtsey. the smile she gave you was rehearsed, even you could tell at your age, but she did not seem as mean as some had described as she ushered you inside the red keep.

soon you were brought to Heleana who sat in the corner of the courtyard, her dress covered in grass stains and dried mud and her hands trailing along the dirt. Alicent cleared her throat and drawing her daughter’s attention who looked up confused before her lips turned into a crooked grin, “You must be my lady!” she beamed.

“I am your grace,” you said, giving your best though shaking curtsey yet again. however, this time Heleana reached a handout, grabbing your wrist gently and bringing you to sit beside her in the dirt. you glanced over your shoulder, but the queen was already halfway across the courtyard, “What are we doing my lady?”

“Call me Heleana,” she said as she picked up her latest friend, “Look at him. isn’t he marvellous?” she grinned as she showed you the caterpillar in her hand.

you were too distracted to hear the sniggering across the courtyard as the prince watched your attempts not to recoil at the bugs his sister pushed into your hands. Aegon lent against one of the archways, arms crossed as his eyes became glued to you. he wasn’t sure why he found your character so interesting but none the less could not look away even as the years went by.

years went by and you grew closer to Heleana and even with her family. all but the king that was. even queen Alicent would make small talk with you at suppers and sent gifts to your chambers on your name days. Aemond was not particularly close with you, but you had a silent understanding. Heleana however was your closest friend which was not shocking given how much time you spent together however what surprised you more was how close you grew to her eldest brother.

it surprised you at first when he suddenly began to take more of an interest in you when you turned sixteen however even before then he had always been kind. he would dance with you at balls and walk with you through the gardens when the night grew tiresome. at suppers he would take interest in your day even though you knew at times your stories were boring. you thought he was kind and sweet but what you didn’t know was that he sparred harder whenever you walked past the training field. or that he would fly his dragon past your chamber windows deliberately, hoping you’d catch a glimpse of him soring the skies. you didn’t even notice how his hands lingered around your waist when he would help you on your horse or how his eyes flickered to your lips too many times for a friend to do.

Aegon however did notice the way your smiled curved when you laughed and what wines got you the giggliest at balls. he noticed how you would style your hair in new ways each week and the new braids you would practise. he noticed how your eyes would widen after a rude lord walked away from you and which books you seemed the enjoy the most. he noticed it all and he remembered every detail.

however, he also began to notice other men noticing you also. Aegon hated seeing his guards lingering eyes on your skin or how you laughed at jokes that clearly were not funny. each time he saw another lord ask you to dance his grip on his goblet tightened till his knuckles were white.

it only got worse when you came of age and began to look for a husband. by now you had been in Kingslanding for so many years it had become home. in that time your once more minor house and blossomed into one with more power than you had ever guessed it would due to lands your family owned becoming essential to the crown. you noticed how the more powerful your family became the more lords stopped to talk to you at feasts.

so, you put on your doe eyes and kind smiles to not offend the lords who pretended to care for you as you dreamed of another. you knew you would never raise to a station high enough to marry a prince but having Aegon so close at all times made it hard not to dream of the idea.

as Aegon’s nameday was soon arriving his mother had decided to throw another one of her balls but this one would be far more important she said. she had invited everyone who was anyone as well as their sons and daughters. this was her opportunity for match making she told her children over supper. Alicent even said she had matches in mind for you as well and you couldn’t help but notice how Aegon’s face grew cold when she said it.

but soon the fabric was ordered and sewing your dresses began. Heleana never cared much for these balls but deep down they delighted you. the dancing, the music, the décor. it was all so beautiful. it also gave you an excuse to be pressed against the chest of the man you dreamed of.

it was the day before the ball, and everyone was extra busy today. the servants walked at double the speed and the cooks were making quadruple the food. all the ladies of the court were finishing off the final touches to their gowns while the men mingled and tried to organise suitable matches for their own children before the ball had even begun. luckily for you however you had finished your dress some days ago so while everyone else was running around you decided to take a stroll through the plainer gardens near the back of the castle.

while not as pretty as the gardens the guests were exploring these gardens gave you far more peace. you were able to stroll through the bushes and trees, stopping to admire the sights with no worry of anyone interrupting your peace. well, you thought that anyway until you looked down to see a prince laying down on a bench, a handkerchief over his eyes to shield them from the hot sun.

you silently laughed as you crept over, snatching the handkerchief away suddenly making Aegon’s face screw up as the sun beat down on it. “Ah! Who do you- “he angrily spouted as he quickly sat up making you step back, a giggle still on your lips, “Oh, it’s you,” Aegon said, his anger melting away to be replaced by a cheesy grin, “To what do I owe the pleasure my lady?”

“I was only out for some sunshine my prince,” you said, passing him the handkerchief back and trying not to flush when his fingers grazed yours, “I did not mean to ruin your relaxation,”

“You’ve not ruined it at all my lady,” Aegon said as he stood up. you took the moment to appreciate his fine features and how his hair shone like diamond strands in the sun, “Would you care to join me?” he offered as he gestured for you to sit down on the bench he had used as a bed.

“Why thank you my prince,” you said as you took a seat, Aegon instantly joining your side, “So are you also hiding from all our visitors?”

“You caught me,” Aegon said, a laugh on his lips as he held his hands up in mock defence, “Too many people for my liking,”

“They’re all here for you,” you said, glancing over at him and trying not to stare, “Everyone here wants even a moment in your ear and you’re hiding in the trees with a random lady,”

Aegon smiled gently, a rare sight in the recent times since tensions grew high as he argued with his mother over his future betrothment, “You’re not just some lady. besides id rather hide in the trees with just you than pretend to care about the strangers in there,”

you couldn’t help flush at his words. no one else would believe you if you told them how sweet Aegon could be. how his words could sound like the came right out a dream. you heard all the rumours about him at court and you wondered how they could get him so wrong. this was the Aegon you knew, “You flatter me my prince,”

“I just wish to speak the truth my lady,” he said as he kept his eyes on yours longer than a friend would. sadly, you both cringed when you heard guards start to yell Aegon’s name across the gardens, “I suppose mother noticed my absence. I have to go my lady,” Aegon said as he stood, you instantly standing as well, already missing his presence despite him being here, “I’ll see you tomorrow my lady,” Aegon said, bowing lightly before turning to leave.

“Goodbye Aegon,” you said making him pause for a moment as his guards waved him to hurry over.

“Save a dance for me?” he asked suddenly, a hopeful smile on those precious lips.

you couldn’t help your grin. “It would be an honour my prince,” you said as Aegon turned to run off to his guards before more trouble could be caused.

you weren’t sure why his question had made you so giddy, but you couldn’t get the prince out your mind the whole evening or even the morning of the ball. Heleana had even commented on your bubbly nature throughout the day. you spent the morning getting ready with the princess, briefly being interrupted by Alicent stopping by to drop off a list of suitable matches for you and Heleana.

when the ball came around your eyes only looked for Aegon, however. usually, you were able to sit closer to the royals but tonight you joined your family at a regular table while those you served sat at the top of the hall, a separate table for Viserys and all his children and grandchildren. it was a rare sight to see Rhaenyra or even her children at court but even you could admit Jacaerys was an easy sight on the eyes.

the girls at your table spent the whole time of the meal discussing the lords in attendance, many times did Jace name be brought up. you had only met the boy once and you never had much chance to speak but still everyone wanted to hear what you had to say. as the feast drew to an end and the music began to speed up you noticed all the sweaty palmed minor lords stand from their tables and make their way to suitable ladies.

those from the greater houses usually took slightly longer to arise from their chairs, scouting out their potential dance partners more carefully. however, the girls at your table fell silent when they noticed the prince stand at the high table however it was not the prince you had hoped would approach your table. you did your best to seem casual, but you could not help your nerves as you noticed that Jace was heading towards your table.

“My lady,” he said, and you felt your eyes widen when you realise, he was speaking to you, “Would you care for a dance?”

“With you?” you said, instantly putting your foot in your mouth as your cousin jabbed you in the ribs with her elbows.

you almost sighed in relief when he began to chuckle lightly, “If it pleases you, my lady,” he said, extending his hand out for you to take.

your eyes glanced towards the high table as you gently took his hand however it was not Alicent’s firm gaze that scared you but rather Aegon’s blank one. surely, he must care you were dancing with his nephew instead of him? your mind was drawn back to your dance partner however as he led you to the ballroom floor.

you noticed how calloused his hands were as they gently held your hand however you could only think about Aegon’s soft ones from your last dance. “You look radiant tonight my lady,”

“Thank you, my prince,” you said but he was not your prince. your prince was glaring daggers into his wine cup right now. your prince did not hold your waist so tightly or step on your toes with an apologetic smile.

you were grateful when the dance ended. you knew it was pig-headed of you, but you did not want to dance another dance unless it was with Aegon. however, you knew you could not reject the lords who approached, and the numbers increased when they had seen the princes interest. with each dance you had you noticed Aegon sink further into his wine, and you noted all the girls he had turned down with a wave of his hand.

the night had grown on long and you were desperate to leave but as another lord whose house you could not even remember approached you felt a rough hand grab your lower arm. “I’m afraid I must borrow my lady,” Aegon said sharply from where he stood behind you to the now stuttering lord, “My lady,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper but telling you everything you had to know as Aegon sharply led you to the corridor.

“What’s wrong my prince?” you asked, your eyes darting back to the ballroom wondering if your absence had been noted by the queen yet.

“What’s wrong?” he said, his eyes wide and his breath smelling of wine, “Why don’t you tell me my lady? tell me did you enjoy the attention?”

“Aegon I- “

“Im sure you must’ve loved it. the future king spinning you around for all to see,” he said as he shook his head, walking away from you further into the corridor.

“That’s not fair,” you said, crossing your arms and refusing to move as Aegon whipped his head around, waiting for you to follow him but you stayed firm, “I could hardly reject him in front of everyone,”

“Please I saw the way you were smiling,” Aegon said, approaching you suddenly. you felt the hairs stand up on your skin, but you knew he wouldn’t hurt you. “Or are you telling me it was all an act?”

“Of course, it was an act, I hardly know the man,” you said, your arms flying out in frustration. “Its not my fault he asked me first,”

“Please,” Aegon scoffed turning to walk away but this time you stepped forward, grabbing his shoulder roughly and spinning him back around, “Hey!”

“Don’t you hey me!” you said, not caring how loud your voice was, “You do not get to be mad at me. I waited for you to ask, and you didn’t. I waited and waited, and you never came and asked. not once. it’s not my fault other men could be arsed to get up and you couldn’t,” you said, tears welling in your eyes. when Aegon tried to speak you just held your hand up and kept spewing out the words you had been holding back, “the whole night I waited Aegon. even your brother asked me before you did. you ask me to save you a dance? well I did but you never came to claim it not once,”

By now Aegon was hanging his head in what you thought was either shame or guilt or some mix of it all. you paused, waiting for him to speak as your chest heaved as you caught your breath, “Do you know how much it hurts to see you dance with him?” Aegon said but this time it was him that did not let you speak, “Or any other lord? I see the way they look at you. I see how you smile and laugh and twirl around the dance floor. seeing you out there, dancing with him of all people it hurts,” Aegon said, his voice bordering on yelling but luckily the music washed out his words to those in the hall, “You should be dancing with me. you should be sat beside me. not as my sister’s lady but as mine,” Aegon said, his eyes desperate and voice shaky, “I don’t want to dance another dance with anyone, but you so forgive me if I don’t like to see you pressed up against someone else,”

“I was just dancing,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper, “but each dance I wished it was you holding me,”

“Do you mean it?” Aegon asked as he stepped closer, his hand reaching out as his eyes roamed your face for some kind of cruel trick.

you smiled at Aegon as you stepped closer, your hand reaching for his and holding it softly in your own hand, “I still owe you a dance,” you said softly as you gazed into his lilac eyes, “and you are the only man I wish to dance with tonight,”

Aegon smiled softly, his other hand moving to your waist to pull you in against his chest, “Then we shall dance,” he said as he began to lead you despite the music being so far away now.

