#lucien having skulls would go hard

[ideasarestuckinmyhead]

Honestly I feel like a tattoo sleeve would look good on Seth, Auron, and Lucien.

Charlie gives me random tattoos he got bc he was high.

Al has cute pink ones on him that you need to get him undressed to find.

Finn would get ones that would have meaning.

Faust would get moon tattos and those y2k star ones.

(More in tags)

[acourtofthought]

"Elain handled the darkness of the Cauldron therefore she can handle Azriel's darkness."

Elain handled the Cauldron because she's brave and has strength of character. Using that to try to prove that she'd be fine with Azriel's cruelty darkness is so far off the mark it's wild.

Feyre, married to the High Lord of the NC - a HL who who misted people at Amarantha’s behest, who stole from someone he would have liked to have as a friend, who shamed Feyre and called her human trash (all in order to protect her and Velaris), when she herself brought down an entire court filled with innocent people to take out her revenge on Tamlin, even struggled around Az at first.

Currently struggles with Az's actions:

The author herself said she'd be scared of Az:

She wrote Rhys saying Az's stare sometimes scares the shit out of him.

Azriel created a symphony of pain for his victims, he's not being forced into taking things to that sort of extreme. That's not someone just doing what they have to do, that's someone taking things well beyond necessity.

Yet somehow Elain, who in the authors own words has a different sort of strength than the sisters who belong in the NC, who is gentle and kind and is bothered by cruelty would be the one who would fully embrace Azriel's darkness?

Elain who begged Feyre not to hurt Graysen, tried to get her to swear to leave Graysen unharmed? That Elain would be fine seeing what Az does to unarmed prisoners?

This Elain?

This Elain?

There is a HUGE difference between bravery and saving someone from death versus someone who methodically carries out torture and defaults to it as their go to method of handling enemies.

Elain used TT to stop the King from harming her loved one. Az uses TT to carve people up and draw out their suffering. They are NOT the same.

In SF, the author drew attention to the fact that Nesta, not Feyre or Elain, was the Archeron to see Az:

I also saw this person claiming that if Elain can handle Lucien's "darkness", she can handle Az's, that Lucien is a loose canon compared to Az.

Lucien:

Az:

It's true, Az barely says much at all but it's not because he's more controlled than Lucien, it's because he's always on a razors edge of losing his temper and rarely opens up about himself to anyone which is proven in the text.

I've hit my limit in added images but there are multiple examples of Lucien reigning in his words and temper.

Does Lucien at times snark at others? Definitely and that's why he's the best. But to say he's the loose canon is a joke.

There's zero shame in loving Az, to get a thrill from his darkness and rage, but if someone truly thinks Lucien and Az are written similarly than I have to say they don't truly understand how Sarah has written these characters at all.

And to those who say if Elain can't handle Az's darkness than neither can Gwyn..... These are the same people who claim she's so forgettable they barely remembered her in SF yet now they're claiming they know what she can and can't handle. When you get down to it Gwyn is a new character and that means Sarah can further develop her personality any way she wants in the next books compared to the many books and interviews telling us who Elain is.

Considering Gwyn already said this, however:

“Did you know shields weighed so much? I certainly didn’t. No wonder the Valkyries learned to use them as weapons as deadly as their swords.” She sighed. “They’d have been quite a sight in battle: cracking open enemy skulls with blows from their shields, throwing them to knock an opponent onto their backs before skewering them …” She rubbed her shoulder again. “Their arm muscles must have been as hard as steel.”

I don't think she'll have any trouble with Az's brutality at all.

[achaotichuman]

Tamlin/Lucien Vanserra

Lucien is an avid reader. His room is filled to the brim with books upon books upon books. His nightstand is piled up with his favourite stories. He reads a wide variety of genres. Lucien can be found sitting by his window, fire crackling and filling his room with the smokey scents of Autumn. His hair unbound and spilling freely down his back and shoulders, shirt half unbuttoned and jacket thrown onto his bed. Book open in his hands, completely enthralled in the story he’s reading.

Lucien loved to read and always has. However, after Amarantha stole his eye, for a time he couldn’t read. The sound of his new prosthetic eye clicking as he scanned the words was near unbearable, many a night he wished he had simply never taken the prosthetic. He wished he could read without the sound of metal whirring and clicking echoing through his skull. He wished to claw it out and throw it against the wall.

One night, Tamlin found Lucien in the drawing room, biting his bottom lip so hard he began to draw blood. A book clenched tightly in his hands, his knuckles near white. Tamlin watched silently from the doorway as Lucien swallowed hard, desperately trying to focus on the words on the page and not the sound of his new eye.

A moment passed and Lucien gave up, he muffled a scream with his palm and threw the book to the floor. Tamlin noted the title, it was one of Lucien favourite childhood stories.

Lucien fell limp against the lounge he was sitting in. Head tipping back to stare at the ceiling, tears of frustration running from his good eye.

Tamlin felt a strong of heart pull tightly. He knocked on the threshold and Lucien straightened immediately, quickly brushing the tears from his eye and attempting to appear fine.

“You’re awake.” Lucien stated, it was quite late. The moon was high in the sky, the only light coming from the crackling fire, casting an amber glow over his skin, darkening his red hair. He looked like fire incarnate.

“I was getting a drink of water.” Tamlin answered honestly, “What are you doing?”

Lucien for the first time in his damn life, struggled to come up with a lie to explain this. The urge the cover his weaknesses took over. He opened and closed his mouth, then looked away from Tamlin, unable to face him. Lucien stared at the fire, and simply shrugged.

Tamlin took in the sight of his friend. Scars still raw and red, no longer bleeding so profusely anymore thankfully. But every now and again, some parts would bleed. Tamlin didn’t miss the way Lucien’s eyes would dull, he didn’t miss the way he would become downcast whenever his face bled. Like he had gone back to the day it happened.

Staring down at the book thrown on the floor, Tamlin finally understood why his Lucien hadn’t been reading.

But looking at Lucien staring so resolutely away from Tamlin, the High lord knew Lucien wasn’t going to explain why he was sitting down here, or why he appeared so frustrated. So Tamlin took matters into his own hands.

Walking further into the room. Tamlin swept up the book discarded on the floor. He flipped through it, appearing to be interested as if he hadn’t seen Lucien read it a thousand times over. Through the top of his vision he could spy Lucien tilting his gaze back to Tamlin, curiosity outweighing his want to look away.

“This is a good book.” Tamlin stated. A plan crept into the edges of his mind, he hoped to the mother Lucien would let him enact it.

Lucien swallowed hard, his fingers drifting to his face as if he couldn’t stop them, “It is.” His voice was strained just ever so slightly.

Tamlin wasn’t good at figuring out emotions, it was half of the reason he was a truly terrible courtier.

But he knew Lucien. Lucien knew him. They knew each other.

And Lucien was not acting like Lucien. Tamlin needed to fix that. Or at least soothe him.

Maybe he should have handled it with more delicacy. Maybe he should’ve jumped around the subject more. Maybe he should’ve at least attempted to take care of the situation like a true High lord.

But Tamlin never claimed to be made for this lifestyle. So he simply handled it like Tamlin would. Like what Lucien’s friend would.

Tamlin crossed the distance between him and Lucien. He sat down beside his friend and made himself comfortable. Lucien blinked at him, surprise contorting his features.

Tamlin lazily threw an arm over the back of lounge, pressing himself gently against Lucien. He flipped to the first page and with a tone of slight interest, he said, “I would quite like to read this.”

“So read it.” Lucien said, trying to mask the pain in his voice with indifference.

Tamlin simply glanced over the first sentences and said, “that’s what I’m going to do, and you’re going to listen.”

Lucien opened his mouth but before he could come up with a retort, Tamlin began to read.

It was an adventure. Simple and easy to follow. Lucien didn’t know Tamlin had read it before, after being curious as to what it was that he friend found so enthralling. But Tamlin was still more than happy to read it as though it were the first time.

Night came and went. Soon enough dawn peeked on the horizon and they were on the last page.

At some point Lucien and Tamlin had manoeuvrerend themselves. Now Lucien was resting his head in Tamlin’s lap and Tamlin was twirling those red locks in his fingers as he read.

All too soon the story was over, and Tamlin found himself looking down at Lucien.

His eyes are closed, and his scars were red and on display. But even if they marred his face, even if their presence no longer meant he was completely symmetrical. His face was soft, the tension gone. He had a smile on his face. And when he looked up at Tamlin once the last sentences were spoken, it was with pure love.

Lucien loved to read. It was such an important part of him.

Tamlin didn’t enjoy it nearly as much.

But that look on his Lucien’s face was more than enough to light up Tamlin’s world.

For Lucien Tamlin would read an entire library.

Tonight though, Lucien just needed him to read his favourite book. Tonight, that was enough.

‘Shit, I love you.’ Was the only thought Tamlin had as Lucien sat up and pressed his warm soft lips to his.

[eudaimonia83]

So, I love Gwyn. Adore her. She’s one of the few characters in this series that I love unequivocally. (See also: Lucien, Emerie, Cressida.) And I think her kindness, along with her past trauma, would eventually put her at odds with the NC and its current (abhorrent) power structure.

So that’s what I wrote into this particular excerpt: Gwyn’s moral dilemma, after she hears a particular confession from Elain. And her conflict between her need for safety and the idea that it might be an illusion. (Plus some Gwynriel goodness, bc let’s have everyone be fundamentally different from Feysand from here on out, plz and thank you. 😁)

——————————

“Something happened,” [Azriel] said. It was not a question, but Gwyn shook her head anyway.

“It’s not important.” She sheathed her blade and turned to go. “I have early service tomorrow…”

“Don’t lie,” he murmured, and the shadows chittered again in concern.

“I’m not lying,” she hissed, anger flaring briefly that he’d caught it so easily.

The flash of hazel beneath a raised eyebrow. “You attend the dawnsong services twice a week, same as the other postulants, and you’ve already done your two or you wouldn’t come up here in the small time you have to sleep.” He crossed his arms, siphons gleaming blue as they caught the moonlight; a flash of cobalt among black, ocean moving restlessly beneath stars. “What ails you, Berdara?”

“Have you been spying on me?” she shot back. “How do you know that?”

“I am the spymaster,” he said, supremely cool and self-assured. A stab of annoyance pierced her, smack in the middle of her chest. Oh? He knew everything, did he? Smug bastard.

“Then you must already know, so why should I tell you?” she challenged him.

The silence that fell chafed at her, enough that she looked up at him — the opposite of what she’d meant to do. He was watching her from beneath hooded eyes, his features blurring into shadow, but she could feel his gaze almost as a physical touch. Seeking, seeking, always wanting to know more…

“What happened is the least important part of an event,” he finally said. Halting. Thoughtful. “The reaction of those involved — that’s the missing half of any story. And that tale can only come from the people themselves. From you…yourself.”

Was he…unsure? The confident shadowsinger? A tremor swept through her. She thought that would’ve made her feel triumphant, but it turned to dust in her mouth even as it happened. And the dust became a pulse of nausea, like the world was falling away.

…Can I tell you a secret?

Elain’s words throbbed in her skull. She put her hands shakily up to her head, her vision blurring, and swayed on the spot.

He was beside her in an instant. One arm swept around her shoulder, the other at her elbow. “Sit down, Berdara.”

It didn’t even occur to her to argue. She bent her knees, intending to slowly sink to the sand floor, but they buckled beneath her and she flopped down with a huff of air. He knelt next to her, wings spread as if to shield them both.

She breathed slowly, swallowing hard, until her vision slowly cleared. Fuck. What would he think of her now? A weak-willed child who couldn’t even bear what was inside her own mind?

He knelt, and she sat, the quiet of the night growing ever colder as midnight ticked by. Until their breath clouded around them. Until finally, finally, in a small and tired voice, she said, “I’m well. I should go to bed.”

“Don’t lie,” he said, the faintest note of amusement tilting his inflection up at the end. It was like hearing him smile. “You’ve not been well for months, Berdara. What happened today to make it worse?”

She shook her head.

