#justice for my sun summoner

[evellynssocbrainrot]

Alina Starkov was a seventeen-year-old girl who got pushed into a fate she didn't want, but she still took a huge, earth-shattering responsibility upon her shoulders and fulfilled it. But it wasn't an easy thing. Along the way, the expectations and desperation of the entire world came crashing down on her. She was under great burden, great stress. And to make things worse, she was abused, mentally and physically at the hands of the Darkling. She was turned into a pawn, a puppet, her power was stolen, her agency was robbed, he laid hands on her without consent. And when she escaped, he haunted her, tormented her, killed her only mother figure, and destroyed her entire previous home. She suffered. She suffered some of the most horrible things ever known to humanity. But she was only seventeen. She was only a girl.

And some people actually have the nerve to say that she was annoying.

[utterlyazriel]

an eternity, my love

eep! this is a bit longer than the last at just over 6k forgive me... but thank so much for all love on the first piece 🥹 and thank u for all your lovely ideas! i hope this does sum justice to the nonnie who asked for further miscommuncation... <3 part one here but u don’t need to read it to read this :)

How does one even begin to decide what to wear to dinner with a person, the person, who matched your soul perfectly?

When your friend had hunted her way through clothing stores of Velaris and stashed away a custom dress — far fancier than anything you owned — for the first date with her mate, you had laughed at her.

Now, staring at your closet in only your undergarments, you were beginning to envy her preparation.

Seriously, how are you supposed to choose?

You pick up your latest addition to your closet, a glossy dress the colour of red wine that reveals the length of your legs and planes of your collarbones— perfect for a night out dancing.

With a grimace, you place it back on the hanger. It was far more scandalous than you would want to be on a first date, even though — well, you’re sure that, being mates, Azriel would like anything you wore.

You heave a sigh. An uneasy prickle beneath your skin has you crossing your arms; it was almost alarming how badly you wanted to impress him. But… mating bonds were rare and powerful.

Almost as if you had summoned it — in fact, maybe you had — there’s a soft shimmer in your chest. Your beautiful glow, the bridge between you and Azriel humming to life. In a way you can’t explain, it’s as though you can feel him soothe across your mind, his soft touch full of assurances.

He’s comforting you. All your emotions must be shooting down the bond without your permission. Gods, that would take some getting used to. You wonder if he can feel your resounding pang of embarrassment as well.

You do your best to push back something less nervous, more of your excitement for the night to come — and you know, without even seeing him, he’s smiling.

After another moment of fussing, you decide on something simpler than your glossy night dress.

Comfortable black slacks with plenty of flow to them and a shirt you thought was one of your nicer ones. With the slightest touch ups to your makeup, you rush yourself out the door before you convince yourself to change all over again.

The Sidra keeps you company, a rush of water beside you as you wind through the streets of Velaris, eyes flicking up to take in the darkening sky. The sun was sinking below the mountain tops, rays tickling across the ridges.

And while you could admit that Velaris was very beautiful in the daytime, you were a true Night court citizen— and believed its true beauty came out at night.

Somehow, despite the lack of concrete plans made as you had ushered the male out of your office, you knew resolutely that you would be able to find him. You weren’t even worried about the timing of it all. It was… what was the word? Absurd. Insane. Utterly, breathtakingly incredible.

Sure enough, as you exit the alley and round the corner, your eyes falling on the sage green building you reside in for work, there he is; waiting for you.

You inhale a sharp breath. A thousand cells in your body fizz, hum, and glow, at the mere sight of him.

It's easy to understand just how he had garnered his dark reputation, the image of him every bit of the Spymaster of the Night Court — a title like Shadowsinger has never been so fitting for him.

He’s blurred at the edges, a thousand tiny wisps that blend him into the shadows of the nighttime. His wings stretch up behind, towering over his already tall frame, black as ink, and beneath his darkened attire, you can spot his tan skin. Your eyes drag up his neck, tracing his adam's apple, along the scruff of his sharp jaw until you reach his hazel eyes.

Your heart burns.

In the depth of it, you know, if he doesn't love you, he will undo you completely.

It's wholly terrifying to come face to face with — the intensity of the mating bond scorching through your mind like a fierce wind, burning embers left in its wake.

It's enough to make you pause, the definitive thought that doing this, offering him your heart and trusting him, could very well lead to your ruin.

Your chest squeezes tightly. You let your eyes drink in the Illyrian, the Male who waited so patiently for all those years and was prepared to wait years more, if you had asked.

Focusing, you pluck up that golden thread in your chest and hold it tightly. It heats and melts, hotter and hotter, and you know that any fear you have, you can conquer to be with him.

Ruination be damned.

—

Azriel notices you the moment your frame exits the alley, notices the moment you pause — has been able to feel you drawing nearer to him this whole time. Your every emotion is transparent to him through the bond between you, whether you’re aware of it or not.

You must not have the tightened mental shields he had come to be so familiar with over all his years. It makes sense; you are no warrior. Mental walls over your mind are not something you have ever had to concern yourself with.

Azriel vows it to be one of the things he teaches you. You deserved the privacy of your emotions, at the very least.

But... for now, Azriel can feel them all. It's why, as you round the corner, Azriel can feel your eyes on him and then, then he feels it.

The wash of fear that spills over your bond like icy water.

An old enemy rises within him. He grits his teeth, even as he feels the fear from you slide away and he tries to ignore the sting from an unhealed wound. But self-deprecation never seems to drown, no matter how much he tries to suffocate it within him.

He shifts his hands, relieved suddenly to have them covered up beneath gloves. His wings tuck in tighter, if possible, and he wills his shadows sternly to contain themselves. Something in the slightest baring of his teeth has them obeying. They shoot to his sides and make themselves scarce.

All this in time to greet you pleasantly as you bounce into view, sidling up before him with a shy grin. It's only been a few hours since he got his proper look at you and yet, you're every bit as breathtaking as you were earlier. More so, in fact.

It feels as though Azriel has never seen the sky before and you before him, are the first sunset of his life. You look so pretty that Azriel could probably gaze at you all evening if you so allowed him to.

And then, he remembers the pang of fear.

He doesn't waste time mulling over which detail of him had made you afraid — only that he would dim or change or hide any part of himself to stop it from happening again.

"Hello, again," You say, your lips pressed together to contain your smile. You have to tilt your head back to look up at his handsome face. His shadows swirl around him and despite his strict instructions, one still slips away to touch you.

You don't notice it circling your ankle, tentative and shy.

"Hello, again." Azriel echoes your words, unable to help his own glimmer of joy.

He wants to offer you his arm, his hand. Can feel it within him, down to the very marrow of his bones, the craving to be closer to you, to touch you, however he can.

Azriel swallows heavily and does what he has done over decades, over centuries; he takes the wanting and pushes it down, down, down.

The two of you begin to walk, side by side, with no destination in mind. Aimless and content at the same time.

Azriel doesn't need the bond to see the flittering of nerves hidden in your expression. The shadow still circulating around your ankle climbs higher, like it wants to comfort you too.

Azriel wills it to still, desperate to not scare you again. He drops his shoulders from his usual warrior posture in hopes of making himself a little smaller.

“You don’t need to be nervous.” He says reassuringly.

You steal a glimpse at him, your smile breaking into a grin. Your nerves are still potent but less so.

“Who says I’m nervous?”

Azriel smiles gently, his eyes dancing across your face as he reads your lie easily. “I do."

There's a scrunch between your eyebrows then, like he had seen during his time in your office earlier. Azriel places a hand on his chest, over the place where the glowing tug is strongest.

"I can feel it.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you stare at his gloved hand, the cogs in your brain spinning and turning at a rapid rate. Still strolling, your hand rises slowly and touches to the same spot on your own chest. Azriel can feel his heart stutter at the sight, you holding the spot that connected you to him undeniably.

"You can?" Your gaze lifts to his face, puzzlement adorning your features. You frown and focus for a moment, staring hard into the distance — and Azriel feels a sudden twinge of disgust through the thread.

"Did you feel that?" You ask, eyes wide and curious.

Azriel nods wordlessly and he can't help but ask. "What is it you were thinking of?"

You look embarrassed for a moment, eyes averting to the ground. You chuckle awkwardly and tuck your hair behind your ears, glancing back up at the Male with a sheepish smile.

"Brussels sprouts."

Azriel blinks once, twice, and then has to turn to hide his smile. He tries to cover his laugh with a cough. It doesn't work, given how you make a small noise of indignation. He turns back, his politest expression on.

"Don't laugh at me!" You whine, reaching out to poke him in the shoulder. Your touch radiates through his body like a drop of golden sun, blazing warm.

"You're right," Azriel hums, his lips twitching as he presses back his smile. "My apologies, my lady. This is important knowledge I should be filing away. I swear on my life I will feed you no brussels sprouts this evening, or any in the future."

He wants to nudge your shoulder with his own, just to touch you, wants to reach out as easily as you had. But his shadows slip before his self-control does, skittering out along onto your shoulder and giving you a small shock and Azriel remembers himself. His fists clench tightly at his sides.

You walk side by side all evening, like two planets in orbit — close, oh so close, but never quite touching.

—

The first date you share is nothing short of… wonderful.

Resolutely and overwhelming good, the entire date you can't help but feel as though your very soul is singing, a thousand particles blithesome at the nearness you get to share with Azriel. He's surprising in a manner of ways.

Firstly, he's terribly quiet.

Next to him, you look quite the blabber-mouth, no matter how much he insists he enjoys it. His dark eyes are intense as they watch you closely, soaking in every word that passes your lips, and yet, beneath it, his dry sense of humour comes out to play. There's the occasional tease, almost as if just to see if he could make you flustered. (He could, easily).

With a Male as beautiful as him, suited to your very being in every way, it's nearly unbearable how much you ache for him. How much his very attention creeps down your neck and makes every nerve along your spine tingle.

You know it will take some time to get used to his unwavering and devoted attention.

There’s… just one small, itty-bitty, tiny problem.

He doesn’t touch you.

Throughout that whole first evening, you had noticed it somewhat— a flex in his gloved hands, a moment where his wing strayed too close only to be pulled back in a flash, even his shadows, darting out to be near you but never quite touching you as they had on that first meeting.

His hands reach out but they do not find you.

At first, you believed it was a first date thing. Azriel was, first and foremost, a gentleman, and you thought perhaps, his skirting touch, like his hand lingering over the small of your back but not touching it, was to be polite. Courteous and gracious.

Then, you had seen him just two days after that date, all bundled up in your giddiness that it had managed to slip your mind.

The two of you had spent the day together, traversing through the market — before you quickly found a quieter space for your mate as it became clear that large bustling areas, such as the Palace of Threads and Jewels, were not so suited to his tastes.

As you had tugged him out of the crowd, laughing over your shoulder at how he fought to keep his broad wings from knocking into anyone else, the thought suddenly snapped back into you.

Though you yearned to link his arm with your own, to interlace your fingers with his, you remembered his hesitance. Remembered the hover of his gloved hand.

And so, you dropped his arm the moment you cleared the crowd.

A hurt warbled deep within you to so do and knowing you were not the deftest at schooling your expressions, you hid your face so you could contain your childish reactions. You huffed at your own upset. What matter is it if your mate has no affinity to touch?

Truly, it was a miracle to have found a mate at all, you tried to scold yourself. You would not take him for granted for a moment, not even if it was not quite the picture of perfection you had envisioned.

Rooted deep in you was a truth; you could abide by this, abstain to his level of comfort for years, for millennia, if it made him happier.

The fabric of the mating bond, connecting the two of you intrinsically, made it so you would not want it any other way.

It's a decidedly Azriel thing.

He always wears the gloves, he never touches you more than he has to, and he's got... this really specific look when you're doing a terrible job of hiding your emotions.

As he had vowed, Azriel had set about teaching you how to build the mental walls up within your mind, brick by brick by brick. While it would help you hold against daemati if that loathsome situation should ever arise, it would also shield you from your mate.

It would protect you from having your emotions ripped out for him to see, no matter how much you held back — if it was in your mind, it would travel down the bond.

So, the wall had to be built. It had been tedious, tricky, and tiring work. Yet every time you would feel yourself ready to throw in the towel, Azriel would lean in closer, his hazel eyes softened, and his hand resting upon your arm, thumb swatching up and down, to encourage you.

"I know it is tiresome," He had mused, that faint smile twitching at his lips as you scowled at the ground. His thumb was still moving, still drawing light circles on your bicep. The skin beneath it blazed with warmth. "But it is worth it, that I can promise. You deserve this privacy, my dear. I would never wish to take it from you."

My dear, my dear, my dear— the words had sunk into your sternum and bloomed, bright and golden.

It's enough to hold onto, his kind affections. The sweet shape of his mouth when it says your name. The way his lashes kiss in the corner when he can't hold back his smile.

It's enough to soothe yourself over. To take the lack of touch on the chin and swallow down your desire for more.

It's why— why you can't help yourself— why you couldn't tear your eyes away from Azriel's hand where it touches Cassian's arm.

You're meeting his family today, which you've quickly realised doesn't mean his mother or father but instead means... the literal Highlord of the Night Court.

There are several warriors crowded around the cramped entrance room to the River House. Each of them is taller than you, and two of them with the very same huge wingspans that you've come to revere on your own mate.

Your usual talkativeness has been dimmed in your shock, though, really, it shouldn't be such a surprise. Azriel is a force to be reckoned with, honed over decades, and the Spymaster of the Night Court. You know these things. The company he keeps makes sense.

Somehow... still, seeing them all together leaves you strikingly speechless. The legion that protects your home — a family.

Rhysand greets you first, dapper in his dark attire, his violet eyes equal parts calculating and welcoming as he steps forward and offers his hand.

Despite the fact you have never bowed to him before, you still have to repress the urge. His power is overwhelming, the very night lapping at his edges and you're suddenly very grateful to be meeting him as a friend and not as a foe.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Rhysand's voice purrs out, soft as silk. When you place your hand in his, he brings it to his lips and presses a polite kiss to the back of your hand.

"Any friend of Azriel's is a friend of mine."

You can feel your own heart thundering in your chest. Azriel hovers behind you, his presence soothing in itself. You can't see it but his wings are outstretched towards you, cocooning around you ever so slightly. A shadow hovers behind your shoulder, just out of sight.

"I— the pleasure is mine, my Highlord." You manage to make yourself speak.

You almost wish you hadn't when your words inspire a burst of laughter from one of the others behind Rhysand, the other Illyrian. He's tall, his hair dark but longer than your mate's own.

As your hand is dropped, Rhysand turns to scowl at the Male laughing, and you only grow further perplexed when he gives a whack against the other's shoulder. They begin to squabble for a moment — and you don't even hear Azriel move until he's speaking, his lips right by your ear.

"You'll have to forgive Cassian." His voice is low, raspy in a way that sends a zing down your spine. You shiver lightly. "He can be well-mannered at the best of times. But I promise he isn't laughing at you."

The two Males seem to tune back into Azriel's words, even though they had been whispered for you specifically.

"It's true!" The Illyrian, Cassian you now know, pipes up. He brandishes a devilishly handsome grin at you, with his hands held up in defense. "I apologise. It just still makes me laugh to see someone address this one so formally."

You blink. "But... he is the Highlord."

Azriel speaks again, bent over still to talk in your ear, but much less of a whisper this time. "Rhys is our Highlord but he does not bother with such formalities."

"And," Cassian interjects, lugging a punch into Rhy's shoulder, much like the other had done to him not a moment before. "Before he was the o'mighty Highlord, he was our friend."

Cassian says the word o'mighty with such an air of sarcasm that you can't help but glance at Rhys, sure he wouldn't take such disrespect. But around you, there are only easy grins.

"Might we move to somewhere more comfortable than the doorway," Azriel speaks up from behind you, his voice dry. "Unless that is, you're all hoping to do one-on-one greetings with her?"

There it is, the dry sense of humour you've come to adore. The group before you seems to grumble, as if they were quite keen on the one-on-one meetings but begin to move through the house.

One of the group dips back to walk beside you and you do your best not to repeat your past mistakes, even as your eyes widen almost comically. Azriel chuckles silently to himself, feeling your polite astonishment down the bond.

"It's so great to finally meet you.” Feyre, your Highlady greets you, her pretty face rife with glee. She seems genuinely very happy to make your acquaintance. "Azriel has told me all about you."

You stumble in surprise, your eyes casting back to Azriel behind the pair of you. His eyes are fixed on Feyre, narrowed at her blatant betrayal, his shadows swirling around him. She sticks her tongue out at him playfully and you smother a laugh.

When his eyes shift over to you, you're positively delighted at how his cheeks have turned the lightest shade of ruby.

"Feyre is very persuasive when she wants to be." He murmurs, almost grumbling. You turn back to the Highlady and she grins at you, devious and captivating all at once.

It’s a whirlwind once you reach one of the many living rooms, each member of Azriel’s family all very eager to shake your hand.

Cassian grips it firm, his grin still on the side of wicked as he tells you he’s been waiting years to find the woman who could contain Azriel. Nesta, his mate as you find out, is a fierce kind of pretty with a grip as strong as Cassian’s. She tells you welcome to the family with the smile of a shark.

Morrigon is next, breathtakingly gorgeous, and every bit as charismatic as Azriel had described. You don't catch the glimpse between Mor and Cassian, not the beat of relief they both feel at your arrival in their lives— in Azriel's life.

It's swallowed up in her words, going a mile a minute. She jumps about, like popcorn in a pan, overly keen to finally speak to the one whom the Mother deemed worthy of Azriel’s heart. Where are you from? What do you do? How did you meet?

“Mor,” Azriel warns, after her twelfth consecutive question about your life. He hasn’t moved from his protective position behind you, close enough you can feel the heat of his body. His wings had brushed your shoulder just once.

“Yeah, Mor,” Rhys jeers. He nudges his cousin in the side playfully and Cassian snickers behind the group. “Give the girl some time to breathe.”

Even with all of Azriel's masterclass on who you would be meeting, it's still terribly overwhelming just trying to keep track of them all. They're each such strong spirits, each with seemingly a thousand battles in their past and far more years with Azriel.

On top of this is the fact you met both your Highlord and Highlady so casually in one single afternoon. It's difficult to not be daunted by the group that is so clearly intertwined with each other on a deeper level altogether— bonded by devastation and choosing each other through love.

Try as you might, you can feel the seed of doubt, of insecurity, make a home between your ribs.

You clamp down the shields you've spent the last few weeks learning, building the wall up and holding it tight. It's silly to feel dismayed because these Fae, these friends, know your mate better than you do.

Azriel had told you he had been waiting for you for five hundred years. For the first time since you've met him, you wonder if he was ever disappointed.

And then— then, you see it.

Azriel's hand on Cassian's arm. Then the half embrace they share, a hand on each other's neck as Cassian grins, wild and fierce, and presses his forehead against Azriel's own; brothers, sharing a moment of euphoria at the other finding his long-deserved happiness.

You should be soaking in the smile Azriel hides from you too often, showing his teeth and crinkling his eyes. But instead, you can't see past it, can't stop the loop in your own mind as it prints a fact over and over and over.

It isn't an Azriel thing; it's a you thing.

He doesn't touch you.

The mental walls in your mind feel paper-thin as a fresh kind of agony ripples through your chest. The soft rejection of a mate stings, a papercut on your very heart. You can feel it warble through you and know, terribly, the exact moment that Azriel feels it too.

His head whips around, his dark shadows that surround him suddenly spinning and flitting faster than before— a couple dive across the room to you.

You stand up and the chair scrapes noisily beneath you.

"I—" You say before you realise you haven't planned an exit or an excuse in the slightest. Azriel's gaze burns into you. You turn to Feyre instead, who had been talking across from you when you rudely stood up.

"I'm so sorry, I just—" Some excuse, any excuse! "I think I— left the stove on."

It's a lie. A complete utter lie that fools no one in the room as you retreat from it hastily. None of them try to stop you though, which you're thankful for. Each of them watches, every expression slightly concerned as you hurry out of the room, your feet walking backward rapidly until you bump into the door frame.

