#the flames of war thread

[fear-is-truth]

WE FOUND LOVE IN A HOPELESS PLACE

pairing — NAM-GYU x f!reader. warnings — toxic love. angst. mention of drūgs & sex. english isnt my first language / word count 1420

a/n : here’s a playlist to compensate

NAM-GYU was never the man you should’ve fallen for, and maybe that’s why you did. there’s no ceasefire. loving him is a siege, a never-ending war, and you’re always the one waving the white flag, bleeding surrender into his hands. but he lures you back into the trenches with the smallest moments of disarmed humanity, gestures that feel colossal only because they’re so rare—

his head resting in your lap, your fingers threading through his hair. the slight crack in his voice, almost boyish, when he asks you to hum something, anything to drown the chaos in his head.

his hand in yours when the drugs have wrung you both dry, your bodies trembling, drenched in sweat. and for once, he’s not trying to control you. he’s just holding onto you like a lifeline.

nam-gyu is the match you struck yourself, knowing full well it would burn you to the wick. destruction wrapped in allure, and you let him destroy you because he makes you feel. drunken nights blur into each other, smudged by pastel-colored pills and lines of white powder, leaving a haze too thick to see through.

sometimes, it’s better to feel pain than to feel nothing at all, and with him, the pain comes sharp and vivid, carving itself into the parts of you that numbness could never reach.

he’s sitting fully clothed in the bathtub, the curve of his spine pressed into the porcelain. his knees are drawn up to his chest, one arm slung lazily over the edge, and an unlit cigarette dangles limply from his lips. the dim bulb above sputters weakly, bathing the tiles in a lurid, piss-yellow glow. he looks at you like he always does—bored—but the disinterested slack of his mouth is betrayed by the dimple carving into his cheek. he’s waiting. for you.

eyes narrow into slits, sharp and dark, like he’s measuring the space between you and him. you hover in the doorway, lighter in hand. the cigarette bobs as he smirks.

“you just gonna stand there?”

his voice is edged with disdain, like he’s daring you to leave. you don’t leave. you kneel by the tub, the coolness of the tiles biting into your knees. close enough now to see the faint sheen of sweat on his collarbone, bruises just below it. you don’t ask what happened.

the lighter flicks once, twice, before it catches, and you lean in, holding the flame to the tip of the cigarette. his lips curl around it as he inhales, eyes locked on yours. he exhales to the side, smoke curling against the tiled wall. you pluck the cigarette from his mouth and take a drag, the bitterness scraping your throat like broken glass.

“don’t get cocky.”

his chuckle is soft, lilting with faux innocence. “cocky? me?” he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, your faces inches apart.

“that’s funny coming from the girl who keeps crawling back.”

you blow smoke directly into his mouth, watching his pupils blow wide as he inhales.

“don’t flatter yourself.” the words fall flat on your tongue, a lie you both recognise. the nicotine burns as it settles in your chest, addictive in the way his presence is—killing you slowly, but it’s all you want.

he’s all you want.

nam-gyu grabs your wrist, pulling you forward until you’re practically in the tub, on top of him. his lips crash into yours, tasting of ash and anger. his teeth scrape your bottom lip, and you dig your nails into his shoulders, both of you are trying to take something from the other and neither of you is willing to give.

when you finally pull away, gasping, nam-gyu stares at you like he’s searching for something—an answer, a reason, anything. his hand lingers at the nape of your neck, fingers curling into your hair.

“you’re too good for this.”

you laugh, sharp and bitter.

“don’t lie to me.”

he doesn’t. not about this.

you sit there in the jaundiced haze, staring at each other. nothing’s fixed, nothing’s said, but it doesn’t matter.

this is what you are.

sometimes, though, he makes you forget how fucked up the rest of it is. like when he drags you into the fluorescent glow of a run-down arcade after wandering the city, the drugs still humming in your veins. your feet ache, your throat is dry, and you want to crash somewhere, but he pulls you forward, muttering something about “just one thing.”

he stops in front of a claw machine filled with stuffed animals, shoving coins into the slot. you lean against the side, arms crossed, watching him maneuver the joystick with a concentration you haven’t seen since his last poker game.

“what are you doing?”

“winning,” he says simply, his tongue poking out slightly as the claw descends. you’re about to chide him for wasting money, but the claw jerks, grabs a small bear by the arm, wobbles as it retracts, and finally drops it into the chute. he grins, a boyish smirk that doesn’t match the sharpness of his features, and hands the bear to you.

“for you.”

it’s stupid how your chest tightens.

“dumbass…” you mutter, but you take the stuffed animal from him anyway.

later, you’ll lie in his bed, the bear clutched to your chest, your body still buzzing from the euphoric high of sex. the sheets are tangled around you both, skin slick with sweat, the lingering warmth of his touch on your back. the pleasant ache between your legs is still fresh, and you feel a wonderful cocktail of everything—desire, confusion, a hint of something almost resembling affection, even though you know it’s all so fucked up. he’s asleep, am arm draped lazily across your waist, and you tell yourself that everything is good.

or there’s the night he buys you tteokkochi from a street vendor, even though you’re both broke and he doesn’t spend money on anything but vices. it’s late, and the air is cool. you sit on the curb, legs stretched out in front of you as you eat, the spicy sauce staining your lips.

“you didn’t have to do this,”

“shut up and eat,” he replies, spearing a piece of rice cake and shoving it into your mouth.

because for all his faults, nam-gyu has a way of making you feel like the only person in his world. and in those fleeting moments, you almost believe you could save each other.

almost.

being in love with nam-gyu is living on a fault line, constantly bracing for the ground to split open beneath your feet and swallow you whole. it’s the dizzying heights of his affection—the way his gaze softens when he’s not too far gone to let you in. and it’s the freefall—the screaming matches, the slammed doors, the nights he disappears without a word, and the sick, creeping dread that maybe this time, he won’t come back.

but he always does. not with apologies, never with promises to be better. he shows up with that lopsided grin, the one that wraps around your resolve and strangles it. you’ll forgive me, because you love me.

and he’s right. you do.

and you hate him for being right.

he never breaks you in one clean snap. it’s slower, crueler—he feeds on your forgiveness, on how easily you bend under his will. but he bleeds too. the rare times he allows you to touch the soft underbelly of his pain, the nights he holds you so tightly you almost can’t breath.

you hate him for that too, for needing you so much it drowns out the parts of you that should have walked away.

nam-gyu is a liar, a manipulator, a hurricane you walked into with your eyes wide open. but for all the wreckage he’s caused, he’s never lied about one thing: he loves you. and you love him, too—not despite the ruin, but because of it. because he’s yours, and you are his, and love is the only thing strong enough to make the devastation feel worthwhile.

he kisses you, but you don’t pull away.

you could pull away, though. you should. but you don’t. because for all the ways he’s ruined you, you’ve ruined him too.

a love that tastes like blood, like the copper tang of wounds you keep reopening just to feel him. it hurts, every second of it, but it’s the kind of hurt you’d crawl through glass for, just to hear him say your name.

𝘐𝘵'𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳. 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘣𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘮, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘯𝘰 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵𝘴. 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶. 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘯𝘦, 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘧𝘧 𝘣𝘢𝘤𝘬, 𝘴𝘰 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥. — WE FOUND LOVE by RIHANNA ft. CALVIN HARRIS

 fear-is-truth 2025 — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

[slytherin-pen]

Diplomacy Be Damned

pairing: Kallias x Reader

word count: 1.2k

warnings: some fighting, burn injury, Kallias loses his temper to defend you, Beron being Beron

a/n: dipping my toes into writing about Kallias. i need to read up on some headcannons since we have so little canon info about him. dug this one out the drafts lmao

The halls of the Winter Court glistened with ethereal beauty. Walls carved from ice, crystalline chandeliers dripping with frozen jewels that caught and refracted the faint glow of faelight. The chill in the air was familiar, comforting even, though it did little to ease the tension rising in the room.

The High Lords had gathered again to discuss the threat of Koschei. And as always, it felt like sitting in the eye of a storm.

You sat quietly beside Kallias, your mate, the bond between you a steady hum under your skin, a thread of warmth woven through the cold. His hand brushed yours subtly, an anchor amidst the political currents swirling around the grand table.

Beron was speaking.

Of course, he was.

You had the displeasure of sitting near him, Kallias and one of his sons were all that was between you. On your right sat Thesan and Tarquin with their respective councils. The Inner Circle, Helion, and an empty spot for Tamlin across from you. The large circular table made of ice was designed with the much-needed space that was necessary for these tumultuous meetings in mind. Usually, Autumn would be positioned on the same side as Night, but with Lucien Vanserra’s new position as their emissary you convinced Kallias to rearrange the seating chart so the poor male did not have to sit near the male who caused him so much suffering, and instead next to his true father. You were reconsidering that moment of compassion now.

Arrogant and venomous, Beron’s words were dripping with condescension as he spoke of sacrifices and violence with the casual cruelty only the Autumn Court’s High Lord could master. You saw the way Kallias’ jaw tightened, the faint narrowing of his eyes, the only signs of his control slipping.

Across the room, Feyre Archeron sat beside High Lord Rhysand, her posture rigid, and nails tapping rhymically against the table as Beron’s smug remarks continued. You could see it in her eyes, she was losing her patience with him, as was everyone else in this room.

“If Koschei wants the Archeron witch so badly, I say let him have her,” Beron drawled with a flourish of his hands. “There’s no sense in going to war over one useless female.”

A burst of flames shot across the room, wild and uncontrolled. It was meant for Beron. You knew that. Everyone knew that.

But Feyre had still not yet mastered her aim, and you were sitting in its path.

The searing heat hit you before you could react, fire licking across your shoulder, burning through the layers of fabric, biting into flesh. A sharp, involuntary cry escaped you as pain erupted and you fell backward out of your chair.

The room exploded into chaos.

Kallias’ reaction was immediate, his power blowing an icy wind that extinguished the remaining flames. The chill of his power was a different kind of sting, but an improvement nonetheless. He helped you rise, his hands on your waist as he sat you down in his chair. You gazed up at him to tell him it was alright, to just adjourn the meeting for a moment until you saw his face.

Fury.

Uncontained, unrelenting fury.

His eyes blazed with a rage colder than the harshest winter as he turned on Rhysand and Feyre, his power crackling in the air like a blizzard ready to consume.

“What were you thinking?” His voice was a snarl, low and dangerous, ice creeping across the marble floor like the tide rising at a beach.

Rhysand rose, hands raised in a gesture of surrender, but there was a readiness in his stance. “It was an accident—”

“An accident?” Kallias roared, his magic lashing out, frost racing across the walls, shards of ice falling from the ceiling and crashing onto the table. “She burned my mate!”

You tried to stand, the pain sharp and unyielding, but Kallias was already at your side again, lowering you back down to the seat. His breath came fast, uneven, his fury battling with fear. The smell of your charred flesh permeated the room, even Lucien across the table wrinkled his nose at the all too familiar scent.

Beron, ever the viper, chuckled darkly from his seat. “Seems the High Lady still can’t control her temper. At least it wasn't my wife this time.”

That was all it took.

Kallias and Rhysand lunged.

Power collided—ice, darkness, and fire. Winter’s wrath and Night’s might against the burn of Autumn. Beron blocked Kallias’ strike with a shield of fire, but the sheer force sent shockwaves through the hall, cracks spiderwebbing across the floor. Rhysand’s darkness engulfed Beron, snuffing out his flames.

“Enough!” Helion shouted, stepping between them, his golden power radiating as he formed a shield around everyone else.

But Kallias wasn’t listening. He could only think to protect, avenge, defend. His magic surged again, colder than death itself, as he bared his teeth.

“Kallias,” you managed to rasp, your voice raw from both the pain and the rising fear of what he might do.

He froze.

Then he was in front of you, dropping to his knees, cradling your face in his hands. His fury didn’t vanish—it was there, sizzling beneath the surface—but his focus shifted entirely to you.

“Hold on,” he whispered, his voice ragged with emotion. “I’ve got you.”

With a burst of his power, he winnowed you both away, the freezing air swallowing the sound of shouts and curses from the meeting room.

He had taken you to your shared chambers, the familiar scent of fir trees and eucalyptus wrapped around you like a comforting cocoon.

Kallias didn’t waste a moment. He led you to the edge of the bed to sit and carefully peeled away the burnt fabric. The sight of the angry, blistered skin made his breath hitch. He strode into the washroom to retrieve healing supplies before returning to your side. His fingers hovered above the wound, trembling slightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered as if it were his fault. “I should’ve—”

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” you assured, wincing as he dabbed a cool cloth over the burn, the chill both soothing and sharp.

But Kallias didn’t respond. He clenched his jaw, his eyes shadowed with guilt as he worked. He was meticulous, his hands gentle, as if he feared hurting you more.

After delicately applying healing salves to the burns and wrapping them with a bandage, he sat beside you, his head in his hands.

“Does it still hurt?” he asked.

You shook your head. “No, it just tingles now. The salves are working.”

He released a sigh of relief. Then, softly, “When I saw you fall…” his voice cracked, and he took a shaky breath. “I’ve faced war and impending death, but nothing has ever terrified me like that.”

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers with his. “I’m here. I’m okay.”

His grip tightened, pulling you into his arms with a desperation that made your heart ache. He held you as if you might disappear, his face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in.

“I don’t ever want to feel that again,” he murmured, his voice barely audible.

You pressed a kiss to his temple, feeling his tension slowly ease. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

[pellucid-constellations]

Reversal

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: When protecting your mate brings out a side you swore to keep hidden, you have to deal with the consequences.

Word count: 3.7k

Warnings: Violence, injury, angst, some self-deprecation

a/n: This is loosely based off of this request <3 thank you for sending it!! I hope you enjoy and I also love comments!! ♡

Masterlist ♡

~~

In the heat of battle, there was kindness. 

That was a ludicrous sentiment, and Azriel had reminded you of that many times, but it was something you believed in. 

War was hot flames and blood and the clashing of metal, but it was also reassurance and soft hands and wisps of healing light. If war was cruel and it stole, you were kind and you gave. 

The first war had been a teacher, guiding you to your role. The second war had been reinforcement, showing you what it meant to be the Night Court’s healer. And then you thought you were done—done with attempting the impossible. 

But then Beron took a stance that no one could foresee, and you were not done. 

With the soldiers of Autumn Court came an impenetrable heat, and it was your job to quell the scars that plagued Rhysand’s frontlines. You were the one set to heal the broken and save the damned, and you were the one set to protect the court with kindness. 

It was awful work. 

Azriel was always quick to agree. 

Your mate hated these wars more than you did, and that was an almost impossible feat. Azriel was never close to you in the throes of battle. There was always a cluster of shadows on your trail, but he could never be there himself. You knew it ate away at him, distracting him when he was supposed to be zeroed in on the enemies. 

But, you had reminded him as he held you close in the tent the night before, you hadn’t died yet, and maybe you’d never die from a war. Maybe you weren’t destined to. 

He had only pulled you closer at that, pressed his lips to your head as his wings hid you from the camp that made far too much noise. He held you so tightly you felt his pulse on the skin of your cheek and you pretended you were back at home. 

Because although you were the kindness within the war, you wanted to go home. 

Gods, did you want to go home. 

Flames raced along the outskirts of the blue shield that had enveloped you the moment your knees hit the ground beside the unconscious Illyrian soldier. They pushed and pried, trying to force their way past your mate’s protection as you trained your attention on the wound marring the soldier’s skin. 

Azriel would protect you. 

He always did, even when he couldn’t be beside you. 

“I’m… going to die,” the male beneath your hands huffed out, a line of sweat at his brow. 

“No,” you assured. “No, you’re going to be okay. I just need a few more moments.” 

You couldn’t see what was making him so assuredly pessimistic—couldn’t see the way the flames were creating cracks in the shimmering blue light. They were covering every inch of the shield, making the air in the circle red with heat and promised death. 

You noticed a moment too late. 

It was unbearable, the suffocating fire. You threw your body over the soldier as if that would make a difference, arms and shoulders wrapping over his head as your leathers scorched and your lungs burned. The male screamed, his legs thrashing. You wanted to replicate the sound, but you were kindness. Kindness did not scream. 

It ended as abruptly as it began, flames dissipating into blackened embers. You felt a crack in the bond during the disappearance, Azriel’s fear and rage embedding itself into the golden thread connecting you. That, too, ended as abruptly as it began; Azriel shut his side down, saving you from the ravaging emotions. 

You whipped around to search for him, eyes up towards the sky. You found him quickly, with a practiced eye. You’d looked for him in every room you’d entered for almost your entire life. It was easy to find Azriel. As easy as breathing. 

That breath was stolen from you the moment your gaze locked on his form.

He was falling. 

He had charged—alone—into the group that was to blame for your injuries, for the flames that had almost consumed you, and now he was falling. 

He was falling and he wasn’t conscious. 

You think you screamed, but that couldn’t be right. Screaming led to panicked patients, and panicked patients led to worse outcomes. Your screams were not welcomed in war. 

You tugged at the bond, desperate to rouse him into saving himself. But it was no use; he was plummeting to the ground and there was nothing you could do. 

When you looked back on it later—when it fizzled as dim memories within your dreams—your actions would become more clear. You’d remember that you stood up, and then the ground shook. That the years of training required to be a field healer included so much more than twisting bursts of soothing light. 

And something within you had awoken that day, the moment you saw wakefulness leave Azriel’s being… something that was not kindness or giving or calm. 

It was rage. 

A piece of you recognized that Azriel had been caught. Cassian’s wings had most likely ached from the speed with which he dove to catch his brother, but both members of your family were safe. Harmed, but safe. Not dead.  

Your rage didn’t care. 

Something deep within you snapped, and light was pouring from the tips of your fingers. It wasn’t the same hue that healed. It was darker; a hungry red. 

The enemies from the sky fell. 

When those on the ground saw the damage you had inflicted, you became their target. And fine, let them, because this power coursing through you had no sense of who was to blame for your mate’s injuries. To you, everyone was a threat. Everyone was to blame. 

With a practiced grace, tainted by years of disuse, you attacked. The scene was cloaked in a red hue. Fae after fae charged at you, but it was all fruitless. You felt pain, injuries covering your skin, but it was all muted by the overwhelming desire to end this. To somehow soothe the ache you felt from watching your mate fall.

Time became obsolete. 

Morals became blurred. 

You were a machine, a complete reversal from the position you had assumed all those years ago.  

“Y/n!” 

Through the fog, a scream.

“Y/n, stop!” 

Another far away call. 

“It’s done. It’s over. Stop. Look at me and stop.” 

Something was pressing against your cheeks. It was firm and grounding and the focus returned to your gaze. 

“That’s it. Look at me, y/n.” 

Cassian. When all was righted, Cassian stood in front of you, his posture hunched as he leaned down to catch your eyes. He was dirty and his leathers were torn, but all you could focus on was the panicked frenzy marring his face. 

When he spoke next, the words were no longer accompanied by the incessant buzzing that had invaded your ears. “You with me, sweetheart?” 

Your lips felt numb. 

“Give me a nod or something. Az will kill me if you go catatonic on us.” 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, voice rough. “Azriel, he—” 

“He’s here.” Cassian turned your head in his hands, showing you the shadowsinger propped up against a dirt bank. “That self-sacrificing idiot is fine.” 

He wasn't fine, not really. His breaths were labored and his hand clutched at his side with a shaky grip. You wanted to move towards him, to try and take away some of his pain, but your legs were stuck. Everything was stuck and you couldn't move. 

It didn’t matter, anyway. When your eyes trailed up from his body, the look on his face would have deterred you from even speaking to him. He looked… horrified. Hazy eyes blinked across the battlefield—the one you decimated—and they shut just as fast. They squeezed shut, clamping down so tightly it looked like it hurt. Azriel seemed to shiver at the carnage. 

When your chest heaved at the realization, your body seemed to shut down. You felt your legs give out first, heard the curse shot out by Cassian, and felt the hands pressing to your back as your mind gave way to unconsciousness. 

~~

When you woke, the heaviness in your body was not entirely physical. 

There were, of course, a few broken bones. You could feel the aches and pains from battle and knew that you hadn’t gotten away unscathed, but that was all manageable. Fae healing was fast-acting and you would be fine within a few days. 

But it wasn’t the physical pain keeping you from opening your eyes.

It was the reminder of Azriel’s face. 

The disgust written into his features. 

You were supposed to be his antithesis.

When Azriel came home at the end of a day, he was supposed to be comforted by your warmth and softness. You were kindness and light and graceful silence. You were a healer, granting life, and he was an angel of death. 

Before you had met him, that had not been the truth. You were a healer, yes, but you were a field healer. The continent you hailed from prided themselves in being both the saviors of life and the bringers of death. You were to be the judgment—deciding who received which fate. 

But then you met Azriel, and with him came balance. With him came the need to be only one part of you. 

So you hid away the side of you meant to be cruel. You trained softly in self-defense only and you shied away from the instinct to protect with fists and power. 

And you loved the way he looked at you because of it. 

You loved the soft eyes and silent laughs; the tender way he held you and the sweet way he brushed his lips to your innocent skin. He coveted you, protected you, and you were the one he sought comfort in. 

You were his mate, his equal, his mirror. 

You wished your eyes could remain shut forever. 

“Will she wake up soon?”

Mor, you could deduce. 

“The healers said there was no way to know. She… Gods, Mor, you should have seen her out there. I’ve never seen anything like it.” 

Cassian. 

“I wish I had been there. It sounds like she kicked some ass,” Mor smugly replied. 

Cassian huffed out a laugh. “That’s an understatement.” A pause. “It was more than just that though. It was like she was using her healing in a different way. She cleared the field in front of her. There’s no way that just… came out of her.” 

“You know what the mating bond does to people. What it can unleash.” 

“I get that. But it looked natural for her. It looked practiced.” 

You heard Mor sigh. A hand brushed against the top of yours, taking it into a soft grip. 

“I just hope she's alright,” Mor murmured. 

“She has to be.” 

~~

When you awoke next, it was alone. You had been fighting sleep for what you assumed to be the better part of a day and decided that was enough. Eventually, you had to face the consequences of your actions.

You swung your feet over the side of the cot, feeling surprisingly rested and well despite the few pains shooting along your limbs. You took hesitant steps towards the mouth of the tent, propping open the canvas billowing in the wind before taking a more confident step onto dirt and rocks. 

“Good, you’re up.” It was Rhysand who spotted you first. “Just in time for our debrief.” 

The casualness with which he spoke left you disoriented. The High Lord only blinked at you, a small, impassive smile on his face as he waited for you to take the arm he had outstretched. Your mouth parted as if to speak, but nothing was coming out. 

“I know you’re recovering, y/n, but I need my best at this meeting,” he encouraged, elbow jutting towards you. “Come. We’ll speak and then we’ll return to Velaris. We will go home.” 

Your reservations were odd when you compared them to the understanding on Rhys’s face. He wasn’t upset or disgusted or angry; the High Lord’s smile turned up at the corner of his mouth and his expression spoke of sympathy, as if he already knew about the turmoil raging within you. 

“Azriel—” 

“Is there already. Unhappy, but there.” 

Unhappy. 

Of course. 

Who would want a mate that ravaged battlefields? 

Your lip quivered, but you bit it to stop the emotion from showing. “Right,” you nodded, and you let Rhys guide you to the large tent in the middle of the camp. 

It was full; you had to push your way in to meet the rest of your court. Azriel was the only one seated amongst them, and you could tell by the twitch of his wings that he had been placed in that chair begrudgingly. 

Your eyes skated across his for a fleeting moment. You were quick to turn away, focusing on the material of Rhys’s jacket as he stopped in the corner of the tent. 

There was a faint tug on the bond, muted by the wall you had erected. You thought about letting it down, but you were scared of what you’d feel. Azriel was a good male; good enough to attempt to hide the revulsion he was feeling. 

But you’d be able to parse it out the second you dropped your mental shield. 

You kept your eyes forward as the high lords spoke around the tent. The large table in the center was covered in maps and wooden pegs and you flowed in and out of focus as treaties and strategies and plans all mingled in the space. 

Another tug at the bond. 

Another shield placed around your mind. 

“And what of her?” 

Rhys took a step in front of you, covering half of your body from view. “What of her?” he countered, a calmness in his tone as he replied to the High Lord of Spring. 

Tamlin raised a brow. “Are we just supposed to ignore that your ‘healer’ is a danger to all of our courts?” 

“You are a fool,” Feyre spat out, hands splayed on the table. 

“She is a weapon,” Tamlin seethed, finger jutting out towards you. 

You flinched, and the room exploded in shadows. 

You heard several gasps, a few weapons being unsheathed, but over everything was the low rumble of Azriel’s voice. 

“Don’t speak of her as if she is an object,” he threatened. “Don’t speak of my mate at all.” 

“Reign in your dog,” Tamlin spat, but that only spurred on the hostility in the room. 

A chair screeched back, crashing against wood as loud, reverberating footsteps echoed in the otherwise silent tent. No one made a sound. Some of the shadows gave way, retreating to wind around your body, and you were met with the scene across the table. 

“I will show you a weapon, High Lord,” Azriel promised, chest-to-chest with Tamlin. 

The sight made you sick. 

Azriel was a protector. You were used to that truth. But before, things were different. Before, he was protecting you while you were still pure, still innocent in his eyes. 

Now, it was after. After you had killed and killed for him. After he had hurtled to the ground and awoken to find the death his mate had caused. And he was still protecting you, defending you, despite it all. 

