#original mid century furniture

[gustedesign]

"Happy Spiral" - a vibrant and uplifting art print that is sure to bring a smile. The swirling spiral symbolizes the journey to find joy and serves as a daily reminder to take a moment and create something beautiful.

[thehistoryvintageantiques]

#180 Pair of Ingmar Relling Siesta chairs

Item Number : #74

Low-back Siesta Chairs

Ingmar Relling

for Westnofa Furniture, Norway 1970s.

Beautifully reupholstered.

The Siesta chair, designed by Norwegian designer Ingmar Relling in 1965, is a timeless and iconic piece of furniture known for its sleek and minimalist design. With its curvy beech frame and comfortable canvas sling upholstered with new, soft, and supple leather cushion.

The Siesta chair is not only aesthetically pleasing but also ergonomically sound. Its simple yet elegant form has made it a staple in our homes, offices, and public spaces for decades.

Ingmar Relling's creation continues to be celebrated for its Scandinavian design principles that combine form, function, and comfort effortlessly.

These are the most comfortable of all the Scandinavian vintage lounge chairs.

86H x 62W x 84L cm

[midmodpt]

Website : https://www.midmod.pt/

Address : Rua São João Nepomuceno 32B, Lisboa, Portugal 1250-233

Mid Mod, established in 2017 in Lisbon's Lapa neighborhood, specializes in Mid Century Modern pieces from the 50s, 60s, and 70s. Curated by Henrique Salgado, the store offers an eclectic collection of original pieces by acclaimed designers. Known for its unique blend of elegant design and vibrant colors, Mid Mod ensures each item's authenticity and origin. The store extends its expertise through various bespoke services, including interior and lighting consultancy, plant consultancy, home and event staging, rental, and restoration. Embracing the art-design connection, Mid Mod collaborates with contemporary artists and showcases international works. Customers can visit the showroom by appointment or explore the collection online, with international shipping available.

Facebook : https://www.facebook.com/midmodlx/

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[deadmotelsusa]

I've been trying to showcase Motel Revivals in between my regular posts. Today's non-dead feature is the Sapphire Motel of Bozeman, Montana. 

Before it was the Sapphire, it began as the Glen Motel in the 1940s, became the Travelier Motel in the 1950s, the Stardust Motel in 1970s and the Royal 7 Motel in the 1980s.

The motel operated as the Royal 7 for the next 40 years, seeing very few changes. By the year 2021, the property had become outdated and was in desperate need of restoration. The lack of upkeep created a unique opportunity in that much of the motel was still original.

When brothers Shiloh and Jake became the new owners, they invested significant time and resources to bring the motel back to its original character. The rooms and lobby showcase mid-century modern furniture, the original neon sign has been restored and the vibe is definitely that of a 1950s motor inn. By the time Shiloh and Jake took over, the motel had been in their family since 1972! Pictured are before and after photos of the sign, lobby and rooms.

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Amazing 1884 townhouse condo in San Francisco, CA has 3bds, 2ba, 2,125 sq ft, $1,998,500 + $250mo. HOA.

The entrance hall is like stepping back in time.

Gorgeous, elegant sitting room/living room has a glorious fireplace with a gold mirror soaring up to the wallpapered ceiling.

I don't care for the owner's mid-century modern furniture in a Victorian home, but okay.

The room next to the sitting room is the dining room. But, look at the fantastic wallpaper "wainscoting" in the sitting room.

I can't even look at their furniture, I'm looking past it. Why would you do this? Gorgeous ceiling and original light fixture.

The kitchen is lovely. Original light fixture is refreshing to see. Love the cabinetry and the stove hood.

Love that it's an eat-in kitchen.

Double glass paned doors open to the garden.

The authentic upstairs hallway.

The primary bedroom. Gorgeous wallpaper, restored marble fireplace and lots of natural light.

Details of one of the meticulously painted ceiling medallions.

So beautiful. Such attention to detail.

This is the way to restore a vintage bath. Simply gorgeous.

Bedroom #2. Look at the sweet little stove. Beautiful original fixture and painted medallion.

Adorable little room.

Lovely bright office or nursery.

Step out of the kitchen doors onto this lovely deck. Look at the size of that tree. Beautiful, lacy fence/railing.

The garden is like a wonderland.

Stunning.

Private patio.

The yard from above.

Beautiful block- is that a shop on the left?

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/1180-Guerrero-St-San-Francisco-CA-94110/15147011_zpid//?

[chopinski-official]

Chopin’s Wardrobe — What I Wore

Today I would like to share with you all the manner in which I dressed. It is interesting to see how fashions have changed over the course of 200 years. Some might say style has slipped… Anyway! Here are some details on my wardrobe:

My Suit

I liked to wear sober colours: black, mauve, blue… and especially grey. For instance, I once asked Julian Fontana to have made for me a pair of dark grey winter trousers, without a belt, which were smooth and stretchy.

Grey trousers, 1840.

At a concert in Glasgow, a pupil recalled that I had worn a pale grey suit. Which included a frock-coat of identical tint and texture.

(Left) Frock coat, 1840. (Right) Frock coat and trousers, 1852.

Under my suit, I would wear a modest waistcoat in a fabric such as a black velvet with a tiny inconspicuous pattern, something very quiet and elegant.

