#the wing is broken of this one and glued back on

[mumblelard]

pont danic or the bridge under the bridge over there

finn and fall came over after work on friday and we wrote the story of the week together over red bag pizzas and strawberry lemonade. boba kept watch from above while we beasted the last two polaroids in the roll, and we talked about scranimals and puppy sitting, fireflies, rage rooms, and queue mechanics. they'd both had long, hard days that started early, but still we talked for hours about fireflies, trespassing syllabi, pool puke and ronalds, family fallen and family not fallen yet. it was a really fun night

[sodapopwrites]

a ballad of flame and shadow part ten

pairings - azriel x rhysands!sister reader

summary- after hybern, she talks to her brother rhysand, who helps her come to terms with her feelings. and finally she faces azriel and faces what she really feels for azriel. maybe even accepting it.

word count - 1.5k

a/n - i let them be happy at the end guys! everybody cheer and clap or something. sometimes all you need to do is talk to your brother...or almost die. whatever. tomato tomato. also let me know if you guys think i should keep writing this series! I was gonna end it here...but if you want more of them...i might oblige.

read the rest of the series here!

She sat on the staircase. Unmoving. Refusing to wash his blood from her hands. She had pulled the arrow from his chest the second they slammed back into the townhouse. She had let a wave of anger crash over her. At the sight of Cassian’s mangled wings, at the hole in Azriel’s chest, at Feyre’s gaping absence. 

That kind of bond cannot be broken. 

Mor’s words. Refusing to believe that Hybern had been able to sever the mating bond between her brother and Feyre. She prayed it was true as she looked at her mate. As she looked at Azriel, unconscious and bleeding. She couldn’t lose it, not when she’d finally let it find her. 

The rage hit her first, at Rhysand’s admission floated through the house. His secret. 

Feyre Archeron. Feyre Cursebreaker. Feyre High Lady of the Night Court. 

And then that guilt hit her. That guilt that always plagued her. 

So she sat on the staircase. She hadn’t dared to let herself follow Azriel and Madja upstairs, letting Rhys accompany them instead. She couldn’t follow Cassian either. She couldn’t even look at him. It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault. My family broken and bleeding and it’s all my fault. 

She didn’t know how long she sat there. Barely blinking. Barely moving. Her eyes far away, still with the pool of blood on the floor of Hybern’s throne room. 

────────────── ⋆✩⋆ ──────────────

Rhysand padded his way down the hallway. He was exhausted and devastated, itching to race to Spring Court and take Feyre back home. But stopping himself. This was something his mate had to do. So instead he had busied himself with watching over the healing of his brothers. 

He had watched as Madja carefully pieced Cassian’s wings together. Promising him that he would heal. That it would take time, but he would heal. He had watched as the healer fused over Azriel. He didn’t know where his sister was. But he knew exactly how she was feeling. He had known her too long. There was one reason she wasn’t at her mate’s side and he knew it well. 

The siblings too alike for their own good. 

Azriel not awake to wash away her guilt. He sighed. He would have to do it. So he left the Shadowsinger’s room to find her. 

────────────── ⋆✩⋆ ──────────────

She hadn’t moved in hours. It was like she was glued to the step she perched on. 

Rhys took her in. Her blank expression. Azriel and Cassian’s blood coating her clothes, her face, her hands. He stood in front of her now, but she didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Fearing for the worst. She didn’t know if she could bear it. 

“He’s okay.” 

He’s okay. He’s okay. He’s okay. 

Her brothers words thundered through her mind and she finally looked up at him, 

“How okay?” 

“He’ll make a full recovery. It’ll take some time. But he’ll be fine. Completely fine.” 

She nodded and looked down at her hands. Rubbing them together slightly, like the movement would cleanse them. 

“You should be with him when he wakes up.” 

“I can’t Rhys.” 

He sighed and ran a hand over his face. He moved to sit next to her now, “Yes you can.” 