“Surely we should go back to the hall,” you said but it came out as a giggle as Aegon began to spin you.

“No,” he said as he effortlessly danced with you in the empty corridor, “I want a moment for just us. we’ll find our own music to dance to,”

“I’d like that,” you said as your steps slowed as Aegon’s head slowly dipped down. your dancing stopped as your lips reached up to slowly capture his. his kiss was soft and tender as his hands moved to hold your waist. you weren’t sure how long it lasted but you wished it was a lifetime as you parted, your forehead resting on his, “We should really go back,” you whispered against his lips.

“Okay,” he whispered back despite knowing being around to here, “But only if you return as my guest and mine alone,”

You smiled against his lips, “I’d love to my prince,”

Taglist: @clairacassidy @valeskafics @starkleila

[t3a-tan]

Pixie In Need

One of the old g/t fics, this one featuring Jamai finding an injured pixie

Gosh I can really tell the difference between my old writing style and my new one

---

Jamai could remember the first time he ever met a pixie… It was a mess, and mostly his fault. Growing up, he had only known Ren to be little, and she was a rare forest spirit, so of course, the last thing he expected to find amongst the bodies of angels, was a pixie.

"How many times must you attack me? You understand that you'll all be slaughtered, don't you?" He spoke, glaring through his mask at the attacking angels. Jamai wasn't fond of killing, but he did so to protect his forest and everything in it. Even after killing every angel that had ever come to Gortoa, they kept on sending more troops…

He sighed, listening to some silly monologue about their queen, and values, and cleansing the world of impurity, yada yada yada. Jamai was getting tired of it…

Standing amongst the massacre, he began to take their weapons to go give to the nearby village. He took any valuables he could find too, as well as belts, pouches and shoes. Really, anything was useful...many people were in need of such things amidst the war.

As he reached into one pouch in particular though, his fingers grasped something…odd.

Jamai pulled it out, a perplexed expression hidden behind the kitsune mask. He blinked.

It was a boy. A kid really… Tiny, with his wings bound together by a harsh wire. Is it a...forest spirit? They shook, staring up at Jamai with wide eyes.

...okay, so the mask probably wasn't helping. Jamai wasn't thinking straight though, so he left it on, standing back up straight and cupping the boy in his hand.

"Um...hello." The Kriegerin greeted, unsure of how to respond appropriately in such an unexpected situation. He narrowed his eyes. "Are you...with the angels?"

They squeaked in response, straining. Jamai blinked, leaning back a little further. "I'm...sorry?" Could the little one not speak? Bringing his hand in closer, he brushed a thumb over their neck, nudging a collar out of the way. Their throat looked extremely sore… damaged. He pulled away once more.

"I don't think you are. Let me get those wires off and fix you up, alright? You can tell me what happened once your vocal chords have healed.." Cupping them closer to his chest.

Arriving at Keisho lake, Jamai let light seep back into his hands. Just as he was about to try taking the wire off of the child's wings, he froze, going tense.

“…Oh are you crying?”

Jamai retracted his hand slowly, unsure of what to do. How was he supposed to comfort them?? If he was the one causing distress, how could he fix it? He couldn't just let them go— this forest wasn't made for children or smaller creatures… What with all the nephorus plants and predators.

He pulled his mask off finally, placing it to the side. "I just want to help you." He assured carefully. "I assume that those angels took you… But do not fret. I won't keep you. Once I have your wings free, if you tell me where to go, I can take you back to your home… There, see?"

Jamai brushed a tear away with his thumb, being extra gentle. He was always gentle with Ren, but not to this degree— after all, he grew up with Ren, and so he knew her boundaries. This was a stranger.. Even if they were to the same scale as Ren, he felt the need to be ten times as careful. And patient… patience was important, Koten always said.

"If you need to cry, you may." He frowned, brows furrowing once more. "But understand that I am on your side, yes?"

After finishing his own little monologue, Jamai reached out and took a piece of wire, to see how it was tangled. Lips pursed, the Kriegerin wondered if it would be better to explain what he was doing, or if he should stay quiet and let the tears pass.

Especially because now that he actually had a look at the wire, it had seriously damaged the pixie's wings. If he tried to untangle it, he might just rip them off entirely. And Jamai didn't want to rip some kid's wings off..

He focused on the collar once more, touching it with a fingertip. "That doesn't look comfortable.." Jamai hummed, pinching the edge of the device and crushing it, before taking the whole thing off. He let some healing magic flow into the kid.

"Better?"

They nodded shakily, little hands going to rub at their throat.

"I…" They stopped, jumping slightly at the sound of their own voice. Jamai simply watched, waiting. "I-I have my voice back…?" They murmured, though just loud enough for Jamai to have heard.

The child looked up at him again with bright yellow eyes. "I know that you big'uns don't understand me, but thank you…" He bowed his head deliberately, trying to show that he was grateful. Jamai blinked.

"I um...I can understand you." Why would I not? Everyone can understand forest spirits...

"Wh— really?" The pixie gasped. "Are you a deity then? They can understand us pixies even when we're small.."

"Pixies.. I think I've heard of them before." Jamai hummed. "And, partly. I'm a demi-god…"

"Thank goodness— I-I wasn't sure if I was going to be able to get back to my pod even if I did escape…" He slumped a bit, hugging himself. "But now all those other pixies are…" He shook his head.

"The angels are taking pixies?" Jamai frowned. He thought the angels were just killing all non-celestials… "How many have been taken?"

"Hundreds...Most of the Medallion Pod have been taken. Persimmon too, since our territories are close to one another…" The pixie was trembling again. "I-I don't know what to do..what if they find me again?"

Jamai bit his lip. What am I supposed to do? I don't know anything about this… "Um…" He held out his free hand placatingly, expression thoughtful. "Calm down. Now that I know this, I will be more careful when taking care of the angels that come here…" He paused.

"As for where you can stay...this forest isn't exactly made for beings such as yourself— nephorus is common here, and there are many different types that are hard to recognize. You ah...you could stay in the village close by? Maybe…?"

"A village? O-of big'uns??" The pixie fretted. "No thank you.. I um.." He thought hard. "I've heard of some guy… he lives somewhere near Weltschmerz…"

Jamai tensed up at the mention of that name. Weltschmerz...the ruins of the facility. It was certainly close by, and he could get there quickly if he forest-walked.

He snapped back into reality, listening as the pixie continued.

"I heard that he helps pixies. The Vermilion pod is in alliance with him, s-so hopefully they'll let me come…" The pixie rubbed their arms nervously. "If that isn't too much trouble. God, it feels awful asking you to do even more for me…"

"It doesn't bother me. I’ve already eliminated the threats to my forest, so I have nothing more to do for now. I'll take you to this person, yes? He may be able to help with your wings too." Jamai assured, standing up once more and looking in the direction of Weltschmerz. "I'm sorry that you're in this situation.."

"It's um.. it's alright. I'm Eurwen, by the way.." The pixie, Eurwen announced.

"I'm...Jamai. But if anyone asks, just call me the Guardian." He sighed, walking over to the nearest tree, eyes glowing green. "Hold on tight…"

[azulyrae]

❛ —— 𝐈 : The Pawn.

his life had been but a recurrent and miserable passing of time; plagued by the constant questioning regarding his value; the nagging behind the point of his meaningless existence and the place he occupied in the reality in which he was inserted. azriel had not lived; rather survived, doomed to loneliness despite the amount of friends he had made. one could not be overjoyed with such a fate; one could not see the point to insist on the stubbornness of life, if one could not share it with a partner.

after five centuries, azriel had felt the bond snap inside his heart; a dagger that tore the flash of the muscle; whose blade twisted and spilled his blood. for once, his agony was but self-inflicted; the pain, a consequence of the emotional absence of [name] archeron, his lightning bolt. azriel had been a lonesome wanderer, grasping to an abstract concept and companion that had finally found him mid-travel. and after quiet ponder and the insistence of his mate’s sisters, the shadowsinger decided to steal her from the tortuous path of self-sacrifice, and led the queen and king of their chess game to quite an experimental and potentially catastrophic game.

the first chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

check the original post to be aware of the trigger warnings.

azriel/fem!archeron sister. reader with mind control & the ability to shapeshift.

word-count: 10K.

“I long for you; I who usually longs without longing, as though I am unconscious and absorbed in neutrality and apathy, really, utterly long for every bit of you.”

― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

The leisure room’s stillness brought the male comfort. His thoughts, once a swirl of revolt, were reduced to mere pondering. The sound of his pacing, incessant during the first half-hour of his arrival, ceased with the time spent in silence. Azriel sat on his most favored elbow-chair: made of charcoal-colored leather; with enough width to accommodate his wings; the one further from the hearth; and had not left since then. The hollow pair of his eyes were fixed on the peeling brown-paint of the walls near the shelves — even if they did not perceive a thing.

When he had reached the familiar space of the House of Wind, Azriel scurried to the least frequented room and enclosed himself inside. By then, the sun held itself with pride in the middle of the day sky, burning and fierce, while a warm whiff entered sporadically through the opened doors of the balcony and the wind swayed the linen curtains. The Shadowsinger poured himself a generous amount of aged scotch with ice and proceeded to lose himself in mute and almost betrayed speculation.

The male didn’t need, nor did he ask, for the eventual reports of his shadows regarding the time passage. Azriel could deduce the lingering of his presence according to the light’s position. Although he had drowned the first dose of whiskey inside a luminous room, by the time his twentieth one doused his sore throat, the full-moon shone, its bright light a rival to the countless stars in Velaris’ night sky.

The House lit the hearth at least three hours prior, and Azriel commanded it to extinguish the flames. It wasn’t the first time, and the Spymaster doubted it’d be the last too, in which he wasted precious periods of his day staring into the meaningless and oppressive void; seconds and minutes and hours converging into a single unity until Azriel could no longer discern, nor notice, their passage. Pale and ethereal, the weak moonrays entered the ambient — that grew more frigid as dusk arrived — and the peeled pattern of the old tint could scarcely be seen in comparison to the daytime’s. But Azriel would’ve been able to point each furniture with precision, or move without hesitation, for he knew every centimeter that constituted the House of Wind’s extension. More than all, the Spymaster could’ve reached a particular point of the leisure room even if he was tied and blinded.

His sight burnt figurative holes in the untouched chess board, still secured inside the store’s package, despite the fact that it had been gifted to her months before, during the Winter Solstice. It rested under a pile of unwrapped presents, each thoroughly thought and given by a member of the Inner Circle. His High-Lady, Mor and Elain had spent weeks trying to convince her to join them for the Winter Solstice, their promises of amusing and private festivities not fazing her in the slightest. So, before their departure, Azriel had told Clotho to leave their gifts somewhere in the library where she would see them, for not a soul managed to learn where she had ventured to. When he returned and found the damned pile, Azriel felt a sudden wave of rage trespass his very being. Because the Spymaster lacked Cassian’s patience, such an offense was not ignored.

Azriel was left both enchanted and wary once his eyes fell upon her figure for the first time. Prythian was close to war against Hybern then, and they were in dire need of allies. In order to contact the Mortal Queens, Feyre had resorted to her sisters, and though she’d granted them an overview of their personalities and shared past, the female was particularly vague regarding the older one. The Spymaster was half-expecting fidgeting and condescending women, quite uninteresting and avoidant. However, she held none of those said characteristics.