A pause. “Was it what I said? Just now?” He shifted away slightly. “I only intended to correct your form —“

She laughed, a burst of a bubble inside her chest. Of course not, how could he be so stupid? “No, shadowsinger. It wasn’t you.”

The secret was so close, wanting so badly to spill out. She couldn’t. She’d promised Elain she wouldn’t. But the weight of it…that Elain didn’t feel protected, the beloved sister of the High Lady. Nesta hadn’t either; and she had been right, they’d sent her to the House of Wind and failed to protect any of them when they were kidnapped into the Blood Rite. Emerie hadn’t either, and her lovely wings were still mangled, breaking Gwyn’s heart every time she stretched them awkwardly. The thought that yet another vulnerable person didn’t feel safe here…that the leaders, who had guaranteed her safety and the safety of the other priestesses, might not have their best interests at heart…it felt like rocks, strapped to her chest and shoulders. Like opening a door to a familiar hallway but finding only open air beyond, and falling helplessly. If Elain went searching outside for answers because she felt she couldn’t trust Rhys and Feyre, how would any of them be able to trust them?

The shadows swirled gently around her, nudging her hair, swirling around her forearms. At least Azriel was here. He was an agent of the Night Court; but was he not also her friend?

She clenched her hands in the sand. Everything was falling away…

[yellowmagicalgirl]

The Distance of Worlds (Makes A Heart Grow Fonder)

It's been ten years since Thora was in Eberron, and she never expected to see a familiar face ever again.

Happy holidays, @pirate-melody! Remember when you told me about your friend isekai-ing Marianne into his campaign as his character's mediocre mentor? Well, despite knowing nothing about the campaign, I decided to add some Pink Lightning to its premise as a gift for you. I hope you like this!

To literally anyone else: please go read the Shardrunners series. IDK how much sense this will make without prior knowledge.

AO3

It had been ten years, but there were still mornings where Thora expected to wake up in her room in the Tarkanan manor in Sharn, with the morning color change of the everbright lanterlight streaming through her window and highlighting the white orchids on her windowsill. The room she woke up in didn't get morning light, outside lanterns or otherwise. Its primary decoration was a detailed map of an ocean one would never find in all of Eberron or even its planes.

She missed her old room. She missed House Tarkanan, and everyone in it except for Lucien and his most loyal supporters. She even supposed she missed that frustrating tiefling who had gifted those orchids, even though Thora had never intended to grow sentimental about the people she was using to do her dirty work. She had mostly rebuilt her life in a slightly different line of criminal work, but she couldn't replace the people.

Thora blinked away her infelicity, crawled out of bed, and began to get ready. Hard work had gotten her to her precarious position, and she didn't have time to grieve what she had lost.

She took out the loose braids she slept in. After she had bathed, she would tightly braid the right half of her hair against her skull. It was the best way of mimicking the hairstyle she had worn in Sharn without having someone take a razor to her head as they questioned her judgement aloud.

When she had first come to this world, her breastplate had been ruined by a crossbow bolt to the chest. No one understood the meaning of an aberrant dragonmark, which meant that it was useless for intimidation purposes. People were intimidated by the scar on her chest, though. It should have killed her instantly.

It probably had, but no one in this world knew that. Thora could use it to her advantage, leave it on display and let them think she could walk off mortal wounds.

Thora pulled on her current armor, a corset made of dragonhide that covered her midriff but not her chest. Dragons were more common in this world than Eberron, patrolling the seas, raiding ships, and feasting on sailors. One had recently cost Thora one of the ships in her sector of the smuggling network. She had rivals who were eager to take her place if she slipped up. Most of them were more willing to knock her down a peg and become her superior than they were to put a knife in her back or unleash a death curse on the city, but Thora wasn't going to take any chances.

It was late afternoon when a messenger knocked on her door. He was human, young, fifteen at the latest? Then again, it wouldn't have been the first time Thora would have underestimated someone's age.

"Missus Tarkanan?"

"Yes?" Thora answered, terseness creeping into her voice. She wasn't married. The last time she had been close enough to even consider marrying someone had been before the mark had manifested, and that was several lifetimes ago. After that, she had had painfully few suitors. Plus, there was frustrating something about the way this world assumed she had to be married or at least a widow at her age.

"Torth Whiteforce used his one message to contact you." The messanger handed over a piece of parchment, folded in thirds and sealed with a wax stamp bearing the symbol of the local lord. Thora took the parchment, sparing a glance to the letterhead bearing the address of the sheriff's office. Dammit.

Torth worked for her, technically. Or more specifically, he took jobs for the smuggling network, and as the leader of this branch she was his handler. Recently he had gotten himself mixed up with an adventuring party, and now he was in jail with the rest of them. Thora really needed to find a way to get an informant within the sheriff's office, so that she could get them to do her work for her. It hadn't been as difficult back in Sharn, but in Sharn the Watch had been working for criminals for centuries. The port city of Keelster was younger and answered more directly to the local lord. It was harder to find someone to corrupt. Likewise, it had been easy for Thora to put herself in the good graces of Watch Commander Silaena Cazal because Silaena's mother bore an aberrant mark. Here, Thora was an outsider. There were no Dark Lanterns or dragonmarked houses after her. Even though this world had its own vigilante called the Phoenix, the Phoenix wasn't after Thora like the one in Sharn had been.

Here, Thora was an outsider, and there were no immediate enemies or easy alliances to be made.

Thora had been working all day, and she needed to stretch her legs. Maybe she would pay off Torth's bail in exchange for a favor. Maybe she would let him rot there because he was no longer useful. She hoped that Torth would choose to be useful, for both of their sakes.

He didn't, because Thora hadn't been able to offer the choice. Torth's party's bail had been paid already by someone else, according to the clerk. Lovely. She had just wasted her time walking here.

"You're better than this," said a voice that made Thora stop in her tracks.

"Yeah, but we needed that information," said a second voice, sounding like a young man from the neighboring province.

"And yet you still got caught picking the lock. Even I wouldn't have gotten caught breaking and entering until after I had entered," the first voice argued. It was the accent that drew Thora in. Maybe Thora just didn't know every accent there was in this world, but she could've sworn the woman's accent was that of a Thrane.

A very specific Thrane.

As Thora drew closer, she was able to confirm her suspicions. She was older, and a Lichtenburg figure peaked out from under her collar, but the sight of her was unmistakable. "Marianne?"

The tiefling jumped as she finally registered Thora's presence. Her eyes widened in shock as she looked Thora up and down, eyes lingering on the scar on Thora's chest before her face flushed and she looked elsewhere. "Thora? You, I saw, you... you changed your hair."

Suddenly self-conscious, Thora raised her hand to touch the braids on the side of her head. "Well, so did you."

Marianne had grown her hair out. Soft curls framed her face quite nicely. "Yeah, well, I bet you haven't met anyone in the past ten years who know what an undercut is, either."

Ten years. She had been here for ten years, too, and from the sound of it Marianne had also spent the last ten years convinced that she was the only one who had come to this world from Eberron. It was just the two of them.

The two of them, and perhaps the Phoenix, who had managed to avoid crossing paths with either of them. Thora didn't know how many Lucien and Krootag had killed after she and Marianne had died. But that was an issue for later.

For now, though...

"You. You got caught picking a lock?"

Torth rolled his eyes. "No, I wasn't picking the lock. Linace was."

Thora fixed her subordinate with a look that he began to squirm under. "You were still caught. I wonder what else you would get caught doing."

Even Marianne had made her way through a manor full of assassins, thieves, and former spies before being caught snooping. Kids these days just didn't know how to sneak around.

"How long have you been dealing with them?" Marianne asked, vaguely gesturing with the group.

"Torth has been doing jobs for me for a couple years. You?"

"I've been trying to mentor Linace for the past ten."

Thora shot Marianne a commiserating grimace. "Let me buy you a drink." And then, so no one would get the wrong idea, "Do not read into that."

What was she thinking? It had been ten years. Surely even Marianne knew how to get over a crush over the course of a decade. The child with a crush had died in Eberron.

But that didn't mean that Thora wasn't interested in getting to know the new Marianne. She just hoped that Torth wouldn't go starting any rumors.

~

A/N: Yes I did just flip the switch and make Thora the pining one, even if she refuses to admit it. She's lonely, and she thinks too highly of Marianne's ability to get over a crush.

Thora has one of those viking braided fake undercut hairstyles after the timeskip. Marianne has the hairstyle I imagined her having before I saw the reddit post that showed her true appearance.

[blue-manuscript]

The Lucien Project: Day 12

Hi everybody! To keep myself accountable this NaNoWriMo season, I am going to be posting my word count on here every day, with an excerpt from the draft novel! I intended on having two writing sessions, but never got around to round two. Still not as caught up as I want to be, but the plan is to get as far as I can with my writing session tonight! Without further ado, a snippet from yesterday’s session. 

11/12/2022: 1,360 words written

It must have been morning when Lucien was startled awake; the room he was in seemed brighter - he wondered if there was a window behind his bed. He didn’t think he had looked behind him before, but when he tried to turn his head, a tug on his cheeks reminded him that he was hooked up to wires, restricting his movements. He remembered groggily his thrilling evening the night before, and thought perhaps it might be better if he pretended to be asleep a little while longer… It seemed to have worked the night before, Frames leaving him alone to rest through the night. This time, however, Frames was not being quiet. 

“Thank god you’re here, did you get my message?” he said. 

“I did, thank you Dr. Poole for your update,” a woman responded. Lucien wondered if it was the same woman as the night before, but he certainly didn’t remember the voice being one of the Scientists he was more familiar with. “Tell me everything you know.”

“Well, it isn’t a lot, ma’am, but I think he sends telepathic images,” Frames said back to the woman. “I was trying to… you know, do what you asked, and instead of his life flashing before his eyes like all the stories… it was like there was something flashing behind my eyes. I think there was a deer, there were bats, and if I think hard enough, they remind me of the spooky things they watched in some of the movies the kids had seen. It was enough to frighten me.”

The woman laughed at him before she spoke again. Lucien winced. It was the same woman as last night, with the voice that seemed to grow louder and louder with each opening of her mouth. “You, Dr. Poole, afraid of a child?” The woman continued with her laughter. She cleared her throat, apparently attempting to get serious. “Can you tell me anything else?”

Frames was quiet for a minute before responding. “Not really.” The room was silent for more than a few moments, and Lucien wondered if they had finally finished with their conversation. Frames broke the silence the moment Lucien considered letting his guard down. “I think maybe those pictures are the only way that he can speak. Haven’t heard him say any words, even if he can scream like a damn banshee.”

“Language, Dr. Poole, and before you protest - you, by now, should know how to tell when a child is simply pretending to be asleep,” the woman responded sternly, her voice much louder now. Lucien had the instinct that she was trying to get his attention somehow, with her change in inflection. He kept his eyes shut, wishing he had the guts and the strength to put his hands over his ears to block the droning in his skull, caused by the Scientist’s words racking back and forth in his brain. 

He heard footsteps, but not heavy like Frames’s feet. The footsteps were louder, echoing in the halls, making the sound he’d only heard from the shoes of women. She was coming closer to him, he realized, and he didn’t know what to do. Who was she? What were her intentions? Was she there to hurt him, too?

Lucien felt a hand on his shoulder, and he resisted the urge to flinch away from the cold touch. The hand started to shake him, and Lucien knew he had to open his eyes. He turned his head slowly, feigning the grogginess in his head from when he awoke minutes ago. He looked slowly up into the woman’s eyes, finding them so dark brown that they were nearly black. He’d never seen such dark eyes before. The woman smiled at him, but the smile, too, was unkind as her void-like eyes. He shivered. He would call her Dark.

[galvanizedfriend]

Klaroline Fic: The Wolf III [07/21]

Summary: Months after their return to New Orleans, Klaus and Caroline try to settle into a semblance of normalcy, while Elijah struggles to forgive his brother's sins. But a mysterious prophecy that foretells the downfall of the Mikaelson family brings them all together in a war that will reopen ancient wounds and see each of the siblings doomed: one by friend, one by foe and one by family.