Were you really worth this? 

You were worth it before. 

Now, you weren’t so sure. 

On shaking legs, you shouldered your way out of the tent, breath caught in your lungs. The ringing from the battlefield returned to your ears, blocking out the conversations starting in your absence. The shadows stayed with you, twirling with alarm and flowing through your hair in an attempt to gain your attention. 

A weapon. That explained you well—the ability to save lives and take them away. If they all considered you a weapon, where would you go? By Tamlin’s logic, being locked away would be best. 

Maybe that was best. 

You wondered what Azriel would think was best—where his weapon of a mate belonged. Because it was certainly no longer in the calmness of the home you shared. 

Your shaking continued as you brought your hand up to your forehead. Azriel did that sometimes, when you were panicked or anxious or scared. He’d place his scarred touch on your forehead and lean your head up to grant you more air. He’d follow with his lips and then pull you into his arms, but you knew none of that was coming. 

So you leaned forward and felt the sobs creeping up your chest to take the place of air. Your knees fell to the dirt and you collapsed into the feeling of your family, love, life changing forever. 

Until the shadows retreated. 

You glanced up when their swishing stopped and found another pair of knees pressing to yours in the dirt. The leathers covering them were fresher than yours, cleaner, but they were also wrapped in bandages and stabilizers that matched the ones along their ribs and stomach. 

Another crane of your neck and Azriel was leaning down to catch your gaze, mouth parted. Maybe he’d been speaking for a while; the buzzing made it impossible to know. 

“Are you alright, my love?” he asked, low and so, so concerned. Much more concerned than you deserved. Much more gentle than he had spoken in the tent. 

And all you could think to say was, “I’m sorry,” and you sobbed out the words with gut-wrenching sincerity. 

“I’m sorry, Azriel. I’m so sorry. I never meant—I never wanted this—“

Azriel shushed you, his fingers working to guide your hair away from your face. You felt selfish for needing that from him as his body was bandaged and his wings were wrapped. 

“I’m sorry I’m not who you thought I was. That I’m a monster. You were just falling so fast and I couldn’t stop it. I couldn't stop it,” you gasped out, giving in to your instincts as you grappled at the material of Azriel’s shirt. “I wanted to protect you and there was nothing I could do. You’re supposed to feel safe with me and I’ve ruined everything.” 

With each word came more tears and more heaving breaths. Azriel held you through each of them, his hands firm at your elbows, his head shaking as you laid everything before him. Occasionally, your name fell from his lips in a soft whisper, but he never interrupted you. 

“I’m not supposed to be this person to you. I’m supposed to be all of the good parts, and now I’m—now I’m someone else and you can’t—you’re not going to love all of the parts and—”

“Look at me, angel,” Azriel softly interrupted, sliding his fingers along your hairline, his eyes searching every inch of your face. When your gaze snapped to his, a bittersweet smile graced his pretty features. “There she is.” 

A hysterical laugh left you, your emotions mingling with his as the bond flowed freely between you. You didn’t have the energy or willpower to block him out anymore. A rush of relief was sent through you as Azriel realized the opening. 

“You are not a monster.” Azriel’s whisper was so clear, so close. “And I love every part of you, y/n. Especially the part I saw on that field. You saved me—protected our court and family. How could I not love that?” 

“I saw your face,” you whispered back, the words brushing Azriel’s lips as your foreheads met. “You looked—”

“I looked disappointed in myself.” 

“In yourself?” 

Azriel brought both hands to your cheeks. “I lead you to that carnage. Y/n, I’m sorry that I wasn’t there to take that load for you… to shoulder that burden.” 

“You aren’t… disgusted by me?” 

“My love, I love you more. What you did for me… you’re so strong. Cassian told me how amazing you were. Why have you never told me?” 

You shifted back on your knees, blinking under Azriel’s adoring, forgiving gaze. The shadowsinger didn’t let you get far, however, sliding his hands down your jaw, your shoulders, and settling on the tops of your thighs. 

Touching you, it seemed, was imperative. 

“When we were mated,” you began, tears still lingering in your throat. “I was new to Prythian—new to having a family. Everyone kept telling me that we were equals in opposite. They said I was a blessing from the cauldron to be so different from you but so in love. And then you… you called me things like peace and safety and calm. I saw the work you did and I knew I couldn’t tell you what I was trained for. Being a healer was enough.” 

The hands on your thighs tense. Azriel’s shadows pooled beneath you, swirling like a puddle of darkness. 

“I never meant for you to hide,” he murmured. 

“Azriel—”

“Never, angel. You could burn down the world and you’d still be my peace. You could be a weapon and I’d find my safety in you.” 

He sighed out a disbelieving laugh. 

“I love you,” he affirmed, eyes so sure. “I love you when you heal the broken and I love you when you decimate battlefields.” A small smirk. “I wish I had known about the second half a little sooner. I might not have teased you about your book choices as often.” 

You scoffed, a watery smile finally lighting up your face. “Don’t start.” 

“Should I tell you all the other times I should have been wary? Or maybe all of the reasons Cassian should be afraid now? It seems that’s the only way to get you to smile, and seeing as you are the reason we won the war, you should be doing far more of it.” 

The bond shone within you, bursting with joy as a laugh escaped your lips—a real laugh. The sound was soon smothered by Azriel’s kiss, and you knew things were changing. 

And that was okay. 

[otkuhotgirl]

─── 𝐇𝐎𝐓𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐅𝐅 .

# with portgas d. ace.

the mera mera no mi had a dozen benefits — setting your walls alight was but one of them.

⎰ & KINKTOBER, (late) day five. smut (mdni!). temperature play. devil-fruit usage. oral (reader!receiving). fingering. afab!reader. no y/n used.

WC: 2.4k.

portgas d. ace had fed himself with a fruit that granted him particularities similar to those of a furnace. fire coursed through his veins — oftentimes he mused the thought that it had burned whichever cells connected him to his father still. heat gave him a reputation; an untouchable anatomical state. fire fist ace, the fearsome second-in-command. flames and warmth were but a weapon and he never thought of it beyond that. until he found that the feelings labored for you burned brighter than whatever spark his fingers conjured.

lust first settled during the search for akagami no shanks — the man who had saved his younger brother’s life. amidst ice and torrid snow, you stood: a single thread of life with a clear distaste for the cold. hunched, trembling figure whose knees were pressed to one’s chest, cursing through parted lips, at the corner in an attempt to disappear from sight. when ace sat by your side, heat emanating from his flesh, you immediately pressed yourself against him, hiding your face as you clung to his arm. he had laughed then, hugging you until the trembling ceased, growing hotter at the sound of your relieved sigh.

the second time had been during a sudden — yet common — change in the weather at the approach of a winter island. ace had no intentions of lingering there whatsoever, and briefly instructed his crew to be swift in their business. you opted to remain on the ship, covered in tides of blankets with a lukewarm cup of untouched coffee in hand. ace wordlessly set a place behind you, nervous, yet smooth, as he pressed his palms over your shoulders and began an amateurish massage. he feared the prospect of his physical strength causing you pain, yet you merely leaned into his touch, moaning with your eyes closed as the shared warmth coursed through your body. ace thought himself vicious; disgusting; for he had felt a sudden twitch in his cock at the sounds.

at last, the snap came once he mingled with the whitebeard pirates, his past crewmates choosing to linger; accepting the shift in captains. you were bedridden, and marco had commented that heat could increase the comfort during menstrual cramps. ace caught on the words left unsaid, and offered, once again, to be your soothing warmth; your healing flame. you sounded grateful altogether, and had no problems falling asleep in his arms whatsoever, allowing his hands to be placed on the external root of your pain. sharing the bed had been enough for you to claim one another; to officiate the clear-as-day relationship born from reciprocal love.

although things had changed ever-since — from endless travels to foreign lands, to the survival of a terrible war —, ace’s hidden desire regarding his devil-fruit persevered. it was shown regardless of the weather, twitching erection even in alabasta, when sweat pooled on your cleavage; when he’d see you swimming, sea-salt clinging to your flesh; or the particular instances of quietness, when his fingers would travel through your body until they found your clit. oftentimes, when his cock was lost amidst your warm walls, perhaps out of sheer instinct, he’d find himself increasing the temperature of it, if only to access your reaction. a complicated gamble; the fear of maiming, alight fire born from his excitement. yet, you remained restless, as though understanding that he had a fair share of thoughts unshared. ace feared the moment in which you’d corner him, for he’d cave to your every desire.

he sighed, clicking his tongue in deep thought. the second thereafter, ace all but choked on his food, punching his chest with certain strength. he half-noted the glass of water placed on the table, and spat a final chunk of meat at a particularly harsh slap on his back. ace’s hand gripped the cup and he chugged the liquid, tear-filled eyes observing your figure — sitting on the other side of the small table, an interested expression on your face.

“careful now, hotstuff,” you scolded, and he flushed at the name. “where have you gone this time?”

the question had increased in frequency since the death of whitebeard — his chosen father. ace was unused to the idea of sharing his pain, rather preferring to bottle it up. you respected said decision, yet, more often than not, his prolonged quietness proved itself to be obnoxious. you stated that his thoughts traveled to a place you could not reach, and in said instants, you were forced to scratch the surface of his mind and tether it to the present at hand.

“nowhere important,” ace answered, clearing his throat. you merely raised an eyebrow, well aware of the poor-crafted lie. he gave in, unable to withstand the expectating — borderline disappointed — look on your face. “promise not to be creeped out?”

“by you?” the question posed itself as though a joke; incredulous. “ace—”

“i know,” he interrupted through a sigh. “still, i would hate to leave you uncomfortable.”

“try me,” you encouraged, nothing but love explicit through your features.

ace stretched his hand, palm facing you. he coaxed your approach with a movement of his index, tensing once your wrist was pressed against his skin. he was hesitant — fearful, even — when he activated his devil-fruit, a tempting and gradual increase in his temperature. you hummed, circling your wrist on his palm, testing the waters.

“warm,” you stated matter-of-factly, tapping your fingers on his arm. ace repeated the previous action, multiplying the valor of warmth; recoiling the flames that threatened to lick your flesh. “warmer.”

ace closed his fingers around your wrist, caressing the tender inches of skin. “is it distressing? painful?”

you chuckled, moving your head in denial. “it’s soothing, ace. it’s you.”

he smiled softly, breathing in order to gather further courage. “would you mind if i tried it elsewhere?”

you blinked, growing quiet for the briefest instance, although that had been enough to bloom certain insecurities within him. ace’s lips parted, tongue prepared to spill a dozen apologies — until your hand pushed the plates and cups aside and you sat on the table, sliding towards him. ace was aghast at your willingness; your excitement.

“now?” you inquired softly, gripping the hem of your dress, legs already crossed.

“you want it now?” a stupid question, truly, when one considered the blown state of your pupils.

“please,” you pleaded, already tugging at the edges of your clothing, raising it over your head.

ace’s hands groped your breasts, cock twitching at the sight and perspective of what could be done with them. his tongue lurked out, swiping a streak of saliva up your chest. you shuddered, to which ace smirked, twitching one of your hardening nipples. his digits grew brighter as a consequence of the shift in his temperature, offering a direct source of warmth to your flesh. he tested the length of his devil-fruit, internal fire reaching the tip of his tongue. ace latched his mouth around the bud, a pathetic rut of his hips following-in-suit as a consequence of your moaning.

he grew hotter, the gradual warmthness of your own skin teasing his nose. when your fingers tugged at his hair, ace’s tongue flicked; mouth applying pressure as he sucked on the flesh of your breast, well-aware of the consecutive loss of control on his powers. it felt as though entering a forest-fire to meet its god in the center, an ever-growing heat embracing your every nerve.

your nipple grew swollen at the attention — heated and pained —, whereas his saliva was a river of liquid flames, setting you alight. his unused hand traveled down your stomach, emerging goosebumps at its temperature. he pushed your back against the table, adoration poured into each featherlight touch. you heard the sound of his knees meeting the ground; felt his palm settling on your hip-bone. a pair of heated fingers traveled through your folds, spreading your essence through the extension of it. you whimpered, for your own pre-cum had its temperature shifted; fire reaching your very core.

ace sucked on your thigh, experienced thumb drawing fast-paced circles on your once neglected clit; bright digit behaving as though the teasing of a lighter. you squirmed, and he needed but a single hand to cage your figure. his lips left a trail of sensitive bruises, before they replaced his thumb, wrapping them around the swollen bud. the tip of his burning index teased your entrance, before he shoved three fingers inside — knuckle-deep — invading your walls with unthought suddenness. you mewled, unused — however excited — with the heat; dripping cunt close to boiling.

he moaned, sending vibrations through your body. his fingers curled inside you, teasing the gummy walls; igniting your g-spot. ace rutted against the air, erection caged in between the fabric of his clothes. regardless, he neglected his own needs for the sake of your own, observing, through his eyelashes, your face contorting in pleasure. ace gripped a fistful of your thighs, the warmth of it enough to burn lonesome inches of hair. when he made a sudden worried move, intending to retreat altogether, you gripped his hair yet again, shoving his face deeper into your cunt.

“d-don’t stop,” you pleaded, trembling legs threatening to close themselves around his head.

he moaned, setting a vigorous pace. his tongue ventured through your folds, nose buried deep; teasing your clit. ace moved his head to the sides, dragging your warm essence through his chin and mouth. his tongue drew a luscious, famished stripe before he sucked on the swollen, burning clit, nearly tearing up at the saltiness coating his palate.

“fuck, babe, you taste so good,” he groaned, voice coming out muffled, for the ministrations of his mouth remained. you moaned at the compliment, arching your back at the retreat of his fingers — nails at your entrance — before he shoved them inside yet again, a relentless pace that had your cunt squeezing the digits, dripping down his palm.

your entire figure trembled, thighs caging him, feet sliding down his muscular back. ace’s tongue was molten-fire against your clit, zigzagging around it, his face covered in specks of burning pre-cum — growing reddish at the prolonged contact. curling toes; ruthless tug at his hair. he drowned on your cunt, mouth claiming every drop of your essence while his fingers abused your g-spot.

your voice was a broken choir whose words were all but variations of his name. it flared up his ego, had him switching to shove a burning tongue inside your clenching cunt; fingers parting your folds open as a set of two circled around your clit. he all but slurped; humped the air. a wet patch stained his pants, and one could smell the stench of burning fabric as he pre-cum escaped past his tip, a tide of wild flames.

“ace, ‘m close,” you mewled, breathing out heavily, eyes tethered to the sight of his soaked face.

he retreated his lips for the briefest second to press a searing, burning kiss on your entrance, smirking at your drawn-out moan. the pace of his fingers on your clit increased, and ace bit on your outer labia, his other hand pinching on your trembling thigh.

“cum for me, love,” he encouraged, yet again shoving a warm tongue inside, his chin and nose buried in your cunt.

the knot unraveled itself, and your orgasm tore you from inside-out, drowning his face. ace chased it, famished mouth claiming every droplet of cum that fell on his awaiting tongue, his fingers working still as he stimulated the tides of your high. with a final stripe of the warm muscle, ace leaned his face backwards, licking his lips and tracing the cum that lingered on his chin. he shoved a thumb inside his mouth, sucking the rest of it; removing the finger with a pop. his flesh had a shade pale pink where your essence had touched.

ace spread your legs and got on his feet, eyes tethered to the sight of your bare body on the table, sweat-etched skin glistening under the natural light. “it was a delicious appetizer.”

you laughed then, opening your arms — a solace, whose walls he could rest within. ace’s glance softened ever-so-slightly at the sound, and his chest leaned forward, drawn by your sentence. “come and get the main course, hotstuff.”

his fingers fidgeted with buttons, zippers and straps, a loud groan following-in-suit when his erection slapped against his stomach. swollen, leaking tip sensitive enough to make him hiss due to the merest brush of the wind. ace buried his face on your neck, licking the sweat off your flesh as his hand blindly aligned his shaft with your entrance. the girth slid in with fair easiness, the reminiscing drops of your previous orgasm mingling; enveloping the neglected head.

when ace bottomed out, the pair of you moaned in unison. your nails dug on his back as his hips set a languid pace, flushed tip reaching deep into your g-spot. his cock was a conflagration, forcing your walls to match the absurd temperature, shared heat enhancing both of your senses; increasing the sensitivity. the legs of the table complained at every harsh, wild thrust, balls slapping your ass as he hammered himself inside — sudden retreat of the tip; aggressive shove of the base until he had you filled with his girth. you babbled a sequence of compliments that had him twitching; drooling inside.

your legs wrapped around his waist, and both his hands settled themselves on the back of your thighs. his mouth sang luscious moans as his tongue and teeth bruised the skin of your neck — visible marks; explicit claim of what was his. ace’s pace grew erratic at the approach of his orgasm, the warmth leaving him sensitive to the point of embarrassment. your walls sucked him in, a famished, selfish lover that wished for nothing but to milk him dry.

when he pressed his forehead against yours, the act itself held an intimacy he once could ever dream of having with another, and the act itself soothed the once miserable soul of a child unwanted. ace breathed out into your mouth, words failing him as you nodded, increasing the strength of your legs around him.

“cum inside,” you cried out, raking your nails down his tattooed back. “want it—want you, all of you.”

ace struggled to keep his eyes open as he shot his load into you. it was of an alarming heat, leaving a lingering burning sensation on his tip. you mewled, sobbing as fire incarnated smeared your sensitive walls, leaving but a trail of metaphorical ashes in its wake. ace pressed butterfly-kisses on your face, lips claiming dried tears and accumulated sweat. his thrusts assumed a slower pace, a final chase of his high until the both of you were left a frail, exhausted mingle of bodies. his hands left your thighs; your legs fell, limp, dangling from the table.

the merest glance at your lover’s face had your eyes widening, hands pushing his chest. “don’t you dare, ace! the table will break—”

he collapsed into you, shifting your bodies at the last second. wood gave in to his weight, and his back all but met the ground, arms encircling your figure as your side was pressed to his chest. ace caressed your ass, mumbling about how he needed to clean you properly — and snoring thereafter.

you snorted, caressing his cheek. “sleep well, hotstuff.”

— 🐈‍⬛ : happy late kinktober, time is a concept!

[wholoveseggs]

Scars

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

{Daemon Targaryen x Wife!Reader} Your husband had just returned from battle, injured and needing to be cared for. He is a brat, and needs lots of love. So you take care of him, and then some...

3.5k words - Warnings: smut, blood and injury, wound care, soft!dom Daemon, fingering, riding, slow sex, Daemon pretending to not be in pain, lots of hurt and comfort...

@elijahstwink @starshipcookie @absolutemarveltrash @odairtrqsh @darkened-writer

@cheneyq @fallout-girl219 @nina6708 @evasmlp @sadmonke

@deamonloverrrr @urmomsgirlfriend1 @moonsleep

@madeinmyownmind-blog @lovelyy-moonlight

The soft sounds of your feet scurrying against the stone floor of the keep echoed through the empty halls. Soft rustling sounds of the nightdress and robe you hastily threw over your bare body could be heard, but the only thing you could focus on was getting to him. The news of the battle that raged along the shores of Dragonstone had reached your ears only moments ago, but all you could think about was Daemon.

"My lady!" A startled servant gasped as she saw you rushing through the halls, her eyes wide as you came to a sudden stop, nearly running into her.

"Where is he?" You demanded, your chest heaving slightly.

"In his chambers. The maester is seeing to him now.” She answered and you didn't waste any more time. You rushed off in the direction of his rooms, your mind racing.

The door to the royal bedchambers flew open as you rushed in, startling the maester who had been cleaning the prince's wounds. Your husband was laid out on a lounge chair, his chest bare, revealing the deep wounds that covered him. You could feel your heart ache at the sight of the man you loved, but you didn't let yourself dwell on it, not right now.

There were a number of maesters and other assistants tending to Daemon, but the moment you entered, they all froze. "My lady-" the maester began, but you held up a hand.

"Leave us." You ordered, and the maesters and servants all began to clear out, they knew better than to go against your orders.

You watched them leave before turning to look at Daemon. His violet eyes stared back at you, a smirk forming on his lips as you walked over. He winced as he tried to sit up, but you pushed him back down, shaking your head.

"What were you thinking?" You asked, kneeling next to the chair, your hands gently pressing on his skin. He hissed softly, and you looked down, seeing a large wound in his side. It had already been cleaned, but it was deep. "Tsk, I told you to be careful." You sighed, looking around the room for supplies.

"Don't fuss, you know I can't stand it," Daemon spoke up, watching as you grabbed a needle and thread, holding the needle over a candle flame.

"I wouldn't fuss if you weren't such a fool." You scoffed, returning to his side with bandages and the thread.

"You don't mean that." He smirked and you rolled your eyes, threading the needle.

"Hold still." You ordered and began to sew his skin closed. He winced at first, but quickly got used to it, watching you as you worked.

You looked at the wounds that were already sewed up by the maesters, at the old and new scars that littered his body. He had seen many battles and many wars. This was one of the worst injuries he had suffered since his youth, and the sight of it made you uneasy.

"I'll be fine." He murmured, watching as your face contorted.

"What happened?" You asked, ignoring his hiss of pain as you continued to sew the wound closed.

"Pirates, probably from the iron islands." He explained, trying to shift in his seat, but hissing when you tugged at the thread.

"Stop moving." You snapped, giving him a pointed look. He sighed and did as you told him, watching as you returned to the task at hand.

You finished the deep gash on his side, tying the end of the thread before cutting it. You set the tools aside and took the bandages, gently wrapping the wound, making sure it was secure. There was another wound on his chest that was still bleeding, so you grabbed some clean cloth, pressing it against his skin, and putting pressure on it.

"What of Caraxes? Did you not bring your dragon to battle?" You asked, keeping the pressure steady.

"He's fine." He assured you, reaching up and cupping your cheek. You frowned and he chuckled, stroking your cheekbone with his thumb. "It's just a couple of arrow wounds."

"You could've died." You whispered, feeling tears welling up in your eyes.

"But I didn't." He assured you, giving you a soft smile.

You nodded and took a shaky breath, taking the cloth away and seeing the bleeding had stopped. You grabbed a washcloth, dampening it with some water and wiping away the blood. You could see the dark bruises forming across his torso, the sight of them making your heart clench. But you quickly pushed the feeling aside, knowing now wasn't the time to fuss over him.

As soon as the wound was clean, you took the needle once more and began to sew it closed, going as fast as you could. He stayed quiet the whole time, watching as you worked on patching him up. Your robe and nightdress both fell off your shoulder, but you paid no mind to them as you reached over to grab a new bandage.

"You are far more skilled than the maesters." He stated, sitting up slightly to allow you to wind the bandage around his torso.

"I've just had more practice than they have." You hummed, tightening the bandages and tying it off. You took a moment to examine your work, tracing your fingers over one of his old scars, one that you stitched up not long after your wedding day. His large hand covered yours, his rough fingers entwining with your own, pulling you from your thoughts.

"This one will leave a nasty scar," he remarked, motioning to the gash on his side. "I fear I've run out of unmarred skin to stitch."

"You already have plenty of those." You shot back, drawing his attention to the old burn scars along his neck and shoulder.

"I thought you liked my scars," he teased, watching as you got to your feet and went to the basin to wash your hands. "You always seem to touch them so lovingly in bed."

Your cheeks flushed at the comment, your eyes refusing to meet his. He chuckled lowly, shifting in the seat once more, hissing slightly. Your eyes flicked over to him, concern filling them as you dried off your hands and walked back over to him.

"Let me see your arms." You commanded, gesturing to where an arrow had grazed him. He sighed and held out his arms, grimacing slightly as you unwound the bandage around his bicep. You examined the small wound on his right arm, the stitching was shoddy, but it seemed to be holding up for the moment. "Stay here. I need to speak with the maesters about these new sutures. They're horrible, any more stress, and they could tear."

"Enough," he grumbled, frowning at your fretting. "Come to me." He demanded, tugging at your wrist. You paused, looking at him with a slight frown, but you let him pull you into his lap.

"Daemon, this isn't the time. You're wounded, you should be resting," you sighed, wiggling slightly in his grip, though his arms caged you in, keeping you on his lap.

"I'm not an invalid." He scoffed, running his hands up your sides, pushing your robe and nightdress up.

"I'm serious. You need to rest." You sighed, trying to ignore the lovely way his calloused hands felt against your skin.

"I am resting." He purred, nipping at the skin of your neck, his warm breath ghosting over your jaw.

You rolled your eyes, feigning disinterest, but your eyes fluttered shut as he continued to press gentle kisses along your skin.

"You have a couple scars of your own, don't you my dear wife?" He murmured, as his hands began to wander, moving over your stomach and down your hips.

"Yes, but I didn't get them the same way you did," you retorted, unable to hold back the soft moan that slipped past your lips.

"The birthing bed is just as violent as the battlefield." He replied, gripping at your thighs, using the other hand to tug at your garments.

"Daemon." You sighed, shaking your head.

He looked at you, taking in your appearance as his hand continued to roam your body. You sat on his lap, the thin fabric of your gown and robe slipping down to reveal your soft skin and smooth shoulders. Your bare legs were curled beneath you, nestled between his, and his hand moved further north, reaching underneath your dress to stroke the curve of your ass.

"Daemon, what are you doing?" You breathed, struggling to keep your composure as his rough hands slipped past your undergarments to squeeze your ass.

