#or “what a violent way to wake up snow white”

[lotus-pear]

guys stop asking me for bsd fic recs, i will tell u to go read the light novels

[doublesuicide19]

These spot the difference games are getting harder

[keithbutgay]

I love bsd because, in actuality, there are no canon romantic relationships but as soon as you remove the context

"You're a rough ride."

"Shut up!!"

~~~

*stars and hearts everywhere* *looks up through eyelashes* That's what makes me love you

~~~

"You have got to stop jabbing me in the ass with that sword!"

~~~

*cups face tenderly* *smiles* what a violent way to wake up snow white

~~~

"But if my dear Ranpo were to die in those novels... what would I do with myself?"

~~~

And, we can't forget about...

"Chuuya. Come back to me. Our fates will not end here. Because you and I are destined to-" *gets shot*

[in-jail-out-soon7]

Merry Christmas!

In which you celebrate Christmas morning with the Sano household.

Manjiro Sano x GN!Reader

Warnings: Cursing & tooth rotting fluff

Being shaken awake, violently- Wasn't really what you had in mind for Christmas morning. Hissing as your blanket was ripped off of you and the cold air of Mikey's room attacked your bare legs.

The worse part about your boyfriend's room being in a literal garage/shed is that whatever temperature it was outside it was the exact same temperature inside.

Finally gaining some consciousness, you stared up at Mikey who was kneeling on the mattress over you. "Wake up, (Y/N)," He groaned, discarding the blanket he had just stripped from you to the floor.

"Mikey." Stretching your limbs and popping your joints, you stared annoyingly up at Mikey. "What time is it?"

"Why does it matter?"

You groaned and turned over on your other side to face the wall. The mattress raised and the old bed frame squeaked as Mikey jumped out of bed.

Mikey had spent nearly the entirety of Christmas Eve trying to convince your family to let you stay the night and spend Christmas morning with Him, Emma and his grandpa. A box of your mother's favorite perfume set, that he definitely made either Draken or Emma buy- not that he'd admit it- was what made her cave.

However if you knew it would be like this you would've chucked the gift right out the damn window.

You were definitely feeling the effects of staying out until two in the morning riding on the back of Mikey's bike through the city. He had also dragged along Draken and Mitsuya, their's and your complaints about the cold fell on deaf ears. You all knew of the tradition Mikey had formed with his older brother, Shinichiro, and Baji of riding through the winter snow on Christmas Eve.

So despite all the complaints, nobody had left his side until he was ready to return home with you.

A yelp left your lips when ice cold hands gripped the back of your thighs, yanking you to the edge of the bed. Mikey flipped you onto your back, your legs falling over the edge of the bed and your feet landed on the hard floor with a thump.

Left in a weird position with your upper body on the bed and the lower hanging off, your hips tensed then popped. You swung at him with an open hand. "Fuck, Mikey, go back to sleep!"

Mikey slapped your hand away easily and pouted. Without a word he placed a leg on either side of yours and flopped down on top of you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"You're The Grinch," he whispered playfully.

"Whatever."

Mikey kissed your collarbone and giggled, vibrating the skin. He stood, but before he could pester you more a voice called from outside the shed.

"Manjiro! Emma wants you and (Y/N) inside for breakfast!" The voice was low and scratchy. Mikey's grandpa.

Mikey called back, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Okay, Grandpa!" Now you had to go with him.

You and Mikey slipped on shoes and jackets over your pjs for the two second walk to the house. The snow crunched under your feet as you made you way to the front door. Mikey opened it, after being out all night and sleeping with no heater both of you sighed contently at the warmth before removing your shoes and jackets.

Following the scent of breakfast through the living room to the kitchen, having to grip Mikey's sleeve so he didn't run head first into the pile of presents under the tree.

As you both took seats around the table the clock on the wall caught your eye.

6:34 A.M.

You don't think you've ever seen Mikey up this early before, and if you have he never went to sleep to fucking begin with. You silently glared at Mikey who was too distracted with the food Emma was currently stacking onto plates.

"Merry Christmas, you two," She said happily turning to face the table. Over a white sweater and black leggings she had on a red apron with a small christmas tree printed in the upper middle. She placed plates of waffles and eggs in front of everyone.

Mikey immediately reached across the table for the can of whipped cream, you pulled your own plate towards you. "Thanks for cooking Emma." You smiled at her as she took her own seat. Their grandfather, Mr. Sano, nodded in agreement, sipping on a cup of coffee.

Scooping some egg into your mouth, Mikey picked at the edges of his waffles. A mess of whipped cream on his plate. "Emma," he whined. "You made the edges of my waffles too crispy."

Emma huffed, pouring juice into her glass. "Than make it yourself next time, and where's that old towel? Not that I'm complaining, you really need to throw that garbage away." She drizzled syrup on her waffles. Mr. Sano chuckled from down the table.

"(Y/N) threw it on the floor."

"I did not!"

Mikey shrugged and stuffed more waffle into his mouth, he ignored the eggs.

Emma turned to you and poured juice into your own glass. You thanked her, took a sip and sighed. "Next time you see it throw it out for me, (Y/N)."

"I will."

Mikey gasped dramatically through a mouthful of food. "No you won't!"

Everyone laughed at Mikey's pout. The four of you continued to chat idly throughout breakfast.

When everyone finished Emma cleared away the dishes, dismissing any help you offered with clean up. Mikey dragged you into the living room, Mr. Sano following close behind after refilling his cup of coffee.

Mr. Sano turned on some random reality TV show and sat in his recliner while Mikey pulled you onto the floor next to him in front of the christmas tree.

"Now, hold on," Mr. Sano said stopping Mikey from ripping open the first present he found with his name on it. "Wait for Emma, Boy."

Mikey sat the present in is lap and groaned. "Emma hurry up!" The sound of Emma rinsing the dishes was the only response he got. Mr. Sano chuckled.

Mikey hung his head, his messy hair covering his eyes. You laughed softly and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear.

Looking down at the gift in his lap, you pointed at the tag. "I got this one for you." Your finger traced over your name written in fancy cursive- that Emma had insisted on writing for you so all the gifts matched.

Mikey tapped on the middle joint of your finger that traced the letters. He reached under the tree, knocking some presents aside until found what he was looking for.

He hands you a small gift with a poor wrapping job. "And I got this for you." You smiled and squeezed the gift softly trying to figure out at least the shape underneath the wrinkled paper.

"Emma didn't get onto you for this?" You giggle.

He shrugged. "I think I did great." You shook your head and sighed. Mikey poked at the present in your hand. "She said if I got to wrap it she got to hide it behind everything."

You laughed at that.

Emma walked into the living room holding a tray of three hot mugs of hot chocolate. "'Kay, I'm here!" Mikey exclaimed a 'finally!' then reached for the mug with the most whipped cream. You took one as well and thanked Emma.

When everyone had their first gift in hand, including Mr. Sano, Mikey was the first to rip the wrapping paper off his. You followed alongside him while Emma and Mr. Sano chatted behind you two on tne couch, opening their own gifts.

"Oh," Mikey said quietly. You looked at him. He gazed down at the now unwrapped gift in his hand: A toy airplane still in it's box.

Your heart dropped at his reaction. "You use to have one right? You told me it broke." Mikey nodded. "Shinichiro gave it to you." He nodded again.

"Yeah."

"Yeah." You repeated. "Sorry."

Mikey shook his head and sighed. Before you could respond about the change of mood an icy hand found it's place on the back of your neck, and warm lips on your own. It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like forever before he pulled away. His lips were still sticky from breakfast earlier.

"It's the best." He said finally.

"What?"

"The gift. It's the best."

"Oh, good!" You sighed in relief. Turning back to your own gift, you discarded of the last few pieces of paper. You were finally left with a small box. You opened it to find a purple charm. Identical to the one Mikey has been carrying around since Baji's death.

"Open it," Mikey says softly from besides you.

Turning the charm over in your hand, you pull open the slit at the top and pull out a folded piece a paper. You began unfolding it.

It was a picture of twelve year old Mikey and you riding the old moped he use to have before he got a real motorcycle. The photo must've been taken by either Baji or Kazutora because they were the only two not in the background, but you chose not the voice the observation. Draken, Mitsuya, and Pah were blurry figures in the back, but you could still recognize who was who.

You traced over the faces of yourselves, clearly enjoying the experience despite both of you struggling to both fit on the moped. A smile stretched across your face. It had been the day you had tagged along with them to the beach. When Toman was only six members big.

"I didn't even know this photo was taken," you laugh.

Mikey reached into his shirt and pulled out his own charm that contained a photo of all the founding members or Toman. The same charm Baji carried around before his death two months ago. "I found it in here."

Taking a deep breath you refolded the picture and slipped it back into the charm. You turned to you boyfriend.

"Thanks, Mikey."

Before he could respond a flash caught you guy's attention. You both turned around to Emma giggling and Mr. Sano holding a camera.

"Grandpa- stop-" Mikey's exclaim was cut off by the doorbell.

Confused, Emma stood and disappeared into the foyer for a few moments while Mikey continued to pout at his grandpa.

"Throw it away, Grandpa."

"Nah," Mr. Sano said waving around the photo that had just finished processing.

Emma returned a smile reaching up to her eyes. A voice boomed behind her.

"Are we late!?" Draken, Mitsuya, Chifuyu and Takemitchy walked into the living room. All of them holding gifts.

Brushing his messy hair aside Mikey jumped onto his feet and made his way over to the group to greet them.

While everyone else was distracted in conversation you approached Mr. Sano.

"Came to try and throw it away too?" He asks holding the photo teasingly.

You shook you head and laughed. "No." You held up your charm.

"There's somewhere I want to put it."

[newkatzkafe2023]

@lara-legomonkiekid

Hello👋, I think this is the first time sending you an ask, I really like your blog and I have a question about something.

And if Y/N were a monkey like SWK's/Monkey King's, how would they react?

I imagine Y/N to be a very pretty white monkey with green or blue eyes (^w^).

I also wanted to know what their reaction would be like if they purred with Y/N or if Y/N started to purr🤔.

Do it if you want!☺️

Aww Thank you i'm glad you like it This makes me feel better about my whole blog🥰🥰 I will gladly answer your question.

You are (Y/N) a Monkey with white fur and Piercing blue eyes. You're pretty Well known for making Food that can heal diseases And fix injuries. Many would come to the very top of your mountain home to ask for your help, But the thing is, you are anti social and you don't like humanity or the demons. We were taking a nap 1 day when suddenly when a Something smacked into The tree you were sleeping in and you Wake up to see another monkey???

(LMK Wukong) He was stunned 😲 he has never seen anything like you. Your snow White fur and your navy blue eyes stared into his very soul. He was also quite perplexed, the only celestial monkeys,He knows of his himself and Macaque So imagine his shock to find us another one in fact a female one. You know exactly who this guy is The monkey king the great sage equal to heaven and all that bull crap, he already sounds annoying So without any word you quickly Kick them off your mountain. Unfortunately that didn't stop him from coming back. Over the years, he wore you down So you finally throw him a bone. And now you two have been married for god knows how long. Their was never a time where you and Wukong purred together as you Cuddle and you kissing him.

(Nezha Reborn wukong) This Guy harasses you something fierce it's been like this for years. With a beautiful Creature that stares at him like dirt on your boots He always comes by flirt and try to court you. Every time you kick him off your mountain he just bounces right back, he just couldn't take a hint. You're kind of glad he Didn't, Because your Marriage wouldn't be what it is today He loves head and chin Scratches because his purrs would be heard from all over the room Along with yours when you're Relaxing with him.

(Monkey Reborn Wukong) You to meet this A**hole when the monk Tang comes to you asking for your assistance for the journey. He's perplexed to find a female Celestial monkey, He'll never admit it but he thought your fur and eyes were kinda pretty. You of course rejected his Master's request and immediately told them to get off your mountain. Wukong didn't like that and demanded that you do what his master saids. Yeah, it did not take long for the exchange To get heated and you both throw hands And the most hilarious part is that He absolutely lost. that was the beginning to a very violent rivalry There was never a time where you were Both weren't yelling, exchanging insults or just full out fighting. Soon a violent fight led to a rather intense make out session before he froze and Dashed away from you something changed from there and soon enough you both got togethersure their was still fight but not violent like before. He'll tease you for purring but shuts up Immediately if he purred Too.

(Hero is back wukong) He may not show it but he was interested in you Appearance, he's never seen anything like you. Not only are you a female celestial monkey, but one with snow white Fur and sharp blue eyes. And it seems like you remind him of himself in a way. You don't socialize at all. He takes his time getting pass your walls and you two become friends and years later get married. I imagine his purrs are deep and that usually tell you that he's either relaxed or Sleeping

(Netflix Wukong) you never got along with the monkey Elders especially with how the ostracized a new monkey who Simply wants to fit in with them. That's right your the only one who befriend Wukong and stayed with him. Sure he was a handful but that's because he was literally brand new. He always like playing with your snow White fur and your eye always head comfort rather then Judgment you purr Quietly While He is also purrs rather loudly but that because you're always petting him

There you Go Feel Free to Reblog😇👍

[freezybreezyy]

Sherbet Land

sol and axl have fun in the snow! fic under the cut

Axl woke up to bright sunlight shining into his eyes. He frowned and tried to cover his face, but found himself unable to move his arms. Soft snoring tickled the back of his neck, and large arms encircled his waist. Sighing, he craned his head backwards as much as he could, his entire body pinned by the warm mass behind him.

“Get offa me, you big lug,” Axl grunted as he tried to squirm out of Sol’s embrace, still squinting against the light. Damn his partner’s big, strong arms and his nighttime snuggles. Finally, he managed to escape the warmth of his partner and blankets, shivering at the sudden cold he felt. Maybe that bear hug wasn’t so bad after all…

He hummed as he looked through his laundry hamper until he found a hoodie that seemed clean enough, teeth chattering from the low temperature. Why was it so cold? The sun was shining, wasn’t it? He shuffled towards the window, peering out to scowl at the sun’s rays. His face quickly transformed once he saw the landscape outside, however. Scrambling back to bed, he climbed on top of Sol and shook him violently.

“Ch-Chief! Chief! Wake up! Emergency! You gotta get up!”

His partner snorted awake with a jolt. “Wh— huh? What’s happening?!”

Axl leaned down with an ear-splitting grin on his face. “It’s snowing!”

Sol was still trying to get his bearings, squinting hard at the man’s face. “… Huh?”

“C’mon, look, look! Look outside!”

The Gear growled as he was dragged out of bed towards the window. Outside, the ground was hidden under a blanket of pure white snow, shining brilliantly. Even the roads were completely covered, making the entire landscape look like a blank sheet of paper. Axl was completely mesmerized, pressing his face against the glass as he tried to see as much of the new scenery as he could. Sol, however, wasn’t as impressed.

“It’s cold.” He huffed and made his way back to bed.

“Wait, wait!” Axl grabbed his arm before he could pull the covers back on. “Chief, think about it! When was the last time it snowed here?”

“… I dunno. Last year, maybe.”

“Exactly! It’s been a whole year since we’ve seen this much snow, and you’re not gonna take advantage of it?!”

“I am taking advantage of it.” Sol grunted as he tried covering himself with blankets again. “No one’ll expect me to go outside today. I can sleep in.”

“Chiiiieeeeeef, can’t we play outside just for a bit? Just a little? Just one little snowman, Chief?”

Axl tried his best puppy dog eyes as his partner glowered at him. The staring contest lasted several agonizing seconds until Sol finally broke, looking away with a frown.

“Fine. Go make your snowman.”

Axl whooped and ran to find his warmest clothes.

***

Sol watched in amusement as Axl ran around gleefully. He looked like a child in the ankle deep snowfall, constantly tripping and falling only to laugh and keep running. Snow was far from the Gear’s favorite weather, but seeing his partner’s enjoyment made it a bit more worth it.

“You’re gonna get snow in your clothes if you keep falling like that,” he called out. Axl grinned at him in the distance and decided to hasten the process, flopping down to make a snow angel. Sol rolled his eyes and began to trudge towards him.

He loomed over Axl and smirked.“That doesn’t look like a snowman.”

Axl pouted up at him. “C’mon, I’m havin’ fun! You’re gonna stop me when I’m havin’ such a good time?”

Sighing, Sol said nothing as his partner continued carving his silhouette into the snow, making his way back to the entrance to their home. Even he was struggling to walk now, unable to see below his knees. He didn’t want to bother with getting his pants soaked any longer, trying to get back to more shallow ground.

SPLAT!

Sol froze in place, eyes widening as a shocking chill suddenly covered the back of his head and neck, teeth immediately chattering from the cold. The snow quickly turned to steam on his body as he slowly turned back to face Axl, who was currently staring at him with a mix of joy and terror as he realized what he’d done.

For a moment, the two simply stared at each other, the silence seeming to stretch as far as the white sheets of snow around them. Sol watched as his partner’s mouth moved without making a sound, trying and failing to form any words.

“Uh… S-sorry,” Axl finally managed to stammer out.

Sol stared at him.

“You can… you can, uh, hit me back..?”

The snow had already disappeared from Sol’s neck, but still he stared wordlessly.

“… Chief?”

Quicker than Axl could react, the Gear suddenly burst into a sprint. crouching low as he ran, he gathered a large lump of snow in his hand and headed straight towards his partner. He watched the man’s arms raise up in self defense, but it was already too late. He smashed his makeshift snowball into Axl’s face hard enough for the man to fall backwards and tumble over a foot away, his body almost disappearing in the deep snowbanks.

Sol stared at Axl’s still form until the man began to move. Slowly, he sat upright, nearly unrecognizable from the amount of snow that covered him from head to toe. He didn’t stand up, nor did he make any attempt to wipe himself off. Sol frowned, feeling a twinge of pity. Had he hit him too hard?

… He was gone. Sol blinked. There was only a small dent in the snow that signified anyone had been there. He whipped around, trying to figure out where Axl could’ve disappeared to.

A cheerful shout of “Gotcha!” was all the warning Sol had before he was tackled from behind, landing face first into the snow. His entire body shivered as he was enveloped by thick frost, his muffled hearing catching a victorious cackle from the mass above him.