[It's The Originals Season 3, but Caroline had Klaus' baby, now she's a vampire and they are back in New Orleans after a stint in Mystic Falls. It's mostly about Klaroline, obviously.]

--

S03E07 The Other Girl in New Orleans ✨ Caroline comes to with the world spinning madly around her.

Bile rises to the back of her throat, a taste in her mouth like something died inside of her, nausea wrecking her stomach. She scrunches her eyes shut, trying to still the freaking merry-go-round on crack in her head, but it only seems to make it worse.

Everything hurts. There isn't an inch of skin on her body that doesn't ache or burn as though someone has set it on fire from the inside. Her muscles are screaming, heavy all over, but when she tries to move, she realizes she can't. Something's restraining her.

It's a minute before she can actually pry her eyes open. She finds clarity is not much better than the darkness, the light piercing through her irises like a hot poker. The world's tilted out of position, a multitude of colors popping before her. The more she tries to focus, the sicker she gets, but Caroline perseveres. Slow and dazed, she tries to process the situation.

Something about the place looks familiar, the little of it she can see, though she can't immediately identify it through the fog in her head. She can tell she's on the floor, though her arms are hanging above her head in a terribly uncomfortable position, the pain around her wrists indicating she's been there for a while. She hears the rusty sound of chains as she tries to move again, but she's so weak it barely rattles. She can't even crane her neck to look up. The mere effort of craning her neck up makes her wish someone would crack her spine, just so she'd be put out of this misery.

Focus, Caroline. Focus.

She sucks the air in slowly, tries to think through the haze.

What's the last thing she remembers?

She left the compound. Was on her way to Lucien's. She remembers getting to the building, the elevator opening before her, and then...

That's when the thread of memory gets lost. Everything is just... A tangle of flashes that makes her skull pound like there's a little person with a hammer doing a number in there.

Now that she thinks about it, there's a whole side of her head really pounding, more so than the rest, and the dull ache seems to come from the outer part, not the little man with the hammer. It's distinctive because it's a kind of pain she hasn't felt in a long time, like an old wound. She gets wounds more frequently than ever before these days, certainly more than she wishes, the most atrocious, gruesome things, but they're all new, and then they're gone. One of the perks of vampirism.

It's like... She was whacked. Very hard, across the forehead. She thinks she remembers that. Vaguely. But then... Nothing. It slips away again.

But why isn't that pain gone yet? Why would she have an old wound?

What the freaking hell happened?

"Ah, you're awake. Finally! Bit lazy, aren’t you? Thought you were going to sleep all morning."

The accented voice slices through her, making her insides curl with dread. Caroline strains her eyes enough to discern a figure approaching, high heels clicking against the stone floor.

"Welcome," Aurora says pleasantly. "You and I are going to have a girl's day today. I think it's about time we get to know each other. Don't you?"

Read the full chapter here

--

Sorry about the slight delay, I know I said *fridays*, but I had to force myself to stop tinkering with this one or else I'd never post it.

Please, read the A/N! This chapter goes heavy on jealous!Caroline and also angst. lololol All mistakes and insane writing are my own, no betas, we die like men. 🥲

If you enjoy it, please please consider leaving a comment, hitting the kudos button and reblogging the post. It's much appreciated, writers feed on that stuff and also makes me very happy. 😁

Really hope you guys enjoy it! ✨

[my-mr-love]

"I love you, Lucien. I do" Lucien x Reader

WARNING: CHAPTER 13 ‼️SPOILERS‼️⚠️ and graphic description of injuries‼️

Angst 💀

Plot: Lucien starts hallucinating about you and is on the verge of officially going insane. Inspired by Azula's hallucination/mental breakdown of her mother from Avatar: TLA.

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Lucien could still see you. Tears falling so gracefully down your beautiful face despite your trembling form. How much he resisted just running to you and holding you close to him. He wanted so badly to just kiss away your tears and cry along with you. But he couldn't. He shouldn't.

That scene replayed over and over again in his mind, driving him to the point the blood running down his cheek and glass shard embedded in the softness of his eye was numb.

'I deserve this...' He thought, opening his eye and bringing himself back to reality. He was standing in front of the bathroom mirror in his Black Swan uniform, medical kit near the sink as he looked closely at the white eye patch taped to his face. The sight of him in this state, all patched up and in a healing state, made something in him boil.

That face, that disgusting face that lied and broke your heart should've been burnt off his skull!

Raising a hand, he promptly ripped the patch off, slightly hissing at the sting as he looked at the eye through his bangs. The vision through it was blurry as he grinned. How pathetic of-

"What a shame, you've always had such beautiful eyes." His shoulders tensed at the sound of her voice, her wonderful and gentle voice.

"What are you doing here?" Looking closely at the mirror, he took in the sight of her a few feet behind him. Her hair splayed elegantly on her shoulders with her hands clasped together on her abdomen, a simple white dress accentuating her petite figure.

"I didn't want to miss my own love's promotion." She said casually, cutely tilting her head.

"Don't pretend to act proud. I know what you really think of me. You think I'm a monster." He grit his teeth, trying his best not to look at her soft features for another second.

"I think your confused. All your life you've used fear and deception to control people, like your minions and.....me."

"What choice did I have!" He said, glaring at her with his working eye as his hands nearly cracked the sink beneath it. "Trust is for fools, fear is the only reliable way..... Even you fear me." Her face scrunched in sadness, the one that made his heart illogically ache in pain.

"No. I love you, Lucien. I do."

Grabbing the medical kit, he threw it with all his might into the mirror, shattering it on impact as the broken glass splayed all over the sink. Lips trembling as he kneeled down to the hard floor.

Without warning, the tears finally came down and dripped onto the collar of his uniform as a hand came to grip his aching heart.

"I...love you too." He whispered, choking on his own breath as he sobbed. His mind drifting to what would've been if you saw him at this very moment. Would you slap him across the face and curse him for being a part of the organization that ruined both your lives? Or would you hold him tightly but gently against you, lovingly comforting him like you've always done before.

He doesn't know. Lucien- Ares doesn't know.

He doesn't want to.

[acciowests]

For the Elucien Halloween au, could you please do one where Elain is helping Lucien put on his face paint for the night since they've decided to stay in and give out candy to the trick or treaters. And Elain makes a joke about how he should have dressed up as a giant pumpkin since it would match his hair. It also doesn't have to be smut! :)

just some fluff and a lil making out tehe, enjoy!!

Paints and Pumpkins

WORD COUNT: 1234

SUMMARY: It's Halloween night and Elain and Lucien are getting ready to hand out candies to hyped-up children. Only, Lucien is a little stubborn when it comes to his face paint and a little accident, while rather humorous, makes it worse.

"Lucien Vanserra," she cried, holding the paintbrush tightly in her hand. "If you move one more time I'll stop and you'll have a half-done face."

Elain had officially been trying to paint her fiancé's face for 45 minutes. It was Halloween, the artificial lamp light filling the room as she sat straddling his legs, eager to finish the skull face paint that matched his skeleton costume. He let out a sigh, smudging the black paint on his lips as he spoke, "I told you not to bother in the first place, kitty."

"Stop calling me that," she hissed, holding his jaw tightly with her other hand. "And you can't be a skeleton without the face to match so hold still."

Halloween wasn't her favourite holiday, not when there was Christmas and birthdays to celebrate, but since being with Lucien, she'd learned to love the spooky season. Their house was decked out properly in black and orange decorations: pumpkins, spiders, fake cobwebs and witch's cauldrons. They'd practically bought the whole Halloween section in Target. While Elain usually liked to dress up as a princess or mermaid (something overly feminine that made her older sister roll her eyes) she'd gone with a classic black cat this year—hence the nickname kitty which she already despised. She'd gotten the tight, black leather suit from Nesta, adding a tail and ears, and painting on the whiskers and nose. She'd gone for sexy, seeing as this was her first Halloween whilst engaged, but she'd ended up still looking rather innocent. Lucien hadn't seemed to mind though, had pressed a kiss to her hair and moved to slip into his costume for the evening.

"A skeleton is basic anyway, and I don't think kids care about face paint," he replied, remaining still despite his unimpressed tone.

With her sister heavy in her first pregnancy, the annual Halloween party that Feyre and her husband hosted had been cancelled. Elain had been more than happy to skip the night, but when Lucien had brought up his trick-or-treating idea, she couldn't say no. Not when they'd likely have tons of candy and chocolate leftover in the morning, plus she was excited to see all the children in their costumes. She was going to be an aunt soon after all.

"Of course they do, face paint is the coolest thing to them. They're going to love you, baby," she grinned, content in her work as she leaned back and added the finishing touches.

She'd painted his whole face white to match the bone colouring, adding black contour, blacked-out eyes and nose, and stitch-like marks across his lips and out slightly onto the cheeks. She grabbed two cans from her bag, one a black hair spray and the other dry shampoo. "Black or white hair?" she asked, setting the cans on the table behind them.

Lucien had already tied his long hair back into a tight bun. He settled his hands on her thighs, rubbing his large palms up them as he titled his head. "Black? It will hide my natural colour more."

She nodded in agreement, taking the hair spray and beginning to shake the can. She loved his red hair, the natural orange colour had been the first thing she'd noticed about him. She remembered wanting to run her fingers through it and considered herself lucky that she got to do it every day now.

"You know," she started, chest brushing his as she lent up close, holding one hand over his forehead so the spray wouldn't ruin the paint she'd just done. "You should have been a giant pumpkin for Halloween, you have the hair to match."

The house fell into silence, the subtle playing of a horror movie leaking from the front room being the only noise. She lent back slowly, looking down at her fiance who had raised his eyebrows and looked at her with such a grumpy face that she couldn't help but laugh. "What?" she giggled, beginning to spray the black into his hair.

He wrapped both arms around her waist, tugging her closer. "You think you're so funny, don't you?" he muttered, breath warm against her neck.

"I don't know what you mean," she grinned, happy he couldn't see the smug look on her face as she finished spraying, brushing some strands with her fingers and staining them black. "You'd make a very hot Jack-o'-lantern."

"That's it."

Before she could lean back and see what he'd meant by that, he'd stood up, her thighs slipping around his waist automatically as he lifted her. He simply turned before putting her back down, butt against the table as he pressed her gently against it. She dropped the spray from her hands with a small squeak as Lucien pressed his mouth to hers. She'd be more worried about the stain possibly on their floor if he hadn't brushed his warm tongue against her mouth, tasting the chocolate they had snacked on before getting ready.

"Lu," she muttered and wrapped her hands around his shoulders as he began to kiss down her neck. Her thigh wrapped around his back, feet rubbing his leg as he felt his way down to her hip. He had begun to unzip her suit, lips kissing the softness of her breasts when he looked up and laughter spilt uncontrollably from her.

His eyes went wide as he sat back, looking at her with utter confusion before he realised. She imagined her face somewhat matched his. Face paint was all good and well, that was until you smudged it. He slowly sat back completely, collapsing into the chair as she sat up, leaning on her palms. "I look ridiculous don't I?" he sighed, reaching for one of her hands.

"Afraid so, babe," Elain chuckled, giving him her hand, despite the black spray that was sure to transfer to his own hands. She now noticed the fingerprints she'd left along his neck and couldn't help but blush.

"All your hard work," he pouted, and she wanted nothing more than to squish his cheeks together. "We should wash this off before—"

The doorbell rang and the light laughter of kids flooded through the open porch window. She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh and failing terribly. She slipped from the table, walking toward the front door and reaching for the pumpkin basket that held all their trick-or-treat snacks. "What are you doing?" Lucien whispered, coming up behind her.

"Our first trick-or-treaters of the night require their candy, dummy," she whispered back, reaching for the handle.

He pressed a palm against the door frame and circled the other around his face in question. She only smirked, leaning up close to brush a chaste kiss to his lips. "I thought kids didn't care about face paint," she replied with a wink, repeating the words he had said to her only moments ago.