"Touching you, my darling. It's very healing," he whispered, his lips ghosting across your collarbone, leaving kisses along the skin.

"You'll make your wounds worse," you protested, but made no move to stop him. In fact, the last thing you wanted was for him to stop.

"Hush," he murmured, brushing his lips against yours.

You huffed, trying to resist the urge to lean in and kiss him, but in the end, you caved. The hand on your ass pushed you closer, forcing you to straddle his thigh. A gasp slipped from your lips and he grinned, enjoying the expression on your face.

His hand slid from your back to your hip, squeezing you lightly as he rocked your hips against his thigh. He watched with lust-filled eyes as your head tilted back, exposing your neck, a quiet moan leaving you.

"You always do this." He tutted, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. "You always make sure to take care of me, but when is someone going to take care of you?"

"I-I'm fine." You assured him, your hips bucking slightly against him. He hummed, his other hand grabbing at the fabric of your robe, pushing the heavy material off your shoulder. It fell easily, bunched up around your waist, revealing your nightdress underneath.

His hand dipped between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours. His fingers ghosted over your slit, his eyes darkening at the way your lips parted and your eyes fluttered shut.

Your hands gripped at his shoulders, digging into his flesh, your nails clawing down his arms, causing him to hiss. Your skin was glistening with sweat, the light of the candles bathing the two of you in a soft glow.

Your breath was ragged, a blush spread across your face, reaching down your neck and chest, visible through the low cut of your nightgown. You looked perfect, and he found himself pulling you into a deep kiss, his fingers easing inside you as your lips collided.

You moaned softly, a breathy little sound that had his cock aching. The softness of your skin was like velvet, so different from his. He couldn't stop himself from burying his face in your chest, taking in the smell of you. Everything about you was so warm and inviting, and he couldn't wait to finally be inside you again.

Your legs spread further apart, allowing him more access, and he cursed under his breath, burying his face further into your soft breasts.

You were like a goddess, kneeling in his lap, taking care of him and more. And you deserved no less than to be worshiped. He looked up, catching your eye. Your gaze was filled with heat and passion, and something else, something soft, a look reserved only for him.

"My job is to protect you, and our young ones," he murmured, his voice low and husky. "Every one of these scars is a testament to that."

"I know, my love." You breathed, your eyes falling shut as you grew closer to your peak.

Your thighs shook, and he watched as your head tilted back, exposing your throat. He took the opportunity to attack your neck, kissing and nipping at the delicate skin, leaving small marks in his wake.

"But, I will always come back to you, no matter what." He promised, his eyes meeting yours, the love shining through. "Now, cum for me."

He curled his fingers and pressed his thumb against your sensitive nub, and you couldn't hold back anymore. Your mouth fell open, a silent cry leaving your lips, and your body shook. Daemon groaned, feeling you tightening around his fingers, his cock twitching, wanting to feel your warmth.

He slowly pulled his fingers out of you, and brought them to his lips, licking your arousal off of his fingers, and letting out a pleased hum. You bit your lip, watching as he cleaned his fingers, enjoying the way he was watching you.

"You certainly do heal quickly." You teased, moving to stand up, only to have him pull you back down on top of him.

"And you always know exactly how to care for me." He grinned, keeping a tight grip on your hips. "Now, why don't you let me return the favor?"

You sighed, leaning in, pressing a gentle kiss against his forehead, "your wounds.. we can't-"

"Oh, they're nothing." He chuckled, his hands moving up and gripping the hem of your nightgown.

"You're so reckless." You chided, lifting your arms, letting him pull the nightgown off, leaving you bare before him.

His eyes wandered over your body, taking in the curves and marks, all the places that had changed. The swell of your breasts, the curve of your hips, the softness of your belly, and the heat of your core. He loved it all, every inch, and every curve, because it was you, and you were his.

He ran his hands over your skin, a soft moan leaving his lips, a needy whine coming from yours. He grinned and pressed his lips to yours, kissing you deeply. You reached down and untied his breeches, pushing them down, and letting his cock spring free. He groaned as your hand wrapped around his length, stroking him slowly.

"You are so much better than any maester," He breathed, leaning back in the chair, enjoying the way you played with his hard cock.

You stifled a giggle at his words, releasing him and positioning yourself, hovering above him, resting your hands on his shoulders for support and avoiding his wounds. He kissed you sweetly, a sigh escaping him as he felt your heat against his tip.

He ran his hands over your hips as you sank down on his length, a soft gasp escaping your parted lips.

"There, now I'm all put back together again." He sighed, rocking his hips into you, making you groan.

You raised your hips slowly, then sunk down again, setting a steady pace and feeling pleasure race through your body. Daemon helped you ride him, his hands on your hips, his moans mixing with yours. You moved one hand from his shoulder, gripping the back of the chair, and the other moved to tangle in his hair, pulling lightly, drawing a deep growl from him.

You made soft sounds as you moved, your moans and sighs filling the room, as well as his grunts and groans, and the obscene sounds of your hips moving together. A dance that the two of you had perfected over the years, where both of you sought the pleasure you knew so well.

You could feel yourself growing closer to your peak, and by the way he was looking at you, you knew he wasn't too far behind. You reached down and pulled his lips to yours, kissing him hard, and panting against his lips.

"Faster," he breathed, gripping your hips tightly, guiding your movements, his eyes meeting yours.

"I'll hurt you," you murmured, but he shook his head.

"Like I said before, I'm not some fucking invalid," he grinned, thrusting into you hard.

You gasped, your arms wrapping around his neck, he hissed as you accidentally grazed one of his wounds, but he didn't care, focusing instead on the feeling of you clenching around his cock.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, peppering gentle kisses over the scars on his skin there, his hold on your hips tightening as you bounced in his lap. His eyes were half lidded, enjoying the way you felt around him. Your skin was slick with sweat, your scent filling his nose, making him dizzy with lust.

You closed your eyes and rested your forehead against his, feeling your whole body growing hot. Your fingers were digging into his skin, trying not to hurt him, but getting harder every second.

You could see blood seeping through the bandages on his chest, and a moment later, Daemon hissed in pain. You stopped moving, opening your eyes, and looking at him with concern.

"Are you okay?" You asked, moving to climb off his lap, only to have him hold you tighter.

"Don't stop," he pleaded, a desperate look in his eyes. "Please."

You paused for a moment, and nodded, picking up your pace, feeling him thrusting up into you. The room filled with the sounds of your moans and grunts, the chair creaking beneath you, and the slap of skin on skin.

Daemon gripped your ass tightly, his hips moving faster, his cock hitting deeper inside you. You could feel your climax creeping up on you, and it seemed that he could too. His eyes were fixed on you, watching the pleasure take over.

"Look at me," he demanded, his voice strained, and you obeyed, locking eyes with him.

The room was spinning, everything fading away except for the feeling of him inside you, the look in his eyes, and the heat coursing through you. You held each other tightly, and the pleasure exploded within you, his name a desperate cry on your lips.

He followed a moment later, spilling his seed inside you, his cock pulsing. The two of you stayed like that, holding each other, your foreheads resting together, the room filling with the sounds of your heavy breathing.

You slowly lifted your hips, careful as you separated from him, wincing slightly as his softening cock slipped out of you. Daemon groaned as the head of his cock popped out of your wet cunt, a string of his seed and your arousal still connecting the two of you. You reached down and wiped his seed from your thighs, the mixture coating your fingers.

"Now, I really have to clean you up." You giggled, standing up, your legs wobbly, and walking over to the washbasin, cleaning your hands, then bringing a clean cloth back to him.

"If I knew I would have such a dedicated nursemaid, I would have gotten wounded sooner." He joked, a grin spreading across his face.

You gently pushed his hands away, shaking your head and wiping his cock, and cleaning up the mess the two of you had made, a soft chuckle leaving you, "Now I have to sew you up again."

"Worth it." He shrugged, wincing slightly.

You sighed and shook your head, going back over to the washbasin and wetting the cloth, walking back to him, and dabbing at his chest and arms, trying to get the blood from the torn wounds.

"I told you it wasn't a good idea." You teased, gently running the cloth over the cuts and scrapes on his chest and shoulders, making sure the wounds were clean.

"It was a good idea," he retorted, a playful smirk tugging at his lips, "I would gladly go through the pain and torment if it meant I could have my way with you."

You rolled your eyes and shook your head, replacing the bandages and checking the stitching on his wounds. He was right, it was nothing serious, just a few torn sutures.

"There," you murmured, stepping back and admiring your work. "Much better."

Daemon grinned and pulled you into his arms and you gently rested your head on his chest. You traced your fingers over his old scars, and the bandages that covered the newer ones, your eyelids growing heavy. He stroked your hair, a soft hum leaving him, reaching for your discarded robe to cover the two of you.

"We'll have to do this more often," he mused, a lazy smile tugging at his lips, as you shifted your head, placing a gentle kiss over the wound on his chest.

"Absolutely not," you replied, a teasing tone in your voice, "you're not allowed to get hurt anymore."

He scoffed, and held you tighter, kissing the top of your head, "I make no promises."

"I thought as much." You smiled, curling up closer to him. "Just promise you'll come back."

"Always." He murmured, closing his eyes and resting his head on yours.

You sighed, letting sleep take you, not wanting to move just yet. It wasn't long before the soft sounds of you and Daemon snoring filled the chambers, his arms wrapping around you, keeping you safe. Like he always did, like he always would.

[callsigns-haze]

Greatest treasure part 3

Summary: Eris, has been High Lord of Autumn for quite some time now, his son Azer who basically started his alliance with the Night Court is not an adorable three year old anymore but a miniature version of him at the age of seventeen. Not only that but you two have a daughter now who is the flame in every situation. Eris keeps his alliances close to hear causing future meetings and drama.

Warning: Contains alcohol, cursing, teasing, mentions of smut, kissing, court politics, mentions of war, distress.

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x reader

English is not my first language

13k words

Previous part

PART 1

Azer was halfway through unpacking when the door clicked shut behind him, the soft sound barely registering over the rustle of his clothes as he set them into the drawers. He turned, already knowing who it was before he even laid eyes on her.

Annavella stood there, back pressed against the door, her hand still resting on the lock. There was a familiar glint in her violet-blue eyes, the kind that always made something tighten low in his stomach.

“Shouldn’t you be in your room?” Azer asked, voice low as he shut his trunk.

She only smirked, stepping toward him with slow, deliberate steps. “Shouldn’t you be happy to see me?”

Azer sighed, but there was no real exasperation in it. His eyes flickered to the locked door behind her. “If we get caught—”

“We won’t,” she cut in smoothly, reaching up to toy with the collar of his shirt. “We never do.”

Azer snorted, leaning back against the edge of the desk. “That’s because I'm careful for both of us.”

Annavella tilted her head, trailing a single finger down the row of buttons on his shirt. “And yet, you still look nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he muttered, but his hands found her waist anyway, fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. “Just… cautious about not getting murdered by Illyrian warriors.”

She hummed, stepping fully into his space, her arms sliding around his neck. “Then stop thinking so much,” she whispered, her lips brushing just barely against his jaw.

Azer swallowed hard, his grip tightening on her waist. “Vella—”

But whatever warning or protest he was about to voice vanished the moment she kissed him, soft but insistent, her fingers threading into his hair. Azer made a sound low in his throat, one hand splaying against her back to pull her closer.

They had been careful for months—secret glances across rooms, fleeting touches in hallways, stolen moments in hidden corners of the courts. No one knew. Not Rhysand. Not Feyre. Not even Avey or Nyx.

And yet, as Annavella melted against him, as he lost himself in the warmth of her lips, Azer found himself wondering how much longer they could keep it a secret.

Annavella deepened the kiss, pressing herself flush against him, and Azer let her. Let himself sink into her warmth, into the familiarity of her touch. It had been weeks since they had a moment alone, and he felt it in the way she kissed him—desperate, as if she had been waiting just as impatiently.

His hands slid from her waist to her hips, gripping tightly as he pulled her closer. She sighed against his lips, her fingers curling into his hair, tugging just enough to send a shiver down his spine.

“We shouldn’t be doing this here,” Azer murmured against her mouth, even as he tilted his head to kiss her deeper.

Annavella only smirked, nipping at his lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at him. “But we are.”

Azer exhaled sharply, resting his forehead against hers. “You’re going to get us caught one day.”

Her fingers trailed down his chest, slow and teasing. “And then what? You think my parents would be surprised?”

Azer tensed slightly, and she caught it immediately.

“You are worried,” she murmured, studying his face. “You think my father will care?”

Azer hesitated, then sighed. “Rhysand isn’t the main problem. It’s everyone else.”

She reached up, brushing a strand of auburn hair from his eyes. “Azer,” she said softly. “Do you want to stop?”

His grip on her waist tightened. “No.”

Annavella smiled, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Then stop worrying.”

Easier said than done.

Azer’s mind raced with all the ways this could end badly—how their parents would react, how their courts would respond. But then Annavella kissed him again, slow and lingering, and every thought scattered like embers in the wind.

Maybe they should be careful. Maybe they should stop.

But for now, Azer didn’t care.

Not when she was in his arms, not when she was looking at him like that.

Annavella leaned into him, her fingers tracing idle patterns over his chest as she nestled closer. Azer sighed, resting his chin on top of her head, inhaling the familiar scent of her—night-blooming jasmine and something distinctly her.

He shouldn’t be this comfortable. Shouldn’t be this at ease when they were stealing moments in secret, when at any second someone could knock, could find them.

But he was.

Annavella shifted, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “You’re thinking too much again.”

Azer smirked, running a hand up and down her spine. “That’s your fault.”

She arched a brow. “My fault?”

“Yes, Vella.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “You’re a terrible distraction.”

Annavella hummed, clearly unbothered by the accusation. “Well, if I’m already being blamed…” She trailed off, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, her touch featherlight against his skin.

Azer groaned softly. “You’re insufferable.”

She grinned. “And yet, you’re still here.”

He rolled his eyes but didn’t move away. “Unfortunately.”

Annavella gasped, smacking his arm. “Unfortunately?”

Azer laughed, catching her wrist before she could hit him again. “Fine,” he amended, threading their fingers together. “Fortunately.”

She gave him a look, unimpressed.

Azer sighed dramatically. “Very fortunately.”

“That’s better,” she murmured before pressing a slow, lingering kiss to his jaw.

A knock on the door made them both freeze.

Annavella’s eyes went wide, and Azer barely had time to react before she scrambled off his lap, smoothing down her dress as if that would erase the evidence of what they’d been doing.

Azer swallowed a curse, running a hand through his hair before calling out, “Who is it?”

Silence. Then—

“Azer?” It was Evander, sounding way too amused. “Nyx is looking for you.”

Annavella shot him a look.

Azer exhaled sharply, pressing a quick kiss to her temple before heading to the door. He hesitated, glancing back at her. “Stay here. I’ll handle it.”

She nodded, and he pulled the door open, slipping out before Evander could see inside.

His friend smirked. “Took you long enough.”

Azer scowled. “Shut up.”

Evander chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder. “Nyx is outside. He wants to talk.”

Azer resisted the urge to groan. Of course he did.

-----

The room was buzzing with energy as Azer sat on the edge of the couch, rolling his shoulders. Across from him, Nyx was grinning like a predator about to pounce, while Andros and Evander leaned against the wall, looking far too relaxed for what was about to unfold.

Edur stretched out one long leg, his usual quiet demeanour barely masking the glint of anticipation in his eyes. Meanwhile, Noelani was already tying her sash around her waist, her fingers deftly securing the fabric.

“Alright,” Nyx announced, cracking his knuckles. “Rules are the same as always.”

He gestured to the pile of sashes in the centre of the room. Each one was embroidered with their names, a small leather tag sewn onto the back. The objective was simple—rip off as many tags from your opponents’ sashes as possible within the hour. The person with the most tags at the end won.

“No powers,” Edur added, his deep voice steady. “No wings. No shifting. No magical shit.”

Azer scoffed. “Might as well tell us not to breathe.”

Annavella, who had been standing behind the boys with her arms crossed, smirked. “What’s the matter, Azer? Afraid you can’t win without an advantage?”

Azer turned to her with a slow grin. “I don’t need an advantage. But you?” His eyes flicked over her sash, feigning concern.

“I won last time,” Nyx insisted, shooting Evander a smug grin.

Evander scoffed. “You cheated last time.”

“I outsmarted you,” Nyx corrected, grinning.

“Same thing,” Edur muttered, leaning against the window with an exasperated sigh. “Can we just start already?”

Noelani, perched on the arm of a chair, idly twirled a strand of her hair. “Fine, but this time we need a real rule about no ganging up on people.” She sent a pointed look at Azer, who only smirked in response.

“Not my fault you weren’t fast enough,” he quipped.

Noelani rolled her eyes.

Annavella quietly closing the door behind her before making her way over to stand beside Azer. She gave him a knowing look before addressing the group. “So what’s the plan this time?”

“Same as always,” Evander said. “An hour to collect as many tags as possible. Last person standing with the most wins.”

“Without Nyx’s trickery,” Edur added.

Nyx smirked but didn’t deny it.

Noelani stretched, standing up. “Are we drawing colours tags again?”

Azer grabbed the small box of sashes from the desk and tossed it to Evander. “Pick one.”

One by one, they each grabbed a sash, tying it across their bodies where their tag—stitched into the fabric—rested against their backs.

“Usual rules,” Evander reminded them. “Wit only.”

“Not a problem for me,” Noelani said, flipping her hair dramatically.

Azer snorted.

“Ahem.”

The small voice made them all turn toward the door.

Avey stood there, hands on her hips, her curls slightly messy from whatever mischief she’d been up to before arriving. Her seven-year-old face was set with determination as she looked around at them all.

“I want to play.”

Azer sighed, already knowing where this was going. “Avey—”

“I can do it,” she insisted, puffing up her chest. “I’m fast.”

Evander and Edur both bit back smiles, but Noelani leaned forward. “You think you can keep up with us?”

Avey nodded, resolute. “I know I can.”

Nyx crouched down to her level. “You do remember last time, right?”

Avey frowned. “Last time was unfair.”

“That’s because you got stuck in a tree,” Azer reminded her.

“It was one time!” Avey huffed, crossing her arms.

Annavella chuckled, ruffling the little girl’s hair. “Maybe when you’re older, Avey.”

Avey pouted. “That’s forever away.”

“Next year,” Azer offered. “If you train.”

She studied him, clearly considering. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Avey sighed, clearly unhappy but willing to accept the deal. “Fine.”

“Good,” Evander said. “Now, can we start before Nyx comes up with another scheme?”

Nyx grinned. “Too late.”

Azer groaned. “Mother’s sake, Nyx—”

And then the game began.

The moment Nyx smirked, everyone moved at once.

Azer lunged just as Evander shoved past him, sprinting for the door. Noelani was already halfway out, laughing as she ducked beneath Edur’s outstretched arm. Annavella was close behind, her braid whipping over her shoulder as she maneuverer around Azer’s attempt to slow her down.

“No wings!” Edur shouted as Nyx made a move to leap forward.

Nyx cursed but kept running, pushing off the doorway as he shoved past Evander. Azer was right on his heels, his boots pounding against the floor. He barely had time to catch a glimpse of Noelani flipping over a chair in the hallway before she disappeared down the corridor.

“Idiots,” Azer muttered before diving forward.

The group scattered the moment they hit the open space beyond the hall. Evander broke left, Nyx darted right, and Edur bolted straight ahead toward the stairs. Noelani, ever unpredictable, slid along the polished floor before spinning and heading toward the balconies.

Annavella glanced back at Azer as she ran, a teasing glint in her eyes. “Try and keep up!”

Azer let out a huff of laughter before sprinting after her.

Azer ducked through the archway leading to the courtyard, his breath coming fast, his heart hammering in his chest. The cool night air hit his flushed skin as he skidded around the corner, Annavella hot on his heels.

She grabbed the back of his sash, almost yanking it off, but he twisted just in time, barely slipping out of her grasp.

“Nice try, Vella,” he taunted, breathless.

Annavella only grinned, eyes flashing in the dim lantern light. “I almost had you.”

They sprinted through the courtyard, past the towering hedges and flickering sconces lining the walls. The distant sounds of their friends still echoed behind them—laughter, footsteps pounding against the stone, the occasional shout as someone lost a tag.

Azer pulled Annavella’s hand, leading her into a narrow alleyway tucked between two of the estate’s stone buildings. They pressed against the cool wall, listening as Evander and Nyx ran past, their voices fading into the distance.

For a moment, neither of them moved. They were both breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling in sync. Then, Annavella glanced at him and smirked. “Truce?”

Azer lifted a brow. “How do I know you won’t rip my sash off the second I agree?”

She scoffed, swatting at his chest. “I wouldn’t cheat. Besides, if we work together, we’ll stand a better chance against the others.”

He pretended to consider before finally sighing. “Fine. Truce.”

Annavella grinned, holding out her hand. Azer clasped it, shaking once, before she whispered, “Let’s go hunting.”

And just like that, they slipped back into the night, moving as one.

As they neared the Sidra path, the sound of rushing water filled the night air, the moon casting silver streaks across the river’s surface. Annavella was a step ahead, her breath still ragged from the chase, when suddenly—

Azer grabbed her by the waist.

Her gasp barely had time to escape before he spun her, pulling her flush against him. Her hands instinctively shot to his chest, eyes wide in shock. "Azer, what—"

But he was already smirking.

Before she could react, he yanked at the sash around her waist, the fabric slipping free in one fluid motion.

“Gotcha.”

Her stunned expression morphed into realization—and then outrage. “You—”

Azer didn’t stick around to hear her finish. With a firm push, he sent her stumbling backward—right into the river.

There was a sharp splash as Annavella hit the water, disappearing beneath the surface for a brief second before she emerged, sputtering, her dark hair slicked back and dripping.

She wiped a hand down her face, eyes ablaze as she glared up at him. “You ass!”

Azer twirled her sash around his finger, grinning. “Should’ve seen that coming.”

Annavella smacked the water, sending a wave splashing onto the riverbank where he stood. “You better start running.”

But Azer only laughed, stepping back. “Oh, I am running.”

Azer sprinted through the darkened streets, his heart pounding from exhilaration as he clutched Annavella’s sash in his fist. The fabric twisted between his fingers, a trophy of his victory.

The river house loomed ahead, its windows glowing warmly against the cool night. He reached the door, yanked it open, and darted inside. His boots squeaked against the wooden floor, leaving behind a faint trail of damp footprints.

Then he saw Edur.

Standing just inside the main hall, Edur took one look at the sash in Azer’s hand and narrowed his eyes. “What did you do?”

Azer grinned, mischief dancing in his gaze. “Gotta go.”

Edur took a step forward, but Azer was already moving. He bolted down the hallway, past startled servants and unsuspecting guests, his wet boots thudding against the polished floors.

His goal was clear: the only safe place in this house.

He rounded the final corner and skidded to a stop in front of the large doors where his parents and Avey were. Without hesitation, he shoved them open, slipped inside, and slammed them shut behind him.

He nearly crashed into the door, shoving it open so hard it banged against the wall. Without missing a beat, he slipped inside and turned, slamming it shut behind him.

The lock clicked just as hurried footsteps pounded up the stairs.

Breathless, Azer leaned against the door, his grip still tight on Annavella’s sash. A slow grin stretched across his face as he heard her muffled voice from the other side.

“Azer Vanserra, open this damn door!”

Silence fell over the room.

When he turned around, all eyes were on him—his parents, Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, Nesta, Azriel, and a very entertained-looking Avey.

Eris exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do I even want to know?"

Avey, meanwhile, clapped her hands together and beamed. “Azer won, didn’t he?”

Azer just smirked and twirled Annavella’s sash around his finger. “Obviously.”

Rhysand leaned back in his chair, arms lazily draped over the armrests, an eyebrow arched in amusement. “Alright, kid. What exactly are you doing?”

Feyre, beside him, glanced between Azer’s windblown hair, his soaked sleeves, and the victorious gleam in his eyes before looking toward you and Eris. “Is this normal?”

You sighed, smoothing your hands over your skirt. “Unfortunately.”

Cassian, lounging comfortably with a glass of wine in hand, chuckled. “He definitely gets it from Eris.”

Eris simply lifted a brow, unimpressed. “Excuse me?”

Azriel, who had been quietly watching from the shadows, finally spoke, his gaze flicking to the door where muffled, frustrated knocking still rang out. “You locked Annavella out, didn’t you?”

Azer spun the sash around his fingers and grinned. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

Avey giggled from her seat. “He totally did.”

Nesta, arms crossed, gave him a slow, scrutinizing once-over. “You’re dripping all over the floor.”

Azer shrugged. “Worth it.”

Rhys sighed, shaking his head. “So you ran through my house, locked yourself in here, and now Annavella is—where, exactly?”

The knocking at the door grew more insistent, followed by a furious, “Azer, I swear to the Mother—”

Azer winced dramatically and held up a finger. “Let’s just say… she might still be near the river.”

Silence.

Then Cassian barked out a laugh. “You threw her in the Sidra?”

Nesta smacked his arm.

Rhysand exhaled through his nose, his fingers rubbing slow circles against his temples as if warding off a headache. “So you threw my daughter in the river and ran straight to me?”

Azer rocked back on his heels. “Well, when you say it like that, it sounds bad.”

Feyre groaned. “It is bad.”

Azriel only tilted his head slightly, watching the boy with something akin to approval.

Meanwhile, you turned to Eris, leveling him with a tired look. “This is your son.”