You pass through it with your eyes on the floor, knowing that all of the eyes are on you. You know the ones you can feel searing into your soul are Azriel's.

You leave the River House. You walk along the Sidra, your steps hurried and your chin tucked low. It hurts. It hurts the feeling inside you. A tear streaks down your cheek, unbidden, and collects on your jaw. You wipe it away meanly.

The sight of your apartment door is an overwhelming comfort, one that has you sighing aloud as you rush up to it, your fingers already digging around in your pockets for your key.

And like always, you never hear him coming.

"What happened?" Azriel asks, his voice almost pained.

You give a little yelp of surprise and whip around, remembering half a second later that there's still evidence on your face of your tears. Azriel grows characteristically still, his hazel eyes fixed on yours as you sniffle for a moment, aggravation beginning to creep in.

He could feel everything from you and you got... what? Whatever he deemed fit to offer? How is that fair?

His usually wispy shadows are inkier than usual, almost tornado-ing around his shoulders. They keep leaping out towards you before being caught in an invisible net, a barrier between you and them.

Even as Azriel remains motionless, his eyes are the opposite—they jump around, searching, hunting, begging to find the cause of your pain. Had it been one of his friends?

"Please," He tries his words again.

His heart throbs painfully when you finally find your key and turn your back on him without a word, unlocking your door and pressing your way inside. He follows quickly, wings tucked in tight, unable to keep his shadows at his side this time. They whiz to you, circling your ankles protectively.

"Please," Azriel says, an anguished growl to his words. "What hurt you? I will— my friends, if they said something— if it was someone, I hunt them down and make it right for you."

You inhale sharply and when you speak, your tone is cold in a way you have never used before with Azriel. You say the words without thinking.

"It would be impossible to hunt yourself, Azriel."

Regret howls through you like a hurricane the moment you say the words. You don't mean to be mean, jealous, or whatever unseemly emotion you can't stop from sprouting in your chest, growing in size, tangling into your heartstrings like twisted gnarled vines. It hurts.

You turn back to him, mouth open. No words come out.

Hurt is slashed across his face, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, his shadows tucked in tight. It's as though he's blended into the very air, the wispy edge of him threatening to retreat into his own shadows.

All his emotions on display just for a moment, before they're schooled away. Tucked away, hidden, not for you to see.

Inside, your hurricane howls again, this time in pain.

You can tell he feels it, even as you mentally gather your bricks. It isn't fair. How can he have every bit of you and you get what he pleases to return?

You want to know him completely, want to see every part of his rugged, weathered soul, and love him anyway. It's an untold type of agony to have him deny you.

"My love," His feet finally move, his wings almost dragging on the floor as he steps forward, slowly, as though he was afraid he might spook you.

"Tell me how to fix this pain." He pleads. His gloved hands are held out, palms up and suddenly, he looks nothing like a warrior. Just a Male, afraid of losing what is most dear to him. You shake your head, like a child, and keep building your brick wall.

"Please don’t keep this from me," He takes another step forward, his shadows sent awry as they dart across to you. You can feel them on your calves, on your arms, feel the tiny kisses they leave. Azriel speaks again, voice low. "My love, I can feel your pain.”

You can't help how you screw your eyes closed, the ache in your chest unbearable— made worse when you know he can feel it too.

"That is my problem." You utter the words quietly, eyes still clenched shut, knowing he can hear you. He takes another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat of his enormous frame, his wings bracketing around you. "I cannot hide anything from you."

Azriel makes a noise, a punched-out wounded sound that reverberates down the bond.

"My love," He murmurs for the third time. Down the bond, you can feel his sweet love, his golden gentle feelings travelling along to assure you. "I would not wish for you to hide anything from me."

“But you hide everything from me." You whine, eyes finally crinkling open. Azriel stares down at you, his eyes softer than they've ever been. You can see the hurt swimming in them, the hurt you've caused. Still, you speak.

"You hide your emotions. You hide your touch, yet you give it willingly to your friends." You share each ugly thought with him, whispered as you gaze into his face to search for your answers.

Lifting your hands, you curl your fingers around his wrists tentatively. Azriel swallows heavily, his eyes dancing down to where you're touching him. You slide your hands forward, dragging the pads of your fingers over his pulse, along his palm, til your hands are holding his gloved ones.

"Is there some test I don't know about?" You ask, your focus on your intertwined hands. "Is there— do I have to earn this?"

"No," Azriel chokes out the word suddenly. You look up at him. He clears his throat and you feel his hands grip yours back, surer and stronger than you had. "No, I'm sorry. There is no test, nothing to prove you deserving of this. I just..."

His words trail off and you watch as he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if gathering his courage. His hands slide from yours, pulled backward and you nearly feel the urge to cry once more— before you realise he's removing his gloves.

The skin of them is warped, you realise acutely with horror. The skin of his hands is swirled and mottled, an injury long healed but scarred for eternity. Azriel is watching your face closely, holding his hands close to his chest as though he was prepared to hide them away at the first flicker of fear.

You're grateful for the link between and all your shoddy attempts at blocking him out. Your love and your unwavering devotion drifts along the bond.

Azriel shudders, his wings giving the tiniest shiver. Slowly, gently, he reaches out towards you. You feel his hands, the unruly scarred feel of his skin sliding along your jaw to hold it tenderly. He has never held you like this before.

He cradles your face gently — like his hands have never held weapons of war, like they aren't twisted and marred with a memory he can't forget, like they're worthy of holding something so precious.

Azriel holds you as if you're holy — and he's come to kneel at your altar.

"I was afraid of what you would think." He admits. His voice is hoarse, gravelly as he fights off the lump in his throat. "I— on the first day we met, I felt your fear along the bond and—"

"It was not of you." You interrupt him, your hands jumping up to cover his own where they hold you. Azriel inhales sharply, eyes darting to watch.

But you pay him no heed, the palm of your hand covering his like a lover would. You let your thumb soothe up at down the ridges of his skin. You let your love ripple along the bond.

"It was not fear of you, Azriel." You repeat, your voice soft. His eyes are still fixed on your joined hands. His wings have begun to pick up, no longer drooping behind his back— you're not sure if he even notices.

"It was fear for how strongly I already felt for you." You lean into his hand and Azriel lets you, lets the length of your nose nuzzle into the touch of his hands — something no one in all his years of living had ever done before.

"It was fear that you already could ruin me," The words are murmured. "And that I would let you."

You whisper his name to pull his wide-eyed gaze from where his hands touch you and his hazel eyes burn into yours. Every whitened scar on his skin, every eyelash, the adorable pinch between his eyebrows; you drink it all in and smile at him. Azriel, your mate.

"Azriel, I chose this despite that fear. I choose you.”

Azriel quivers at the words, at your unflinching tone and suddenly the world seems such a perfect place, time moving around you, untouching, with such a perfect grace.

“I choose you too,” He murmurs, an emotion so strong a fire of possessiveness streaks down the bond. This time, you can feel his wall melt away, allowing you access to all he feels — his mountain of fear and his melting relief.

“Forgive me—” He begins and you laugh without meaning to, cutting him off.

“Stop,” you say, the word light and as pretty as your grin. “We keep doing this to ourselves, tying ourselves in knots over and over.”

Azriel laughs, his lips twitching into a smile as he allows himself to stroke his thumb lovingly over your cheek. The way you melt beneath it, your lashes fluttering and heart burning so brightly he can feel it in his own chest too— Azriel knows this longing will long outlive his body.

“We do,” He agrees. He dips his head a little lower, probably the only apology you’ll let him have, and inhales shakily. His hands shift across your face, down to hold your chin, his fingers pressed together tightly to hide the way they quiver.

“Then let me apologise in another way,” He murmurs, his voice closer to playful. “In a way I’ve been selfishly depriving you of.”

And when he kisses you, it’s with a reverence that softens all your corners.

His lips are plush and sweet, and with the way he dedicates himself to your bottom lip, you can’t help how you sigh into his mouth. He finds home in the curve of your mouth.

It’s delirious the way he kisses once, twice, three times like he’s hungry for something found only in your lips.

Your hands stagger forward, leaving his own to wind over around his neck. Your fingers curl up, raking through the hair on the nape of his neck — feeling the shiver that travels up his spine, his wings giving a little flare out.

He kisses you breathless, one hand abandoning your jaw to wrap snugly around your waist, bringing you closer to him.

When he pulls back, something within you glows molten gold at the panting that leaves his lips. He’s gazing at you, his hazel eyes alight in a way you haven’t quite seen before. His wings shift behind his shoulders, curling forward to wrap the two of you together, not quite touching.

Your heart thrills. You grin, your lips still just an inch apart as Azriel nudges forward, his own twitching in that way when he fights his smile. His lips brush yours, his smile barely held back.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” He says, sweet and low, allowing the smile to finally pull his pretty mouth up at the corners.

“Or should I make it up to you a little more?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, chaste and gentle.

“Mmm,” your eyes are bright as they peer up at him, full of playful mirth and adoring affection. “You're forgiven but... I think you should make it up to me, just a little more.”

Azriel willingly obliges, his smile as sweet as the moonlight.

—

some people i thought might want to be tagged :)

@strangerstilinski @astoriaviviane @lana08 @florence-end @lportes-22 @torrick17 @florencemtrash @sidthedollface2 @seafrost-fangirl @goldenmagnolias @jeweline16 @meshellexplosionmurder @michellexgriffey @susiekern @toobsessedsstuff @fxckmiup @littlebookbengal @elenapril0502 @glitterypirateduck @hnyclover @technoelfie @itsapunklife @coffeecares

[ellecdc]

Hi!! Ok this is my first time doing an actual request so…I hope I do this right 😭.

Poly!marauders x transfer student reader: Reader comes from the US, where quodpot is the more popular wizarding sport (like quidditch is rugby and quodpot is football). Reader has always LOVED quidditch and is excited Hogwarts actually has a team. Maybe reader trying out for the team? Seeker would be cool bc the reader would be able to practice that by themself. Reader going to the pitch early every morning to practice leading up to tryouts, Sirius and James watching from the stands bc that’s normally THEIR time to practice. Remus sitting with a hot tea and bundled up…UGH I LOVE!

this was such a cute idea! this is actually the second fic I've ever written that involved 0 dialogue and I only realized that about either fic once I finished this one, so hopefully it's good! thanks for your request, love, I hope I did it justice!

poly!marauders x transfer student!reader who is obsessed with quidditch [900 words]

CW: .... I don't think any?? read is Gryffindor, written for a fem!reader (term that's used is witch) but could be read as gender neutral as they/them/their are used

If someone were to ask Remus why he could suddenly be spotted haunting the castle grounds before the sun rose most mornings now-a-days, he would quickly blame it on his sodding no good energetic and horribly devious boyfriends (who he loved very much). 

But the real answer was a far more selfish one.

You see, Remus (and Sirius and James) had developed a rather peculiar crush on a rather peculiar witch in their final year of Hogwarts. 

The rumour had been that a new student transferring from Ilvermory was going to be attending Hogwarts for their seventh year, and with Hogwarts (and the wizarding community in general) being as small as it was, it had created quite the buzz. 

The rumours were proven true when a witch far older than the many first years lined up for their turn at the sorting ceremony took their place below the hat only for it to shout GRYFFINDOR before their robes were decorated in red and gold.

You seemed utterly enchanted by it all; by the floating candles, by the stone walls, and by the feast itself. 

Watching you skip throughout the castle in the weeks following the Welcome Feast was nothing short of inspiring; it was as if watching a muggleborn first year see the castle and all of its secrets for the first time again. 

You seemed to be very skilled at finding the magic in, well, magic. 

Remus wondered then when magic stopped feeling so magical to the rest of the seventh year class; even children who were raised by magical parents were nothing short of ecstatic to begin honing their own skills at Hogwarts.

When did that stop feeling so exciting? When did throwing up silencing charms and summoning objects towards yourself become second nature instead of an exciting and exceptional learned skill? When did transfiguring buttons into butterflies become an arduous lesson instead of a wondrous adventure?

And that's not to say that you hadn’t seen or experienced magic before; on the contrary, you were a very talented witch. But you seemed to be awestruck by every single thing that you set your eyes on.

The fact that you were living in a castle had been particularly exciting for you, from what Remus had overheard, as was the game of quidditch. 

The popular and more commonly played sport in the magical United States was that of quodpot, and what little Remus actually understood about quidditch, he understood even less of quodpot, which is to say that he understood absolutely none of it. But even Remus had to admit there was something mesmerising about watching the way your tongue stuck out a little bit through your teeth as you drew out different drills and formations in your dedicated quidditch journal.

Though the quidditch season hadn’t started yet, every time there was a pickup game or a one-on-one, or even a few players feeling the familiar itch of flying through the air at record speeds and dodging other players and flying balls, one could be certain that you would be standing in the bleachers - often even hanging over the edge of the railing (in a way that made Remus very nervous, thank you very much) - with a wide smile on your face as you took it all in. 

And if Remus was really lucky, he’d even get a chance to watch as you balanced on the balls of your feet as if your body was just itching to join in on the fun. 

And if Sirius and James both took the piss for Remus finally enjoying ‘quidditch’ enough to put his sodding book down every once in a while, well, that was neither here nor there. 

So, the second that madame Hooch announced that tryouts for house teams would be starting in a few short weeks; you were hardly ever spotted around the common room anymore. 

Any time there was a free moment, one could bet you’d be down at the pitch - or even elsewhere on the grounds - with a broom underneath you and your eyes peeled for the wiley little snitch. And anytime you were found at the pitch? Well, one could bet James and Sirius would be too.

….

… As was Remus. 

James was all too happy to finally have (enthusiastic and consensual) company in the mornings to comment on the fact that it had been nothing short of painstaking torture to extricate Sirius from his bed for quidditch practices before you had transferred to Hogwarts, or to comment on the fact that it had been nothing short of painstaking torture to extricate Remus from his bed on any given day before you had transferred to Hogwarts.

Because it appeared that they were all in agreement that, even if it had to be at six in the bloody morning, watching you experience the unbridled joy that Hogwarts and quidditch and magic could give you was the best place to be.

Sirius leaned casually against the railing flashing you the odd wink or holler of encouragement when you happened to look over at your admirers in the stands whilst James shouted pointers and cheered you on, basically hanging over the railing in much the same way you would when the roles were reversed.

And Remus?

Well, Remus usually had about three layers on, a hot cup of tea, and a book that laid untouched as he got to enjoy the view.

[goldfades]

surprise! | JOE BURROW⁹ [002]

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MASTERLIST

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 3.8k

⟢ ┈ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | you and joe had just come back from your honeymoon in barbados, you may have had a little too much fun. when you see the faint lines in the little white stick, your whole world flipped on its axis.

⟢ ┈ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 | hurt to comfort, maisie being the bff we all want, joe being a little bitch but very much redeeming himself, accidental pregnancy

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐌 𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐀𝐆𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐓, a sharp contrast to the warmth lingering from the honeymoon sun still clinging to your skin. The little white stick in your hand shakes as you hold it up to the light, as if a change in perspective might make the impossible go away.

Two lines.

Not one. Not a faint maybe. Two.

“Oh my God,” you whisper, though the words barely make it past your lips. Your stomach churns, a cocktail of disbelief and panic swirling with the remnants of the overpriced airport mimosa you’d barely finished that morning.

You set the test down on the counter, its presence looming over you like it’s about to sprout arms and legs and start screaming mommy. The mirror stares back at you with wide eyes and a flushed face, betraying the calm you’re desperately trying—and failing—to summon.

This wasn’t in the plan. Not yet, anyway. Sure, you and Joe had tossed the idea around like kids dreaming about what they’d do if they won the lottery. Someday, you’d both said, voices warm with the kind of certainty that comes with knowing someday was still miles away. Except now it wasn’t. Now, someday had packed its bags, booked an early flight, and was knocking on your front door with a freaking plus sign in tow.

Your phone buzzes against the counter, breaking the spell. A message from Joe. You grab it with shaky hands, hoping it’ll say practice is running late because you’re not ready to face him—not yet.

“Just finished. Home in 20. Love you.”

Your throat tightens. Love you too, you type back, fingers trembling, though it feels like a lie of omission. You toss the phone aside and sink to the floor, staring at the ceiling like it might offer you some divine revelation. It doesn’t.

"Maisie," you mutter, your voice steadier than your heart. You fumble for your phone, pulling up her number with muscle memory born from years of late-night calls about heartbreaks and bad decisions. She picks up on the second ring, because of course she does.

“What’s up, Mama Burrow?” Maisie chirps, the nickname rolling off her tongue like she’d been waiting all week to use it. “You finally settling back into boring married life, or is Joe still parading you around town like he’s the first guy to ever marry someone hot?”

You open your mouth to reply but nothing comes out. A beat of silence stretches long enough for her to pick up on it.

“Uh-oh,” Maisie says, her tone shifting. “What’s wrong?”

“I...” Your voice cracks, and the word sticks in your throat like glue. You take a deep breath, trying to sound normal, but Maisie’s already caught on. She always does.

“Spill it,” she demands, no-nonsense now.

“I think I’m pregnant.”

The words feel foreign, clumsy, like they don’t belong to you. There’s a beat of silence on the other end, and for a second you think Maisie might actually have dropped the phone.

“Holy shit,” she finally says. “Are you sure?”

You glance at the test on the counter, its little pink lines glaring back at you like a smug toddler. “Pretty sure.”

Maisie whistles low. “Okay, okay. Don’t freak out. Deep breaths. Are you freaking out? You sound like you’re freaking out.”

“I’m definitely freaking out.”

Maisie’s sharp inhale is audible even through the speaker. “Alright, first things first—how the hell did this happen? And don’t give me the when two people love each other very much spiel.”

You let out a nervous laugh, your free hand rubbing at your temples. “Maisie, I don’t know! Everything was so... perfect on the honeymoon, and I guess we weren’t exactly strict about—”

“Girl,” she interrupts, “did you honeymoon baby yourself into a panic attack right now?”

“Maybe!” you squeak, voice climbing an octave. You glance at the test again, as if its tiny, pastel-pink lines might have disappeared in the past thirty seconds. No such luck. “Oh God, Maisie, I don’t know how to tell Joe. This was not in the playbook.”

Maisie snorts. “You mean Joe’s playbook? The one he probably memorized while you were still deciding on your wedding shoes?”

You groan, dragging your knees up to your chest as you sit on the floor, phone cradled between your ear and shoulder. “I’m serious! He’s going to come home and think we’re on the same page about unpacking, settling in, maybe rescuing a dog before we even think about—” You choke on the word. It’s too big. Too real.

“Parenting,” Maisie finishes for you, voice softer now. “Hey, listen at me—well, pretend you’re looking at me.”

“I’m on the floor, Maisie. I can’t even listen at myself right now.”

“Drama queen,” she mutters, then clears her throat. “Okay, listen. Joe Burrow is, like, the definition of cool under pressure. Super Bowls. Heisman speeches. The guy even pulled off that stupid cigar picture—”

“It was kind of hot,” you admit weakly.

“Exactly my point. If anyone’s going to handle surprise baby news like a champ, it’s him.”

You press the heel of your hand to your chest, trying to calm your heart, which feels like it’s attempting a touchdown dance. “But what if he doesn’t? What if he’s not ready? What if I’m not ready?”

Maisie scoffs. “Girl, you’ve been ready since we were, like, fourteen and you made me play house with you and pretend our dolls had perfect marriages.”

“That was your idea,” you mumble, cheeks flushing despite yourself.

“Details,” she says breezily. “Point is, you love Joe, right? And he loves you. Like, disgustingly so. This is just... an early plot twist in your love story.”

You nibble on your bottom lip, her words seeping in despite the chaos in your head. “A plot twist,” you echo softly.

“Exactly. You guys are basically the rom-com of the century. This is the part where you freak out, but then you tell him, and he gives you that stupidly dreamy look he always gives you, and everything’s fine. Better than fine. It’s Burrow-level fine.”