After rolling his eyes, he stepped away with slight reluctance and turned as she opened up the door wide. Three kids stood on the step, their parents at the end of the driveway. There was a princess, the little girl adorable in her golden dress, and what seemed to be two knights on either side with cardboard swords on their backs. Lucien complimented their costumes and she offered them the basket, happier than ever that they hadn't just decided to spend the night in front of the tv.

* * *

if you want to be added to my acotar taglist just send me a dm or an ask!

@sjm-things @dayanna-hatter @anne-reads @sayosdreams @swankii-art-teacher @gracie-rosee @noorismee @anyblinding @story-scribbler

[grayintogreen]

✨️-because I just Finished the latest Chapter of Creedemption and you should get all the complements from everywhere. (Once again you talent as a writer when it comes to the characters is amazing and unparalleled)

🤲- I'm a Greedy Bitch whose FERAL for you're writing:)

you're too sweet!!

Lesse.

✨ Give you and your writing a compliment. Go on now. You know you deserve it.

OKAY LOOK I AM VERY VERY PROUD OF MY CHARACTERIZATION. I work very hard at that, so whenever someone is like "i love your x" I feel like I grow more powerful as a writer.

🤲 Would you please share a snippet of a wip?

Here's a bit from a DARK Lucigast fic that's gonna be one of the first out the door once I finish OUADYA. It's a "Lucien can't handle Tharizdun's influence on Cognouza and Caleb's stuck there with him for reasons so he ends up accidentally becoming Tharizdun's avatar to balance the scales" and it's just body horror and monsterfucking all the way down.

Lucien sprawls across a throne made of bone and flesh that kept trying and failing to pretend to be stone and has just given up, his lavender skin gone ashen lilac, while the thick, muscular tendrils on his back hang limp like dying lilies, the eyes on the ends gone as dull and milky as the eyes of the dead. Once larger than life, he curls like a pillbug and pants, his long hair sweat-sticky and plastered to his skull. He is sick or he is dying and Caleb shouldn’t care (and doesn’t), but watching him suffer like this is like watching an animal bleeding out slowly on the forest floor. You have to either put it down or hope you can save it.

Usually it’s the former.

Caleb does not have that option. He doubts he will survive long on Cognouza if Lucien dies and the whole place collapses because he’s the only thing holding it together.

[exhausted-dog-mom]

Underwater (2020) Fix It Fanfic

Last year, I was commissioned to write a fix it fic for the horror movie Underwater. I had no idea it was a horror movie until after I agreed to write it, lol. I'm a coward at the best of times and writing this gave me nightmares for months. It's 24k words and almost 55 pages long. I rewrote the whole dang movie, lol. The entire fic is on my Patreon, but here are the first 2k words. 

           Norah followed behind Rodrigo as they picked their way carefully through the debris. Her body shivered uncontrollably, her meager clothing long soaked through by water of questionable quality. The tinny, prerecorded voice of the infographics which once lined the walls echoed in the too tight hallways, skipping as sparks crackled along the broken screens. Great slabs of concrete and torn sheets of metal made their progress slow, their flashlights illuminating little more than water. The hallway they were following to CR-7 was far from a direct route, but it was the only one they were both able to traverse, and Norah knew she wasn’t alone in wanting to stick together—not after closing the bulkheads.

           She dismissed that thought. She didn’t have time to think about that. Not when the path before them suddenly stopped, the way forward cut off by a serious cave in.

           “Can we dig through there?” She asked, watching as Rodrigo crouched down and began moving loose bits of rubble.

           He called back, uncertain but willing to try, and Norah began scanning the area for alternate routes. They didn’t have time to double back and find another way. The Kepler wouldn’t last long and every second they wasted not getting to the pods was another second the entire station deteriorated around them.

           She took a chance and put her weight on a ledge above where Rodrigo was digging, shining her light down a narrow passage that might allow them both through. Maybe.

           “Hey,” she called down to her colleague. “I can fit through there if you can.”

           He came up and looked at her discovery, considering the rough looking tunnel.

           Distantly, Norah heard something. A voice. She had to turn her head to catch it, the hearing in her left ear completely gone, but it was there.

           “Hello?” She called out, hope rising in her throat. “Hello? Can you hear that?” She didn’t wait for Rodrigo’s response, leaving him behind as she clambered over derelict ductwork and dodged sharp edges, shining her flashlight on everything as she searched desperately for any sign of life. “Keep talking, I can hear you!”

           She turned her right ear to the ground, tracing the source of the muffled voice to a pile of concrete slabs, the edges sharp against her hands as she began to pull on them with a strength she didn’t know she had. Rodrigo came up beside her, helping to free whoever was trapped underneath. The first thing she saw as they pulled back a layer of rubble was a stuffed rabbit, the furlike fabric covered in grease and who knew what else. She stared at it, confused, for all of two seconds before joy and recognition filled her with renewed vigor.

           “Paul?” Sure enough, as she took the rabbit from upstretched hands, her friend’s face came into view, his eyes clenched shut against the brightness of Rodrigo’s flashlight. She handed the rabbit to Rodrigo, reaching down into the crevice to get better leverage for lifting Paul’s not insignificant weight. With Rodrigo’s help, she pushed back the final slab, revealing the drill worker in all his bare chested glory, his skin coated in dust and grime. His hand held on to hers tightly and she watched as recognition bloomed in his eyes.

           “Norah?”

           “Hi.” She was as breathless as he was, a shaky laugh passing through chattering teeth.

           Paul smiled up at her, squeezing her hand as he laughed right back. “Oh, you sweet, flat chested elven creature.”

           She couldn’t even be mad at him. She was sure she made quite the sight, in her sports bra and sweats, but it was no better than his.

           She watched her friend breathe harshly for a second, lungs taking full advantage of their renewed capacity now that the weight of the debris was no longer crushing his chest. She knew the instant his brain had reoxygenated, because he turned to Rodrigo, a man he’d probably never interacted with before, like Norah, and asked after his rabbit.

           His concern for his little buddy was endearing, though she knew the stuffed toy couldn’t hold a candle to the real Little Paul, alive and waiting seven miles above them on dry land.

           Getting Paul out of the hole was a process, but they did it, the large man standing before them in nothing but a robe, boxers, and one lucky sock. He cradled the rabbit against his chest like a living animal, his attachment to the thing so much stronger after so long down in the deep.

           Norah lead the way back down the hall, flickering blue lights casting eerie shadows on the walls. “There are pods in CR-7,” she explained over her shoulder, the joy she felt at finding her friend alive tempered by a renewed desperation to get out. “The upper decks are collapsing, so we’ve gotta move fast.”

           She pulled herself up onto the ledge, Rodrigo helping her from below. She caught the tail end of Paul’s whining complaint and she rolled her eyes. Leave it to him to find something to complain about during a life or death situation.

           Paul was much larger than either her or Rodrigo, but, as Norah crawled through the cramped tunnel, she was pretty sure he’d be able to fit. She had little trouble scooting through the dark, her movements sending the light from her flashlight in all sorts of disorienting directions. Everything was grey, with the exception of the odd wire or two, exposed copper stinging her wet skin as she brushed up against it. She turned back to look at her two companions, the men clearly having a harder time than she was.

           “You guys ok?”

           “Yeah,” Rodrigo nodded to her, dust clinging to his dark skin. Behind him, Paul grumbled out an affirming expletive.

           Turning back, she immediately recoiled, flashlight dropping from her grasp and teeth clacking loudly in her skull.

           Closing her eyes against the terrifying sight, she called back to the boys. “There’s-there’s someone up here.” She swallowed thickly. “It’s McClellen.”

           Just like that, the high from unburying Paul was gone, replaced by the grim certainty that his survival was nothing short of a miracle and the odds of finding anyone else alive were incredibly slim.

           How many were left alive? How many more would there be if she had waited just a little longer? How many were dead because of her?

           McClellen had no answers for her, blue eyes locked unseeing on something far in the distance. Norah took a shaky breath, bolstering herself as she began to move past the other woman. Their hands touched as she did, the fading warmth she felt deepening the ever growing pit in her stomach.

           If she’d waited, would McClellen still be alive?

           Would Paul be dead?

           Those questions, like all the others, were tossed aside as she resumed the slow journey forward, eyes locked on the darkness ahead of her. There was no telling what waited out there, just beyond the range of her flashlight, but she didn’t have time to lose herself to what ifs and should haves. There were two men behind her, two living, breathing men, and that was enough. It had to be enough.

           The cramped tunnel let out to an open space—another hallway, by the looks of it—and Norah carefully climbed out and set her feet on the ground. The light here was red, a sign that the emergency systems were working, at least, and she could only hope that the way to the escape pods was open. She led the way, following a mental map of the rig as automated voices rang out overhead. Their flashlights reflected off the tall windows which surrounded the evacuation room, the reinforced glass surprisingly intact compared to the wreckage all around it. Norah stumbled over a rogue pipe, her mind going blank as it struggled to put together what she was seeing.

           “Captain?”

           Sparks flew, the display illuminating Captain Lucien’s back where he sat hunched over inside the closed off rotunda. He made no indication that he’d heard her, his head in his hands as he sat alone in the dark. Norah hit the control panel, but he didn’t react to the obnoxious sound it made in protest. Squinting through the glass, her heart sank as she took in the damage surrounding him, the escape pods they’d all put so much hope in clearly no longer an option.

           “Shit.”

           “Shit?” Paul winced as he came over to stand beside her, looking over her shoulder into the dark. “What’s shit?”

           “The evac pods are gone.” Norah tuned out her friend’s frenzied cursing as she pounded on the glass, calling for her Captain. Could he even hear her through the reinforced windows? They were designed to withstand sudden changes in pressure—likely why they were still intact—but did that mean they also blocked out sound?

           The answer was no, they couldn’t, and Norah deflated with relief when Lucien turned around, face lighting up as he recognized first her then the men behind her.

           “Norah,” he called, his voice muffled but still intelligible through the glass as he rushed over. “You’re alive.” He didn’t sound like he believed it, but she could understand the sentiment. “The door’s jammed.”

           Right. Of course, it was. He probably would have left if it wasn’t. Norah quickly moved over to the control panel, mentally apologizing to the machine for hitting it as she tried to find some way to override the lock. Absently, she recognized the Captain giving orders to Paul and Rodrigo, both men rushing to obey, though Paul complained loudly between hissing breaths.

           “On a scale of one to ten, how bad’s my rig?”

           His attempt at humor fell a little flat and Norah looked up at him incredulously as the doors opened. “Uh,” she looked him up and down in the harsh white lights which conveniently decided to turn back on. His left arm was in a sling, miscellaneous bruises and cuts littered across his face. Shit. “Ten. We’re, um, seventy percent compromised—breathe too hard and we’re in trouble.”

           He didn’t appreciate her candor, turning away from her with a grim expression before turning back around and reaching for her face with his good hand, looking at her damaged ear with a grimace.

           “What happened,” she asked through chattering teeth, the two seconds she’d spent standing still reminding her body of how cold it was. “Was it an earthquake?”

           “I don’t know.” That wasn’t what she wanted to hear. “I’m trying to figure it out.”

           She watched, still somewhat dazed, as he pulled a large red med kit out from seemingly nowhere, using his one hand to its full effectiveness as he rummaged through it.

           “I don’t understand.” Her voice forced its way through her tight throat, swallowing only thickening the knot living there. “Why are you still here? There were pods here, you could have left.”

           He gave her a look she was sure he’d leveled on his child a thousand times before. It certainly made her feel like one. “That’s what Captains do.”

           “Who cares?” She couldn’t stop the words or the incredulity which laced them. “You have a kid. You should have gone up.”

           He froze, expression blank as his mouth opened and closed, eyes shut as he tried to find the words to respond to that. Instead, he urged her to sit down, returning to the med kit as though she hadn’t said anything.

           “You know any one of us would have shoved your ass into a pod—.”

           “Listen to me!”

           Norah shut her mouth, staring wide eyed at her Captain as he kneeled in front of her, mouth tense as he glared up at her. His French accent was thicker in his anger, coloring his words as he gestured wildly with his good arm.