(Left) Provençal waistcoat with mauve silk seedlings, 1860. (Centre) Waistcoat with floral pattern, 1838. (Right) Striped waistcoat, 1850-70.

My preferred shirts were ones made of cambric or batiste fabric. They had small mother-of-pearl buttons, two breast-pockets, and could be bought for 14 francs.

For my cravat, I would wear muted colours during the day. Usually, I would tie it in a bow. However, when performing in a formal setting, I would wear a broad, white silk cravat.

Winter Clothes

To keep warm in the winter months, I wore a thick redingote or over-frock coat, as can be seen in this daguerreotype of myself from 1849.

(Left) Wool coat, 1840. (Centre) Winter costume. Paul Gavarni, 1846. (Right) Frock coat. Wool, trimmed with silk velvet. 1820-1830.

At one point, my sickness rendered me so sensitive to the cold that I wore three flannels under my trousers.

Underpants, mid-nineteenth century.

Accessories

Because I had small feet, I often found shoes uncomfortable. I mourned the day, Moos, my shoemaker died. No one made my shoes like him.

1840s men’s shoes.

On my head, I would always have my hair curled, and, when outdoors, I would wear a top hat. I bought my hats from Dupont’s because he made them lightweight. They were originally made of beaver felt but, by my later life, they were made of silk plush.

(Left) Top hat made of beaver felt, 1830s. (Right) Top hat made of silk plush, 1850.

My outfit was only complete with white gloves. Without them one would not be in good taste. Kid gloves were common, but I also liked wearing Swedish (suede) gloves. Always in white.

Evening gloves. 1848.

A pocket handkerchief was also a necessity.

Finally, I had a miniature pocket watch. According to one concert-goer, it was “In shape no bigger than an agate stone, on the forefinger of an alderman.”

Where did I shop?

I bought my top hats from Dupont’s at No 8, rue de Montblanc (the previous name for rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin). I lived on this street myself, both at No 5 (1833-36) and No 38 (1836-38).

(Left) 9, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin, the fabric shop across the street from the milliners, 1840s. (Right) Rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin, 1858-1878.

My shirts came from No 37 in the Palais Royal galleries, on the theatre side.

(Left) View of the Galerie d'Orléans in the Palais-Royal, 1838. (Right) Jardin du Palais Royal, 1840s.

The white suede gloves could be acquired from À la Corbeille de Fleurs, Houbigant’s shop at No 19, rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré.

(Left) The corner of rue du Faubourg-Saint-Honoré, 1820-1840. (Right) Faubourg Saint-Honoré, 1814-1885.

There were also many shops along the Grands Boulevards. This is where I got my trousers made by my tailor, Dautremont.

(Left) Boulevard de la Madeleine, 1799. (Right) Boulevard des Capucines, 1830.

Boulevard des Italiens, 1840s (left), 1835 (right).

So…

As you can see, in spite my reputation for being picky and perhaps… prissy, with regard to fashion and furniture, I was far from what was called a dandy. My dress was never over-the-top and nor did I put on the airs that were so pertinent to dandyism. My desire, if anything, was to be refined and respectable. Although, perhaps my efforts to do so were occasionally cause for frenzy or distraction.

[azulyrae]

❛ —— 𝐈 : The Pawn.

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

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

the first chapter of onyx sword of sorrow.

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

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

word-count: 10K.

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

― Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How wrong he was.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or so he thought.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is she?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where are you going?”

“To give [Name] the great news.”

“It’s four in the morning.”

“She’s awake.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So was mine.”

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

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

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

“Were you sad that I did, for once?”

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

“What are you doing here?”

“Your sisters are worried.”

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

“That’s not what I meant.”

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Long enough.”

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

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

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

“Obviously.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And Montesere?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[beefrobeefcal]

Dark!Frankie Saga: II

Chapter Two: Nobody But Me

Pairing: Dark!Frankie Morales x Fem!Reader

Summary:

Boston. The Frontiersmen is a crime syndicate that deals in drugs, arms, and anything else they can to keep themselves on top. Since the original ring leader, Tom, was allegedly taken out by a rival gang, it's now run by Big Fish, with Pope second in command. Ironhead runs the numbers and Benny is the muscle. Your family member put you down as collateral when they needed credit to score more smack. Problem is, they can't pay it back, and Big Fish & the Frontiersmen always get their payment...

Rating: Explicit 18+ (MDNI)

Chapter Word Count: 3,112

Content Warning: Not smut yet (apologies), references to SA, almost SA, violence, threats of violence, crime, weight talk

Author's Notes:

This was written while I was feeling pretty dank with this never ending sinus cold. Next week will def be getting more exciting!

Once again, an everlasting and faboulous thank you to @neverwheremoonchild for beta'ing this. Thank you, Nevy! 💜🥩💜

And this is not the Chubby!Frankie we know and love in the Catfish & the Mouse universe; he's dark, mean, and hungry.

I'll be updating this each week (Monday/Tuesday) until you lose interest or I finish it - let's see what happens first! 👌

Beefro’s Master List | Previous Chapter

--------<3---------

Benny’s grip on your arm was firm as he pulled you down the hallway.

“Fuckin’ Santiago… bastard.”, he muttered shaking his head. He said other things, but you weren’t able to decipher them, outside of assuming they were curses against Pope.