A laugh bubbles out of you, shaky but genuine, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosens. Maisie always has this way of dragging you back from the ledge, even if it’s with an eye roll and a smack of reality.

“Okay,” you say finally, exhaling. “Okay. You’re right. I can do this.”

“Damn straight, you can.” There’s a pause, and then Maisie’s voice is smug. “You’re not gonna, like, practice how to tell him, are you?”

“I might.”

“You’re such a nerd.”

“Shut up, Maisie.”

Her laugh is warm, grounding, and you lean your head back against the cabinet, clutching the phone like a lifeline. The thought of Joe walking through that door still sends your stomach into somersaults, but Maisie’s words cling to you like armor.

“You’re going to be an amazing mom,” she adds softly after a moment.

Your throat tightens again, but this time, it’s different—like the panic is starting to make room for something else. Something softer.

“Thanks, Maisie,” you whisper, voice cracking.

“Anytime. Now go splash some water on your face before Joe comes home and thinks you’ve been crying over a pet shelter commercial or something.”

“I don’t do that!” you protest weakly.

Maisie snorts. “Sure you don’t. Call me after you tell him, okay? I’ll be waiting with popcorn.”

You hang up, her voice still echoing in your ear, and stand on shaky legs. The test is still there on the counter, quiet and unassuming, like it didn’t just upend your entire universe.

You stare at it for a moment longer, then glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes until Joe walks through the door. Fifteen minutes to figure out how to tell him the most life-changing news of your lives.

No pressure.

And like clockwork, fifteen minutes pass and the door creaks open. You immediately straighten up from where you’re perched on the edge of the couch, legs tucked underneath you. You’ve spent the past fifteen minutes trying to look casual, which is surprisingly difficult when your insides feel like they’ve been twisted into a pretzel.

Joe steps into the house, duffle bag slung over one shoulder, his usually confident posture slightly slumped. His hair is damp with sweat, his cheeks flushed, and the moment you catch sight of his expression, your rehearsed speech evaporates into thin air.

“Hey,” you call softly, plastering on a smile. “How was practice?”

Joe groans in response, dropping his bag by the door and toeing off his sneakers with more force than usual. He doesn’t answer right away, just runs a hand through his hair and flops onto the armchair across from you, his long legs sprawling out in exhaustion.

“Terrible,” he finally says, dragging the word out like it’s physically painful.

Your stomach sinks. This is not the Joe you were expecting to walk into the room. You were braced for smiles, maybe a kiss hello, and definitely a much lighter mood. But this version of him—frustrated, clearly in need of venting—throws all your plans into chaos.

“Terrible?” you echo, hoping he’ll elaborate so you can stall a little longer.

“Terrible,” he repeats, throwing his head back against the chair and closing his eyes. “Nothing clicked today. The line wasn’t holding, the receivers were off, and I couldn’t hit a damn target to save my life. It’s like the entire offense forgot how to play football overnight.”

His voice is tight, his usual even-keeled tone replaced by an edge of irritation. You watch as he pinches the bridge of his nose, the familiar gesture making your heart ache a little. He’s so rarely like this—usually the calm in any storm—but when he does get frustrated, it hits hard.

You shift on the couch, unsure of what to say. Normally, you’d jump in with words of reassurance, tell him it’s just one bad day and he’ll bounce back like he always does. But right now, your mind is too preoccupied with the secret still tucked away behind your lips.

“You okay?” he asks suddenly, cracking one eye open to look at you.

Your heart jumps into your throat. “Me? Oh! Yeah. Totally fine. Why?”

Joe squints at you, like he’s trying to read something between the lines, but after a moment, he lets it drop. Maybe he’s too tired to push. Maybe you’re better at faking normal than you thought. Either way, he slouches further into the chair, his head lolling to the side.

“I’m just over it,” he mutters. “Sometimes it feels like everything has to be perfect, you know? Like, I can’t afford to have a bad day. Not with the season coming up. Not with everything riding on me.”

The weight in his words makes your chest tighten. You know he puts so much pressure on himself, even when no one else is. It’s one of the things you love about him—his determination, his drive—but hearing it like this makes you want to wrap him in a hug and take some of that burden off his shoulders.

Instead, you sit there silently, because your secret feels like a tangible wall between you, keeping you from saying what you really want to.

Joe lets out a humorless laugh. “Can you imagine throwing a kid into the mix right now?” He shakes his head, running a hand down his face. “I’d lose my mind.”

Your stomach drops.

He doesn’t mean anything by it. You know that. He’s venting, speaking off the cuff, probably not even thinking about what he’s saying. But the words hit you like a brick anyway, sharp and unyielding, and suddenly your palms feel clammy against the soft fabric of your leggings.

You manage a small laugh—weak and wobbly, but hopefully passable. “Yeah, that’d be... a lot.”

Joe doesn’t notice the crack in your voice. He stands, stretching his arms over his head with a groan before glancing down at you. “I’m gonna hit the shower. Try to shake off the rest of this day.”

“Good idea,” you say quickly, nodding like a bobblehead.

He leans down to kiss your forehead—a brief, automatic gesture that still makes your heart flutter despite the weight in your chest—and then heads toward the stairs, his footsteps heavy against the wood.

The moment he disappears, you sag against the couch, letting out a shaky exhale you didn’t realize you were holding. Your eyes dart to the bathroom down the hall, where the pregnancy test is still tucked away in a drawer like some kind of incriminating evidence.

What are you supposed to do now? How do you tell him something this big when he’s clearly already carrying so much?

You pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them as your mind races. Part of you wants to march upstairs, blurt it out, and deal with the fallout. But another part—the louder, more terrified part—wants to bury the news under a mountain of throw pillows and pretend it doesn’t exist.

Joe’s words echo in your mind, sharp and unshakable. I’d lose my mind.

Maybe Maisie was wrong. Maybe this plot twist wasn’t something Joe was ready for. Maybe you weren’t ready for it, either.

And yet, deep down, you know you can’t keep this to yourself forever. This isn’t just your story to tell; it’s his, too.

You just have to figure out how.

┈┈┈

The smell of freshly brewed coffee fills the kitchen, warm and inviting, a small comfort in the midst of the chaos swirling inside your head. You’re standing at the counter in your robe, staring at the dark liquid as it pours into your mug, willing the caffeine to work its magic and steady your nerves.

Maisie’s already at the table, legs crossed, scrolling through her phone as she sips from her own cup. She’d shown up at 7 a.m. sharp, a whirlwind of energy even in yoga pants and an oversized hoodie, the perfect distraction from the tangled mess of your thoughts.

“So,” Maisie says, finally looking up. “Did you tell him?”

Your heart skips a beat. You turn back to the coffee maker, suddenly fascinated by the machine’s little blinking light. “Not... exactly.”

Maisie groans, setting her phone down with an exaggerated thud. “Girl. What do you mean, ‘not exactly’? That was the whole point of last night!”

“I tried,” you say defensively, glancing over your shoulder. “But he came home in a mood, and it just didn’t feel like the right time.”

Maisie gives you a look—a mix of sympathy and exasperation that only a best friend can pull off. “Okay, but there’s never going to be a perfect time. You know that, right? You just have to rip off the Band-Aid.”

Before you can reply, you hear the familiar creak of the stairs, and your chest tightens. Joe’s footsteps are heavy as he descends, his presence filling the kitchen even before he appears.

When he finally walks in, you can tell immediately that he’s still carrying yesterday’s frustration. His jaw is tight, his hair slightly mussed from sleep, and his movements have that sharp, impatient edge that screams not a morning person.

“Morning,” you say tentatively, hoping the coffee might soften his mood.

Joe grunts in response, heading straight for the counter without sparing a glance in your direction. He grabs a mug and pours himself some coffee, his shoulders hunched as he takes a sip.

Maisie watches him with raised eyebrows, her own cup paused halfway to her lips. “Wow,” she says dryly. “Good morning to you too, Sunshine.”

Joe doesn’t even acknowledge her, his focus fixed on the steam rising from his mug. You wince, already anticipating what’s coming next.

Maisie sets her cup down with a clink, crossing her arms. “Alright, what’s your problem?”

Joe finally looks at her, his expression dark. “I don’t have a problem.”

“Uh-huh,” Maisie says, leaning back in her chair. “Because stomping around the kitchen like a grumpy giant definitely screams ‘everything’s fine.’”

“Maisie—” you start, but she holds up a hand to stop you.

“No, seriously,” she says, her voice gaining heat. “What’s with the attitude? You’re acting like the world’s ending, and she—” Maisie gestures to you with her free hand, “—is bending over backward trying not to stress you out.”

Joe frowns, glancing at you for the first time that morning. “I’m fine,” he says, but it’s clipped, like he’s trying to end the conversation before it starts.

Maisie narrows her eyes. “Well, maybe you should try being a little more considerate. Especially with her condition.”

The room goes silent.

Your blood runs cold, and Maisie freezes, her face paling as she realizes what she’s just said. You stare at her, wide-eyed, your heart pounding in your chest.

“What condition?” Joe asks slowly, his brows furrowing as he looks between the two of you.

Maisie presses her lips together, looking like she wants to melt into the floor. She flicks her gaze toward you, silently pleading for help, but your mind is too blank to come to her rescue.

Joe’s eyes narrow, his focus shifting entirely to you. “What’s she talking about?”

You open your mouth to say something—anything—but no words come out. The silence stretches, heavy and suffocating, and you can see the wheels turning in Joe’s head as he pieces it together.

“Wait,” he says, his voice dropping an octave. “Are you...?”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the look on his face says it all. Confusion, realization, and a flicker of something else—something you can’t quite read—flash across his features.

Maisie clears her throat, breaking the tension. “Well,” she says awkwardly, standing up and grabbing her mug. “This feels like a good time for me to leave.”

She doesn’t wait for a response, practically bolting for the door. The sound of it closing behind her echoes through the suddenly too-quiet kitchen.

Joe’s still staring at you, his coffee forgotten on the counter. You take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself, but it feels like the ground is shifting beneath your feet.

“Is it true?” he asks, his voice softer now but no less intense.

And just like that, there’s no more hiding.

Your hands tighten around your coffee mug as if it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to reality. Joe’s gaze is locked onto you now, his exhaustion melting into something else entirely—a mix of confusion, worry, and a dawning realization that leaves no room for escape.

Your throat is dry, words caught somewhere between your heart and your mouth. The longer you stay silent, the heavier his question hangs in the air.

“Y/N,” he says again, more urgently this time. “Is it true?”

You set your mug down carefully on the counter, afraid it might slip from your trembling hands. His eyes follow the motion, then snap back to yours, searching for confirmation in your expression. You can feel your heartbeat thudding in your ears, loud and insistent, drowning out every coherent thought.

“I—” you begin, your voice cracking. You clear your throat, trying again. “Yes. It’s true.”

Joe takes a step back, blinking as though he’s been physically struck. His hands drop to his sides, and for a moment, he just stands there, staring at you like he’s trying to process a foreign language.

“I’m pregnant,” you add, the words tumbling out in a rush before you lose your nerve completely.

The silence that follows is deafening.

Joe drags a hand down his face, his features tense and unreadable. You hate that you can’t tell what he’s thinking, that the connection you’ve always shared feels out of reach in this moment.

“How long have you known?” he finally asks, his voice low and steady, but there’s an edge to it that makes your stomach twist.

“A few days,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Since we got back from the honeymoon.”

He lets out a sharp exhale, shaking his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“I was going to!” you say quickly, stepping closer. “I just—” You falter, searching for the right words. “I didn’t know how. And yesterday, you were so upset, and I didn’t want to make things worse.”

“Make things worse?” Joe repeats, his tone incredulous. He sets his own mug down a little too forcefully, the sound making you flinch. “You thought this would make things worse?”

You swallow hard, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. “You were so frustrated about practice,” you say, your voice trembling. “And then you said that thing about how everything has to be perfect right now. I didn’t want to drop this on you and have you feel like—”

“Like what?” he interrupts, his eyes narrowing. “Like I wouldn’t want this?”

Your breath hitches, and you look away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly.

The room feels too small, the air thick with the weight of everything unspoken. Joe runs a hand through his hair, his frustration giving way to something softer, something almost vulnerable.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice gentler now, “I’m not mad that you’re pregnant. I’m mad that you felt like you couldn’t tell me. That you thought I wouldn’t be ready for something like this.”

You glance up at him, tears slipping down your cheeks despite your best efforts to hold them back. “It’s not that I didn’t want to tell you,” you say, your voice cracking. “I was scared. This wasn’t part of the plan, Joe. We just got married. We’re still figuring things out. And I know how much pressure you’re under right now—I didn’t want to add to it.”

He exhales slowly, stepping closer until he’s standing right in front of you. His hands find yours, pulling them away from where they’re wringing the hem of your robe. His grip is warm, grounding, and you cling to it like a lifeline.

“Look,” he says, his voice steady now. “I won’t lie—I wasn’t expecting this either. And yeah, it’s not perfect timing. But when has anything in our life ever gone exactly according to plan?”

You let out a shaky laugh, and he smiles, just a little, the tension in his shoulders easing.

“We’ve always figured things out together,” he continues. “This isn’t any different. It’s just... a bigger adjustment. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that there’s nobody I’d rather figure it out with than you.”

His words hit you square in the chest, and you feel a fresh wave of tears threatening to spill over. But this time, they’re not born of fear—they’re from relief, from the overwhelming love that’s been there all along, even in the moments of doubt.

Joe reaches up, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “We’ve got this, okay?” he says softly.

You nod, a small smile breaking through despite the storm of emotions still swirling inside you. “Okay.”

And for the first time in days, you believe it.

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[sehaedazokla]

he that dares

part two

premise: Cregan Stark's arrival in King's Landing has brought a new type of chaos to the capital. Lady Tyrell is determined to use the Northern lord to her advantage, but the task might not be as straightforward as it seems. 

tags: slowburn, tension, angst, comfort, eventual smut, court politics

word count: 8k

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Cregan Stark finds himself with much waiting to be done. Waiting for different ravens to be sent, and then for the replies to return. Waiting for the arrival of lords whom had been summoned to King’s Landing, and for the answer of whether or not the war will continue. He seeks justice to be distributed to all those whom it should fall upon: whether they had been allies of Rhaenyra or Aegon, all parties who acted dishonorably within the conflict ought to face their rightful punishment. But what the Lord of Winterfell does not find himself waiting upon is the Lady Tyrell.

The very morning after their conversation in the gardens, Cregan pushes open the door of what had once been the small council’s meeting chambers. It has been turned into a temporary headquarters for the Northern lords who are holding court, and for the additional powers at play. While the other lords file out, discussing in hushed and heavy whispers amongst themselves about the political matters that weighed their minds, Cregan pauses.

He is the last to leave the room, pulling the heavy wooden door behind him, and his eyes drift to the girl lingering in the corner of the hall. She curtsies to a pair of lords who look up to see her, and the two men pause their conversation briefly as their eyes rest upon her, hastily bowing in return. But when her eyes meet Cregan’s, they remind him more of a hawk’s than a girl’s. As if they have landed on a mouse she intends to hunt for supper.

But just as it had been the day before, Cregan wonders if he imagined it. As she walks up to him, the expression on her face is nothing short of saccharine. She folds her hands delicately across the front of her gown – today she wears a shade of blue similar to the sky on the clearest day, with white lace at her collar and around her sleeves. There is gold silk embroidered about her waist in twisting florals, with small pink rosettes weaved in between. The dress is reminiscent of others Cregan has seen her wear, but perhaps he thinks so because of its signature plunging neckline.

“A moment of your time, Lord Stark?” Lady Tyrell’s voice floats in the air between them as clear and bright as a morning bell as she approaches. Birds can be heard chirping from a nearby open window. The sun has only just settled in the sky, hanging lazily after its absence the day before due to the storm that had washed in overnight.

Cregan is in a rather poor mood after the lack of developments from the morning meeting, but offers her a dip of his head. He stands before her, chin downturned to look her in the eyes, his own eyes narrowing a moment.

“Of course, my lady.” His tone is gruff yet not altogether unfriendly. It has that detached Northern politeness that she has come to associate with him. There is the ghost of tension about his shoulders, but she cannot discern whether it is from the conversation Cregan had just taken part in, or if he simply lived his entire life like there were rocks upon him.

“It is the court, my lord,” Lady Tyrell begins, sighing quite deeply in a breath that uses her entire upper body. She clasps her hands together tighter, shaking her head gingerly. A few of her loose curls bounce at the movement, and Cregan’s eyes drift to the sides of her face as they do. She takes a step forward softly, clearing intending Cregan to begin walking alongside her.

Cregan has been starving for the last hour. He wants to return to his chambers to break his fast with sausage and poached eggs and whatever else could be found.

He follows her.

The castle is alive and bustling at the early hour, maids rushing about with baskets of fresh linen and pages scurrying off with errands from their lords. A few of them cast their eyes to Lady Tyrell, who smiles at them sweetly. Most return the look with soft smiles of their own. Cregan wonders how many of them she knows personally.

“As I was saying, the state of the court has been weighing heavily upon my thoughts,” She continues, a look of concern once again settling upon her features. Her skirts rustle softly as she walks, and her heels click on the cold stone floor of the hall. Daylight streams in through the open courtyard that they walk past. “You see, the lords and ladies grow restless. What with their being confined to the capital.”

The girl presents the matter of concern slowly, tenderly. As if she wishes to plead her case yet not offend. She gazes up at Cregan after she speaks, meeting his stern look with a flutter of her wispy lashes. Her lips seem to form the perfect subtle pout as she finishes her sentence, and her eyebrows have knitted together to express gentle worry.

Cregan’s jaw tenses the tiniest bit as he hears her words. He is not ignorant enough to think that the nobles enjoy being forced to remain at King’s Landing, but there is not that he can do to remedy it until it is decided whether or not the war will continue, and justice is dispensed.

“Until the investigations and trials are concluded, no one can be permitted to leave.” There is a sense of stoic absoluteness to his tone, as if the matter being up for debate is not even a fathomable thought. His eyes narrow as he peers into hers, searching for a hint of annoyance or frustration. Cregan finds only a gentle amiableness that he believes better suits a deer than a girl.

“A prudent choice, my lord,” Lady Tyrell acquiesces with a dip of her head, her eyes falling to the floor in front of her demurely. Her hands are still folded over top of her lower stomach as the two make their way through the castle. “It is only…discontent often takes root in the gardens of boredom.”

Her eyebrows raise as the words float between them, remaining higher as she casts her gaze still to the stone floor beneath them. To make her words seem like a sad yet true observation. Cregan’s eyebrows draw lower, twitching a bit at her resigned wisdom.

The Lord of Winterfell stops, the last of his heavy steps echoing in the hall. The girl turns around after a moment, facing him. When her eyes lift to meet his, they hold that same softness she has been offering him since she arrived. They observe each other for a moment, before Cregan opens his lips to speak. Warning is dense in his tone as his gaze darkens, the serious look on his face becoming impossibly sterner.

“You take issue with the way I hold this court, then?” It is a quiet phrase yet so heavy when wrapped in his thick Northern pronunciation. Cregan does not need this girl commenting upon the way he has taken and managed the court since arriving; he has more important matters to worry about than a few discontent lords and ladies who whisper scathing things behind open fans and palms.

With the grace of a dancer, she takes the sides of her skirts in between her forefingers and thumbs and draws them upward. Her chin lowers gently, her gaze dropping so Cregan can only see her lashes. She lowers herself into a curtsy, her center of balance remaining perfectly overtop her left leg as her right one slides outward elegantly. Her back is as straight and tight as a drawn bow. 

“I would never presume to, Lord Stark,” Mellifluous and humble, the words drip from her lips as drops of honey from a hive. “I would only suggest, as someone who believes in your cause, that there might be a better alternative that would keep them amused and lift some of the weight from your shoulders.” 

As Lady Tyrell draws herself upright, Cregan feels a dry swallow in his throat at the slow, sensual motion. She does not miss it. Her humble expression melts into a candied smile.