           “Everyone is getting out of here alive.” He said it with such conviction, Norah was almost able to believe him. “You here me? I already sent twenty two up, Smith reported seven dead.”

           Warmth spread in her chest at the news that Smith, at least, was still alive. She hadn’t let herself consider any other possibilities but having her old friend’s survival confirmed relieved a tension she hadn’t realized she was carrying. She gave a stuttering report of the dead she and Rodrigo had found before coming across Paul, and she struggled past telling him about McClellen, nonsensical words spilling from her lips—she lived three floors up, I was brushing my teeth, her hands were still warm, I shut the bulkheads on the entire East Wing so there’s definitely more.

           Captain Lucien, to his credit, remained staunchly focused on cleaning her ear, damp gauze coming away from it bloody. Whatever was wrong with it, it stung when he touched it, the pain a welcome reminder that she was alive, only living people could bleed, and a grim one that so many people weren’t.

[gwynrielendgame]

Gwynriel mating bond

I don’t know if I actually like this or not but thought I might as well post it anyways.

The first think Azriel thought when he woke was that his head has never hurt this bad before. It was pounding as though his brain was trying to escape his skull. He squinted his eyes to see that he was in his bed. A groan escaped his lips while he tried to remember how he got here. A faint memory of a mission going wrong and his high lord winnowing in at the last second flashed in his mind, but that was it. He tried to sit up but pain seared through his side forcing another groan from his lips. He looked down to see his waist had been wrapped in bandages. He flexed his hands only for that to hurt too. His knuckles were busted and it felt as though his thumb might be broken. He kept trying to piece together the turn of events from his mission but memories seemed to fail him. He attempted to sit up again only to have a quiet voice stop him.

“Please stop doing that.”

Azriel jumped in surprise. His shadows had not informed him that someone was sitting in his room and he had been in too much pain to look around. When his eyes made contact with teal ones, the surprise grew.

“Gwyn?” He asked in confusion. The priestess was his friend, but that did not explain why she was in his room. She was sitting in a chair next to his bed. She looked like she had not slept in a couple days with wild hair and dark circles under her normally bright eyes. He was hoping Rhysand would be here to explain to him what the hell happened. Azriel, for a third time, tried to sit up. This time though, Gwyn jumped from her chair and placed her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to stay laying day. When she was sure he would stay put, she removed her hands and sat back down.

“How do you feel?” Her eyes were searching his entire body. As if she was trying to make sure that she had tended to every wound and that one had not suddenly appeared since he fell asleep. Azriel noticed the female was much jumpier than normal. As though she was filled with so much anxiety, she could accomplish anything he would ask of her. He felt something tug in his chest as their eyes finally met but the pounding in his head distracted him from it.

“Been better.” He tried a joke if only to put a smile on her face. It did not seem to work as her mouth pulled into a frown. “What happened?” He asked. Gwyn fidgeted with her hands before looking at the shadowsinger. His shadows swirling around playfully gave her the courage to answer.

“You will have to ask Rhysand what happened on your end. I just felt something was wrong with you,” she peeked at him from under her lashes to gauge his reaction, his face was unreadable, however. He was not sure how to react to that. “I cannot explain it exactly as I feel it, but I just knew deep down that you were going to die. I told Rhysand, who thinks I am crazy now by the way, and he found you and winnowed you to a healer. It has been about five days and this feeling in my chest has not loosened until just now.” Gwyn kept her gaze firmly on her hands. Azriel knew what this meant, it just did not make any sense to him. Based on the way his head was feeling, he thought it was due to whoever smashed it in.

He looked at Gwyn then- fully looked at her and that is when he felt it snap into place. His eyes widened as it stole his breathe from him so quickly it hurt his chest. Despite his injuries, he was finally able to sit up. He felt the strings that urged him closer to her. It demanded that he wrap her in his arms. He could not do that. Even if he was not injured, he would not pull the beautiful priestess into an embrace. Admittedly, this was terrible timing. Elain had finally decided she was going to reject the mating bond with Lucien so that they could be together. Now that he thought of Elain, he realized it did not really compare to Gwyn. He blamed the mating bond for that one. Although, now that he thought about that too, where was Elain? He figured if he were to wake up to anyone in his room, it would be his secret lover. How many years had he wished to find his mate? How many years did he despise that he had not found her yet? It appeared the Mother had a sick sense of humor, placing his mate right under his nose for him to discover right when he was with another female. He realized then that Gwyn was aware of the mating bond too. She was waiting for his reaction with a cautious look on her face. The mating bond tugged at a thought in his mind. What was she thinking? He groaned again as he laid back down and closed his eyes. This would not help his headache. After a long bout of silence, Gwyn decided to break it.

“Um,” she started nervously. Azriel peeked at her from the side of his eye. She was staring at her hands again while twitching. The bond tugged so hard, his shadows twirled towards her in a soft caress. He did not have the energy to pull them back, and it seemed to give her the push she needed to continue. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I will go find Rhysand.”

Her quiet, sad voice filled Azriel’s chest with such self-loathing. It shocked him to his core. Gwyn was his friend before, sure. Now though, Azriel hated himself for being the reason she used that voice. He wished this was under different circumstances. He would be able to respond better if his head did not feel as though it was full of cotton. The scraping of a chair being pushed back drew Azriel’s attention back to his mate.

“Wait.” Was all he could muster. Gwyn paused feeling equally as confused as the muddled brained male in his bed. It was all very overwhelming for both of them. It would be a lie to say Gwyn did not have a crush on Azriel before all of this. However, going from a crush to mates was a giant leap that neither of them understood. Azriel could not stop the thought from rushing forward. Why her? He had nothing against her- liked her even. He just did not understand how a traumatized priestess was his equal in every way. The guilt at that thought rushed in immediately. He looked in her eyes again and felt like they had been transported somewhere else. Somewhere where his head did not feel foggy. She was beautiful. Teal eyes that were so deep he was lost in them, freckles that reminded him of constellations he loved to memorize, button nose, and full, plump lips. He pulled his gaze away from her lips to stop his next impulse which was to leap across the room and pull her into a passionate kiss.

“Sorry.” He muttered after a very long pause. “My head...” he trailed off. It only proved the point he was trying to make that he could not even finish the sentence. Gwyn’s face turned into a soft look. She walked back to him. After sitting on the edge of the bed next to him and grabbing his hand, she looked directly into his eyes. It was all too much. The eye contact, her hands unwavering grip on his scarred ones. She never even seemed intrigued by the scars on his hands. It was as if there were no scars on his hands at all. He did not realize until that very moment how important that was to him. It was the first glimpse into understanding why they were bonded to each other.

“Azriel,” his name on her lips sounded like a song he never wanted to end. “I understand this is terrible timing- with you almost dying and all.” A small laugh left his mouth. “But I can wait for a decision. You do not need to rush or feel obligated to be with me. I can wait for you as long as you may need.” She finished with a kiss to his cheek. The skin sparked where she touched it and the mating bond was practically screaming for more. It was another glimpse into what initially seemed like a mismatched pairing. He had longed and waited for females for more than 500 years. He had put his wants and needs aside for females to make a decision. He did not realize he wanted someone to do that for him. The emotion squeezed his chest uncomfortably. Gwyn would wait for him. Because she wanted to be with him? That part was less clear to the Shadowsinger. It was not nearly as important as realizing he would not have to pine and win over his mate. She liked him. He could see that so clearly in her adoring, concerned eyes.

“Thank you.” It grossly underserved his appreciation to Gwyn, but he blamed his fogged filled head for the inadequacy of it all. She gave him a small smile before leaving to find Rhysand, he presumed. More than anything, he hoped that once his head no longer felt like a cloud that a decision would be much easier to come by than his current thoughts. He was lulled back to sleep with a weight lifted from his shoulders that he had not even realized was there. The last thought on his mind was of a beautiful copper-haired angel singing him to sleep.

[elentiyawhitethorn]

The Bet | Chapter Thirty

Rhys’ POV of this and last chapter here

Masterlist//Timeline//2777 words

Day 88

Something was beeping.

Steadily, like... a monitor, perhaps.

And there was something in Feyre’s hand. Something warm and sturdy, holding her fingers tightly. She didn’t know what it was, so she tried to pull her hand away, panicking. The beeping picking up, almost as if in response.

The thing in Feyre’s hand moved and she realized it was someone else’s hand. Somebody was holding her hand. This calmed her down a little, and Feyre relaxed again.

“Is she waking up?” asked a familiar voice laced with concern.

Feyre couldn’t quite place who it was.

Another voice, unknown to Feyre, answered, “It’s probably just the... kicking in... she’ll be... a few hours.”

Feyre felt a sigh involuntarily leave her lips and things started going fuzzy again. Sleep came once more, and Feyre welcomed it with a warm embrace.

-

Feyre moaned, rolling onto her side. It was too bright behind her eyelids, too loud. What was loud? The beeping, the whispers.

Something was in Feyre’s... right. Now she remembered. Or she remembered her last time awake anyway, or semiconscious she supposed. The time before that...

A funeral. Tears. Fear. Incredible fear and then darkness.

Feyre’s eyes flew open and her body went rigid. The annoying beeping increased in frequency.

“Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay, darling.”

Feyre’s eyes focused on the speaker - though she already knew who it was from the “darling.”

Feyre unsteadily sat up, her hand squeezing Rhys’ tightly. “Rhys?”

He was sitting on a chair next to her bed - her hospital bed - and leaning against it. There were bags under his eyes but Feyre could tell from the marks on his face he’d at least been slumped over on her bed, if not actually sleeping.

He smiled sadly at her. “Feyre.”

“I heard whispering,” was the first jumped thought to pop out of her mouth. She supposed she was thinking about that because no one else was in the room to be whispering to. And because she’d been hearing it continuously as she half-slept.

Rhys looked a little embarrassed. “I was just praying.”

Feyre blinked. He’d been praying? For her? How bad could it really have been? She tried to imagine what he must be feeling, but it was hard to do that when she didn’t know what she was feeling.

“What happ... the flash drive. Where’s the flash drive, Rhys?” Feyre was desperately urging her fuzzy mind to catch up with the thoughts hurtling through her head. All she could think about was the small flash drive in her sweater pocket, containing everything they needed to get Tamlin in jail.

Rhys smiled again, a pessimistic thing. “The person who attacked you took it. Destroyed, most likely.”

Feyre couldn’t bring herself to conjure the same calm resignation as him. “No. No, that’s not possible.”

“Calm-”

“Don’t fucking tell me to calm down,” Feyre snapped. “We need that, we need it, we can’t...” Her voice cracked and she looked down at her sweater.

No, not her sweater. She was now clad in a hospital gown, her sweater nowhere to be found. “My pocket. It was in my pocket. I need my pocket.”

Feyre frantically patted her stomach, as if the sweater would reappear on her skin, as if this was all some cosmic joke.

A warm hand grasped Feyre’s wrist. “You aren’t supposed to be straining yourself.”

Feyre started crying.

Rhys scooted forward on his chair and wrapped his arms around her. Feyre leaned into the hug, sniffling. “What are we supposed to do?” she whispered.

A warm breath caressed Feyre’s neck as Rhys sighed. She tried not to shiver. “I’m not sure. Azriel is in the waiting room, with Mor, Lucien, and Cassian. Everyone got here as soon as they could. They thought too many people would overwhelm you, though, so Amren, Andi, and Weaver are together now, looking for a solution.”

“Did somebody… I don’t remember it all. Just that someone was there and then it all went black.”

Rhys lifted his hand to Feyre’s skull and traced a bandage she hadn’t even noticed, right above her forehead. “You were hit with a blunt instrument, according to the doctors. All I know is that you were gone for a long time, and right when I was thinking about going to find you, I heard a scream. I ran there and found you unconscious on the ground. There was blood. I thought…” Rhys’ voice trailed off as it started to waver.

“You thought I was dead,” Feyre finished, rather unnecessarily.

He gave a small smile and nodded. Rhys’ hand came down from her hair to caress her cheek. Feyre turned to stone beneath his touch, not wanting to lean too close and give herself away or let anything show in her eyes or even breath funny.