“Shoulda thought of that before you attacked me, Ch— whoa!” Sol’s strength allowed him to easily lift himself up with Axl still on top of him, the other man tumbling backwards into the snow once again. Before he landed, however, he managed to grab the Gear by his coat, sending them both down to begin wrestling for control.

“Cheater!” Sol barked out as he managed to pin his partner down, but the slippery coward managed to worm out of his grip and switch their positions. Axl stuck his tongue out as he stared down at him.

“You’re cheating by burnin’ the snow ‘offa yourself before you can even get cold. You’re supposed to get worn down by all this!”

Sol scowled as he grabbed him by the shoulders, once again gaining the dominant position. “Idiot. You have fire magic too, you know.”

“… Huh. Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Steam slowly started to float off of Axl’s body as he made this realization. Sol suddenly found himself face up in the snow again, his partner sitting on his chest and peering down at him. He blew his hair out of his face, blond strands beginning to fall loose out of his bandana from the tussle.

“If magic’s allowed, then what’s wrong with a little time fiddling, hmm?”

Sol growled up at him, but didn’t make a move. He knew he could easily pin the man in a normal spar, he was at a complete loss when it came to Axl’s time powers.

“C’mon, Chief. Say the magic words and I’ll get ‘offa ya.”

“… You were s’posed to make a snowman,” he grumbled instead.

“Sure, but this was fun too, wasn’t it?”

Loathe as he was to admit it… “Yeah. A little.”

Axl grinned. “See? Aren’t you glad you came outside?” He finally stood up, offering a hand to his partner. Sol ignored it.

“… Whatever.”

“Oh, come now, Chief! Don’t act all grumpy just ‘cause you lost,” he emphasized his words with a sneer. “We can make matching snowfellas now!”

Sol shoved him back into the snow.

[swifty-fox]

Hi Hope your day is going well May I ask you "Lose the other in a nightmare, and cling to them when they awake." with the Bucks for the writing prompt?

It's going!! clearing out soo many prompts. This turned out oddly tender

from here

Of the things John Egan and Gale Cleven had expected to find a challenge upon returning home, sleep was not one of them. At Thorpe they slept the way soldiers did; efficiently and when they were expected to. As kriegies their exhausted starving bodies meant they slept often and deeply, trying to conserve fading energy reserves.

Sleep was a fraught battlefield now, a waiting game of how long would they rest and what horrors would find them in it. Nightmares weren't a question of if, but rather when they would hit. Sometimes Bucky liked to make it a game, thought he doubted Buck would appreciate it if he knew, of who would wake first.

So far Gale was in the lead.

Often, they were quiet with it, trained silence or maybe sheer stubbornness, rarely did either of them so much as whimper or flail. Simply jolted awake, breath ragged and sudden as their bodies remembered where they were.

Tonight, it is Bucky's turn to jerk awake.

Gale is a steady weight on his chest, breathing slow and even, pressure grounding John back into his body almost instantly. He knew Gale preferred to sleep on his side or his stomach, but this arrangement had become their regular these days as winter drew closer.

They both no longer did well in the cold.

A shaft of moonlight falls perfectly across Gale's face, lighting his usually tawny features up siler and smoke. His hair, loose for once without any product, an eerie bone white and soft as silk through John's fingers. Eyelashes ice white, lips a soft mist color with only the slightest of blush peeking through the monochrome. Bucky tugs the slumbering man closer, draping him more fully on his body and exhales shakily, traces a hand down Gale's spine and presses soft lips to the corner of Gale's temple, breathing in the smell of him, and nuzzles into his hair to try to fall back to sleep.

The vivid sight of Gale running through his dreams, dirty and hungry and terrified, clung to him. Again and again in his minds eye he watched Gale vault over that wall, heard the crack of a gun from the soldier he was to slow to reach in time. The violent jerk of Buck's body as the bullets spin him around. Red red blood trickling over frozen stone onto the snow. Much too far away, but it was a dream, so John could hear the ragged rattle of Buck's last breath, shocked and hurt as if he had no idea what just happened.

Gale's hair smells like lemon and John's cigarettes. It's just a dream.

[icarusignite]

These Violent Delights (1)

Chapter 1: Marigolds and Mayhem

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x OC

Word Count: 4k

Summary: Academic rivals, Coriolanus Snow and Artemis Highbottom must compete for the Plinth prize. Shenanigans ensue.

A/N: Check out the masterlist for a better synopsis lol. As usual, don't be a ghost reader. I live for yalls comments/questions/concerns/reactions, even a keyboard smash is highly appreciated and encouraged ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

Masterlist

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

It was the third nosebleed of the night and Artemis was just about tired of it. She didn't even bother stemming the flow, allowing the carmine rivulets to trace an unhurried path from her nostrils to the marble below.

The hush of running water met the heavy rhythm of a beating heart, and there she stood—a lone figure, framed by the harsh edges of the sink, her grip upon it almost desperate. She could feel the sharpness imprinting into her skin, and yet still she clung, her skin stretched across her knuckles almost comically grotesque.

She watched the blood, in an almost detached sort of way. It could be art, she mused, the juxtaposition of sanguine against sterile white. A whispered revelation danced at the edge of her consciousness—anything could be art if you framed it the right way. Even the bloodiest of carnages. A spectacle, a thing to be enjoyed.

Artemis looked up, and her reflection stared back, menacingly. The mirror, an unforgiving oracle, revealed a distorted visage, one she both did and did not recognize. Her dark hair, cascaded in disarray, entangled in the aftermath of sleep's elusivity and her eyes harbored shadows akin to a painter's bruised palette. The reflection mocked, a cruel mimicry of the composed persona she so ardently sought to maintain.

Out of control.

Unbidden judgment pierced through her thoughts, a verdict she loathed to acknowledge.

No that could not be right.

Artemis Highbottom was always in control.

She despised this discordance, this disruption to her meticulously curated world. To her, it was anathema, but nature could not be controlled, and what was more natural than blood? Perhaps it was fitting, that this fundamental of humanity could not be dominated.

Blood could never be dishonest, and it had the power to reveal one's innermost truths.

With unyielding determination, Artemis scrubbed at the remnants of the crimson tide that painted her face, an act of restitution against the chaos that dared to invade her pristine sanctuary. Each abrasive stroke was an attempt to erase not just the physical residue but a deeper discord. She worked quietly, although there was no one else to hear. There was never anyone to hear her, her gilded halls always vacant, but Artemis spoke silence like a second language and old habits die hard. She spared her father a brief thought, wondering where he could possibly be at such a late hour but it didn't really matter. He just wasn't here. He never was.

Raw skin met her touch, and the blood, now vanquished, left in its wake a battlefield—a canvas of sacrifice for the sake of semblance.

The mess was an unwelcome intrusion there were far worse ways to be awoken. If she was busy cleaning up after her nosebleeds, then she wasn't sleeping, and if she wasn't sleeping, then she wasn't dreaming.

The walk to the Academy's Heavensbee Hall was a brisk one, although, in the sweltering heat, Artemis found herself increasingly short-tempered. She was going to be late, but she kept her pace measured. She would not arrive a panting sweaty mess like some savage. It had been a foolish idea, she knew that, but she had given her own driver the day off anyway, waiting instead for her father. His presence was expected, and she imagined it would have been a pleasant change of routine to accompany him. He was probably running late, she told herself. After all, she hadn't seen him return, and she would know, she was awake half the night.

The grand staircase up to the Academy could hold the entire student body, so it easily accommodated the stream of officials, professors, and students headed for the reaping day festivities. Artemis sped up, taking three steps at a time, while still attempting a casual dignity. Every other person she passed stopped to wave her down and exchange pleasantries, and although her impatience was rising, she kept a placid smile stretched across her lips as she greeted them all in turn. She nodded when they asked after her, and then nodded some more, albeit less enthusiastically when they asked about her father.

She made her way through an entry draped in black banners, then sprinted down a vaulted passage, and into cavernous Heavensbee Hall, where they would watch the broadcast of the reaping ceremony. She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw that she wasn't quite as late as she believed, and the official ceremony hadn't yet started. The hall was humming with faculty and students and a number of Games officials. 

Avoxes wove through the crowd with trays of posca, a concoction of watery wine laced with honey and herbs. One passed by Artemis, and despite her parched throat, she waved him away. On principle, she avoided any and all intoxicants. It was stronger than most people thought, and in previous years she had seen many make complete fools of themselves by imbibing too deeply. Artemis would be damned if she allowed herself to lose control like that. That and given her father's dependence on morphling, she imagined she must be genetically predisposed to addiction. 

In the great hall, she was once again forced to make her rounds, as faculty and students alike beckoned to introduce her to their circles. She eventually travelled past the hundreds of cushioned chairs set up for the occasion and onto the dais, where the communications professor, Satyria Click was regaling a mix of Academy professors and Games officials with some wild story. Amongst the gathered crowd was the biology instructor, Alfred Stanton, who stood off to the side, eyes deliberately wandering the area as if to make a show of his boredom. When his eyes caught sight of Artemis, he brightened, his face lifting in a smile as he waved her over. 

Oh great, more greetings. If Artemis had to utter another false pleasantry, she'd lose her breakfast. 

No, she wouldn't. She knew better than that. Besides, she was Professor Stanton's teaching aide, and it was quite literally in her job description to be at his beck and call. 

When she arrived, she scowled internally. It was inevitable, she knew that, but she was hoping that at least today of all days, she'd be delayed in setting eyes upon the one person who held the power of ruining her mornings. 

"Oh, Coriolanus!" Satyria drawled, as the blonde boy gave her the customary kiss on the cheek. "Here’s my star pupil.”

Artemis held no qualms against Satyria, not really. She was amusing and not overly uptight, one of the few professors who allowed students to call them by their first names. It was her teaching aide against whom she held a grudge. 

Professor Stanton, not to be outdone, clapped his meaty hand on Artemis's shoulder, making her stagger. Maybe the man needed to lay off the weightlifting for a bit. He announced her presence to the circle enthusiastically, earning a scowl from Satyria. 

"And Artemis, my star pupil. We were afraid we'd miss you this morning."

Artemis ducked her head bashfully, mumbling something about running late, but Professor Stanton only laughed boisterously, as he continued to speak. 

Coriolanus Snow was seething. Well, no that was perhaps a little extreme. Artemis Highbottom did not deserve such a reaction from him. She didn't deserve the energy. When he hadn't seen her earlier today, he had deluded himself into thinking that she simply wouldn't come. She was never late after all, so the fact of the matter must be that she simply wasn't coming. With her gone, he could be the sole beneficiary of the crowd's attention, networking his way into their hearts. 

Then he had seen her arrive, panting and slightly out of breath and he had to admit he marveled at the sight. Her coffee skin flushed and her hair thrown over her shoulder haphazardly as if she'd been running. Coriolanus had been amused, to say the least. He had hoped that she wouldn't wander over to his little corner, that he would be able to have Satyria's circle all to himself, but it was wishful thinking. People knew of him of course, being the son of Crassus Snow and all, but he realized that they tended to forget about him in her presence. After all, it was far easier to garner the good graces of one's father if he was still alive. Even if said father was Casca High-as-a-Kite-Bottom. Snow sniggered at the nickname, a creation of his own genius. 

Almost as if she could read his mind, Artemis shot him a withering glare, and Coriolanus stiffened, standing straighter to shoot her one back. The circle had shifted, placing him right next to her and if he stretched his fingers, they'd brush against hers. Not that he'd want to of course. How utterly repulsive. 

“Beautiful shirt. Where did you get such a thing?” Satyria was addressing Snow now, surveying him carefully. 

He looked at the shirt as if surprised by its existence and gave the shrug of a young man of limitless options. They didn't have to know that all that was left to him was his name. The world still needed to think of Coriolanus as rich. 

“The Snows have deep closets,” he said airily. “I was trying for respectful yet celebratory.”

Artemis held back a snort. 

Celebratory, my ass. 

The Snows' closets were as deep as their pockets, which was to say, containing all the depth of a bottlecap. Standing this close to him, she could almost smell the faint scent of dead marigolds and potato starch his shirt was emitting. 

"Is something funny, Miss Highbottom?" Coriolanus turned to him with a raised eyebrow. 

Just your pathetic fibbing skills, she wanted to say. Perhaps she had not been as discreet with her expressions as she thought she'd been because he was still waiting for an answer. 

"Not at all, Mr. Snow," Artemis gave him one of her very best saccharine smiles. "I just agree with Satyria. That is indeed a lovely shirt."

Their professor beamed, happy to be validated.

“And so it is. What are these cunning buttons?” Satyria asked, fingering one of the cubes on his cuff. “Tesserae?” 

“Are they? Well, that explains why they remind me of the maid’s bathroom,” Coriolanus responded, drawing a chuckle from her friends. 

This was the impression he fought to sustain. A reminder that he was the rare person who had a maid’s bathroom — let alone one tiled with tesserae — tempered with a self-deprecating joke about his shirt. 

He nodded at Satyria. “Lovely gown. It’s new, isn’t it?” He could tell at a glance that it was the same dress she always wore to the reaping ceremony, refurbished with tufts of black feathers. But she had validated his shirt, and he needed to return the favour.

As he did so, his eyes couldn't help but return to the figure at his side. While Satyria's renovated dress made him feel better about his own attire, brought to life only through his cousin Tigris's efforts, Artemis's had the exact opposite effect. It was new, almost obscenely so. Wasteful extravagance, he thought to himself bitterly. What a vain and shallow creature, but such was the case with all the Capitol women he supposed. 

"What a wonderful ensemble, Artemis!" Satyria crowed once again. "You absolutely must give me the details of your dressmaker. Doesn't she look lovely, Coriolanus?"

Snow blinked. The question was directed at him, clearly, but he couldn't force the words out, even as his professor looked at him expectantly. 

“Elegant,” he finally stated blandly.

Liar. 

Artemis's eyes flashed at him triumphantly, almost as if calling him out. 

The adults wandered off, and their company was replaced by that of their classmates. Arachne Crane slipped her arm into Artemis's as soon she was within range, and Artemis sent her a smile that was only slightly less false than the one she had been wearing all morning. 

"Finally, and here I thought our star pupils would be too busy to give us humble folk time of day," she complained. 

"Don't ever use the word humble, Arachne," the boy to her right, Festus Creed, scoffed. "It does not suit you."

Arachne rolled her eyes and sipped her drink petulantly. 

"Have you tried this lamb, it's scandalous!"

The only thing scandalous is the president's son eating with his hands, Artemis thought to herself, but she knew better than to say it out loud. 

Lucky for her, Festus didn't. 

"Only the vulgar eat with their fingers, Felix," he chastised. "What, daddy not teach you table manners?"

"Maybe he would have if he wasn't so busy running the country!" Felix retorted. 

The conversation veered off in the direction of the Plinth Prize, and their eyes were drawn to the family standing off to a corner, speaking amongst themselves. 

"Who would have thought that you could buy yourself into the capitol?" Felix muttered derisively. 

"You can buy god himself, provided you have the resources," Artemis finally commented. 

"You can't buy class though. Did you see Sejanus's mother's outfit," Festus paused for dramatic effect before sniggering. "Sorry, his ma's."

At least he had a mother who cared for him, which is more than Artemis could say for the imbeciles around her exhibiting motherless behaviour. 

"Dress a turnip in a ballgown and it'll still beg to be mashed," Snow jeered. 

Artemis scoffed. And here was the biggest motherless moron of them all. 

"Interesting that you of all people should say that, Coriolanus," she eyed him carefully. Gone were the honorifics she had addressed him by earlier in front of the professors. This was a battlefield and there were no pleasantries in war. 

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

The two stared at each other, neither wanting to be the one to look away first and their classmates glanced between them uneasily. 

Eventually, Coriolanus blinked, his ears burning, and Artemis flashed him a grin. If he wasn't thinking about carving the smile from her face, he might have thought it suited her. 

If it was a battle of wills, Artemis was a born victor. 

Their conversation about Sejanus came to a halt when he approached them. He didn't bother greeting any of them but he smiled at Artemis, which she heartily returned. Arachne shot her a questioning glance, but if the Capitol was a hierarchy, Artemis outranked her, and therefore did not have to answer to her. 

Coriolanus eyed their interaction sullenly. He was a charmer, it was the only currency he had access to after all, and over the years he had made his best efforts to charm the Dean's enigmatic daughter. Perhaps he thought it'd make Dean Highbottom detest him a little less, if he had Artemis's favour, but although it appeared that she shared nothing else with her father, she shared in his disdain for Coriolanus. There was nothing he could do to endear himself to her, and he had long since stopped trying. 

It especially irritated him, that it was Sejanus of all people who had managed to make friends with her. He did not even need the networking opportunity it provided. Snow observed the brunette boy now, his soft charcoal gray suit that reeked of money. 

Sejanus’s father was a District 2 manufacturer who had sided with the president. He had made such a fortune off munitions that he’d been able to buy his family’s way into a life in the Capitol. The Plinths now enjoyed privileges that the oldest, most powerful families had earned over generations. It was unprecedented that Sejanus, a district-born boy, was a student at the Academy, but his father’s lavish donation had allowed for much of the school’s postwar reconstruction. A Capitol-born citizen would have expected a building to be renamed for them. Sejanus’s father had only requested an education for his son. 

For Coriolanus, the Plinths and their kind were a threat to all he held dear. The newly rich climbers in the Capitol were chipping away at the old order simply by virtue of their presence. It was particularly vexing because the bulk of the Snow family fortune had also been invested in munitions — but in District 13. Their sprawling complex, blocks and blocks of factories and research facilities, had been bombed to dust. District 13 had been nuked, and the entire area still emitted unlivable levels of radiation. The center of the Capitol’s military manufacturing had shifted to District 2 and fallen right into the Plinths’ laps. When news of District 13’s demise had reached the Capitol, Coriolanus’s grandmother had publicly brushed it off, saying it was fortunate that they had plenty of other assets. But they didn’t. 