“Of course, should my lord not wish to hear it, I will hardly take offense.” The girl tells him with a sheepish, almost embarrassed cadence, her head tilting down as her shoulders lower. She releases her skirts, the embroidered fabrics flowing down to the floor in waves of silks and satins.

Cregan looks to the side for a moment, his eyes falling to the open courtyard next to the hall. When he turns his head back to face her, his eyes downcast as he finds the words, the softest sound of breath can be heard before he speaks and raises his gaze.

“You have spent much time here at court, Lady Tyrell. You understand it much better than I. I will not be too prideful to hear your counsel.” Cregan retains the gruff quality of his speech, but there is a note of wary respect in the words. He lowers his chin to look at her directly, his head moving slightly as he speaks.

She does her best to not glow with the amusement of such a small yet important victory. Instead, she lowers her gaze again, nodding elegantly. 

“I am honored by your ear, my lord.” There is a pleased rhythm to her words. She does, however, make the mistake of looking up again to note the way the sunlight from the open courtyard next to the grey hall has filtered in just enough that the edges of Cregan’s red hair have caught the light and appear as gold as the embroidery on her dress. It additionally falls upon his broad shoulders and his left arm, which her eyes do, regrettably, land upon for a heartbeat.

One of the maids hurries by, giving both Cregan and Lady Tyrell a rushed curtsy. As the maid’s steps echo down the hall, she gestures for Cregan to continue to walk with her. They maintain a distance of expected propriety between them as they continue, making it rather hard to communicate in a softer tone.

“You have a great many problems that have fallen into your lap, Lord Stark,” She points out with a languid gesture of her arm, her hand hanging elegantly before them for a brief moment. “Least important of all the boredom of the nobles. And yet,” A deep breath is taken from her chest. “It is still an issue, no matter how miniscule.” Her head moves with each fragment of her words, indicating how seriously she takes the problem.

Cregan’s strides beside her are long and heavy, but slower than they had been the day before, in the garden. As if he had noticed that she had been taking larger steps to try and match him. 

Lady Tyrell’s hair bounces enticingly with each phrase and movement, the loose curls and waves that had escaped being swept up into the pinned arrangement that adorned the top of her head free to move about as they pleased. Cregan’s eyes have once again begun wandering. 

“But you are quite fortunate in that it is rather easy to provide them with entertainment.” Her reassurance is offered quite gently, with a sage nod. “Why, anything as simple as a feast serves the purpose quite well. Give them an opportunity to bring out their finest silks and jewels, with the promise of wine and meats and what they crave most: gossip.” 

They turn a corner, Cregan nearly running into a squire who is unable to see due to the amount of armor he is carrying in his arms. He wonders with a flash of irritation just how many people are employed in the castle; there is no shortage of servants running about even at this early hour of the day.

At Lady Tyrell’s words, a dry look wrenches its way onto Cregan’s face while he considers her proposal. The last thing he wants to do at this moment is to oversee the planning of any sort of event, nor did he have the time to spare for it. With a heavy sigh, his brows draw closer.

“I haven’t the time to spare for organizing a feast, my lady.” His words are curt, but he does attempt to soften them, not wanting to offend her.

Lady Tyrell is not offended by him. She simply thinks him rather foolish. There is not a hint of this on her face as she quickly gazes up at him with shock, her loose curls flying as she shakes her head with quick worry.

“Oh, no, my lord, that was not the implication at all,” The correction comes with a soft, apologetic smile and lift of her shoulders, causing her collarbone to catch the light from a nearby window. She holds his gaze steadily. “It was an offer of my services. I have seen many a feast organized here; I could have it arranged by nightfall this very evening.”

When they reach the large main staircase of the castle, they come to another pause. Cregan looks down at her with thinly veiled disbelief as she blinks up at him.

“You would do that?” He cannot help the suspicion sneaking into the corners of his voice. She is volunteering her time to assist Cregan with an issue that did not truly concern her, no matter how worriedly she had acted when she’d raised the matter to his attention. Yet he could not discern any malicious intent, save for her using this an as opportunity to vie for his favor. This, she seems to want greatly, yet Cregan still does not know to what end.

“If it should be of assistance to you, it would be my honor.” Lady Tyrell speaks with gracious acceptance, delicate and poised as she stands before him. Closer, this time, than she had been when they’d stopped before. Cregan can smell the lingering of rose water and some other floral oils. He considers her words, thoughts rolling over them like marbles in a hand.

“Do as you wish, Lady Tyrell. If you can ease the daggers in their eyes, I will be all the more grateful for it.” Cregan’s sigh is weary with exhaustion, and the pressures that only seemed to be added each and every day that is spent at King’s Landing. 

A sparkle glimmers in her eyes.

“I will see to it at once then.” She bids him farewell with a soft smile, and the scent of her perfume drifts over to him as her hair and skirts fan out in a delicate cloud with her turn when she hurries off. His eyes close briefly as he inhales it.

It is with great haste that Lady Tyrell begins her planning for the feast that evening. She gathers all her handmaidens and maids to assist with various messages she needs sent to those who are to be involved in the preparations, as well as to contact other staff to invite all of the lords and ladies who ought to be there. The information mill that is comprised of servants proves quite useful in this instance, and while she would usually take it upon herself to handwrite every invitation, the girl wishes her involvement in this endeavor to be kept quiet yet not secret for now. 

House Tyrell had not spent too much gold during the war, which resulted in her having quite a large resource pool to dip into to convince florists and musicians to cancel their previously scheduled arrangements for that evening and offer their presence in The Queen's Ballroom. Although smaller in size than the two large halls, the room need only host the nobles currently being restricted to the castle. She prefers it, anyhow; the way the candlelight catches against the large mirrors that comprise the walls of the room provides a magical quality to the ambience of any gathering. It makes the overseeing of the decoration a much more manageable task, which would reflect positively on her in the end.

She begins with a visit to the Kitchen Keep, discussing with the chefs and pâtissiers as to what dishes could be made and served on such short notice. They whisper in low, worried tones amongst each other, deep frowns and nods as they page through thick tomes of recipes. Lady Tyrell waits with her hands folded in front of her and a pleasant smile on her face, willing her eye not to twitch at the irritation of having to stand so long in the kitchens when there are other matters to be attending to.

The kitchen staff propose a few different options to her, and after providing a gentle suggestion of her own and more gold to run to the markets with, a menu is agreed upon for the night. When the kitchen door swings closed behind her, she pinches the bridge of her nose and lets out a sharp sigh that she has been holding back for some time.

Her next stop is to ensure that the correct dinnerware is being brought out to the ballroom – her head whips around with an unladylike speed as she watches in horror as a maid begins bringing the plateware with the green decorative motifs down the hall. As Lady Tyrell rushes back down the hall to catch the girl, another brief flash of frustration at the foolishness of the choice flits through her mind but there is nothing but sweet concern in her eyes as she recommends gingerly that the plates of a more well-associated color are brought out. 

The maid gasps and nods quickly, as Lady Tyrell squeezes her arm comfortingly and rushes off to find the florists. This she would have to stay and observe during the entirety of the arrangements. Her mother would be beside herself if a daughter of House Tyrell allowed for flowers of improper meaning to be presented at an event she hosted. Even if her mother will not be present that night, the girl smiles with exasperated fondness as her mother’s words ring bright and clear in her head, no different than if the woman was standing right in front of her. 

She guides the florists about the hall, nodding with a pleased glint in her eyes as the flowers stream in through the doors in the arms of boys and girls. Her decision has come together nicely; the apple blossoms, honeysuckles, and white lilies form a delicate and demure profession of innocent devotion and pure intent. Still, she must have her fun.

As a page rushes by with a bouquet of flowers in his arms, she plucks a single snapdragon and inhales the scent gently with softly closed eyes. They would be placed throughout the hall scarcely, likely not to be noticed by too many of the guests. 

It is a lovely flower, brought into the ballroom in colors that reflected those around it. Their heavy association with the concept of truth often leads many to interpret their presence as a promise of honesty. 

Those from House Tyrell recognize the bundles of fragile petals as a warning of deceit.

Her eyes open as she runs the stem between her fingers delicately, gazing down it at fondly. Lady Tyrell presses it to her chest as she leaves the ballroom, her shoes echoing amongst the voices of those finishing up the floral and plateware arrangements. There is still much to be done.

Despite the chaos that stems from such late preparations, the Lady Tyrell manages to both finish the arrangements and ready herself for the feast that evening. The Lord of Winterfell had not been expecting much when she had offered to organize an event that night, but the opulence on display within the hall is nothing short of wonderous. Decadent, but not obnoxiously so, and a clear testament to an effective and practiced hostess despite her young age.

As she glides into the Queen’s Ballroom, Cregan’s eyes land upon her.

She has entered the room slightly later than most of the guests, leading to the turning of many a head as the doors are opened for her. The blue gown she had been wearing that morning has been discarded in favor of a dress of baby pink, with a neckline reminiscent of a heart that plunges low as the two curves meet in the center. There is her signature golden embroidery at the top of the bodice, as well as up the side of the puffs at the top of her sleeves and down her corset. Stitched roses and vines snake down her arms, overtop of fabric of that same pastel color. There are more layers beneath the gown, fanning out in an elegant circle about her when she walks.

Cregan hears the whispers and sighs from some of his men around him as they shake their heads at her beauty, but he can scarcely judge them in good faith when finds his eyes are drawn to her and cannot be torn away. He has never noticed so much about a gown before; he takes note of the thorn detailing amongst the vines at the cuffs, of the pearls stitched into the bottom of the skirt that brushes against the floor, of the way the fabric creases at her elbows when she curtsies to one of the ladies she greets. 

So little of her figure can be seen and yet Cregan is left with a slow inhaling of breath and the flicker of the low candlelight dancing in his half-lidded eyes, his tongue briefly wetting his drying lips.

Lady Tyrell does her utmost to not look too self-pleased as she surveys the room. It is a beautiful, elegant scene. The musicians play string instruments in bright yet slow melodies from the gallery above the ballroom, and the expansive trestle tables have been covered in delicate fabrics. Upon their surfaces rest heaps and piles of meats, fruits, and pies. Their scents waft deliciously though the air, and vases overflowing with flowers are nestled in between the mountains of food. The warm candlelight from the candelabras reflects in the mirrors of the walls in the dreamy way that she loves so.

She makes her way about the room, making polite conversation with various lords and ladies. Asking after their children, husbands, wives, and siblings. The nobles light up and rest a hand on her shoulder gently when she recalls little details they had mentioned when last they spoke, of various illnesses or injuries or marriages or pregnancies.

Many of the guests have already sat down, reaching for thick cuts of meat and having their cups filled with the finest Arbor reds as hearty, half-drunken laughter echoes through the hall. She turns her head the slightest bit, intending to scan the room for the Lord of Winterfell, but discovers his eyes are already on her when she spots him.

His gaze is intense and does not waver when she catches him staring. He is leaning forward in his chair, his heavy brows low, his jaw tight, his mouth pressed together in a thin line. Lady Tyrell feels the remainder of the room dim for a moment, the voices and laughter and candlelight fading slightly in her senses.

She does her best to not show any surprise on her face: she has been seeking to capture his attention after all. It is only that she did not realize how heavily that attention would be placed upon her. It makes her eyes narrow a moment, her nature to challenge such a forceful look. 

Her hand closes into a ginger fist, the pressure of her fingertips in the soft skin of her palm drawing her mind back to civility. She blinks, her eyes soft and wide again, and she offers Cregan a smile before she turns back to greet others. 

One such conversation with one of the Northern lords leads Lady Tyrell to the head of the table, nearer to where Cregan is sat. He watches with an unreadable expression as the lord pulls out her chair, and she thanks him sweetly with the utmost grace and gratitude. Wine is immediately poured into her cup, and the golden goblet is raised to her lips as the lord speaks animatedly in regards to their conversation topic, to which she leans over to whisper something that sets the lord off with a hearty laugh.

The man leans over to Cregan, eyes drooping slightly with the effects of drink, and Cregan lends his ear a moment, watching the Lady Tyrell raise the glass to her rosy lips yet again.

“Here my lord,” The Northern man speaks to Cregan with a deep nod, swaying slightly in his ornate wooden chair. “Lady Tyrell was just telling me of this incident with the –“ His eyebrows knit together with confusion as he loses his train of thought. He gazes down into his goblet, as if to find the answer floating about in his burgundy liquid. When the glass fails to produce the response to his pondering, he turns his head to her.

“The boar, my lord.” Lady Tyrell supplies gently, raising her glass a little, swishing the contents around with a languid motion of her wrist.

“Yes, the boar!” The lord repeats with great enthusiasm, looking to Cregan as he laughs once more. The girl’s gaze settles upon Cregan, and there is a sparkle of knowing in her eyes as the other man drones on. “We shall have to hunt in the King’s Wood ourselves if the events are as amusing as she says…”

Cregan lets the rest of what the man is talking about fade out to a distant murmur, as well as much of the additional conversation in the bustling ballroom. The musicians have switched to a slower piece that floats elegantly throughout the room, and the laughter has grown loud. One can spot ladies cooling their flushed faces with their fans, and swaying lords eyeing the serving girls who rush to refill their quickly draining cups. The candlelight seems to have grown warmer and lower, flickering delicately throughout the ambient room. The wine has been flowing for quite some time, and the effects are evident in abundance.

But when he steals a glimpse of Lady Tyrell’s glass, he pauses as small flecks of golden light swim in the red liquor. Despite having witnessed her lift the goblet to her mouth a few times, the wine is no lower than when she had sat down. 

She has turned to participate in yet another animated conversation with a Northern lord seated to her right, and Cregan cannot help but observe the ease at which she slides from one topic to the next, even with his bannermen. He thought her to be skilled at engaging with Southerners, but her charms do not seem to be hindered by differences in homeland. A soft exhale of breath leaves his mouth as he returns to eating the food on his plate. The edges of the plates are decorated with tiny red flowers.

Later in the evening, the high sound of a fork tapping a metal glass can be heard echoing tinnily throughout the hall. One of the lords stands up from his seat, red-cheeked and grinning, to offer a toast to the Lord of Winterfell for his kind hospitality and planning of the event. Cregan pauses as many sets of eyes find their way to him, and he realizes there is an expectation that he say something in kind.

He rises, dropping his heavy shoulders and lifting his glass. It is a duty he is used to completing at the head of the hall in Winterfell, and it feels odd to do so in this foreign ballroom, with these strange faces staring back at him. Many of whom dislike him, or at least the way he is demanding they remain in King’s Landing until justice has been carried out. They watch like vultures, the easy and amiable air from earlier all but gone as they remember the presence of the Northern lord. But fortunately, Cregan need not keep the attention on himself for long.

“Your kind words are appreciated, my lord,” Cregan begins, his voice low and gruff. His eyes flicker to Lady Tyrell for a moment, perhaps to give her a second of warning with which she can prepare herself. But when their eyes meet, she is already gazing up at him as if she knows what he is going to say. Her hand resting gently on her goblet of wine, ready to lift it. He should not be surprised. “But in truth, I cannot take any credit. It was only thanks to the efforts of Lady Tyrell that this came to be.”

As the pairs of beady eyes drift over to Lady Tyrell, she rises up with a poised posture. Her chin is lowered, her eyes wide and almost shy as she holds the stem of her golden goblet between her fingers. The pairs of eyes that had beheld Cregan so coldly, soften. Here is one of their own, someone they know and can truthfully give gratitude to. She gives a soft dip of her head, the golden jewelry at her collarbones shining when it draws the glint of firelight.

“It is the least I can do, and hardly enough still,” The words ring out softly through the ballroom with the bright clarity of one used to speaking to a crowd. A girlish smile splashes to her lips and brings rosy color to her cheeks as she lifts her glass with her right hand, her left hand resting gently overtop the lacing of her corset. “So here is to you, for gracing my little party with your presence. It is with your laughter that these halls feel like home again, and I am ever so grateful to you for it.”

The hall erupts with whistles and clapping and cheers. Sounds of glasses clashing together in hearty toasts and the bringing out of the dessert at that very moment makes the scene bright and jovial, so much so that an outsider who had no knowledge of what had occurred in the recent past could not guess that the capital had just been plagued with a bloody succession war.

And in the center of it all, akin to the sun in the sky and glowing as such, is the Lady Tyrell. Cregan can bring no glass to his mouth as he watches her, coy and sweet as she once again raises her cup. He knows she is not drinking from it. But her face has the softest glow as she stands above the rest of the nobles seated at the long trestle tables, many of whom are still gazing towards her fondly, murmuring their approvals for the young lady and her gift to them this night. The candlelight dances across her figure, illuminating the lace of her gown, the expanse of her skin above her neckline, the pearls that hang from her ears. 

She shines like she is made to. Dazzling as any star in the heavens, radiant as any fire in the night.

If she were any other woman, Cregan might approach her when the moment presented itself, asking her to meet him as he had that time in the gardens. To walk with her, to learn more about her, to know her. To see if her heart is as lovely as her appearance. But he knows well that this would be more difficult than it seemed: perhaps even impossible. Even as she lowers herself back into her chair, smoothing down her skirts as she settles herself to dine on some of the pastries that have been piled onto the table with whipped creams and fresh fruits, he does not believe he is seeing anything of truth.

Lady Tyrell excuses herself as many of the other nobles begin to trickle out the thick oak doors, off to their beds or to some form of intoxicated debauchery. She wishes to avoid the strong yet firm grasp of a few of the elder ladies, who take her hands into their aging ones and remind her poignantly of the eligibility of their bachelor sons. Now that she is not betrothed, she has felt the hungry eyes of nobles as those of carrion birds circling overhead. Eyeing her body and her title and her family’s gold. It makes her blood hot with irritation and her nerves fraught and spiked. 

There are only so many excuses she can offer as she tries to slip out of the conversation topic with an apologetic smile.

And as the night grows to an end, so does her ever-thinning patience. One more ask upon whether or not her mother has read their proposals sent by raven, and she might simply hurl her still-full glass at the wall to cause a scene and be done with it. To the end of being shipped off to live as a Septa, but she doubts she would be graced with that. No, she is too young and too eligible; even in the face of abhorrent behavior she imagines excuses will be made by ambitious lords and ladies to still have her married to their sons.

The reminder fills her throat with a bitter acid that stings. She pushes it from her mind. The show is still ongoing, and there is one last act she must perform in to consider this day a success. And she takes pride in her thoughtful scripting. 

As she begins to walk towards the doors, she hears the scraping of a wooden chair on the cold stone floor as another starts to leave as well. She folds her hands in front of her lower corset, her arms straight and her palms gripping each other only the slightest bit too tightly. The tilting of her chin down allows for the hiding of the small, wry smile that has wrenched its way onto her lips at the sound of heavy footsteps behind her.

Her hand raises gingerly as she catches her handmaiden following her out of the corner of her eye, signaling for her to wait. The girl, Adelin, takes note of the gesture and nods delicately, giving her lady room with which to carry out her schemes. Instead, she slips out the side of the room to prepare Lady Tyrell’s bath for that evening.

The music has faded to a lazily played waltz, bidding farewell to the guests. The tables are covered with the crumbs and other remnants of the feast, and the flowers have sank lower into their vases. She walks gracefully out of the ballroom, leaving the rest of the nobles who remain to the questionable indulgences that are promised by lingering about.

The halls of the Red Keep are lined with the warm glow of torches, and yet they are never overly bright. She passes stone pillars and wooden doors and knights guarding different rooms before she hears the clearing of a throat behind her. 

So he has given them ample space to speak in private, yet he did not choose to follow her to her chambers.

While she would not have allowed him inside, she had been curious as to where he would initiate the conversation. She wishes it to feel like it is on his terms, after all.

Lady Tyrell turns quickly, the baby pink skirt of her gown billowing out around her as she does. She brings a hand to her chest in a rush, fingers pressed to the exposed skin between her collarbone and the neckline of her dress. A quiet inhale of breath hurries past her lips and she lets her eyebrows raise.