She shook her head. Not looking at him as he sat on the steps with her. Not wanting him to see the tears that now streamed down her face. 

“Don’t do this.” 

“Do what?” 

“Let yourself believe that this was all your fault.” 

She laughed and sniffled, turning to face him. 

“I wasted years. Refusing to believe that it was real. Refusing to accept this” She motioned towards her chest. Like Rhysand would be able to see that golden thread now fully connecting his sister and his spymaster, “Thinking that it would be better. For everyone. Thinking that if I let myself have him….It would somehow be a detriment to everyone else.” 

She took a deep breath and continued, “I kept waiting. For the right time. For a moment of peace. Thinking that when everything was okay and everyone I care about was safe. That would be the perfect time to let it hit. To let it snap. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t hold it in.” 

Rhysand spoke slowly, “You didn’t have to.” 

“Yes I did. Because I was right. I was right. I couldn’t accept it until he was dying. And look what we lost.” 

He whispered her name but she ignored it, pushing forward, 

“I couldn’t protect anyone. I couldn’t shield Cass. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t save Feyre. Because I was too distracted. Because all of my worst fears came true and I couldn’t feel anything except for  him slipping away from me the second I let myself have him.” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” Rhysand gripped her shoulder as he said it. But it didn’t matter. 

“Yes it was.” 

“Not everything bad that happens is your fault. Cassian will heal. Azriel will heal. Feyre will come home when the time is right.” 

He moved his hand to her other shoulder, gripping them both now hard, forcing her to face him as he continued, 

“We took a hit today. But this guilt you’re feeling? That you always let consume you? It’s not your burden to bear alone. So go upstairs and be with him. Be with your mate.” 

She shook her head, “I can’t.” 

“You can and you will”

“Why should I?” 

“Because with everything going on. With the war we’re about to fight. With everything we’ve already lost, already suffered through…You deserve a little bit of relief. Let yourself be happy. Let yourself feel this…If not for yourself, for us, for your family, for Azriel.” 

She looked at her brother. Saw the guilt she carried reflecting in his eyes. Too alike for their own good. Too used to pushing away their own comfort for the sake of everyone else. But he had let himself fall in love. He had let himself accept what was offered to him, and it was what drove him forward. 

He moved to stand and walk away, but before leaving her to make a decision about whether or not she would go upstairs, he turned and said one last thing, 

“Letting yourself love someone is not a weakness. It makes you stronger. It’s what has kept this family together for so long. It’s what’s going to keep us together for much longer.” 

She hated that he was right. She hated that her brother always had to come to these realizations before her. Hated that he was always a step ahead of her growth wise. But he was right. She knew he was right. 

────────────── ⋆✩⋆ ──────────────

She stepped into the dim bedroom quietly. The curtains were drawn, a candle flickering softly, casting a golden light over Azriel. Who lay in the bed a couple feet away from her. He looked peaceful. Like maybe he wasn’t in too much pain. He looked like he was healing. 

Color had come back into his face. His hair fell over his forehead caressing his skin softly. The bandages wrapped around his chest were white and clean, blood was not seeping from him as it had been before. He was okay. 

She let herself draw nearer. Let herself perch on the side of the bed. Let herself brush the soft black curls away from his face. His lashes fluttered as he opened his eyes and when he saw her…he smiled. Like his injury was the last thing he was thinking about. Like the devastation of the day behind them was more bearable now that she was sitting in front of him. 

She sharply inhaled as his hazel eyes met hers. Trying to smile back at him, but not quite managing. 

His voice was raw and strained as he spoke, 

“You know…if I knew that getting myself almost killed would get you to accept the mating bond. I would have done it a lot sooner.” 

She let out a laugh. A real laugh, interrupted by the tears spilling from her eyes, a little unbelieving. But still a laugh, 

“Are you making a joke right now?” 

“Bad time?” 