Eris simply took a slow sip of his wine. “I see nothing wrong with his tactics.”

Rhysand folded his arms over his chest, leaning forward slightly. “Alright, let’s start from the beginning. What exactly are you playing?”

Azer, still twirling the damp sash around his fingers, grinned. “Our annual game.”

Feyre’s brows furrowed. “Annual game?”

Cassian, ever intrigued by competition, raised a brow. “And what exactly are the rules of this ‘annual game’?”

Azer glanced over at Edur, who was standing at his side with his hands shoved into his pockets, doing his best to look less guilty. “Everyone gets a sash with a tag pinned to it. The goal is to take as many tags as possible before the time runs out.”

Avey, still perched on the couch, swung her legs and added, “And you can’t team up! Azer and Annavella tried to, but they lied to each other.” She giggled. “He pushed her in the river.”

Nesta sighed. “Of course he did.”

Azriel’s shadows curled slightly, flickering with interest. “And what does the winner get?”

Azer’s grin widened. “Bragging rights. And a favor from the loser.”

Eris, who had been watching his son with an unreadable expression, finally spoke, his voice dry. “And what favor are you going to ask for, now that you’ve thrown Rhysand’s daughter into the Sidra?”

Azer smirked. “Oh, I haven’t decided yet.”

Rhys pinched the bridge of his nose, inhaling deeply. “Mother above, I hope she drowns you in return.”

A sharp pounding on the door made everyone glance over.

Annavella’s voice, dripping with icy rage, came through the wood. “Azer, I am going to skin you alive.”

Azer merely rocked back on his heels, still grinning. “She sounds fine.”

The room was filled with a sudden, sharp noise as the side door creaked open, a soft click echoing in the silence. Edur, quick on his feet and with a mischievous glint in his eyes, slipped through without Azer even noticing. His movements were fluid, like water—quiet and swift.

Azer, too focused on the tension building between him and Annavella at the door, missed the opportunity to notice the shift in the room. Edur wasted no time, darting across the room to the other side.

The room erupted into a chaotic scramble as the two began to race around the couch, desperate to outwit each other. Azer darted forward, hands swiping at Edur’s sash as he tried to wrestle it free, all while Edur skillfully dodged, his boots skidding across the floor.

Annavella, watching from the door with crossed arms, snickered. “This is ridiculous.”

Eris’ eyes narrowed as he observed his son and Edur in motion, running circles around the furniture, laughing and grunting with effort. Feyre, who had been sitting back with an almost concerned expression, found herself chuckling softly. It seemed like a good, messy game for the younger crowd.

Cassian leaned forward, amused. “They have no idea how to play with rules.”

Edur took another sharp turn, tossing his head back and narrowly avoiding Azer’s swipe. He grinned as he dodged the grasping hands, turning the corner of the couch and heading toward the far end of the room, where the walls met.

Azer, not one to back down easily, followed with impressive speed, his footsteps echoing in pursuit, and in one smooth motion, grabbed the end of Edur’s sash. The two collided against the wall, laughter filling the room as they wrestled, their bodies tangling for control.

Meanwhile, the rest of the group—Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, and Eris—looked on in disbelief at the chaos unfolding in front of them. Annavella shook her head. “You’re both impossible.”

But it was too late. Azer, with a triumphant grin, yanked Edur’s sash free just as he was about to slip away, causing a ripple of laughter to spread throughout the room. The game was theirs to lose or win, depending on how they decided to end it.

The tension in the room was palpable. Azer, still holding Edur’s sash with a sense of triumph, barely had a chance to catch his breath before he heard the unmistakable sound of Nyx’s footsteps charging down the hall. His eyes snapped to the doorway just in time to see Nyx darting into the room with a confident, determined smirk plastered across his face.

Nyx’s hands were full—both of Cassian’s sons’ sashes in his grip. He had clearly planned this, and Azer immediately knew what was coming. Nyx was coming for him. His heart raced. He had to move.

Azer's mind worked quickly, a plan forming in an instant. He had no time to waste. He looked around the room frantically, eyes landing on Avey, who was sitting on the couch with her usual seven-year-old attitude—unbothered, playing with the fringes of her dress.

“Avey, quick! Distract him!” Azer whispered urgently, his voice barely audible above the ruckus.

Avey blinked up at him, confused for just a moment before a wicked grin spread across her face. She understood. With a swift jump from the couch, Avey darted toward Nyx, blocking his path. She flung herself in front of him, hands on her hips.

“You can’t catch my brother!” she declared loudly, a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. Nyx, taken aback by the sudden interruption, faltered for a moment. It was enough.

Azer didn't hesitate. He sprinted toward the nearest window, sliding his hand along the windowsill as he reached it in record time. He glanced back one last time, seeing Nyx’s expression twist with annoyance as Avey continued to give him a hard time, giggling like a true force of chaos.

In one swift motion, Azer pushed the window open and leaped out into the cool night air. The wind rushed past him, and he landed with a soft thud on the grass below, immediately rolling to absorb the impact and springing to his feet. His breath was short, but a victorious grin spread across his face. He had outsmarted Nyx—for now.

Inside, he could hear the commotion and the footsteps of Nyx cursing under his breath as Avey continued to play her part.

Azer wasted no time. He bolted toward the shadows, his heart pounding with the thrill of his escape, knowing Nyx would be chasing after him in seconds.

The room fell into an uneasy silence after the chaos erupted. You, Eris, and the Inner Circle stood frozen in shock, eyes wide, mouths slightly agape as the sound of a window crashing open echoed through the room. It all happened so fast.

You blinked, processing the whirlwind of events that had just unfolded. One moment, Azer had been in the middle of the room, engaged in the frantic game of tag with Nyx and the others. The next, Avey had distracted Nyx long enough for Azer to make a break for it, literally jumping out the window. You didn’t even have time to react before Azer was gone.

Eris stood next to you, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched. His usually stoic expression had softened, a mix of disbelief and amusement in his eyes. He had been watching the game unfold with mild amusement, not expecting this kind of chaos from their children. But watching Azer make his grand exit—well, that was something else entirely. His gaze flickered between the window and the room, trying to make sense of what had just happened.

Cassian let out a low chuckle, shaking his head, though his eyes remained focused on the window Azer had just leapt from. Azriel, ever the quiet one, let out an almost inaudible sigh, his usual calm demeanor disrupted by the unexpected nature of the situation.

Feyre’s eyes were wide, an expression of both surprise and confusion. “Did… did he just jump out the window?”

Rhysand, typically in control of every situation, stood still, his usual calm confidence replaced by a rare moment of bafflement. He turned to you, a questioning look in his eyes. “What just happened?” His voice held a mixture of disbelief and amusement, unsure if he should scold Azer for his daring escape or simply laugh at the absurdity of it all.

Azriel’s gaze flicked to you as well, but there was no judgment in his eyes—just mild amusement. Even Cassian’s typical stern expression had given way to a grin, though he quickly tried to suppress it. This was, after all, Azer’s game. And he had certainly earned a victory in a rather unconventional way.

Eris, however, was the first to speak. His voice was low and amused, despite the shock that still lingered in his eyes. “That kid’s got more audacity than I thought. He’s lucky he didn’t break his neck.” He muttered under his breath, though there was no real anger in his words—only admiration for his son’s quick thinking.

You shook your head, laughing softly despite yourself. “He’s going to be impossible to keep up with when he's High Lord,” you muttered, your voice a mix of frustration and affection. You couldn’t help it—your heart swelled with pride, even as you worried about what he’d gotten himself into now.

Feyre laughed softly, shaking her head. “They really do take after you both, don’t they?” She shot you and Eris a teasing look, clearly amused by how much Azer’s antics seemed to mirror both of your personalities.

Eris sighed, running a hand through his hair, looking half exasperated and half proud. "I can’t believe he actually did that." His voice was softer now, the shock of the moment slowly wearing off. But even as he spoke, the corners of his lips twitched upward. He couldn’t entirely suppress the amusement, nor the pride that was creeping into his tone. Azer had certainly made a memorable exit.

You could only nod, exhaling a long breath. “I don’t know whether to scold him or congratulate him,” you said, your voice tinged with both amusement and concern. “But that was… something else.”

Rhysand raised an eyebrow, his amusement now clear. “Well, I suppose we have an entirely new level of expectations for the next round of games,” he said, a teasing edge to his voice.

Cassian grinned, clapping his hands together. “I think it’s safe to say we’ll have to keep a closer eye on those two from now on. Their tactics are… unpredictable.”

You shot them all a look, shaking your head. “We really need to find that boy before he does something else insane.”

But as the sound of footsteps echoed outside, it was clear that Azer wasn’t done yet.

The room barely had time to settle before another commotion erupted outside. Just beyond the closed doors of the study, a startled yelp rang out, followed by a triumphant shout—Azer’s unmistakable voice.

“No! Azer, you absolute menace—give that back!” Noelani’s indignant cry echoed through the halls, her frustration dripping from every syllable.

A split second later, rapid footsteps thundered past the study doors, followed by the sharp rustling of fabric. The unmistakable sound of a sash being yanked away filled the air, accompanied by Azer’s laughter—wild, unrestrained, and utterly victorious.

From where you stood, you could practically see the scene unfolding in your mind’s eye—Noelani, fuming, reaching out desperately to reclaim her stolen sash while Azer, grinning like a fox, danced just out of reach, taunting her.

Eris sighed heavily beside you, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I swear, that boy is going to be the death of me.”

Cassian, on the other hand, had no such concerns. He let out a full-bodied laugh, shaking his head as if this was the most entertainment he’d had in ages. “I have to admit—he’s got strategy.”

Azriel simply exhaled, glancing toward the door as though debating whether or not he should intervene. But even he seemed reluctant to put an end to whatever madness Azer had just unleashed.

Rhysand, for his part, turned to you and Eris with an amused smirk. “You must be so proud,” he teased, though his voice held no real bite—just sheer amusement at the chaos unfolding under his own roof.

Before either of you could respond, Noelani’s voice rang out again, this time sharper, filled with pure determination. “You are so dead when I catch you, Azer!”

Azer still had his own sash.

And that meant Nyx hadn't won yet.

His grip tightened around the fabric in his hands, his violet eyes narrowing in sharp calculation. If he didn’t get Azer’s sash, then everything he had worked for—the tackles, the stolen sashes, the perfectly timed dodges—would be for nothing.

Azer was fast. Annoyingly fast. He always had an escape plan, always seemed to slip out of reach at the last second. But this time, Nyx refused to let that happen.

"Shit," he muttered under his breath, already taking off in pursuit.

Noelani, still fuming from having her sash stolen, turned as she saw him sprint past. “He took mine!” she seethed.

“I know,” Nyx called over his shoulder. “But if I don’t take his, he wins.”

Noelani’s eyes widened slightly before her own competitive streak kicked in. “Well, put those legs to use then.”

She bolted after Nyx, both of them closing in on Azer like a pair of predators hunting down their prey.

Azer must have sensed it because he suddenly twisted mid-run, glancing over his shoulder. When he saw Nyx coming for him—pure determination etched into his features—Azer’s grin widened.

“Oh, now you’re really worried, huh?” Azer taunted.

Nyx didn’t bother wasting breath on a response. His only focus was the sash still tied at Azer’s waist.

If he wanted to win, he had to get it.

And he only had minutes left.

The second he reached the riverbank, he didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate.

He jumped.

The cold water swallowed him whole.

For a few agonizing seconds, all he could hear was the muffled roar of the river, all he could feel was the shock of it against his skin. But as he kicked his way back up to the surface, gasping, he caught sight of the others skidding to a halt on the river’s edge.

Nyx looked utterly murderous.

“You idiot!” Nyx barked, stepping closer like he might actually consider diving in after him.

Azer only grinned, flicking his wet hair out of his eyes as he bobbed in the water, his captured sashes still clutched in one hand. “What’s wrong, High Lord’s son? Can’t swim?”

Nyx could swim. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that diving into the Sidra, at night, in a game, was possibly the dumbest and most reckless move anyone had ever made. And yet—somehow—it was also the smartest. Because Nyx wasn’t about to risk it.

Azer had called his bluff.

The others stood by, panting, watching the two boys locked in a silent battle of wills. Noelani muttered something under her breath, hands on her hips, while Edur crossed his arms, clearly unimpressed. Cassian’s sons were just laughing.

Azer smirked up at them all, treading water effortlessly.

“Well,” he drawled, “are you coming in, or am I winning?”

Annavella burst out onto the riverbank, her damp hair still sticking to her face from her earlier fall into the Sidra. She was breathless, eyes wild as she skidded to a stop beside the others.

"Two minutes left!" she shouted, hands on her knees as she caught her breath.

Azer grinned from the water, still floating effortlessly, knowing exactly what that meant. Two minutes, and Nyx had no way to get to him. Two minutes, and unless someone else had more sashes than him, he’d won.

Nyx cursed, running a hand through his dark hair in frustration. "You can’t just hide in the damn river—"

"It’s strategy," Azer shot back smugly. "You were the one chasing me. I just made sure you couldn’t catch me."

Noelani groaned, already giving up. Edur rubbed a hand over his jaw, looking half-impressed, half-annoyed. Cassian’s sons were still laughing, and Annavella—damn her—looked like she was barely holding back a smirk.

"One minute and fifty seconds," she reminded, rocking back on her heels.

Nyx growled low in his throat, staring at the water like he could will Azer out of it with sheer force. But the clock was running down.

Azer only smirked wider, kicking lazily against the current.

"Guess you better start counting, High Lord’s son."

Nyx clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides as he stared at Azer floating smugly in the Sidra. His wings twitched, like he was seriously considering diving in after him, but they both knew he wouldn’t. Nyx might be a strong swimmer, but Azer had the advantage in the water.

"One minute thirty," Annavella called again, her voice sing-song with amusement.

Azer stretched his arms behind his head, floating effortlessly. "You could always admit defeat," he taunted, smirking. "Might do you some good, Nyxie."

Nyx growled, taking a step forward like he was going to jump in. Azer tensed slightly, but then Nyx stopped, his eyes narrowing.

"One minute," Annavella said.

Nyx’s expression shifted—calculated, dangerous.

Azer suddenly felt the shift in the air just before purple magic curled over the river, gripping around his arms and legs.

"Oh, you—"

Before he could move, he was yanked from the Sidra, dragged mid-air as Nyx’s shadows lifted him, sending water cascading down onto the stone path. Azer thrashed, laughing and cursing at the same time, trying to shake free.

"Thirty seconds," Annavella called, grinning.

Nyx’s wings flared, his stance steady as he pulled Azer closer, reaching for the sash still pinned to his tunic. But Azer wasn’t going down that easy.

Using the momentum of Nyx’s pull, Azer twisted his body mid-air, yanking Nyx’s sash right off his belt.

Nyx froze. Azer hit the ground, rolling to his feet just as the timer dinged.

Silence fell over the group.

Then Annavella clapped. "And the winner is—Azer Vanserra!"

Azer held up Nyx’s sash with a victorious smirk, panting. "Better luck next time, High Lord’s son."

Azer barely had time to register his victory before Annavella’s hands shoved at his chest.

Caught off guard, he stumbled back, still dripping wet from the Sidra. "What the hell—"

"You pushed me into a river!" she shouted, her blue eyes blazing as she marched toward him. "You threw me in and laughed!"

Azer smirked. "Yeah—because it was funny."

Annavella shoved him again, this time harder. Azer’s foot slipped slightly on the wet stone, and he barely caught himself before going down. "Vella!"

But she was determined. The moment he tried to straighten, she grabbed the front of his soaked tunic, hooked her foot behind his ankle, and yanked.

Azer hit the ground with a thud, coughing as the air left his lungs. He blinked up at her, stunned. "You—"

"Now that’s funny," she said sweetly, smoothing her hands over her dress.

Edur snorted. Noelani outright cackled. Nyx, still annoyed from losing, crossed his arms and said, "Should’ve seen that coming, Vanserra."

Azer groaned, rubbing the back of his head. "You know I’m getting you back for that, right?"

Annavella grinned, tapping her chin like she was really considering it. "We’ll see."

She turned on her heel and sauntered back toward the River House.

Azer sat up, watching her go, shaking his head with a smirk. "Illyrians," he muttered. "Unbelievable."

Andros and Evander stepped forward, each grabbing one of Azer’s arms to haul him up.

"Damn," Andros muttered as he yanked Azer to his feet. "She really got you good."

Azer scowled, rolling his shoulders as water dripped from his clothes. "You could’ve stopped her, you know."

Evander clapped him on the back hard enough to send another spray of water flying. "Why would we? That was the most entertaining thing we’ve seen all night."

"Glad I could provide such amusement," Azer deadpanned, shaking out his arms and wincing at his sore muscles.

Andros smirked. "You have to admit, you had it coming."

Azer just grumbled under his breath. "Whatever."

Evander slung an arm over his shoulder. "Cheer up, Vanserra. You did win the game."

Azer sighed, brushing his soaked hair out of his face. "Yeah, and at what cost?"

Andros chuckled. "Your dignity. But hey, you’ll dry."

Azer shoved them both off with an exasperated groan, but despite himself, he was grinning. "I swear, one day I’m going to get her back for that."

Evander just shrugged. "Sure, sure. But for now, let’s get inside before you catch a cold, oh Mighty Victor."

Azer rolled his eyes, but as they turned toward the River House, he couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath.

As they made their way back to the River House, Azer ran a hand through his drenched hair with a frustrated sigh.

"I swear," he muttered, "next time we play this game, I’m setting rules against being shoved into the Sidra."

Evander snorted. "What, scared you’ll lose if we can push you around?"

Azer rolled his eyes but didn’t answer. Instead, he let out a slow breath and summoned a flicker of heat in his palms. The flames licked up his forearms, harmless against his own skin but burning away the moisture in his clothes. Steam rose from his tunic as the water evaporated, and soon enough, he was mostly dry.

"Show-off," Andros muttered.

"Just practical," Azer shot back. "Unlike some of us, I don’t enjoy walking around feeling like a drowned rat."

Evander smirked. "Speaking of drowned rats… What do you think Annavella’s gonna do when she sees you dried off and smug?"

Azer paused mid-step. "She wouldn’t—"

"*Oh, she would," Andros cut in. "And you know she would."

Azer sighed heavily. "Seven hells."

"Don’t worry," Evander grinned, slapping a hand on his back. "We’ll make sure she only mildly humiliates you."

Azer shot him a glare as they reached the River House steps. "You two are really terrible friends."

"Nah," Andros said with a smirk. "We’re just entertained by your suffering."

Azer grumbled under his breath but shoved open the door, bracing himself for whatever came next.

As soon as Azer stepped inside, still running a hand through his slightly damp hair, the warmth of the River House wrapped around him. He barely had time to take a breath before—

"You dried off?!"

Annavella’s voice rang out from across the room.

Azer didn’t even see her before she barreled into him, knocking him back a step. Her hands were on his tunic, gripping the fabric like she was personally offended by his lack of suffering.

"You got to dry off while I had to walk all the way back dripping?!" she accused, narrowing her eyes. "That’s not fair, Azer!"

He smirked down at her, feigning innocence. "What, you wanted me to freeze?"

"Yes," she deadpanned. "Yes, I did."*

Before he could blink, Annavella shoved him—hard. He barely managed to catch himself before stumbling straight into the couch where Nyx, Andros, and Evander were still laughing at him.

"I was soaked," Annavella continued, crossing her arms. "My hair was soaked. My dress was soaked. And you just flame-dried yourself like nothing happened?"

"It’s not my fault I have practical magic," Azer said with a lazy grin. "You could’ve asked Nyx to dry you off—he’s got power, too."*

Nyx held up his hands in surrender. "Don’t bring me into this."*

Annavella huffed. "You’re insufferable."

Azer only smirked. "And yet, you keep hanging around me."*

Before she could lunge at him again, Rhysand’s voice cut through the room. "That’s enough, you two."

Azer turned to find their parents standing near the grand fireplace, arms crossed. Feyre and Rhysand looked unimpressed, but Eris? He had the exact same smirk as Azer—like he was both amused and proud.

"Do I even want to know what just happened?" Feyre asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Probably not," Nyx said with a grin.

"But we won," Azer added, tossing Annavella’s sash onto the nearby table like a prize.

Eris sighed, shaking his head. "Remind me again why we agreed to this gathering?"

You just laughed, moving to stand beside him. "Because you secretly enjoy watching them cause chaos."*

Eris slid an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Maybe just a little."*

Just as Azer was catching his breath, a blur of wild red curls and boundless energy crashed into him.

"Azer! Azer!"

Avey leaped onto him with all the force her little body could muster, and he barely had time to react before he instinctively caught her, lifting her into his arms. She wrapped her arms around his neck, squeezing tightly, her little legs kicking against his sides.

"You owe me, big brother!" she announced, pulling back just enough to give him a look of pure smugness. "I helped you, and you owe me!"

Azer groaned, adjusting his hold on her as he shot a glance at the others, who were all grinning. "What do you mean, you helped me?"

Avey huffed in exasperation. "I distracted Nyx, remember?!" She poked his chest with one tiny finger, making her point. "I let you use me so you could win!"

Azer fought the laugh bubbling in his chest, but his lips still twitched. "So?"

"So?" Avey gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her chest like he’d insulted her. "You owe me! That’s the rule! You promised if I helped you, you’d get me sticky buns for a whole month!"

At that, Andros and Evander burst out laughing, while Annavella just smirked, clearly enjoying the way Azer was now trapped in a deal with his seven-year-old menace of a sister.

"A whole month, huh?" Azer mused, raising an eyebrow.

Avey nodded furiously, her curls bouncing. "Yes! Every day! Sticky buns!"

"You drive a hard bargain, brat," Azer sighed dramatically, shifting her in his arms. "But fine. You win."

Avey cheered, throwing her arms up in victory. "I always win!"

Eris, who had been watching with clear amusement, chuckled. "Gods help us all."

You crossed your arms and gave Avey a pointed look, though she was still clinging to Azer like a little leech. "*There is no way you are having that much sugar,*" you said, your tone firm but amused.

Avey gasped dramatically, her little hands gripping onto Azer’s shirt like you’d just declared the worst punishment imaginable. "But Mama!"

"No ‘but Mama.’" You arched an eyebrow. "A sticky bun every single day for a month? You’d be bouncing off the walls! You already have enough energy to drive your father and your brother insane."

"And I do not appreciate it," Eris murmured under his breath, though there was a hint of a smirk on his lips as he watched the exchange.

Avey huffed, turning to Azer for backup. "Azer, tell her! You promised!"

Azer just grinned down at her. "I did promise," he said, tilting his head. "But I didn’t say they’d be normal sticky buns. Maybe I’ll get you healthy ones. With, you know, carrots in them."

Avey screamed in horror, throwing herself back in his arms as if he had personally betrayed her. "NOOOOOO! NOT CARROTS!"

Everyone laughed, even Rhysand, Cassian, and Azriel, who had been watching the entire thing unfold with barely concealed amusement.

You sighed, rubbing your temple. "How about this? You can have sticky buns—but only on weekends."

Avey pouted, narrowing her eyes as if trying to determine whether she could negotiate this deal. But you were unmovable.

Finally, she slumped against Azer’s chest. "Fiiiine."

"That’s my girl," you said, smoothing a curl away from her face before shooting a glare at Azer. "And you? Don’t make promises like that again."

Azer held up his hands in surrender, but the smug look on his face told you he absolutely would do it again.

Azer grinned as he adjusted Avey in his arms, her little arms still wrapped around his neck like a koala. With a dramatic sigh, he looked at their father. "Here, take this," he said, unceremoniously depositing his giggling little sister into Eris’s arms. "I have a victory to celebrate."*

Eris barely had time to adjust Avey before Azer spun on his heel, his smirk growing as he spotted Nyx near the doorway.

"Nyx," Azer drawled, strolling over with the confidence of someone who had just outsmarted everyone. "You’re looking a little… defeated."

Nyx rolled his eyes, arms crossed, though there was an edge of frustration on his face. "You literally jumped into the Sidra like a lunatic," he grumbled. "That wasn’t even strategy, that was just stupid."

"Stupid?" Azer mocked, placing a hand over his chest as if wounded. "Or genius? Because if I recall, you didn’t follow me in. Meaning—" He reached into his pocket, pulling out the collection of sashes he had won throughout the game, dangling them right in front of Nyx’s face. "—I won."

Nyx’s jaw tightened at the sight of the sashes, his wings twitching in frustration. "Barely."

"‘Barely’ still means I won," Azer said, grinning as he took a step closer, just to rub it in. "And you? Well… enjoy second place."

Cassian, standing behind Nyx, snorted at his son’s sour expression. "You have to admit, kid, he got you."

Nyx scowled, but before he could retort, Avey’s excited little voice rang out from across the room, "AZER BEAT YOU! AZER BEAT YOU!"

Nyx groaned while Azer just laughed, throwing an arm over his shoulder. "Don’t feel too bad, Night Court Prince. Maybe next year."

"Yeah, yeah," Nyx muttered, crossing his arms as he shot a look at his older brother. "Next time, I’ll make sure you don’t cheat by jumping in a river."

Azer raised an eyebrow, a sly grin creeping up his face. "If you say so, Nyx. But I don’t think your plan to hold me back was enough to stop the master."

Cassian chuckled from the side, watching the banter between the brothers. "You sure know how to ruffle feathers, Azer."