Was it just Feyre’s imagination, or were they getting closer? Rhys had been a bit farther away, but now he was nearer. She was definitely leaning into his touch, despite her best efforts not to. Just before their noses brushed, a door opened.

Just like that, the spell was broken. Feyre jolted backward, and Rhys did the same, a rueful expression on his face.

The man, young, African American, and wearing a nurse’s garb, raised an eyebrow at the scene. “Glad to see you’re awake, Miss Archeron. How are you feeling?”

“Um,” Feyre started, still trying to clear her thoughts. “Just… a bit disoriented. Nothing really hurts, except for a slight headache.” She hadn’t thought about how she was feeling before, and the lack of pain came as a surprise to her after the blow to the head.

“That’s the pain medication. It will start wearing off soon, and your headache might increase. Drink lots of fluids and rest. Only get up if you absolutely must.”

Feyre nodded her understanding. “Can I see my friends?”

The nurse smiled. “I’m afraid only one person at a time. And your boyfriend doesn’t seem to keen to leave?” He phrased this like a question.

“He’s not my boyfriend,” she stuttered.

The nurse only allowed his lips to twitch slightly. “My bad. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

Feyre turned to Rhys. He looked equally as embarrassed. “I’ll go if you want me to. If you want to see someone else.” Rhys looked like just saying that much went against everything he was feeling.

“No, I want you to stay,” Feyre said firmly. “I’ll see them later.”

Rhys smiled, looking relieved. Feyre turned back to the nurse.

“When do I get to leave?”

He gave a reassuring glance then said, “Anxious to get home? Don’t worry, it won’t be long. Dr. Madja will need to perform an examination and there’s a police officer waiting for your statement.”

Feyre froze. “A police officer?” Her gaze darted to Rhys, who patted her back reassuringly.

“It’s standard procedure to be questioned after being assaulted in any manner. I already had my statement taken.”

Feyre nodded at Rhys, then turned back to the nurse. “I guess I’m ready to do that.”

He nodded. “You’ll need to be examined first. Protocol to do it after the patient regains consciousness. Dr. Madja won’t take long, though. Then you can get your statement over with.”

The nurse left the room and retrieved a young woman with dark skin, wearing a white coat. Dr. Madja. She performed some tests on Feyre: shining a light in her eyes, asking her to follow her fingers, some other small tasks. She seemed satisfied with Feyre’s performance, for she nodded her approval and signaled to the nurse. Then she left.

The nurse, an S. Stevens, Feyre gathered from the name tag, gave Feyre some instructions on how to spend the next few days and how and when to change her bandage. Then he told her the police officer would be sent in now.

In the brief time between his exit and the officer’s entrance, Feyre turned to Rhys. “What do I say? About who did it, I mean?”

He sighed. “They asked me who I thought would do something to you. I said I didn’t know. It’s up to you, but I just couldn’t see them believing either of us.”

“But it couldn’t hurt to say anything, right?”

“Maybe. Or maybe not. Tamlin or Hybern could try something in response to an attempt at outing them. You could be given a mental examination for sounding like a crazy woman. Or perhaps I’m just paranoid. It really is your decision on what you say.” Rhys looked absolutely depressed at he saw the truth of his words sink into Feyre.

He was right. He was so, unbearably right.

The officer, a middle-aged man with a pencil and pad in hand, entered the room.

He pulled a chair from the other side of the room over. “Hello, Feyre. My name is Jim. How are you doing?”

“Fine, I guess.” She tried to smile, but she was nervous enough that it didn’t come across as anything but a wince.

Jim gave a sympathetic look. “I understand you must be frightened right now.”

Feyre was feeling no such thing, but she said, “I suppose…”

Jim smiled, happy with her response. Feyre could already tell she didn’t like him.

“I’ll need to ask you a few questions, Feyre. Is that all right with you?”

Dammit man, just cut to the chase. You say this like I can say no, Feyre thought, unusually temperamental - from the situation, perhaps.

She said yes and Jim opened his pad.

He started with simple questions about her whereabouts, checking the facts. Then he asked, “Why were you alone in the woods?”

“I needed some time alone.”

Jim frowned. “For what reason?”

Feyre felt herself frowning as well. “My therapist had just passed away. I needed a moment.”

He scribbled something on his pad, likely something along the lines of nut case needed some time to get it together, then said, “I’ll need you to describe everything from this point forward.”

Feyre took a deep breath. “I was headed back to Rhys at this point. I felt I’d been gone for too long and didn’t want to worry him. Just when I started walking, though, I heard a twig snap. I was a bit on edge, so it frightened me a little, but I dismissed it.

“I got only a few feet farther when I saw a figure. It was too dark to discern anything about the person, just that they were tall, perhaps. It moved toward me and I stepped back and screamed. And then… well I don’t remember anything after that point.”

Feyre finished her statement with a glance at Rhys. He looked like he was about ready to get up and murder whoever had injured her. It made her heart ache a little, knowing this was merely his protective response as a friend.

Jim cleared his throat. “Do you have any idea why someone would want to harm you?”

Feyre hesitated. This was her chance. She could tell him about Tamlin. But…

“No, I don’t.” The words popped out of her mouth without permission, but Feyre didn’t regret it. She couldn’t. There was no other genuine option here.

Jim nodded, adding it to his notebook. Then he stood. “That will be all. The police force with be working tirelessly to find the perpetrator. In the meantime, you should be careful.”

Be careful. Yes, because that would do a lot. Feyre held her tongue.

“Here’s my number, if you remember anything or you have a question.” Jim handed her a card. She took it. “And I already got your phone number from your…”

“Friend,” Feyre about snapped. The nurse, and now the police officer. She couldn’t understand why everyone’s minds jumped to something other than friends. What was society turning into?

Jim smiled patronizingly. “Right. I have a case to attend to. I should be on my way. Stay safe.”

Feyre thanked him reluctantly and turned to Rhys. “Come here,” she demanded, patting the bed next to her.

Rhys didn’t say anything. He just got out of the chair and plumped down next to her on the bed. “What are you feeling right now, darling?”

“Angry. I’m so fucking angry. I just want to bash some heads in.”

“That’s good,” Rhys replied, leaning back. He rested his hands behind his body to support himself.

“Why is that good?”

“Anger is an appropriate emotion here. Do you feel guilty, Feyre? Do you feel like this is your fault?” Rhys was expressionless.

Feyre bit her lip. “No. I don’t. Should I?”

“No, Feyre. You didn’t do anything wrong. And I think you’ve healed enough that you’re able to realize that now.”

Feyre just blinked. “I - you’re right. They’re to blame. Why should I feel bad about it?”

Rhys smiled, his first genuine smile of the day. “Baby steps.”

She smiled back, her first real gesture of happiness as well. “Baby steps,” Feyre repeated.

Their shoulders bumped, but before anything happened, the door opened. It was the same nice nurse again. “Sorry to disturb again,” he said, smiling faintly. Feyre just sighed.

“You’ll need to sign some discharge papers and look over a couple things for me. We have your clothing for you to change into. Then you’ll be released.”

Feyre breathed out a sigh of relief. “Okay.”

-

Ten minutes later, Feyre was entering the waiting room, Rhys holding her hand. Because she was feeling dizzy; no other reason.

Her eyes immediately landed on three of her friends, their heads all turning to them as well. They all jumped up and jogged over, Feyre hobbling a few steps more.

“Hey, guys.”

Lucien got there first and threw his arms around her. Feyre dropped Rhys’ hand to hug him back. “Ow, okay,” Feyre managed. “You’re suffocating me a little bit.”

Lucien immediately pulled back. “Gods, you’re okay? You’re fine?”

“Yes, yes, don’t be fussy. How was your job interview?”

Lucien let out a surprised laugh. “This is what you’re asking me now?”

She grinned. “I need to know, Lu. How’d you do?”

“Okay, I think. They called me back. I’m supposed to go in next week for what’s kind of like the last round.” Lucien looked both pleased with himself and annoyed to be answering this while Feyre was injured.

“That’s great! You’ll totally get it.”

“Would you stop,” Lucien said, looking exasperated. “You’re in the hospital. There are more important things to talk about.”

Feyre just planted a kiss on his cheek and turned to Mor and Cassian. “Hello. Sorry to worry you all. I’m fine, really.”

Both of them looked extremely skeptical. “If you say so,” Cassian said, looking relieved just to see Feyre on her feet.

“Azriel, Andi, and Weaver send their regards,” Mor said. “They would have come but we didn’t want to crowd you.”

Feyre stepped forward and gave them both kisses as well. “Thank you both. And them.” She paused. “So about the flash drive, is there anything else that, I mean-”

Lucien cut her off. “We don’t have any evidence. The case is gone.”

Feyre had known it, but hearing the truth of this loss was something else. “Oh.” Her voice was small.

“I’m so sorry, Fey.” Cassian patted her gently on the back.

“No, this can’t be it. What, we go home and pretend nothing happened? Pretend I wasn’t hospitalized, or that Dr. Suriel was murdered?”

Mor looked close to tears. “What else could we possibly do? We can’t take anyone to court.”

“What if we don’t need to?”

The four of them looked slightly curious, but more concerned than anything. They probably thought Feyre was going mad.

“What do you mean?” Rhys asked.

Instead of replying, Feyre turned around.

“What are you looking for?” Mor asked nervously.

There. A woman with a camera. Not a well-known channel; likely some local news channel fishing for a story in the local hospital. But it was a camera all the same.

Feyre started walking.

“Where are you going?” Cass questioned.

“I’m going to ruin him,” came Feyre’s response.

Was she crazy? Absolutely. She was crazy and she had never felt better.

Feyre marched right up to the reporter. “Turn your camera on.”

The woman looked a combination of alarmed, confused, and annoyed. “Excuse me?”

“I said, turn your camera on. I have something to say.”

“Feyre,” Lucien hissed from behind her. She ignored him.

The woman still looked pissed, but the opportunity for a story was too great to pass up. Even if the story was labeled “Crazy Woman Harasses Local Reporter,” at least it would make its rounds.

She flipped the camera on hesitantly, aiming it right at Feyre.

And Feyre started speaking.

———

Tag List:

@live-the-fangirl-life

@thebonecarver

@aelin-bitch-queen

@whythefuckdoiexist

@story-scribbler

@feysand-loml

@midsizewitch

@infernoqueen19

[lu-undy]

New Sniper/Spy long story!

Aaaand I am back with a new Sniper/Spy story!

It’s called “Un-alone” and can be found here!

Hope you enjoy! :D

"I need a minute, if that is possible." The French accent would have sounded pleasant and exotic if not for the circumstances.

"Of course. If you need a drink, help yourself. I will be back to give you more details."

The man in the suit nodded and the notary left the room. He waited for the door to click shut before sighing and loosening his tie. He looked around him, the wooden and serious walls seemed to close on him, as the walls of his skull pressed painfully on his brain. He lowered his head and held his hair in his hands.

After a sigh, he slid on the sofa to the table at the corner of the room. He pushed the flower vase aside and looked at the tray with bottles and glasses. Water? Wine? Non, he needed something stronger. That whiskey would do. The glass cap yielded with a pop and he poured some in the glass. He didn't add any of the ice cubes. Non, he felt cold enough. 

The bitter whiskey burnt the back of his throat down to his knotted stomach. The Frenchman held his head low. What should he do? Cry? Punch? Destroy? 

Not yet. The notary gave a short knock before entering the room again. His eyebrows jumped when he realised that he had left a proper and prim man, to come back to what he could tell was a man barely holding himself back, to protect his dignity. He was used to being the bearer of bad news, he was used to seeing people cry, shout, get in all sorts of states. But experience also taught him that those who remain like marble are the most dangerous to themselves.

"You mentioned details?" The French accent asked.

The notary nodded, a distraught expression on his face, before he sat back at his desk. 

"She left a letter for you." He put his glasses on. "I understand you were married?" 

The man sitting on the sofa took another quick yet generous swig of his whiskey, the burning liquid making him almost gag.