He grinned at her and carefully moved to sit up, despite her protests. He raised a hand to the side of her face, and pulled it to his own, capturing her lips with his. 

When she pulled away she pressed his forehead to his and closed her eyes. His voice filling her ears, 

“Are you going to spend another five hundred years avoiding this? Or are you going to make it easier this time?” 

She snorted, “I don’t know. What do you think I should do?” 

He kissed her again and smiled against her lips, “I think you should let me love you.” 

She pulled away from him. Taking in his glittering eyes, the smile that played on his lips, the dark lashes lining his eyes, it was like she could see that golden thread circling around Azriel’s hazel irises. 

“You know I think so too.” 

Feyre’s return to the Spring Court. Hyberns building force. The war to come. 

They would handle it together. They would fight together, for their family, for their home, for each other. 

taglist:

@littlepippilongstocking @lilah-asteria @wrecklesssly @negomi123 @stqrgirlies-blog @mrsbarnes32557038

[moonlightazriel]

When no one hears your calls /// Eris X F!Reader

Summary: When the unbearable feelings of her mate start to mess with her life, Y/N decides to put an ending to their misery.

Warnings: Torture and abuse, Beron being the bastard he is.

Word Count: 3K

Notes: Yeah, i missed writing for my baby Eris. And I'm warning in advance that reader is Azriel's sister and he's mated to Gwyn in this, so please, if you don't stan Gwynriel, scroll past it.

Main Masterlist

She weeped, the feelings flooding her chest too overwhelming to keep controlled. It started with small waves of anxiety, increasing to pure agony, pain erupted through her chest. She tried to keep the tears from spilling, but now she sobbed, broken pleas for it to stop leaving from her parted chapped lips. 

“Tell me what’s wrong, let me make it stop.” Azriel begged his sister. Holding her broken frame in between his arms.

“It hurts so much Az, it’s not fair.” She managed to speak in between the sobs that got more hysterical. The shadowsinger just held her tighter, seeing her in such distress broke him, she has always been his greatest weakness. 

“Here, take this.” Gwyn offered, her warm hands holding a mug towards the female. “It will help you sleep.” Azriel nodded to his mate, taking the mug from his hands and bringing it to his sister’s lips. He forced the content down her throat, watching as the tea slowly worked, her body relaxed and the tears stopped and she fell asleep against him.

“Thank you.” He said, and Gwyn squeezed his shoulder in a reassuring grip. Azriel grabbed Y/N, taking her to the guest bedroom that Gwyn had set for her, placing her sleeping form carefully on the bed. The red headed female grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the living room again.

“I don’t understand.” He breathed. “She has had these episodes since the High Lord’s meeting, it doesn’t make any sense.” 

“Maybe she’s sick?” Gwyn suggested and Azriel shrugged. 

“I took her to Madja, and she’s been as healthy as ever. There’s nothing wrong with her besides that.” He looked towards the room, to the shadows guarding his sister as she finally rested. “I don’t know what to do.”

“We’ll find a solution Az, I know that.” Gwyn smiled at him, and he pulled the female for a hug. 

“I pray to the Mother that you’re right.” She kissed his temple and he closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of her love soothe his heart. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

Whenever an episode approached, it always had small signs indicating it, the uncomfortable feeling in her chest, the rapid breathing and the dizziness like someone hit her in the head with full strength.

She hated that she worried her family so much, but not every time she was able to control how her body would react to it. It angered her how they would look at her with such pained expressions, how much Azriel wanted to help and she didn’t even knew how to ask for his help. 

So everyday, Gwyn would take her to the library and she would search the cause of her troubles, her nose glued to the pages for hours until her vision was blurry and her head was pounding. She never felt such agony, only when her half brothers and her father ripped her wings from her back, making a small cut and pulling it until the skin gave up and she blacked out due to the blood loss. 