Apparently, the barracks was a wing on the same floor as the office you’d been in. A few hallways and doors later, you were in what looked like a frat house’s den. Old couches, worn out rug, mismatched furniture, haphazardly tacked up pictures of sports teams and naked women. Off to the side was an opening where a double door once stood and through it looked like a mid-century kitchen – wood paneling and all.

On the other side from the kitchen, Benny unlocked a door and pulled you through into another hallway. Along the walls were six doors, each with a number on them. Benny stopped in front of door number two and opened it.

“Okay, honey. You’re in here next to the boss.”, Benny sighed, nudging you in.

You stepped in and looked around at the scarcely furnished room. There was only a bare queen size bed and a desk with a chair. Next to the doorless closet was a small bathroom with a shower. The view was looking out over the pier into the inky twilight. You turned around to look at Benny.

“I know it’s not the Ritz, but…”, Benny shrugged with a gentle smile, seeing your nerves tremble through your body.

“S’not so bad. I’ll grab you some sheets ‘n shit, and you can settle in.”, he nodded at you, then dropped your bag of belongings before tapping the door frame and walking away.

You stood alone in this room. Benny’s words of next to the boss rang in your ears and made that terrible, nervous sour feeling erupt back in your gut. Then you wondered where Pope’s room was and if your door locked from the inside, if at all.

You picked up your bag and put it on the desk. You didn’t want to unpack here. You didn’t want to be next to the boss. You didn’t want to hear what else Pope or Will had to say to you. You didn’t want to be payment for your fucking brother’s debt.

You didn’t want a lot of things, but there you were, and those things had happened.

Benny returned with a broken, plastic laundry basket filled with linens.

He dropped it on to the bed and pulled out two folded towels, handing them to you.

“Normally, we get one towel at a time, but I know girls use two when they wash their hair.”, he grinned, turning back to the basket and dumping out bedding and pillows.

“Thank you, Benny.”, you murmured back, looking down at the towels.

“Need help makin’ the bed?”, he asked, turning around to you. “Pretty good at from the military. Sharp corners ‘n shit.”

Benny was right back to trying to put your mind at ease, gently smiling and trying to be funny.

“I’m okay, I got it. Thank you.”, you said quietly, pushing a weak smile to your face.

Benny looked back at the laundry basket and nodded. “Sure thing. I’ll-uh… I’ll leave you to it.”

He got as far as the door when he turned around and said, “You need anything… anything… I’m in five.”

As soon as he closed the door and you were alone, you broke down and collapsed onto the bed.

*****

A few hours later, you’d calmed down and set up your room. The bed was made and your toiletries were in the bathroom. Your suitcase was still packed given you didn’t have a dresser, and was on the shelf in the closet, propped open.

You didn’t know what time it was or what to do, so you laid on your bed, staring at the ceiling. You chided your past self for not packing a book or something to keep you entertained, but you couldn’t have known that this was what you’d be stuck in.

By the time you’d made too many abstract shapes playing connect the dots on the popcorn ceiling, you heard voices and footsteps in the hallway getting closer. Sitting up and putting your feet on the floor, you listened.

“Which one she in?”

“Fuck you, pope!”

“Ah, come on, Benny… can’t keep her for yourself, buddy!”

“Both of you – cut it out!”

“Will! Tell Pope to keep his fuckin’ distance from her. She doesn’t need his shit!”

“That’s not up to you, Benny. So far, Fish hasn’t said no bueno. So, stay in line.”

“Fuckin’ rights. Where is she? Just wanna give her a warm welcome.”

“Pope… don’t push it.”

“She in your room, Benny?”

“Jesus – no, Pope! Leave her the fuck alone!”

“Will said it already. Fish hasn’t said she’s off limits and he had you put her here with us. She’s gonna be – “

Pope’s sentence was cut off by a loud thud and Pope grunting, followed by raised voices, yelling, and quick footsteps and stomping.

The scuffling and yelling abruptly stopped.

“The fuck is going on?”

“Fish! Benny’s fucking lost it, man!”

“Leave her the fuck alone!”

“That sweet little pussy’s gonna fuckin – “

“Pope, shut the fuck up! Will, get him to his room.”

“Fish! Please! Don’t let’em touch her!”

“Come on, Ben…”

Only two voices were left in the hallway now, speaking too low for you to hear. You could tell Frankie was mad, but his words were lost in the poorly insulated walls. You stand up and strain to hear when Frankie yells, “What room? What room, Benny?”

There’s a door slam and then footsteps in the hallways moving toward your room. They stopped and you could see the shadow of whoever it is linger outside your door for a moment until they continued the door next to you - room one, Frankie’s room.

When his door closed and the hallway was silent, you crept forward silently and felt your doorknob. You breathed a sigh of relief when you felt the lock click.

*****

Morning came all too quickly. You tossed and turned for most of the night, not able to find a satisfying position that would offer solace to your spinning mind. You were woken abruptly by the sound of voices in the hallway, sending your shooting up in bed and seeing your room lit by daylight. Will and Frankie sounded like they were speaking right at Frankie’s door.

“… Daniels is there with him. He’ll make sure it happens.”

“What about Yardley?”

“Gettin’ the money. Said not to worry…”

“And Petrograad?”

“You want to send a message?”

“Yes. He fucked it up again.”