“Oui.” He simply answered after taking a deep breath to soothe himself, his fingers only ending up clenching harder on the glass he was holding. 

“But you were not living together, if what I heard is correct.”

The man on the sofa nodded, his head still lowered, his grey front tuft of hair waved in the air. 

“I also understand that only her family was at her side in the end.” The notary said and the poor man frowned. “They were surprised to learn that all along she was actually married. They did not know of this union.”

“Non, they did not.”

The notary knew he was dealing with no ordinary man but this…? This added up to the exception.

“The ceremony will take place tomorrow. Her family will be there.”

The Frenchman nodded and stored this somewhere in his mind before asking what he had been burning to.

“May I see the letter?” A shaking voice asked before the man lit up a cigarette, his gaze still evading the notary’s. 

“Of course. Here is a copy.”

“Do you have the original?”

“Yes but I cannot let you see it, it is-”

The notary’s voice stopped when the man sitting on the sofa finally raised his eyes to him. His face was dark, furious, boiling. His light blue eyes sliced the shadow cast by his front tuft, a menacing curtain falling on his forehead, and the tip of his cigarette shone in a more fierce shade of orange.

He handed him the original.

Instantly the man took it to his nose and smelt it. Tears came to his eyes that he prudely closed for a moment. Rose water and a hint of jasmine. Oui, that was her. Thank God the perfume hadn’t faded yet! He smiled, but his body and his face were screaming bittersweetness, nostalgia and deeper down, something he hated to show, like a weakness. 

Love.

He loved her with all the fibres of his body. There wasn’t a sight more pleasant than her smile, a song more melodious than her voice, a taste more forbidden than her lips’.

He raised a shaking gloved hand to his forehead and opened his eyes to read the will. The handwriting was unmistakingly hers. He recognised it. It was a bit more shaky than when he last saw it, but it was hers.

“My sweetheart Lulu,”

The man clenched his jaw further, feeling the strain on his cheeks and grinding his teeth to hold back what he would let out later, in his own private time.

“I am sorry I couldn’t tell you earlier. I didn’t know how to, I didn’t know where you were, how you were. But I knew you never forgot about me. As long as I received the flowers, the gifts for Jay, the chocolates and sometimes, the cassettes, I knew you were alive and well.

The last letter I received from you dates back to my birthday and I kept it under my pillow until the very end. If you are reading this, my family then knows about you, they must be wondering about a million things. But I didn’t answer anything. I couldn't tell them that Jeremy’s father is a French spy, that we got married in secret more than twenty years ago, that when Jeremy came into our lives, we decided to live separately with as little contact as possible to protect the boy, now a man. I couldn’t tell my family that I miss you everyday, yet I love you more by the day. 

My Lulu, I am not leaving you at all. I might even be closer to you now than before, who knows? Maybe the warmth you feel in your cheeks now is my touch? Maybe the tears you are hiding right now, I will dry, when you finally let them go.

My love, everything I have, I have left it to our son. It isn’t much and I am afraid it is more debt than help…

I ask of you two things, please, my sweetest of hearts. The first is to help Jeremy. Help him with a job, please. He still doesn’t know you, I never told him who you were. I think it is your call to make. If you ever decide to know him, I know you will see how much he got from you... 

The second is please, never stop singing. Promise me to sing more, I want to hear you now, more than ever.

Je t’aime and goodbye,

Your little flower, Marie.”

The Frenchman’s heart was in his throat. He was on the sofa, in this wooden room where the sun didn’t shine, where the flowers in the vase next to him where fake, where he wished he could bite in his glass of whiskey and chew on the glass shards, crush them and let them slice through him, let the pain be physical, anywhere on his body, his face, anything but this. It was harder to bear with each second.

He didn’t realise it but his hands were trembling on the letter. He stared at it a bit more and cleanly folded it before putting it in his inner pocket. 

“Sir, I-”

Again, the sheen of the light blue eyes left very little room for discussion.

“I am sorry but I must ask you to give me back the original, it is an official document for this procedure and I can hardly-argh!”

In the blink of an eye, the Frenchman had leapt in the air from the sofa to the desk, overlooking it. His face was less than an inch away from the notary’s astonished one. 

“I will keep her letter.” The French accent threateningly said, his teeth clenched like a furious panther’s.

“B-But Sir-argh?!”

Something cold was against the notary’s throat. Something cold and pointy. It was pressing against his fragile column of air.

“A-Alright, y-you can keep it…”

The Frenchman backed off from the desk and the notary watched him flick some sort of blade between his fingers before he dropped it in one of his pockets. His jaw dropped. He had just been threatened with a knife.

“I was not asking.”

“W-well…” The notary pulled on his collar to have a bit more air come to his lungs. He wiped the sweat off his brow. “W-why threaten me then?” 

The Frenchman took his jacket again and put it on before heading to the door. He left without adding a word. 

It was still the afternoon of that late September day and in Boston, the weather started to get colder but was still very bearable. 

Lucien took a deep breath and sighed when he was finally out of the notary’s practice and into the street. The light breeze did not help get more oxygen to his lungs. Or maybe it did, but no amount of air could help. He slipped back into the taxi and the driver took him back to his hotel. 

As soon as he set foot in the five-star establishment, a young man in a red and golden uniform came to him. 

“Sir, there has been a phone call for you, they said it was urgent and you should call back, here is the number.” He was holding a tray on which was a card. Lucien took it and read the number that he recognised only too well. He nodded and headed to the elevator. 

As it took off and hovered higher and higher, Lucien could see more and more of the city underneath him through the windows. He saw it all. The restaurant they had met in, while undercover as a singer, the park he had taken her to, the movie theatre he had invited her to, where they had shared their first kiss, the streets of her city, the roads, streets, avenues that were once so familiar. They now looked like grey, narrow valleys dug in the concrete of buildings, slithering like the bed of dead rivers. 

Ding ding.

The jingle of the bell in the elevator broke his train of thought. 

“Here we are, Sir.”

Lucien turned away from the windows to face the doors that slid open. He entered the carpeted corridor and soon found his door. The keys jangled as they exited his pocket and the next thing he knew, he was inside. 

He had rented an en-suite room with a double bed - habits die hard - and went straight to the minibar to help himself to some more strong alcohol. He didn't mind the taste and just wanted the burn and bitterness; anything really to move his pain from his heart to his body.

He grabbed a bottle of God knows what and poured some before drinking, chugging the entire glass down his throat in one go, before the glass hit the counter again loudly. He hissed under the unpleasant feeling of the alcohol scorching as it glided through his oesophagus and stomach.

Lucien removed his jacket and threw it on the coathanger before he undid his tie. He only fished out the letter and slipped it in his trousers' pocket.

“Mon Dieu…”

He grabbed the bottle and the glass, and headed to the sofa. On his way, he kicked his shoes off and frowned. He hated seeing people do that - remove their shoes with their feet, damaging the leather. But he couldn't be asked to do it properly with his hands. For all he knew, those shoes could go to hell.

He flopped down on the sofa and poured himself some more whiskey. The glass and the bottle shone under the flames of the fireplace opposite him. It caught his eye for an instant and blinded him. He grumbled and looked away, to his left and - oh, the bedroom door. 

His eyes hung there for a while, the bottle and glass hanging in mid-air. 

From where he was sitting, he could only see the bed, large and empty, cold even, he could feel it. 

He would have killed for one more night with her. He would have… 

Lucien sighed and drank some more before lighting another cigarette and sucking his anger away at it. 

His eyes came back in front of him, and he saw the letter. His mind rolled back more than two decades ago. Meeting Marie, falling in love with her, falling in love for the first time. 

But his job as a spy was way too dangerous for her, for him, and soon, for the little boy that Lucien was delighted to hold in his arms for the first time. And it was soon decided. A wedding, in secret, just him, her and two witnesses, people who happened to be in the church praying that day. They didn't even know them. They got married and Lucien stayed long enough for baby Jérémy to have a vague souvenir of his father. 

He loved them. Lucien loved Marie and Jérémy. He loved them so much that he left them, and it broke his heart. Everyday he wished he could hold them in his heart. But he was too good at his job and wanted to keep it. It paid him a fortune and he could send some money to help. 

Another sigh that failed to take his frustration and his guilt out of him. 

Lucien stood up and walked to the window that he opened wide. He looked at the tiny city, busy underneath him. To all these people, today was a normal day. Some of them might even be happy… 

But for him, today felt awful. 

His eyes swept across the streets as he walked back in time to where he had met her. Mary, his Marie. It had been a busy night in the restaurant he was working at. He was undercover, a singer, trying to get closer to a frequent client. He had worked hard for months to approach his target. But that night wasn’t the one he managed to sit and dine with that shady nobody. Instead, an angel crossed his path. 

Marie.

She wasn’t shy and he liked her boldness. He thought it was very American of her to be this way, to think that she could get whatever she wanted, if only she worked hard enough for it. Mon Dieu… She had come to his changing room, backstage, with her blue dress and matching headband, her lips were glossy red and her eyelashes, more beautiful than a butterfly’s wings in summer, fluttering to half hide the deep blue irises that he saw too vividly now.

She had knocked at his door and the moment he had opened it, the sight of her seized him like a hand to the throat. She raised her eyes to him and gave him a smile that still burnt his insides. Without hesitation, she started talking as if they had known each other for a long time, asking him a million questions.

Of course, back in those days, Lucien was quite valued on the market of love. Tall and slim, his hair still all black and combed back, light blue, almost grey eyes that looked in the deepest corners of one’s mind, impeccable manners, a smirk that weakened the knees of any woman in sight and a French accent that made them fall in his arms effortlessly…

He remembered that she kept coming to listen to him night after night. They would enjoy something to eat together. She had tried to invite him but he always insisted. 

Une aussi jolie fleur que toi ne paie pas.

Such a beautiful flower as you are does not pay.

It had started as a distraction, a pleasant surprise in his life. But soon, Lucien found himself waiting for those knocks at his door, in the changing room backstage. He realised that on the few nights she wouldn’t come, he would feel uncomfortable. Something was odd, something wasn’t right, like a pebble in his shoe, something he could live with but… 

And looking inside him he understood that in fact, he was missing her. Him, the man with more love conquests than there were stars in the night sky. He had fallen. In love oui, but he had fallen. Fallen under those eyes, fallen on his knees for her, always looking for her when he sang now. His eyes would frantically scan his audience, the crowd who came to applaud him, he did not hear them! Of course not! Oh! There she was! Ah, Marie…

His eyes would stop on her and from the moment he found her, his secret flower, he would sing and dance for her. Oui, he would even stand up from his piano and dance, make a fool of himself in front of a full room of guests. He would smile only after he would see her grin and wished oh so dearly the whole room would fall silent to hear only her beautiful laughter...

Oh he remembered how they stayed so late in the restaurant that countless times, they had to be pushed out of it. It had happened a few times before Lucien one night asked her to stay.

“Marie?”

“Yeah?” She raised her round eyes to him.

“Stay, please. Don’t walk back home so soon.”

“It… It’s very late, Lucien.” She chuckled and wrapped her arms around herself tighter against the cold.

Oui, with Marie, he had given her his real name straight ahead. Something in his guts had told him that it was safe to do so. He knew it was wrong and dangerous, foolish even! But non, with Marie, it felt wrong to lie.

“Please, ma petite fleur.”

[my little flower]

She had blushed. He could barely see it in the darkness of the night, but the street light was enough and he did see it!

“Fine,” She yielded and Lucien never knew, but of course she wanted to stay. “What is it?” She asked.

“Let us wait for a few minutes. Are you cold?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“Here.” Lucien removed his coat and wrapped her in it.

“Aren’t you cold?” She asked and he smiled. 

“Jamais quand tu es près de moi.”

[Never when you are near me.]

“You know I don’t get French, right?”

“Oui, I do.”

“Then say it in English.”

“Non.” He chuckled and blushed, turning slightly away to hide himself.

“Come on…! It’s unfair!” She pulled him back from the panes of his jacket.

“I cannot.” He confessed, still looking away from her.