Sejanus had arrived on the school playground ten years ago, a shy, sensitive boy cautiously surveying the other children with a pair of soulful brown eyes much too large for his strained face. When word had gotten out that he’d come from the districts, Coriolanus’s first impulse had been to join his classmates’ campaign to make the new kid’s life a living hell. He was glad he didn't because when Casca Highbottom's daughter befriended him, it put an end to all public acts of cruelty. They still mocked him in private, but that couldn't be helped. His district blood simply invited the scorn. Coriolanus's decision to simply ignore the boy had only reinforced his image. The other Capitol children took it to mean that baiting the district brat was beneath him, and Sejanus took it as decency. Neither take was quite accurate, but both worked in his favour. 

"Sejanus," Festus grimaced. "You made it to the reaping for once."

"And you made it to graduation Festus, we're both shocked," the brunette boy responded. 

"Spill it, who won the prize?" Arachne inquired. 

Sejanus scoffed. Like any of these rich Capitol children even needed it. 

"Oh no, I'm not going to ruin my father's big day. No one here actually likes him, but they all love his money. You know what that's like, don't you Arachne?"

Arachne scowled, leaning up to whisper in Artemis's ear about what a stuck-up thing he was. Artemis did not grace her with a response, but when the bell rang, and the students began to assemble in front of the dais, she took the opportunity to slip her arm out of Arachne's. Sejanus fell into step beside her then, taking the opportunity to slip a bottle of water into her hands. 

"And this is for?" she raised an eyebrow. 

"I know you can't stand the posca. Thought you might need something to drink, given all the talking they have you doing around here."

"And you thought I couldn't get myself some water?"

"I thought you shouldn't have to," he rubbed his neck ruefully. "Although I realize I might be a little late."

"I appreciate the gesture anyway. Thank you, Sejanus."

Artemis granted him her only real smile of the day. His sheepish smile reminded her of the day they first met, when this district boy with the cloddish accent first wandered up to her, offering her his bag of gumdrops.

She followed him to where a special section of chairs, six rows by four, had been set up for the mentors. To her chagrin, he took a seat to the right, leaving the only vacant seat next to one Coriolanus Snow. She felt the childish desire to kick his chair out from under him as he went to sit down, but shook away the traitorous thought. It was beneath her. 

When her father began to speak, Artemis suppressed a sigh of exasperation. Dean Casca Highbottom, the man credited with the creation of the Hunger Games, presented himself to the students with all the verve of a sleepwalker, dreamy-eyed and, as usual, doped up on morphling. Artemis zoned out as he went on his usual spiel of how the Hunger Games, his displeasure at the whole event evident in his tone, although perhaps that was just the drugs talking. 

"There has been a change this year. One final assignment to prove your worth, because the esteemed citizens of the Capitol have grown bored of the Games and simply aren't watching anymore. And if the Games are to continue at all, there must be an audience," he continued rambling. "Head Gamemaker Dr. Gaul has stepped in to incentivize patriotic values with her own unique flair. Starting with you. The Plinth Prize will no longer be determined by who has the best grades...but by who is the best mentor in the Hunger Games."

Nervous whispers fluttered among the students, as they exchanged uneasy glances. A subtle unease threaded its way through the crowd as they leaned in, both captivated and unsettled by the Dean's cryptic words. 

Artemis had been aware of this turn of events, and so did Sejanus, as it was his family's money involved, but she took great satisfaction at the dumbfounded expression on Coriolanus's face when he heard the news. It made the dourness of the entire situation as a whole much more bearable. 

"Your goal is to turn these children into spectacles, not survivors," Dean Highbottom announced. 

Artemis was right. Anything could be art. Anything could be turned into a spectacle, even the most depraved of carnages, and what greater carnage was there than the Hunger Games? 

Artemis did not need the Plinth Prize. She imagined her father would finance her higher education as he did all her other luxuries, but perhaps he might look at her differently if she won it. Perhaps it might gain his admiration. Perhaps he might respect her if she earned something of her own for once. Perhaps he might finally return home sometimes. 

She did not care much for the Games, in the sense that they held no significance for her, so far removed were they from her daily life. Her classmates were a varied spectrum on where they stood, ones like Sejanus speaking out firmly against the ritual, and others enjoyed the butchery, the slaughtering of district lives. Artemis simply did not care. They were irrelevant, but if it meant gaining her father's approval, Artemis would make herself care. 

As the large screens in front of them came to life with life footage from the reapings, Dean Highbottom began to recite the mentor assignments. 

"District One, boy, goes to . . .” he squinted at the paper, trying hard to focus. “Glasses,” he mumbled. “Forgot them.” Everyone stared at his glasses, already perched on his nose, and waited while his fingers found them. “Ah, here we go. Livia Cardew.” 

Livia’s pointed little face broke into a grin and she punched the air in victory, shouting “Yes!” in her shrill voice. She had always been prone to gloating. As if the plum assignment was solely a reflection on her, and not on her mother running the largest bank in the Capitol. Purely by chance, Artemis exchanged a cursory glance with Coriolanus just then, secretive like a private joke, which left her feeling quite unsettled. 

Coriolanus felt increasing desperation as Dean Highbottom stumbled through the list, assigning each district’s boy and girl a mentor. After ten years, a pattern had emerged. The better-fed, more Capitol-friendly districts of 1 and 2 produced more victors, with the fishing and farming tributes from 4 and 11 also being contenders. Coriolanus had hoped for either a 1 or a 2, but neither was assigned to him, which was made more insulting when Sejanus scored the District 2 boy, and Artemis the girl. 

Unlike Livia, Artemis received news of her good fortune with tact, pushing her sheet of raven hair over her shoulder as she studiously made note of her tribute in her binder. Their brief moment of camaraderie during Livia's outburst was forgotten as she shot him a smug smirk and he seethed. 

District 4 passed without mention of his name, and his last real chance for a victor — the District 11 boy — was assigned to Clemensia Dovecote, daughter of the energies secretary. Something was amiss when a Snow, who also happened to be one of the Academy’s high-honour students, had gone unrecognized. Coriolanus was beginning to think they had forgotten him — perhaps they were giving him some special position? — when, to his horror, he heard Dean Highbottom mumble, “And last but not least, District Twelve girl . . . she belongs to Coriolanus Snow.”

[the-lonelybarricade]

The Other Side Of The Apocalypse

What would you trade the pain for?

Summary: One last grand adventure. Rhysand had promised his father that after this final journey, he would take a wife and resign himself to inheriting his title. As it turned out, Rhysand had other plans, and so did the huntress he'd encountered in the village.

Note: If you've missed Rhys being dumb and horny, then @separatist-apologist and I have a treat for you!

Read on AO3 ・Previous Chapter・Masterlist

Chapter 6/10: Hurricane Heat In My Head

The chains returned to Rhysand in his sleep.

He knew, even as he thrashed against them, that they were not real. Suspended in darkness with no beginning and no end, there was only Rhysand and the icy slither of those chains, constricting around him like serpents of black, heavy stone.

They bit into his skin, drawing lacerations across his biceps, his thighs, his chest, and as he screamed into the oblivion that held him, there was no response. Not even the echo of his own pain.

Blood welled and dripped from his wounds. It was the only color he could see—a dark, foreboding red. The same that rippled in wine and glinted jewels. The color of sharp nails and long, draping hair. Where had he seen something like that before? He swore he could hear sinister laughter on the cusp of his memory, a phantom of a woman with a cruel smile.

She was not real. This place, these chains. None of it was real.

Except for the fear. He could feel it pulsing through him—a second, rampant heartbeat, as if he’d swallowed a war drum that rallied every dormant instinct inside him. Their singular cry pumped through his blood until it leaked out through his wounds, whimpering: Run. Run.

RUN.

Rhysand sat up in bed, gasping. Red light leaked over the horizon, spilling onto the sky and snow in both directions, warmer and altogether gentler than the scarlet that invaded his dreams, but… He placed a hand on his thundering chest, calling for it to still the way he might soothe a spooked stallion.

He was reminded of the stories he’d heard in childhood of men who wandered into Prythian only to be driven to madness. Was this how the minds of those men began to deteriorate? It was dreadful to think that a sunset could unnerve his unconscious mind so greatly. But he couldn’t deny he was apprehensive. A new court awaited him, and he could only assume its dangers were more perilous than the last.

This could be my last sunrise, he thought. He rubbed at his naked chest, absently tracing the whorls of ink and the dread he felt roiling beneath them. He wished, not for the first time, that Feyre hadn’t slept in a different room.

At least then, Rhys could have faced death knowing he’d had the chance to wake up beside her without the fear that one of them was dying. He resolved he would survive this next Court just to have that pleasure. He wouldn’t die without kissing her.

If nothing else, the Mother owed him that much.

He bathed and dressed, rueful that Feyre wasn’t there to taunt him all the while. Privacy was all he’d craved at the start of their journey—was one night apart really all it took? It was absurd and yet he was so agitated that he couldn’t stop thinking about her. Where she was, how she slept, if she was awake… if she had company.

The thought struck him violently, causing Rhys to shut his door with too much force as he slipped out of his room. A servant at the end of the hall gasped and dropped their tray of neatly folded bedding.

“Shit, I’m s—“

Their snow-white hair disappeared around the corner, fleeing the hall before he could finish his apology. That was another strange thing. Faeries wary of a human. Rhys supposed he had killed two of their High Lords, the most powerful fae in their lands. He had the marks to prove it, though they were hidden beneath his layers of fur-trimmed clothing.

He was reminded of his sister’s shrill cry whenever a spider had the misfortune of crossing her path.

Rhys! Kill it! Kill it!

They were such small, feeble creatures compared to the size and might of a human. He used to tease her for it.

What are you afraid it’s going to do? Eat you?

But he would always kill them anyway. Because she was scared, and he loved her, and he knew no matter how meager the threat, he’d quell it to soothe her fear.

Tarquin, Kallias, even Eris. They seemed to love their people.

He might survive Dawn, Day, and Night. He might very well liberate all seven Courts. But he knew, as he kicked the servant’s fallen silver tray aside and watched light streak off its surface, that he would not be returning to the mortal lands. Either a monster would kill him, or…

Feyre. He needed to see Feyre and talk to her about all of this. The need gripped him like a fist around his chest. He couldn’t breathe as it pulled him, some vestige of that infernal chain, begging him to find her, to see her, to ensure she was safe.

From the moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d felt an inexplicable urge to protect her. But it was worse now, after almost losing her. He knew the glaze of her eyes slipping from the world, and he would do anything to never witness that horror again. He also knew that if he revealed any of this to her, she’d gut him for assuming she needed anyone’s protection.

Rhys stopped outside the front hall, taking a moment to compose himself. The corridor was empty, and apart from the faint torrent of wind clawing at the palace’s bastioned exterior, his beating heart was the only sound.

Then, voices. Distant at first. But in the great, open hall, they carried to him easily.

“I just think we should give him more time before the Solar Courts.”

His heart rate quickened. That was Feyre’s voice, tense and limned in such rare candor that he couldn’t resist ducking through one of the many doors lining the hallway.

A deep, rumbling voice drifted through the thin gap Rhys left in the door. “More time for what, exactly?”

Cassian.

“To rest. We almost died in Winter—I almost died. He’s… we’ve both been through a lot. He needs time to restore his strength.”

Cassian’s voice was gentle if a little prying. “Or maybe you need time. What’s troubling you, Fey?”

“Nothing.”

Liar. Rhys could perfectly imagine the stubborn set to her jaw, the way she squared her shoulders and raised her chin in defiance. But there was no hiding the strain in her voice.

“He’s gotten this far,” Cassian reasoned. “I talked to him last night, and I swore I could feel the spirit of Enalius standing over his shoulder. He’s going to make it through all seven Courts. I can feel it.”

Silence hung in the air.

“Unless…” The word rumbled through the corridor. “That’s exactly what you’re afraid of.”

Feyre’s voice was hoarse. “Cass—“

“We need him, Feyre. He’s our only shot at freeing Nes—“Cassian’s voice cracked. He took a moment to clear his throat. “He’s the only one who can free them, Feyre.”

“I know.” She sounded miserable. “And that’s why I just think we should just give him time—“

“I don’t need time.”

They both turned as Rhys pushed through the door. Cassian raised a brow towards the study Rhys departed, looking uncertain whether to be angry or amused that he’d been eavesdropping.

Feyre was staring at him, looking exactly as stubborn and defiant as he’d imagined. He thought the thing lashing in his chest would settle at the sight of her, but it only pulled harder, twining so tightly that he thought he couldn’t breathe as those starry eyes dressed him down and narrowed to crescents. Her pretty, bow-shaped lips were pursed just enough that he thought he could kiss her scowl away if she let him close enough to try.

He mirrored her crossed arms in an attempt to reign himself in, and said with a cocky grin, “That was the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. I’m ready to take on anything those High Lord bastards throw at us.”

It’s okay, he wanted to tell her. I already know they won’t let me live by the end of this. At least let me save your sisters.

Feyre pressed her lips flat together. Sadness flickered in her eyes, so brief he would have thought he imagined it had his heart not plummeted in tandem. He knew that grief. He still choked on it whenever he passed the ribbons shop in the village, confronted with the unbidden memory of crouching on a lowered stool, braiding satin through his sister’s hair until his back was stiff. The years could muddy the details—the colors of the ribbons and the words they exchanged in those long hours—but never the pain.

Rhysand dropped his arms, intending to comfort her, but whatever sadness had been in her eyes vanished. Only cold, glittering calm remained.

“If you’re ready, then there’s no sense wasting time.”

In reality, he would have very much liked that time with Feyre. Even just a day to know her without the threat of dying. But he would not be the one responsible for losing her sisters. He would do anything in his power if she could escape that grief.

“Let’s go,” he agreed.

Cassian punched a hand into his palm. “I hope it’s another beast,” he said, with an excitement neither of the humans in his company shared. “I’ve been itching to get back in action.”

-

They stayed long enough to have breakfast, a bountiful spread of hot and cold dishes presented to them in the High Lord’s personal dining room. Cassian helped himself to a sizable portion of each dish: smoked fish, pickled vegetables, fresh bread, and a collection of cheeses, each more potent than the last.

Rhysand ate a bit of the fish and bread in the interest of keeping up his strength, though he didn’t have much of an appetite. The gods knew what horrors he would face in Dawn and whether he’d even be able to hang on to his breakfast by the end of it. Feyre seemed in an equally sullen mood, pushing her food around her plate without saying much of anything to anyone.

Kallias seemed relieved to see them go and consequently was more than happy to winnow them to the door to Winter. The blizzarding snow had carried away any evidence of the creature they’d disemboweled. But Rhys could still hear Feyre’s scream against the wind, and he remembered the way her body crumpled against the pine tree, how the beast’s blood warmed his clothes.

She was fine now, squinting against the winter onslaught, her cheeks a bright, healthy color thanks to the benefit of warm clothes and fae healers. Even so, Rhys prompted her to enter the tunnel first, prepared to withstand the blow of any winter beast that wandered by.

There was only Kallias, his fair skin and lighter hair nearly blending into the Winter landscape at his back.

“Thank you for helping my Court,” he said, fisting a hand over his heart. He bowed low enough to make Rhys feel unsettled.

“Thanks for hosting us.”

It didn’t feel like an equivalent debt, but Rhys was unsure what else to say.

Kallias raised to his full height. “Good luck in the Solar Courts.”

You will need it was an unspoken addition, though expressed nonetheless in his grim smile. He nodded farewell to each of them, then vanished in a flurry of ice crystals.

“Shut the door,” Cassian complained. “It’s fucking freezing.”

Rhysand didn’t need to be told twice. He was happy to say goodbye to this Hell-sent Court and never look back.

“What were you doing in Winter, anyway?” He asked with a grunt as he hauled the stone door shut.

The howling wind immediately seized. Rhys blinked against the sudden darkness, taking in the vague, hulking shape of Cassian and Feyre’s much slighter shadow just a step away. It was a ridiculous impulse, but he found himself reaching out to press his palm to the small of her back. He considered it a victory that she didn’t immediately flinch away.

It was cold enough that Cassian’s sigh expelled a cloud of air in front of him. “Azriel and I were on reconnaissance, searching for… a cure. We got trapped in Winter when the borders closed.”

Rhysand frowned. “A cure for what?”

Against his palm, he could feel Feyre tense.

Cassian stared hard down the tunnel. At his side, his hands turned into fists so tight that the brown skin over his knuckles turned pale. “These seals you’re destroying, it’s true that their magic impacts the wellbeing of each of the Courts, but their true purpose was precautionary; to prevent us from lifting the curse placed on the Night Court.”

“And the curse—”

“Enough.” Feyre’s voice sliced through the tunnel. Cold and authoritarian in a way that sent a perverse thrill down Rhysand’s spine.

He didn’t have time to linger in the fantasy of how Feyre might use that voice in the bedroom before she was striding down the hall, each step reverberating against the stone walls.

Cassian winced before pitching his voice in a whisper, “Tread carefully bringing the curse up around her. Tamlin’s the bastard who betrayed all of us, but Feyre… She feels responsible for what happened to the Night Court. To her sisters.”

“I wish she told me,” Rhys said, watching her retreating figure with open dismay. Cassian offered a wry smile, clapping a sympathetic hand on Rhysand’s shoulder before he turned to catch up with Feyre.

Every time Rhys was starting to feel like he knew her, he uncovered a new layer of secrecy. He felt as if he were perpetually wiping the fog away from a mirror and it was beginning to feel doubtful that he would ever see a clear image of who Feyre Archeron was.

He only gave himself a moment to dwell on it. Then he was jogging to catch up with Feyre and Cassian, determined to be the first to step through the Cauldron-damned door this time.

In an effort to return to some sort of normalcy, he asked, “No Eris to wave us off before the next Court?”

Cassian snickered. “I doubt Eris will be leaving his quarters for at least a week.”

“A week?” Feyre snorted. “If Az has any say, it will be months before we see Eris again.”

“Doesn’t he have a court to run?”

Cassian and Feyre shared a look. It was the sort of mutual understanding that could only be found through years of knowing another person. Rhys resisted the urge to ask, but the question burned his tongue. How long has Feyre’s life been intertwined with Prythian?

“You have no idea what it’s like,” Cassian said, finally. A shadow passed over his features. “To be separated from your mate for that long… it’s enough to drive even someone like Eris Vanserra to extremes.”