“I’ll send Ben to talk to him.”

“No. I need Benny to talk to the girl. Show her where – “

“I’ll work with her today. See what she can do with the office.”

“Don’t want her in the office. Don’t need her in there.”

“Just simple stuff, Fish. Basic. Might not be a bad idea to see what she’s made of, too.”

“Will. I said no. She’s a fucking cook.”

Silence for a moment.

“What the fuck are you laughing at, Will?”

“Fish… come on, man. You think you really need a private cook?”

You hear them both chuckle.

“Fine. Take her for the day. But don’t fuck around with her.”

“Do my best, boss.”

And with that, you heard Frankie’s door close and Will walk away, his footstep talking him down the hallway.

*****

It seemed as though Will had been purposely barricading you behind a mess of banker’s boxes filled with all sorts of paperwork. You were sitting at the desk in the office you’d last seen Frankie, sorting through the bits of paper, trying to figure out an organization method for them – it wasn’t easy. Between the invoices for the bowling alley the Frontiersmen owned to the receipts from hardware stores and porn shops, it was a mixed bag of weird that you were left to organize.

Will walked into the office and dropped one more box on the floor next to you.

“That should be it.”, he said, dusting his hands off on his jeans. “How’re you doin’ with all this?”

It took every ounce of strength to not rip into him for not taking care of this mess to begin with. “Oh, it’s going fine.”, you said quietly, keeping your head down.

You could feel Will looking down at you and from your peripherals, you could see him cross his arms.

“I know it’s a mess.” He huffed, then he leaned in and spoke in a low tone. “You’ll be a good girl and let me know if you see anything weird in here, right? Anything maybe your pretty eyes shouldn’t see?”

You froze for a beat then nodded. “Y-yes, sir.” While you weren’t sure specifically what he mean by weird – it was all weird to you – you didn’t dare ask him to clarify what you shouldn’t be seeing.

“Good girl.”, he patted you on the shoulder. “I need to do a few things downstairs. I’ll be back in a bit and I’ll bring you something to eat.”

You nodded again and then you were alone.

You’d finally managed to figure out a sorting system and had been carrying on without stopping for a while when you heard the door open. You didn’t look up, figuring it was Will.

“You all by yourself, honey?”, Pope’s voice carried poisoned honey in its tone, and you jumped when he spoke. Looking up at him, your eyes were wide and nervous while he leaned up against the doorframe.

He raised an eyebrow, letting you know he was waiting for an answer as he walked towards the desk.

“I… Will said…. I’m just going through… these…”, you meekly responded, not being ale to find your voice under his predatory stare.

“Huh.”, he nodded, dragging his finger along the desk as he walked around it towards you. You swiveled the chair to follow is movement, all the way until he stood in front of you.

“Good thing, honey… wasn’t sure when we’d get a chance to get to know one another.”, he crooned as he leaned over you, one hand on the arm rest, the other’s fingers gently touching your jaw and neck.  

You shifted to pull away from him, but his hand opened up and he grabbed your jaw and chin.

Pope pulled you out of the chair and up against him. You shrieked and tried to push him back, but he grabbed your wrists and held them behind your back with one hand while the other gripped the back of your head.

“None of that, honey. You be good for me.”, he cooed, his breath hot on your mouth.

“The fuck is going on in here?” Will’s voice stopped Pope’s malicious intentions, and he marched quickly into the room. “Let her go!”

Pope released you and stood with his hands up, grinning as he walked out of the office. “Just playing… Said it yourself, she ain’t off limits yet.”

The door to the office shut and you let out a shaky breath. Will Looked at you, first with worry, like Benny had, then his eyes went cold.

“Need to fuckin’ learn how to handle yourself. That was Pope bein’ gentle!” he snarled. He tossed a wrapped sandwich at the desk. “Eat. Then get back to work.”

You nodded and shakily unwrapped your sandwich. Turkey on rye; bread was somewhat stale, but it was food.

“Thank you.”, you said quietly.

Will didn’t respond. He just ate his sandwich in irritated silence, and you caught him looking at you a few times while you both ate, but you kept your eyes low.

After half your sandwich was gone, you couldn’t stand feeling like he was watching you be unproductive and eat, you wrapped the remainder up and went back to sorting.

Will stopped chewing and watched you. You avoided returning his gaze and kept your nose down, just wanting to show you were worth something more than what Pope made you feel, more than what you were being reduced to every second you fell under one of their watchful, predatory eyes. He finally left out an almost inaudible sigh and returned to his lunch.

*****

Hours went by and despite his seeming irritation with you, Will didn’t leave you alone again in the office. This didn’t mean he was nice or conversational with you like Benny would have been; he had his own files, ledgers and notes he was working on. You didn’t engage with him unless you needed a bathroom break, worried he would blow up – or worse, leave you at the mercy of who ever came into the office next.

You’d managed to sort through all the boxes into rough categories and had even finished with others fully. You were exhausted, but you weren't sure how to ask when you could be done or when he was going to be finished. Before you could muster up the courage to at least broach the topic, Benny opened the door and walked in. He gave you a warm half smile then turned to Will.

“Petrograad is downstairs. Says he got your message for him to come.” Benny’s tone is far colder than the smile he gave you would have indicated.

“Can’t. She’s here.” Will muttered, motioning to you, before looking back down at his ledger.