With briefness, she had informed Feyre of the occurrences the sister had missed after her return to the Fae Lands. Their father sailed to where she theorized to be the farthest west, and with the man gone, her, the oldest — [Name] — was in charge of their coin, the employees, and their mansion’s maintenance. Feyre once confessed that was it not for one of her sister’s sacrifices, she would never have survived a single winter to wield a bow. The fact alone granted the said woman great respect amongst them all, though her identity was only confirmed when Azriel and his brothers faced that force of nature.

Feyre had advised — rather threatened them — to maintain a certain and specific distance. The three were given no further details, yet, were all glad to adhere to her orders. Still, with her clear avoidance regarding the topic and the deep sorrow in her eyes whenever she covered her older sister’s brief character, Azriel had managed, to a certain extent at least, to connect the pieces of the puzzle. And with what he presumed to be a precise knowledge, the Spymaster expected a strong, yet secluded woman; one who’d offer her home out of consideration for Feyre without engaging with their troubles any further.

How wrong he was.

When the soon-to-be High-Lady informed the three sisters of their need, Nesta’s discontentment came in brisk and sharp words, while Elain remained silent and, in fact, quite nervous over the prospect of a discussion. But all [Name] had asked her sister was whether she’d need anything more. As if offering Feyre her home was no bother; as if she was willing to offer her entire being, if it meant granting the youngest sister a solace of her own.

She led them to the private office upstairs, and Azriel absorbed the small glimpse of her ferocious spirit, overwhelmed by her scent and presence in every centimeter of the room. A shelf took over an entire wall; there were countless maps of the Mortal Lands plastered on a mural, most with colorful arrows traced with either red or blue paint, as if to showcase hot and warm currents; and an enormous table placed on the center, with pages whose scriptures varied from long, handwritten notes to numbers and formulas Azriel himself couldn’t understand, despite the five centuries he’d lived. The chessboard was the last thing he saw. It was placed in a corner, a melancholic sight to a male as himself, who adored the strategies and competition the game’s matches granted him. [Name] had no opponent; no friend she could invite to play against.

The Spymaster had then noticed the clear loneliness of the Archeron sisters. He could still remember Feyre’s haunted and paranoid figure, resorting to self-isolation for she was not taught to accept the offering hand of potential allies. The parallels were absurd as [Name] fished a silver-necklace from her dress’ collar, using the small key hanging from it to open one of the many drawers from the center table. And from the inside, the mortal pulled a detailed plant of the mansion’s entire extension. She was distant, her words were sharp and matter-of-fact. Yet, the older sister was analytical and prone to listen, quick to action and unafraid to voice her opinions. Despite their five centuries of experience, [Name] somehow managed to catch on to a concept or idea the brothers oversaw, and didn’t hesitate to point clear errors on their strategies, nor was she embarrassed to acknowledge possible improvements regarding her schemes. And once Azriel noticed the manner with which Feyre’s eyes shone with pride and admiration; how close they held one another when the female was to return to Velaris; he knew [Name] had, unbeknownst to her, passed some of her coping skills to the younger sister.

During the first reunion with the mortal queens, they were all left with a sour instinct and anticipation. Yet, [Name] was the single one immediately sure of their betrayal, as if, somehow, the female grasped onto aspects of their stances and personalities the others overlooked. It was her certainty that drove Rhysand to order Azriel to return regularly to the Archeron mansion until their next scheduled reunion. While his High-Lord was off to the Summer Court, the Spymaster was inside that same private office, studying more recent mansion-plants that [Name], somehow, convinced the architects to let her borrow, as Nesta watched them like a hawk with an untouched novel in her hands.

As expected, [Name] was indeed detached and blunt; disdainful, even, when annoyed. The surprise of it all, whatsoever, came with the fact that she was also hotheaded. [Name] seemed to him as a powerful fortress. Her words coated in sarcasm, voiced with little forethought or regret; her ruthless honesty and logic. She was not warm, nor was she raised to. Instead, [Name] was reliable. The tree that never bent; the castle built on a mountain rock, impenetrable and magnificent. One would not imagine that under such coldness hid a chaotic thunderstorm. A well-phrased insult and he could almost catch a glimpse of her lightning; an arrogant grin to prove her wrong and he could see a twitch in her plain features. Azriel, surprisingly, noted that he quite enjoyed the act of annoying the oldest and provoking a reaction. Even better, for his own personal and secretive satisfaction, the male also proved to be great at it. 

But once those banters were put aside, one would notice that [Name] wasn’t cruel nor prideful, and whenever Nesta grew tired of their technicalities, with Elain assuming the chaperone’s position instead, Azriel managed to strike less task-driven conversations.

He learned that [Name] first engaged in chess matches at the ripe age of seven, when, bored to no end, she saw their old mansion’s chief of cuisine play by himself. The man taught her well, and what he could not answer, she searched for in books. The mortal was dutiful to her studies, quick-witted and with keen observation skills that, combined to her well-chosen words, left every single one of her father’s late investors at her disposal, regardless of her young age. And when they weren’t lost in provocations and meaningless competitions related to who could come up with the most logical and efficient strategies to the possible outcomes of their encounter with the Mortal Queens, Azriel enjoyed sharing stories of Prythian with [Name], covering the continent’s territories, and listening to her theories. His favorite part of the whole interaction was noticing how the woman’s eyes would shine with anticipation, her imagination running wild at his words. He noticed then, her endless fierceness; how her core shook with thunder and catastrophe. There was more than the simple desire to learn more of the world; there was rage for what she would never see, resentment for her mortal limitations, and grief for the one she could’ve been.

Although he didn’t quite consider her a friend, Azriel wasn’t blind to their similarities either. The eldest of their respective families; the ones assigned to the ugliest, most dutiful aspects of their homes; the paranoid and distant personalities that granted both of them a fearsome first impression. He had no doubt she would’ve made whatever sacrifice, gone whichever length necessary, to free her sisters from related burdens. And — she had once said — if the trail ahead required her to taint her hands red, [Name] would comply, wash them after the process was done, and repeat the cycle for as long as it was needed.

Azriel had spent his almost half-six centuries of miserable existence yearning for a twin-flame; one that would be more pure and moral, empathetic and sweet, less prone to brutal logic and violence. The Spymaster once believed that if Morrigan, the female of pure altruism and resplendent strength, was to bless him with reciprocal love, she would purify the darkness within him; adore him until he learned to see himself through her perspective. Yet, during those comfortable conversations, Azriel couldn’t contradict the inherent truth of the fantastical feeling of being thoroughly understood. Although he remained sick and twisted, a vile creature built on hatred and violence and revenge, the male found that [Name], with her bottled rage and strength; her obstination to understand various concepts; to surround herself in theories and studies and schemes; to gather private informations from possible threats just in case; was a more comforting companion than a pure, immaculate female could ever be.

Azriel had no expectations, whatsoever, to match the mortal’s good heart. He caught a glimpse of her paperwork once, and noted that she was investing part of the re-gained family’s coin in business in less fortunate regions to increase the employment tax. Feyre had also told them that her sister learned not one, but three different languages in a decade, to communicate better with the foreign investors, and to aid the illegal immigrants that worked for their family at the seaport. And though it didn’t seem possible that [Name] could understand and match his struggles, during the quietest moments of dawn, Azriel liked to pretend otherwise.

Duties, however, were a constant call, and the Shadowsinger was assigned to spy on the Mortal Queens, rather than to return to the Archeron’s household. The bitterness on his tongue lingered through it all, both from the unforeseen difficult character of his mission, and from the sudden thought of Cassian visiting the mansion by himself. However, whatever infatuation Azriel labored for her, grew cold during the aftermath of Hybern’s mischievous plan.

[Name] was the first. She was chained, and struggled in her fight as the males threw her inside the Cauldron. The sight of her desperation was overbearing. He had wanted to slash those who held her in half; needed to protect her from the rising waters of her past. His sudden response to her screams was what granted him a week-worth of time spent on a sickbed, for the single movement to reach her had been enough for the poison to spread. Hybern was astute enough to catch on to the female’s importance to her sisters; he knew that, by destroying her fighting spirit, the other three would soon follow. However, the Cauldron expelled her after no more than half a minute, as if whatever happened between their brief encounter, whatever it saw in her, was too disturbing; vile; dangerous. It didn’t wait for Hybern’s soldiers to grab the borders and turn it, throwing the female on the ground in the process. 

No, the Cauldron moved on its own, the pitch-black water stinking of surprise and desperation when the artifice fell and the female arose, reborn. Hybern himself had been shocked and afraid. For the months that ensued, Azriel wondered if his poisoned mind had deceived his sight, for he had met the sister’s eyes then, and stared into the thin pupils of a dragon; he wondered whether the poison was to blame for the devastating tug on his heart, the brief light that sliced through the darkness of his core and shook his very being with its power.

However, when he next saw her, [Name] was a High-Fae — taller, her movements more fluid, and a stance that was both terrifying and compelling. Yet, it was the sheer strength and promise of violence that undid him. The eyes that met his own were determined and hostile, challenging and commanding, as if [Name] noted her enforced physique and decided not to hesitate if the time urged her to use them. She was desirable and breath-taking as a mortal, with hypnotizing complexions, too; a woman aware of her attributes and influence and unafraid to use them as she saw fit. But being a High-Fae made her more lethal, a fantastic and splendid female granted with the means necessary to pursue her goals, to back up the violence hidden under the sarcastic retorts.

Azriel’s knees nearly buckled. He wasted precious centuries pitying himself, for he had been assigned the burden of aggression. His hands were scarred and eternally tainted with blood, vile things that were the living proof of his fate. However, [Name] embraced the future the Mother drew; she’d be the serpent and the bite and the venom; she’d be the tortuous pain that preceded death. And if that meant protecting herself and those she cared for, the guilt would be non-existent. Nothing but twenty-five, and the female made peace with the demons that had been plaguing him for five centuries. 

She had a pile of books clutched against her chest, and maps that depicted what seemed to be the detailed territory of every Court and Faerie Realm of Prythian, rolled up and secured between her biceps and forearm. His shadows began to hum a soft and low ballad, dancing around their bodies. The Spymaster waited for [Name] to recoil, yet, she stared at the dark-tendrils of smoke with slight curiosity and the gleam of something else. Her eyes moved between his shadows, in a manner he learned to be those of her scheming. The hall in which the Spymaster stumbled upon [Name]’s renewed powerful figure seemed to diminish as he, enchanted, stepped closer. However, the curiosity that pooled in her eyes a second prior turned into hard-steel, a sense of despise and deception covering the grateful stare. Azriel noted the silver-blue color of the dragon’s eyes; the thin pupils of a violent storm retributing his entranced glance. His steps ceased; his shadows recoiled; and Azriel managed, a tad too late, to mask the hurt from his features.

The male wasn’t sure of what he had done wrong. Nevertheless, despite his initial surprise, and after a more attentive glance, he managed to find the hidden signs under the fearsome veil of those hard-expressions and astute irises. [Name] was in a disheveled state, with purple bags under the tired eyes and a mark between her eyebrows, of what he presumed to be left by constant worry. Azriel found himself wordless, sent into a foreign state of near-fidgeting. Ever since he’d left the burdens of a green-boy behind, Azriel had ceased to be nervous around females. He was desirable, confident, and managed to seduce them just fine, with no need for a repertoire filled with poems and romance quotes. But with [Name], it was as though the green-boy had returned, now laughing at his matured silence and nervousness. He yearned for the previous camaraderie, but had no clue of which phrases to use in order to reach it.