It was Azriel shadows who helped them, sneaking supplies to their cell until they could get rid of the infection that almost killed her and healed his hands. She was glad for them and her brother, they saved her. She always tried to be as less of a burden as possible to not worry Azriel, but now she knew he was distressed about her situation, so she wanted to fix it, for her and for him. 

Shadows gathered in a corner caught her attention, she got up, despite not being able to hear them, they always tended to her and her needs. As she approached the shelf, the shadows disappeared, leaving only a copy of an old dusty book behind. She pulled the book out, blowing the dust off, sneezing a bit in the process. Allergic just like Cassian. 

She plopped herself in her seat again, scanning the book cover, no name, no nothing, this sparked her curiosity. She opened the book, in a fancy handwriter she could read “MATING BONDS: The complete guide for the matters of the heart.” She smiled at the title. 

Just like her brother, she was sometimes too shy to ask about things. Besides having her past lovers, mating bonds are something she was never that curious about. So she sat there, reading the whole thing with attention. If the shadows thought this book would help, she was sure it would. 

“Sometimes, strong feelings can leak through a one sided bond. And the other mate can feel it just as clearly as they would if the bond was shared by both mates.” That passage stuck with her, and she organised the books back on the shelf as she saw Gwyn approaching. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

“How do we know if the bond snapped or not?” She blurted at the dinner table, the eyes of the inner circle turning to her.

“Well, it’s different for everyone and you would mostly just know.” Rhys said, looking at the female, the three Illyrians treated her like they were her brothers as well. So, the three have been looking for ways to help their little sister to get rid of those episodes. 

“What if the bond had snapped for me and I just didn’t know it was it?” She inquired again and Azriel turned to his sister, his shadows stopping to look at her curiously. 

“Do you think you found your mate?” He asked, eyebrow raised, who she thought she was mated to?

“I found this book that said that feelings can leak through the bond.” The couples nodded in agreement.

“Yeah, it’s very common.” Feyre replied.

“That’s the only explanation for what’s happening to me.” They all stopped for a second. “These emotions are not mine, but they’re strong enough for me to feel it.” Suddenly it all made sense.

“I pity your mate then.” Nesta said with sincerity, whoever it was, was going through great pain for her to feel it so intensely. 

“Me too.” Feyre agreed. “But as for the bond, you can feel like a tug in your soul, like no one else matters to you anymore besides that person.” The High Lady concluded. 

“Do you think you ever felt like this?” Elain asked and the female nodded.

“Yeah, I think I have.” 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

She couldn’t sleep, her mind filled with too many memories to rest. But one in particular caught her attention, and she closed her eyes, focusing on that memory until she could see it clearly.

“I didn’t know the Night Court had such beauties by their side.” His voice purred, and she turned around to see the well dressed autumn male. He had a smirk adorning his lips, his hair slicked back, leaving a clear view of his face.

“The autumn males aren’t that bad either.” She sheepishly replied, eyes glued to his amber eyes. Eris Vanserra was a dangerous male, as her family had alerted her, but what a beautiful disaster he was. Stealing her breath away and making her lose all of her focus.

“If you ever give me the pleasure of your company, I'll show you how bad we can be.” He winked at her, leaving her standing still in the hallway. It was Nesta who found her, looking at nothing, frozen in place as her chest sparkled with life, like she was taking her first breath of fresh air after getting out of her father’s dungeon. As she was finally free. 

She kicked the covers away from her body, not caring about her clothing as she winnowed away. It was him, he was what was troubling her so much. She just needed to ask him to stop whatever this was and she would go back to normal. The shadows covered her as she sneaked through the Autumn Manor. 

Everything was pitch black, and she just followed the shadows, taking her to the only illuminated room. She pushed the door open, spotting Eris by the bed, looking in a small mirror as he stitched a very ugly wound in his chest. His eye was purple and his lips were bruised. 

“Who did this to you?” She breathed, her hands shaking in anger, how could someone do it to another being? She saw how cruel people could be and she dedicated her time to protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. 