“Fish wants you there. Says I stay here until you’re done.”

Will looks up at him, mouth in a tight line. His eyes dart to you for only a second then back to Benny, and he sighs, putting his pen behind his ear and standing up.

You continue to keep your head down, pretending to be oblivious to the changing of the guard until Will stood in front of the desk. You look up and his eyes are icy.

“Don’t leave this room.”

You nod and look back down. With that, Will walks up to Benny, says something quietly to him and Benny nods, then he leaves the room.

“How’s it goin’, honey?” Benny’s voice is a welcome comfort.

“Good. It’s good.”, you give him a small smile then return to your work.

“Heard about Pope. M’sorry. He’s a fucker.”

You nod, not wanting to cry. You’d been so good all afternoon, but the slight gentleness of Benny’s tone made you want to let the dam burst open.

“I didn’t want that to happen to - “

Benny was cut off by the door opening again.

“Fish... hey man. I was just - “

“Out.”

Frankie’s one syllable felt like a hammer blow in your chest. Benny looked at you quickly, fingers fidgeting at his side, then nodded, leaving the room.

Frankie approached his desk and leaned over it, causing the wood to creak under his weight. You raised your head and found yourself face to face with him. He took the toothpick out of his mouth and tossed it into the bin next the desk and let out a sigh. He shook his head slowly, his eyes looking you up and down.

“He hurt you?”, he asked casually. It caught you off guard; it was the tone one could have used to ask if you were done with that pen or if you saw the weather forecast.

You stared back at him. So, he asked again with more intensity.

“Did. He. Hurt. You.”

Your brain kicked back into the conversation, and you shook your head.

“N-no, sir.” You hated how small your voice sounded.

He watched you for another beat and stood back up. You quickly took in his appearance; he wore a Hawaiian style button down shirt open to reveal an almost-too-tight undershirt that was stretched to its max across his belly. His jeans sat low on his hips and bowed under his stomach, being held taut by his belt. You made you way back up to his face and he was staring down at you with a look in his eyes that you couldn’t place.

“If I keep you here - and that’s a big fucking if, honey – if I keep you here, you’d better buck the fuck up and stop causing problems with my crew.” he warned in a firm, low tone. “I don’t need a skirt fucking around and turning Pope and Benny against each other. Got it?”

You nod, wide eyed. “Yes, sir.”

“And stop with the sir, bullshit.”, he glares at you. “You call me Mr. Morales, yeah?”

You nod again, feeling a hot wave wash over you and settle between your legs. Oh fuck.

He motions for you to come to him on the other side of the desk. You get up and move as quick as your vibrating body can to stand in front of him.

“Say it. What’s my name?”

You swallow hard, and what ever feeling he's eliciting in you tries to choke your words in your throat.

“Mr. Morales.”, you say, trying to keep your voice even.

He nods, crossing his arms. His eyes look you over again, and you feel them linger on your chest for a beat too long to be innocent.

His tone goes softer, but still carries an edge. “Pope ever does that again or any of my crew ever lay a hand on you, you come to me. That clear? Not to Benny, not to Will. You come to me. Say it.”

“Anyone tries to hurt - “

“No.", he stops you with a stern tone. "Anyone tries to touch you, you come to me. Try again.”

“Anyone tries to touch me, I come to you, Mr. Morales.”, your voice came out in a nervous, breathy whisper.

“That’s right. You’re off limits.” He nods and looks at his desk and mess of paperwork on it. He lets out a big sigh with a raise of his eyebrow, then shakes his head.

“Now, you ever make a mess in my office again, I’ll toss you in Pope’s fucking room and lock you in there myself.” he growls, pointing at his desk, and you shrink under him, nodding.

“Clean it up now!”, he yelled and you flinched. He was imposing, terrifying, mean.... and handsome as all get out. You hated how his volume increasing made heat bloom in your lower belly.

Frankie left the room, ripping the door open and causing it to slam against the wall. You stood and watched as he stormed away, barking at Benny to get in there and help you.

You stood in a daze as Benny walked in, looking at you with a sheepish smile on his face

You were royally fucked.

--------<3---------

TAGLIST:

@theywhowriteandknowthings @harryleatherfit @harriedandharassed @neverwheremoonchild @rebel-held @beee-haw @nevergoingbacknowshine @idolatrybarbie @v4vayha @lalocitos @xdaddysprincessxx @deathsholywaterr @heareball @lyssramscal @wintrwinchestr @blackfemalenerd @toxicanonymity @noxturnalpascal

[amazingarchitecturewebsite]

Hampton Residence in #Baltimore, Maryland (USA) by Place Architecture:Design @placearchitecturedesign. Read more: Link in bio! Photography: Tom Holdsworth Photography @holdsworthphoto. Place Architecture:Design: The original exterior of this 1960’s mid-century modern home was showing its age, and the rear yard was overgrown and inhospitable. Our clients’ goal was to add an exterior living-space to the rear where they could relax and entertain while enjoying the serenity of the landscape… #usa #maryland #архитектура www.amazingarchitecture.com ✔ A collection of the best contemporary architecture to inspire you. #design #architecture #amazingarchitecture #architect #arquitectura #luxury #realestate #life #cute #architettura #interiordesign #photooftheday #love #travel #construction #furniture #instagood #fashion #beautiful #archilovers #home #house ‎#amazing #picoftheday #architecturephotography ‎#معماری (at Baltimore, Maryland) https://www.instagram.com/p/CnV1gbHMFjU/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[apureniallsource]

Niall Horan is more than Mr Nice Guy

Three years after his last release, the 29-year-old singer has jumped feet first into the spotlight to promote third album The Show, which lands on 9th June.