His hesitation wasn’t well-received. The female’s grip on her books grew tighter, and a sudden, powerful scent filled the air as she said: “If there’s nothing you wish to tell me, clear the way.”

He remained glued into place. Even if the Spymaster attempted to move left and grant her a free passage, his body had turned into nothing but a wayward bag of aching bones. For Azriel had words unsaid, his muscles were stiff and unnatural. He closed his fists in frustration, aware that his eyes were a pool of hatred. Not even his shadows ought to move, paralyzed in the scarce space between him and the female.

“You’re looking like crap,” he lied, for [Name] hadn’t demanded him to be true in his statement, only to speak up.

[Name] didn’t flinch nor showcased hurt, as if she’d found the real aspect of his thoughts somewhere within his cloaked expression. He wouldn’t confess his desire to hold what he presumed to be quite a heavy pile of books; to help her find whatever information she was searching for; to offer the distraction of a long and well-pondered chess match. Yet, her eyes flickered with acceptance and sorrow, the fate of a self-imposed loneliness one thought to be worthy of.

“I don’t need your help,” [Name] said. Grasping onto the late thoughts of lending an aiding hand seemed as though trying to capture water with a closed fist. Whenever the male found himself close enough to the instinctive wish to help, it slipped through his fingers as a volatile liquid. Despite his best efforts, Azriel caught himself fighting against the sudden lack of free-will, for, once again, nor his mind or body were his own. “You won’t offer to help me, either. I’m perfectly capable of managing on my own.”

“Of course you are,” he agreed in a haze, his words sounding slurred and disconnected.

The Spymaster hated himself for being susceptible to that treacherous manipulation; hated her for wielding it, too, and displaying all but a small remorse in the process of stealing his freedom. He connected the lines then; from the venomous scent of power to the abrupt fear of the Cauldron when it had expelled her. A hypnotizing voice, one that managed to control even his intangible companions. He wondered where the limitations of such power were placed, while fearing there were none. The previous concern related to whether or not he should propose to carry her books seemed small and meaningless in comparison to the inescapable authority he was trapped under. He, instead, began to fear for his entire Court, for there was nothing besides, perhaps, her sisters, capable of stopping [Name] from stealing Velaris from under their noses.

“I have no intentions to cause harm,” she said, waving his worries as though they were a nagging fruit-fly. Opposite from the female’s previous statements, this one didn’t feel as a demand of her part. The well-justified suspicions remained rooted in his mind, instead of slipping through his consciousness before he could even process the thought. 

However, what scared him the most was the fact that [Name]’s mental-powers surpassed those of a daemati. The Shadowsinger never once left his mind-barrier unattended; it had been a wall of revested, pitch-black steel, ever since he learned of the existence of those able to read his thoughts. He was sure they were intact, and yet, she slipped inside as if it meant nothing.

“Meaning you draw the line at generalized battles, but find it acceptable to read one’s mind without their verbal permission,” Azriel retorted. The male crossed his arms against his chest, the anger overpowering the modest shine that accompanied the beating of his heart. The Spymaster looked down on her, resorting to the glance he used to terrify his opponents and prisoners. He had noticed a tad too late that his stance mirrored his father’s, and both disgust and regret enclosed his once arrogant and spiteful stance.

But rather than recoiling, [Name] raised her chin, the eyes of the dragon returning with a barely-contained rage that matched his own. “I was thrown inside a Cauldron without granting them permission to do so; I was Made and kept hostage inside a Fae-house I’m not allowed to leave. My youngest sister is gone, and I wield powers that are directly connected to emotions I’ve spent my entire life repressing. I can’t control whose minds I can read. This place is cacophony of thoughts and fears, and I would’ve given the entirety of my lost riches to be mortal again; to not hear the suicidal and terrified intents of my sisters.”

Azriel felt a sense of shame creeping up his spine. Even if his anger of her commands for him to remain distant, and ignoring his every nerve rebelling against doing so, had lingered, the Spymaster found quite a soft-spot upon hearing her point of view. She seemed pained and confused, a lashing animal that adorned herself with claws and fangs, scales and poison, because she failed to envision a different perspective. The sudden reminder of Feyre’s tendency to self-isolate and self-sacrifice, and from who she’d taken said characteristics, went as a brisk breeze, refreshing his consciousness for too little: since the acknowledgement of [Name]’s pain meant he’d want nothing but to reach for her and help, and the female had denied him that right.

He had never resented her more, doubted he ever would. The pressure, placed upon his jaw because of the effort to struggle against those commands, was quick to bring an ache. The Spymaster had no doubt that soon, the too quiet hall would be filled with the sound of the crack of his bones.

“I can manage by myself, I don’t need nobody,” she repeated, the slight mark reappearing between her eyebrows as her expression shifted into one of obstinate confusion. 

Despite the order, Azriel’s insistence prevailed; his words were near to spill, that fucking, stupid offering to carry her books, but the scent of her hypnotizing power managed to inebriate his senses at last. 

“I. Don’t. Need. Nobody. It’s my tragedy alone to endure.”

The resistance must’ve faded from his features, for the female’s eyes returned to their normal appearance, and she passed through him. Their shoulders touched — Azriel’s bare muscles brushing against her clothed skin — and a terrible shiver went through her. The female gritted her teeth, searching for that armor of nonchalance and uninterest. 

“I don’t need nobody,” she said, his back facing her own. “But Elain does. She’s lost, and I’m sure you owe me no favors, but my sister treated you well during our scheming afternoons, and isn’t the one to blame for my character.” 

He hadn’t felt compelled to reach for Elain, enough an indicator that [Name] was but giving him the right to choose for himself whether he wished — or not — to keep an eye on said sister. As it seemed, [Name] didn’t care to wield her voice if the consequences fell upon her shoulders alone, but refused to drag others into her labyrinth of thunderous hatred. Azriel didn’t answer, and his shadows were in a mingled commotion of confusion as their desire to check on the female was countered by her own command to be left alone.

Rhysand had then approached from where he, for sure, observed their interaction. The male was quite conflicted, noticing the rebellious instinct Azriel couldn’t conceive. Instead of flying to the balcony, to then winnow to the River House, they decided it was less bothersome to dialogue inside the nearest, more private room of the House of Wind: that being the leisure room. His brother updated him of the most recent occurrences — those he’d lost during the week under an induced sleep — and Azriel himself was left puzzled at the end of Rhys’ report.

[Name]’s commanding powers bloomed after Feyre’s departure to the Spring Court. Upon failing to find the youngest sister, she invaded the private reunion of the Inner Circle — Rhysand, Morrigan and Amren, the three conscious at the time — and demanded to be informed of Feyre’s position, leaving them all aghast with their willingness to answer. Azriel observed, through the mental glimpses Rhys offered, the internal fight of his brother’s brain, and how she had, too, crushed his desire to uphold that particular information. A High-Fae whose mind was closed to the daemati, wielding a tongue that could put even a High-Lord to his knees. She suddenly was a threat twice as dangerous and unapologetic, willing to use her power whenever underestimated, and Azriel’s wariness increased with the fact.

However, [Name] hadn’t needed to repeat her orders until then. Her powers had been enough to intoxicate the minds of two of the most powerful Fae alive, and an ancient creature, at the same time. With that in mind, both were left to wonder why Azriel, out of all people, showed such resilience against her commands, and though the possible answer seemed obvious, the Spymaster refused to nurture such hope, especially since he wasn’t sure where his trust was placed with the Archeron sister. 

Azriel maintained his distance. He, indeed, began to check on Elain. At first, the male did it as both a taunt and a peace offering. Yet, despite his efforts to grasp [Name]’s attention, she had enclosed herself inside the House of Wind’s library, the books she borrowed being supervised by Clotho. And with all honesty, Elain was rather a comforting companion, her silence matching his own. The female indeed was in need of someone; someone who had no expectations, nor judged her mad for her incoherent mumbling. She grew to be a friend, one that had catched on Azriel’s ragged breath when he laid his eyes on [Name] for the first time in days; who had then begun to state the burdens of her sister and how, although used to loneliness and with her heart buried deep within, she was desperate to see the day where her duties would no longer be overpowering, while also terrified with the idea of leisure. Azriel understood her better then, and was given the confirmation of their similarities once again. Yet, that meant nothing, for the female continued to avoid them all. 

Her situation improved in the slightest when Feyre returned, and their shared conversation later-on influenced his High-Lady to encourage [Name] to accept Morrigan’s help. The females spent the next months vanishing during most mornings, whereas [Name] was nowhere to be seen later on, deciding to spend the remnants of her day lost within her studies inside the library.

Morrigan, who was Azriel’s loyal friend — and once, the biggest love he knew — understood his anguish. And though she seemed to empathize with [Name]’s motivations as well, the female made sure to keep him attuned on both [Name]’s physical and mental evolution. She kept most things to herself, of course. And considering the amount of time the two spent together, it was half-expected for [Name] to be a modest swordswoman; though she did improve, it became clear that they were discussing other things, too.

When the War was declared, [Name] abandoned her months of quiet isolation in the library or private training sessions with Mor to help them strategize and scheme. Azriel glimpsed the storm underneath the long period of sorrow and concern; fell victim to the same banters and competition and even went as far as to share a deep and meaningful conversation outside the Archeron’s sisters tent. At the time, Elain had just been rescued, and although the three of them slept inside, [Name] refused to do the same, choosing to guard them instead.

Azriel’s tongue felt heavy and useless on the morrow, when he attempted, once again, to offer his help. The male thought of a dozen synonyms and different speech forms to bypass her command, but they were all in vain. And even if she learned to control the mind-reading aspect of her powers, Azriel’s efforts must’ve been crystal clear, for she rose from the ground, her steps crushing the autumn dried leaves, and repeated: “I don’t need nobody.”

He grew tired and revolted then. It was easier to obey her desires when one had given up on contourning them. The last battle came, and Azriel’s mind was set, for he refused to keep walking around those walls’ borders, to venture on the female’s stubborn need to retract herself and put on a veil of feigned detachment. The Spymaster would no longer care, no longer offer help. And it was only when the dragon emerged from the battlefield — dark scales with blue and silver undertones — that he’d noticed those weren’t his desires, but the consequences of her command inside his mind. Though he was once resolute, a second later, the male wished for nothing but to claim the skies with the magnificent flying serpent. Considering the quickness with which his mind changed, Azriel grew both scared and amazed at the extension of her will. It was the first time he’d experienced what Rhysand and the others must’ve felt during her first morning at the House of Wind; the first confirmation that her imposition worked differently on him, as if he was made to pass through the venom curtain and sit close to the female behind it, granting her the companionship she didn’t deem herself worthy of.

At the time, the sight of the dragon was magnificent: the shadow of a flying serpent, covering the sunlight; the strong scent of ozone that hang in the air as the creature flew to the open sea, where Hybern’s fleet was seen in the horizon; the open jaw — one the size of a grown Illyrian warrior — that breathed not fire, but lightning. [Name]’s rage had resulted in the screams of a thousand soldiers, their pained cacophony reverberating as the water — the best conduit for electricity, he’d soon learn — helped murder whoever intended to plunge against them through the sea. Yet, the sight of the Fae’s eyes after such occurrences wasn’t at all welcoming. She was broken; shallow; tired. Even if he could still catch a glimpse of the brilliant and breath-taking dark scales under the common flesh, there was something amiss. Not guilt, but perchance, a sense of adamant worry and disorientation, as though she had no idea what to do next.