“Oh – Lord Stark.” The words have a quality of breathiness to them, as if she had been startled by the noise behind her but is relieved to see it is only him. She gives him a smile, her hand lowering to her side. It smooths over her breasts before it drops to rest elegantly. Her brows furrow slightly, with good-natured expectation, as she waits for him to speak.

Cregan does not know entirely why he followed her. He wishes to speak with her, but upon which manner? To thank her for the effort she had imbued into the feast that evening? To ask if she truly enjoys speaking with his bannermen, or if she hates the Northern presence in the capital as others do?

His stance is solid and heavy, his wideset shoulders lowered as he casts his gaze to the torch nearest to him on the wall, and then down to the grey floor beneath his dark boots. The stern expression on his face does not waver, as he searches with noble patience for the words he wants to say.

She takes the time free of his piercing eyes to observe him with a neutral expression, roaming over the way a few strands of red hair fall across his face when he tilts his chin down. It looks soft, despite the rugged nature of the rest of his figure, even more so as his hair is tinged with orange and gold in the torchlight.

Cregan has felt an indisputable pull towards her since the moment they first saw each other when he had arrived at the Red Keep. But the more he saw of her, the more unsettled he became. Is he so foolish as to lust after a woman whose character is so inclined towards deception and manipulation? It is as if he is a lad, with an inclination to being blinded at the sight of doe-like eyes and soft lips. 

But no, even as he stands there in front of her, her beauty clear as can be, Cregan knows he is not that susceptible to womanly charms. It is that flash of something in her eyes that he has seen that continues to draw him back. The frustration of want in the face of illusion; of yearning for knowledge that is kept purposefully yet barely out of his reach.

He pushes down the flames of frustration deep into his chest and looks up at Lady Tyrell with a serious yet neutral gaze. 

“What game do you play at, Lady Tyrell?”  There is a rumbling quality to his voice, yet it is not unpleasant on her ears. And despite the forward nature of the question, it is not asked roughly, nor brashly. It is posed with a stern politeness, reminding her once again that he has, the few times they have spoken, acted the perfect gentlemen if she could overlook his Northern tendencies. 

She finds herself pleased. It is rare she is met head on, and still with his maintaining all the expectations of civil discussion. Yet, she will not give Cregan Stark what he desires. “I beg your pardon, my lord?”

Her lashes flutter with gentle confusion when she tilts her head gingerly, as if trying to discern what he is referring to. Cregan beholds her visage, his own features still serious as he studies her.

“If you wish something of me, tell it to me plainly,” Cregan’s frustration is not altogether dispersed, simply pressed down. The low tone of his voice echoes deeply between them. His eyes narrow a fraction. “There is no need to put on any sort of act.”

Lady Tyrell blinks at him again, before she casts her gaze downwards. She reaches up to move a strand of hair from her face daintily, her nails brushing against the skin of her forehead. The sigh that leaves her parted lips is reserved and almost ashamed. When she meets his eyes again, Cregan sees the sweet shine of apologetic embarrassment.

“…I had no intention to be dishonest with you, my lord,” Lady Tyrell lowers her voice to a gentler tone. She draws closer towards him, lessening the distance between them as if she is letting him in on a secret. Her steps are gentle, heels clicking on the floor, the sound muffled beneath the heavy skirts of her gown. Cregan feels himself stiffen as she stops in front of him.

She is close, but not overly so. He can smell warm scents of vanilla and amber drifting up from her soft skin. Cregan holds her gaze steadily but his eyes narrow further, his head drawing back subtlety, involuntarily. It is not the reaction he would normally have to a beautiful woman, but one of wary confusion of her intention.

“And yet I am met with your dishonesty each time I speak with you.” It is not an accusation but an observation, one he offers to her with the expectation of her explaining herself.

It pains her to be this near to a man she does not know, with no one else in sight. She steadies her mind, reminding herself of the unique opportunity that has been presented to her in the form of the Lord of Winterfell. Her mother’s wishes flash before her eyes in the form of a parchment scroll and dried black ink. 

Her lips part before she speaks, a rose opening in the flickering torchlight. The storms of his eyes lower to them, a heavy breath in his lungs. There is a shift in the air, a heavier, charged atmosphere in the empty hall. For all of her acting, all of her schemes: she knows there is no falsehood in the way she reacts to him. It is a maddening truth, one that Lord Stark seems to be wrestling with through equal frustration.

Perhaps it brings her comfort to know that he does not wish for this want either.

“I hope you will not condemn a lady for what she does in the face of interest.” Her eyelashes lower over her eyes, and she swallows softly, her lips rolling over each other. Hands are brought together nervously, pressing together in front of her, her thumbs rubbing apprehensively on her palms. An almost imperceptible inhaling of breath sends Cregan’s stomach twisting into a pulsing knot he wishes to undo. 

It is almost inconceivable to him, how deeply she excels at this.

Still, Cregan has come here with the intention of figuring her out at least partially, and if he has to do so through a twisting forest of more lies and manipulation, so be it.

“Is that what this is?” Cregan asks lowly, eyes heavy and lidded when they fall across her face. Across her demurely lowered eyes and cheeks flushed with faux embarrassment and pink lips. The tug in his chest is low and getting lower, his blood hot. “Interest?”

A thick breath of a question. He steps towards her slowly, trying to gauge her reaction. Her eyes dart up as he brings their bodies closer, the heat from his own nearly perceptible now. The wideness of his shoulders and his imposing height are not lost on her then. If one were to stumble upon Cregan from behind him in the hall, his figure would completely conceal her own. 

Cregan catches it then, while his eyes are searching hers. An emotion, raw and pulsing. Lady Tyrell’s lashes flutter as her eyes quickly flick up and down his face, and her breath catches rather violently in her chest. Sharp enough that Cregan can hear it and see the way her ribcage stutters with the force of it. Her eyebrows twitch, raising and then lowering at the intrusion to her space.

And there, for the first time, the Lord of Winterfell thinks to himself that there is truth in front of him.

Her shoulders pull back, like she means to draw away from him. The left one raises slightly as she angles her torso to at least retreat with her right side, her arms coming together in front of the bodice upon her chest. Cregan looks down in the space between them to see the way the nail of her right thumb has pressed so deeply into her pointer finger that the skin is turning a ghostly white.

“Forgive me, my lord,” Her eyebrows raise upwards as she tries to wrestle with her sweet tone, but it is less sure than it had been before. The smile upon her lips is not as pronounced as is typical of her, but rather tight. “I did not mean to offend, I only…”

Her lips open once more after she trails off, but no sound escapes them. It brings Cregan pause.

“You desire me, that is what you are telling me?” Cregan feels the need to lower his voice, to take some of the gruff edge from it. He does not understand why.

It takes all that Lady Tyrell has to not jerk back. She takes a slow breath, eyes still not able to meet Cregan’s directly as she settles to stare at the dark fabric of his clothing. It takes her a heartbeat to pull the words out. “I only wished to express my favoring of you.”

It is a quiet phrase, and it does not seem to want to come out of her mouth. Like she had reached into her throat and pulled it out reluctantly with her fingers. Finally, her eyes slowly gaze up to meet his again.

“If you do not want it, I will take no offense, Lord Stark.” There is a silence that falls between them, in which Cregan should very well tell her that he wants no part in her scheming and manipulating and court games. But he finds his throat rather dry and instead says nothing. 

Taking this as the end to their exchange, Lady Tyrell presents him a curtsy that is not as precise as her last had been, and takes her leave from his presence. 

She knows that her steps are slightly too fast, echoing in rapid succession of each other as her shoes click down the halls. The fabric of her dress has been gripped in her hands so that she can move with greater ease, her knuckles almost white. 

Cregan stares after her for a moment, left with far too much to think upon. He had seen a fragment of something genuine, although he could not discern its nature, and he imagines she is leading him slowly towards the thing that she wants. And if she is feigning desire, aside from whatever instinctive and primal tension that drips from their every exchange, then Cregan feels with almost certainty that it is marriage she seeks. To be the Lady of Winterfell and secure an alliance between the Reach and the North. 

Ambitious, he can acknowledge that. He turns, retreating back down the hall towards his own chambers. Yet something unnamable tugs at the back of his mind.

As soon as her door closes behind her, Lady Tyrell lets out a strangled gasp, the sound clawing its way up her throat viciously. Her hands bring themselves to push down on her chest, but to her frustration, she finds them trembling. Shaking, her fingers pale, and she balls them into fists before ripping them forcefully through her hair, yanking out some pearls as she does so. They clatter to the floor and roll about beneath her feet.

The pacing that she begins is with the intention of calming her racing heart, and she bites at her lip deeply as she strides back and forth before the fireplace, opening and closing her hands. 

It had been some time since she had needed to charm a man like that alone. It was necessary, she knows this, as she wants his favor and now does not have the added hindrance of her honor and betrothal as a shield. She can no longer murmur reminders of her royal intended when a man draws too close to her space.

It is a shield she misses dearly, guilty at the thought of missing her late betrothed’s imposing shadow more than the boy himself.

And this is a dangerous game. She knows its nature well, which is why she does not like to play it. She has seen many women do it, and the consequences of when it goes awry. Cregan Stark is a stranger to her. 

A stranger of great importance, a stranger she is attracted to, but a stranger nonetheless. Her eyes remain downcast to the fire, lost in the warm depths. There is no light in her eyes.

[grnpurplgrmln]

with this new version of bluza that we got, i feel like i have to talk about the lyric "da se nagledam lepote te" (and also maybe the entirety of the last verse bc it drives me crazy)

for starters, it is such a romantic lyric i CANNOT get over it

no english translation can do it justice, the closest i can think of off the top of my head is "so i can soak up that beauty", but even that's not quite right

nagledati is a very specific type of verb (idk what the actual name for it would be cause i don't think it's a svršeni verb?? could be wrong idk grammar was never my strong suit)

it comes from the verb gledati (to look) and the prefix na-

the prefix na- gives it a sort of full quality. najesti (na- + jesti (to eat)) would mean that you've eaten so much that you're now full and can't eat anymore. nahodati (na- + hodati (to walk)) would mean that you've walked so much that you're now tired and can't walk anymore etc etc.

now, nagledati, in the context of looking at the person you're in love with, specifically their beauty AND the additional context that you're going to have to be away from them, for an undetermined amount of time?

looking at your lover so closely and so focused, so you can remember their every wrinkle, every blemish, every freckle, every twinkle in their eyes as they stare at you with the same love you feel for them, just in case you start to miss them, because you know you will, your heart would never let you fool yourself into thinking otherwise?

devastating, i want more of it

as i've stated earlier, this whole ending verse just trips me up so bad, in the best way possible

"ne palite još svetla" "don't turn on the lights yet"

"još samo jedan tren" "just one more moment"

"da se nagledam lepote te" "so i can really take in that beauty"

"ne palite još svetla" "don't turn on the lights yet"

"ne prizivajte dan" "don't summon the day"

"spasite me, smislite neki plan" "save me, think up some plan"

"ako svane sunce" "if the sun rises"

"ostat ću sam" "i'll be left alone"

it's so tragically romantic that it makes my heart break.

one thing i noticed here though, are the lyrics "ne palite još svetla" and "spasite me, smislite neki plan" mostly because they're in plural

now, i think it's probably just because that's the closest serbian has to gender neutral pronouns*, but i also think it's interesting to think of bojan, as the "protagonist" of the song, pleading the world to stop so he could get more time with his lover, a moment of selfishness

and the way the rest of the song sets up this almost domestic feeling "soba nam je mala"/"our room is small", which could also be translated to "the room is too small for us" as in "this room is far too small for our love, to handle us"

and i just... how can you not love this song...

additional notes:

* i'm an idiot, i just remembered that singular imperative exists and is also gender neutral so the lyric could have been "spasi me, smisli neki plan" but it's not so the whole protagonist talking to the world stuff might have been the intended purpose

[mxtxfanatic]

Wei Wuxian, Morality, and the False Justice/Revenge Dichotomy

A key feature that drew me into Wei Wuxian's character is that while he is moral, he is not an unconditional pacifist. He will always do the right thing first and foremost without a care for how others will view him, because his morality is not dictated by vanity or reputation:

[Wei Wuxian said] "...But, let the self judge the right and the wrong, let others decide to praise or to blame, let gains and losses remain uncommented on. I, too, know what I should and shouldn’t do...."

—Chapt. 75: Distance, exr

However, that doesn't mean that he will accept just any treatment towards him. Wei Wuxian is the absolute last person to just lay down to be trampled underfoot by his adversaries:

If he were Chang Ping, he wouldn’t have cared how prominent or powerful the LanlingJin Sect was, or how much glory the road ahead offered him, and he wouldn’t have let the matter go. Instead, he would’ve went to the dungeons on his own, cut Xue Yang up so that he was nothing more than a puddle of flesh on the ground, and summoned his soul back to repeat the process to the point that he regretted ever being born in this world. But, not everyone was like him, preferring to perish together with his enemy.

—Chapt. 30: Dew, exr

The scene inside of the supervision office was more than horrifying. Within the courtyard, corpses lay everywhere. Not only there, the bushes, hallways, fences, and even roofs were piled up with corpses. All of the corpses wore sun robes. They were disciples of the Wen Sect.

—Chapt. 61: Evil, exr

He returns the suffering dealt to him by his enemies back 100 fold, but after he has gotten his revenge, he is able to move on peacefully, which is why he holds no grudges towards the Wen remnants once the Sunshot Campaign against the QishanWen concludes and even encourages Wen Ning's corpse to seek revenge against his murderers. Mianmian actually explains it best:

The woman seemed as if she was scared. She was even more careful, “No... I don’t mean anything more. There’s no need to be so agitated, everyone. I just feel that the words ‘killing indiscriminately’ isn’t really suitable.” Someone else spat, “How is it unsuitable? Wei WuXian has been killing indiscriminately ever since the Sunshot Campaign. Can you disprove this?” The woman tried hard to protest, “The Sunshot Campaign is a battlefield. In the battlefield, would it mean that everyone is killing indiscriminately? Let’s consider this as it stands. I really don’t think it’s right to say that he killed indiscriminately. After all, there is a reason. If the inspectors really abused the prisoners and killed Wen Ning, it wouldn’t be called killing indiscriminately anymore, but rather revenge...”

—Chapt. 73: Recklessness, exr

Seeing a protagonist that believes in "an eye for an eye" without being labeled as bad or "morally gray" by the narrative for refusing to turn the other cheek, who also knows how not to take it too far and stray out of my personal morals, has been such a breath of fresh air. It is also very validating to see a work of fiction so concerned with the subject of oppression and marginalization that doesn't frame violence and vengeance as antithetical to moral righteousness and justice. Because what is "justice" without restitution? And is it truly restitution if the option to avenge oneself of an unconscionable wrong is denied based on the false equivalency of being "just as bad as" your own oppressors' actions? Because the truth is that in most cases, violence is the only route to liberation, and sometimes, revenge is the only way to make possible the release of your resentments, lest the unaddressed wrong keep you stagnant in your malcontent. I am glad that Wei Wuxian serves as a model for this particular lesson.

[callsigns-haze]

Oh, How She's Changed...

Pairing: Acotar x reader Warnings: Contains mature themes, including violence, romance, and adult situations. Summary: YN, the immortal descendant of gods, reunites with her friends Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel at a lavish gathering in the Night Court's grand ballroom. As they reminisce about past adventures and observe the antics of other courtiers, they marvel at YN's transformation from an innocent girl into a captivating woman. However, their reunion is cut short when one of YN's guards arrives to escort her away, leaving Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel with lingering thoughts and a sense of longing as they watch her depart into the night.

As the evening sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, golden hue across the Night Court's palace, YN, the immortal descendant of gods, found herself ensconced in a lavish chamber. Intricate tapestries adorned the walls, depicting scenes of ancient battles and celestial beings, while flickering candles bathed the room in a soft, ethereal glow. At the heart of the chamber, YN stood surrounded by the opulent splendour of her surroundings, her gaze drawn to the figures of Mor and Amren bustling around her.

Mor, her fiery locks cascading in loose waves around her shoulders, moved with a grace born of centuries of battle and camaraderie. Dressed in elegant attire befitting her station as a high-ranking member of the Night Court, she approached YN with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "Well, YN," she said, her voice carrying a note of playful anticipation, "are you ready to grace the fae with your divine presence tonight?"

YN, radiant in her own right, adorned in garments woven from the finest silks and adorned with jewels that shimmered like stars, offered Mor a warm smile. "I hope I can do justice to the legacy of my ancestors," she replied, her voice infused with a hint of humility.

Meanwhile, Amren, the enigmatic being of ancient origins, moved with a fluidity that spoke of eons spent mastering the arcane arts. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned forth threads of celestial magic, weaving enchantments into the fabric of YN's gown. Each stitch pulsed with otherworldly energy, resonating with the divine power that flowed through YN's immortal veins.

"Fear not, YN," Amren reassured her, her voice a melodic echo of distant thunder, "with Mor's impeccable taste and my arcane prowess, you'll be the epitome of divine elegance."

Mor nodded in agreement, her gaze sweeping over YN with an approving smile. "And let's not forget your own innate charm and grace, YN," she added, her eyes alight with pride. "You were born for moments like these."

Grateful for their support and guidance, YN felt a surge of confidence coursing through her veins. "Thank you, both of you," she said, her voice filled with genuine warmth. "I'm grateful to have such wise counsel."

Amren's lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes glittering with ancient wisdom. "The honour is ours, YN," she replied, her voice carrying the weight of centuries past. "Now, let us ensure that you're prepared for whatever the night may hold."

But as YN caught her reflection in the polished mirror, something stirred within her. Gone was the innocent girl she had always been, replaced by a woman exuding an air of confidence and allure. With a subtle sway of her hips and a coy smile playing upon her lips, she realized that with this new look, she was ready for some spice.

And so, as she stepped out into the night, her heart brimming with anticipation, YN knew that she was not just a descendant of gods, but a force to be reckoned with—a goddess in her own right, ready to conquer whatever challenges lay ahead.

--

In the heart of the Night Court's grand ballroom, the air hummed with the vibrant energy of celebration. The room pulsated with music, the melodies weaving through the throng of fae dancers swirling gracefully across the floor. Amidst the lively festivities, three figures sat at a secluded table, their voices mingling with laughter and camaraderie.

Rhysand, the enigmatic High Lord of the Night Court, reclined in his seat with an easy grace, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. Beside him, Cassian and Azriel, his loyal companions and warriors of the Night Court, shared a toast, their laughter echoing through the hall.

"Another round, gentlemen?" Rhysand suggested, raising his glass in a playful salute.

Cassian grinned, clinking his glass against Rhysand's. "You read my mind, Rhys."

Azriel nodded in agreement, his usually stoic demeanor softened by the warmth of the moment. "To old friends and new beginnings," he said, his voice a low rumble that resonated with quiet strength.

As they sipped their drinks, their conversation turned to memories of times long past. They spoke of battles fought and victories won, of challenges overcome and bonds forged in the crucible of war. And yet, amidst the tales of triumph, there lingered a sense of longing—a yearning for something—or rather, someone—missing from their midst.

"I can't wait to see YN again," Cassian remarked, his eyes alight with anticipation. "It's been far too long since she graced us with her presence."

Rhysand nodded in agreement, a flicker of excitement dancing in his gaze. "Indeed. It will be interesting to see how she's changed over the years."

Azriel's expression softened with a hint of nostalgia. "She was always a force to be reckoned with," he said, his voice tinged with reverence. "I have no doubt that she's only grown stronger with time."

As they spoke of YN, the immortal descendant of gods, their voices filled with a mixture of fondness and admiration. Though separated by distance and time, their bond with her remained unbreakable—a testament to the enduring power of friendship and loyalty.

And so, amidst the revelry of the Night Court, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel raised their glasses once more, toasting to the promise of a long-awaited reunion—a moment that would soon bring together old friends and new beginnings in a celebration of life, love, and the enduring bonds that unite them all.