“I’m more excited than I thought I would be,” Horan says of his return, a quiet confidence lingering. With outstretched legs, the double-denim-clad singer lounges in his chair, decanting still water from a glass bottle, as we settle in for our chat in his luxury London hotel suite. A high-pitched giggle ripples through him when two builders, dawdling on a pulley lift, nab his attention through the window, before he apologises for losing eye contact. “I’m revved up, but I’m nervous. I hope I didn’t waste 18 months writing something for people not to like it.”

Those 18 months in question were spent, in part, during the coronavirus lockdown, which acts as inspiration for many of the introspective lyrics on The Show. It was the first time in a decade that the singer had, well, nothing in his schedule, allowing time to contemplate his meteoric rise to fame. “There’s no heartbreak stuff [on this album], so there needed to be a new concept. The only good part of the pandemic for me was that I was actually happy being still. I had time to breathe; I realised it doesn’t have to be a thousand miles an hour all the time.”

For the uninitiated, the first six years of Horan’s career were spent in the extraordinarily successful band, One Direction. Originally from Mullingar, Ireland, Horan auditioned for X Factor as a solo artist in 2010, later forming a five-piece alongside Harry Styles, Liam Payne, Louis Tomlinson and Zayn Malik. What followed was unparalleled success, multiple award wins and huge stadium gigs. “I loved touring, but it was fucking crazy,” Horan muses now. “We’d go to countries and never see a second of it - it was hotel, venue, plane, same again. We couldn’t get out the [hotel] door. If you went out in the car, you’d be seen and chased [by fans]. I understand why it was going on, but it gave me a thing where, when I came back to London, I would be afraid to go out. There was a period where I actually couldn’t.”

1D announced their hiatus in 2016, and Horan released his first solo album, Flicker, the following year. His second, Heartbreak Weather, came in 2020. Three years later in February, he dropped The Show’s sparkling lead single, ‘Heaven’, taking to social media to celebrate.

“I was lying in bed when management texted to say the song was out, so I checked Twitter. The numbers were fucking nuts. I was up for hours seeing what people were saying.” Horan generally views social platforms as a tool for fun, and mainly use them to engage with followers. “Sometimes I type my name in to see tweets I’m not tagged in. If I see the fans talking about me without tagging me, I’ll reply. [My TikTok ‘For You Page’] is full of people doing dances to my songs, golf, and mid-century modern furniture. I like winding people that don’t like me up. I get such a laugh. I also try to reply to people who ask genuine questions about the music, or what I’m up to.”

With 14 years in the public eye under his belt, Horan has also seen a darker side of the internet. “I’ve [read that I’ve] been in car crashes that I wasn’t in. I’ve been in three or four fake ‘PR stunted’ relationships. What’s the old phrase? It’s tomorrow’s chip paper. I care about what the fans think, but there’s always going to be people… who would never say a thing like that to your face, because they’re cowards.”

As our time together rolls on (me looking at Horan, Horan looking at the procrastinating builders), his genuine charm reverberates around the giant hotel room. A chatty openness takes the conversation from his favourite true crime documentary (The Jinx) to tips for long haul flights (green noise) and best skincare advice (facial steaming). It’s this endearing, positive aura that makes his Nice Guy Reputation™ legitimately easy to believe. But what’s his secret?

“Don’t be a prick?” Horan jokes. “There’s no secret to that. Just don’t be one. My Irishness? My humble upbringing? This is like some kind of questionnaire. A combination of a few things. Carefree attitude?”

Horan laughs off the suggestion that he’s going to dinner parties with groups of celebrities, instead insisting he has “two really good [industry] friends, and a tight circle of old mates. People have this idea that all famous people are friends. But you’re not friends with everyone in your office, are you? I remember seeing Channing Tatum on a plane. I’d never met the guy in real life, but he waved. We were laughing later. He was like, ‘I felt like I had to do the token ‘celebrity to celebrity’ kind of moment.’”

One person Horan has connected with on a deeper level is Lewis Capaldi. “He’s just a diamond geezer,” Horan says, before sharing a better-than-average imitation of a Scottish accent. “There’s not a bad bone in his body. He’s a solid friend, and he also happens to be one of the funniest fuckers you’ve ever met in your life. We’re in a lot of WhatsApp groups together.” Horan also reached out to fellow Irishman Paul Mescal, when Normal People came out. “He’s a nice fella. When he first moved to London, I talked to him a bit. But then the pandemic happened, and we never spoke again.”

The singer briefly touches on his relationship with Amelia Woolley, who he’s been with since 2020. On whether he has a romantic side, Horan says, “I think so. I wouldn't say I’m like ‘rose petals on the floor’ type of romantic, but I'm good at caring. I'm good at making dinners and the day-to-day stuff." On love languages, he adds, "I’m good at words of affirmation and I’m good at touch.”