"It’s in my nature," Azer said with a grin, patting his pocket where the sashes were tucked. "What can I say? The victory’s sweet, but the look on Nyx’s face? That’s priceless."

Nyx huffed but was silently admiring his brother’s confidence, even if he hated to admit it.

"Alright," Eris interrupted, still holding Avey, "You two can play your little game of one-upmanship later. For now, let’s just get inside and clean up. Your pride can survive for five minutes without you tooting your own horn."

Avey, still perched in Eris’s arms, nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah! Let’s go, Azer! We can have sticky buns later!" She beamed at her brother, clearly still on her victory-high.

Azer chuckled, squeezing her cheek before following his family back inside, still grinning over his victory, even if Nyx hadn’t quite forgiven him yet. "You heard her," Azer teased as they walked inside. "Sticky buns for everyone tonight."

-----

The night had settled in, and the once-bustling house was now quiet, with only the soft glow of candlelight flickering from various corners. You sat comfortably on the edge of your and Eris’s bed, Avey curled up against you, her small fingers tugging at the hem of your sleeve as she tried to stay awake. Azer was leaning back against the wall, his arms crossed, a satisfied smirk still lingering on his lips after his victorious game.

Eris, who had been pacing around the room while finishing his drink, now settled beside you, a soft smile forming as he watched the two kids bicker back and forth.

"You know, this day wasn’t a total disaster after all," Eris said, his voice a low rumble as he settled beside you, his hand brushing your back in a reassuring manner.

Avey yawned and nodded sleepily. "Yeah! We had fun, even though Azer got wet!" she giggled, her little voice full of innocence. "But Azer won! He totally tricked Nyx!"

Azer chuckled at his sister's enthusiasm but didn’t bother hiding the pride in his voice. "It wasn’t tricking, Avey. It was strategy." He threw you a quick glance. "The Sidra’s cold, though. I’ll never do that again."

You raised an eyebrow, giving him a playful side-eye. "You’d better not. But at least you’re dry now, so that’s something."

Eris smirked, placing his arm around you, a soft chuckle escaping him. "You’ll never hear the end of that from him, you know." His gaze flickered to Avey, who was now snuggling against your side, eyelids fluttering with exhaustion. "How long do you think she’ll last before she falls asleep?"

"Not long," you said with a grin, your fingers running through Avey's hair as she snuggled into you, already half-asleep. "She’s always the first to go down after a busy day."

Azer leaned forward, his gaze softened, and his voice quieter. "I think today turned out okay. Avey got soaked, but she still had a blast. And, well, I won the game, so... I’m good with how things went." He shot you a teasing look. "You can’t deny my victory."

"You’re insufferable," Eris muttered, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "But you do have your moments, kid."

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Honestly, I can’t believe you both are already like this at such a young age. Just give me a few years before I need a glass of wine every time you two scheme something." You smiled at them, your heart swelling with affection. "But I’m glad you’re happy. Today wasn’t a disaster... I think it was a pretty great day."

Avey’s voice, though drowsy, broke through the air with a sleepy murmur. "We had so much fun, mama." She looked up at you with tired eyes. "Tomorrow, we can do it again?"

"Tomorrow," you said softly, brushing her hair back from her face as she nestled into your shoulder, already half-dreaming. "Tomorrow we’ll have more adventures."

Eris looked at you, his expression tender, as if he too was savouring the moment. "It’s nice," he murmured, "having a quiet night after all the chaos."

You smiled at him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "Yeah, it is. And... we’ll always be there for them, won’t we? No matter how crazy things get."

Eris nodded, his gaze flickering to your children, a rare, soft expression crossing his face. "Always."

Azer walked over to the foot of the bed, his steps confident but not hurried, the remnants of a mischievous grin still playing on his lips. He let out a small huff of air, almost as if he were tired, but satisfied. With a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders, he swung his legs up and plopped down onto the foot of the bed, the mattress giving a slight bounce under his weight.

He leaned back, his elbows resting on the bedframe as he sprawled out comfortably, stretching his legs out in front of him. His dark hair was a little damp from his earlier escapade, but it didn’t seem to bother him as he let out a contented sigh, glancing toward you and Eris.

His posture was relaxed, but there was a certain pride in the way he held himself—like he knew he’d won the day, and no one would let him forget it. He shot a playful glance at you both, his eyes gleaming with the quiet satisfaction of victory. "So, you guys finally ready to accept that I’m the best at everything, or should I just let you keep pretending I’m not?" he teased, his voice light, but laced with an undeniable confidence.

Despite the teasing, you could see the remnants of exhaustion creeping in—his shoulders slumped just slightly as he let himself relax, taking in the peaceful moment. There was a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, though, like he was already plotting what he could conquer next.

"You’re insufferable," Eris muttered, but there was a fondness in his tone that couldn’t be hidden.

Azer just smirked, leaning back further into the bed, his gaze drifting back toward his sister, still nestled against you. "Yeah, yeah," he muttered lazily. "I’m just getting started."

Avey’s small hands pressed against the soft fabric of the bed as she crawled toward her older brother, her little body shifting and wriggling with determination. She paused for a moment, glancing up at you and Eris with a playful gleam in her eyes. With a grin that spoke volumes of her mischief, she continued her journey across the bed, her knees pressing into the mattress as she made her way to Azer.

When she finally reached him, her tiny hands gripped the edge of his leg for leverage, and with a giggle, she climbed onto him, her little body suddenly sprawled across his chest. Azer looked down in surprise, but his initial shock quickly turned to amusement. He let out a small huff of laughter, his arms instinctively reaching up to catch her as she settled on top of him, her small head resting against his chest.

"Avey," he grumbled, trying to push her off with a feigned look of annoyance, but there was no real force behind it. His voice was a mix of affection and slight exasperation as she made herself comfortable, her tiny body a stark contrast to his taller, leaner frame. "You’re heavy, you know that?"

Avey only responded with a laugh, her small hands grabbing at his shirt and pulling herself closer, enjoying the warmth of her brother’s body. She nuzzled her face into his chest with a sigh of contentment, closing her eyes as if she were perfectly at ease, ignoring his protests.

"You’re not getting off me anytime soon, are you?" Azer grumbled, but it was all in good fun. He glanced over to you and Eris, a small grin playing at the corner of his mouth. "She’s a bit of a leech, isn’t she?"

Avey didn’t respond, but simply shifted slightly, making herself even more comfortable as she continued to lie on top of him, her breath slowing as she began to relax into him.

There was a softness in the way Azer allowed her to remain on him, despite his teasing. He had always been protective of his sister, even if he didn’t always show it openly. And in that moment, as Avey settled on him and the room seemed to quiet down, it was clear—despite all their bickering and rivalry—that the bond between them was something special, something unspoken.

As the minutes passed, the soft rhythm of Azer’s breathing became more steady, his chest rising and falling beneath Avey's tiny form. Avey’s little fingers, still curled around the fabric of Azer’s shirt, relaxed as her eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep. Her face, which had been alight with mischief just moments ago, softened as her tiny body melted into the warmth of her older brother. Her head rested against his chest, and she sighed contentedly, the rise and fall of his breath lulling her deeper into a peaceful sleep.

Azer, though initially attempting to push her off, had given in after a while, his arms naturally wrapping around her as if by instinct. His head tilted slightly to the side, his eyes half-lidded as he tried to stay awake for a few more moments, but the pull of exhaustion was too strong. Slowly, his body relaxed, his limbs no longer tensing in mock resistance. He shifted slightly, adjusting to accommodate Avey’s weight, before finally settling in completely. His hand rested gently on her back, the faintest traces of protectiveness in the way he held her.

Soon, his breathing mirrored Avey’s, slow and even. A peaceful silence filled the room, the only sound the occasional shift of the bed or the soft murmur of the wind outside. They both lay there, perfectly still, locked in the safety of their bond, oblivious to the world around them as they slept.

You and Eris exchanged a quiet glance as you both stood up from where you had been seated, watching the siblings with a mix of tenderness and amusement. It wasn’t often that the two were this calm together, and there was something so serene about seeing them like this—so vulnerable and innocent, drifting into sleep.

Eris made his way to the edge of the bed and, with a soft chuckle, he gently brushed a lock of Avey’s hair out of her face. “They’re out for the count,” he murmured, his voice low to avoid waking them.

You nodded softly, the warmth in your chest undeniable as you walked over to the foot of the bed, picking up a cozy blanket. Carefully, you draped it over Azer’s legs, pulling it up to cover Avey as well. Eris did the same from the other side, adjusting the blanket to ensure they both stayed warm. There was an unspoken understanding between the two of you as you shared a look, both knowing how important it was for them to have moments like this—to be children, to be safe.

As you finished adjusting the blanket, you leaned down slightly, brushing a soft kiss against Avey’s head. Her small body didn’t stir, and neither did Azer, their deep sleep unbroken by the movement. They were so at peace in that moment, and you felt a surge of gratitude for the quiet, for the simplicity of just being in their presence.

Eris, standing beside you, placed a hand gently on your shoulder. He gave a small, knowing smile, his eyes soft as he glanced down at the two children asleep on the bed. “They’ll be alright,” he said, his voice just above a whisper. “We’ve got them.”

The quiet of the room behind you contrasted sharply with the gentle hum of the night air as you and Eris stepped out onto the balcony. The door clicked softly behind you, a small sound that felt almost sacred in the stillness of the evening. The balcony stretched out before you, offering a sweeping view of the Night Court’s landscape—the stars gleaming high above, the moon casting a silver glow on the horizon, and the sound of the Sidra’s distant flow creating a soothing backdrop.

You stood there for a moment, taking in the beauty of the night, your gaze sweeping across the scenery. It felt like an eternity since you had shared a moment like this, just the two of you, away from the chaos of the day. The air was cool against your skin, but the warmth of Eris' presence behind you pulled you from your thoughts.

Without a word, his arms slid around your waist, pulling you gently against him. His chest was solid against your back, his body radiating a warmth that seemed to seep into your own skin, melting away the tension you hadn't realized had built up. You leaned back into him instinctively, feeling the comfort of his embrace, and the quiet reassurance it brought. His chin rested lightly on your shoulder as he exhaled softly, his breath warm against your neck.

The night was quiet, the world around you still. But in the comfort of Eris' arms, it felt like you were the only two people who existed in that moment. He didn’t speak immediately, as though savouring the tranquillity of the silence, but his presence—his strength—spoke volumes.

You closed your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink further into the safety of his hold. The weight of the day seemed to lift as you breathed in the cool air, your thoughts slowing down with every exhale. Eris pressed a kiss against your neck, his lips lingering just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. He tightened his grip just slightly, a silent reminder that he was there, grounding you.

“We’re doing alright, aren’t we?” he murmured into your skin, his voice low and soft, just for you.

You smiled, feeling his warmth against you, his presence a silent comfort in the quiet of the night. “Yeah. We are,” you replied, your voice steady despite the softness of the moment. “We really are.”

You let out a small laugh, your voice light and playful as you tilted your head to look up at him. His arms were still wrapped around you, holding you close, and the warmth from his body seeped into yours. The night air was cool, but there was an undeniable comfort in his presence. You were almost lost in the peace of the moment before your curiosity got the better of you.

“You know…” you began, teasing as you casually swayed in his arms, “What would you do if we had more kids? Would you be able to handle the chaos?”

You could feel his chest rumble slightly with a low chuckle at your question, but he didn’t immediately answer, instead tightening his hold on you just a fraction more. His hands slid from your waist to your sides, his touch light but knowing.

“You’re really trying to add more chaos to the mix, aren’t you?” His voice was laced with amusement, but there was a faint undertone of curiosity there too, as though the thought had never really crossed his mind before.

You chuckled, giving him a sideways glance. “I mean, we’ve got the two of them already, and they’re a handful. I’m sure we could manage a couple more.”

Eris hummed thoughtfully, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder. “If we did, I’m sure they’d be just as strong-willed as Avey and Azer. It might be a bit much for me to handle, but…” His voice trailed off, and there was a warmth in his words, a quiet pride in the idea of expanding your family.

You raised an eyebrow, sensing his hesitation. “What? You’re telling me you wouldn’t love a few more little ones running around? Imagine them—our own little army.”

His lips twitched upward at your suggestion. “An army? We’d have to hire extra staff just to keep things in order.” His tone was light, teasing, but you knew him well enough to hear the unspoken affection beneath it. He thought about the future—about the life you and he could build together—and it was something he cherished more than he would admit.

You laughed again, shaking your head. “Alright, alright, I’m kidding. But, hey, you never know.”

Eris gave a soft laugh, his hands moving up to your shoulders as he turned you in his arms to face him fully. “I think we’ve got enough on our hands for now, don’t you?”

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips, savoring the quiet connection between you. “I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

His grin was more playful now, the familiar glint in his eyes returning. “If we do, I think I might have to build a whole new wing of the house.” He paused, clearly enjoying the mental image. “And keep the staff on high alert.”

You pulled back slightly, your gaze meeting his as the playful smile on your lips faded into something a little more sincere. The night was quiet around you, the distant sounds of the city muffled by the walls of the balcony. The air was cool, but the warmth between you and Eris was enough to keep you feeling grounded.

You tilted your head, studying him, curiosity flickering in your eyes. “Would you really think another child would be so bad?” you asked softly, your voice laced with both humour and sincerity. You knew he was more than capable of handling anything life threw at him, and you couldn’t help but wonder what his true thoughts were on the possibility.

Eris paused, his arms still resting loosely around you as he seemed to consider your question. His gaze softened just a touch, and for a brief moment, the playful mask slipped away, revealing the vulnerability he rarely showed. He met your eyes and spoke with quiet thoughtfulness, his voice steady yet carrying the weight of something deeper.

“Another child…” He let the words hang in the air for a moment, his lips quirking slightly at the corners. “You’re not exactly wrong, I suppose. The two we already have have made things interesting, haven’t they?”

You couldn’t help but chuckle, remembering the chaos of the day. “Definitely interesting,” you agreed, the memories of your kids’ antics bringing a smile to your face.

His expression softened further, a hint of affection and pride slipping into his tone. “But… would it be bad? No. I don’t think so.” He paused, his thumb gently brushing the back of your hand, the touch tender and reassuring. “We’ve made this life together, and as much as I pretend I’m not ready for even more of a mess, I think we could handle it. You and I, together.”

Your heart fluttered at his words, and you leaned into him, your hand resting over his heart. “So, you’re saying that maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world?”

Eris gave a low chuckle, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Not quite the end of the world. But a little more chaos? Sure. I think we could make it work.”

You tilted your head slightly, a teasing grin forming on your lips. “You’d really be okay with it?”

His gaze met yours, the humor in his eyes now softening into something far more serious and affectionate. “You and I have always found a way to make things work, haven’t we?” he murmured, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “And I’d never say no to growing this family, if that’s what you want.”

You leaned in then, your lips brushing against his with a gentle, loving kiss. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer as you both melted into the warmth of the moment.

“Well, then,” you said softly, “maybe we’ll see what the future holds.” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes, your smile more tender now.

You leaned back against Eris, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest as his arms remained securely wrapped around your waist. The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of rain that had long since passed, leaving the city fresh and cool beneath the starlit sky. His warmth contrasted the chill, making you sink even further into his embrace.

A playful thought danced on your tongue, and you smirked as you tilted your head, just enough so your lips brushed the edge of his jaw. “So…” you started, drawing out the word in a way that made Eris hum in warning.

You felt his grip tighten slightly. “I know that tone,” he muttered, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “Whatever you’re about to say, I already know I’m in trouble.”

That only made you grin wider. “What would you do if we had a baby three?”

Eris groaned dramatically, though the deep chuckle that followed told you he wasn’t nearly as opposed as he pretended to be. “You mean after we finally got Avey to the age where she’s just a little less of a handful?”

“She’s still a handful,” you teased.

“Exactly.” His fingers traced lazy circles on your stomach through the fabric of your dress. “Another little one would mean starting all over again. No sleep, endless crying, chasing around—”

“You say that like you don’t secretly love it.”

Eris exhaled through his nose, a reluctant smile tugging at his lips. “I love them. And you,” he admitted, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “But another baby means even less us time.”

You turned in his arms then, resting your hands on his chest, watching his face closely. “Okay, but what about baby four?”

Eris blinked, his entire body stiffening. “Baby four?” His voice pitched slightly, and for the first time in years, you saw genuine alarm flicker in his eyes. “Where the hell did baby four come from?”

You burst out laughing at his expression. “I mean, you never know. What if we have twins?”

Eris dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that you were certain wasn’t entirely appropriate. “You’re trying to kill me,” he accused, though his hands found their way back to your waist, as if he had no intention of letting you go.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “So, you’re saying you wouldn’t want them?”

Eris groaned again, but this time, there was no real protest in it. He let his forehead drop to yours, exhaling deeply. “You are going to be the death of me,” he murmured, before brushing his lips over yours.

You grinned against his mouth. “But you’d love them.”

He sighed dramatically. “Unfortunately for me, yes.” His fingers brushed against your stomach, lingering there for a beat too long, as if he were already considering the idea. Then he shook his head with a small chuckle. “Three or four, we’d make it work. Just… let me breathe before you start planning a whole army, alright?”

You laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck. “No promises.”

Eris's lips found yours in a slow, unhurried kiss, one that sent warmth spreading through your chest like a flame catching on dry wood. His hands, strong and sure, slid up your back, pulling you flush against him as he deepened the kiss. It was the kind of kiss that made time feel irrelevant, as if the rest of the world had melted away, leaving only the two of you in the quiet of the balcony, the stars overhead and the soft rustling of the wind against the curtains behind you.

His mouth was all-consuming—firm yet gentle, his lips parting just enough for his tongue to brush against yours, drawing a quiet sigh from you. His hands gripped your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress as if he needed to ground himself. The way he kissed you was deliberate, slow and deep, like he was savoring every second.

You smiled against his lips, and when you finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, you let your fingers trail up his chest, tracing the golden embroidery on his tunic. His eyes, dark with heat, flickered between yours, still dazed from the kiss.

“So,” you murmured, tilting your head with a playful glint in your eye. “What about baby five?”

Eris stilled. Completely. You watched as his brain tried to process your words, his brows furrowing, lips parting slightly as if he wasn’t sure he had heard you correctly.

Then— “Five?” His voice cracked just enough for you to bite back a laugh.

You nodded, fighting to keep a straight face. “What if, after baby three and four, we decide one more would be nice?”

Eris took a step back, dragging a hand through his hair. “I—You—Five?” he repeated, sounding utterly betrayed.

You grinned. “Come on, wouldn’t it be fun?”

Eris turned his gaze to the sky as if praying to the Mother for patience. “I married a madwoman.”

You leaned into him, pressing another kiss to the corner of his mouth. “And yet, you love me.”

His grip on your waist tightened as he let out an exaggerated sigh. “Curse me, I do.” Then, before you could make another ridiculous suggestion, he kissed you again, this time with a desperate kind of fervour, as if he needed to erase any mention of baby five from your mind before it became a real possibility.

You leaned back slightly in Eris’s arms, tilting your head up to look at him. His golden eyes flickered with curiosity, the remnants of laughter still lingering in their depths from your last remark. His hands rested on your waist, warm and steady, like they always had been.

His thumb brushed absentmindedly over the fabric of your dress as he studied you. “What is it?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with something gentler—concern, maybe, or just a willingness to listen.

You swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight of your words before they even left your lips. There was something about standing here, with the stars overhead and the cool breeze whispering around you, that made the moment feel… different. Like whatever you said next would change something, shift something between you.

“Can I tell you something?” you murmured, voice quieter now, more tentative.

Eris’s brow lifted slightly, but he nodded without hesitation. “Of course,” he said simply, like it was the easiest answer in the world. Because for him, it was.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his tunic as you took a slow breath. You weren’t nervous—not really—but there was something so intimate about this, about saying it aloud.

His gaze searched yours, patient and unyielding. “You know you can tell me anything.”

You nodded, chewing on your lip before finally whispering, “I think… I think we might already be having baby three and four.”

Eris went utterly still.

For a long, stretched-out moment, Eris didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His arms were still wrapped around you, but you could feel the tension rippling through them, the way his entire body went rigid.

Then, slowly—so slowly—you watched his expression shift. His brows furrowed, his lips parting as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly.

“…What?” His voice was barely a breath, hoarse and disbelieving.

You bit your lip, fighting the smile threatening to break free. “I’m pregnant, Eris.” Your fingers tightened slightly in the fabric of his tunic. “With twins.”

He inhaled sharply, his hands on your waist gripping just a little tighter as if grounding himself. His golden eyes burned into yours, flickering with so many emotions you couldn’t name them all—shock, wonder, disbelief, joy.

And then—

He moved.

His hands cupped your face in an instant, tilting your head up as his lips crashed into yours. It wasn’t a gentle kiss, wasn’t careful or hesitant. It was raw, desperate, filled with the sheer overwhelming force of what you’d just told him.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was unsteady, his forehead pressing against yours. “Twins,” he echoed, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, unable to help the soft, breathless laugh that escaped you. “Twins.”

Eris let out something between a laugh and a groan, burying his face against the crook of your neck. “You’re telling me,” he murmured against your skin, “that we’re going from two to four just like that?”

You grinned, threading your fingers through his hair. “Is that a problem, my love?”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then, the slowest, most genuine smile you’d ever seen spread across his face. One of pure, unfiltered happiness.

“A problem?” he repeated, voice low and warm. He leaned in, brushing his lips over yours again. “Absolutely not.”

Eris kissed you again, slower this time, savouring the moment. His hands drifted down to your stomach, his thumbs brushing gently over the fabric of your dress as if he could already feel the life growing inside you.

“I should have known,” he murmured against your lips. “You’ve been glowing.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “I’m always glowing, Eris.”

“That’s true,” he admitted, smirking before pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “But this—this is different.” His voice turned softer, more reverent. “Twins,” he whispered again, like he was still trying to wrap his mind around it.

You nodded, watching as he knelt down, pressing his forehead against your stomach. “They’ll have your hair,” he said, his voice full of certainty.

You raised an eyebrow. “And if they don’t?”

Eris lifted his head, smirking. “Then I suppose I’ll have to love them anyway.” His hands smoothed over your sides before his expression turned teasing. “And here I thought we’d have a little break before adding more chaos to our lives.”

You smirked, running your fingers through his hair. “You knew what you were getting into when you married me.”

Eris chuckled, pressing another kiss to your stomach before standing. His arms circled you again, pulling you in close, the warmth of his body shielding you from the cool night air.

After a quiet moment, he exhaled and murmured, “Azer and Avey are going to lose their minds.”

You grinned, resting your head against his chest. “Avey will be thrilled.”

Eris huffed a laugh. “And Azer will pretend to be indifferent but secretly be just as excited.”

You hummed, enjoying the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. “We should probably tell them soon.”

Eris tightened his hold on you. “Not yet,” he said softly. “Just for a little while, let’s keep this between us.”

You tilted your head up to look at him, finding nothing but pure adoration in his eyes. “Alright,” you whispered, brushing a kiss against his jaw. “Just for a little while.”

Eris tilted his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he studied you. “When did you find out?” His voice was quiet, almost cautious, but there was an underlying intensity to it, like he was trying to piece everything together in his mind.

You bit your lip, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth. “Do you remember the night of the ball two months ago?”

He arched an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face. “Vividly.” His grip on your waist tightened slightly, his smirk mirroring yours. “We went… downtown.” His voice dipped lower, rich with the memory of that night—the stolen moments, the way he had pulled you away from the crowd, how he had pressed you against the cool stone wall of the secluded garden, his hands desperate and knowing.

You nodded, your smirk widening. “Well,” you drawled, placing your hands on his chest. “That’s when it happened.”

Eris inhaled sharply, as if the realization had just hit him fully. He blinked, shaking his head in disbelief. “And I haven’t known this whole time?”

You grinned, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “I’ve been masking my scent.”

His hands tightened on you again, his eyes darkening. “From everyone?”

You hummed. “You, the Inner Circle, anyone who might have noticed.”

Eris let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as he pulled you closer. “Clever little fox.” He kissed your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your lips. “You really didn’t want anyone to know?”

“I wanted to be sure,” you admitted softly, fingers tracing absent patterns over his chest. “And I liked having this secret to myself for a while. Just me and them.”

Eris exhaled, pressing his forehead against yours. “And now?”

You pulled back slightly, tilting your head as you studied him. “Now I want you to know. Now I want to share it with you.”

His breath hitched, something tender and raw flickering through his amber eyes before he kissed you, slow and deep, one hand sliding to your stomach again.

“I should have known,” he murmured against your lips. “But you always have a way of surprising me.”

You smiled, threading your fingers through his hair. “And you love it.”

Eris chuckled, his grip firm and possessive. “I do.” He kissed you again, lingering this time, like he was trying to commit the moment to memory. “And I love you.”

Eris didn’t pull away immediately. Instead, he let his lips linger against yours, as if savouring the weight of your confession—of this new life growing inside you. His hands traced slow circles over your waist before sliding lower, his fingers splaying protectively over your stomach.

His breath was warm against your skin when he finally murmured, “Two more, huh?”

You smirked against his mouth. “Seems like it.”

Eris exhaled a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Twins,” he mused, his voice laced with something unreadable. “That’s what you’re telling me?”

You nodded, watching his expression closely. Despite his teasing tone, there was something else there—something softer, more reverent.

You laughed, resting your forehead against his. “So, what do you think?”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “About having four children?”