As the night wore on and the revelry reached its peak, the grand ballroom of the Night Court was alive with energy. Fae of all shapes and sizes danced in a whirl of vibrant colors and laughter, their movements reflecting the joy and freedom of the moment.

Amidst the swirling throng, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel found themselves drawn into the rhythm of the music, their spirits lifted by the infectious enthusiasm of the crowd. They moved with a fluid grace, their movements a testament to years of training and camaraderie.

As they danced, their thoughts inevitably turned to YN, the immortal descendant of gods they had long considered a dear friend. Memories of their past adventures together flooded their minds, filling them with a sense of nostalgia and longing.

"I remember the first time I met YN," Cassian reminisced, his voice tinged with fondness. "She was like a breath of fresh air—a ray of sunshine in the darkness."

Rhysand chuckled, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Yes, I recall that day well. She certainly knew how to make an entrance."

Azriel nodded in agreement, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. "She was always full of surprises. I have no doubt that tonight will be no different."

As they danced and laughed, their anticipation for YN's arrival grew with each passing moment. They imagined the joy of seeing her again, the warmth of her smile, and the strength of her spirit.

And so, amidst the music and merriment of the Night Court's grand celebration, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel continued to dance, their hearts filled with excitement and anticipation for the long-awaited reunion that awaited them. For in that moment, surrounded by friends and allies, they knew that no matter what the future held, they would face it together, united in their bond of friendship and shared experiences.

As the trio continued their animated conversation, a sudden interruption from behind caught them off guard. Before they could react, a voice, once familiar but now tinged with a newfound confidence, sliced through the air.

"Did I hear someone talking about me?" YN's voice teased, laced with amusement and a hint of mischief.

Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel froze mid-conversation, their heads snapping around to find the source of the interruption. And there, standing before them, was YN—transformed beyond recognition.

Gone was the innocent girl they remembered from years past. In her place stood a woman of breathtaking beauty and undeniable allure. Her hair cascaded in waves of midnight silk, framing a face that radiated with confidence and strength. Every movement she made exuded grace and poise, her eyes sparkling with a newfound fire that sent shivers down their spines.

For a moment, the trio could only stare in stunned silence, their minds struggling to reconcile the image before them with the memories of the girl they once knew. It took them a beat too long to realize that the innocent girl had blossomed into a captivating woman—a realization that nearly caused Azriel to choke on his drink.

Cassian was the first to recover, his trademark grin spreading across his face. "Well, well, well," he exclaimed, his voice filled with playful delight. "Look who decided to grace us with her presence."

Rhysand's eyes sparkled with amusement as he surveyed YN's transformation. "I must say, you clean up rather nicely, YN," he remarked, his tone teasing yet genuine.

Azriel, usually composed and reserved, found himself at a loss for words. He cleared his throat awkwardly, his cheeks flushing faintly as he struggled to regain his composure. "You... uh... look... stunning," he managed to stammer out, his voice barely above a whisper.

YN chuckled at their reactions, a knowing gleam dancing in her eyes. "Why, thank you, gentlemen," she replied, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "I must admit, it's been quite the journey."

As they exchanged pleasantries and caught up on lost time, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel couldn't help but marvel at the woman YN had become. And as they continued to bask in the warmth of her presence, they knew that this reunion would mark the beginning of a new chapter—one filled with excitement, adventure, and the enduring bond of friendship that had stood the test of time.

As Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN retreated to a secluded corner of the ballroom, their conversation took a more relaxed turn. Surrounded by the lively festivities of the Night Court, they observed the arrival of other lords and ladies with a mixture of amusement and mild skepticism.

Rhysand leaned against a pillar, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips as he surveyed the gathering crowd. "Ah, it seems the usual suspects have graced us with their presence," he remarked, his tone laced with a hint of sarcasm.

Cassian chuckled, his eyes scanning the room with a discerning gaze. "Indeed. I see Lord Tarquin has brought his entourage of sycophants," he observed, a bemused expression crossing his features.

Azriel's lips quirked into a wry smile as he watched the various courtiers mingling with practiced charm and false pretenses. "And let's not forget Lady Ianthe, fluttering about like a peacock in heat," he added, his voice dripping with dry humor.

YN, who had been quietly observing the scene, couldn't help but join in their laughter. "It's almost comical, isn't it?" she remarked, a mischievous glint dancing in her eyes. "All this posturing and preening for the sake of appearances."

As they continued to share in their amusement, their conversation turned to lighter topics—old memories, shared experiences, and the absurdities of fae society. They laughed and joked, their camaraderie growing stronger with each passing moment.

But amidst the laughter and light-hearted banter, there was an unspoken understanding—a recognition of the challenges they faced and the dangers that lurked in the shadows. And as they stood together, united in their bond of friendship and shared experiences, they knew that no matter what trials lay ahead, they would face them together, with strength, courage, and a healthy dose of laughter to see them through.

As Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN observed the arrivals, their conversation took on a slightly more critical tone. They couldn't help but exchange knowing glances and subtle nods of agreement as they assessed the behavior of the other lords and ladies.

"Look at Lord Beron," Rhysand remarked, his voice dripping with disdain as he gestured towards a particularly pompous nobleman. "Does he ever tire of hearing himself talk?"

Cassian snorted in amusement, his eyes following Rhysand's gesture. "I doubt it," he replied, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "He's too enamored with the sound of his own voice."

Azriel, ever the silent observer, watched with a keen eye as the various courtiers vied for attention and favor. "And what about Lord Eris?" he mused, his tone tinged with skepticism. "Does he ever tire of playing his little games?"

YN nodded in agreement, her gaze narrowing slightly as she observed Lord Eris' calculating smile. "He's always been one for manipulation and intrigue," she remarked, her voice tinged with a hint of disdain. "But I doubt he'll find much success here tonight."

As they continued to pass judgment on the behavior of their fellow courtiers, Rhysand, Cassian, Azriel, and YN found themselves sharing in a sense of camaraderie born of mutual understanding. They may have been outsiders in the eyes of some, but together, they formed a formidable alliance—one built on trust, loyalty, and a shared disdain for the superficiality and pretense that often permeated fae society.

And as they stood together, laughing and jesting in their secluded corner of the ballroom, they knew that no matter what challenges lay ahead, they would face them with unwavering resolve and the unbreakable bond of friendship that bound them together.

As the night wore on, the revelry continued to swell around them, but amidst the celebration, a hushed murmur reached YN's ears. Turning slightly, she saw one of her guards approaching, his demeanor serious and resolute.

Excusing herself from the conversation with Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel, YN turned to face her guard. His presence reminded her of the responsibilities that came with her divine lineage—the duties and obligations that often weighed heavily upon her shoulders.

With a nod of understanding, YN bid farewell to her companions, offering each of them a warm smile and a promise to meet again soon. Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel returned her smile, their expressions filled with a mixture of fondness and admiration.

As YN began to make her way towards the exit, the trio watched her go, their eyes following her with a mixture of awe and longing. It was impossible not to notice how she had changed—the way she carried herself with a newfound confidence, the subtle shift in her demeanor that spoke of experiences and challenges faced.

"She's grown into quite the remarkable woman, hasn't she?" Rhysand remarked, his voice tinged with a hint of pride.

Cassian nodded in agreement, his gaze never leaving YN's retreating figure. "Indeed. She's like a jewel—radiant and untouchable."

Azriel remained silent, his eyes fixed on YN with a depth of emotion that spoke volumes. He had always felt a special connection to her—a bond forged in the crucible of shared experiences and unspoken understanding. And as he watched her disappear into the night, a sense of longing stirred within him—a yearning to be by her side, to protect her and guide her through the challenges that lay ahead.

As YN disappeared from view, Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel turned back to the festivities, their thoughts lingering on the woman who had captured their hearts and inspired their admiration. For in that moment, they knew that no matter where their paths may lead, their bond with YN would remain unbreakable—a beacon of light in the darkness, guiding them through the trials and tribulations of the fae realm.

Tagging some:

@callsign-magnolia

@shanimallina87

@kmc1989

@djs8891

@hardballoonlove

@callsign-dexter

@mamachasesmayhem

@senawashere

@hookslove1592

@rosiahills22

[mydadleft471]

Stubborn

Summary: Messmer hurt his ankle and is confined to his bed for a week. His thoughts spiral when you, his darling husband, take care of him.

Spoilers for Elden Ring and SOTE. No warnings, just some fluff and Messmer's serpents being as needy as he is lmao.

This was a request from anonymous! I'll link the post with all their wonderful prompts here. Thank you for requesting and I hope I did you justice, hubby-anon!

As always, thank you for reading, liking, commenting, and reblogging! It never fails to make my day better! Enjoy! <3

Messmer had never been so humiliated yet happy in his whole life.

He blames his serpents for his misfortune. Instead of helping Messmer watch where he’s going, they were looking at you, per usual. He can’t necessarily blame them, you did look stunning. He had just gifted you a red cloak almost identical to his with his insignia on it, and you looked stunning in red. His husband, his beloved consort, was wearing his color and his insignia proudly. He couldn’t take his eye off of you either.

Unfortunately, that meant he was half-blind, and he stumbled over a table like a lovesick fool and sprained his ankle.

If it weren’t for your love and care, he believes he would’ve died right there from mortification. 

When you heard him fall, you rushed over to him immediately and tried to help him stand, which led to Messmer hissing out in pain when he put pressure on his right foot. You had thrown caution to the wind and told him to hold on, and suddenly, he was being hoisted into the air by his husband, who was much smaller than him. You didn’t know Messmer’s face could get so red. It would’ve been funny to you had your Lord not been injured. You carried him to your shared bed and immediately began poking and prodding, but you could tell he needed someone well-versed in healing.

After summoning one of his medics, you had (thankfully) made up a story about how you two were sparring and you knocked him off balance, causing him to twist his ankle uncomfortably. He was silently thanking whatever greater power gave him his husband in that moment.

His medic instructed Messmer to stay off his foot for a week at the very least and bound it tightly in wrappings to ensure everything would heal right. You jokingly told him that at least it wasn’t you who got hurt, as demigods heal much faster than humans. You would’ve been confined to your bed for a month, perhaps longer. He merely shook his head at that. He hated reminders of how frail you could be compared to him.

A few days had passed since he had initially hurt himself, and he was getting restless. You’d bring him books to keep his mind occupied or talk with him for hours. Your company was a welcome luxury during his time stuck in bed. But at night, sleep would evade him. He’d look down at your smaller frame curled into him, resting peacefully, and wonder. Though he loved your thorough attention and care, he grew uncomfortable being so indebted to you, more so than he already was. He knew he’d never be able to repay your kindness, but he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to try. It was during times like these where he’d endlessly take and take that he wondered why his darling husband had married him in the first place.

These thoughts had followed him well-after the sun came up. Perhaps you knew of them, as you always did. He found he could hide little from his perceptive consort.

“Hey,” you began, smoothing down a few strands of hair. “You’re much more handsome when you smile.”

His frown doesn’t budge.

As if infectious, a frown spreads onto your face. Messmer wants to kiss it away, but feels too horrendous to do so. “Do you need anything? Or are you in pain?” Your eyes widen in worry.

“I wish to get up.”

You place a hand on his chest, firm yet gentle. “It hasn’t been a week yet. I’m not letting you get up.”

“Have you any idea how humiliating it is to be carried around like a child?” His voice holds an edge to it and you flinch.

“You carry me around all the time and don’t seem to have an issue with it.”

“There’s a difference. I should be the one caring for thee. I should not be lying here, useless.”

“You’re injured, my love. Rest is necessary for you to heal. And I don’t mind caring for you at all.”

“Thou hast given so much for me. I wonder when I will cease to take from thee.” He doesn’t look at you, too ashamed.

“Husband, I made an oath to care for you when we married. We both did.” You sit down on the bed beside him. “This relationship isn’t one-sided, if that’s what you’re worried about. You do plenty for me.”

“Such as?”

“Well, for starters, you’ve given me a home. I’m safe, fed, and comfortable here. I have you, the love of my life, who makes me happy each and every day. Do you need me to keep going?”

He looks at you, his eye shimmering. The love of your life?

“No. I am terrified to take too much, to tip the scales too much towards myself, and lose thee altogether.” He admits in a shaky voice.

You cup his cheek and look at him with nothing but love in your eyes. “That will never happen, Messmer. I promise you.”

“I apologize for my endless anxieties.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” You give him a small kiss on his lips and he sighs. Smiling, you begin to move the covers off of Messmer.

“I’m going to check your ankle, okay?”

He nods at you.

Carefully, you move his leg so his ankle is dangling off the bed. Kneeling on the floor, you inspect his wrappings. They remain tight and you notice his foot isn’t swollen or splotched with bruising. You gently run your fingers over his skin and look at Messmer for any signs of pain. You see none, so you continue and unwrap his ankle. The bandages fall to the floor and you press your fingers into his muscles and tendons tenderly.

“Any pain?” You shoot him a worried glance.

“None, beloved.” He grins at you.

You continue to press along his foot, but there’s no sign of damage or pain. Messmer experimentally rolls his ankle around and you’re relieved to see that he can do so easily. He moves to put his foot on the floor as if to stand, but you stop him.

“Not until your medic clears you to walk.” He rolls his eye at you. One of his serpents nips at his ear and he swats at it.

“Bothersome pest. I shalt ne’er see the day in which they take my side.”

You chuckle and stand up. “Stay in bed. I’m going to fetch the medic.” 

You swiftly exit the room and begin descending the stairs. Guards bowed their heads and greeted you as you passed, and you gave them a curt nod and continued. Passing a few shades and scholars in the Keep, you wound the corner and knocked on the medic’s door. She opened the door and curtsied.

“Does Lord Messmer require me?”

You nod. “His ankle looks much better. There’s very little bruising and he can move it without pain.”

“And he is still wanting to get up and walk on his own?”

You lay a hand on your face and shake your head. “You have no idea.” She laughs. The servants of the Shadow Keep always found you easier to talk to than Messmer. He was kind and gentle, but they couldn’t see past his tall and intimidating facade. You, on the other hand, were the beloved consort who went out of their way to make others’ lives better, and for that, you were respected.

“I suppose I should go see him then.” She walks back into her room to grab her bag, tossing a few things inside, then closing it and rejoining you in the hallway.

“I don’t want you to tell him he can walk because he’s pouty.” You say as you walk together.

“Oh, never, my Lord. I am sure you’ll keep him in line, just as you always do.” She smiles at you.

“Of course. Someone has to.”

You reach your room and enter, half-expecting to see Messmer out of bed and walking around, but he has stuck to his word. He remains just as you left him, his serpents perched on his shoulder awaiting your return.

The medic bows. “Good morning, Lord Messmer. How are you feeling?”

“As my consort surely informed thee, I am in no pain.”

“I am glad to hear that. Allow me to ensure you are okay to walk.” Messmer nods his head and she walks over to him, kneeling to inspect his ankle.

You watch from the other side of the bed. Messmer looks unfazed as she touches his ankle. She moves his foot from side-to-side and prods at the skin. His serpents slither across the sheets and you pet them. They nuzzle into your touch and flick their tongues happily. Messmer shakes his head at their incessant need for attention.

The medic stands, grabbing her bag. “You seem to be fully healed, my Lord. You may walk, but try to limit yourself for another day or two.” She looks over at you. “And please, no sparring.”

“Thank you. I’ll make sure he listens.” Messmer shoots you a look.

She curtsies once more and you lead her to the door. The serpents try to coil around your arm to prevent you from leaving, but you slip out of their grasp and promise to return.

“As always, please let me know if you need my assistance.”

“I will, don’t worry.”

“If he sprains his ankle again, though, I might forbid him from walking altogether.” You both laugh. “Farewell, my Lord.”

She exits and closes the door behind her. You walk back over to the bed where the serpents are, unsurprisingly, waiting for you. They hiss in greeting as if they didn’t just see you.

“Needy things. Not unlike your master.” You smirk.

“Wilt thou help me stand?” He says, ignoring your comment.

You nod and make your way over to his side of the bed. You wrap his arm around your neck and slowly lift him. He gingerly places his foot on the ground and slowly applies more pressure to it.

“How do you feel?” You look up at him.

“Unsteady from not walking in days, but no pain, beloved.”

“Do you think you can walk around the room a few times?”

“I believe so.”

He begins to take a shaky step forward and you ensure he doesn’t fall or lose his balance. He leans on you as he begins to walk around the room. The first pass is a little sloppy and takes a few minutes, but you’re glad he’s pacing himself. The second time is easier, and by the third time you go around the room, he’s removed almost all his weight from you, but still holds onto you just in case. He looks happy.

You deposit him back onto the bed and hug him. He wraps his long arms around you and noses into your hair.

“Whatever is this for, husband?”

“Am I not allowed to hug you?” You tease.

“What a ridiculous notion.”

“I’m just happy you’re okay, is all.”

His heart flutters in his chest and he holds you tighter. His spiraling thoughts are quiet and the only thing he can think about is you. Your body pressed against his, your soft breathing, and the earthy smell of your hair. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve someone so caring and patient, but he will not take you for granted.

“I love thee, husband.” His voice is soft and tender, almost a whisper,

“And I you. Please don’t ever forget that.” You say into his chest.

“Thou wilt not allow me to with how thee cares for me.”

“Good.”

[cartoon-cass]

Comprehensive breakdown of MURDER DRONES - Episode 7: Mass Destruction

I saw a breakdown of this episode on youtube and it was just clearly rushed so I want to do this episode justice so here's my comprehensive breakdown.

New intro, look at them! They look so happy, that is not the case in the episode, to say the least. With how much rubber hosing this animation has I would not be surprised if this was done by Kevin Temmer Tunes with what he learned from amazing digital circus Edit: N was animated by Micah Preciado and Uzi by Zachary Preciado

Bad day to accidentally grab the wrong uniform, I do wonder where the actual Dr.Chambers was in all this. Wonder if it would have made a difference... probably not.

Not actually important but having the shadows of the claws that aren't actually there be the thing to interact with the world is fucking cool as hell. This whole scene is a cool twist on an exorcism with robots and science.

Like look at this, it's a pentagram magnet, a normal pentagram from my basic pop culture understanding it's meant to not only summon a demon but also keep them from leaving the circle. A strong magnet is so smart for this case as it's used to keep Nori in place, I mean it doesn't end up working in the end but it's the thought that counts.

It took my second watch of this episode to realize why the lights got turned on, it revealed the tentacles and claws but it's sun light, the same stuff that burns the Disassembly Drones and Uzi. It even has the same effect as in the end of Episode 4

Can I just say how extra it is making the USB a crucifix, I love it. Also I just notice that on the end of the crucifix the detailing is actually in the shape of a USB symbol, the details in this show is amazing, you can see all the love that went in to it.

This is probably the most terrifying way to hold these robots. I couldn't blame any of the robots for wanting to kill the human good god. Also Yeva playing Tetris, the game has a lot of ties to Russia so wonder if she spoke Russian too, she doesn't speak in this episode and not sure if we'll get more flashback with her so not sure if we will ever find out.

Not sure why Mitchell stop Yeva from entering the church but I like to think he thought Yeva was like a kid, look at him holding her hand in the scene before, and was trying to keep her save and knew something was off. That being said I'd love to hear what you think is his reasoning, sound off in the comments/reblogs.

Pulling back we can see Nori, specifically her core, looking at a crucifix comparing it to the USB crucifix in the video to see if it's the one with the patch, it's not, so she goes out for the hunt to see if she can find it.

Like daughter, like mother, honestly cool little details that lets us know what kind of character Nori is with the very little time we have with her. Drawing made presumably by her of herself as a human cat girl, twice, motor oil cans everywhere, a fricking ninja star, nightcore music, a anime statue that might be a reference to something but I have no clue, also magnets which have been used in the passed like drugs so that's um... something.

was originally just going to point out the funny little animation errors in this scene, as the paper goes through the Ipod and the crinkled paper is mirrored but then I wanted to check what was on the paper and...