Album release aside, 2023 also marks Horan’s 30th birthday, with the singer entering his third decade in September. “I’m excited for it - I’ve heard your 30s are the best time of your life,” Horan says, enthused. “I’ve never been one of those people to overthink timelines. I hope I don’t age too much!” On plans for the next decade, he's thoughtful for a moment. “I’d like to still be doing this, going around the world, still playing to thousands of people. I’d like to win a Grammy. I’d like to be happy. And to still have decent skin.”

Better keep at the steaming, then.

[touteytout]

helloo... i fink i get uriyah snd ashley's deal a bit form seeing all your art but i wonder what eli's deal is.... and theyre relationship to the other two.... i am sorry i know that asking an artist about the oc they draw the least should be a persecuted crime but also i am so curious...

hiiiiii first off i dont mind the questions at all, even though i dont draw eli a lot, i think about her A Lot; its just that most of my oc drawings are rooted in putting these people in an outfit and eli just wears. jeans and a jacket so its not as enticing.......

anyway hes ashleys long time friend. theyre in some sort of undefinable-lesbian-almost-relationship/qpr. a bonded pair. neither actually cares enough to make the "first" step and define their relationship but its mutual understanding so its fine. after ashley friendship-adopted uriyah and brought her home eli was just. yeah sure. shes fine i guess... they (eli+uriyah) both get along but neither is particularly communicative its a lot of sitting in silence doing their own thing. ashley is always the mood maker who tries to get everyone to go for a walk or something.

Also!!! eli lives together with ashley in a huge Altbauwohnung in berlin. she loves mid-century furniture and has an original eames chair but ash uses it to pile on clothes.

heres and old drawing thats like 70% done but i never finishes it for whatever reason (got bores of rendering flowers probably)

[thehistoryvintageantiques]

Ingmar Relling Siesta chair (Copy)

Item Number : #74

Low-back Siesta Chair

Ingmar Relling

for Westnofa Furniture, Norway 1970s.

Beautifully reupholstered.

The Siesta chair, designed by Norwegian designer Ingmar Relling in 1965, is a timeless and iconic piece of furniture known for its sleek and minimalist design. With its curvy beech frame and comfortable canvas sling upholstered with a new, soft and supple leather cushion.

The Siesta chair is not only aesthetically pleasing but also ergonomically sound. Its simple yet elegant form has made it a staple in our homes, offices, and public spaces for decades.

Ingmar Relling's creation continues to be celebrated for its Scandinavian design principles that combine form, function, and comfort effortlessly.

These are the most comfortable of all the Scandinavian vintage lounge chairs.

86H x 62W x 84L cm

[roseoftrafalgar]

OC Home Origins Template

Hello 👋 It’s been awhile, but I had a spur of motivation to draw & thought to make a visual depiction of my One Piece s/i OC’s home of origin. Feel free to use the blank template w/credit or link back if you post it as your own post. (Michelle’s info below the cut)

Info:

- Flora: Tree-blooming yellow apricot blossoms that are abundant during New Year’s, lotus (national flower), and highland roses

- The clothing my s/i wears is inspired by ‘ao vien linh’ worn during Vietnam’s mid-late 18th century and early 19th century.

- Hairong sits atop a waterfall (etymology ‘Hai’ = sea and ‘rong’ = dragon) & possesses both tropical and temperate climates depending on the region. It is situated to the southeast of Kano Kuni in the West Blue.

- My s/i lived in Hairong as a turner’s daughter (made essential parts for furniture, weapons, tools, etc.), until a civil war masterminded by the WG broke out. She was only 6 yrs old, when her family escaped on refugee boats and found themselves in the North Blue. Her eventual foster father, a detective named Vincent H. Dupin, who lives in the town of Vestaria in the North Blue, is a quarter Hairongese from his maternal line.

- When she returned (still playing around with where that fits in), there was a difference between geographical sections defined as “New Hairong” and “Old Hairong,” despite the country being ‘united.’

(I’ll attach the dragon myth explanation as a picture, so the text doesn’t get too long 😂)

Significance of Dragons:

[samkat10423]

Stefani family

Continuing on with my Mob family. Across the street from the Moretti house, I placed this one from Monte Vista.

As you can see, there are NO trees on this lot. The lady who lives here does NOT like raking leaves. Plus, birds roost in them and then "sh** all over you every chance they get!" If she had her way, all trees would be chopped down and burnt up. Along with their little, feathered friends.

And who is this delightful lady you asked? Why, that sim from Monte Vista who is the matriarch of the Stefani family. There, she has an Asian sort of name - well, EA's version - but I wanted to make her the daughter of my crime family, so I gave her the name Francesca. Anyway, I liked her bio, which is why I decided to make her a member of this group. She works as a CEO in the business career, while her husband is still a cop. Makes for some uneasy family get-togethers.

This is the main level of their house. I kept some of the original furniture, then added some from those Mid-century modern sets.

This is the 2nd floor with the master suite and a reading area. You'd think she would have had it renovated to move her daughter to this level, but no. Her thoughts on children: "Out of sight, out of mind!"

So, this is where she stuck her daughter. The girl doesn't really mind because she has access outside, via stairs to the ground. Makes it easier to sneak out at night to hang out with her friends, without the parental units being aware. I did give her a chair and a bookcase, but again her mother doesn't believe in "spoiling the brat" by giving her basically anything. It's a lovely family!