Azriel waited until the Inner Circle returned to Velaris. The Archeron sisters were granted the offer to find a home of their choosing, and although Elain agreed to live with Feyre, Nesta found herself a decrepit apartment in one of the poorest districts, while [Name] had insisted on staying in the House of Wind. It made sense. Between the three Made females, [Name] was the one that did not need to face the ten thousand steps whenever she wished to leave; she could shift into whatever winged-animal she saw fit, and fly to whichever path she meant to take. Although Morrigan and Feyre were quite harsh with both him and Cassian, warning of the consequences were they to invade her personal space, Azriel was glad — and hopeful, even — that she decided to linger for more than just the desire to resume her constant visits to the library, or the wish to part ways from her sisters. The future was promising without the war and the perspective of peace, and he’d have enough space to return to that old camaraderie. 

Or so he thought.

The female gave him a single glance and repeated those four fucking words. Their first dialogue was built on sarcasm and bad manners, both mistrusting one another and wishing to test their motivations and boundaries. Of course the bond would sing the loudest then. Not when the dragon emerged or when [Name] was Made; not during their heartfelt conversation outside the tent; but when he was mad with anger at her obstination, wishing to grab her shoulders and shake her to her senses. Still, a malicious sense of victory, one his entire family would disapprove of, glowed with the unprecedented truth. [Name] enjoyed being several steps ahead but could not have predicted their mating bond in a thousand years. She wasn’t aware that with the unilateral snap, her commanding powers lost considerable strength against his mind. 

So, when [Name] said she didn’t need his help, Azriel had answered: “Of course you don’t.”

Ever since then, in between the not-at-all accidental stumbles on different routes of the House, he made sure to pretend. Pretend to be at her words’ mercy; pretend to be affected by her commands. All in the while decreasing their late distance with poisonous phrases and acts of his own, that [Name] was quick to retort. However, he didn’t expect her latest one to be so vile and spiteful; never would’ve thought his mate would be so cruel.

Nuala and Cerridwen’s report was but a kneaded ball of paper, falling victim to the Shadowsinger’s unmatched anger. He stared at the pile of unwrapped gifts. Feyre had given her older and most admired sister a personalized chess board: the pieces had the texture of a dragon’s scale, and each group-piece was represented by a thoroughly designed flying serpent; the board was made of enhanced glass, and the structure underneath was a pitch-black pattern of the lightning of a violent storm crashing against the stones of a dozen mountains. Rhysand chose a long leather coat, its shoulder pads with silvery-blue spikes as those she had on her dragon back. Elain gave her a beautiful vase of colorful dragon-flowers, one he knew [Name] began tending to. Amren picked a silver necklace, the pendant with — according to her words — a blue kyanite, the rough stone carved as if to resemble a dragon head. Cassian bought three books, one being his most favored about battle strategies, and the other two — personal recommendations from Clotho, who said she was searching for the subject, and couldn’t find nothing close to it in the library — of The Story of Prythian’s Currency: Volume I & II. Whereas Morrigan was more subtle. The female said she’d give a gift related to her past experiences, one it wasn’t made to be seen by their curious eyes.

Each of the previous gifts stood in the unwrapped pile, but Azriel’s was nowhere to be seen.

He spent months trying to come up with something. It’d be the first Winter Solstice with his mate; the first gift he’d give her. Since his memories were no longer lost in a haze, the male was brought back to their first true conversations months prior. [Name] told him she had learned how to properly wield daggers and throwing knives, for someone had taught her, and she trained tirelessly ever since. Morrigan complimented that aspect, too, commenting that [Name] had quick-feet, with an agility that was made for close combat. So Azriel gave his mate two sai daggers. The butt-end was of dragons’ heads, designed in a way as not to hinder her moments; the grip was made of cool and weightless leather, with an undertone of dark blue, and one silver-colored bolt of lightning on both sides of the material; there was a stone in the middle of the wing-base — the shade, the same blue of his Siphons — and the steel from both the wing-base and wings had the pattern of scales. The shaft had a thin scripture written in the runic-language of Ancient-Fae — a courtesy of Amren, who, he was sure, felt the bond between them — that said: “The bolt that cuts through darkness, the light that breaks the night.”

Azriel placed an order to the smith for a set of throwing knives too, and this time, instead of choosing a dragon, Azriel went for two swallows taking flight and staring at one another, placed at each side of the guard. However, he prided himself more in the pair of personalized sai daggers. The Spymaster knew the Inner Circle would pick the dragon alone, for they didn’t know that at each dawn, [Name] shifted into a white and blue swallow, small and silent, and ventured through the night skies, returning on the morrow under the same form. What better metaphor for such a fast, small animal, if not throwing daggers? Regardless, he found her choice odd. Why would one prefer to be a swallow, instead of an eagle, or even a dragon? He came to the conclusion that perhaps [Name] and her unspeakable past did not wish to be perceived; after a lifetime of being placed on top of a pedestal, attracting both admiration and lust from those who stared from underneath, it seemed as though she was glad to be a merely invisible bird, rather than a devastating creature. He respected that, but nevertheless, [Name] didn’t seem to have enjoyed the gift.

When Azriel searched for the sai daggers and knives, he wasn’t sure what would’ve hurt more. The prospect of finding them yet wrapped, or in the same state as the rest of those on the pile. He never once thought they wouldn’t be there at all. The Spymaster left clear and severe orders to his shadows, and despite his companions’ wishes, they weren’t allowed to search the House of Wind — especially [Name]’s room — for the gift. Hope was an unreliable feeling, and nurturing it was a direct step into disappointment. Rage and resentment, however, came easier. Azriel was sure that his shadows had disobeyed him, and were desperate to share their information. Yet, he didn’t welcome it. Instead, the male fell straight into the rabbit hole of his duties, making it all the easier to ignore his mate. Summarizing it all, said decision was what brought him to that current dismal state, and guided him to the emptiness of the leisure room. 

Not two weeks had passed since the Winter Solstice, and Azriel was already assigned to infiltrate Montesere’s barriers. Considering the land’s history of allegiance with Hybern, and the infertile political situation between the Courts after the Wall between Fae and Mortal Lands fell, his brother and High-Lady’s concern regarding Montesere’s silence was well-based. At first, the Shadowsinger thought it’d be an effortless task. Yet, during his first attempt, he was met with a barrier that countered each and every power he had at his disposal.

The male had faced such a bothersome obstacle before. The Mortal Queens once wielded a similar protection; one that had avoided his net of spies and his own shadows for months. Azriel still remembered the consequences of his failure; the fatal mission that had him laying on the floor with poison in his veins; that left Cassian with ruined wings and pain written all over his near-unconscious expressions; the yet-human Archeron sisters being thrown, one by one, inside the Cauldron. The fatality that led [Name] to her current state, one he failed to foresee and prevent.

There was a small knock on the ebony door. A crevice — all but large enough for the head of a winged-Illyrian warrior to pass through — presented Azriel with the sight of his brother, his ever-present grin appearing as soon as he laid eyes on the Spymaster at the elbow-chair. Azriel’s previous thoughts were put on hold, his surprise apparent, and his shadows moved around him, their whispered words sounding hurt and worried: “We warned you, we warned you.” But the male, once again, didn’t hear a single thing.

Those occurrences weren’t rare, nor something he was unfamiliar with. Azriel found himself frequently tangled within them, as if his thoughts were a labyrinth with deviant entrances and constant, creative traps, he never seemed to dodge. The worries and self-loathing gave way to a frozen and profound lake; the water was corrupted, viscous, carrying a darkness Azriel himself wasn’t used to. Avoiding those traps felt as though walking with heavy boots on the thin ice that covered such a lake. He was bound to fail — to fall, — and once Azriel was captured by it, he scarcely attempted to swim, to leave; no light could reach him there, no sound or positiveness, it was a place not even his shadows dared to enter. The Spymaster wasted hours inside it, and only managed to leave it once an external presence pulled him from the putrid waters of his thoughts.

As Cassian had done, entering the leisure room and choosing the elbow-chair in front of his own. His brother glimpsed at the near-to-be empty scotch bottle, an eyebrow raising in the process. The male seemed to believe Azriel had more than enough, for he grabbed it from the center-table and gave it a gulp directly from the bottleneck.

“Are you kidding me?” The Spymaster complained, his voice a mixture of both frustration and anger towards his brother. Azriel wouldn’t dare to pour himself more after that, finding it unhygienic; all in the while, Cassian was quite aware of his brother’s antics, and drank it on purpose.

“Don’t be all selfish, Az,” the male mocked him, drinking another mouthful of the scotch. Azriel rolled his eyes, placing his empty cup on the center-table with unnecessary strength. “You’re done for the night, at least.”

“I’m not even drunk,” he argued. Cassian — the bastard — shrugged.

“That’s because you have a high alcohol tolerance,” his brother’s eyes narrowed. He placed the bottle on the ground, near his feet, and sat with a straightened back. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Azriel, in fact, didn’t. His scarred left hand clutched the kneaded report, the sound of paper ringing through his ears. That stupid piece of scribbling what was led him to that position in the first place. The Spymaster flew to the house his High-Lord and Lady shared, filled with a modest amount of shame. The twins had been surveilling Montesere’s magical barriers for almost an entire month, searching for a pattern, hoping to catch on to an immigrant or some poor other bastard attempting to leave. Azriel held that strategy to no hope, aware of the fact that it was doomed to failure. Yet, facing the predicted truth gave him a sour tongue.

Once he told the dreaded information, a reunion was summoned. However, with Cassian at Windhaven and Morrigan returning from Valahan, Azriel had a few hours ahead of him to wait for the reminiscent members of the Inner Circle, and decided to accompany Elain in the kitchen. The female, for sure, must’ve been feeling quite lonely since the twins’ departure to Montesere, and Azriel didn’t mind talking to her either. Elain, after all, was a terrific and attentive friend, with observant eyes and the willingness to listen. The Spymaster thought her thoroughly underestimated during most times, and made sure to let her know that he was, too, willing to train her if she ever thought needed.

Although he expected not much from the conversation at hand, Elain had trapped him a few minutes in. At first, the female repeated the familiar questions he’d been mostly glad to answer. However, at some point, Elain moved to place the trail of dough inside the oven, and her voice had reverberated from where she knelt.

“How is she?”

Azriel knew who she was referring to. Considering the male’s seen proximity with the oldest Archeron sister, and the fact that she barely left the House of Wind, Elain had but few choices besides the one to ask for his words regarding her sister’s state. During the past months, however, Azriel made sure to avoid [Name], and had no answer besides the honest truth no one wished to hear: she remained the same. 

The entire Inner Circle grew worried. During the first stages of the War, [Name] spent hours inside the library, hovering over a pile of books, studying every subject regarding Prythian’s history and territory; memorizing each drawn line of the borders; trying to predict their enemies’ movements, and coming up with retaliations to those, too. She also had a peaceful relationship with the priestesses, and after [Name]’s self-isolation, Clotho was instructed by both Feyre and Rhys to send a weekly report regarding the female’s behavior. It wasn’t ideal, but his High-Lady’s heart rest assured that her sister was, at least, within physical reach.

Those weekly-informations were scarcely enough. [Name]’s dragon form, and how she had saved them all to some extent during the last battle, couldn’t be forgotten nor ignored. Of course, the female’s acts to protect her sisters during poverty — and before that, even — weren’t overlooked by Rhysand, either. His brother had the bigger sense of gratitude between them all, and weren’t for Feyre and Elain, Azriel would state that he was the most eager to help [Name] somehow.