“What are you doing here?” He asked startled, dropping the mirror from his hands and wincing in pain. Surprised to see her there, and even more curious to know why she was there.

“I came here to talk to you.” She walked closer to her. “Here, let me help you.” Eris raised an eyebrow towards her, what was happening? She picked the needle from his hands, her warm skin brushing against his, it was a nice feeling. He didn’t say anything as her soft touch rested against his heart, while her other hand worked on closing the wound.

She finished the stitches, reaching for the bowl of water, taking the cloth and with one hand she lifted his chin, eyes locked together for a second. She started to work on the dried blood that smeared across his lips and nose. He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch and letting her take care of him. 

“What do you want to talk about that was so important that you invaded my room in the middle of the night?” He watched as she got away from him, sitting in one of the comfortable chairs in the corner of his room. She pulled her legs close to her chest. 

“I wanted you to stop.” He leaned forward.

“Stop what exactly?” She took a deep breath.

“With your overwhelming feelings, it’s been a fucking trouble to me. But you’re clearly going through something, so if you ever need me, don’t hesitate to reach out.” Eris sneered.

“Why would I ever seek your help?” He watched as she got up, her expression serious as she held the doorknob. 

“Because who’s better to help you than your own mate?” And with that she left. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

Mate. 

Mate.

Mate.

She was his mate. Her words got caught in his mind, she had no reason to lie to him. But he also had no reasons to believe her, he just did. He chose to believe that the female who came to him in the middle of the night and showed him more kindness than his own flesh and blood was telling the truth.

So when another round of torture was over, he winnowed to her house, he had memorized the address she had sent to him. He could barely hold himself together, so he almost collapsed on top of her as she opened the door. She looked like she had been crying as he managed to take a look at her face, and he wondered if it was his emotions that led to that.

“I didn’t know where else to come, and I didn't want to be alone.” She didn’t laugh nor mocked him, she just nodded and left the room. He could hear her, moving around in a hidden room, he wondered if she regretted offering him shelter. 

All the doubts died down in his throat when she came back, leaning to help him stand, guiding the way towards a bathroom. She sat him in her toilet and helped him out of his clothes. He sank in the water, trying to ignore the fact that he had to be naked in front of her, she looked like she was trying her best to ignore it as well.

“I put some numbing herbs, to help with the pain.” He nodded, feeling very thankful for her kindness. “And I have some of Azriel’s clothes here if you don’t mind. Yours are very dirty and could infect your wounds.”

“I would like that, thank you.” She nodded, getting out of the room and only appearing again to drop the clothes. Eris sighed, feeling his body relax and his wounds starting to close. As the water got cold, he got out. He felt weird wearing the Shadowsinger’s clothes but nothing about this situation was usual for him. 

“I figured you’re probably hungry.” She placed a plate in front of him, no one had ever taken that much care of him before. “I didn’t cook it, Feyre told me it's a way of accepting the bond.” She smiled and he could swear that all the pain and sadness was lifted from his chest with that bright smile directed to him. 

“Yeah, we don’t want you accepting this bond by accident.” Why would she want to accept a life tied to him?

“Yeah, we have to get to know each other first.” She giggled, taking a bite of her own food. “You don’t even know my favourite colour!” Eris laughed, feeling the sound reverberate through his chest, how long it was since he truly laughed with someone? 

“Do you plan on accepting?” He asked, testing the waters.

“To be honest, I think about it, but as I said. First we get to know each other, we think about the bond later.” Eris nodded. 

“Does your family know?” He dared to ask, assuming that they didn’t, or else Azriel would have already threatened him. 

“They do!” He looked at her in shock. “They weren’t happy at first, but they respect my choice.” 

“Did you tell them?” He gestured towards himself and her smile faded.

“Your secret is safe with me, it’s not my story to tell.” He swallowed the lump in his throat.

“Thank you, for everything.” She smiled again.