“Mate?”

Rhysand could guess what that meant. The way that animals found mates. But there was a reverence to the way Cassian said the word that gave him pause.

“A mating bond is the deepest connection you can have with another living soul. They’re your perfect match, your equal in every way. A bond more significant than any vow, even marriage.”

“I see.”

“I doubt it,” Cassian said, not unkindly. “You think you understand it, but…” He shook his head, a far-off look in his eyes. “It’s not until you feel it snap. Until one look at them brings you to your knees. Your entire world, reoriented to their gravity.”

Rhysand was putting everything together too slowly. “Nesta’s your mate.”

There was a strange mixture of grief and pride on his face as Cassian nodded. Rhysand didn’t have the courage to ask if that meant Feyre had a mate, too. Had it been Tamlin? He knew his glance towards her was anything but subtle.

Feyre was glaring ahead, the door to the Dawn Court now in view. It was carved from bright red stone, light spilling from its gaps as though it were single-handedly holding back the might of the sun.

“Are you ready?” Feyre asked, to no one in particular.

Rhys stepped forward, placing his palms against the smooth stone. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. He heaved the stone forward, exposing the tunnel to the torrent of red light waiting impatiently on the other side.

Squinting against the brightness, Rhysand’s hand fell to his sword, readying for another beast. There weren’t any tell-tale signs. No distant roaring or eerie quiet. He expected they would find themselves in another isolated area separate from the rest of the Court. But in fact, as Rhysand’s eyes adjusted, he found himself staring at the deck of a lowered drawbridge. Two guards stood on either side of the gatehouse, wearing royal red and gold livery.

The doors were open on the other side of the iron gate, revealing the fae milling about their day through the gaps in the latticework. The first thing he noticed was the flood of warm, humid air. Not quite as smothering as it had been in the Summer Court, but oppressive enough that he was already sweating in his fur-lined clothes.

After enduring the extreme weather in each of the seasonal courts, Rhysand had nearly forgotten that the Mortal Lands were in the peak of summer when he and Feyre left. Was Dawn also in summer eternal, or was it aligned with the changing seasons of the human realm?

Rhys angled his head toward the sky, marveling at the scarlet clouds that domed over the land in every direction, betraying not a single sliver of blue. Rhys was certain it had been midday when they left Winter, but he couldn’t discern if the sun was somewhere behind the glowing red haze or if it was still nestled beyond the horizon. He supposed that if seasons were eternal in the previous courts, then in the Dawn Court, it must always be sunrise.

Feyre was frowning at the sky, too. He might have studied the oddity longer had his interest not fixed on the way the red light painted her skin the most alluring shade of pink. Like him, she must have been overheating in the Winter clothes. He could see sweat shining at her temple, giving the impression she was glowing. And with her neck arched upwards, practically in invitation, he thought it would be all too easy to lean forward and trace the column of her throat with his tongue.

The only thing stopping him was the pair of guards quickly moving towards them. The blade strapped to her hip might have also been a deterrent, but he found he minded the idea of Feyre pulling a knife on him less and less.

She cast him a quick glance as the guards approached, one that read, Step away and keep your mouth shut.

As the guards stumbled to a halt midway across the bridge, Rhysand noticed they seemed a bit… frazzled. With the borders newly opened, he imagined they were among the first visitors that Dawn had received in years. Humans, no less.

“Feyre Archeron,” one of them said, with what Rhys thought might have been awe.

They ought to be awed at the sight of her. A firestorm of a human woman swallowed in white furs and staring down two armed faeries as though she had nothing to fear.

She tipped her chin. “Tell Thesan that the Cursebreaker is here.”

“The High Lord is expecting you already,” the guard answered. He shouted over his shoulder at the guards in the gatehouse.

A small commotion flitted through the slit windows of the barbican above the gateway, followed by the clink and drag of chains. The metal grating lurched, and Rhysand flinched at the screeching sound of stone scraping together as the golden gate ascended into the tower above. How the guardsmen could stand the noise with their fae hearing was a mystery.

The guard gestured them forward with a jerk of his chin. “The captain will escort you to the palace.”

Great, Rhysand thought upon seeing the male in golden armor, already waiting for them on the other side of the gatehouse. Another handsome faerie staring at Feyre like she was his next meal. Rhys found himself drifting closer to her as they walked through the gates, prepared to draw his sword if the faerie’s smile proved deceitful. In the corner of his eye, he thought he saw Cassian hide a smirk.

“Oryn,” Feyre said with a smile that erred closer to politeness than familiarity. This wasn’t someone she knew well, at least. “Thank you for coming to meet us.”

The male’s wings shifted, tucking closer to his body. Unlike the wings Cassian and Azriel bore, Oryn’s were more avian in nature, feathered and shaped like a white dove’s. “I wish we were meeting under better terms, Cursebreaker.”

Feyre’s eyes drifted back toward the red clouds above. “The sky—”

“We’ll discuss it once we’re in the palace.”

Rhysand wanted to snap at the male for interrupting her, but Feyre chose to simply nod her head and press her lips together. She kept her eyes on the red mist above, cautious. As if she suspected a rift would open at any moment and present some horrible creature for them to slay. Rhys flexed his fingers above his sword. He trusted Feyre’s instincts. If she sensed something was wrong, he knew better than to question it.

The captain led them through a series of narrow pink-stoned streets. They were built on a steep incline and boarded on either side by red-roofed buildings. Some billowed smoke into the sky from their chimneys, and Rhys watched as the white clouds rose into the sky above, only to turn a foreboding scarlet color the moment it breached the layer of mist.

He stepped closer to Feyre and murmured to her, “I take it the sky isn’t usually red.”

“The Solar Courts adhere to the laws of nature,” Feyre said back, a certain tightness to her voice that sent warning bells blaring in his head. “The High Lords can’t control the sun’s path or strength. The Courts observe day and night the same as the human realm.”

Rhys exhaled a deep breath. “Please don’t tell me we have to fight something in the sky.”

Cassian, who had clearly been listening in, cut them a wolfish grin and flexed the batlike wings towering over his shoulder. “It’s a good thing you brought me along. Illyrians specialize in aerial combat.”

It was difficult to feel soothed by that fact when all Rhys could picture was needing to be cradled by one of the winged fae while he battled some beast on wings. Hardly the dashing heroics he’d want to recount to an audience once this was all over.

Feyre pursed her lips. She was scanning the city as they passed, tracking each of the fae that quickly moved aside, giving their retinue a wide berth. He noticed some High Fae, like Eris and Tarquin, but the far majority of them were lesser fae, sporting the same feathered wings as Oryn. Feyre didn’t say anything, but he practically heard the observation she was making—for a city filled with winged people, it was strange that there was not a single person in the sky.

Especially when the route to the palace proved to be rather… intensive.

“You’re kidding me.”

They stopped at the entryway to the palace: a double set of doors with stairs that spiraled up, up, up into the towering mountainside. Rhys craned his head to trace the towers and spires that rose high into the mountain, so tall that their peaks disappeared into the red mist.

Cassian let out a low whistle. “And I thought the steps to the House of Wind were brutal.”

“The great Illyrian warrior, felled by a few thousand stairs?” Feyre teased.

A few thousand was putting it lightly. Suddenly, Rhys missed Eris’s abrasive winnowing tactics.

Oryn grimaced. “We are a flying people, and as such, we have built a great deal of architecture above the clouds.”

Cassian eyed the captain’s wings, “And we can’t fly them up because…?”

The captain made no effort to hide his grief as he answered, “Because flying is forbidden.”

The red stones on Cassian’s gloves sparked and flickered, a mirror to the outrage blazing in his eyes. His chest puffed, and he took a deep breath as though he were about to demand an explanation when Feyre pressed a palm to his shoulder. It was remarkable to watch—how that small, simple touch from a human girl somehow managed to reign in the fury of an ancient fae warrior. Again, Cassian looked at her, a million things exchanged between them in that short glance.

He huffed, tucking in his wings as he strode towards the staircase. “Good thing I had a big breakfast.”

Rhysand supposed now was as good a time as any to begin disrobing. Perhaps it made him incivil as a visitor to this court, but if he was going to climb up an entire damned mountain, there was no way he was doing it covered in heavy fur. He was coated in sweat from just the walk.

“Really?” Feyre placed her hands on her hips as he pulled the parka over his head and discarded it on the ground. “You’re doing that here?”

“Were you hoping I would wait until I was in your bedroom?”

Over her shoulder, Cassian placed a hand over his mouth from where he’d turned to wait for them.

The blue in Feyre’s eyes was muted under the red light, turning them more gray than usual, but just as piercing. Rhysand held his breath as her gaze raked over his exposed skin, from the planes of his muscular chest, down his corded abdomen, to the slant of his hips, where he noticed her eyes track the path of hair that disappeared under his waistband. And lingered.

Rhys wanted to make a joke, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He was still overwarm from the Winter clothes, and it wasn’t helping that Feyre was staring at him that way—as if she were debating dragging him into the nearest dark alcove to put her lips where her eyes were. It wasn’t a bad idea. He wouldn’t mind pushing Feyre against the stone wall and tangling her hair around his fist. Heat itched up his skin at the fantasy. It felt keenly as though he were back in the Autumn Court, confronting the firebreath of a dragon. Except then, his trousers hadn’t been so tight.

Finally, Feyre composed herself enough to twist her face into a scowl. He knew it was all for show. Her irritation didn’t pass any deeper than the surface of her features, and beneath it… beneath it, he thought she might have felt a kernel of the desperate, burning wanting that was flooding through him.

She said cooly, “I think I’ll save my bedroom invitations for men who know how to conduct themselves appropriately.”

“And you’re determined to climb all those stairs dressed like that?”

He eyed the fur trim of her parka, the excessive padding insulating her thighs and hips. It was impossible. She would overheat and leave one of them dragging her the rest of the way. Feyre crossed her arms, determined to make this as difficult as possible.

“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped. “I’m not in the mood to spend another day hauling you over my shoulder.”

“And here I thought you came to my gallant rescue,” she mocked. “No wonder you’re chasing after a bedroom invitation. It seems you can only undress women when clothing is an obstacle to survival.”

Rhysand cocked his head. “Do you want to wager on that, Feyre?”

He would bet there were a decent number of women in this Court who would be interested in the novelty of bedding a human male. And if catching their attention could make Feyre jealous, even better.

“Are you two done bickering?” Cassian was leaning against the archway to the great stairwell, a slit brow raised. “Or should I do this savior of Prythian thing on my own?”

A few steps away, Oryn muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, my thoughts exactly.

With a glare in Rhsand’s direction, Feyre stripped to her underlayers. He was used to the chemises and stays of the mortal realm—tight, restrictive underclothing that anticipated women wouldn’t be completing feats much more exciting than having children and keeping a nice household. Clearly, things were different in Prythian. Feyre wore a panel of fabric that wound around her chest, encapsulating and binding her breasts. The fabric knotted at the back of her neck, tight enough to keep her breasts slightly suspended. It was an effort not to stare, particularly as he noticed the sweat gleaming on her collarbone.

“Satisfied?” She demanded.

Not nearly. Not until he had the chance to run his mouth over every inch of her bare skin.

The hunger must have been plain on Rhysand’s face because Cassian warned him, “I wouldn’t answer that truthfully.”

Feyre only scowled and brushed past both of them, the first to take the stairs behind Oryn. Rhysand’s intention for darting in front of Cassian was hardly subtle; he wanted to be the one directly behind Feyre. Partly in case something happened and she truly did need his help, but also because it meant her ass was directly in his field of vision and he had a penchant for torturing himself.

The novelty only lasted until his muscles started groaning. Up and up, around and around. The stairway spiraled on and on, its monotony broken only by the colorful medley of arched windows through which he could see the city they’d emerged from, growing smaller and smaller as they ascended. The constant circles were beginning to make his head spin. Never mind the sweat he could feel collecting in every crevice of his body.

Through it all, Feyre carried herself as composed and seemingly unbothered as ever. Except Rhys could see the way her braid clung to her neck, and if he held his panting back long enough, he could hear her sharp little breaths that said she was winded, too. He was fascinated, and he passed the time thinking how much he would enjoy the sound of that breathing while she lay under him. What other sounds could he draw out of her?

They climbed on like that, no one wasting breath on talking, for what felt like hours. The scarlet mist obscured the sun and any chance of telling the time, but soon, the sounds and sights of the city disappeared entirely. They were high enough, now, that Rhys could see the adjacent wilted countryside and the long, winding river coaxing through it. Should one of them grow clumsy and tumble out one of the rose-tinted windows, at least they’d have quite the sight to behold while they fell to their death.

Above them, the dark red sky drew larger and nearer.

Finally, they reached an open-air chamber full of fat, silk pillows and plush carpets. A large fountain gurgled at its center, pushing out clear water that arched and fell into the pool below, sending ripples across the red sky reflected on its surface. At that moment, all Rhys wanted was to cup the precious liquid into his hands and douse it over his head.

A High Fae male stepped through the large door on the other side of the chamber. The wisteria draping the doorway swayed as the male glided past on soft embroidered shoes. His tunic was tight-fitting around his slender chest, but his pants were loose and flowing. He bore a smile that crinkled the brown skin around his upswept eyes.

Warm, Rhys thought as he looked at the male. He had the warmest eyes he thought he’d ever seen, the kind that begged him to trust the stranger, though he hadn’t spoken a single word.

“Welcome,” he said, his voice as rich and deep as his brown eyes. “I am Thesan, High Lord of the Dawn Court. Though most of you are already familiar.”

Oryn immediately detached from their group to join Thesan at his side. If the male was winded from their ascent, he hardly showed it. Thesan’s gaze slanted towards the captain for only a moment, but Rhys caught the open affection in the High Lord’s eyes. Thesan reached out his hand, the tension in his body loosening the slightest bit when Oryn threaded their fingers together.

Not just the captain of the guard, then, but also the High Lord’s consort. Mate, perhaps, though Rhys wasn’t certain how to identify such things.

“Thank you for receiving us,” Feyre said. Behind them, Cassian bowed his head respectfully at the High Lord, though Rhys noted that Feyre did not. So in turn, neither did he.

Thesan raised his brows at the impertinence. Rhysand saw no reason why he and Feyre should bow and scrape to adhere to their customs. If they were going to be made to climb up a whole damn mountain to free Thesan’s Court, they at least deserved equal respect. Equal footing.

Even if their current state of dress was admittedly pitiful.

“Thanks,” Rhysand echoed. His breath was still ragged from the climb, and he resisted the urge to wipe away a bead of sweat as he felt it trail down his chest. “Your home is lovely. It’s a shame so few can behold its grandeur, what with the deterrent of those stairs. Or is their ascent a pleasure you save uniquely for your most favored guests?”

He expected Feyre might have thrown an elbow in his side for being uncouth, but she merely turned her head to look at him, something unreadable in her eyes. Her braid was damp from sweat, and the short cropping of hair she wore across her forehead was mussed, the pieces clumped and sticking in places that he knew must be driving her mad, though he thought she’d never looked more beautiful. The observation struck him so acutely that he quickly glanced away, before he was tempted to do something foolish.

Thesan, on the other hand, looked distinctly amused. “This is my private residence,” he said, his voice betraying none of the usual guardedness of the fae. He seemed earnest, this High Lord. A bit like Tarquin but… wiser, Rhys sensed. Someone who had walked on this earth far, far longer than Rhysand’s twenty-odd years and saw no reason to rise to a human’s barbed words. “The deterrent of those stairs is intentional, as it were. I find it limits the risk of surprise visitors.”

There was a story behind that knowing smile, of the times when surprise visitors might have attempted to enter the palace without explicit invitation. Maybe there were a thousand stories, some humorous and some grim. The High Lord of Dawn looked as though he were reflecting on them all as he turned his brown eyes towards the sight of the sprawling Court below, peaking between the marble arches of the open chamber.

And above it all, the red sky loomed like the most peculiar storm cloud. Thesan assessed that, too, and then released an aggrieved sigh. “I do apologize for the exertion. My invited guests do not usually need to climb so many stairs—most can winnow or fly, and my palace boasts the most remarkable moving platform for those who can do neither. However, it’s operated in one of my highest towers, which has become… inaccessible, of late.”

Rhysand narrowed his eyes. “How so?”

“I’m certain the red sky hasn’t escaped your notice,” Thesan said with a frown. “It originates from this palace. From an enchanted lotus, gifted to me by a friend. Or who I once regarded as one. It sits in our highest tower and is responsible for this fog that has plagued our sky.”

“And this… fog,” Feyre ventured. Rhys was trying very hard not to look at her. “Is it dangerous?”

“Yes,” Oryn answered. He was standing at Thesan’s shoulder, still holding his lover’s hand. His expression darkened with a grief that Rhys felt he had no right to be witnessing. “Peregryns have been dropping from the sky since the day it arrived.” He tucked his wings in tighter. “Skilled flyers, suddenly plummeting to their deaths. We’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Is it poison?” Cassian asked. “If they were incapacitated—”

Oryn shook his head. “We have not ruled out poison. But we know they were conscious as they fell. We could hear them—” his throat bobbed.” We could hear them screaming.”

“There were some we were able to save,” Thesan said. “Our best healers could find no damage to their wings, nor any trace of known poisons. It was their minds that seemed altered—agitated by sights and sounds that no one else could witness. We’ve yet to find a cure.”

Not many people in the mortal realm lived to old age, but some did. Some, like Rhysand’s grandfather, who had reached such a state of mental frailty that he could be in the same room and occupy a completely different reality. Often, it was one of a past life, from a time before the plague had taken Rhysand’s mother and sister. His grandfather would relive the grief of that discovery almost every day, before Rhysand and his father decided it was better to play along, to claim that his mother and sister were simply out in the village and would be returning soon.

Rhysand had long thought he’d prefer to die young on one of his beast-slaying adventures than to live to an age when his mind deteriorated so much that he could no longer remember the people he loved.

He was thinking of his grandfather and the ever-distant glaze in his eyes, as he asked, “It turns you mad?”

Thesan nodded, expression grim. “We believe it’s inhalation that causes the illness. Contact of the skin does not appear to trigger the same symptoms, or at least not immediately.”

And there was no cure.

Rhysand’s head spun, trying to think of a way to reach the seal without compromising his mind to do it.