You nodded, biting your lip.

Eris was quiet for a moment, his gaze searching yours. Then, in one smooth motion, he lifted you effortlessly, spinning you until your back was pressed against the cool railing of the balcony. His hands framed your face as he leaned in, his voice a low, teasing drawl. “I think,” he murmured, “that I need to make sure there isn’t a fifth on the way.”

You gasped, laughing as he captured your mouth in a kiss, deep and slow, his body pressing against yours in a way that sent heat curling through your veins. “You’re insatiable,” you teased between kisses.

His smirk was wicked as he murmured, “You love it.”

[sanswstrk]

TO SANSA/JON FANDOM!

Hey everyone! I’m not sure how many of you remember this user, but lostlittlesatellites or batterydeaddotdot was a well-known Jonsa meta-writer in our fandom. Sadly, they deactivated, and as far as I know, we don’t really know why. A big chunk of their amazing work seems to have been lost, which was so sad for so many of us.

But here’s the good news: I recently discovered that some of their metas were saved on the "Way Back Machine" site! So, I put together a list of some of their pieces to share with all of you. My aim is to help preserve their contributions, spread the love within our fandom, and celebrate the incredible mind that has helped to shaped our fandom.

Quick disclaimer: I haven’t read every single meta, so I don’t necessarily agree with everything that’s written. My main goal is just to share this with you all. And I skiped GOT-related metas for this list. Enjoy diving into lostlittlesatellites/batterydeaddotdot’s work!

Some of their writings is already saved through some of those accounts: @/jonsameta & @/bookjonsa & @/esther-dot. Y’all can check! Here are the others:

BOOKS:

Sansa Stark: The Princess in the Tower

RLJ & Jonsa Payoff

Dragons, Snow and Armchairs

Can there be ONE ideal ruler?

Trojan War Literature influence on GRRM

The Red Comet: A Closer Look

Grey Dawn: Hour of the Wolf + Nightingale

To go forward you must look back: Dany’s tragic fall

Jon Snow as an Anti Hero

Val: A Subversion of BATB in Jon’s arc? + “something off about Val”

The Resurrection Problem

The Cost of Weaponizing Dragons For a Cause: Doran + Jon

There is Power in Living Wood: Bran’s role in the War

Valar Morghulis: Could Arya kill Dany?: Part 1 & Part 2

Stark Girls’ connections: To go forward you must go back

Fathers and Daughters

Sansa Stark: A Winter Rose?

Sansa Stark: A Girl in Glass

Sansa’s Fairytale and Myth allusions

The Blindspot of FPTP thread: Oversexualisation and overlooking age

Ask: Does “begging for a stranger’s kiss” foreshadow Sansa/Hound?

Deconstruction of BATB figures: He’s even uglier than the Hound

The Unkiss: The War Spilling Inside

Sansa’s repression of Jeyne

Alysanne: Paralleling Sansa + Contrasting Dany foreshadowing

A Song to Dodge A Kiss With a Blade (Part 1): Sansa/Hound and Jon/Ygritte ACOK comparisons

The Innocuous Nature of Jon/Sansa Foreshadowing

Snow: Lover’s Kisses

A Son by Marriage

1. Like a Lover; 2. Like a Kiss; 3. Kissed by Fire; 4. Burning Light and Dark Woods; 5. Intruders in Winterfell; 6. The Heart of Winterfell; 7. Fire: Hearth vs. Weapons

Dance of Dragons + Pact of Ice and Fire

Jonquils and Blue Roses

Horses and Flowers

Some Willowy Creature Who Sits Up in a Tower

A Union of the Old Gods and the New: Importance of understanding the Seven

Ask: Thoughts on Bridge4’s Video “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell”

Theories:

Bran as the Valonqar

History is a Wheel: Jon’s Rebellion

Jon’s Resurrection Repercussions

Dead Man with the Head of a Wolf: A Re-look

The Heart Tree of Winterfell: Tolkien influence

Complicating the Fantasy Battle: War Factions in the War for Dawn

Trail of Scrolls

Lady and the Ghost: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3

Shadowbinders, Death and Sacrifice

Sansa, the Vale and Mountain Clans: Part 1; Part 2; Part 3; Part 4

Seasons of My Love

Jon’s Survival: Beginning of Subverting Westerosi Classism

Child of Flame and Shadow: Not a living child but a shadow child?

Shadowbinders, Death and Sacrifice: Dany with Mirri and Melisandre

A Potential Wildcard Advisor: Bronze Yohn Royce and the Importance of the Vale

Why Ghost is unlikely to like Dany: Melisandre and Val in ADWD

Others:

Jonsa: Tolkien influences

Jonsa: A Good Endgame

Jonsa is happening because it's how GRRM's mind works

Jonsa’s Hints: On how antis ignore Jonsa foreshadowing

POV’S: Heros or not

House of the Undying and Quaithe for Dany & Mythology

Dany criticism 

Other links: about asoiaf; asoiaf metas; asoiaf theories + part 2

Anyone who has some of their writing saved can feel free to share! I would be thankful.

[airosuiren]

𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔫 ℜ𝔢𝔪𝔢𝔪𝔟𝔢𝔯𝔢𝔡

𝔓𝔄ℜ𝔗 𝔒𝔑𝔈: Bat family x Neglected illegitimate reincarnated reader x Oc. {Royal historical au.}

A/N: EEEEEE I’ve been waiting to drop this!!! This is the origin story of [Y/N], Queen of Virelya (aka pre-Gotham), her rise, her fall, and her rebirth. You’ll meet her soul-bound companions, her past-life husband (hello, Evander Thorne 😍), and see how she goes from unloved Wayne kid to the returned monarch of a world long-forgotten. Buckle up. This one gets mythic. This is not the usual style cuz I'm experimenting to find MY style. lmk if you liked it

𝕻𝖆𝖗𝖙 2

The world knew her first as a slave.

In the blood-soaked mines beneath the Hollow Mountains, [Y/N] had no name, no rights, and no future. But even in chains, she dreamed. She dreamed of a land where justice ruled, where no child slept in fear, where power served peace. And when the gods answered her dreams, they didn’t send salvation.

They sent companions.

Alarion Vael'Thyr was the first. A former prince turned exile, Alarion found [Y/N] when she escaped the mines and collapsed at the edge of a ruined forge. His hair glowed like firelight; his eyes held centuries of sorrow. He gave her warmth, food, and the strength to keep going. He taught her how to fight. And when her fury over injustice ignited, he taught her how to forge it into flame.

Next came Lysandra Solenhart, a noble-born oracle who had ripped out her own eyes to stop seeing the lies of kings. She had been wandering, blind and brilliant, until she heard [Y/N]'s voice in a vision. She found [Y/N] and Alarion on the edge of a battlefield, and said, simply, "You shine with the light of truth. I will follow it."

Kaelen Rhyzar joined them in the city of broken statues. A former paladin-turned-renegade, he had become a weapon without a master. When [Y/N] called out to the people during a rebellion, he watched her bleed for strangers and knew his new god had arrived. From that day, he swore himself to her cause.

With each companion came a gift.

Lysandra's Moonvein Sight allowed her to read shadow-script—the secrets etched in time, objects, and people.

Alarion's Heart of the Wyrmforge allowed him to forge weapons from pure emotion, flame and steel made one.

Kaelen's Living Armory let him summon divine weapons and battle auras from a celestial vault known only to him.

And then there was [Y/N].

When she saved a dying child in a storm, reality buckled. The world paused. She cried a single tear—the Tear of Elyndor, the divine essence of lost time and life. That tear resurrected the child and awakened her power. She could now bend time, shift fate, glimpse truths, and touch emotion like threads in a loom.

She did not want a throne. But people demanded one.

They called him the Winter Wolf.

Evander Thorne, warden of the north, warlord of the frozen wilds. He led armies through storms without saying a word. Men followed him blindly, out of fear or faith.

He met [Y/N] during a siege. Her army was losing, magic dwindling, hope flickering. And then the snow parted. He rode through the mist like a god of war, his blade slicing silence into the air.

She stood in the wreckage, bloodied and defiant. He dismounted without speaking.

"You're late," she said, panting, sword raised.

He didn’t answer. He only looked at her, eyes like ice, and knelt.

"My Fire," he murmured.

She blinked, startled. "You remember."

He took her hand and kissed it, reverent. "In every life. I would find you in every life."

She laughed through blood and tears. "I needed you."

"And now you have me," he said. "Forever."

Evander never left her side again. He stood behind her throne, silent and still. He held her when her nightmares returned. He whispered ancient poems in her ear when she couldn’t sleep.

In public, he was the sword of the queen. In private, he was hers entirely.

They trained together. They sparred until bruised and breathless. They argued in old tongues, kissed in empty war rooms, danced barefoot on frozen battlements.

"You trust too easily," he growled one night.

"And you not enough," she replied, tilting her head.

He pulled her into his chest. "I trust you. That is enough."

She laid her head against him. "Then build with me. A kingdom where no child fears."

He tightened his arms. "I would burn the world for it."

Virelya rose. A kingdom of magic, fire, frost, and dream. Her companions ruled distant realms, but returned often. Their children were legendary, half-divine.

[Y/N] and Evander ruled with fierce grace. They fought side by side. He watched her light grow brighter with every battle, every speech, every child she saved.

And she—she loved him not for his blade, but for the way he stayed. Always, he stayed.

They died as they lived—together. Peace achieved. Their work done. The world mourned.

Centuries passed.

[Y/N] awoke in Gotham.

No crown. No court. No Evander.

Only cold silence. And the bitter taste of being forgotten.

She was the twin who didn’t matter. But her magic whispered beneath her skin. Her past clawed at her in dreams.

Then came the child.

"Live as me," she said, and handed over a golden coin.

Everything returned.

[Y/N] fled Gotham and found war in the north.

She fought. Rose. Became myth again.

And then she saw him.

Evander.

Standing at the edge of the battlefield, cloak of wolf fur, sword already bloody.

He saw her and dropped to his knees. "My Fire."

She ran to him, armor clanging, tears spilling.

"You always find me."

"And I always will," he whispered.

He cupped her face, kissed her forehead. "No one will take you from me again."

"I won’t let them."

They stood like that, gods reborn.

Lysandra, Alarion, Kaelen returned.

The court rebuilt.

And [Y/N] sat the throne once more.

Evander stood beside her.

And the world would learn:

She had not been lost. She had only been waiting.

A/N: WHEW my soul is in this one. I wanted more Evander/[Y/N] moments and I hope you felt every stare, every touch, every whispered vow. Let me know if you want a bonus chapter with their private moments or flashbacks from their past life!! Long live the Queen 🖤👑

(Also lmk if you want suggestive chapter between [Y/N] and Evander 😉)

Taglist: @trashlanternfish360, @nixxiev, @eclipse-msoul, @plsfckmedxddy, @viilan, @kittzu, @bunniotomia, @bunniotomia, @rattyrattyratty, @texas-fox, @1abi, @niamcarlin,@tomoyaki, @silken-moons, @kittzu

[r-memberme]

Masterlist

Official masterlist over my fics of Klaus Mikaelson.

Klaus Mikaelson x Reader

smut/suggestive - ✧ fluff - ♡ angst - ✦ comfort - ✿

that time of the month ⎯⎯You burrow further into the blankets, voice muffled. “A new body?” ✿

the woman ⎯⎯"Are you quite finished glaring daggers, love? I believe the poor woman is in danger of bursting into flames under your stare alone," you merely inhaled sharply and said, "How many women have you been with?" ♡✧

come find me ⎯⎯He cannot. To speak it would be to surrender. To speak it would be to lay his soul at her feet, raw and wanting and entirely hers. ✧

in the eyes of the beholder ⎯⎯"That’s a dreadful attempt at impressionism," he comments one evening, arms crossed as he studies your canvas. "Your brushstrokes lack conviction. Have you even looked at a Monet before?" ♡

then we're even ⎯⎯Like she is something holy, something he was never meant to touch. ✧

breathe with me ⎯⎯His heart clenched. He had seen war, carnage, despair, and yet this—watching you locked in a battle against an enemy that existed only in the shadows of your mind—this felt crueler than anything he had ever faced. ✿

tell me ⎯⎯You tilt your head. "Of course not. Just standing in the dark, whiskey in hand, looking like the embodiment of every tragic poem ever written." ♡

knit me a threat ⎯⎯“Darling,” he drawled, stepping into the study, “would you happen to know why my coat has been invaded by a miniature version of myself? ♡

torment ⎯⎯Klaus sighs, dramatic, running a hand down his face before pinching the bridge of his nose. “Do you have like a thing for older men or something?” ✧ ♡

unraveling ⎯⎯His jaw clenches, fingers twitching against the desk. “Because, my love,” he whispers, voice thick with restraint, “I wanted you to feel the ache as I have.” ✧

masquerade ⎯⎯“In a world built on secrets and shadows, we find ourselves dancing in the light of our hidden truths.” ♡

heist ⎯⎯Klaus smirked. “Ah, yes. Borrowing. Without permission. That’s called theft, love.” ♡

road trip ⎯⎯“I don’t need a map,” he replies, completely unbothered. “I have an excellent sense of direction.” ♡

move ⎯⎯“You are the kind of storm that arrives in the dead of night, shaking the windows, rattling the doors. You disrupt. You demand to be noticed.” ♡

argument ⎯⎯His smirk is slow, predatory. “I could steal someone else’s drink for you.” ♡

wildflowers ⎯⎯“Darling,” he drawls, “am I supposed to be flattered or humiliated?” ♡

selene ⎯⎯His eyes flicker with something unreadable. “A love cursed to only exist in the quiet hours of the night,” he muses. “How tragic.” ♡

a wolf's lament ⎯⎯“You move like a ghost,” she murmurs, and it is not the first time she has accused him of this. ✦

the stars ⎯⎯Klaus hums beside her, hands folded behind his head, fingers threading into the wild mess of curls at his nape. “I think about many things.” ♡

restless ⎯⎯He considered that for a long moment. “Perhaps the moon prefers it that way,” he mused. “Perhaps it doesn’t want to be touched. Perhaps it’s content to watch, to exist in the quiet, to remain untouchable.” ♡

sugar ⎯⎯Klaus grinned at the memory. “Two hours and thirteen minutes. I was quite impressed.” ♡

nik ⎯⎯Because it was the only name that did not come with expectation, with weight, with history. It was just his, just theirs, just a thread between them that refused to break no matter how much the world tried to sever it. ♡

watercolored ⎯⎯“You told that old woman in the market that I was in need of a motherly embrace!” ♡

hold you close ⎯⎯“Shhh.” His lips brushed against your temple, and you nearly stopped breathing. “You wiggle like that again, and I’ll take it as an invitation.” ♡

jealous ⎯⎯“I do hate to steal her away, but—oh, you know how it is. She does have a rather short attention span, after all.” ♡

bleeding heart ⎯⎯“But if there is a day meant to celebrate love, then why should I not love you a little louder?” ♡

the world tilted ⎯⎯Klaus’s scream—raw, unpracticed, and filled with an agony that no immortal soul should ever endure—broke the night ✦

I could have you ⎯⎯“I could have you,” he murmured, his voice like silk, smooth and slow and dangerous. “If I wanted.” ♡✧

antique ⎯⎯"‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day—’" ♡

lavender and chamomile ⎯⎯A rare moment, a mutual understanding. ✿

hammock ⎯⎯The sky above is deepening now, the colors bleeding into something richer—indigo creeping in at the edges, stars beginning to flicker to life, hesitant but present. ✿

marriage auction ⎯⎯Klaus hums, swirling his champagne. “That’s lovely, sweetheart.” ♡

picture day ⎯⎯“You could at least pretend I’m not the most difficult person you’ve ever photographed.” ♡

trinkets ⎯⎯ “I may have acquired it through slightly less than legal means.” ♡

scarf ⎯⎯“Because I’d rather be cold than watch you shiver.” ♡

we ⎯⎯Klaus scowled. “I will throw you into the sun.” ♡

sap ⎯⎯“You’re rather difficult to look away from.” ♡

ghost of you ⎯⎯He carved himself into you, into the deepest parts of your soul, until forgetting him would mean unraveling yourself entirely. ✦

like a man starved ⎯⎯It was nothing. It was everything. ♡✿✦

master chef ⎯⎯“I wanted to do something special,” he continued, finally looking at you. “Something… personal. And what’s more personal than a meal prepared with my own two hands?” ♡

at my worst, at my best ⎯⎯His eyes searched yours, his breath hitching. “I don’t deserve you,” he said quietly. ✦♡

intruder ⎯⎯“You really should get better locks, by the way.” ♡

deception ⎯⎯“Gaslighting implies a level of effort that I am simply not putting in. Deceiving you doesn’t require much.” ♡

gentle waters ⎯⎯He reached for your hand, his touch gentle as he brushed his thumb across your knuckles. “Let me take care of you tonight,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. ✿

sweet escape ⎯⎯He smirked. “If this is your idea of fun, love, I worry for you.” ♡

pottery ⎯⎯“Show me what you’ve got, Picasso.” ♡

s'mores ⎯⎯“Nothing,” he said, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re just more captivating than the stars, that’s all.” ♡

the line between us ⎯⎯“I’m saying,” he interrupted, his voice firm now, “that I’m tired of being just your best friend. I’ve loved you for longer than I care to admit, and it’s agony pretending I don’t.” ♡

the paint beneath ⎯⎯“You always did stare at art like it owed you something.” ♡

blood ⎯⎯"What are you suggesting? A blood beauty contest?” ♡

anything ⎯⎯“Did you… raid every orange grove in the area?” ♡

history ⎯⎯“Perhaps it requires a certain level of intellect to appreciate.” ♡

show me ⎯⎯“I’m not gentle. I don’t know how to love without breaking everything I touch.” ♡✧

you ⎯⎯“You are my destruction, love. And my salvation. My madness and my solace. Do you think leaving spared me? No. It condemned me to a century of torment.” ✦

crawlin' back to you ⎯⎯“Where are you?” you asked, your voice steady despite the tears streaming down your face. There was a pause, and then he said, “Outside. In the rain.” ♡

fixed ⎯⎯“No. I came because I couldn’t stay away.” ♡

shouldn't be here ⎯⎯ “Loving you is the only thing in my long, cursed existence that has ever felt easy. The only thing that’s ever made sense.” ♡✦

concert ⎯⎯"It’s not because I think I have the right to you. It’s because I’ve tried—God, have I tried—to stay away." ♡

vino veritas ⎯⎯“Flattery won’t get you out of trouble if you embarrass me in front of the sommelier.” ♡

not a chance ⎯⎯“Let me guess—you’re mysterious, brooding, and devastatingly complicated?” ♡

canvas ⎯⎯“Have you ever painted me?” ♡

echoes of you ⎯⎯"Klaus Mikaelson wept" ✦

bold ⎯⎯“If I’m a fool, it’s only because of you,” ♡

kitchen ⎯⎯“Are you telling me you’re challenging me to a dance battle?” ♡

storm ⎯⎯just the two of them, dancing through the storm together. ♡

sparkling commentary ⎯⎯“What can I say? I’m a giver.” ♡

a royal pain ⎯⎯“Exciting? You’re like a cranky old man stuck in a twenty-something’s body.” ♡

burden ⎯⎯Every shadow needs light to be revealed ✦

silent spectator ⎯⎯This was now no longer a game of observation or veiled curiosity. It was undeniably, absolutely, desire ♡✧

kiss me like you mean it ⎯⎯kisses, kisses and more kisses ♡

snowman ⎯⎯ ‘Oh look, it’s Greg—the gallant snowman of the yard!‘ ♡

sweet talker ⎯⎯Maybe klaus isn't so bad after all ♡

dusty tomes and worm love ⎯⎯“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” ♡

my inner aesthetician ⎯⎯In a warm, candlelit sanctuary, two souls share playful banter as they engage in a soothing skincare ritual. ♡✿

fire and tenderness ⎯⎯In a candle-lit embrace, warmth blooms as tender kisses chase away the cold. With whispered apologies, a spark ignites into passionate connection, where playful banter entwines with sincere affection, promising to shield from the world’s chill. In this moment, hearts intertwine, wrapped in comfort and light. ♡

morning brew ⎯⎯ a timeless soul navigates the soft glow of a quaint coffee shop, enchanted by a vibrant girl who brings light to his shadowed existence. ♡

are you asking me on a date, Klaus? ⎯⎯ The long awaited date between a girl, and an old grumpy original hybrid. (First fic ever) ♡

Series

technique ⎯⎯Then Klaus, in the most delighted tone imaginable, says, “Sweetheart, I do believe you just murdered an innocent shrubbery.” ♡

double it ⎯⎯Then, in the most insufferably smug voice imaginable, Klaus drawls, “Careful, sweetheart. You’re starting to look like you actually know what you’re doing.” ♡

tam lin ⎯⎯And you—always drawn to him, always at his side, your fates tangled like ivy clinging to stone, entwined in a way the world could not unmake. ✦

fae ⎯⎯“You cannot keep him,” you whispered, though your voice was steady. “You cannot have him.” ✦

ever yours, ever mine part I ⎯⎯And no matter what came next—no matter how many lifetimes you lived, how many battles you fought, how many times you lost and found each other again— That promise would never break.

ever yours, ever mine part II ⎯⎯Then—softly, quietly—he said, “I don’t think I was made for happiness.”

ever yours, ever mine part III ⎯⎯Klaus coughed, spitting blood into the dirt. His eyes flickered to you, and that was when they struck him again. You felt the impact as if it were your own. ✦

ever yours, ever mine part IV ⎯⎯"You're real." It was a whisper, a breath, a plea.

ever yours, ever mine part V ⎯⎯The witch’s expression softened—not with kindness, but with understanding. “She is something that should not be. Something caught between. Not alive. Not dead. And certainly not human.”

territorial ⎯⎯“Whatever you say, Nik.” ♡

trouble ⎯⎯“Ian,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “What a name. Sounds like he was born to be dull.” ♡

I wouldn't hesitate ⎯⎯“if I had the chance to fall in love with you again, I wouldn’t hesitate.” ✦

I didn't hesitate ⎯⎯ “The thought of you being anyone else’s sunlight is something I can’t stomach.” ♡✦

something about me

Last updated: march 22nd 2025, 13:00

[batboysanonymous]

Bound by Flame

Eris Vanserra x Reader

Summary: Eris Vanserra was fire itself, untouchable, burning, dangerous. But when the weight of centuries finally lifted, when the last chain binding him shattered, he ran to you.

Years ago, you had been a maid in the Autumn Court palace, a shadow in the halls of polished wood and gold.

You had known who Eris Vanserra was before the bond snapped into place—everyone did. The heir to the Autumn throne. The male of fire and arrogance, untouchable and cruel.

Or so you had thought.

You still remembered the moment it happened. You had been kneeling in the grand dining hall, wiping a spill before Beron returned from a hunt. Your hands were raw from the cold, your body exhausted from a day of endless commands, when it struck.

A force. A pull. A golden thread in your soul, twisting, tightening, making it impossible to breathe.

You had looked up—and there he was.

Eris, standing frozen in the doorway. His amber eyes wide, his body stiff as if something had shattered inside him.

You.

Your mate.

The silence stretched, unbearable. Then, slowly, he turned on his heel and walked away.

You had not been able to move for minutes. Had barely been able to breathe.

For days, you saw nothing of him. You thought—perhaps he would reject it. Perhaps he already had. But then, one evening, he had found you in a quiet corridor, his scent wrapping around you like fire and cedarwood.

He didn’t speak at first, just looked at you, his chest rising and falling like he was at war with himself. And then, in a voice so quiet, so unlike him, he whispered, “Beron can never know.”

You had nodded. Because you knew.

A High Lord’s heir, shackled to a maid?

Beron would sooner burn you alive.

So it had started—the hiding. The stolen glances. The nights where Eris would slip into your chambers, where he would press his forehead to yours and breathe you in like he was starving for it.

And then the agony of watching him in court, of standing back as he played his role. Watching as he let others believe he was heartless, cruel—when you knew the truth.

The waiting. The wondering. The bruises he hid when Beron’s rage turned to him.

And the terror of knowing, deep down, that it couldn’t last forever.

And now, it was over.

-

The world smelled of smoke and iron.

You stood on the outskirts of the battlefield, the taste of blood sharp on your tongue, your hands trembling even as you tried to still them. The night was endless, the stars above struggling to pierce through the heavy veil of war, of death. But none of it mattered. None of it compared to the ache in your chest, to the desperate pull in your soul, the bond inside you thrashing, crying, howling.

For him.

Eris.

The male who had been forged in flame, sharpened in cruelty, yet had somehow, impossibly, become yours.

Your mate.

The battlefield was eerily silent now, the screams of war fading into something almost sacred. A breath held, a world waiting. And then—

Footsteps.

Fast. Desperate.

And then he was there.

Eris Vanserra, High Lord of Autumn, no longer a prince shackled by Beron’s rule, no longer forced to bow to a monster. His armor was dented, streaked with blood that wasn’t his own, his red hair wild, his amber eyes frenzied. But it was his hands that stole your breath away—shaking, reaching, grasping as they cupped your face like he was afraid you’d vanish.

His chest rose and fell in sharp, uneven bursts. His mouth opened, then closed, as if the words caught in his throat. And then, finally, a whisper, raw and broken—

"It is over."

A shuddering inhale.

"We are free."