“Nothing to thank me for.” He grabbed her hand, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“I have everything to thank you for, you just don’t know it.” They finished the meal and she got up to do the dishes, he quickly pushed her away. “It’s the least I can do.” She nodded.

“I’ll get the guest room ready for you then.” That night Eris slept like he hadn't slept in ages, soaking in the comfort of her home and her affection. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

Her fingers started to shake, and that wave of anxiety came, as overwhelming as ever, it has been a whole month that she didn’t feel it, but Eris still came up to her beaten every week, she knew he was holding back his pain for her. But today, it was just as unbearable as it was when he didn’t know about it.

She gritted her teeth, clenching her fists under the table. The dinner went nicely, everyone engaged in conversations and smiling. She couldn’t ruin it, not again. But it was too late, as tears started to stream down her face.

“Are you okay?” Gwyn asked. Concern lacing her delicate features. Y/N shook her head, a scream ripping past her lips and scaring the whole family, Azriel was by her side in a second, tending to her. 

“What’s wrong?” It wasn’t pain that filled her veins tonight, it was anger. The house shook with her power. She screamed in rage, if she didn’t act now, he was going to get killed. She grabbed the truth teller away from her brother.

“This ends tonight.” She announced before she winnowed away. The pain guided her, towards mouldy walls and putrid floors, the smell of blood making the air rancid. 

He groaned, the pointy blade opening his flesh as it was dragged across his skin. He tried to hold back his pain but it was too much tonight, the ash in the weapon making everything more painful. He tried to hang on for her, for the life he wanted to have with her, for everything they haven’t lived yet. But it was too painful to keep going. 

The cell door was forced open, with unruly hair, wet and red cheeks, holding a blade in her hands, his guardian angel came. The blade being pushed into Beron’s neck, blood splattering against her face. She pushed the blade to the side, Beron’s head being detached from his neck, his lifeless body collapsing to the floor. 

“Hey! Open your eyes.” She demanded, kneeling in front of him, cradling his face in between her hands, and in that moment, the bond in his chest sang with life, welcoming her unmistakable love for him. 

⋆˙⟡☾𖤓☽ ⟡˙⋆ 

The first thing he saw was the black curtains of her guest room. And the looming presence of the Shadowsinger himself, watching him intently. His body didn’t hurt anymore, all that was left was the warming feeling of the bond alongside his soul. 

“Where is she?” He asked, sitting straight up in bed, his muscles felt tingly from being in the same position for long.

“She’s out in town, getting some things.” Azriel sat in the chair facing the bed. “How are you feeling, Eris?” True concern filled his voice.

“I’m fine, she saved me.” He could never forget this.

“Use this gift she gave you to make her the happiest female alive.” Azriel said, and Eris knew this was the closest of his blessing he would ever get. “Keep her safe.”

“With my life.” The male promised. A door opened somewhere and her soothing voice filled the room.

“I’m home!” She announced, and it took her a few minutes to go to his room, pushing the door open, she watched him. Blinking the tears before rushing to him, jumping on top of him. He held her, and he felt  her lips pressed on his. His heart beated faster, as he retributed her kiss.

“Hey, stop that, that’s gross.” Azriel groaned, and she parted their kiss, laughing to her brother from Eris’s lap.

“You’re no fun.” She complained, showing him his middle finger. He rolled his eyes and left the room. “What do we do now?” She asked, but Eris didn’t want to think about the chaos that awaited for him at home, so he looked her in the eyes, sending all the love he could down the bond and asked.

“What’s your favourite colour?”

[dvchvnde]

Your grogginess lingers in the days after. A side effect of the painkillers, he says, but when you check—tucking the pill against your inner cheek when he leaves to go fetch something from the kitchen—it's just Tylenol. Prescription, of course. Extra strength with codeine. It shouldn't make you feel this sluggish, this out of it. 