It was Feyre who cut in, voice surprisingly rigid, “Thesan, I would appreciate if you allowed us some rest before we ponder this subject any further. Rhysand and I could do with a bath and a change of clothes.”

It was as though Thesan had only just noticed that they were both half-naked and coated in sweat. He tore his eyes away from the skyline and blinked, before scraping them over Feyre from head to toe. Rhysand tried not to twitch at the scrutiny.

“Of course,” Thesan said. He lifted a hand in the air and a small bell appeared, pinched between his fingers. He needed to only flick his wrist and ring it twice before a flock of attendants flooded in, each dressed in similar loose clothing of blushing pink and orange and gold. “Please show our guests to their rooms.”

Even Cassian breathed out a sigh of relief at the promise of a bath.

They were led through the lavish, winding halls of the palace, all of it carved from golden stone and boasting open views of the valleys and villages below. It was a beautiful, well-decorated maze. Rhysand did his best to track every turn they made past urns filled with flowers, pillow-bedecked alcoves, and elevated courtyards with roaming peacocks, but he wasn’t confident he’d be able to navigate through them on his own.

Eventually they came to a suite built around a lavish sitting area and private dining room. All of it was carved from the same golden stone, identical in color to the first rays of the sun bursting across the horizon. He surveyed the jewel-toned fabrics and cushions, the thick carpets, and the golden cages filled with birds of all shapes and sizes. He was begrudged to admit that this was the nicest Court he’d seen so far.

The attendants directed each of them to their allotted rooms. When Cassian eagerly pushed through the door to his, muttering something under his breath about polishing his swords, Rhys suspected Feyre would do the same. But she stayed, hand mired to the doorknob so she might escape at any moment.

But she stayed.

He hadn’t had a moment alone with her since she’d kissed his cheek. A million things ran through his head of what he wanted to—and wished—he could say to her, starting with how badly he wanted to invite her into his room so they could bathe together. With the way she was drinking in his bare chest, her cheeks the most maddening shade of pink, he thought there was a chance she wouldn’t say no.

Rhys opened his mouth to ask, but she interrupted him.

“You don’t need to break the seal today.”

He needed more than a moment to reel in the fantasy of lathering soap over her freckled shoulders. “I… What?”

“It doesn’t need to be today, or tomorrow. You can take your time. Enjoy the luxuries of this court and your freedom before…” She swallowed, unable to finish her thought. But he knew what she was going to say.

Before you go mad.

It was the first time he thought she’d ever truly acted concerned about him. He asked gently, “What about your sisters?”

Feyre angled her head, staring hard at one of the faelights over his shoulder, blinking like she was holding back tears. “My sisters are frozen in time,” she said. “Literally frozen. They can wait. It makes no difference to them.”

Another time, when she didn’t look like she was about to cry, he’d ask her what that meant. Frozen where? How?

“But it does to you,” he said. “And to Cassian.”

She shrugged. “Cassian’s immortal. He has nothing but time.”

Rhysand strode toward her and was grateful to see her hand slip from the doorknob. She pressed it to his chest before he could get too close, keeping him at a distance, but that was perfectly fine by him.

She didn’t act the demure lady about touching his bare chest, and he wouldn’t expect her to. Though he was pleasantly surprised to see the flush climbing up her throat, and to feel the subtle flex of her fingers as though marveling at the firmness of the muscle beneath her palms. He wanted to feel those calluses scrape the entire length of his chest. Fuck. He wanted to feel them against his cock.

But now wasn’t the time. And he tried to shake those thoughts away, even as Feyre’s breath hitched and he watched her next inhale expand the swell of her breasts, that entrancing flush growing a deeper shade.

Her lips parted, their offer so tempting that he reached to grip either side of the doorframe, holding himself back just as much as she was trying to do with that maddening hand on his chest.

Maybe now was the time for honesty.

“I’m not worried about losing my mind,” he said to her, his voice rough and low like he’d never heard it before. “I’ve already been losing my mind for every damn day I’ve spent on this journey. Feyre, I am losing it rapidly by the second.”

Her next breath shuddered out of her.

“It’s happening too fast,” she whispered. “I just want—”

All of his focus, his entire being, narrowed in on those perfect lips and the words she held back.

“You just want what?” He was practically begging now. “What is it that you want, Feyre?”

He knew what he wanted. He wanted it so badly he would give up his mind for it.

Feyre stayed silent. What he would give to be able to see into her mind, to just know one thing that she truly thought about him.

“How about a thought for a thought?” He tried. “You tell me one thing on your mind, and in exchange I’ll tell you something on mine.”

She considered this for a moment before nodding. “You go first.”

A chuckle rasped out of him. How predictable. “I’m thinking,” he said, leaning in as much as her Cauldron-damned hand would allow. For once he had her full attention, and he wondered how any man was meant to endure the force of her gaze without wanting to fall to his knees. “That I have endured utter Hell since the moment I met you. And all of the beasts and riddles and even the fucking stairs weren’t nearly as agonizing as how I feel right now, trying not to kiss you.”

Her eyes fell on his mouth. Rhysand could feel his heart hammering against her fingertips.

Feyre flicked her tongue across her lower lip and he thought that might die right there.

Then she said, “I’m thinking we could both use a bath.”

He practically purred, “Is that an invitation?”

“No.”

It was like slamming face-first into a stone wall. Feyre dropped her hand like he’d scalded her, and before he could scramble for something to say, she yanked on her doorknob and shut the door in his face.

Rhysand blinked, still gripping the doorframe as he reeled from the rejection. Cassian’s door was still shut, but he swore he could hear cackling laughter behind it.

-

Thesan summoned them all to breakfast the next morning.

With the mist blocking any and all sunlight, it was impossible to tell if it was early or late in the morning, but by Rhysand’s account, it was much too soon. He’d stayed up late pacing his lavish bedroom, debating whether to knock on Feyre’s door to apologize for his brazenness or demand that she apologize for being so Gods-damned guarded. Was it really so hard to tell him one thing—just one—about how she truly felt?

Evidently so, if the way she was spearing fruit onto her fork was any indication of her mood. She’d taken supper in her room last night, leaving Cassian and Rhys to eat together in their private dining room. It was another night bonding over their shared exasperation of the stubborn, elusive Archeron women.

It hadn’t made him feel any better, though. Sitting across from Feyre, watching her javelin her fork at a piece of sliced melon, he still felt as though she’d slammed the door in his face moments ago. A night wouldn’t be sufficient time to get over Feyre Archeron. Nor would a year and, he suspected, even a lifetime.

The prospect of losing his mind to the red mist was sounding more and more appealing by the second.

“If the affliction is only caused by inhaling,” Cassian said. “Does that mean Rhys could just hold his breath long enough to destroy it?”

“Theoretically,” Thesan agreed. “Though it’s possible that a human would be more susceptible to contact.”

Feyre dropped her fork. “And there’s no cure?” When Thesan shook his head, her voice raised an octave. “The Dawn Court is best known for its healing abilities, and you haven’t been able to develop any sort of antidote?”

“My magic has not been able to remedy the afflicted. It’s possible that once the seal is destroyed, their condition will stabilize.”

“So,” Rhys said slowly, “I just need to keep a grip on my sanity long enough to destroy a flower?”

Thesan frowned. “Theoretically, yes.”

His voice implied it wouldn’t be so simple. Rhysand wasn’t fool enough to think it would be. None of the trials had been easy thus far, and he knew the lotus flower would be no exception.

Still, he rolled his shoulder and said, “I’ll take a flower over a dragon any day.”

“The lotus sits in the reflection pool at the center of the room,” Thesan said. “It should be easy to locate, provided your mind doesn’t lead you astray.”

Rhysand’s gaze nearly trailed over to Feyre as he mused, “It wouldn’t be the first time.” The pause in the aftermath was uncomfortably heavy. Enough for Rhysand to push his chair away and announce, “Well, no sense in delaying the inevitable. Show me where to get to this tower.”

Cassian nearly choked around his next mouthful of food. “Now?” He gestured with his fork towards Rhysand’s empty plate. “You’re not even going to eat breakfast first?”

It was easy to summon the boastful, unearned confidence to say, “You can all carry on without me. I should be back before the food so much as cools.”

The mask of arrogance was familiar to default back to, though it didn’t fit as comfortably as it once did. The lordling he’d been when he’d entered Prythian believed he had the tenacity to vanquish the fae and reclaim these lands for humankind. And yet with two High Lords slain, he couldn’t summon pride for his triumphs. Not while knowing that Feyre still mourned for one or both of those High Lords—that she might have withdrawn from him last night for that very reason.

Feyre stood from her chair, sending the wooden legs scraping against the marble floor. “I’m coming with you.”

“Why risk the both of you?” Thesan asked, his brows pressed together.

For once, Rhysand didn’t mind the implication that he was the more expendable of the two of them. He agreed. If he failed, there was no point in them both losing their sanity.

Her expression hardened into uncompromising will. “Because,” she said, meeting Rhysand’s eyes. They were the same blue as a churning storm-swept sea. “We can look out for each other.”

“Okay.” Rhys held out his hand. “We’ll go together.”

She wrapped her hand around his, so much softer and smaller than his own. Holding it felt right in a way he couldn’t quite explain. And she didn’t drop it, not once, as Thesan led them up the winding spiral staircase on the other end of the palace, where they climbed up the bare face of a tower. Every step had Rhys bracing himself, but Feyre’s grip on his fingers remained unwavering. She did not falter one single step.

The scarlet mist became a deeper, more saturated color the higher they climbed, until they came to the final flight, where Thesan stopped.

“This is where I’ll leave you. The lotus is just through that doorway,” he said, nodding up to the large open doorway at the top of the stairs, where red mist poured out and plateaued in line with the highest step. He assessed them both, lips pressed into a thin line. “Do you trust each other?”

Rhysand didn’t need to look at Feyre to answer. “Yes.”

She squeezed his hand in what he interpreted as agreement.

“Don’t.” Thesan’s expression darkened. “Don’t trust anything while you’re in there, not even yourselves. The seal will try to protect itself, and it will use every trick in its arsenal to do so.”

With that inspiring speech, the High Lord nodded his farewell and turned to begin his descent back down the tower. Leaving Feyre and Rhys before the final steps to the open doorway.

“Feyre,” he started. “Just in case I don’t get another chance to say it—”

“Don’t.”

“Feyre—”

“No goodbyes.” She turned those stormy eyes on him, and all at once he was nothing but a helpless sailor succumbing to their pull. “Whatever you want to say to me can wait until after we destroy the seal.”

He didn’t know for certain he’d still remember. But he nodded.

“Don’t let go of my hand. No matter what.”

She raised her chin, staring down the immortal gloom like she might part the mist through sheer force of will. “Take a deep breath,” she said.

It wouldn’t be his last. Rhys knew that with confidence. Even if the fog carried away his conscious mind, his lungs would carry on breathing and his heart would continue pumping. So it wasn’t the gulp of precious air that he savored in that final moment. It was the smattering of freckles across Feyre’s cheekbones. She had more than he could count, but some stood out more than others—the one by the corner of her left eye, sitting in the crease of those rare moments she smiled, was slightly darker and bigger than the others. So was the one on the bridge of her pert little nose. Another, following the perfect arch of her lips.

One day, if she had the patience for it, he would map out every constellation hidden on her body.

He kept hold of that thought as they summited the final steps to the open doorway and plunged into the thicket of the mist. Feyre disappeared entirely from his periphery, shrouded in fog so thick that he could hardly distinguish his own fingers when held in front of his face. The only sign that Feyre was still beside him was the steady pull of her hand, guiding him forward over a long bridge connecting to the other half of the tower, where the lotus flower waited.

They felt their way forward slowly, fingers skimming the cool railing, twined in plants long wilted from the lack of sunlight. His lungs were on fire by the time they emerged into the open chamber, marked by a curved archway—its stone smooth beneath his searching palm.

Straight ahead, he thought. Just get to the pool in the center, crush the flower, and this can all be over.

There was nothing to feel to guide their path. Only empty, open air and Feyre’s hand intertwined firmly in his. Her steps wavered. They were entrenched in a void of red, stretching in every direction. It wasn’t clear which way, exactly, was straight ahead, but they couldn’t afford to waste any time.

His lungs were already seizing, desperate for air. He couldn’t imagine that she was in any better state.

Rhysand chose a direction and strode forward, pulling her deeper into the fog. She tugged back, digging her heels in. They couldn’t speak without wasting air, but he imagined she was telling him, not that way.

He paused, waiting for her to correct his course.

One beat. Two. He was beginning to feel dizzy.

Rhysand squeezed her hand. Which way?

Another beat. And then she began pulling him sideways. He stumbled after her, his vision spotting as his lungs rioted in his chest. He needed to breathe. Needed to soothe the burning before his lungs gave out. He was going to collapse on the floor if he didn’t.

His body betrayed him. He opened his mouth, polluted air flooding in. Feyre paused at the sound of his gasp. His vision swam, whirling from the sudden intake, his head pounding—

And then he blinked. The fog cleared, revealing a pretty chamber of polished marble and golden stone. Outside the open archways, the sky had cleared as well, revealing an expanse of blue sky stretching towards the horizon.

It was like seeing the sun for the very first time. Not because of the light streaming into the chamber. But because Feyre was standing before him, hand in his. Smiling.

The breath whooshed out of him anew. “Do that again,” he whispered.

She did, smiling just for him. It was the most exquisite thing he’d ever seen.

“We did it,” she said.

Rhysand shook his head. “We didn’t do anything.”

“Look.” She nodded towards the puffy white clouds drifting just outside the tower. “The mist is gone. It was another test.”

“We still need to destroy the seal,” he said, turning to look for the reflection pool.

Feyre stopped him with another insistent tug on his hand. He turned to face her and lost track of all thought when he saw the way she was beaming at him.

“We did,” she said, raising her freehand to his cheek. Her skin was impossibly soft, and he couldn’t resist leaning further into her touch. “You absorbed the seal when you inhaled it. That was all it needed.”

“That sounds too easy.”

Those smooth hands glided up his jaw. “The fae underestimated you. They thought a human would be too wary of the risk. Their pride is their greatest weakness.”

Her fingers were in his hair now, winding through the strands. She tugged against them, pulling him closer, and suddenly he couldn’t think straight.

“What now?”

Feyre leaned onto the tips of her toes to close the remaining distance between them. When she whispered, he could feel each syllable ghost across his lips. “What were you going to say to me outside the chamber?”

Something warm and golden unfurled in his chest as he looked at her. His arm slid under her back, holding their chests flush. “Tell me one thing, before I reveal it to you.”

Her smile was more intoxicating than his father’s finest wines. “Anything,” she promised.

“Tell me—” he pressed his forehead to hers. “Tell me, truly, if you might want this one day. Want me.”

“I do,” she said without any hesitation. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Rhysand. I want you. Desperately. I need—”

He should have let her finish speaking, especially now that she was saying everything he wanted to hear. But it was impossible. He was just a man and her lips were so close to his they were sharing breath and she finally admitted she wanted him, too.

How could he stop himself from kissing her?

The most delicate noise slipped out of her when their lips met. Like the sigh of a door being opened for the first time in years. Like relief. Finally, finally, relief. After so much pent-up longing, he was kissing her, and her hands were twisting in his hair, and his tongue was skimming her lower lip, and all he could think was:

Maybe salvation was real.

The golden warmth kindling inside him was growing stronger. He felt the first of its tug when they tore their lips apart, both of them gasping.

Feyre’s pupils were wide and wild. She was smiling again, which made it impossible not to keep kissing her. But first, he said, “I was going to tell you that I am yours, Feyre. I’m yours until my dying breath.”

A blush was rising to her cheeks, spreading beneath her freckles. He leaned to kiss her again, but she broke away with a giggle, tugging playfully at the collar of his shirt. “I’ll be yours, too,” she said, eyes shining. “But I won’t make it easy for you. You’re going to have to catch me first.”

The little vixen. She launched into a sprint, fleeing to the other side of the chamber, and he laughed as he raced after her.

“Rhysand!” She called, weaving between the wisteria-twined pillars. Sheer panels of blushing peach fabric drifted behind each of her shoulders, attached to the elegant golden pauldrons she wore on each shoulder. With the light of the skyline beyond haloing her lithe frame, he felt more as though he were chasing a celestial goddess than a human woman.

She called his name again, the second syllable tapering on the most beautiful laughter he’d ever heard. He vaulted through one of the open archways, desperate to get to her, to taste that laughter beneath his tongue. He landed and slid across the smooth stone, nearly carrying him off the ledge were it not for his sharp reflexes. At the last second, he grabbed at one of the marble pillars and hauled himself back into the chamber.

The sight of the jagged cliff face and the sprawling countryside far, far below was enough to sober him.

He felt another tug. This one more insistent. As if the chain connecting him to Feyre had rematerialized. She was still dancing between the pillars, completely undaunted by the risk of falling if it meant taunting him.

But the tug didn’t pull him towards her.

Rhysand!

And that voice… it was hers, but it sounded so far away.

Another tug. Another Feyre calling his name.

Was it a trick?

“Come here, Rhys,” Feyre purred, turning to face him. Light bounced off the glittering panels of her dress, as if Thesan had seen it right to thread her in gold.

He stepped towards her, despite the taut thread pulling him in the opposite direction. “Tell me again,” he said.

“I’m yours.” Her eyes were like stars. Ceding the game, she prowled back to him, teeth gleaming so white in the full vibrancy of the sun. “I’m yours and you’re mine.”

Rhysand shut his eyes. He pictured Feyre in his mind. The stormy eyes and the withering glare and her beautiful, devastating face. It was an almost identical likeness. But as Rhysand opened his eyes, he searched for that freckle beside her eye, the one which was darker and bigger than the others around it. And it wasn’t there.

He released a heavy sigh. “You’re not real.”

Her soft palm pressed into his chest, void of Feyre’s hard-earned calluses. “I could be,” she said to him. “We could stay up here forever.”

Forever wasn’t tempting to him. Not without Feyre.

The moment he decided, the Feyre in front of him vanished. The scarlet mist returned, as thick and unnavigable as before. He could hear Feyre calling his name, voice raw and panicked. Likewise he could feel a golden tug in his chest, leading him in another direction.