Your lips parted, your vision blurring with something thick, something unbearable. And then, without thought, without fear, you surged forward, crashing into him.

His arms were already there, already encircling you, already anchoring you to him. He clutched you, pressed his forehead to yours as if he could stitch himself into your very skin. His body shook—gods, he was shaking.

And you realized then—he was crying.

Eris Vanserra, the male who had never been allowed softness, the male who had been forced to bite his tongue, to endure, to survive—was weeping in your arms.

You pressed your hands to his face, brushing your thumbs along the sharp angles of his cheekbones, feeling the dampness of his tears. Tears. For you. For him. For the life you could finally have.

The words cracked open something inside you.

A sob tore from your throat, and before you knew it, you collapsed into him.

Eris caught you, arms locking around you, pulling you so close you could barely breathe. His body shook—gods, he was shaking.

Your fingers tangled into his hair, his blood streaking across your skin as he buried his face in your neck, inhaling like he would never get enough.

“I thought I lost you,” you choked out.

His grip tightened, his lips pressing against your temple, your jaw, your throat. “You will never lose me. Never again.”

His hands were everywhere—fisting into the back of your tunic, pressing against your spine, memorizing you. And you let him. You let yourself sink into him, let yourself feel the warmth of him, the unshackled, unburied truth of your love.

When he pulled back, his eyes were wet, his breath uneven. “We can have it now,” he murmured. “A life. Without hiding. Without fear.”

Your throat burned, but you nodded. “Yes.”

Eris exhaled sharply. His hand brushed over your lips, your cheek, his gaze hungry and desperate in a way that had nothing to do with battle.

And then he kissed you.

It was not soft. Not sweet. It was fire, burning, unrelenting—a claim, a vow, a plea. His mouth moved against yours like he was trying to consume you, trying to undo the years of stolen moments, the agony of pretending, the lies, the pain.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands curling into his tunic, pressing yourself against him so tightly you swore you could feel the frantic beat of his heart.

The taste of him flooded your senses—smoke, embers, Eris.

When he finally pulled away, his breath came in uneven pants, his forehead pressed to yours.

His hands were still on your face, his thumbs stroking along your cheekbones, his eyes searching yours like they held every answer he’d ever needed.

“You are mine,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “And I am yours.”

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, grounding yourself in him, in this moment.

“You always were,” you whispered back.

A breath. A truth. A love unburied.

Eris swallowed hard, then pulled you to him again, his lips ghosting over yours, his body pressing close.

And this time, neither of you let go.

Taglist: @fanficscuziranout, @willowpains

Want to join my tag list? Drop a comment or check out this link to submit a specific series you would like tagged in! (Or if you just don't want to comment, that's okay too)

[happilyhertale]

The Quiet by the Fire – Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Summary: The last few weeks have been very stressful for your husband Daemon. Lots of council meetings and little one-on-one time took away the opportunity to relax. But you know how to help him unwind.

Pairing: Daemon Targaryen x fem!wife!reader

Warnings: Smut; 18+; NSFW; Blowjob

Author’s note: English is my second language, please forgive me if I made any mistakes (:

Word count: 1.9 k

Other stories of mine

12 Days of Smuffmas

12 Days of Smuff

The corridors of the Red Keep are as still as the air outside, a biting cold that crept through the halls, settling into the bones. The torches lining the stone walls flicker and dance in the icy gusts that seem to seep from every crack. The warmth of the hearths in the chambers provides little comfort as winter claws at the edges of the castle.

You have been walking through the Keep for what feels like hours, searching. The echoes of your footsteps have been your only company, until at last, you find him. Daemon.

As you enter your shared chambers, the first thing you notice was the soft glow of firelight flickering against the walls, casting long shadows. The room is quiet, too quiet—nothing like the usual chaotic bustle of court life or the hurried, harried days Daemon has been enduring recently.

There, seated in a large chair by the fire, is Daemon. His black leathers, the ones he usually wears in moments of war and conflict, are replaced by a simpler tunic, his sleeves rolled up slightly to reveal the lean muscles in his arms. He isn‘t usually one to sit idly by a fire, yet here he is, his back relaxed, eyes focused on the pages of a book. The glow from the fire catches the sharp angles of his face, his silver hair catching the light. The usual sharp edge of his gaze is soft, more serene, as though the world outside this chamber no longer exists.

For a moment, you simply watch him. He seems... tranquil. At peace.

You move closer, the chill of the hall still lingering on your skin.

Daemon’s head turns as you walk further into the room, and his lips curl into that signature smirk of his. The one you have come to know so well, one that speaks volumes without a word.

You can't help but smile back. "I’ve searched every corner of the Keep," you tease, taking a step forward. "You’re not easy to find these days."

“Ah, I have my hiding spots,” he replies, his grin widening as he sets down the book on the table.

"I’m surprised you’re not out there, causing chaos," you say, as you settle into a seat beside him, your knees brushing his.

Daemon chuckles, the sound rich and full, warming the room even more than the fire could. “The chaos has been… persistent enough without my help.” His tone shifts slightly, darker, as his hand moves to the back of your neck, fingers gently threading through your hair. “And besides, I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Waiting for me?” you ask, raising an eyebrow, though you know the answer. Daemon has always been full of surprises.

“Hmm,” Daemon grins again, his voice dropping to a playful murmur. “Yes. I’ve had enough of the world for the moment. Enough of the courts and the politics. Enough of everything, except for you.” His fingers slide to your cheek, his touch warm against your skin. “You know, there are few things in this world that can still my restless nature. But you, my love… You have a way of doing it.”

His words are gentle, but laced with that familiar heat, the one that could turn a tender moment into something much more.

You lean into his touch, the quiet that surrounded you both seeming like a strange luxury.

The fire crackles softly, and you let the warmth seep into your bones as you watche him—his face lit by the flickering flames, his silver hair shining even brighter in the dim light.

"You’ve been stressed," you observe, your voice soft. It isn‘t a question; it is a truth you both knew. “You don’t look it now, but I can see it in your eyes when you think I’m not watching.”

“Thats true,” he agrees. “But you know, sometimes… I long for something simpler.” His thumb gently traces the line of your jaw, and for a brief, quiet moment, the weight of his words settles in the space between you. “Something… like this.”

The calm of the room settles over you both, and you can feel the tension of his usual restlessness slowly melts away in your presence.

“So,” Daemon begins again, his voice returning to that cheeky tone you know so well, “now that you’ve found me, what will you do?”

You smile, feeling the weight of the day lift. “Maybe I’ll stay here,” you whisper, leaning closer to him. “And keep you company”

Daemon's grin widenes, his arms wrapping around you as he pulls you closer, the warmth of his embrace stronger than the fire that burned beside you.

“Good,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear. “That’s exactly what I was hoping for.”

For a moment, Daemon remains silent, his head resting against the back of the sofa, eyes closed, though you could sense his awareness of you in every breath he takes. His other hand, the one not holding you, idly traces the fabric of your gown, the tips of his fingers brushing over your shoulder and down your arm, as if exploring you in a way that is both familiar and new.

The room is warm now, not just from the fire, but from the shared closeness that has begin to envelope you both.

Daemon pulls you closer into his chest, an action so characteristically possessive that it makes you smile.

You can feel his breath against your ear, warm and steady, and you shiver slightly, from the intimacy of the moment. His touch is different now—gentler, more insistent in a way that makes your pulse quicken, even as his demeanor remains calm, almost contemplative. The stress, the frustrations that have hardened him in recent weeks seem to melt away in the simple act of holding you close.

His hand, which has been tracing idle patterns on your arm, slowly moves to your side, his fingers grazing the curve of your waist. The touch, light at first, soon becomes more deliberate, as if coaxing something from you—something that you know he needs but would never outright ask for.

"You’ve been a comfort to me," Daemon murmurs, "But you know, sometimes... I need more than just your presence."

You lift your gaze, meeting his eyes, and see the flicker of something familiar: that mischievous gleam, the same one he wears when he is being naughty. It is no surprise that Daemon’s playful nature can’t stay dormant for long.

You lean back slightly, enough to see his face fully. “What are you saying, Daemon?”

He shifts, pulling you closer again, so that his face is hovering near yours, his lips barely an inch from your ear. His breath is warm, his presence overwhelming. "I’m saying," he purrs, "that I need you to take my mind off things. The stress. The politics. Everything." His fingers, now trailing down to the small of your back, hold you tighter, as if marking you as his. "You have a way of doing that, don’t you?"

"You want me to take it away?" you ask, your voice teasing, a smile playing at the corners of your mouth.

Daemon’s grin is unmistakable, "That’s what I said."

You feel his body shift as he sits up slightly, his hands roaming with purpose, but his touch still tender enough to draw out that soft side of him that so few got to see. His lips graze your cheek, brushing lightly against your skin, and then hover just below your ear, his breath warm against your neck.

His words laced with both frustration and desire. "I have too much to think about. But when I’m with you…" He pauses, his voice darkening. "It’s different. I don’t need to think. I just need to feel."

The warmth of his body, the way his fingers lingers over your skin, is intoxicating. It isn’t just about the touch anymore—it is the quiet urgency in his actions, the way he can’t seem to help himself as he pulls you even closer, his body pressing against yours with that same undeniable hunger that is both possessive and desperate. You smile at him before sliding off the sofa. He watches you, seeming confused for a second. But then he feels you unbuttoning his trousers. A smile plays around his lips, “It seems to me you already have an idea how you could help me relax.”

You just smile and Daemon lifts his hips so you can pull his pants down. You bite your lip lightly as you release his semi-hard length from his pants.

His hand slides into your hair, gently gripping it while your hand glides along his length. You lean forward and your lips glide along his length. Daemon sighs lightly, leaning back slightly as you work your way up to his tip. You feel him get harder, his cock twitching slightly.

Your lips wrap around his tip and he growls as you suck lightly. “Oh Love... I think this helps me relax,” he murmurs and his hand slides further into your hair, gripping lightly. Inch by inch you take his length deeper into your mouth. A salty taste spreads across your tongue and Daemon growls. You swirl your tongue around the flesh, dipping into the slit every now and then to get him to moan.

You take his cock out of your mouth, your hand slides up and down while your tongue continues to play with his head. Daemon growls again and his hips push up slightly, you know that he is getting impatient. But you want to tease him. You continue to gently suck on his tip, denying him full pleasure.

“Don't tease me,” he murmurs, and you try to suppress a smile. But you take his length back into your mouth, take him deeper. Slowly you drag your lips down his shaft until you are tearing up and close to choking before pulling up and repeating this motion.

Daemon grunts with relief, but his hand tightens. But then you choke slightly as he suddenly thrusts up. You want to protest, but he thrusts again. His hand holds your head while he fucks you in the mouth. You try to breathe calmly, but you moan. Your throat clenches around the tip of his cock.

“Fuck, yes!” Daemon growls as you choke again. Your hands slide onto his thighs, supporting you as he fucks your mouth. Daemon grunts and you feel more and more precum filling your mouth. Tears well up in your eyes and you feel his cock twitch. You suck and try to take control again, but Daemon has you firmly in his grasp.

Your one hand lightly grabs his balls, massaging them while you suck. Daemon growls and thrusts violently into your throat. You gag and at that moment Daemon comes, spilling his cum deep into your throat.

He growls and grunts, thrusting his hips forward until the last drop of his seed has left his length. You try to swallow everything, but you can't prevent some of the cum from leaking out of your mouth. You are breathing heavily, but like a good wife, you lick along his cock until you have captured all the remains of his juice. Slowly you release his still slightly twitching length from your mouth.

You wipe your mouth and look at him. He's breathing heavily, his eyes are closed. His hand is still in your hair, but slowly your grip loosens, sliding down to your cheek. His eyes are still closed until you turn your head and kiss the palm of his hand. His eyes open slightly and he smiles.

Slowly he pulls you back up onto the sofa and you follow his movement. As soon as you are sitting on the sofa, he pulls you close to him, buries his face in your hair while he still tries to catch his breath.

[fanged-fanfics]

💕 LMK Fic Masterlist 💕

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Key:

♡ - Fluff

♧ - Hurt/Comfort

♤ - Angst

◇ - Platonic

☆ - Comedy

Traffic Light Trio:

Crushing Headcanons (MK x GN Reader) ♡

Defending the Successor (MK x Fem Reader) ♡

Dating Headcanons (Red Son x GN Reader) ♡

Fire On the Tongue (Red Son x Fem Reader) ♡

The Flame Prince's Heir (Red Son x Fiance!GN Reader) ♡/♤

Date Night (Mei x Fem Reader) ♡

Take a Break, Eh? (Mei x Calm!GN Reader) ♡

Life at Home (Red Son x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Monkey Boyfriends (MK x Monkey!Masc Reader) ♡

A Fanbase of Three (Traffic Light Trio x Band Member!Reader) ♡

Healing a Trio (Traffic Light Trio x Healer!GN Reader) ♡

To Calm a Monkey Kid (MK x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Gold Threaded Webs (MK x Spider Demon!GN Reader) ♡

Flickers Left Unsaid (Red Son x Childhood Friend!GN Reader) ♡

Eclipse/Sundial Duo:

Guard Dog Headcanons (Macaque x Fem Reader) ♡

Oh, to Dance With You (Macaque x Dancer!Fem Reader) ♡

Child of The Shadow (Macaque x Parent!GN Reader) ♡

To Raise a Cub (Macaque & Cub!Reader) ☆

To Raise a Cub Pt2 (Macaque & Teen!Cub! Reader) ☆

To Raise a Warrior (Macaque x Parent!GN Reader) ♡

Brainrot Slang (GN Reader) ☆

Smitten Sparring (Fighter!Fem Reader) ♡

First Relationship (Wukong x GN Reader) ♡

Clingy Clones (Wukong x Masc Reader) ♡

Brainrot Slang 2 (Wukong x GN Reader) ☆

Sleep Aid (Wukong x Overworked!GN Reader) ♡

Flustered in Love (Wukong x GN Reader) ♡

Proposal Headcanons (Wukong x Fem Reader) ♡

Stakes and Mis-skates (Wukong x Fem Reader) ♡

Little Peach Speaks (Wukong x Parent!GN Reader) ♡/◇

A King's Form (Wukong x Mystic Monkey!GN Reader) ♡

Heavy Is The Crown That Crushes The Head (Wukong x GN Reader) ♧

A King's Petty Sqaubbling (Wukong x GN Reader) ♡

Other Demons:

A New Chance (Xiangliu x Celestial!GN Reader) ♡

Post-S3 Headcanons (Mayor x Masc Reader) ♡/♤

At the Edge Of the World (Xiangliu x GN Reader) ♡

Celestials:

Dating Headcanons (Fem Reader) ♡

Spider Clan:

Spoiling Headcanons ( Spider Queen x Fem Reader) ♡

Two of a Kind (Syntax x GN Reader) ♡

The Brotherhood:

Of Fur and Feathers (Azure x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Nesting Headcanons ( Peng x GN Reader) ♡

Others:

Dating Headcanons (Camel Ridge Trio x GN Reader) ♡/♤

Morning Routine Headcanons (Spicynoodles x GN Reader) ♡

Two Troubling Bozos (GoldFlame Duo x Masc Reader) ♡

Dress to Impress (StoneFruit Trio x GN Reader) ☆

Doors (StoneFruit Trio x GN Reader) ☆

Bedtime (Sundial Duo x Overworked!GN Reader) ♡

Lost to The Ice (Spicynoodles x GN Reader) ♤

Cuddle Headcanons (Sundial Duo x Fem Reader) ♡

Dating Headcanons (PartyFavors Duo x GN Reader) ♡

A Solution Takes Three (Sundial Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Health Issues (Sundial Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Rage Quit (Sundial Duo x Masc Reader) ♡

Nerds At War (FireWall Duo x GN Reader) ♡

LMK Characters as Queerplatonic Partners (LMK x GN Reader) ♡/◇

LMK Characters as Queerplatonic Partners 2 (LMK x GN Reader) ♡/◇

A Crown Fit for A King (And A Warrior) (Eclipse Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Songbird (Eclipse Duo x Male Reader) ♡

Peace of Mind (Firewall Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Wild Night (Jackfruit Duo x GN Reader) ♡

Pretty Bird (Macaque/Monkey King/Xiangliu x Phoenix!GN Reader) ♡

Resting and Rejuvenating (GoldFlame Duo x GN Reader) ♡

[sapphoscreature]

Caitlyn and the Grey- Symbolism

I think it’s interesting to consider the Grey, within the narrative, as symbolic of Caitlyn’s character arc throughout Act 1, and how she is influenced by and influences the wider context.

The Grey is, I think, a morally grey choice. Its symbolism and use encapsulate the tensions at the time both within Caitlyn’s character and within the wider context of Piltover and Zaun. It also preludes the outcome of Act 1, and where this leads Caitlyn, Piltover, and Zaun.

I’ve tried my best to unpick the threads which twine together in the narrative, but this is only my interpretation and there are aspects I may have missed. Along the same line, I have decided to focus on Caitlyn, so my analysis of why other characters (like Jinx and Vi) make their choices is not as in-depth, and definitely deserve their own analysis.

(I made an earlier post about Caitlyn & the Grey, but some of my wording was a bit shoddy and the analysis not as explored as it could have been. I hope this offers something better.)

Caitlyn- loss, the crown, and vengeance:

Following the attack on the council which kills her mother, Caitlyn is grappling with her emotions.

She feels a deep, deep grief for the loss of her mother. She is also guilt-ridden, blaming herself for not stopping Jinx whilst she could- ‘I had the shot.’

And she is angry. Incredibly angry. Jinx is the target of her anger- literally; Caitlyn fantasises about shooting her. ‘I want to tear that laugh from her throat forever.’ Clearly, she wants some kind of vengeance.

On top of this, she now has the ‘legacy’ of the Kiramman house sitting on her shoulders. Guilt-ridden, she admits to her father she feels neither ready nor deserving of becoming the matriarch. But nonetheless, people are now looking to her. Her father can collapse at the funeral, but she must stand tall. The only people she admits vulnerability to are those closest to her- Jayce and Vi (especially Vi emotionally, crying in her arms).

The crown is heavy, the grief is drowning her, but Caitlyn does recognise that her anger is having a negative influence on her thinking. ‘I know,’ she says to Jayce he expresses alarm at her desire for revenge (this is a line I will come back to later).  

And that self-reflection is important to consider, too. Caitlyn in season 1 is intelligent and perceptive, and recognises in her succinct, direct manner both her own ignorance to and the extent to which the Piltover/Zaun divide stretches. ‘This city needs healing. More than I ever realised.’ ‘Please,’ she asks Ekko, ‘let me help you,’ or else, ‘the cycle of violence will never stop.’

Following the council attack, some kind of conflict does, unfortunately, seem inevitable between the two cities. Whether this be all-out war or not, the cycle continues. But whilst Caitlyn is impacted by the attack, she retains being driven by the same empathy and perception which made her open to recognising her own ignorance.

Both Caitlyn and Mel are reluctant that a full-scale invasion of Zaun occur, knowing this was the act of a ‘single deranged individual’ and that ‘innocents could be caught in the cross fire.’

With Ambessa’s interjection, however, the invasion is set to go ahead, although without the use of Hextech.

Ambessa fans flames further by aiding the chem-baron attack on the memorial service. And this attack exacerbates all of Caitlyn’s negative emotions.

The pressure on her shoulders as the Kiramman heir, her guilt, her grief. Her anger, absolutely. I think that this is when they become the prevailing emotions which influence her choices and cloud her self-perception, as well as her perception of others.  

And this is when things get grey.

Establishing the Strike team:

Caitlyn and Vi’s relationship in Act 1 definitely deserves its own deep dive. I’m painfully aware I’m not giving it the attention it deserves here. But, for the sake of brevity, I think, for Caitlyn, Vi anchors her to the self-reflection she is beginning to lose sight of.

Following the memorial attack, Vi is looking for the Caitlyn she knows, the Caitlyn who took on the council in season 1. The Caitlyn who, after that failed, was ready to make a new plan and ‘fix’ things. The Caitlyn who was a misfit to her own society. The Caitlyn she fell for.

But Caitlyn is hemmed in by the Kiramman pressure and her emotional struggles. Vi urges her to stop the invasion- this will only lead to more hurt on both sides- but Caitlyn cannot think of how to ‘fix’ things. ‘She dies and leaves this giant hole, and I’m just supposed to fill it.’

She needs Vi to anchor her. ‘Everything is falling apart,’ she laments. ‘We won’t let it,’ Vi promises. She retains that connection, that grounding and belief in Caitlyn, in the woman she knows (and loves). They can stop the invasion, take matters into their own hands.

This holding onto their optimism to ‘fix’ things remains important, even as tensions are incredibly heightened after the memorial attack. Even as they are trapped in these tensions, part of the cycle. The choices they make becoming part of the cycle.

It’s a battle within itself. Vi is trying to hold onto Caitlyn for as long as she can throughout Act 1. And Caitlyn is still there, but she is battling with herself. With her grief, guilt, and anger.

And as they devise their plan, we see Caitlyn at the Kiramman archives. She is taking up the mantle. She uses the literal symbol of her family- their key- to discover the archives, the vents, and the Grey.

The Grey reflects back on her face, her pensive expression. In an earlier post, I said this represented the dark path Caitlyn is going down. However, I think it is more complex. I think it reflects her struggling to grapple with her emotions and the pressure and tension of the current situation and how these are convincing her to make a morally grey choice.

It is important to place the establishment of the strike team and their use of the Grey within this context.

The Strike Team and the Grey

The Grey is indicative to me of the situation in which it is used. This is reflected in how it is used, and in its very nature itself. It is a morally grey action because of the what, why, and how.

The wider context is also important, and we are invited by the framing to consider the comparisons and contrasts in the strike team’s use of the Grey the historical precedent of its presence in Zaun.

I want to explore what the Grey actually is and the strike team’s use of the Grey first before turning to Caitlyn specifically and why she chooses the Grey and what it represents.

There are a lot of layers you could consider when breaking down the moral greyness of the Grey. In the process of writing this I saw more and more from other people (I will link an interesting reddit post at the end). I have included some, but I think I’d rather this just add to the conversation than be in any way an attempt to make a ‘definitive’ post about the Grey.

Zaun: Context:

First, a brief summary of what is happening in Zaun when the strike team enters to provide context.

Jinx puts it best- ‘it’s all going to shit.’ Fighting has broken out amongst the chem-barons now vying for power in the vacuum Silco has left. The ‘Sucker’ sequence shows fighting on the streets, fires breaking out. Children like Isha are running from the chem-barons’ goons, part of the child labour they employ in the shimmer factories. The Firelights are bringing people to their safe haven because of all the fighting. Deaths are referenced in a meeting with the chem-barons organised by Sevika.

Sevika calls these ‘turf wars.’ I have inferred that different chem-barons control different areas of the city- ‘you started this dance when you raided the Rapturewalk.’ Innocents are getting hurt because the conflict is in the city itself.

(I will discuss Jinx later)

What is the Grey?

There is actually a lot of grey area when it comes to the Grey in the specifics. But we do know:

Air in the fissures became increasingly toxic owing to the rise of industry, this toxic air became known as the Grey

This can lead to negative physical effects- reddened eyes, irritation of the lungs; long periods of exposure can lead to the deterioration of the affected areas

Kirammans installed ventilation systems to prevent the air from being so polluted  

We do not know whose industry created such pollution. We do not see anyone die as a direct result of the Grey, but clearly, ‘factory smog’ is not a healthy thing to be breathing in over long periods of time. 

How do the strike team use the Grey?

The strike team have three key objectives:   

Locate Jinx

Dismantle shimmer

Neutralise any agents still loyal to Silco

The Grey is used by them to target these three objectives. We are shown this both in episode 2 and through the ‘Hellfire’ sequence in episode 3. They deploy the Grey on Silco’s goons, then the chembarons’ bases and the shimmer factory (destroying amounts of shimmer), before seeking out Jinx in the arcade.

To an extent, their actions could actually benefit Zaun. Destroying shimmer, something which stems from the damage Cait and Vi see shimmer cause, because of Silco and Singed, during season 1, would be to destabilise the power struggle going on between the chem-barons causing violence on the streets.

The literal use of the grey does de-escalate the violence. When chembaron Smeech reaches chembaron Margot’s base (a big statue of her face- someone’s got power), he comments that the Grey has ‘cleared the place out. Might have made our jobs a lot easier.’ They were anticipating confrontation, but it has been prevented.

The use of the Grey is not a long-term nor Zaun-wide affair. The strike team moves from one spot to another (using the vents to do so, something you could argue allows them an element of surprise on their targets which prevents them from fleeing to a place where innocents might be put in direct danger, and also prevents alarm among people at the sight of the strike team in Zaun), targeting the chembarons and their lackeys who monopolised the streets of Zaun for their violence and shimmer trade.

The Grey seeps from Margot’s base but the street itself is not flooded. As the strike team enter the arcade the Grey seeps in, but when Jinx escapes afterwards, the street outside is clear.

The Grey is used as part of a mission targeting specific objectives to prevent a full-scale invasion which could put civilians in danger.

And yet, the Grey is used. It functions as a weapon to debilitate their targets. It has unpleasant side effects, which alongside the strike team’s use of violence with their Hextech weaponry, allow them to incapacitate their targets.

(We can’t be sure how long the Grey takes to dissipate, or how long the chembarons’ people are exposed- we see some of the same characters at Sevika’s rally in episode 4, and they appear physically fine; I interpret it as short bursts of exposure- Caitlyn has control over the stopping and starting of the fans in the vents- we see her pulling levers, twisting handles).