Exhaustion clings to you like a second skin. One that doesn't quite fit; tight, constricting—an artificial veneer that leaves you feeling itchy and uncomfortable where it rubs into your flesh. Sinking anchored hooks into your consciousness that tug you down into a permanent state of hypnagogia. Suspended in a constant fever dream. 

Threads of fatigue weave through each eyelash until keeping them open becomes an arduous task. It's easier when you just give in—

“Need tae rest,” Johnny says when you tell him about it. About how much it worries you. “Ye’ve been injured, doe. Need tae sleep an’ heal.” 

Adds: trauma, maybe, when your skepticism shows over dinner of caribou burgers, rice pilaf, and more bannock. The way he says the word—so nonchalant for all its ugliness, cruelty—nudges inside your chest, and you waver. Flickering toward the striped scar on his temple. He'd know, wouldn't he?

Still. 

The unsettled feeling in the pit of your stomach lingers, mouldering inside of you. Festering. Fed by the stretch of days that bleed into each other; of waking up to the same sequence, a new routine, over and over again without any escape. 

This new perspective hurts. Aches. But you adapt—change shape—until your days are spent languishing away in bed reading the books he gives to you, or listening to him putter around the house like a restive bird searching for an escape. 

This cabin is too small for his wings, it seems.

But despite having a stranger impede in his space, Johnny cares for you with an intensity that makes you feel smothered. Claustrophobic. He tends to everything, rarely letting you lift a finger. 

The embarrassment of that, of it all, fades at the end of the first week when he puts you in the tub, and slowly washes away the grime from your skin with a tender touch and eyes that bleed sin. 

(“Ah’ll take care’a ye,” he rasps, voice thick in his throat. “Donnae worry about a thing, doe.”)

It's fine, you think. It's fine in the daytime—

Your nights, however, are awash in seafoam. 

Clips, snippets; disjointed and broken. They flicker past like scenes of a movie you're unfamiliar with but never linger. Never stay long enough for you to find some form of comfort within the hazy silhouettes. 

Moments of waking up on a bed with a hand on your forehead, murmuring to you. Words eliding together in the slurry of your mind, incompressible. Unknowable. A warmth against your skin. A rough hand on your jaw, thumb brushing across your cheek. 

The most jarring are the ones that come late at night when you remember the phantom weight of something slung over your waist, knotted tight between your breasts. Scorching heat glued to your spine. 

You think he's been crawling in bed with you. The thought alone makes you want to sob—

“Pretty wife ah go’ fer ma’self.”

Morning comes, and the worry from the night before is dissolved into an uneasy pinch in your guts. He’s normal—intense, dizzyingly so—but. Just a man. An odd one with a white, jagged grin. All teeth. Charming, you know. The sort of thing you'd fall for back home in a bar. Boyish. Simple. 

But he's—

Strange. 

Touches you a lot. Fingers tucked in the crease of your elbow, hand on your shoulder. Your knee. It moves higher up, planting itself on your thigh. Much too high to be appropriate. To be anything else outside of—

Well. 

No. 

You can't think about that. Not when your safety is tucked between those even, white teeth. With a broken ankle, negligible survival skills, and no sense of direction—

Thinking about that will crush you down to fine powder. 

You bury it around an unease smile. Polite and distant and edging slightly in hysteria when he leans down, eyes burning, burning, and murmurs something under his breath about his little doe. All his. 

(wife—)

It's a mistake. His accent is thick. You've misheard what he said. Don't panic. Don't scream. Don't offend him. He's nice. Nice, nice, nice. Just a nice man in the middle of nowhere who has a scar on his temple that looks like a shooting star, and madness in the back of his eyes that blooms when you catch him staring at you. Always. Like he can't bear to tear his gaze away. 

He's a puppy. A dog. A good fucking boy. Stop being so crazy—

He brings you bread with fresh, homemade jam. Blueberries that grow along his property line. Juice. Water. He sits in the chair beside the bed and eats with you, tells you stories of his life back home. Scotland. Where he played football (an’ no’ tha’ shite ye call soccer) with his friends when he was home from deployment. An avid runner. He'd pace the streets of Edinburgh until his belly ached too much to continue. 