He didn’t know which was real. He supposed they might all be tricks.

Not for the first time, and he suspected not for the last, he thought how much he missed that Cauldron-cursed leash.

Dropping to his knees, Rhysand elected to crawl across the chamber rather than risk taking a wrong step and plummeting to the bottom of the valley. He only hoped that Feyre hadn’t made that mistake, either. Was she also trapped in some blissful vision? A pathetic part of himself hoped he was in it.

Soon, his searching hands found a tiled pool filled with tepid water. He crawled into it, not caring that it would ruin the bright, loose-fitting tunic and trousers that Thesan had lended him. The thin fabric clung to his skin as he waded through the pool and skimmed his arms over the surface in wide, sweeping gestures.

He felt something bob against his elbow and quickly seized it. His fingers met the soft suede of flower petals and a thin, bumpy stem that resisted his initial tug. He yanked until the infernal thing came away with a snap.

Then the lotus flower, as fragile as the minds it twisted, crumpled in his fist.

Rhys had never imagined what it would be like to sit at the center of a stormcloud, but he imagined the experience would not be so different from the violent release of energy that swept through the chamber with a deafening thunder clap, Rhys at its epicenter. The water rippled through the pool and spread beyond it, dissipating the fog in a great sweep of wind that he imagined would carry through the whole of Prythian.

The skin on his chest and shoulder itched terribly. If he looked down, he would likely be able to see through the translucent fabric of his tunic that the tattoo was spreading. But Rhysand didn’t care about his tattoo, nor his wet shirt, nor the entire gods-forsaken Court he’d just liberated.

He only cared about Feyre. He could see she was curled up just a small distance away, tears streaming down her cheeks. Her lips were moving, over and over, shaping words he couldn’t make out.

“Feyre?” He leapt out of the pool with an urgency that sent a wave of water spilling over the sides of the reflection pool. Water dripped from his clothes, splattering haphazardly in his wake as he slid across the stone floor to reach her.

It occurred to him, as he delicately placed his hands on her shoulders, that this could be another mind trick. He had no way of knowing that he’d truly destroyed the fifth seal or that this was truly his Feyre in front of him, besides the inclination in his gut and the warm, inexplicable pull he felt to her.

Her entire body was trembling.

“Feyre?” He said again, softer.

“No,” she whispered. Her eyes were wide and brimming with tears. “No, no, no, no. Not again. Not again, please.”

Her voice was scraped raw, as if she’d been screaming. This was the same woman he’d witnessed slay beasts and stare down High Lords twice her size. For whatever she’s seen to have terrified so greatly…

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “You’re safe now, Feyre. It’s over.”

Those blue eyes focused just enough to register that he was crouched before her. And then her lower lip started trembling, and she shook her head violently, scrambling back as she whimpered, “No, Rhys. Not again. Please.”

He floundered at the fear in her eyes. Whatever she’d been shown in the lotus mist, clearly, he had been part of the vision. And his heart shattered to think he’d been the one hurting her.

“It’s just me, Feyre.” He held up his open palms. “I promise I’m not going to hurt you. I destroyed the lotus. It’s done.”

Her gaze drifted from his open palms to the markings visible through his translucent tunic. A sob hitched her throat. “It’s over?”

Rhys nodded, extending his hand so that he might help her up. She stared at it a moment, perhaps sharing his earlier doubt that this was another trick. Then she looked at him, studying his dripping clothes and wet hair and what he hoped to be an earnest expression.

Then she launched herself at him.

The momentum barrelled into him was such force that he was sent sprawling onto his back, a surprise grunt pushing out his chest. He didn’t have time to reorient himself, or make sense of what was happening, before Feyre gripped his face between both of her callused hands and kissed him so hard he forgot there was a reason why people needed important things like breath.

He could taste the salt of her tears and the melon juice that was still on her lips from breakfast. Every ounce of rationality dissipated at that revelation, and all he could think was that he’d never had a favorite fruit until that moment.

With a groan, Rhys slid his hand into her hair, cupping the back of her head while also angling her closer, so he could lick into her mouth and commit the taste to memory. He no longer cared if it was real or only a vision. He would gladly surrender to the madness if this was his eternity.

He might very well have flipped her over and made love to her right there. She would have looked beautiful flushed in the low light of the morning as dawn finally greeted its namesake. But towards the far entrance, someone cleared their throat.

That was how Rhysand knew this was real. If this had been a vision from the lotus, he would have continued kissing Feyre for eternity, and they certainly wouldn’t have been interrupted by Thesan standing beside an apprehensive-looking Oryn. Over their shoulders, Cassian was grinning like a fiend.

“Celebrating your victory?” He said with a suggestive quirk of his brows.

Rhysand never hated the fae as much as he did in that moment, when Feyre hastily scrambled to her feet. He already missed the weight of her body and her sweet lilac and pear scent. He took his time rising to his feet, and when he reached his full height, he offered her a heated look that said, This isn’t over.

She looked away, heat blooming on her cheeks.

That made it the first trial that actually did feel like a victory. He couldn’t help the pride swelling in his chest, and no amount of his cocky grin was forced as he looked to Thesan and asked, “Is breakfast still warm?”

[phramboise]

only lovers left alive — simon”ghost”rileyxfem!reader

Death, gore, MDNI, smut, established past relationship, vague comfort?, 3.3k words.

: you’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

...

A fish, and a man. Both on the surface of the dirty water, both reek of ammonia and disturbed flesh. Both rotting, and stomach inflated, but the man’s are clearer in sight, vivid. More violent, primal, disgusting. As if all the colour is dulled around for him to put on a show of his defeated stage. Skin unnaturally yellow, arms sprawled out, the body still intact with his skeleton in blisters. Deranged, a man who stains the water he’s in. And a fish. Both dead, but the fish saddens her more. Both are dead, and both by her, but the fish saddens her more. 

For she didn’t even notice it as she killed it, for love is violent and much kills, but she was young enough, or maybe such emotion is foreign, novel to her. She killed it anyhow. The fish obliges, tastes the attention, in a symbiotic affection with her. But it swims more around the edges on the tank as days go by, swims higher on the surface, until one fin lays smooth on its side, not moving, until it can’t swim straight, and until it dies. 

The man is still in the water, his face down. She can see what he would look like in a few weeks, that he would decompose slower in cold, no vultures around to dig on his skin. She can imagine the soapy glaze his flesh would have, and the green, and the violet. Hypothermia. Petrification. Bisection. And a hound, it’s mouth wet and sticky, dribbling in red and saliva. She can see the skeleton sneaking out the flesh as the hyenas around shake their furs, off the blood and the water. Loyal and starving, a rabid dog in need of someone to find its way back to —

Her machete, on the other hand, is very much so alive, painting red rivulets on the snow-white ground. Sharp colour stripes off the chrome, turns into a deep velvet on earth, her hair is soiled, and her body is covered in red splotches, on her knees as she eyes the handiwork, trying to stay conscious, alert. She kicks her feet to clean the bits of the man off herself too. A roar in her ears and her temples feel like it’s her brain that’s splintered with a machete inside, eyes twitch as she stares at the man’s gouged one. And she tries to cough it off, coughs and coughs until she starts to gag, looking away from the scenery which she is the master to. She rubs her palms, rips the dead man off his gloves for hers are soaked in blood. 

She’s better a gun than she is a person. Horror in her bane, she’s a better swordslayer than she is human. A little girl with fish food, or another with a rusty machete, she’s both. Can’t say she takes pride in neither, but the man doesn’t upset her in anyhow.

;;

It takes one more night to look up without a ceiling, before you get your way back, before the static of your comm buzzes again, the familiar voice, and the authority he embodies mercilessly. The Lieutenant. A pleasant sizzle follows his voice through, your eyes shot close as you feel through the gear with both hands to reach the radio, pressing the cold plastic to your ear. He disperses the smoke in your mind that dwells about the throes of your own demise, the thought of if this is how death will feel for you. He guides you, the way through the fuming howl of the tundra, becomes your sun chariot, your servant of peace and light, meeting you halfway, and when you encounter he doesn’t ask you to cradle you, does it naturally as he sees you. Sleight of hand, you don’t bother. You need a trace to make you believe in him, a keepsake of the times where he had done it so willingly. Something to hold you back to routine, to life. You’ve been sleeping long enough, he notices. He wakes you gently, rocks you kindly with hands you’re sure that has seen much more than yours did. But he wakes you kindly, a soothing hand lands on your nape, steadies you into this realm. You don’t pull back, and you don’t notice the build-up, the tension on you. But only the release.

You don’t know why you cry. He doesn’t say it to you between countless mantras over and over of how he thought he lost you, again, but you know it eases him to see an emotion on your face, and you feel it too, however ugly you think you wail. You need to breathe to cry. You breathe to cry. You said you don’t want him anymore, but no one would breathe in your scent like he survives on it with his head heavy on your shoulder, no one would kiss the dried blood on your brow and your matted hair. You know no one would blow warmth on your cold-stiff palms, not like he does. No one would waste himself, on you. No one would lend their blood to heat yours. You never said someone would anyway.

Adrenaline imperceptibly loses its grip on you, subsides and alters into pain. It creeps under your skin, trembles on your chin and prickles your eyes, making its presence known. Your step loses momentum as you lend your weight on him, and he grabs you with very capable hands.  

After wails turn into mulled cries, and they turn into woeful moans, he lifts your head off his chest, leans his forehead against yours, gives you a few breaths, gives your forehead a kiss, stays a few moments until your heart thumps steadily to his, then pulls back. He nods slowly as you loosen your grip on him. Pulls his mask down again, he walks you through the icy terrain in hasty affection, shelters you in the safehouse.

;

First thing he does after he settles you on the fur seat, is to take off the foreign gloves off your frostbite fingers, throws them in the rusty barrel’s fire, burns it clean. Blood sticks onto his fingers and he wastes no time taking his gloves out his pocket to wear it on your hands. Its lengthy fingers swallow yours, and you look down at the thick fabric that adorns your hands as he wipes the blood off your face. You notice he wears no gloves, and you wear his now. A silent compliance in the way you sit, you only hiss when the dried clots pull the strands of your hair as he drags the cloth slowly along your skin. He reaches, taking each hand of yours in his, examining carefully, running his fingers over the lines of your palms. A futile tremor goes through him as he kneels before you, letting out a slow, shaky sigh as he disrobes you off your soaked wet gear, clads you with his spare. He doesn’t ask for a thing in return, and you only watch the tail of his tattoo through the exposed skin of his wrist as his hands hover over your elbows. He lowers his gaze, frees his messed hair out his balaclava, his throat bobbing as he swallows. He bites his cheek in thought, and you slither your palm to his cheek. He goes still before he looks up at you, big brown eyes and fanned lashes melt golden under the fire burning at the middle of the room. He blinks, then his bare fingers skate between yours, interweaves his fingers through the gaps between your own, he nudges at the fabric that coats your wrist, pushing the cloth up with his nose so his lips meet the inside of your wrist. You let out a faint breath, and it flutters his hair as he lays his head gently on your thighs, sitting on the concrete.

You play around with the little beads of the metal of his dog tags, and he moves his unoccupied hand around the side of your leg, pressing his cheek further onto the warmth that slowly comes back to your body. Under your imperious gaze, he rests his eyes, and you sink back onto the mattress, finally breathing the way you should.

;;

The plume of the dusty covering tightens your nose, and you wake with the scent of the bitter miasma of the bloodied gloves in the fire, scorching the sticky liquid, churning in your nostrils. The air is heavy, and the interior is plain. The cold outside whispers through the uncaulked edges of the wooden window, and you rest your eyes a moment longer before searching for the abandon of Simon’s warmth,

Only to find him sitting on a log next to a woodpile outside, elbows nested against his knees, minding the floor as he smokes. Silent as you walk towards, you cut him off his smoke as you reach your hand over his shoulder, behind him. He twists around to watch you circle behind him, eyes on you as you slide your fingertips along his neck, not letting you out his sight as you sit on the smaller log next him.

His cigarette toys you between his lips, and you lean to brush your lips right above his jaw. He turns a bit more to your side, slides the log you sit on closer to his. And when you take his glove off your hand to give it to him, he only takes one to wear to the hand that’s not close to yours, and holds your bare hand with his unclothed one, then drapes his arm along your shoulders, that holds the cigarette. Moving it to your lips, eyes fixated on you, he has two vices again. You and the smoke. But you’re only here to get your only one back. Hand clasps the collar of his coat, this one is longer, a proper kiss, an impossibly slow caress on his cheek, closer to his lips this time. One that says thank you. You see his throat move when he hitches, leaves a long breath as he can’t contain it. He dulls the ember of the smoke in a second, then his hand finds your face, holding you to him by the pull of his arm threaded behind your shoulder. He steeples his fingers under your chin, moves his head, leans in, and stills when there’s only a breath’s width between your longing lips. And before he closes that, he looks at your expression. This close, you’re realer, truer, and ever so far still. Closed-eyed, waiting, wanting. He draws in your whine, holds it a second longer for his mind to never forget this moment too, along many others with you.  

How easily you got him wound up.

When he brings your lips together, his breath shudders. He surges forward, the cold tip of his nose digs on your cheek, and you taste your name as he groans it on your parting lips, hand on your chin winces, and reaches to your cheek, angling your head deeper onto him, his lips slip on yours without friction. Your hand on his collar falls down to his knee, and he turns fully towards you as you slither it up to his thigh, kissing as you hook your bare thumb around the clasp of his belt, feeling the band beneath the trousers. The rough surface sends frictions between your thighs when he pulls you towards him on the log you sit on, and you cling onto him tighter.

He parts with a sound of your wet lips separating, for a moment, brushes his thumbs on your gentle eyelids, warm cheeks. Searching for any sign on your face that disapproves, that doesn’t want this as much as he does. You only slip your cold palm under his t-shirt.

“God…”

A firm grip encircles your waist, and he scoops you bodily, rushes back in the one-room safehouse in tenacity.

You’ve been sleeping for long enough, and he always noticed. And a grasp, he pulls you forward, insistently rocks you off your sleep.

“Come here.”

Teeth on teeth, they clash and clatter and a candy floss tongue coats the cold, his arms finally find you. Both hugging you to him and soothing the windblow, but your skin is warm now, and you ache for a different fire. He devours your whiny hums, leads your hands slowly on where he wants it, where he knows you want to touch. The fire in the distance heats the side of your face and a shudder runs down your body as a soft noise escapes your lips, he keeps his eager lips on your neck, his shaky breath ruffles your hair as the hand on your back spreads his fingers, reaching to the bottom of his cloth on you, his thumb flicks the clasp of your bra, his little finger traces the waistband of your jeans, fumbling through skin and fabric. You help him, out his clothes, and stagger yourself forward to his broad chest. His eyes twinkle in the low light, and you feel your knuckles on where his belt meets his abdomen, running slowly towards, up his chest, then it’s not only knuckles, kissing as you move your hand up to his throat. He tilts his head as he takes you in, your hand with amused ardour, looking down at you, lips brushing your temple as he whispers your name onto your hair, a soft, breathy chuckle of surprise.

Until he misses your lips again, and when he does, he rises his hand to your jaw, turning your head up to him. Moving his hand back to your hair, and a little tug, he leans down.

He presses you forward without resistance from you, and you feel the worn mattress on your back, his kisses trail down your face as he follows down, feeling you with you, in a way that your past affairs feel like mockery to you. The arms around you move, are his fingers shaking?.. He’s tense, his cheek glides down your breast, plating a firm kiss on your chest, you hold onto his back and his hand dives down, under your jeans, feeling the cotton of your underwear. His forehead brushes against your jaw as he lets out a withering whimper, feeling your heat through your clothed core, pressing an open-mouthed kiss on the slick flush of your parted lips, rolling your bottom lip between his as he presses his open palm on your sopping cunt, pressing the heel of his palm on your swollen clit, tugging you in him, tugging your jeans down roughly, the button of it pops out and he almost rips the zipper, and he swallows your gasp, kisses you until your jaw can’t keep up.

Forever, just one more try than never. Maybe there is a way for you, not one of pleasantries, one without him if you try hard enough. For now, though, you stay engrained in the facets of his life, between whorls of his fingertips and everything else that caresses you of him. There is no way for you to leave, no way that you are not embedded in his devoid heart. His heartbeat mirrors yours and he has your breath to breathe in, and you feel it. You feel him everywhere, under the yellow hue of the barrel’s fire, under his body, over the lilting shadow on the wall, fingers deep inside you. Where his silhouette ends, yours begin, and he means it. Promises it, prays it, beneath honeyed words, in rhythmic intonation as he gives you every inch of his love. And you give such sweet noises that trickles down his earlobe, gently grazing with your teeth, drawing out antsy whimpers. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You were going to kill him one day. All with this exaltation he willingly offers at your feet, with the idolatry that evokes within him in your cashmere walls, if not with the way you suck him in, hold and pull his digits deep inside you. You overwhelm him, exhilarate him. “Aren’t you?”  

He keeps on, keeps on until you don’t feel like you are the ruler of your body, until you feel nothing but the transcendental bliss as you let out your high on his fingers, feel the coil in you arch, tighten and snap like harp strings. No one in the world has ever missed anyone like this. Lucky you.

He hums, and cradles his large palm on the side of your face, an unconscious spell moves and rests your head to it, he just smiles. He moves his drenched fingers along your lips, smears your essence on your parting lips, and invites his fingers in your warm mouth, threatening an oral fixation. Then he drags them out, pressing on your bottom lip, his wet fingers draw an invisible line that raises goosebumps on its way over your naked body, resting on the plush of your hip as he tastes you on your lips.

You nodded yes as he first asked you, and he acknowledges again. “You are… mmm… yes, you are.”

He keeps humming with his mouth slack on yours, entwining his hand along your thigh, switches your body on his. He’s not one to tell you with his words, to use and waste him, violate him softly, ruin him for anybody else as a kind coalescence of yours, but he tells you to “Keep going….  just­— fuck! Fuck, baby… keep going…”, an assuring gaze that is ice down your spine.  