It's a missing poster of all things? it uses the exact posters used in episode 3 it's probably just reusing assets but I thought it was a cool thing to point out.

Uzi bleeds blood in these scenes and it's not necessarily mentioned out loud, clearly something AS related, but there might be more to it, or it just looks cool.

This man is in some serious denial, but credit where credit is due, when "Tessa" tells N to stop he turns around, and when Uzi apologized for not being able to help he immediately apologized for Snapping at her. Also look at Tessa's little pointing, thought it was funny.

N: "We're not going to hurt you."

I can't blame Uzi for taking this the wrong way, he's clearly telling Tessa off but all Uzi hears is "hurt you", hence why she only parrots that part.

Thad: "Aaand you won't tell me why we're wandering around 'cause...?" Lizzy: "I'm a good friend, and secrets are blackmail. And it's not about football." Thad: "Okay. Does your secret friend want to know about football, or...?"

Anyone else wondering who Lizzy's good friend is? The only 2 characters we know are good friends with Lizzy are Doll and V. It's possible that through everything Doll sent a text to Lizzy asking her to do something but I feel like V just makes more sense. This does assume V made her way away from the sentinels, if I had to guess she's just a core at the moment which might be why she couldn't do it herself, no wings nor weapons as a core, also makes the blackmail line make more sense.

N: "I deserve this. I deserve this. I deserve this."

Baby girl NO! no you don't, your too hard on your self

That scream. That cut. *chef's kiss* perfect.

This scene just shows us why Uzi went towards the church. Also note when she's the most stressed her eye turns yellow so it does seem stress is the deciding factor whether she can be possessed.

V/AS: You know, you're one of the main reasons... [voice glitching] ...I wanted your team to retain your personalities.

This quote I think has some interesting implications, I mean it obviously confirms that the DD squad was influence by AS but it might also be why it keeps a bit of the personality of which ever host it's using.

This scene holy shit, the music, the lighting, the sound design and animation, that's how you do horror! You don't even need detailed gore, in fact most of it is just off screen. like look at the DD's off in the distance one catches the pilot of the helicopter mid air then they fight over it like hungry animals.

Ok so I hit the image limit and it's almost 1 in the morning so I'm gonna go to bed and continue this tomorrow

~to be continued~

[artemismoorea03]

DP x DC or Marvel: Come Back From The Dead

(Another that can fit either way. Could be Batfam, Justice League or Avengers)

Inspired by the song Zombie: Thorns (not yet fully released).

Summoning's weren't uncommon, something Phantom simply explained away again and again as "these spells just summon the nearest powerful ghost" which made sense to most of the team but to the few members who could actually read the fuckin' spells and symbols knew that it was probably wrong.

But the other option was almost scarier so letting the rest of the team believe Phantom rather than trying to explain that a teenager was the King of the Dead? That was probably easier.

Until it's no longer easy when one of the summoning's go wrong.

It actually works and not in the "Summon Phantom here and then get their asses kicked" but in the "Phantom ends up summoned, trapped, and exposed to something that he's apparently hella allergic to but never bothered mentioning to the rest of the team."

WHO EVEN HEARD OF BLOOD BLOSSOMS?! BECAUSE THE TEAM HADN'T!

By the time they arrive to pick up Phantom, realize the situation isn't like the other 30+ times the Team is too late. Phantom is nothing but a puddle of green and red and the summoners are celebrating. The team see's red. They fight and take down as many enemies as they can but then the puddle moves.

It starts with a hand shooting out of it.

Then another hand.

Then a head slowly forms, glowing green eyes shrouded in white hair and an annoyed scowl greets the enemies.

The summoners panic while the heroes are relieved their friend is alive.

"This isn't possible, we defeated you! This was made specifically to destroy ghosts and take down the King of the Dead - Pariah Dark!"

Phantom forms more and more, the ectoplasm and blood morphing into his body as he shakes his hands. "That was your mistake. You didn't summon, attack or 'take down' Pariah Dark. The one you took down is me."

The energy shifts in the room, every bit of light is sucked out of the room in a cold wave of unforgiving shadow as though the sun itself was devoured.

Phantom doesn't kill and that didn't change there but the summoners minds were full of nightmares for weeks. After that though the summoning's stopped.

"Why didn't the blood blossoms work on you?" One of the team asked.

"Halfa, remember?" Phantom would reply, flipping through a comic. "Any normal ghost would have been, it just hurt like a bitch and destabilized me but since my core wasn't damaged I was fine."

"What happens if they kill your human side though?" Another teammate asked as Phantom chuckled.

"You can't kill something that's technically already dead." Phantom said, "I might be down for a while but I would always come back from the 'dead'."

[soberpluto]

Tarot Tips: How to Spot Soul Connections

In my readings, these are the main give aways about spiritual relationships (soul-contracts). Mind that I am taking into account only upright positions.

Applicable to all types of soul contracts:

Cards falling in sequential order: there's an imminent plot to be fulfilled

Preponderance of Major Arcana: the relationship is entangled with universal forces that cannot be controlled by the parties involved

Paired King and Queens (the weaker pair is the Swords suit): high compatibility and resonance

If your reading contains 60% or more of each block of cards, take it as a clear indication of a soul tie

Soulmates:

Ace of Cups: genuine and abundant desire to love

2 of Cups: deep understanding, balance and closeness

6 of Cups: kindred spirits (a reunion from previous lives)

10 of Cups: this is your fairytale romance

The High Priestess: telepathic rapport and a soul bond

The Hierophant: faith in each other and spiritual connection

The Lovers: high chemistry and fated love (you stick like magnets)

The Wheel of Fortune: your encounter was destined

Temperance: you are divinely guided

The Star: a healing connection

The Sun: you light up each other, it's pure bliss

The World: they see you as the one or vice versa

Karmic Partners:

3 of Swords: this relationship will hurt AF

4 of Swords: your self-care will be neglected

5 of Swords: this relationship will feel like a war

6 of Swords: you need to heal from this and move on

5 of Cups: there will be grief, sorrow and loss

8 of Cups: please leave before it gets messier

Many Wands cards: there's a lot of attraction but little to no stability

Many Swords cards: many challenges around communication and understanding (watch out for 7 and 10 of swords, as they indicate cheating as a rule!)

Reversed court cards: please watch out for these, they can do a lot of damage

The High Priestess: there are many secrets and hidden forces around you two, it's highly important you listen to your intuition

Justice: you need to choose for your own good and do what's right, if not karma will repeat itself until you learn

Death: this relationship brings deep transformations through crisis

The Devil: toxicity is part of your union / you are badly co-dependent

The Tower: your world will crumble and turn upside down / you are fatally attracted to each other

The Moon: very strong connection, but one that triggers each's shadow side

Judgement: you need to learn from the past, take responsibility for your deeds and release karma. If they wronged you, they will pay.

Twin flames:

This is the most difficult to pinpoint accurately, but you will get a mix of Soulmate and Karmic Partner cards. Clear give aways are:

2 of Cups: unconditional love (even if the reading looks challenging)

4 of Wands: you are meant to reach union / 11:11

The Lovers: yin-yang principle, you are each other's counterpart

The Magician: you have manifested each other / the attraction you feel is more powerful than your separate wills

The High Priestess: you are connected in ways you cannot understand / the bond cannot be broken

The Empress + The Emperor: You are the divine femenine / divine masculine

Death: you will summon a new version of yourself after this encounter

The Devil: the intense feelings you trigger in each other can create havoc in your lives

The Tower: the universe will strike you by surprise and both will change each other views for good

The Moon + the Sun: the runner and chaser dynamic

The World: they are your "missing piece" and vice versa

🌟Intuition will ultimately tell you which is what, but I feel this is a pretty good starting point. 🌟

Thanks for reading! 😇

Written by @ soberpluto

Book readings here! https://starintuitivehealing.etsy.com

[iamthecomet]

Dear Comet, if you are still accepting prompts - Please - thrusts into your hands my fav rarepair - Cowbell/Aeon #20.

Ok, so like, I have barely written Cowbell, so I was worried about doing him justice, but the second I put these two together it all just...happened. I get it. They are just SO good together. YOU ARE SO RIGHT. Here's 700+ words of Aeon being so sweet to Cowbell (AS HE DESERVES).

Aeon spent his first few months topside unsure of Cowbell. Watching the older ghoul from afar. Fascinated by his outright refusal to even pretend to be human. Movements too fast, too sudden. They’ve gotten to know each other slowly. Aeon slipping into his orbit when he can. Walking next to him on their way to the gardens. Sitting next to each other at Mass. 

Aeon gathers bits and pieces. Finds Cowbell strangely secretive. Speaking in a rasping whisper most of the time. But Aeon loves his stories. Stories of his time on the road. Of his small moments on stage. Of the pit. Aeon hangs on every gravely word as Cowbell recounts. 

Aeon finds him easier to talk to than some of the other ghouls. The band ghouls especially. He knows he’s one of them now but that still doesn’t feel right. They feel like they’re on a pedestal above everyone else whether they want to be or not, and Aeon doesn’t know how to climb up to stand next to them–he doesn’t know if he wants to. 

“You never take your mask off,” Aeon observes, one warm spring day. They’re sitting in the center of Primo’s hedge maze. The fountain in the middle of the clearing bubbling away. The air smelling like lilacs and fresh tilled dirt. Cowbell sighs, slides his  finger over the sharp jaw of his mask. 

He has an older one–there are quite a  few ghouls around who still wear them. Mist, Omega, most of the working ghouls who were summoned during that era. Aeon knows Dew has one–has seen it on his bookshelf. He suspects Dew puts his old uniform on sometimes in an attempt to disappear. 

“Not a pretty sight, kid,” Cowbell huffs out, dropping his hand to lean back on it. To tilt his head up toward the sun like he can feel it on his face through all that metal. 

“I showed you mine,” Aeon offers, pointing to his own maskless face, his damaged left eye and the scars surrounding it. Cowbell turns his head to look at him. Aeon can see his eyes narrowing behind the mask, thought, maybe. Or he’s about to tell Aeon he doesn’t know what he’s talking about–that he can’t possibly understand. 

Instead, Cowbell sits up, he sighs, and takes his mask in both hands, lifts it. He settles it down on the grass between his knees and takes his time before he looks over at Aeon. It gives Aeon time to study his profile. The wild dark hair. A jawline, sharp like the one on the mask. Crooked noise, pale gray skin. One thin horn curving back over his skull, deadly sharp at the point. The other broken off near the base, rough and jagged. 

When Cowbell turns, Aeon gasps. He’s gorgeous. Scarred yes, but most ghouls are somewhere. His face made of sharp angles, cut glass. Eyes, lined with dark make-up, looking almost owlish, one glittering violet, the other vibrant amber. 

Aeon can’t help but touch him. Can’t stop himself from reaching out and cupping that razor sharp jaw in his palm to see if it will hurt him. But instead, what he gets is Cowbell leaning into that touch. Eyes fluttering closed, breath heaving out in a sigh. 

Aeon isn’t stupid. He knows what privilege he’s been given. Knows that Cowbell doesn’t let anyone touch him like this, see him like this. That he has been given a gift that almost no one else here has–to really see this ghoul for who he is. 

Aeon inches closer. Caresses Cowbell’s scarred cheek. Holds him. Studies him. He may never get this chance again–he wants to remember this. To commit every angle, every line, every scar to memory so he never forgets. 

“So pretty,” Aeon mumbles and Cowbell scoffs. Eyes cracking open. 

“Liar.” 

Aeon shakes his head. “Shut up and let me look at you.” 

Cowbell does, eyes still slitted open, watching Aeon’s face intently. 

“Can I?” Aeon asks–doesn’t really know what he’s asking for until Cowbell nods and he does it.  Leaning in to press gentle lips over the scar that bisects a dark eyebrow. And then another over a silverly line cutting across the bridge of his noses. And then his lips are grazing over the scars on Cowbell’s cheek. 

The older ghoul chuckles. “What are you going to do, kiss them all?”

“Maybe.” Aeon mutters, lips dragging over Cowbell’s temple. 

“We’ll be here all day.” 

Aeon hums, unbothered not pulling away. Tasting salt and metal on Cowbell’s skin. “Good.” 

[mother-above]

The Golden Warrior | Chapter 1

Azriel x Reader

Summary: To you, love was a poison that slowly killed. It was something that could make the strongest of warriors and leaders weak and vulnerable. You had successfully evaded romance and relationships for a century until the day you realized it had been plaguing you from within.

Chapters: 1/?

Warnings: 18+, violence, and swearing

*masterlist*

A/N: Hello! This is my first ever ACOTAR fic and I hope I do Azriel and the other characters justice! This fic will follow the majority of the plotline from the 2nd and 3rd books but please note that I took some creative liberties in some parts and shifted from the plotline in the 5th book.

The towering mountains looked especially magnificent against the blue and pink-hued sky. Crisp morning air whipped around you as you whirled past the horizon, your white and gold-tipped wings beating hard and straightening into a glide. This was always the best part of your day, flying just before the sun rose.

You craved the sun’s soft warmth and glow against your skin. Keeping your eyes on the brightening horizon, you focused on the breeze that swept the scent of the wisteria, lilac, and honeysuckle that adorned the Palace. The beautiful home made from sunstone sprawled below you, its bridges, and towers glowing as it waits to be sun-kissed. You couldn’t believe you managed to protect the Palace for 49 years, a pang of guilt flowed through as your fae eyes focused on a rebuilding village miles away.

You were hoping to catch the sunrise today but then two sharp whistles came from somewhere within the castle. With a groan and a roll of your eye, you dove down with blinding speed. With a swoop, you land gracefully on Thesan’s office balcony. You slammed his door open and glared at the High Lord who perched on his desk.

“Did you just fucking whistle to get my attention? Like one of your birds? A simple shout of my name would have sufficed!” you snapped.

Thesan smirked, “Well it worked, didn’t it?”

You grabbed a decorative trinket from a nearby shelf and hurled it at him, “What are you doing up so early? I thought you and Callon would still be rolling in bed at this hour.”

He crumpled a piece of paper and threw it straight onto your forehead. "I may be your cousin but I'm still the High Lord. You can't say things like that!"

With a mischievous smirk, you sat on the couch and clasped your hands pleadingly. With the grace of a seasoned actor, you softened your features and gave him the most innocent look you could muster. "Forgive me, High Lord of Dawn, I was just wondering why you summoned me. You know I don’t like to be disturbed during sunrise."

Thesan wanted to scold you for being so dramatic, but he couldn't, not when you were his little cousin whom he loved fiercely. "Rhysand and his courtiers are coming for a visit in two days.” He held up a hand and gave you a pointed look. “Before you ask, I don't know how long they'll stay here."

All traces of your playfulness disappeared; the face of a hardened warrior took over your features. You jumped up and stalked over to Thesan, your power, and energy rolling off your body.

“Those evil little Night Court brutes are coming to the Palace. Why?”

Thesan looked at you coolly, deciding he was going to approach this cautiously when he noticed the absence of the usual jewels around your neck. “Rhysand wants to come by and have diplomatic meetings and spend some leisure time here in Dawn Court. I have no doubt he’s here for something else, but we’ll find out eventually, and please, when the guests are here, wear your siphons and glamour them if you want. I can’t have them catching a whiff of what you are.”

You grumbled as you waved a hand over your neck to magically place the necklace on yourself. The necklace had three sapphires strung together by a chain of diamonds, it was gifted to you by Thesan when you reached maturity. The largest jewel sat in the middle flanked by two slightly smaller counterparts. It was beautiful and fit for Dawn Court’s royal family, but it also had a purpose. It helped you contain and conceal some of your magic, you could even see your power thrumming underneath it if you looked close enough.

With your overwhelming magic mostly contained, Thesan lets out a breath and finally felt comfortable enough to bark out orders to you. He wanted you to check on all the wards, secure the vaults that held ancient artifacts, and make sure all the guards and servants were briefed about the Night Court. Even though your guests weren’t due for a couple of days, Thesan reminded you to keep your wings hidden just in case they popped by early. Only the Peregryn’s and a select few people in your court knew that you were half High Fae and half Peregryn. And even fewer people knew the extent of your power. Thesan had them partake in an unbreakable vow to never reveal your true nature until the day you decide to reveal yourself.

By the end of the day, everyone in the Palace was exhausted from their efforts to prepare themselves for the upcoming visitors. Callon, who was Thesan’s lover and the Captain of the Peregryn legion was pissed that your cousin had invited them to Dawn. He was running himself ragged and snapping at you the entire day to make sure the troops were ready and planned all the security around the Palace and surrounding villages. Callon was annoying you so much that you had to remind him that he was outranked by you and to watch his tone. He apologized and you just scoffed, he was, unfortunately, a man in love, and it made him a nervous mess. You expected better from the captain of the Peregryn legions.

The sun had set and you, Thesan, and Callon had settled down by the fireplace and shared multiple bottles of wine. They were laughing at a joke Callon made when you heard a faint whisper in the corner of the room. You look and see nothing; you were about to ignore it when another whisper was heard. You looked at the pair, but they were in deep conversation, and no one seemed to have heard it, you looked back again and saw these dark wisps moving from the corner and going past the half-open door. You excused yourself and quickly slipped past the doors keeping the black wisps in your sight. They were no longer whispering but moving faster through the halls, you keep your footsteps light hoping you wouldn’t startle whatever this was. You stealthily followed it around the castle, and it seemed to be looking for something, it wasn’t until it reached the doors of the vault was when you did something. Not exactly sure what to do, you quickly leaned down and wafted the dark wisps with your hand. It spasmed and you swear it was almost startled to see you, it lingered for a few more seconds before disappearing into thin air.

“Mother above, what in the hell was that?” you said out loud.

With the Night Court arriving in a few days, there was no way this wasn’t their doing. Bursting into a run, you screamed Thesan’s name as you bounded up the stairs hoping it gave Thesan and Callon enough time to separate themselves from whatever they were doing in the few minutes they were left alone. You opened the door and Thesan was already standing, his eyes big at the sound of your panicked voice.

“What?” his eyes looked for any bodily injuries. “What is it?”

“I saw these black wisps moving around the Palace. They were trying to go into the vault before I stopped them,” you said.

Thesan frowned and then his jaw clenched, something he did when was he aggravated. “That must be the Shadowsinger, it’s incredibly annoying that he got through the wards. We'll have to strengthen them now. I’ll take the first half of the Palace and you reinforce the wards in the back.”

You nodded and hurriedly made your way to the south side of the Palace. Shadowsingers were extremely rare, and courts coveted them because they were the best spymasters. People could train for years but nothing would ever beat a shadowsinger. Until now, you honestly thought they were this tall tale they’d tell kids to scare them into behaving. You began to feel uneasy, was the shadowsinger in the Palace or was it just his shadows that he snuck in? Either way, you hated that this person was able to infiltrate your court.

***

The day of their visit finally arrived, and you peered in the mirror making sure you looked perfect, you wanted to make a good impression, this was the first time they’d meet you. Your lavender silk dress hung over your body perfectly, you gave a little spin in front of a mirror and examined the low back. Just in case anything turned hostile, your wings will have no obstructions if you ever need it. You waved a hand over your sapphires and glamoured them to be invisible, they were glowing brighter these days and it was easier to hide them than explain why your sapphires are more than jewels. Reaching for a mauve-colored bottle, you reapplied the color onto your lips and considered dusting blush on your cheeks, but you decided against it.

You lifted your hand and tenderly brushed the scars on the right side of your face. There were two parallel jagged lines, one nicked the bottom of your eyebrow and dragged up to your hairline. The other ran across the top of your cheekbone. You weren’t thrilled that it was so prominent, but you never thought to hide it. It was usually the first thing people noticed when they looked at you, the day Thesan was freed from Under the Mountain, he tried to get rid of it but even the High Lord of Healing couldn’t do anything about it. You could glamour it to make it disappear, but you wanted it there. It was a reminder of what had happened when Amarantha ruled Prythian, of what you endured and did for the people of Dawn Court.