The framing invites us to consider this morally grey approach through comparing and contrasting the strike team’s use of the Grey to its historical precedent in Zaun.

The Kiramman archive illustrations present it as a monster, a billowing mass which swallows Zaun. Through the eyes of both Jinx and Heenot, Smeech’s lackey, it also appears as such, as do the strike team who emerge from it.

This emphasises its harmful potential, which comes, more crucially, from the fear it derives. Vi argues with Jinx that they used the Grey to ‘clear the streets. To keep people safe.’ The violence has been de-escalated, there are no civilians being directly harmed by the Grey, but it has based itself on this fear owing to the historical precedent of the Grey in Zaun.

And yet you can also contrast. That the strike team are presented as part of the monster suggests they control the dissemination of the Grey, contrasting with the swamping monster, out of control, which floods through all of Zaun in the historical images.

A frame of Silco’s goons running from the strike team and their cloud of Grey is immediately followed by an historical image of innocents Zaunites running from a billowing beast. We are seeing once again the historical precedent of fear, but we are also noticing the differences- the Grey is controlled by the strike team, it follows them, and the only people in the frame are Silco’s goons, no innocent civilians.

(Once again, we don’t know how far it could spread but as others have suggested, the thick air of the undercity could impede its progress, and it never makes it down to the Firelight base. Combined with the targeted use, I think it is fair to therefore make this contrast).

All of this illustrates my earlier argument- the Grey is indicative of the situation in which it is used. The objectives of the strike team which could benefit Zaun intertwine with a way of going about those objectives which is morally grey and therefore underlines how the characters and their choices are becoming enveloped into the historic cycles of tension and violence which exist between Piltover and Zaun.

This neither makes them good nor evil- they are morally grey. It represents their interactions with their wider context, how they are influenced and influencing the wider context.

It represents how Caitlyn is doing this, how she is morally grey.

So why does she make this choice? What is influencing her which makes the good objectives of the strike team tainted so grey?

Caitlyn- Why choose the Grey?

‘Can I do the right thing for the wrong reasons? Is it bad that I’m making friends with my demons?’ - 'Hellfire'

What is key for me about the Grey in the narrative is how it symbolises Caitlyn’s emotions, her mental state. The Grey is a pollutant, and how its smog affects the physical body is a reflection of how Caitlyn’s emotions are affecting her mentally, and therefore how she in turn interacts with the wider context.

As I said earlier, the memorial attack exacerbates her anger, which is in turn exacerbated by her grief, her guilt, and the pressure of the Kiramman name.

As the strike team conduct their mission, we see how Caitlyn’s negative emotions influence her choices and cloud her self-perception, as well as her perception of others. This, for me, is why the Grey is the weapon of choice within the narrative.  

There are literal considerations you could take into account as to the why, and I’ve sort of explored these in the how- preferable to full-scale invasion, vents allow for targeted use, short-span use non-fatal etc. But for me the symbolic nature of the Grey reflecting Caitlyn’s emotions, and crucially how these push her to make morally grey decisions, is what defines the why- the above lyrics to ‘Hellfire’ encapsulates this nicely.

So, what is the ‘wrong reason’?

Vengeance:

Vengeance. That is what Caitlyn wants. Vengeance against Jinx.

It is born, crucially, from her grief, her guilt. It stokes her anger and soon becomes an all-encompassing smog which clouds Caitlyn’s thinking.

Jinx remains the spectre of Caitlyn’s fantasy as the strike team carry out their mission. She appears as a silhouette in the vents. She taunts them in the arcade with the shooting game. Caitlyn hyperventilates before taking a shot at a figure which mirrors her earlier fantasy in her hideaway. The impact frame of her eyes is pretty disturbing, evocative of how twisted Caitlyn’s mental state is becoming the longer Jinx remains elusive.

She becomes increasingly aggressive as their hunt continues. She shoves wanted posters in the chembarons’ people’s faces. She is cold and threatening with Heenot. And the ‘Hellfire’ sequence makes clear just how vengeance is twisting her as she appears a figure tinted red, eyes fiery.

Caitlyn is losing sight of herself. Losing sight of the wider context. This is affecting how she treats others.

Recall her conversation with Jayce in the hideaway, his alarm at her anger. ‘I know,’ she acknowledges, and confesses, ‘I just understand now how easy it is to hate them,’ she admits. The attack on the council has made bolder the line of divide cycles of violence bring- ‘them’- but Caitlyn is hanging onto her self-perception.

But the memorial attack changes things. ‘Animals,’ she calls the attackers. This dehumanising word demonstrates how much Caitlyn is losing sight of herself. Her empathy, her prior reluctance to see any difference, on a human level, between Piltover and Zaun (hiding in Vi’s childhood home in season 1 she says, ‘we’re people, just like you’).

Losing sight of the humanity in others means Caitlyn is also losing sight of herself. Her own humanity. And, if the Grey is depicted as a monster, and the monster is reflecting Caitlyn (and under her control), this says a lot about how vengeance is twisting her thinking, suffocating her person, and causing her to contribute to cycles which divide and hurt.

‘Leader of House Kiramman’:

This ‘losing’ of identity can be reflected further, I think, in how Caitlyn’s personal motives define her using the Kiramman name, her first taking up the mantle.

She utilises the power of her family name to assert her choices over the council. Once again, it is important to consider that this does prevent the full-scale invasion, but I think it is fair to argue Caitlyn is also being influenced by her need for vengeance. The Kiramman name is tool, a key, which can get her what she wants.

And I think it is interesting to consider how her reversing the helpful intentions of her ancestors in installing the vents, utilising the Grey instead of dispelling it, represents both Caitlyn losing sight of herself and her prior issues with her family name.

‘I know you doubt the merit of your birthright, Caitlyn,’ Cassandra says. In season 1, we see her resisting the stifling confines of what her mother expects and wants for her. She is a misfit.

After Cassandra’s death, the pressure of the name Caitlyn does not even want bears down on her, along with the guilt of perceiving herself as complicit in her mother’s death.

And Caitlyn struggles under this weight until the Kiramman name is twisted, too, into a tool not dissimilar to the Grey. She is not yet ready for the responsibility and how such power and privilege affect both Piltover and Zaun. It is her ‘legacy,’ but Caitlyn is losing herself.

This is even more impactful when considering that many of Caitlyn’s issues and arguments with her mother derive from her being a reluctant and unwilling heir. The Kiramman name came between them in life, and in death is twisted, as Caitlyn’s grief and love for her mother become twisted themselves by vengeance.  

There is irony in learning the Kirammans helped the undercity with the vents, something altruistic similar to Caitlyn’s own values when she is not choking on grief and vengeance. But the placing of the crown on her head happens at the hands of tragedy, and it rests twistedly for now.

The Grey becomes Black and White:

This is all key in why I think the Grey, what it represents, and how it is used, act as a prelude to the culmination of Act 1- Caitlyn’s appointment as commander.

Ambessa is impressed with Caitlyn’s assertion in the bunker, observant of her grief (and Salo’s) after the council attack, and perceptive of the power of the Kiramman name. As Salo says, ‘it bewitches people.’

By the end of Act 1, Caitlyn has failed to capture Jinx and left Vi after feeling betrayed by her for stopping her from shooting Jinx, therefore endangering Isha. By this point, I think there is no stopping the sliding slope into the black and white brooding figure of vengeance we see in the ‘Paint the Town Blue’ sequence.

She is choking on her emotions, and with Vi, her anchor, gone, is ripe for Ambessa’s picking. Caitlyn needs direction and Ambessa is offering it to her. She promises Caitlyn the thing which has slowly consumed her over the course of Act 1- vengeance. She steps further down this course.

Thus, grey turns to black and white. Caitlyn becomes complicit in, is the face of, the Piltover/Noxian occupation of Zaun, the violence this brings. Caitlyn has lost sight of herself in her hunt for Jinx and therefore others are harmed for her purposes (and Ambessa’s).

Caitlyn comes back to herself, slowly (from episode 4 we see her grappling her position), although of course, remains permanently changed (it’s interesting how the vengeance and idea of either doing the ‘wrong thing for the right reason’ or 'right thing for the wrong reason’ follow on in act 2 but that’s not my focus here).

Jinx and the Retaliation:

I think Jinx’s retaliation to the strike team’s mission and their use of the Grey underlines how its moral greyness feeds into the cycles of violence (I’m only going to analyse here her actions in relation to Caitlyn’s- this is already way too long and she deserves her own post).

Jinx is, like Caitlyn, motivated by her emotions, particularly related to Vi and her upset at seeing her as part of the strike team. She tells Sevika she is going to ‘finish what’s left of her family’ after their fight with Smeech, referring to their confrontation in the Temple of Janna.

She retaliates against the strike team to do so- setting trigger explosives in the vents, hanging vivisected dolls of them from a propellor she ties Heenot to in the first step of luring them down to the temple.

He says, ‘Jinx is off the rails, even for her. She’s got a real fire lit under her ass. She’s planning something big, right here in the pipeworks. She was heading towards the old tunnels. Something about rerouting the vents.’

Jinx begins using the Grey against the strike team. She breaks a pipe and, along with arrows, uses it to lead them to the temple. And, most significantly, at the conclusion of the fight, Sevika triggers explosives which puts Jinx’s ‘big’ plan into action. The rerouted vents drive the Grey up into Piltover, where it explodes in great plumes which flood streets and paint the town in a multicolour splash.

The cycles of violence have continued. Caitlyn wanted vengeance on Jinx, but Jinx has retaliated right back. In light of the ways in which Caitlyn and Jinx parallel each other near constantly throughout ‘Arcane’ (especially in season 2), I think this is suggestive of the futile nature of vengeance.

‘An eye for an eye,’ and you lose sight of yourself. Caitlyn’s hideaway is blasted with the Grey, the wind chime feature which had represented her feelings in episode 1 broken. There is no more space in herself, at this time, to piece apart her thoughts.

And the attack on Piltover allows Ambessa to consolidate her position as Piltover’s saviour and assert her will.   

There is so much more you could say about Jinx and Caitlyn, especially because of how they parallel each other constantly throughout the show (how their uses of the Grey contribute to them becoming symbols of something of which they are doubtful is really fascinating to me), but for the purposes of this deep dive on the Grey, I hope this suffices.

Conclusion:

The conflict which so much defines the shared history of Piltover and Zaun is growing steadily more volatile during act 1, and it is interesting to piece apart how characters impact upon this- there are good intentions in the strike team’s mission, but these are inseparable from the morally grey means through which they go about it.

Means influenced by emotions which have grown from the prior continuance of the cycles of violence. ‘Arcane’ is a tragedy, and there is certainly tragedy in watching Caitlyn be so changed by events.

The Grey is a reflection, a symbolic representation, of how Caitlyn changes throughout Act 1. How she is influenced by and influences other characters, and the impact this all has on the wider context. The morally grey path she goes down in her quest for vengeance.

By act 3, we see her having realised the error of her ways, knowing what she has done cannot be erased, but willing to fight against cycles of violence, walk away from her vengeance, and ‘trust in tomorrow.’

But in the smog of the conflict, everything seems grey.

I hope this exploration of the symbolism of the Grey was interesting. If you’ve reached the end of this, thank you so much for reading- I realise it is really long. I’m just very much fascinated with this show, so… I appreciate it!  

Reference: the reddit post: https://www.reddit.com/r/arcane/comments/1grizex/s2_spoilers_a_lot_of_people_are_misinterpreting/?share_id=6QplLMckmb2t4DnH3uGfw&utm_content=1&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_source=share&utm_term=1&rdt=56152

[a-hermit-pining]

LaDS React to a War General Reader

AN: Take a guess, I am reading Brandon Sanderson. I fucking love Dalinar and Kaladin. I would die for them. Alas I must write this. This is also why I have been writing so little.

Pairing: LaDS boys x gn reader

Ingredients: 100% pangst (pining x angst- my fav combo)

My Fav: Xavier because of course he would fall in love with someone older.

Xavier:

He is barely of age when he first sees you.

The war banners rise above the parade ground, crimson and silver, the kingdom’s crest stitched in gold thread , all symbols he has known since birth. But none of them matter.

Not when you're standing beside his mother, head held high, armor gleaming in the fading light. You are a warrior of her clan. A general. Her most trusted blade.

Your hair is braided back in soldier’s fashion, but a few strands have escaped, clinging to your cheek. You don't brush them away. Your hands rest calmly on the hilt of your sword. Not possessive. Just ready.

And then he sees it, the scar just below your right eye. Faint, half-faded, nearly lost among the curve of your smile.

Something fractures in him.

His chest tightens. His breath catches. The war drums beat in the courtyard, but he can only hear the thunder in his own blood.

Anxiety. Awe. Something darker. Something deeper. A sense of longing he doesn’t know how to name yet. He shouldn’t feel this. Not for someone like you.

But he does.

He watches you from afar for months. In training yards. In strategy halls. Once, in the rain, when you carried a wounded squire and scolded him with a laugh in your voice.

Each time, he falls harder. Softer.

He prays for battles just so he can see you ride out. He studies maps not for war, but for the chance to be stationed at your side.

Because you are the sword of the kingdom.

And he, he is just a boy in love with a flame that does not burn for him.

Yet

Rafayel:

The court sings of you. You, the general with sun-threaded hair and dimples that damned worlds.

Rafayel watches from the edge of the throne room, wine untouched in his glass, jaw set tight. He watches another group of nobles stumble over themselves just to get near you, and of course, you smile. Of course, you lift a fainting young lord into your arms and laugh like it’s all a game.

And the court laughs with you. Because you are beautiful, and beloved, and so damnably kind.

He mutters under his breath, "For a warrior, you smile too damn much."

But he watches. Always.

He watches the way your blade moves fast, clean, elegant. He watches the way you speak to soldiers by name. The way you remember their children, their injuries, their fears.

He watches you stand beside the Lemurian crown and never bow too low. You are not theirs. You’re not anyone’s.

Not even his.

But gods, he wants you.

In the darkest part of the sea, where even the sirens do not sing, you are his sun. The only warmth he ever knew.

And it infuriates him , that the court gets to see you laugh, to bask in his sun.

He dreams of you. Of you loving only him.

And if that makes him selfish, so be it.

He’s already drowned for less.

Zayne:

You are not a soldier. You are not a general. You are something older. Something worse. Something eminent.

Zayne hears the earth shudder before the gate even opens. The stars above Astra dim as if to brace themselves. Then your laugh. Low, raspy, hungry, one that has been silenced for way too long.

He doesn't need to look to know it’s you. The one they warned him about. The one he was supposed to kill.

You do not walk. You arrive. Sword dragging, blood-slick, eyes sharp with some storm even the gods couldn’t name.

And still, he stands between you and Astra.

Not because he believes in the fate. Not because he believes in the god who owns his bones. But because he needs to see it. Needs to see if the stories are true. Needs to see if a god can truly be undone. To see if his wretched fate with you could ever be laid to rest.

You raise your weapon. You smile. You say nothing.

And Zayne, traitor, guardian, prophet, fool, finds himself shaking.

Because you are not fate. You are its end.

And he, broken thing that he is, loves you for it.

He does not beg you to stop. He looks forward to the end that brings him to you. Away from the world.

Sylus:

The general kneels in front of the wounded, sleeves rolled to the elbow, armor long discarded. Your hands are stained with the blood of soldiers no one will remember. Your voice is hoarse from barking orders and whispering comfort in the same breath.

He watches from behind the war tents. A dragon in name, in form, but not yet in freedom. Still bound. Still collared. Still owned.

He is no stranger to cruelty. He has seen the whip. Felt the fire brands burn across his scales. Heard his name used as a command, not a right.

But you, you speak differently.

You sit with the dying. Share your meals with the stable hands. Offer your water to those who carry the tents for the war camp.

For the first time since his capture, since the collar was tightened around his throat, he feels a human hand touch his snout without fear, without dominance just gentleness.

“Be free,” you whisper. The lock on his chain rusts, and then crumbles beneath your fingers. “Beyond the mountains,” you say, voice soft in the old tongue. “Where no one can name you but yourself. Where the skies are bright and the land men have yet to walk on.”

And then, just like that, you let him go.

You didn’t just free a beast. You gave him a name. And that name, Sylus, he has carried it through lifetimes, meant only for you to utter.

Caleb:

He watches the light bleed from your eyes. Not all at once, slowly, like a sun setting behind smoke. Like a lantern flickering through ash.

You’ve both fought too long. Too hard. You’ve won battles that should’ve broken you. Celebrated victories with laughter that always came just a second too late.

He’s your advisor. The arrow in your quiver. The plan beneath your fury.

But this time… this time, something has shattered.

The battlefield is still. The wind has no songs left to carry. Your helmet slips from your hands and rolls to a stop among the corpses.

And you...you fold.

Not dramatically. Not with rage. You just… bend. Under the weight of what you’ve done. Under the weight of what you are.

Caleb rushes to you. Drops to his knees before your crumpled form, hands trembling, reaching. “We fought for our people,” he breathes, brushing dirt from your cheek. “For our king. For our home. For—”

Your eyes don’t meet his. “It was for nothing,” you say.

Your armor is cold against his chest. Your tears are hot against his fingers. He tries again. “You protected so many. You gave them hope.”

But you shake your head, slow and dazed. “So much blood,” you whisper. “For nothing.”

And he knows then, this isn’t about the war. It’s about you. About what you lost to become the kind of weapon kingdoms needed.

He holds you tighter. Like maybe if he anchors you, you won’t slip away completely.

He is so cold. And so afraid. Because if you can fall, what else is worth saving?

[ms-snape]

young!sevrus snape w/ a reader who is a very affectionate person? gives him hugs, peppers his face with kisses, holds his hand, plays with his hair whenever his head is in her lap…

Title: Affection

Warning: none, just pure fluff

Words Count: 1500+

Masterlist

---

The dungeons of Hogwarts were always cold, but tonight, the chill of the stone walls seemed to seep into the bones of the students gathered in the Slytherin common room. It was a typical Friday evening, the flickering flames of the fire casting long shadows across the room as most of the house’s occupants gathered in their usual places. But for once, Severus Snape wasn’t by himself.

He had, against every instinct, allowed himself to settle into a corner of the common room with Y/N, another member of Slytherin. At first, she had been nothing more than an occasional study partner—sharp, clever, and slightly aloof in her own right. But over the course of months, something had changed between them. The terse exchanges had turned into quieter moments, and the shared glances had deepened into something far more meaningful, something that neither of them had been prepared for.

Severus’s head rested in Y/N’s lap, her fingers idly threading through his messy, dark hair as she absently read a book about potion theory. He was still tense under her touch, as he always had been, but tonight there was a subtle difference—a vulnerability that hadn’t been there before.

Y/N had never been shy about her affections. She was a Slytherin, after all. She understood the value of power, of control. But she also knew that there were moments when something more than ambition was required: moments where the heart could soften, where people needed warmth to survive the cold of the world around them. And Severus—Severus was someone who needed warmth. A warmth that, at first, had been too much for him to accept.

At first, she had hesitated. She wasn’t used to being tender with anyone, especially not someone like Severus. He had always been the quiet, brooding Slytherin who sat at the back of the classroom, his black robes swirling as he walked, his gaze sharp and unyielding. He wasn’t like the other boys she had dated. He was different. But there was something in his eyes—something broken and raw—that drew her to him in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

It had started with small gestures: a nudge of his shoulder in the library, a casual touch on his arm when she helped him with a potion assignment, the accidental brush of her hand against his as they passed in the hallway. Each time, Severus had stiffened, and his eyes had darted around to make sure no one else was watching. He was not the kind of person who let others in, and he certainly wasn’t used to the soft touches she gave him. But she had been patient, slowly making him realize that maybe, just maybe, he deserved tenderness too.

Tonight, however, was a new step in their relationship. As Y/N’s fingers worked through the dark strands of his hair, she could feel his body gradually relaxing beneath her. His breath had slowed, the hard line of his jaw softening, though his eyes were still closed, his face unreadable. She smiled softly to herself, savoring the quiet moment.

"Sev," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the crackling fire. "You’re so tense."

He let out a low grunt, a barely audible sound that she had learned to recognize as an attempt to deflect. But this time, he didn’t pull away. Instead, his head tilted slightly, pressing a bit more into her lap.

Y/N’s fingers danced across the back of his neck, smoothing out the tension she found there. She could tell it wasn’t just his body that was tense—there was a quiet war inside of him, one that never seemed to let up. She had learned over time that Severus wasn’t used to kindness, especially not the kind she was offering. He had always expected the worst from people, and she suspected that the idea of someone being affectionate with him, expecting nothing in return, was as foreign to him as sunlight in the dungeons.

"I don’t know how you do it," Severus muttered, his voice muffled against her lap. "How you’re so... patient with me. People like me don’t deserve that."

Y/N stopped, her fingers stilling in his hair as she gazed down at him. Her heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, at the way he saw himself. She bent down and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, just above his dark hair, before looking back at him.

"You do deserve it, Severus," she said softly, her thumb brushing across his cheek, her gaze sincere. "You deserve kindness. You deserve everything."

Severus’s eyes flickered open, a rare crack in his stoic demeanor, and Y/N felt her chest tighten at the rawness she saw in his gaze. For the briefest moment, it almost felt as though he was going to argue, to pull away and retreat behind his familiar armor of sarcasm and bitterness. But instead, his lips parted in a half-hearted sigh, and he allowed himself to relax once again, his hand reaching out and briefly touching hers.

Days turned into weeks, and the relationship between Severus and Y/N deepened, though not without its complications. They were both Slytherins, and in many ways, that made them more alike than different. Ambition, power, and cunning ran through their veins like blood, and neither of them had ever been the type to show vulnerability in front of others. But in the quiet moments, when the rest of the world was out of view, their bond became something entirely different.

They were never overt in public, never flaunting their affection like some of the couples who seemed to crave attention. They were more subtle, quieter. Y/N’s fingers would graze his during class, or she would pass him a quiet smile from across the room. They spoke in private whispers in dark corners of the library or in the shadows of the dungeons, where no one could overhear their conversations.

One afternoon, after a particularly brutal double Potions class with the Gryffindors, Y/N had found Severus sitting alone on a bench near the black lake, his brow furrowed in concentration as he stared out at the rippling water. She had approached him slowly, her footsteps light on the damp grass, and when she sat beside him, he had glanced at her but didn’t say anything.

She tilted her head to the side and studied him for a moment. His posture was stiff, his eyes narrowed, as if he were deep in thought—or perhaps deep in frustration.

"Sev," she said, her voice breaking the silence, "you’re brooding again."

Severus snorted quietly, though his lips twitched in the faintest of smiles. "You’re one to talk," he muttered, though there was no malice in his voice.

She raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth curling upward. "I’m not the one staring into the abyss of my soul, am I?"

Severus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, but this time, there was no bitterness in his expression—just something soft, something almost amused.

For a brief moment, they sat there in silence, the cool breeze sweeping through the air, ruffling the trees and the edges of their robes. Y/N reached out, gently taking his hand in hers, her thumb tracing the lines of his palm. It was an intimate gesture, but it was something they had done often over the past few weeks.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Severus murmured again, his voice quieter this time. He looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers with a depth that made her heart skip a beat. “How do you make it look so easy? This... this affection. I’ve never had it before.”

Y/N’s heart swelled at his words, and she leaned in closer, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, just beneath his ear. His skin was warm, and for a moment, she could feel the tension that had once been so ingrained in him begin to dissolve.

“You deserve it, Sev,” she whispered, her voice soft but firm. “All of it. You deserve all the affection I have to give.”

Severus didn’t respond at first. His gaze dropped to their joined hands, and for a moment, Y/N thought he might withdraw, retreat into the shadows as he had done so many times before. But then, slowly, his hand tightened around hers, his fingers brushing across her skin in the most gentle of ways.

"Then… maybe I’ll let you give it to me," he said quietly, his voice almost shy.

It was a small step. But it was the beginning of something new—a slow unraveling of the walls Severus had built around himself, piece by piece, kiss by kiss. And Y/N, for all her cunning and ambition, found herself willing to take it slow. Because for once, she wasn’t after power or success. She just wanted him.

And somehow, somewhere along the way, Severus had started to want her too.

Weeks later, as winter settled over Hogwarts, the two of them had fallen into a familiar rhythm. The touches had become more frequent, the kisses more tender. Even though they were both Slytherins—carefully calculating and often ruthless in their own ways—there was an unspoken understanding between them: in this space, away from the world, they could let their guards down. They didn’t have to be the cold, calculating snakes everyone else expected them to be.

In the quiet moments by the fire or beneath the shadow of the castle walls, when no one else was watching, Severus and Y/N had created their own world. And in that world, there was no need for masks. There was only warmth, affection, and the growing sense that they had found something rare and precious—something that didn’t need to be dissected or justified. It just was.

And that was enough.

[zuvluguu]

Here's to the bridge-builders, the hand-holders, the light-bringers, those extraordinary souls wrapped in ordinary lives who quietly weave threads of humanity into an inhumane world. They are the unsung heroes in a world at war with itself. They are the whisperers of hope that peace is possible. Look for them in this present darkness.

Light your candle with their flame. And then go. Build bridges.

Hold hands. Bring light to a dark and desperate world. Be the hero you are looking for. Peace is possible. It begins with us.

~L.R. Knost