And once, you heard as he thought you were sleeping, that he really, really, likes you. Very much, he added then. You grin at the memory, and how it picked this time for retrieval, thinking you never heard him. You clench yourself around his cock, steadying your palms on his shoulders, fuck him the way he tells you through the way his cut nails dig deeper onto your hips, reaching his palm along your spine as he pulls you toward him, kissing your lips, can’t keep sync as you ride him mercilessly. And you do, and you are.

—

He tells you things no one would dare say with their eyes open, and touches you, shows you yourself in a way you have never seen, all your beauty when the witnesses of your psyche are gone. Now, you feel the ghost of his touch along your back, fingertips massaging your nape, carding your hair, contemplating deeper. He lays beside you, pressing his nose on your shoulder blade as he steals a little kiss of your sumptuous skin.

“You asleep?”

-you take long enough before you decide to answer, so he just slips out an I love you.-

;;

Seeing snow lessening as the SUV drives away soothes her nerves. Watching an old man as he watches an old couple, hand in hand as they walk away. The strident, speedy bow of a violin, both pierces through her. Horses on a flatland, a singing smile and being someone’s Phaedra. Two coffee cups in one sink. Running around until the throat breathes sour, matching shapes on your childhood house’s ceiling, reading an old journal of yours. Two healthy fish in a full tank — mind alters the memories in coping. Balmy winter trees. Seconds and seasons. — like the day, just like the night. Like death, chasing them all. Like the never-ending games, all will end. You can’t hold the dying sun as it moves further away off your seat, but you can slant back in the backseat of the vehicle, looking at the driver’s seat, to him. Even better deal, you slide to the middle of the seat, resting your palm on the back of his seat, inch your face to his neck, and he drives. Breathe the vestiges of your scent off him in, press a placid smile on the tattoo of your initial under the fabric of his mask. Maybe you’ll not only love the winter days anymore.

[lotus-pear]

As much as i love skk, it's so funny that dazai technically kissed Sigma before chuuya

Also had more cool chemistry, but we're not mentioning that

Now I'm just imagining Dazai somehow either kissing or getting into equally shippy positions with everyone but Chuuya, it would deff drive some mad

idk i mean he did indirectly want chuuya to kiss him on the lips in dead apple when he said “what a violent way to wake snow white” what. so you wanted him to kiss you awake? like mouth to mouth? with true loves kiss? shut the fuck up. gayass.

[missmonsters2]

Keeping You Warm

[Pairing]: WENCLAIR (Wednesday x Enid)

[Summary]: Wednesday had warned Enid to dress warm for the weather, knowing the blonde had a penchant for thinking she was invincible because she was a werewolf. Because if Enid caught a cold...

Prompt: "Seriously, I told you that you would get sick going out like that."

[Warnings]: Soft. Wednesday being unable to say no to Enid. Jealous!Wednesday. They Held Hands™️. Xavier chokes. Bianca's annoyed.

[Note]: Your honor I love them.

Library Blog || AO3

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⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷†⊶⊷⊶⊷⊶⊷

Wednesday's eyes narrowed in on Enid's form from across the courtyard.

The cold season had settled in, a blanket of white snow covering the ground. The air was biting and nipping at people's skin.

It was evident in the way Enid's nose, ears, and cheeks were rosy red. Wednesday watched as Enid talked animatedly with Yoko while the rest of their little ragtag group hung around, most likely waiting for her. 

The day had started early with Wednesday waking up to Enid's face at the edge of her bed, half obscured. The surprising sight would've normally frightened someone, but Wednesday merely glared.

"What are you doing, Enid?"

"Wednesday," Enid whined, and the dark-haired girl was tempted to turn around and go back to sleep immediately. Enid whining never meant good things. "Come to the Jericho Yule Festival with me and everyone else today!

"No," Wednesday monotoned. "I already went with you to the Christmas Lights last week."

"And now it's the Yule Festive this week," Enid rebutted.

Wednesday remained silent but internally sighed. Why was it so difficult to say no to Enid firmly? Still, Wednesday kept her mouth shut and closed her eyes. Saying nothing wasn't saying yes.

Then, the sound of Enid's forlorn sigh filled the room. 

"Okay," the blond conceded as she straightened her back before getting up to sit on the edge of Wednesday's bed with a slouch. "I guess I could partner up with Ajax for the couple's activities."

Wednesday's eyes opened back, trailing to the side to look at Enid's back. She was wearing that colorful sweater that looked like a unicorn puked on it. 

"What?" was the only word to come out of Wednesday's mouth. 

But Enid understood and blabbered away. "Well, Ajax's date canceled on him yesterday, so he can't do any of the partner activities since if you were coming, it would've made the numbers odd. But I guess since you're not coming, I can do stuff with Ajax."

That sentence alone sounded all wrong to Wednesday, bringing up unpleasant feelings she was unfamiliar with. But then again, Enid brought forth a lot of feelings she wasn't familiar with lately. 

Some were good, and some made her...feel violently sick—in a good way?

"I thought you two broke up," Wednesday commented instead. 

"Yeah," Enid shrugged, and Wednesday couldn't tell what the blonde felt about it without seeing her face. "But we ended on good terms and all the prizes for the couple activities are really, really cool. I want to win them all."

The idea of Ajax and Enid working in tandem and cheering, and hugging each other in victory (because Enid was definitely most likely going to hug him out of excitement) had Wednesday begrudgingly say—

"Fine. I'll go."

Enid immediately turned around, her face bright and excited. "Really?" She squealed. "I'm so excited! I just know we're going to crush everyone else."

"Of course," Wednesday looked unperturbed. "I want to see Bianca's face of utter defeat." Then, Wednesday raised her brow at Enid. "Dress warmly. Ever since you wolfed out, you have suddenly lost a few brain cells and think you're immune to the cold. I will end you if you get sick."

Enid merely rolled her eyes before she pounced onto Wednesday, her body half-pressed into her and arms wrapped around her neck.

"Enid," Wednesday grouched.

Yet, despite her stern warning for Enid to dress appropriately for the weather, there the blonde was: no hat, no scarf, and no gloves. 

Not even her hideous snood.

Wednesday walked forward, and Xavier was the first to greet her. She nodded in acknowledgment to the entire group before glaring at Enid.

"Why aren't you dressed appropriately for the weather?" 

"You aren't either!" Enid scrunched her nose at Wednesday as she took in the other girl's attire. "Except for your gloves, I guess."

"That's because my body is naturally colder than the weather," Wednesday raised her brow.

"Well, that's simply not true," Enid smirked, and if Wednesday could, she would have blushed.

"Let's just get going," Bianca curled her lips in annoyance at the weird display Enid and Wednesday have been putting on lately. "The cabs are already here."

The group began making their way toward the entrance of the school quickly. Despite ordering two cabs, Wednesday still felt claustrophobic being pressed up against someone as she sat next to the door. 

The ride was noisy, but Wednesday found it was easy to drown out if she focused on Enid's chattering. Soon enough, they arrived in the town. If Wednesday thought last week they had over-decorated, this was pure Christmas vomit. Apparently, Yule Fest was their biggest event of the year.

The group decided to walk around first to check out the area, but not even a quarter way in, Wednesday could feel Enid shivering against her when she walked too close.

But it was only when Enid sneezed that Wednesday stopped walking.

"Seriously, I told you that you would get sick going out like that," Wednesday snapped. 

Her tone made everyone jump, but Enid merely sneezed again and looked pitiful. 

Suddenly, Wednesday yanked on Xavier's scarf, making him momentarily choke as it unraveled around his neck. 

"What the hell, Wed—" He started to say, but his jaw dropped.

Wednesday lifted her arms and used his scarf to wrap around Enid's neck delicately.

"What do you think will happen if you get sick?" Wednesday frowned. "Do you expect me to make you soup and nurse you back to health?"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Enid smiled, watching as Wednesday then turned to Yoko and sniped the girl's hat, ignoring the vampire's grunt and glare.

"No, you should not because I will leave you to perish," Wednesday said as Enid lowered her head slightly so that she could put the hat onto the blonde. 

"Thing will take care of me," Enid grins in a mischievous way that has Wednesday glaring at her through her brows and cheeks more angular than usual when she pursed her lips. "Or not," Enid quickly amended.

"C'mon," Bianca looked at the remaining group. "Let's get going before Enid's stupidity costs us all of our winter wear."

Wednesday gave the siren a dark look.

Bianca was unfazed as she smirked before gathering the group to walk along, leaving the two to trail slowly behind. 

"Sorry," Enid mumbled as they walked. "And thank you."

Wednesday could feel their hands brush against each other occasionally and pursed her lip. Enid's hand felt cold to her, which was saying something because Wednesday's hand temperature was probably close to freezing.

Wednesday stopped walking again, causing the werewolf to jerk to a stop as well. 

Enid looked at Wednesday curiously as the dark raven sighed, pulling off one of her gloves and handing it to her.

"I'm not giving you both," Wednesday warned. 

Enid smiled as she took the glove and wore it on the hand that faced the outside. "You don't need to," Enid said but then looked mischievous as she wriggled her fingers on her bare hand. "But there is a way to keep both our hands warm."

Wednesday looked at her curiously. 

Enid took Wednesday's gloveless hand, causing the other girl to tense up. Ignoring it, Enid stuck both their hands into her jacket pocket and started walking, giving no choice but for Wednesday to begin moving too. 

"Enid," Wednesday frowned.

"Shh," Enid comforted. "It's fine. They're not going to look behind because they're too scared you'll probably stab their eyes out."

With that reassurance (not that Wednesday needed it), Wednesday allowed the contact, walking quietly next to the blonde and keeping her warm. 

[daddycassie]

You Can’t Catch Me Now

Pairing: Coriolanus Snow x Lucy Gray Baird / Snowbaird, 1,324 words

Warnings: Guys this one isn’t for the faint of heart, probably the darkest thing I’ve written so far. Major character death, Coriolanus is insane, Lucy Gray becomes very delirious, horror elements, heartbreak(obvi), doomed snowbaird, shooting, threats, abusive/toxic relationship, I think this counts as torture, chasing, blood

—————————————————

Lucy Gray sat in a bush, a little ways from the lake, covering her mouth for absolute silence. Her breath hitched, and she stifled a sob. She could hear him calling her. Her Coriolanus, shrieking. “Lucy Gray?!”

Coriolanus was unraveling, she’d seen it in his eyes. She heard it even now, in his voice. He was getting closer to Lucy Gray’s hiding place, she had to make a run for it. She sprung up from the ground like a fresh spring daisy and dashed through the trees.

“Lucy Gray!” Coriolanus saw her. “Come back! We can talk about this! I don’t wanna hurt you!” Lies, and they both knew it. Lucy Gray dived down into a deep thicket, acutely aware of the gun pointed at her back. She was small enough to make her way through the thick, closely knit plants while Coriolanus certainly wasn’t. That didn’t stop him from trying. 

Lucy Gray kept running once she was on the other side, Coriolanus frowned deeply and run off to the side to go around it. It would cost him time, which was good for her. She hardly even took a moment to worry over her torn up dress — they were both panicked. Coriolanus kept chasing. Surely Lucy Gray would tire out and slow down soon, she wasn’t big or strong, she wasn’t like him. She couldn’t outrun him.

But Lucy Gray was stronger then that, she had stamina. She didn’t stop. It took Coriolanus a few more seconds to realize at the rate they were going at Lucy Gray would escape. He doesn’t stop running as he raises his rifle. A warning shot, perhaps right by her side would stop her. Just a warning, a bullet to the air. He wouldn’t shoot his love.

Lucy Gray paused briefly at a hillside when she felt a burning sensation in her back. At first it didn’t hurt very much, but then came a sharp sting. She teetered, and felt white, hot pain seeping through her back, then to her stomach, and right out the other side. It made her head feel fuzzy and her ears ring.

Lucy Gray opened her mouth to try to make noise, but nothing came out. “Lucy Gray?” She heard Coriolanus’ muffled voice behind her. It sounded broken. Before she could even turn around she felt herself tumbling down the hill leaving a violent trail of blood in her wake.

Coriolanus slid down after her, just managing to grab Lucy Gray’s arm before they both tipped into the rough-watered lake below. Lucy Gray looked up at him, noticing his rifle was gone. He’d dropped it. After he shot her. “Coriolanus.” She muttered weakly. He propped her up in his arms. “I-I don’t know why I did that.” He sounded scared himself.

Lucy Gray felt too tired to yell at Coriolanus, though she sure wanted to. “You shot me.” was all she could say. “I shot you.” Coriolanus nodded tearfully. “I didn’t mean to, it — it was supposed to be a warning shot.” A warning shot? How did that change anting? He knew he might hit her and he took that chance.

What right did he have to cry? He did this. He killed Sejanus. He lied to her about it. He chased her. He shot her. Instead of voicing her anger, she cried weakly.

Lucy Gray hated that Coriolanus held her. She hated that she clung to him with all her strength. She hated that he managed to make her feel better. “I want to sing.” Lucy Gray heard herself rasping out, feeling her energy dwindle. Coriolanus nodded a bit, “Will you?” Lucy Gray finds it in the back of her mind to question why he wasn’t taking her back to 12 if he were really sorry. 

“We should go back…” She gasped, and the way he tensed helps her realize. Coriolanus thought she’d reveal him. He shot her with the same gun that killed Mayfair. “Coryo please.” She begins, “I’ll keep real quiet, I swear on it—“

“Sing.” Coriolanus told her firmly, painfully squeezing her. Those words made him a different person, cold and calculating. Lucy Gray swallowed thickly. “Coryo…” “I said sing goddamn it.” She felt in danger all over again. Her mind went hazy again as she tried to recall any song.

Finally, vague lyrics pierced her mind as she looked up at Coriolanus, into his bright blue eyes.

Everyone’s born as clean as a whistle.

As fresh as a daisy and not a bit crazy.

Staying that way’s a hard row for hoeing.

As rough as a briar like walking through fire.

The words flowed out like floodgate bursting open. Lucy Gray was in part relieved, but also worried for the way her own voice sounded. It was less singing and more talking, though that didn’t seem to bother Coriolanus. His expression softens at the verses of that familiar song.

Lucy Gray hated that it was the only thing she could remember. She hated that Coriolanus was probably patting himself on the back for it. Thinking he mattered more to her then anything else in the world. She hated that right now, that was true.

This world, it’s dark

This world, it’s scary

I’ve taken some hits so no wonder I’m wary

It’s why — I need you 

You’re as pure as the driven snow

Lucy Gray tried to scowl at the very slight smile on Snow’s face. It made her angry, but it also gave her butterflies. She looked away, only to catch a glimpse of her damaged, blood soaked lower half and immediately look but up at him. Her eyes welled up and he held her closer as her voice trembled.

Everyone wants to be like a hero

The cake with the cream, or a doer not dreamer

Doing’s hard work, but it takes some to change things

Like goat’s milk to butter

Like ice blocks to water

Lucy Gray sobbed before she could reach her next line, she clenched her fist around Coriolanus’ sleeve. He squeezed her again. He didn’t like her stopping, not even to mourn herself. She couldn’t cry, she had to sing her sorrows.

This world goes blind when children are dying

I turn into dust, but you never stop trying 

It’s why I love you 

Lucy Gray whimpered. Coriolanus Snow smiled.

You’re as pure as the driven snow

She wanted to stop, she wanted to sleep. She was so painfully tired.

Cold and clean

Swirling over my skin

You cloak me

You soak right in

Down to my heart

The only thing soaking down to her slowing heart was her own blood.

Everyone— Everyone thinks they know all about me 

They slap me with labels and spit out their fables.

You came along and you knew it was lying.

You saw the ideal me, and yes that’s the real me

Coriolanus caressed her face. His fingers were red and sticky, it made her want to vomit. Everything was blurry and hazy but she saw him grinning wider than she’d ever seen. It was nightmarish. She saw the tree’s contracting down around them, obscuring the grey sky. All Lucy Gray saw was his grinning face in the dark.

This world, it’s cruel

With troubles aplenty

You ask me for a reason

I’ve got three in twenty 

For why I—

Lucy Gray tried to breathe and suddenly she couldn’t. The wind howled and everything felt cold. Or maybe that wasn’t the wind, maybe that was the forest itself. Coriolanus’ sickening laughter trickled in. 

For why I trust you 

Lucy Gray wheezed.

You’re as pure as the driven snow.

The trees swayed mockingly in her vision as the world spun. Coriolanus’ face melted into a bloody pulp. She couldn’t speak anymore. She didn’t close her eyes but her vision went black anyway. Lucy Gray heard Snow’s laughter before it was drown out by the wind. Then she heard nothing at all.

—————————————————

Note: took me forever to get this one out but here it is!! I like it a lot, but I do want to do more horror next time I think…

@mitsuki91 @nothininteresting @lucygraysbabygirl

For you pookies :)

also — I will get to my requests, this one was just in the making first!

Hope everyone enjoyed!!

[vrilgothic]

Excerpt from an interview with Ted Kaczynski (aka Unabomber) in which he recounts his day to day life in the forest:

BVD (the interviewer): What was an average day like for you in Lincoln?

TJK (Ted Kaczynski): That’s a very difficult question to answer because I don’t know that there was an average day. My activities varied so much according to the season and according to the tasks I had before me on a given day. But I will describe a representative day…

TJK: …Well, let’s take a day in January, and let’s suppose I wake up about 3:00 a.m. to find that snow is falling. I start a fire in my stove and put a pot of water on. When the water comes to a boil I dump a certain quantity of rolled oats into it and stir them for a few minutes until they are cooked. Then I take the pot off the stove, add a couple of spoonfuls of sugar and some milk—made from powdered milk.

While the oats are cooling I eat a piece of cold boiled rabbit meat.