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Who doesn't love a perfectly preserved time capsule? This 1968 beauty in Rockford, IL is like stepping back in time. 4bds, 4ba, $450K.

The small entrance has tiled flooring to protect the carpet that runs all through the house.

Why is it always green? This was a dramatic home when it was new- stone fireplace, sunken living room, and wrought iron railings were the height of fashion.

The living area is huge. Note the large stone bench matching the fireplace and the cornice boards that discreetly hide the unsightly curtain rods.

The fireplace stone continues and has a huge mirror. In the corner is shelving and 2 steps up to the dining room.

The dining room has dated curtains that the buyer will inherit. I love the kitty-corner table. That was a common placement in mid-century style.

Next comes the kitchen. Actually, they must've updated it b/c I don't think that 2-tone cabinets were a thing yet. But, the ditzy, small, busy print of the wallpaper with matching shades was definitely the style. Note the original avocado dishwasher and dust shelving above the upper cabinetry, that was later replaced by soffits.

Wait a minute, I'm seeing props here- there's a new dishwasher and new ovens, but they kept the old avocado ones. I wonder if they work or, if it's just nostalgia. There are also 2 cooktops. Wow, they really preserved everything.

Look at the green glass.

Large laundry room off the kitchen.

Oh, look, an avocado washer/dryer set. This is amazing. And, look at the old sink. I hope someone who loves it, buys it, b/c it was so lovingly cared for.

Nice large everyday dining area has a pony wall separating the family room. So much green everywhere. I wonder if this set came that way or if they painted it.

Another stone fireplace flanked by shelving. Knotty pine walls, and folding shutter doors- all fashions of the past. I can't believe that they have the Colonial furniture that was so popular at the time. Even though it was all the rage, you don't see it around anymore. According to the listing, there is going to be an estate sale, so this furniture will be available.

The primary bedroom is pretty big. Geez, there's carpeting everywhere and some of it is looking gnarly.

It has an en-suite, which is unusual. Look at that fancy cabinet. Green laminate counter, too.

This bedroom is also pretty big. Look at the consummate girl's white bedroom furniture of the mid-century.

The den has a big old map probably with countries that don' t even exist anymore.

More bedrooms on the 2nd fl.

Oh, look at that! A hope chest! They were popular for a teenage girl to receive as a gift. Then, she would put in blankets, etc., in the hopes of one day getting married and using them. I can't get over the historic furniture in this place.

And, then they've got a big family room up here. Wow, this house has so much furniture and tchotchkes.

Winter? No problem. Just set the lawn furniture up in the basement.

There's also a finished part of the basement. This is a craft room, and there is also a canning room.

Look at the antique freezer on the right. This place is a museum.

This part of the basement isn't finished even though it has a brick fireplace. No matter, they still used it as a family room, anyway.

According to the listing, this is a 2 car garage, called a "cottage garage," b/c I guess it looks like a residence.

This cool log cabin on the property is used as a playhouse, according to the listing.

Yeah, but look at it, it's really a residence.

There's a lot of land, 3.50 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6151-Newburg-Rd-Rockford-IL-61108/5537324_zpid/

[lkblackham]

Darktober 6

"... Bridget led me away from the big grand entry at the front of the mansion, to a smaller section around the back by the garage, with a very nice but significantly less grandiose entry door. "Guest house, originally," Bridget told me. "Mrs. Elizabeth likes it better here than in the main house. Can't say I blame her." She rang an old-fashioned bell by the doorway. I heard a distant "Come in!" from inside. Bridget obliged, and I followed.

We came into a little entry room (I think they call it a foyer?), paved with old tile covered with a large and covertly weatherproof rug. There was an old stairway on one side, and a large set of wooden double doors in the wall facing the entry. Lining the walls were portraits - portraits of the Collins family, I can only assume. Some were newer, clearly from the last century, and others were far, far older. They all shared the same dark hair and eyes (with only one or two exceptions), and a general air of grave regality - like they were going off to war right after their portrait sitting or something. It was so strange to just casually walk near them like they were just everyday house decorations, and not original historical pieces of art that belonged at the Louvre.

Bridget left my suitcase at the stairway, going to knock on the double doors.

"For heaven's sake, Bridget, why are you being so polite? Come barge in like you always do, you're giving the poor girl strange ideas about us."

Bridget grinned, opening the door.

Behind them lay a disarmingly cozy living-room. It looked nothing like the rest of the house, except for the stonework floors. Plush rugs, old but cushy-looking furniture, modern family photos now occupying wall space instead of regally painted portraits. At the center of it all was a large fireplace with a carved mantle, and before the fireplace...

....stood a woman. A petite, dark-haired woman, wearing plain, comfortable clothes, holding a steaming mug of bergamot tea that filled the room with its bright scent. She looked to be somewhere in her mid-forties, lines creasing her tanned face, eyes a deep, cool green. She was a good foot shorter than me, but there was something in the way she held herself as she turned to look at me with those calm, cool eyes that made me immediately stand up as straight as I could, ready to obey orders, listen to every word she had to say.

She locked eyes with me, and her cool expression immediately cracked into the sweetest, warmest smile I had ever seen. "Welcome to Collinwood, Victoria." she said. "I'm so glad you're here. I'm Elizabeth Collins."