Smoothing down your dress one more time, you left your bedroom suite and walked to the entrance to join Thesan and Callon. You were admiring the wisteria that hung along the arches above when the air shifted. Darkness filled the air for a split second then the High Lord of Night and two other courtiers appeared in front of you. The High Lord’s power hits your senses before you could even get a good look at their faces, your eyes are drawn to the violet-eyed male standing in the middle. Your eyes shift to the female on his right and then swept to the even taller winged male on his left. The High Lord was attractive, his feline smile already told you what kind of man he would be. What caught your attention was the winged male, he was the most attractive person you had ever set eyes on. His hazel eyes flickered to meet yours and it took everything in you not to gasp, you didn’t expect his gaze to be so scrutinizing. Rhysand gives a delicate nod to Thesan and his courtiers bow to your High Lord. Thesan returns the nod as you and Callon bow respectfully to the Lord of Night.

Glowing gold and moving with grace, your cousin opened his arms and swept it to gesture to the Palace. “Welcome, Rhysand. Allow me to introduce you to my cousin who happens to be my 2nd in Command.”

A friendly smile graced your lips as you allowed your golden glow to shine through, it was more subdued than Thesan, but you preferred it that way. “Welcome to Dawn Court, High Lord Rhysand. I look forward to getting to know you and your courtiers.”

Rhysand took your hand and pressed a kiss on top, a customary gesture that was a sign of respect to females in your court. The smile he gave you had you fighting a blush that threatened to bleed onto your cheeks. “Please, call me Rhys.”

Thesan introduces Callon and like the tough Captain he was, his greeting was reserved as he sized up the males and female. Rhysand introduced Feyre Cursebreaker and you threw all propriety out the window when you grabbed her hands and thanked her for bringing your cousin back.

Rhysand then gestured to the tall muscular man next to him, “This is Azriel, my spymaster.”

It was then when you noticed the small wisps of shadows that surrounded the tall Illyrian, you did your best not to gawk at them. He was dressed in all-black formal wear, his clothes just as refined as Rhysand and Feyre. The only difference was he was the one strapped with a weapon, from the looks of it something special and much older than you. That handsome man was the shadowsinger, probably the same one that was spying on you a few days before. You’re not sure if he or his shadows know it was you that disrupted its spying, but he showed no signs of recognition as he stepped forward to kiss your hand. You noticed the significant scarring on the tops of his hands and fingers, averting your gaze, you focused on the way his lips pressed onto your skin.

“Lady Y/n,” he said, his voice low and heavenly.

While he wasn’t as outspoken or flirtatious as his High Lord, his hazel eyes held yours in curiosity. It was only broken when Thesan clapped his hands and gestured for everyone to enter the Palace and have lunch before the diplomatic talks started. You fell into step with Feyre who stared up at the wonder of the Palace. Her eyes traveled from the hanging flowers to the bridges and towers of the estate. She tells you that it was beautiful which filled your heart with pride. This was your home, a place that you bled and fought for.

Thesan had used magic to make the dining table smaller, he preferred his meals with guests to be more intimate. It also made it easier to read them if they were in proximity. Thesan and you sat at the ends, a reminder to Rhysand that he was still in your court, and if this bothered him, he said nothing. Callon and Feyre sat by your cousin which left you flanked by Rhysand and Azriel. The Palace conjured chairs suitable for wings for Callon and Azriel, the spymaster nodded in appreciation. With a wave of Thesan’s hand, a feast appears on the table and the smell of roast beef and stir-fried vegetables filled the air. Everyone eagerly dug into the food and compliments from Rhysand had your cousin smiling in thanks.

Casual conversation flowed and it surprised you, this was not what you thought Rhysand and his courtiers were going to act like. You were expecting arrogant bastards, and you bluntly told that to Rhysand’s face. Thesan almost choked on his wine and Callon’s face blanched. Rhysand’s violet eyes widened in surprise, no one had ever spoken to the High Lord of Night like that. Azriel and Feyre looked at you in shock, they couldn’t tell if you meant to be rude or if you were genuinely curious. You innocently looked at Rhysand waiting for a response, no one at the table breathed until a deep and genuine laughter came from Death Incarnate himself. A beat later, the sound of chuckles comes from Azriel.

“In the spirit of keeping up our alliance, I thought it’d be beneficial if we acted more like ourselves instead of the ‘arrogant bastards’ we could be,” said Rhysand, an amused smile on his face.

Content with his answer, you smiled at him and continued to eat completely oblivious to the situation.

Thesan took a deep breath and faced Rhysand. “While my cousin is a strong and competent second-in-command, she has the horrible habit of saying the first thing that comes into her mind. I profusely apologize for her comments, she has much to learn as a courtier. My cousin hasn’t had a lot of experience in court.”

You stopped chewing when you realized how rude your comment sounded. You apologized and Rhysand brushed it off, he told you that it was a smart observation to make. As mortified as Thesan was and embarrassed you were, that conversation ended up making the atmosphere more casual and friendly. You discover that Rhysand is an overconfident flirt, but his advances aren’t disgusting, you find yourself enjoying the banter. It also helped that the true object of his affection was the woman next to him. You had an inkling of his feelings after observing how he looked at her. Feyre was curious and asked many questions, and Thesan answered them patiently. It was Azriel whom you kept stealing glances at, he looked like the quiet type, but his silence was unnerving. His shadows were calm, but you could swear they twitched every time you looked at them.

You were about to ask Azriel about Illyrians, you had never met an Illyrian and you were so curious to ask about his species of faerie when Feyre cleared her throat.

“Were you there Under the Mountain?” asked Feyre. “I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”

Rhysand and Azriel leaned in, they’ve been to Dawn Court a couple of times over the past centuries, but they have never seen or heard of you. They were surprised when Thesan introduced you as his second in command, they were usually well updated knowing who held power in the other courts.

“My cousin,” you said as you shot a pointed look at him. “Is like an overprotective mother hen. He didn’t let me make a lot of public appearances in court until I was about 50 years old and whenever we had visitors, he made sure I was off somewhere doing some training or working with the other healers.”

Feyre’s brow furrowed as she looked at Thesan.

“While suffocating at the time, it was what saved me from being trapped Under the Mountain. I had broken my arm during training the day Amarantha invited the High Lords to that party. I didn’t feel like being a courtier, so I didn’t heal myself and used that as an excuse to stay behind. Only a few faeries knew of my existence, so Amarantha and her people never noticed my absence. The day she drugged the High Lords and used the spell, Thesan used the last of his power to put wards up to protect the Palace and send me a note with instructions,” you said as your eyes clouded thinking of the past 5 decades. “I went crazy the first year, the pressure of protecting the estate and the villages around it was too much. Everyone I knew and trusted was Under the Mountain, I was alone for a while. I raged when I realized I couldn’t leave the court for fear something might happen to it while I was gone trying to get my family back.”

You weren’t mad that he was protective when you were young. Yes, it was isolating but you understood why Thesan did what he did. If they knew the true extent of your power, you’d probably have the biggest target on your back. You sipped your wine and looked at your cousin as his remorseful brown eyes stared back at you. The day Thesan winnowed back to the Palace, you held each other and wept. He promised to never leave you alone again.

Azriel studied your side profile as you talked, he took in every curve of your nose, cheekbones, and lips. You were the female that caught his shadows, they practically ran to him in distress because they’d never been detected while spying before. All his shadows told him was it was a female who discovered them, they failed to mention it was Thesan’s 2nd. His eyes traced the jagged scars that did nothing to hinder your elegance. Your beauty rivaled Morrigan, he even dared to think that you may be more alluring than her. He watched you as you told your story, he could see your radiance dim as if the mere thought of the last 49 years had drained you. He could see the pain in your eyes, it was the same thing he felt when Rhys locked them in Velaris. At least Azriel had his family with him, from the looks of it, those closest to you were trapped Under the Mountain.  

“I understand how you feel,” said Azriel.

All heads turned to him; it was the second time he had spoken out loud since arriving in Dawn Court. Amused, Rhys watched his brother lean closer to you as if he was captivated.

“Something similar happened to me, I can’t imagine not having your family there to help you.” He looked at the permanent marks on your skin. “Your scar—was that from one of Amarantha’s creatures?”

A low warning growl comes from Callon as he glared at the Illyrian, how dare he mention your scar. Rhysand almost spit out his food, Azriel was the politest and most well-mannered person in his inner circle. Azriel hated talking about his scars, yet he blatantly asked you about yours, he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Rhys looked at Thesan to see if he was mad, but your cousin was just as curious as how you would respond.

Your fingers went up to trace the jagged lines, and the memory of torn flesh resurfaced. “This happened about 20 years ago, a Bogge was slaughtering faeries in a village. I’m no High Lord but I was the next best thing for my people. I went and hunted for it or-- at least tried to drive it away but I barely made it out alive, if I wasn’t a gifted healer myself, the scarring would be worse.”

“How did you escape it?” asked Feyre, her mouth opened in shock after hearing that you encountered the wretched monster by yourself.

This was when you had to lie and tell half-truths to protect your other identity. You looked at Thesan and he gave a discreet nod.

“The Golden Warrior came just in time to drag me up into the air. Bogge can’t fly so it wasn’t able to reach me. With teamwork and a miracle from the Cauldron, we were able to kill it,” you replied.

Azriel looked at Rhysand, but his brother was already on it. “We’ve heard about your warrior-- the Golden Warrior,” said Rhysand. “We heard this faerie had deadly power, the ability to bring down armies onto its knees.”

All playfulness was gone from Rhysand’s handsome face, his demeanor was all business. Callon bristled at the change in mood, but the High Lord of Dawn just frowned.

Thesan tutted in annoyance. “You could have waited until tonight’s drinks to bring up politics, Rhysand.” He waved his hand, and the table cleared, and tea and pastries filled the space. “Please continue.”

“We were just curious about the Golden Warrior; his power is something that could be useful in the future.”

Thesan squinted at Rhysand. “You know something I don’t know… what is it? You wouldn’t be visiting me if something big had happened. Is Amara…” he trailed off; he didn’t like saying her name. Especially after he watched her kill one of his Peregryn courtiers and plucked the white feathers of their wings. The next day, she wore a feathered dress to dinner just to watch Thesan and his court try to hide their fury.

“The evil queen is dead and will stay dead,” reassured Rhysand. “I just wanted to visit my allies and make sure everything between our courts is okay. If something or somebody like Amarantha pops up again, I want to know if we can depend on Dawn Court to ally your foot soldiers and Peregryn legions.”

Thesan frowned again and looked at Callon who gave him a small nod. You bit down on your tongue before you could say something that would contradict Thesan in front of the visitors. Your cousin does not like conflict, he tried to avoid it at all costs. He looks at each of his guests who look at him expectedly, his gaze reached yours and you glowed a little brighter as if to beg him to say the right thing.

“My court knows how I feel about war but… historically, you know I’ve always been loyal to the solar courts,” said Thesan.

You exhaled in relief and Rhysand’s relaxed demeanor returned. It wasn’t a clear “yes”, but it was much better than outright rejection. After the table was cleared, you offered a tour of the Palace and its grounds. Feyre gladly accepted and Thesan let you take the lead as you walked through the Palace. Staff, visiting nobles, and citizens both winged and non-winged, waved at your group and you waved back. The Night Court would nod and keep quiet, curious to see how your court was run. They decided that while Dawn Court was a little bit more formal, they saw that they had good relations with their people, and parts of the Palace were open for the public to enjoy, such as the library and gardens.

Rhysand was itching to talk about politics so after leading them to Thesan’s office, they walked in before Feyre insisted you finish the tour while the males talked about some stupid hunt, they had attended in Autumn Court a century ago. The Lord of Night gave her a look of longing before everyone parted ways, it was subtle, but you noticed it. Once the doors were shut and you walked a good distance from the door, you looked at Feyre with a sly grin.

“Is there something going on with Rhysand?” you asked casually.

She looked at you in shock, “No! What makes you say that?”

You made your way to show her the bedroom suites her court would be staying at.

“I can feel the attraction, you’re both constantly looking at each other.”

Feyre’s cheeks turned red. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. He’s the most insufferable person I know, I’m not sure how you can handle all that flirting. Besides, I should be the one asking about your obvious interest in Azriel.”

It was your turn to look stunned as Feyre smirked. “I’ve never met a shadowsinger before, it’s hard not to stare at the shadows moving around him. It’s-- unnerving.” You weren’t lying, it was one of the most peculiar things you’ve seen in your life. It didn’t help that he was the most beautiful male you’d ever seen, but his shadow’s movements and his piercing gaze were hard to ignore. You were still mad he got through the wards, you were hoping to talk to catch him off guard one day and ask him about his spying.

You find yourself getting along with the Cursebreaker even though you knew there were ulterior motives for her visit to Dawn Court. The rest of the day was spent roaming around the castle due to Feyre’s “curiosity”, it was tiring but it was better that you were present instead of Feyre going off by herself. It was becoming obvious that they were letting Feyre look for something and used their meeting with Thesan as a distraction.

***

After dinner, you found yourself feeling extremely restless once everyone retired to their rooms. Wrapping a shawl around your shoulders, you walked out of your chambers for a stroll around the Palace. You were making your way to one of the courtyards when you heard a whisper to your right. Looking at the spot, you see this wisp of a shadow and you huffed in annoyance.

“Show yourself,” you commanded, eyes focusing on a spot in the shadows. You couldn’t see anything, but you swear there was a figure somewhere in all that darkness.

Azriel froze, no one ever saw him when he was in the shadows, he was supposed to be undetectable. The High Lord of Night himself couldn’t see Azriel unless the shadowsinger made himself known but somehow, you saw him. Quickly removing the surprised look on his face, Azriel stepped out of his shadows and was met with your calculating gaze. He couldn’t help but think how beautiful you looked under the moonlight.

“Why were you following me?” Your voice was cold, and all traces of the gracious and friendly host were gone.

As smoothly as he could, Azriel said, “I wasn’t following you, I couldn’t sleep so I decided to go for a walk.” Azriel wanted to cringe, he was capable of infiltrating courts, but he was stumbling.

Detecting the blatant lie, your eyebrow quirked up unimpressed by the spymaster’s skills. You sized him up and then jerked your head towards some cushioned seating in the courtyard. “Come and have tea with me, I need to talk to you,” you said already walking away from him.

His footsteps followed you and it was only until he adjusted his wings and settled down on the cushioned seat that you conjured tea and cookies from the kitchen. You prepared your drink in silence, the both of you eyeing each other in anticipation of who would break the silence. He seemed content to sit there, so you sipped some tea before clearing your throat.

“What is the night court doing here, Azriel? Between you and me, I don’t think the three of you came here to talk about alliances and politics.”

His hazel eyes met yours, he didn’t think you’d be so blunt. “What makes you think that?”

“Your shadows,” you said watching the wisps dance behind him. “I caught them looking around the palace, what were you doing?”

He inhaled slowly, keeping his handsome face neutral. “I was just doing reconnaissance. Making sure no surprises were waiting for us in Dawn Court.”

A muscle in your jaw ticked, “My cousin may be stubborn at times, but we have always been loyal to the solar courts. After 50 years of chaos, how would we even have the time or energy to launch an assault on the Night Court? I don’t know how it is back at Night but we’re still rebuilding most of our cities.”

Azriel’s shadows swarmed around him as he guiltily thought about Velaris. How protected his city was from Amarantha’s wrath. “I was just doing my job. I apologize on behalf of Rhysand; we didn’t mean to offend you.”

“I think you were looking for something the other night,” you continued. “You know…you guys can just talk to us, right?”

The shadowsinger shifted in his seat, squirming under your attentive gaze. “We think Dawn Court is hiding something powerful,” he admitted before realizing what he said.

Azriel wanted to slam his head on the table, he couldn’t believe he just said that. He cursed himself for revealing any information, Rhysand had lectured Feyre on how to deflect questions, who knew the spymaster was the one to need a refresher? He looked at you with this renewed sense of realization, there was something different about you. Were you a siren? A witch? He was the best spymaster in all of Prythian and here he was spouting whatever came into his head. Even if this was his first time meeting you, Azriel felt as if he could trust Dawn Court’s second-in-command.

Fuck. They know we’re hiding something, you thought. Stirring more honey into your tea, you forced yourself to be nonchalant.

“That’s quite an accusation, shadowsinger,” you said coolly. “Something that you shouldn’t repeat in front of Thesan if you want a solid answer for our allyship.”

 This must have been the strangest situation you’ve been in in a while. You and Azriel stared at each other, gazes burning, waiting to see who would reveal their secrets. The visible scars on his hands and wings told you that he has been a warrior his entire life. He was probably the most dangerous faerie you’ve ever met. This male had infiltrated the Palace and spied on you, that act alone should have pissed you off and made you hostile towards the male, but it didn’t. You were only intrigued by the handsome faerie in front of you.

Azriel smirked, “So, you’re not denying that Dawn Court is hiding something?” His voice came out in a taunting purr.

You think about the glamoured sapphires around your neck and the wings that hide beneath your skin, of that dark power that you have. This was why Thesan spent decades hiding you, so other courts and faeries weren’t going to be sneaking around and finding ways to utilize your gifts.

With a bored huff, you lean on the palm of your hand. “We have nothing to hide, Azriel. I think everyone’s just a little on edge after what happened Under the Mountain, scared that someone like Amarantha is going to wreak havoc on our frail country. We’re all feeling vulnerable which is why I think we should call it a night. Politics should be discussed with everyone present in a meeting room, not over tea and cookies.”

The shadowsinger doesn’t respond for fear he would say something stupid again. You had found a way to graciously end what could have been an ally-ending conversation and he was thankful. Who knows what he could have said, he might have even revealed the existence of Velaris or irritated Dawn Court’s 2nd to the point of no return. He stood up and gave you a courteous bow, but not without taking one last look at the strangely magnetic fae with the sharp eyes.

This is going to be an interesting few days you thought as Azriel walked away.

As he sauntered toward the direction of the guest suites, he could swear he could feel your gaze sear through his back. He wished he knew if it was curiosity or if you were imagining driving a knife through his back.

[avrelia]

Until the sun is dead I shall have hope. Change is always possible, for the better, or for the worse. I can't discount the possibilities for worse changes, but I can live, raise my kids, care for my parents, help my communities, and be the citizen I want to be.

For the past two months I served on jury duty. Strangely enough I left with a new appreciation of people. We were a strange group of semi-randomly selected US citizens of all persuasions and walks of life, yet we managed to reach an unanimous verdict in a complicated case. People try to avoid being a juror at all cost, and it is understandable - your life is being taken over, you need to re-schedule, make arrangements, put things on hold, lose income maybe... but it is an important duty and important power that we have - to listen to the evidence with an open mind and talk to people trying to discover the truth and bring about the justice.

Consider it is your duty, your part in helping this world to be a better place, when you are summoned.

volunteer in the community, if you have time and strength.

do not despair

Things got harder. But better future is not impossible. We will survive to fight another day.

[anglers1mp]

Guess what guys

Ok ok so yeah I know I haven’t worked on my DpxDc or really anything, but my SuperPhantom crossover(which expect a chapter from the DpxDc in about a week- I was taking personal leave. Why? Because I had several seizures lately and that’s horrible.

Anyway onto the news!!

So another DpxDc crossover BUT

-Ghost King Danny Fenton

-Time core Danny

-Sun Core Dan

-Star Core Dani

-Clockwork is Chronos(or Kronos whichever you prefer)

-Danny, Dani, and Dan are the biological children of Clockwork

-Except maybe Dani she’s Danny’s daughter

-DpxDc(Plot: So The Gods on Olympus notice that Chronos is missing and all that’s in its place is a green sticky note that said ‘went out’ Cause that makes total sense?? Anyway they tell their magicians and something something Diana and Captain Marvel(Billy Batson) and they tell the Justice league who tells John Constantine. He says to summon a friendly entity enter Danny. So they summon Danny tell him about their woes and worries for the world Danny gives them the stare. And goes,” I freed him. He’s my dad” AND BOOM DRAMA)