Afterward I eat the oats. I sit for a few minutes before the open door of the stove watching the fire burn down, then I take my clothes off again, get back into bed, and go to sleep. When I wake up, the sky is just starting to get light. I get out of bed and dress myself quickly because it’s cold in the cabin. By the time I’m dressed there’s a little more light and I can see that it’s no longer snowing and the sky is clear. Because of the fresh snow it should be a good day for rabbit hunting. So I take my old, beat-up, single-shot 22 down from the hooks on the wall. I put my little wooden cartridge-box, containing 16 cartridges, in my pocket, with a couple of books of matches wrapped in plastic bags and a sheath knife on my belt in case I have to build a fire in an emergency. Then I put on my snowshoes and take off. First there’s a hard climb to get up on top of the ridge, and then a level walk of a mile or so to get to the open forest of lodgepole pines where I want to hunt. A little way into the pines I find the tracks of a snowshoe hare. I follow the trail around and around through its tangled meanderings for about an hour. Then suddenly I see the black eye and the black-tipped ears of an otherwise white snowshoe hare. It’s usually the eye and the black-tipped ears you notice first. The bunny is watching me from behind the tangled branches and green needles of a recently-fallen pine tree. The rabbis is about 40 feet away, but it’s alert and watching me, so I won’t try to get closer. However, I have to maneuver for an angle to shoot from, so that I can have a clear shot through the tangle of branches—even a slender twig can deflect a .22 bullet enough to cause a miss. To get that clear shot I have to lie down in the snow in an odd position and use my knee as a rest for the rifle barrel. I line up the sights on the rabbit’s head, at a point just behind the eye…hold steady…ping! The rabbit is clipped through the head.

Such a shot ordinarily kills the rabbit instantly, but the animal’s hind legs usually kick violently for a few seconds so that it bounces around in the snow. When the rabbit stops kicking I walk up to it and see that it’s quite dead. I say aloud “Thank you, Grandfather Rabbit”– Grandfather Rabbit is a kind of demigod I’ve invented who is the tutelary spirit of all the snowshoe rabbits. I stand for a few minutes looking around at the pure-white snow and the sunlight filtering through the pine trees. I take in the silence and the solitude. It’s good to be here. Occasionally I’ve found snowmobile tracks along the crest of the main ridge, but in these woods where I am now, once the big-game hunting season is over, in all my years in this country I’ve never seen a human footprint other than my own. I take one of the noosed cords out of my pocket. For convenience in carrying I put the noose around the rabbit’s neck and wrap the other end of the cord around my mittened hand. Then I go looking for the trail of another rabbit.

When I have three rabbits I head home. On arriving there I’ve been out some six or seven hours. My first task is to peel off the skins of the rabbits and remove their guts. Their livers, hearts, kidneys, brains, and some assorted scraps I put in a tin can. I hang the carcasses up under the shelter, then run down to my root cellar to fetch some potatoes and a couple of parsnips. When these have been washed and other chores performed—splitting some wood maybe, or collecting snow to melt for drinking water—I put the pot on the boil, and at the appropriate time add some dried wild greens, the parsnips, the potatoes, and the livers and other internal organs of the rabbits. By the time it’s all cooked, the sky is getting dark. I eat my stew by the light of my kerosene lamp. Or, if I want to economize, maybe I open the door of the stove and eat by the light of the fire. I finish off with a half a handful of raisins. I’m tired but at peace. I sit for a while in front of the open door of the stove gazing at the fire. I may read a little. More likely I’ll just lie on my bed for a time watching the firelight flicker on the walls. When I get sleepy I take off my clothes, get under the blankets, and go to sleep.

BVD: I envy you, too … While work, that does sound wonderful.

Freedom and autonomy. No time clock to punch, whether literal or figurative. But let me shift topic. You just mentioned sleep. Was your bed, or bunk, comfortable?

TJK: Well, it was comfortable enough for me.

[bsdw-ccraccs]

part 1 -> part 2 -> part 3 *

Lamb to the Slaughter

‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - -୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

Chapter 3 Song:  Breezeblocks  ‿︵‿︵୨˚̣̣̣͙୧ - -୨˚̣̣̣͙୧‿︵‿︵

When they arrive at the bench where Ranpo and Aeris met, Atsushi pauses and so does aeris. The feeling was getting worse and Atsushi pausing did not reassure him in any way. Ranpo’s ability was nothing but to deduct the correct outcome, and Jun’ichiro’s ability is to make illusions. He just hopes that Atsushi’s ability is much more physical.

Aeris look at atsushi, but before he can get a word out, his mouth is covered by a hand and he’s dragged behind the group. 

“Wh- Hey, let him go!” Atsushi calls out.

Atsushi whips his hand to attack but he was too late. A knife pressed against Aeris’s throat. Ranpo looks behind him to check on Atsushi and Aeris, only to be taken off guard by violent maneuver and Aeris being used as a hostage. Jun’Ichiro instantly uses his ability, ‘Light Snow,’ and creates an illusion. Aeris disappears from the attacker and atsushi appears in his place, arm becoming a claw and scratching at the.

Unsuccessfully, light snow disappears. Jun’ichiro was knocked out, Ranpo holding his side, Atsushi slides away from the attacker, Aeris standing in front of Jun’ichiro’s body holding a knife.

Aeris’s eyes are wide, hands shaking as he stares down the attacker. 

‘Do it’

Aeris gasps. 

‘Keep your eyes open, stare at the person, and stab yourself.’

Aeris points the knife to his stomach, eyes wide open, mouth pressed into a line. The warm feeling of hands surrounding his shaky ones and guiding them farther before plunging it into his stomach. 

Ranpo and Atsushi stare at Aeris, his actions making them worry, but he doesn’t tumble. Aeris rips the knife out and plunges it into the wound again, the cloaked attacker falling to their knees. 

Aeris walks forward, twisting the knife little by little every step he walks. It doesn’t hurt him, but it definitely hurts the other person.

‘Stop,’ the voice says as aeris gasps, pulls out the knife, and stops walking. He drops the knife and falls back as the cloaked person lays on the floor, blood pooling under the person. Ranpo quickly gets up, tumbles all the while, and rushes towards Aeris. 

Aeris holds his hands over his mouth as two police men take the cloaked person and uncovers them. Ranpo blocks his view as they work with the injured criminal. 

Atsushi walks over with Jun’ichiro with him, ready to help if needed. 

“Just as I thought…” Ranpo mumbled as the police take off the hood of the attacker, “It’s one of the students.”

Aeris looks down, the more he kept his eyes opened, the more dizzy he became. He closes his eyes, feeling his body become light and having gravity take control. 

┏━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┓

                                                             TimeSkip

  In the ADA   Infirmary

┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛

When he wakes up, he’s in a bed with Atsushi sitting on his right side. He sits up, the shuffling sound making Atsushi wake up and look at Aeris.

“You’re awake! Good, I got scared when you fainted on Ranpo,” Atsushi smiles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck as he starts sweating. Aeris’s dull purple eyes were staring right through Atsushi, making the white tiger nervous.

“Are you alright? How are you feeling? Are you hungry? I could go ask Kunikida for some money to be able to get you some food…”

Right as he finishes his rapid stream of question, Aeris’s stomach growls. By now, Aeris would be at his place, eating in the lonely, japanese style dining room. The student looks away in embarrassment, comedic blue lines appearing on his head as Atsushi looks at him. 

Atsushi smiles as he stands up and pats the boy’s head. 

“I’ll be right back then, what would you like to eat?”

Aeris looks up at Atsushi, lips moving before he can stop them. 

“Udon… please…”

“Alright then. Doctor Yosano said that you shouldn’t walk right now, even though you had no wounds, the exhaustion of using you ability for the first time could make you faint another time, so it’s best that you stay here as I get you your food.”

Atsushi explains before leaving. 

Aeris nods a little after he exits the room, eyes looking around the infirmary before laying them on his hands. He can still feel the feeling on the knife in his hands, the feeling of warm claws gently holding his, guiding his hands into stabbing his gut, pushing him to walk forward, moving his hands to twist the knife. 

The only thing he could think about, other than the hunger he’s experiencing, is the possibility of him killing that person. 

“Just as I thought…” Ranpo mumbles… “It’s one of the students…”

Ranpo’s voice rang in Aeris’s thoughts, was he a murderer now? Did he kill someone? Did he kill a student…?

His stomach grumbles, his thoughts getting cut off by the sound of the door opening and head snapping up.

“Your thoughts are so loud kid,”

A woman comes in with a tray, Atsushi right behind her with a medium size bowl with steam coming from the top. 

“This is doctor Yosano by the way, Aeris,” Atsushi says as the woman, Yosano, places the tray at his hips and places the bowl on it. Grabbing the spoon and bringing the stock up to his lips, he blows once, twice, three times, and slups just a small bit of the liquid.

“I’m quite disappointed that you yourself didn’t get hurt, ranpo didn’t get that hurt either, not enough for me to have to half-way kill him to heal him either way, and Jun’ichiro was just knocked out.”

Aeris smiles, looking up at the doctor and atsushi. “Thank you, Doctor Yosano,” he nods at her “and you too Atsushi.”

He grabs the chopsticks and picks up some of the noodles, blows on them, steam moving with his breath, and brings them up to his open mouth, gently and quietly slurping up the noodles. As he continues eating, Yosano and Atsushi watch him, to think such a small boy would have such a strong ability. 

Their thoughts go back to the meeting they had with the president and the rest of the agency…

“I found his papers,” Ranpo says, his wound was nothing to worry about, it was just a scratch to Yosano’s standards and didn’t need much treatment, he was exagerating the amount of pain he was in.

‘What do they say then?” Kunikida asks, reading his ‘Ideals’ book, which was upside down. 

“Well, it says his birthdate, his age, shows his finger print, his parents, his address, its says everything, be a little more specific Kunikida,” Dazai chimes in, his long legs laying on the table. Everyone was sitting at the table, the president sitting in silence.

“Who are his parents?” Fukuzawa asks. 

“His father was Dahl Roald and his mother was Crosland Felicity…” Ranpo hums “but that doesn’t make sense…”

“What doesn’t make sense?” Jun’ichiro asks, Atsushi and Kyouka wondering the same thing.

“His biological mother is Junoa Sako and his biological father is Dahl Roald, so why does it say that his mother is Crosland Felicity?”

“Drammaaaaa!” Dazai sings, before geting bonked on the head by Kunikida’s book.

“So you mean to say that Aeris was kidnapped?” Kunikida inquires.

“No, I don’t mean that, I guess when Juona found out about Dahl having a baby with another lady, she gave him Aeris. It says here that Dahl is dead, so I believe that Aeris was sent back to his mother because of that.”

“And, just a guess, his mother is also dead. Right?” The president asks. 

“Yes.”

“Another orphan in the building I guess.” Dazai giggles, Atsushi and Jun’ichiro shrink back.

“What about his ability?” Dazai looks over to Ranpo, a cheeky smirk on his face, “that’s what we’re here to talk about right?”

Ranpo nods, swiftly moving through the pages in his hands.

“It says here, Ability: Unknown, description: Is able to injure others in their line of sight as the ability holder injures themselves physically.”

“There’s definitely more to that than what it says,” Ranpo says.

Yosano sighs, shaking her head as she steps back and turns to the door.

“Well, I’ll be going, I have somethings I have to do boys.”

Aeris stops eating at that, the last noodle hanging off of his lips. He slurps the noodle up and nods. Atsushi turns towards her and smiles.

Again, it’s just him and Atsushi in the room. 

“Did you know you had an ability?” Atsushi asks, truly curious about his answer.

“Mmmmh, maybe…” Aeris mumbles, eyes drooping, “I remember my dreams, it was usually about a lamb getting eaten by wolves, or a woman killing her husband, or about some fantasy book I was reading then.”

“Other than that, I never felt pain. I would fall and scrape my knee, but nothing,” Aeris sighs “But when I look over at someone else, they suddenly have an injured knee.”

“I’ll take it that you didn’t know about it then.” 

“I’m glad you caught on,” Aeris looks at his reflection looking back at him from the remaining soup in the bowl.

“I believe you’re going to ask me what I would name my ability if I had one, but you didn’t know how to ask me, right?”

“Yeah…” Atsushi rubs the back of his neck, “am I that obvious?”

“I’m just really good at reading people,” Aeris nods “But if I had to name the ability I have right now… I would name it…

Lamb to the Slaughter,”

[fortifice]

i have more to add to this but this is all i got in me for now.

Scar hc. there is a narrow scar that begins at the base of his jaw and tapers towards his right eye, from a fight where a fragmentum monster’s blade grazed skin, a blow he should have been prepared to evade. ❝ the young captain took a guarded step back as the weapon arched in a rising strike, the glinting blade does not meet its mark but the tapered point tears into pliant skin and his across his gaze blossoms a sanguinary spray of blood. ❞  if not for the inceptive move to avoid the strike it is likely that his sight would have been lost in that eye. there are a myriad of scars that wreathe around his biceps and forearms and many of these are wounds sustained during battle or training.

 there is a prominent one that extends from the top of his shoulder and past his clavicle. Its white, corrugation of skin is a remnant from a violent battle and devastating loss on the frontlines. ❝ the voices of his men rise above the keening wind, unease proliferates through their ranks as their fallen’s regal banners undulate fiercely. they were outnumbered, pushing back would only result in further loss of life. he raises his arm high and commands their retreat, their eyes linger upon him, relief and enervation coalesce as they withdraw high onto the glacial outcrop. Gepard’s eyes pass through his men, those who remain, naming them, acknowledging those who did not make it. when his eyes are cast to the barren white they hitch upon an arm protruding from the tundra. he does not hesitate, the swarming mass of darkness encroaching further into the land they had held for days and nights. he runs, unimpeded by the crunching of snow as it gives way underfoot, spindrifts of white erupt in the wake of his haste. 

A firm hand grasps the man’s wrist and heaves him out of the snow, he’s still breathing, shallow, but alive. there was no time for relief to set in, as the cadet stumbles to his feet an eldritch monster bears down upon them. with earthwork forsaken at the peak of the escarpment the captain seizes its blade as it carves through the air, the serrated edge incising into his palm. Go, now. the man’s vacuous gaze looks up at him, gepard’s muscles scream with the force of the blow, pushing past the searing pain he holds that precarious position. The cadet scrambles out of the snow, desperately plowing his way up the steep incline, the captain’s narrowed eyes flick back to the monster. Aware that any heedless step could prove fatal he jerks his hand back, his pulse hammers in his ears, the blade swiftly cuts, pain swelling from the wound, his white livery stained red. A solitary, shuddering breath and he closes his fist, fingers biting into the ruined skin and he launches a blow for the monster’s chest, its carapace hide splintering, sightless eyes swiveling wildly. he presses a hand to the wound, the pain is so immense, white agony spots at his vision, as he begins the trek up that ridge two recruits clamber down the jutting rocks to help him to safety. ❞

training scars. ❝ again. the command is strident as it pierces through the air, his reaction is fluid, practiced, the blade that comes down upon him is intent on ending his life. that was what training with his father was like, a vow that if he allowed faults in his stance he would be punished accordingly. each clashing of steel is jarring, he meets his father’s strikes one after the other but with every ensuing collision of blades he becomes less precise, fatigue wearing at his senses. his father’s hoarfrost eyes narrow and it takes only a single, ruthless slash for his sword to clatter from his hands, the cut across his forearm is a gruesome sight. you let your guard down, foolish boy. his father’s contempt is far more excruciating than the wound itself, he presses his hand to it, the white fabric sousing in blood. you’re dismissed. his breath comes uneven and harsh, he lays back in the dirt for a moment, his fingers clamped firmly over the wound. he still was not strong enough. ❞

❝ scars in cadet training were like a right of passage, the others would parade them with a sense of accomplishment, as if they weren’t from poor parrying or heedless fighting. battle had been ingrained in him long before he was old enough to join the guard so his wounds were less frequent, always held significance. I beat you, finally. leo huffs proudly, gepard’s expression is withering, it had taken only moments for the nurse to patch up the gash on his arm but Leo had hovered the whole time as if he was engraving it in his memory. It won’t happen again, he responded, his brow furrowed and his mouth taut, it was hard not to smile when they were together. He swiped at Leo’s curious hands as they idly toyed with the bandage, he wasn’t going to get an infection satiating his interest. Leo laughs in that contagious way he often did and Gepard finds himself smiling in spite of his feigned annoyance. ❞

❝ Pain, it’s the only way he can steel himself, separating himself from grief and regret with every precise blow. his knuckles are smeared in blood, the training dummy shudders under the impact of his frenetic punches, the pain that shoots through his arm is the only alleviation he is permitted. he doesn’t allow others to witness his fraught state, opting to bandage the bruised and bloody skin in solitude. he relies on this, the familiar ache of training is liberating, for as long as his heartbeat sung high with alacrity he did not have to be picked apart by his anguish. that marred skin across the prominent ridges of his knuckles serves as a reminder of death he could not prevent and the pain it took to bury the torment that came from that ineptitude.❞ 

he has a scar that runs along the inside of his index finger on his left hand, it is narrow but deep, this one came from childhood. ❝ Serval’s eyes widened in horror, of all the things that could have transpired while her little brother was out of eyeshot. did it have to be this ? he was sobbing, the uncontrollable trembling of a child who knew he had done wrong. her tools were strewn all over the place and specks of blood dotted and smeared across a blueprint she had meticulously tacked to her work station. what were you thinking ? she doesn’t know if there even is an answer that would be any sort of salve. his tiny hand is clamped around his fist and blood is trickling down his hand, the neat, folded cuffs of his shirt are already stained. her father was never going to let her hear the end of this. she gathers his cowering form in her arms and whispers softly to him, it’s the sort of dulcet song that often disperses his fears, like any good remedy it takes only a few stuttering breaths for his crying to quiet out. see ? that’s not so bad is it ?  he blinks up at her, his eyes wide and tearful, his bottom lip protruding apologetically. I was just.. I was trying to make something for you sis. For he had watched on in awe as she had taken apart and fixed up the radio the day before, she should have known his curiosity would not be so easily curbed by a don't touch this while i'm not here, but here they were.  Serval patted his head, his blonde hair disheveled, it was another big sister remedy for affliction that found its way into her brothers life. Lets get you patched up before father sees this, I’m not mad gep, I’m just. She sighs, her hand resting on his shoulder as she steers him from the room and towards the kitchen where she hoped there would be bandaids. Don’t do it again okay ? not without me and he nods fervently which is a weight off of her shoulders. ❞

the scars on his hands are smaller than the others and they're very much a spattering of arbitrary marks while many of these are "self inflicted" they can also be from battle / training like this shit happens alot they're getting hurt alot. he also has like many on his back and I want to write a drabble about that but i need 2 make soup now so later.