Despite Azriel’s attempt to change the subject, stating that he hasn’t been to the House much and that Cassian was a much better option to inform her, the female didn’t allow him to run. Elain insisted that [Name]’s self-isolation tendencies came from the fact that she, after the War, had no perspective. The female was taught to be of use to her sisters; to provide for them, no matter the cost; to be the anchor in which the three youngest ones could rely on during hardships. However, Velaris had changed that need for the better. And Elain was sure that, despite the fact that [Name] was glad the younger pair found solace and comfort and didn’t need her to sacrifice herself any longer, she was also lost and alone. Without her duties and the position of command that she was placed on at a very young age, [Name] was left to deal with the memories and consequences of her life’s decisions all by herself.

Azriel had lost it then. He’d been attempting to reach for his mate for months, and all she did in response was demand him to leave her alone, going as far as to use her hypnotizing voice to achieve such an end. And once he voiced his discontentment and the fact that self-isolation was [Name]’s choice, their first discussion ensued. Elain, shockingly, had snapped at him. Though she remained quiet on behalf of [Name]’s past, the female’s words were forceful and precise. She covered her sister’s relationship with both their parents and how she chose to be there for the three of them, while denying them to do the same for her; Elain pointed most of [Name]’s personality, and during it all, Azriel’s retorts grew short, since the male was again reminded of how much he related to his mate in levels he dared not confess. 

His silence wasn’t wasted either. Elain argued that [Name] needed to be of use, to feel that she was protecting her sisters somehow, in order to accept her healing process. Azriel feared that the female found out their mating bond then, but no sooner that doubt was discarded and he regained his calmness, Elain’s next phrase threw that out the window. 

“You should train [Name] to be a spy and assign her to Montesere.”

Azriel’s mind went blank. His rage was nearly blinding. He didn’t care how Elain had learned of his struggles regarding Montesere’s barriers, for all he saw was [Name] — his mate — under a complicated position, thrown into a territory they had no intel of, somewhere no one could reach.

“No.”

He refused to wear a more active and demanding voice with the members of his family. Azriel hated the possible wariness it could cause, for the sound of itself was enough to make their prisoners wet themselves in terror. But Elain didn’t falter. She gritted her teeth, meeting his gaze, her eyes a shade of silver, and continued to defend her sister.

“[Name] speaks four languages and is learning the Ancient Fae speech by herself. She has a commanding voice that worked in a room filled with High-Lords, can shift into different mortal-shells, a lightning dragon and smaller animals and beasts, too. She’s smart, light on her steps, and has enough physical training to face stronger opponents,” Elain closed her eyes for a second, as if trying to avoid the memory of a particular vision. 

Azriel was reminded of the Seer’s words when she still lived in the House of Wind, staring at the window with no emotion plastered on her face: ‘The scaled-beast of myths that flies through the airway, destined to rescue those lost in dismay. The bolt that cuts through the darkness, the light that breaks the night.’

“All she needs,” continued Elain, the familiar brown back into her eyes, “is guidance.”

Because [Name] was meant for so much more, was so much more, than the astute, self-sacrificing and scarred oldest sister. Because regardless of Azriel’s unwillingness to train her, his mate’s destiny was calling to her; growing closer to her calves with each passing day. And with, or without the Spymaster’s interference, she’d have to face it.

Azriel sighed, the prospect of it all bringing a sudden headache that made him crease his forehead. “I’ll ask Rhys—”

“Rhys agrees,” his brother said, entering the kitchen. Azriel turned, half-betrayed by his shadows, who didn’t warn him of his arrival, and half-shocked with himself, for it had been a long time since he’d been so invested in an argument, he failed to hear a third person’s approach. “Do you agree, Feyre darling?”

His High-Lady entered the kitchen, striving for Elain’s freshly-baked biscuits. She shared a knowing, yet proud, look with her sister, and hummed her approval, giving Azriel an apologetic smile. Cassian, Amren and Mor entered soon after, and the Spymaster learned that their argument was, in fact, heard by all of them. Nevertheless, once the [Name] topic was cleared, the reunion began. After it was clear their kitchen wasn’t big nor comfortable to accommodate the entire family, they all moved to the living-room — Rhys didn’t want his office to be filled with biscuit’s crumbs — and covered other worrying subjects, such as the Mortal Queens’ sudden silence; Mor’s first week at Valaham; Lucien’s eventual reports about Jurian and Vassa; Nesta’s condition, and the twins’ report. Azriel was but a shell of himself during it all, his mind drifting to Montesere and [Name]’s training, the inevitable destiny that awaited.

Once the gathering was over, Azriel barely bid his goodbyes before winnowing the closest he could to the House of Wind. Rhys’ voice entered his mind as soon as he landed, his question the same as the one Cassian had made: “Do you want to talk about it?”

His brother would understand the dilemma the best. Rhysand had stayed an entire month without news regarding Feyre’s well-being when the female acted as a spy inside the Spring Court. Azriel wished to ask him how he had managed it; how could it be possible, or at least bearable, to wait in Velaris as his mate was risking her life somewhere he couldn’t reach. But their situation was different. Rhysand could’ve winnowed to the Spring Court to assist Feyre if the female was in need; Azriel had his wrists tied against one another, aware that if [Name] managed to enter Montesere’s barriers, he’d have no news, no way of learning whether she was safe.

So, he gave Cassian the same answer he gave Rhysand: “I’m fine, there’s no need to worry.”

And as the latter, Cass respected the boundary drawn between them, didn’t question any further. Instead, he stared with curiosity as Azriel rose from the elbow-chair.

“Where are you going?”

“To give [Name] the great news.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“She’s awake.”

Azriel didn’t care enough to continue that game of pretense, one where he didn’t voice his certainties regarding the female’s state in order to maintain their mate bond in utter secrecy. Considering Cassian’s lack of reaction — besides the clear amusement — the Spymaster was sure most of the Inner Circle’s members already had their suspicions.

“Good luck!” Cassian taunted as Azriel left the leisure room. The male’s hands grew sweaty with anticipation, and he rubbed them against the cloth of his trousers.

[Name]’s decision to continue living in the House of Wind came with an inevitable change of rooms. He had to walk up one extra floor, for the female chose the bedchamber placed on the hallway above the one he and Cassian shared, and his shadows began to move with a mischievous lack of control once they noticed the Spymaster’s intentions.

Azriel knocked on the door, announcing his presence through the shadows that peered inside. Not a second later, he heard [Name]’s frantic steps, and she, as expected, didn’t seem as though awakened from slumber. Her eyes were suspicious, and the female was dressed in traveling clothes. She didn’t care to state otherwise, nor to hide her provisions and backpack placed on the corner of her room.

“It’s a little late for a visit,” [Name] stated, although not surprised. Instead, the female seemed to analyze him, trying to find out why he was there in the first place.

“It’s a little late for tracking,” he mocked. If she was anyone else, Azriel would’ve supported his shoulder-weight on the door, a foot pushing against the crevice, inviting himself in. But [Name] left him wary of his words and acts; with a sense of unknown anticipation. Azriel felt, once again, as though a green-boy unaware of a female’s tastes. [Name] placed him on a chess board, and Azriel was left under the impression that she needed but a single misstep of his to steal his king.

“It was a spontaneous decision,” his mate answered, unresponsive as his shadows reacted to her voice-tone and began to flutter closer, like small and innocent butterflies.

“So was mine.”

“Bold statement coming from someone who’s been ignoring me for months,” she bit. Azriel didn’t allow his surprise to rise to his features. Both managed, after all, to wear a veil of nonchalance despite the implications behind their words.

“Bold judgment coming from someone who commanded me to do so.”

“You never seemed to listen,” [Name] answered, waving her hand.

“Were you sad that I did, for once?”

Her stance changed, if only for a mere second, but he caught on it. Mother be damned, he tucked that information closer to his heart than he should have. 

“What are you doing here?”

“Your sisters are worried.”

[Name] accessed him, aware of the low blow; the mouse-trap he placed on the board. She ignored it. “They’re welcome to visit me anytime.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What are you doing here?” [Name] repeated, and Azriel was caught by surprise. Her commanding voice was, at least once, only triggered if she used an imperative phrase. The Spymaster never saw her use it as a question, which meant that she had been training somehow, it was only left for him to find out in whom.

Azriel was physically close enough to the point where pretending to be affected by her demand was useless. She would’ve noticed the absence of haziness coating his eyes; the overall alert state of his body. The male moved his pawn, the information he kept a secret for so long, finally clear for her to see. “There’s something we need your help with.”

Her eyes grew wide, a slight shift in her scent that indicated neither fear or anger, but excitement. Azriel felt a sudden tremble that went through his entire body. The fact that [Name] now knew would change every single damned thing between them for the better. The Spymaster could already anticipate the fierceness of their future competitions, her obstinate glance and taunting grin, the quick-pacing of his heart. Mother be damned, he already yearned for the sight.

“You’re immune,” she pointed out with slight wonder, clearing the path for him to enter the room.

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

“This isn’t an answer,” [Name] bit, her tone assuming one of annoyance and anger. He forgot how good he was at bringing that side of her to the surface. Never again, Azriel decided. Never again would he be departed from her long enough to forget of their banters.

“It’s the one you’ll get,” he insisted, kneeling near her backpack. “Where were you planning to go?”

His mate grew quiet, as if pondering her next movement and the consequences it would cause. She seemed to decide whatsoever, judging the odds favorable. “The Mortal Lands.”

Azriel’s back stiffened. He had no doubt that the adaptation was rough, but he didn’t suspect, not even once, that she could’ve been missing her late home. The male rose from the ground and away from that pack, as if the object was forsaken — wrong, — turning to stare at her instead.

“Why?”

“I have unfinished business,” [Name] ignored his disheveled state, staring at him as though he — and his entire social-circle, for that matter, — were stupid for thinking she had left nothing behind after twenty-five years of living in the Mortal Lands. “Something that, coming to think of, I could use your help with.”

Azriel gave her a stare most would cower from. She returned with one most would lose their confidence against. The male envisioned that damned board, memorized the position of his pieces, and made his move. “I presume your sisters weren’t informed of your plans.”

“Obviously.”

“So why,” he taunted, moving closer while still leaving enough space between them, “would I cross my High-Lady’s wish, and help with whatever it is you came up with?”

[Name] crossed her arms against her chest, reading in between the lines of his expression and coming to terms with his words. “It will be faster with your winnowing, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He grinned, victorious, as her eyes trailed to the paintings on his forearms and exposed shoulders. His knight was so close to her king, he could almost hear the check-mate coming from his lips, even if that was all but a metaphorical game on a metaphorical board. 

“You’ll help me get to the Mortal Lands, then what? What am I supposed to do?”

“Train with me outside Velaris. You’ll be the Court’s spy, and once judged ready, I’ll assign you to a mission in Montesere.”

[Name]’s eyes narrowed, as if seeing the plastered map of Prythian on her mind. Azriel had no doubt the female had studied the land’s expanse and history, had no doubt she wasn’t clueless, at least not entirely, as to why the Night Court needed someone inside the magical barriers. There was a gleam there, and her lips curved with the same malice she wielded during their strategizing, when she saw something he didn’t; when she was sure he wouldn’t be able to counter her movements. Azriel shuddered then, not with fear but with expectation. It had been ages since the last time his mate showed enough patience and will to strike, to enter a mental competition. That game of theirs, filled with taunts and strategies and low-blows, was exciting; the type of conjunction between a sense of immaculate victory and determination upon defeat one could only find when their competitiveness was perfectly matched. 

One [Name] forgot she enjoyed until Azriel invited her to play again.