“Why not? I’m sure you know the words and all. Your English is perfect, c’mon!”

“Non, Marie, please, don’t make me say it…” He looked down and his front tuft of hair, the same one that is grey now, it fell on his forehead. 

“Lucien…”

The Frenchman closed his eyes when he felt her cold hand on his cheek. He raised his eyes to her.

“Please…?”

And for the first time in his life he understood what it felt like to be the one who is in love, to be the one who feels ill when the other one isn’t here, and to feel blessed when they were together.

“My little flower, I’m never cold when you are near me.” He yielded eventually and to his greatest delight, her grin widened before she hugged him, like that, unexpectedly. She had just leapt to him and held on to the panes of his jacket dearly, with her head and her black hair right below his chin. He wrapped his arms around her and kept her close. He was freezing but he didn’t feel it. All he knew was that he held in his arms the first and only person he ever loved.

[megabees]

atonement, redemption, second chances

a brief drabble that took ahold of me following the episode about Yasha’s thoughts. 

It’s hard to have your mind taken from you. To be swept up in something that you have no control over. 

Yasha knows that. She knows that her time with Obann was not her fault, she knows that it was not within her control. Mind control, cults, they never are. Yet still. 

When Yasha wakes up, slumped over against the door, and she sees the red eyes coming from Caleb and Beau, her ears begin ringing, sound escaping them outside the sound of her own heartbeat. Her hands start to shake as her heart pounds harder than it ever has before, even while raging, and her breath begins to escape her as she begins to recall a memory. 

A campfire. A hand stroking her face, purple with a red eye tattoo illuminated on it, as her breath labors following a dream.  

“Love, you’ve gotta calm yourself. Nothing is worth getting that worked up over.” 

Yasha remembers a time, long before the Nein, when it was she and Molly and the circus, traveling and carefree and young. Oh Kord above, they were so young. Alike in joy, and ignoring your past, and not remembering your memories and worrying that perhaps you’ve done something unforgivable, and deciding to travel to bring joy to others. Plagued with amnesia, panic attacks and fear, but always having a companion to help. 

Gustav used to refer to them as a pair. 

“Molly and Yasha, go pass out these flyers.” “Yasha and Molly, go make sure all of the tents are secured, a storm is coming in.” “Molly and Yasha, please stop giggling so loudly in your tent, it’s late and we have a show in the morning.” 

Molly was her everything. Her sanity, her courage, her shoulder to cry on when thinking of her past. 

Taken from her too soon, just like Zuala. No longer himself, now an eldritch horror with the face of her best friend, but none of the kindness he had for anyone else. 

She never gave up hope that he was gone, even when traveling with Lucien, a man who she despises yet couldn’t bear to hurt. 

Perhaps that’s the reason they haven’t killed the others yet. Yasha’s caused so much harm to this group, how could she hurt someone else with the face of a friend? 

Maybe Yasha isn’t meant to find love. Maybe she’s not meant to find a family. Maybe she’s not allowed to have a second chance at either. Maybe she’s meant to be forever alone, atoning for a crime she thought she was forgiven for. 

Zuala, a first love and a wife. Molly, a soultwin and companion. Caleb, a fellow survivor and brother. Beau, a second chance, a new hope. 

What does it mean for Yasha to have all of those ripped away from her? The common thread is her, so she must be the problem. 

She should just run. She wants to run. She wants to scream and cry and run and god she still can’t breathe properly, locked into watching the eyes dance on Caleb and Beau’s skin, thinking about how she should’ve stopped them from reading that fucking book. 

Yasha slams her head back into the door, breaking her eye contact from the rest of the Nein, and sending a cold wave of pain through her skull, grounding her. 

She can’t run again. First, she wouldn’t survive. The snow or cold would kill her, and secondly, she promised Beau she would stay alive. She can’t waste this second chance. 

There still might be a way to fix this. They got back her mind, maybe she can still have Beau and Caleb. 

Lucien asked her what her goal was, calling her “angel blood” in a way that made her skin feel like it was too tight and like her rage was one moment from boiling out. Hindsight provides clarity, however, and now she knows.  

Redemption. Saving her second chances at love and a family. Filling the hole left in her heart. Protecting those she loves. That’s her new goal. 

Yasha makes eye contact with Beau from across the room, and they both nod slightly before she crosses to go theorize with the group. Finally, she catches her breath, but only for a moment. She still needs her second chance.  

[eluminium]

Uh oh it’s a debate! (Fic)

Well uh, I’ve been dead for half a year. But now I’m back! Schools been a bitch but Summer break is here and I’ve written something out! Lets watch two idiots argue! Tracy Spacey belongs to @reginaldcopperbottom go follow them and Lucien Rousselle belongs to @quec-two follow her too

"Conductor, with all due respect, what will we gain from this plan?"

The varying tone of the Council Members' voice felt like acid in the Conductor's ears and the pressure inside her skull only increased. Elg felt a simmering irritation nip under her skin and she swore that she just popped a blood vessel. The sleek figure of her biggest rival, Tracy Spacey, stood with arms crossed across the table, unyielding in their questioning. A predominant frown showed their dislike, along with their stiff but straight posture. The air in Elg's lungs left in a huff, and the soft padding of her fingers traced her temples in circles.

"Didn't the older members of our honorable council teach you that you should never play all your cards on one possibility?" Elg challenge as her eyes traveled over the quarreling Council Member.

"Of course they did and that is why I am objecting to this self-destructive plan." Tracy fired back, a harsh glare treating Elg's larger form as she did theirs.

"To hide a large portion of our loot from our ally is only going to inspire mistrust Conductor, and for someone who fought so hard to establish it, I find it strange you'd risk it based on unfounded paranoia." They continued with a small smirk resting on their lips, the smugness leaking off their words.

Elg's lips were sealed while her form rose from her seat, the wooden chair digging into her hand. Her head lolled to the side, not unlike a curious dog.

"Unfounded paranoia? Mind elaborating on that?" She questioned, her fingers tightening around the rim of the chair.

"Tell me, do we have any reason to not trust The Masqueraiders and their leadership?" They spoke while their legs carried them towards the nearest window, gloved hands moving from gripping the other arm to gripping each other behind their back.

"There is no evidence of backstabbing after all." They continued.

"At the moment...Yes, there is no evidence of betrayal from our ally" The Conductor admitted through grit teeth, feeling the annoyance bubble in her veins as her eyes bore into the Council Member.

A satisfied sneer sneaked onto their face as their body twirled around to meet Elgs, displaying a feeling of victory and command despite standing a fair distance away from the Conductor.

"Then why are we having this debate in the first place? Order the Metallics to cease the transfer-"

The chasm that leaked words abruptly stopped as their gaze locked onto the finger that rose into the air, signifying them to shut up. A simple gesture for most, but those used to debates with the Conductor, it's a warning. Tracy felt a similar rage seething in their veins as the Conductor, but they chose to obey, crossing their arms with a grunt and a glare. They were however curious of what her counter would be.

Elg, satisfied with Tracy's silence, spoke.

"You are correct by saying there is no evidence of dishonesty from our ally-"

A snobbish glint danced in their eyes as they kept eye contact with Elg. In response, Elg's feet carried her forwards, closing the gap between them ever so slightly.

"-But have you forgotten what world we operate in Council Member?" She continued sharply while her steps danced closely to Tracy's personal space. Tracy felt their body react by taking a step back, and their arms sneaked back into a defensive position.

"I don't follow your line of thinking, Conductor" They rumbled as a counter, their asphalt-colored gaze hardening as they were locked with Elg's sharp ocean blue eyes.

With a confident step forward, and a small squeak from Tracy as their personal space was breached, Elg felt a dark chuckle escape her lungs.

"We're criminals, Council Member. We operate in a space where betrayal is rewarded greatly, and so are the Masqueraiders. Yes, they might not plan to betray us now, but in the future? Anything is possible. Besides, they might be planning to stab us in the back right now, we just haven't noticed."

For a split second, the room was silent. Not a single sarcasm-filled sound bounced off the metal walls. The only noises either of their ears could pick up were their own and the other's breathing. The space between them barely existed, their chests squished up against each other. Despite Tracy slightly outclassing Elg in height, Elg's more bulky form made them look quite small pressed up against her. The stillness continued. Tracy's mind drew a blank, Elg waited for a response.

But as the clock in Tracy's pocket ticked, both their gazes averted and both moved back a step, with the Conductor doing it calmly while the Council Members step was more panicky. Despite this, Elg quickly reestablished eye contact, refusing to look away until Tracy gave them an answer. Tracy, in their turn, fumbled a bit.

"D-Don't you think I know that?!" They spat out, flustered, while their body moved into a guarded stance. Their spine was erected and their foot hit the floor repeatedly.

"Well, If you did maybe you wouldn't be so naive!" Elg snarled back angrily, the rage in her blood starting to boil over. Both their tones drowned the room in toxicity.

"Don't patronize me, Conductor! I'm not a fucking child!"

"Stop acting like one then!"

"Oh, I could say the same to you! You're putting the stability of our alliance in peril because of some childish fear!"

"Why do you even care so much?! You were one of the biggest opponents of said alliance in the beginning! You fought tooth and bloody nail to prevent it, constantly calling me a false conductor who doesn't care about her people! And now that I'm actually prioritizing the Bowties you fucking fight me on it! What happened?!"

Their feet shifted their balance to their toes as a preventive scoff left them. Their body kept dragging in itself.

"It doesn't matter! People are allowed to change their god damn opinions Conductor!"

Suddenly, something clicked in the Conductors head, and her stare once again traveled over the huffing Council Member. The defensive position, the avoidance of the question, the almost fearful tone in their voice, bouncing around in her ear...

"You gotta be kidding me" She muttered spitefully, her stare turning into a glare.

"Wha-?" Tracy started but was caught off guard by the Conductors' sudden change in volume.

"It's that wasp-looking guy isn't it?! Lucien Rousselle, right?!" She raised her voice, the sound of fury echoing.

"W-What about him?! What the hell are you on?!" Tracy spluttered, a red heat traveling through their cheeks.

"Don't play dumb with me you clock-obsessed moron! It's so obvious even I can see it! I see the looks you give him! You're prioritizing your dainty little feelings over the safety of our faction!" Elg roared, the stomp of her steps slowly approaching Tracy once again.

"U-Uh n-no! That's not true! Uhm...uh...but but BUT WHAT ABOUT WEASLEY? YOU TWO ARE CLOSE! DO YOU SERIOUSLY THINK HE'D BETRAY YOU? YOU THINK HE'S JUST ANOTHER LUIGRA?!" Tracy bit back, panic rushing through their bones. They HAD to change the topic, and fast. Even if it meant hitting some weak spots.

Now it was Elg's turn to be completely bewildered. Her footsteps ground to a halt as she was forced to recalibrated her brain.

"What the...What?! Just because we're close and work together doesn't mean I'd sacrifice the safety of my fellow Bowties! And don't you DARE compare him to that...that greedy blue-haired fucker!" Elg stuttered out, confusion and anger dribbling off her voice.

"Well, maybe you should ACT like it then you daft idiot!"

"Hah! Rich for you to say love bird!"

"S-Shut up! I'm not in love with a fucking economics minister! You tried to teach Weasley how to play fucking POOL yesterday!"

"That has nothing to do with ANYTHING-"

"Oh doesn't it-?!"

"Conduta' Elg?"

Both of their mouths clamped shut as that familiar Arabic voice filled the room.

"Y...Yeah, Aynan?" Elg huffed out, completely out of breath from the shouting match.

"We nee' to le'ave tha' area soon, ya nee' to prepa' tha' train" He continued, his words soft and delicate like a cloud.

"Yes, yes of course. I'll head out now" Elg responded, her body taking her towards the door like she was on autopilot, with her Young Soul waiting outside.

Before she left the room, she once again stared into Tracy's thundercloud-like eyes. They were both gasping a bit, exhausted from the dispute turned screaming match. She was met by anger, confusion, and fear. Her own sky blue gaze showed similar emotions. From this, both of them knew this debate was far from over, and that they'd clash again one day soon.