“As I see it, I’ll do as I’m told and then be given a reward,” she said, moving left to her murals. [Name]’s room was a bigger version of her late office, with books and maps and annotations plastered wherever the eyes could reach. His mate grabbed a white powder from the inside of a drawer, its scent sleep-inducing, and Azriel was left aghast at her abilities; her potential. “That doesn’t seem fair, especially considering that you might need me, but I don’t need you. Not crucially, at least.”

“Put me to sleep, and once I’m awake, I’ll inform the entire Inner Circle of your intentions,” the male answered matter-of-factly, because there was not a chance she thought that plan would lead somewhere.

“Then, what? You’ll follow my trail, because I could command everyone else to turn a blind eye? Where would that lead us, if not the Mortal Lands?”

“I’d find your trail before you even managed to reach the Day Court,” Azriel answered, his words filled with well-based arrogance. [Name] inserted two fingers inside the small, glass-made pot, and smudged her digits with the white powder. The female grew closer, and his shadows danced around her neck and waist; her thighs and arms; all of the places Azriel himself yearned to touch, but didn’t dare to.

“I don’t think you’re understanding your position. A dragon might be easy to find but what of a beetle? A serpent? What is a sparrow-hawk in the Autumn Court, if not a single bird between many others?” [Name] discarded the powder, and repressed a smile at whatever his shadows had whispered. “I’ll vanish and tend to my business, and you’ll have my sisters’ wrath and a lot of frustration to take care of.”

Somehow, a knight drew closer to his king too. Azriel’s smile was bitter, sleep no longer hazing his senses, as he glimpsed the situation, noticing the inevitable siege that had formed around his pawns. “I would’ve managed nevertheless, but this isn’t what you wish to hear, is it? You want to strike a deal.”

He purred those words — her words, — and [Name]’s grin widened, voicing the phrase that would grant her a plain upperground. “I’m sure my sisters came with the training aspect, so I’ll follow along, if only for their sake. We’ll train outside Velaris, and once I’m judged prepared, you’ll winnow me to the Mortal Lands.”

“And Montesere?”

“I’ll go there after we see to my business, not a heartbeat before.”

The feigned training would grant coverage to their departure to the Mortal Lands. Azriel wouldn’t need to report his dismissal to either Rhysand nor Feyre, and [Name] would leave the House of Wind, as it was expected. Their small venture would prepare the Spymaster for the idea of leaving his mate, by herself, near Montesere’s barriers; perhaps he’d even find another possibility until then. He offered her an opened hand, the sign of his agreement. 

“That’s a deal,” said the Spymaster. [Name] touched his palm with her own, seeming to anticipate a shudder that didn’t come. Azriel’s shadows tangled itselves in between their hands and stretched arms, accompanying the route of their tattoos, shielding the male’s gaze from his terrible burnt scars.

“That’s a deal,” she repeated. He felt as those words drove the magic to his back; traced the mark that seemed to form the letter S, from the bottom of his waist to his right shoulder. A dragon, his shadows had informed, surrounded with the illustration of scars left by a lightning strike.

Somehow, Azriel knew her back had been marked, too. And his first chess match against his mate had ended in a draw.

general notes: i am deeply thankful for all of the support this story has been given since the very first time i have posted about it. the entire thing is wrapped up in my mind, and i am so excited to see your further reactions to [name], that became such a beloved writing of mine. regardless, thank you once again! i hope you have enjoyed this bible of a first chapter. xoxo <3

taglist [comment to be added]: @nyotamalfoy @rachelnicolee

[celestiamour]

Saw Yandere Susan and decided I would like Yandere Edmund <3

ft. edmund pevensie x f! reader — the chronicles of narnia

╰₊✧ hiding you away on the dawn treader┊0.7k words

setting: voyage of the dawn treader contains: yandere edmund!! unhealthy obsessive & possessive behavior!! kidnapping & isolation!! force-feeding, reader has lots of hate & lots of swearing, lucy knows

➤ author's note: your timing is impeccable i was literally thinking about that this morning (also send the link for the yandere susan, it’s a need)

“come on, quit being a brat, you need to eat something,” edmund muttered holding up a spoon of vegetable stew to your mouth, a delicacy when traveling on the waters for as long as you have been. normally, you would be delighted to finally eat something green, but this situation was anything but and you outright refused. 

“fuck off!” your voice strained and raspy for hours of useless screaming through the frayed rope that kept your mouth shut in a futile attempt to get someone to hear your pleas for help. you realize now that you’re a fucking idiot for not waiting until he undid it to feed you before trying.  

while everyone else was saddened the kings and queens of old had to leave after the victory over the telmarines, you were secretly ecstatic that you would no longer have to deal with the overly obsessive just king who was insufferable with his jealous bouts. you had no idea what you did to attract his attention or how a smartass like him still hasn’t gotten the hint you weren’t interested, but he was extremely persistent in his pursuit and you can see nothing has changed during the time you were apart. it actually has become much worse with the distance now closed.

and somehow you still managed to get cornered by him and woke up in the bowels of the dawn treader with barely any light, but maybe that’s for the best since you detest seeing his face. it’s only been one day, but you knew someone would come looking for you eventually. the ship may be massive and fit for a king like caspian, but it was still only a finite space without many places to hide. 

“you’re so goddamn stubborn.” his hand gripped your jaw and forced it open, sticking the carved wood into your mouth and making you choke on the soup. 

you didn’t want to eat anything he was offering out of fear it was drugged and out of adamant refusal to yield to him, but you were honestly too weak to reject the much-needed sustenance, not when the warm liquid soothed your sore throat and filled your empty stomach. you were willing to swallow your pride and the vegetables this time to conserve your energy, hoping you could use it later to try and escape from his insanity. 

“why am i even here?”

edmund hastily wiped off the excess that got on your chin with his sleeve, tutting in disappointment at the little mess like it was your fault when you were being tied up. “you should have seen this coming.”

“what did i do?!”

“talk to thomas,” he hissed. “you were all over him—”

“i don’t even know who that is!” you racked your brain to try to think of who this “thomas” could have been out of the countless men on this boat, what you could have possibly done to make edmund this upset over it, and why the fuck he thought he had any right to be mad about it in the first place!

“don’t even try to deny it.” he finally got up when the bowl was empty and you were all cleaned up, “i’ll be back when night falls.”

“i hope you fall off the ship! don’t come back, asshole— i would rather starve down here than—”

he left before you could continue your angry rant, locking the door behind him and slipping the key into his pocket. he had done all this in a fit of rage without any idea what his next move would be. he’s never been so irrational before, but he’s certain he would figure it out.

although, he didn’t have the heart to look in lucy’s eyes when she asked him if he’d seen you. he just knows she’s severely worried and torn between helping you or keeping quiet for his sake, and he knows she’ll eventually choose you over him when he’s in the wrong— the only thing he doesn’t know is when.

he already knows he’s in massive trouble when it comes to lucy, but if caspian found out he was keeping his adopted sister hostage, his head would be on the line.

[lestappenforever]

Do you have any lestappen fanfic recommendations? :)

Hello my lovely anon! ❤️

I was unfortunately shit at bookmarking fics when I first started reading Lestappen fics, and I still haven't had time to sit down and read through everything that catches my fancy in the pairing tag on AO3 again so I can do a proper job of bookmarking fics I really enjoyed, and creating a complete fic rec list. But, I am absolutely planning on doing it as soon as I have time at some point next year!

As for right now, I can definitely recommend the fics I have remembered to bookmark while reading/re-reading!

Below you will find some of my absolute favorite Lestappen fics:

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And That's How I Foksmashed Dad's Championship Trophy Teen And Up Audiences | 6,500 words | Complete By the legendary queen PrincessElectra (AO3)/@il-predestinato (Tumblr)

Summary: All of that would have been forgivable if not for the Green-Eyed Monster’s complete disregard for the pre-contracted occupation rights of Max’s lap. Such rights had long been pre-determined and belonged to Sassy (and occasionally to Jimmy, she admitted begrudgingly). However, no amount of quiet hisses and vicious glares seemed to penetrate the creature’s thick skull, and he would greedily occupy Max’s thigh for more than 95% of any given afternoon. Sometimes with his head, sometimes with his feet, and a few times he even straddled his entire body over Max; the latter could not have been comfortable for Max, as the Green-Eyed Monster was enormously overweight compared to Sassy.

(Jimmy had insisted that it was not nice to shame another living creature about their weight, but she was not wrong. With her compact size and considerably more reasonable mass, Sassy was confident that she was much more comfortable for Max to have on his lap than that horrendously oversized creature.)

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Keep to the Line Mature | 13 696 words | WIP By the incredible fancastik (AO3)/@nico-di-genova (Tumblr)

Summary: “Red Bull Racing have announced that Gianpiero Lambiase will not be returning as Max Verstappen’s race engineer for the 2023 season. Taking his place will be Charles Leclerc, former Scuderia Ferrari performance engineer.”

His hands had shook around his phone as he read the announcement, his breath firmly lodged in his throat. Charles has known he had the job since he first sat down across from Christian Horner and accepted the offer, alongside a Red Bull polo, with hands that felt bloodied. But reading it from the official F1 socials is something else entirely. It is real.

“At twenty-five, Leclerc will be the youngest race engineer in Formula One history.”

He had barely managed to get to a trash can before vomiting up his lunch.

Or:

The Engineer!Charles AU no one asked for

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P19 Explicit | 5 619 words | Complete By the exceptionally talented leafycats (AO3)/@sennaverstappen (Tumblr)

Summary: “Charles,” it comes out soft, worried, upset. Charles will light himself on fire. He hears Max take a few steps towards him, feels two warm, winning, arms wrap around his fast-breathing chest. He’s still wearing those golden shoes. Max snuggle into his neck. “I’m here for you.”

And Max had won, and he’s winning the season, and he’s P19, and losing this season. And Max is winning, and he’s not even talking about it – choosing to comfort his Charles instead.

Every little thought converges into a single, red-hot one.

He’s going to fuck the pole sitter so hard he’ll be sore tomorrow.

“Max,” he whimpers, trying to find his voice, find his grip, find his footing in this world. Max tightens his grip around his waist. “Yes, angel?” And he can feel Max frown against his nape, soft breath against his earlobe. It turns his body white-hot.

“Get on the fucking bed.”

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The Nights Are Long (But It's Easier Together) Explicit | 43 759 words | Complete By the amazing f1writingbyme (AO3)/@f1writingbyme (Tumblr)

Summary: “Oh, God, what is it?” Max groans. “It’s Mr. Corvetto, right? I knew it. I’m telling you, never move into an apartment next to elderly people. It’s just– Why does she call me? What the hell can I do? Doesn’t she need to call an ambulance or something? Or, I don’t know, her family, or–”

“Max.” Charles interrupts Max’s ranting. He ends the phone call, cutting off Mrs. Corvetto’s panicked yelling with a simple press of his thumb. He stares at the blue-eyed man in front of him. “Your apartment is on fire.”

Or: The fire in his apartment is only the beginning of a long list of misfortunes that await Max. Fortunately, he has Charles by his side to help him through it. That is until Charles is the one that gets targeted.

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you and me, just us (and your teammate sergio) Teen And Up Audiences | 3 377 words | Complete By the wonderful averyverse (AO3)/@oscar-fastri (Tumblr)

Summary: Checo was fully aware of what he’s walking into. Still, he seriously doubts that anyone could have been prepared for the full force of Max Verstappen and Charles Leclerc being heads over heels in love with each other and not even trying to hide it.

Or: 5 times Checo thirdwheels Max and Charles + 1 time it's everyone else's turn

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Temptation's Trajectory series Explicit | 25 009 words | Complete By the incredible pongsfootxlily (AO3)/@cupidskissx (Tumblr)

This series consists of two equally amazing fics that I've lost count of how many times I've read.

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more than fun, you're the sanctuary Mature | 21 813 words | Complete By the wonderful lestalos (AO3)

Summary: “Because I love you.” He said it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like it doesn’t crush him to admit it, like it doesn’t scare him that it won’t be reciprocated. Or, Charles loves Max but he's scared. Max is bold enough for the both of them.

[northcountrymaid]

said No to the club tn bc i have a throbbing headache and sore throat <3 brat summer is over i am the queen of self control <3

[myladysapphire]

His Sapphire Princess (V)

After the night in the brothel Rhaenyra is married to Laenor Velayron to protect the birth of her child. who in the years to follow is the only one of Rhaenyra's children that is believed to be his, she is loved by all in the red keep, even queen Alicent adores the girl, so when Rhaenyra proposes a marriage between Aemond and Rhaenyra's daughter Visenya, Alicent happily agrees.

The children having been best friends in their youths are more than happy to be wed but when the incident at drift mark occurs things change, will it be for better or worse?

word count: 1,536

CW: abadonment

Fem!oc x Aemond Targeryen (can be read as x reader)

Masterlist | series masterlist | previous part | next part

disclaimer:  i do not own any of claim any of the A song of ice and  fire characters, all rights belong to GRR MARTIN, all characters are his  except for my OC

Visenya was in and out of consciousness for four days before waking fully, she had hoped for Aemond to be by her side or at least her mother and brothers. And yet she woke to find her room empty.

There were no sounds of nurses or maesters tending to her. Of anyone praying for her to wake. She was all alone.

In truth, she did not remember how she got here, or that night at all. Just the feel of a knife slicing her skin, of blood coating her hand. Why and how that happened she had no clue. She did not know of the guilt of her brothers, the maiming of her uncle, just that she was alone, and in pain, with no one to care for her.

The only sign that anyone cared was a short note left on her bedside, besides it a flower, and an evening star (her favourite). Aemond.

It was his handwriting, and only he knew of her favourite flower.

Her throat was sore and dry, with no water in sight. Her eyes were unfocused, and her vision blurred.

She felt weak, drowsy and in pain. If she had received milk of the poppy it was clearly wearing off.

 She tried to call out and catch the attention of a maid walking the halls, but a sharp pain greeted her at even the simplest of movements. Leaving her only option to lay there and wait.

Luckily for her, a maid entered shortly after, gasping and running off at the sight of her awake, before returning with a maester and her grandmother.

She was too weak to walk, speak or even move her head too much, leaving her to spend the next week lying in bed, with books as her only distraction.

Every few hours someone would come and change her bandage. Her grandmother would visit her often, though the ruling Driftmark often dragged her away.

It took a week before she could bare the pain of speaking. Though everyone refused to answer her questions.

She had managed to read Aemonds letter.

‘Dear Visenya,

The maesters told me you may not remember what happened that night, that the damage to your neck may damage your brain and your person as a whole. I will not tell you what happened, I believe it best you do not remember the horror of that night, of me.

I will miss you greatly Senya, I have been told we will not meet till the moon of our wedding if your mother does not succeed in her endless attempts at ending our betrothal.

Write to me when you can, and every day after that, I will be waiting.

Yours, Aemond’

She only had more questions after that.

‘Dear Aemond,

I woke up a week ago, though I have only just gained to strength to read your note.

Indeed, I do not remember that night, every question I ask has gone unanswered, and now I am told of everyone’s wishes to keep me in the dark. And on top of that, we shall not see each other for years to come.

I do not believe my person was damaged, though memories are blurry. I remember little of that night, only blood and the slicing of a night.

I beg you Aemond, what happened? Why does everyone look at me with pity? Why did my mother abandon me?

My questions are endless.

I have been told you claimed Vhagar, I am so proud of you! it is wonderful news, I cannot wait to take to the skies with you by my side. Though the maesters worry I will not be able to ride for some time. The damage in my neck seemed to have affected my arm, it acks and jolts as if it has its mind, the maseters feat I will not be able to gain full control of it again, so I simply must learn to do everything one-handed!

Oh Aemond, I do wonder if your claiming of Vhagar anything had to do with this, I remember my prompting of claiming the she-dragon. or was it you? either way, I am proud of you no matter what, and I will miss you dearly.

I woke alone and heard no word from my mother or brothers, only my grandmother remained by my side.

I hope we meet soon, not in years to come.

Yours, Visenya’

on the tenth day since waking, she found her mother had left for dragon stone, they had not even waited a day for her to wake, she felt as if they were hiding from her. It was even worse when she found she would neither be returning to KingsLanding or Dragonstone, instead, she was to be warded at Winterfell.

‘Aemond,

I know you have most likely yet to receive my first letter yet, but I write with urgent news.

My mother has left me and has no plans to see me! I will be sent to Winterfell for a year and a half, in a moons time. I do not know what I have done, or what she has done for this to happen.

You spoke of my mother wishing our betrothal to end, and I pray this has no link to it.

Why would she send her heir, the future princess of Dragonstone to the wasteland that is the north? What use do I have there, but a lordlings wife and my brother made heir in my stead!

I have no purpose there, what would she even gain from it? Support? There has never been a stark who broke their oath and yet, she abandons me, with no farewell.

What of me? What of my happiness?

I wish I could see you, I wish I know what caused this split, I had hoped that Driftmark would be the cause of a reunion, and yet we are more divided than ever.

I will miss you Aemond, write often I beg, you are the only person I seem to have left.

Yours, Senya.’

A week before she was set to leave for Winterfell, after receiving a letter from Jace, would she finally begin to receive answers.

‘Visenya,

I am so sorry for what happened, that we left. Mother insisted our departure was urgent, that we could not stay any longer, and that you may not survive the journey.

So much has happened since we last saw one another, and I am sorry for not writing sooner, Mother insisted you needed to recover, so we waited, but she told us the news today and I could not let you got to Winterfell without telling you.

The night we arrived at Dragonstone, Mother and uncle Daemon were wed!

I know, so soon after father’s death-‘

she had stopped reading then, no one had told her, and no one had hinted.

Her mother and daemon wed, Laenor dead, perhaps killed. She would not put it past them, if the rumours of Daemon were true it made perfect sense.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, barging into Rhaenys solar.

“What?”

“My father is dead, my mother remarried. What happened? Why am I told nothing?” she demanded, voice near tears.

“Darling, come here” she beckoned over. “We…I had hoped your memory would return, but the maesters fear you may never. It was a traumatic night, there were great losses, and only more losses followed…”

And like that, Visenya was told the truth. Of how Aemond claimed Vhagar, of how the twins and her brothers fought him. She was the peacekeeper it seemed and yet was attacked, head bruised, and throat slashed. Of how she would not wake, of how her mother left like a coward in the wind, despite her brother’s tears. They left mere hours after her father’s funeral, her father was murdered by his lover. And mere hours after their return to Dragonstone her mother was wed.

She was at a loss for words. Tears building, in her eyes.

And only more tears would follow in the week coming. She received no letter from her mother, only reading the rest of Jace’s letter, and the small letter Luke had written to her, pleading his apologies. She did not know what to think.

Her Aemond was hurt, she did not remember what happened, but she knew Luke was at fault.

Was it true? did Aemond try to kill Jace? or was he simply fighting back in a 4v1 fight?

The day she left for Winterfell, the sky was cold and grey. Fighting seeing as that would be all she would see of the next eighteen moons. At least she would finally get to see snow, and perhaps Direwolves.

“It won’t be so bad” Rhaenys reassured “and if it is truly terrible…you have a dragon, you can always fly back”

She nodded, face glum, Aemond had even written to her, reassuring her. Saying her grandsire would never allow her mother to displace her as heir, that going north will give her much-needed space from her so-called ‘family’. And he was right, she did not think she would be ready to face them for some time yet. And who knows perhaps the north wouldn’t be so bad.

next chapter

Taglist (bold means could not tag)

His Sapphire Princess: @cathy1514 @iiamthehybrid @melllinaa @aleemendoza2425-blog @cassandra1999-blog1 @deltamoon666 @aelora-a @riyana99

HOTD: @taragryenmoony @theanxietyqueen17

Aemond: @blossomedflowerofluv @violet-potter

[neverland93]

Peter Pan Imagine/Limits

You arrive on Neverland, nervous as hell. You had to get your brother back Henry.

But you’ve been here before, you walked this sole path, you’ve touched the trees that breath within your body. You touched the ground that you’ve laughed vigorously before. But you never thought you come back, and you never thought you feel slightly at home, oddly enough.

“Hey kid, you okay?” Emma asked

“What? Oh y-yeah! Let’s get going.” You said realizing you had been in a trance.

Walking around it doesn’t even take you a minute to know where you are but you decide it’s best to let the group find their way, you don’t want to make it obvious, you can’t make it obvious.

It took them about 35 minutes to see smoke and knew they were near the campsite, that’s when your heart rate went up, you began to sweat, and your hands started to tremble.

Walking to the site it was empty, but not for long, you knew better, you always knew better.

You sit down on your favorite log and reminisce on a couple things.

How Peter would drink his whiskey and shower you with compliments, how he’d push your hair back and said he needed to see your face, how he’d take you back to his cabin and have you scream his name repeatedly til your throat was sore.

But all that was over,it had to be over, you were with Emma and Henry now, you needed a better life,being a lost boy was only temporary, because everyone has to grow up sometime.

Just then you hear a loud BANG and a bunch of shouting

They’re here.

You get up the boys start to come one by one shouting at the grown ups and banging on pots and pans until they see you

It goes silent and then you ask the question

“Where’s Henry?” You say

They all stay silent

A younger lost boy runs to you and hugs your leg

You couldn’t help but crack a smile,but quickly regained focus.

“I need you to tell me where my little brother is okay?” You tell him

“Thats enough!” A voice overcame the area

Oh no, you knew who that was, your skin grew goosebumps and your throat became dry. It was Pan himself.

You turn to him and his smirk was as menacing as ever. Nothing has changed.

“Where is Henry.” You said

“Henry’s your brother?” He asked

“Yes.” You stated

“And how awful it is to have to travel all the way to Neverland to get him back, like you’re being reminded of old memories.” He folded his arms

“Just tell me where he is and I’ll be out your way Peter.” You say

“You’re not getting it are you?” Peter said as he walked closer to you

Emma and Regina start to look at you and then each other

Curious about what’s going on with you two.

“You left, I stole Henry to get you back, and now, you are NEVER leaving Neverland again.” He said angrily

“Bullshit I left this shithole and I will leave again, and dont you dare stop me when I take Henry back with me.” You said sizing him up but scared as hell on the inside and Pan saw your bluff.

“You really think you could just come and go as you please? Henry was the only way I could get you back, and now you and him are here for good so get used to it or else-“

You walk away from Peter as he’s mid sentence

So of course he grabs your wrist and pulls you closer towards him.

“Do NOT walk away from me Y/n.” He said sternly

“Why not? It’s not like you care! It’s not like you loved me or even liked me.” You said with tears in your eyes

“I wanted to put my mouth on you, and draw out whatever toxin, but I understand there are limits to love. So I realized I couldn’t save you.” He said

“Excuse me?” You hardly breathed out

“If you can’t see this is my last and finally attempt and put your pride aside and see that I am trying to save you then respectfully Y/n fuck you.” He said angrily.

“You know him?” Emma asked

“Oh she knows him alright.” Regina says

“She was once queen of Neverland.” Peter said folding his arms and walking away, leaving you with tears in your eyes confused on what to do next, the jig was up, you’ve been caught, but you’re not ready for what’s next.