Tells you of this place he'd go to after. Eat his body weight in eggs, hash. 

His life feels like an improbable adventure sometimes. Deepening into dangerous territory when he admits, at your gentle prodding, that he was in the military. Secret sect. A taskforce. 

(“Need’tae know,” he wags his finger at you, a toothy grin tugging on the corner of his mouth. “Or ah’d ‘ave tae kill ye.”

You convince yourself he's joking, and offer a weak chuckle. It tastes of madness in the back of your throat.)

In these moments, there are three elephants in the room with you. So smothered are you by their presence, that thoughts of loneliness dwindle down to nothing. A faded memory haunting the hollow of your throat. 

The most obvious one is the mangled scar on the side of his face, slashing across his skin like a shooting scar. He touches it sometimes. Fingers pressing tentatively to the lumpy, misshapen mess of pink flesh. 

It's soft most of the time. A tender pat, like he's reminding himself it's still there. 

But sometimes, sometimes, he digs his fingers in so hard, they turn white. Like he's trying to chisel through flesh to scoop out everything inside. These moments are usually accompanied by bad days. Ones where he disappears outside for hours on end, only slinking back inside when the sky turns black. Haggard, knuckles pulpy mess of red. 

Or when he stays inside, despondent. Solemn. He stares at the wall without blinking. It takes him a long time to respond, as if the words are stuck inside his throat. And when he does, they're stilted and hollow. Monosyllabic. A broken amalgamation of incomprehensible colloquialisms and shattered English. 

When you ask what he said, he gives you a strange look. Like you're the one speaking in tongues. 

“Ahm jus’—” he makes a vague motion, and says nothing else. 

The pity is intense. You ache for this odd, broken man. To suffer so much—

It draws your attention to the second elephant. The one who pushes back into the corners, trying to hide. This growing thing that crackles in the air between you. Unfathomable. Intense. You're not sure what it is, or why it's here. It feels intimidating. Infinite. 

It crawls into your lap in the dark, this twisted, hideous babe, seeking comfort from the person who viciously pushes it away. A dog coming back to lick the hand that hurts it because it knows no better. Bad dog. Good boy. The wires cross, spark. 

What else do you do when pain and comfort come from the same hand? It whimpers this question out as it cries itself to sleep curled up on the lap of a person who refuses to touch it back. Cold comfort. 

You think of baby chimps and mothers with cotton skin and metal bones. 

Loneliness, you find, makes you desperate. It aches, a pulsing wound, spread over the whole of your pericardium. What do you do when the armour that is meant to protect you breaks? Cracks.

You don’t like to think about it too much because this path, this looping trail, leads you right into everything else you refuse to acknowledge. Particularly, the third elephant. 

Or rather—

The fact that the other side of the bed is always warm when you wake up in the morning. 

Johnny tells you he sleeps on the couch. 

Sometimes, when you press your face into the pillow, you can catch the lingering scent of pine, cloudberry. 

(You fold it up into a square, and shove it between the metal bars of your mother's ribs.)

[absolutepokemontrash]

Prideful Creature

A newly fallen Lucifer has some thoughts…

Masterlist

Warnings: alcohol (Demonus)

••••••••••••••••••••••••

Lucifer Morningstar was a prideful creature.

His wings? All six were positively perfect.

His appearance? Without question, handsome.

His power? Enviable.

His family? Divine. Literally.

Anyone could look at Lucifer and go green with envy, he was one of his father’s perfect creations, a shining star, a light of the celestial realm, but oh…

From such a high pedestal, it was a long way to fall.

…

Lucifer Morningstar was a prideful creature. The humans knew this. Maybe that was why they warped his story to be one of hubris.

It was a wonderful tale, Lucifer had to admit. One of his father’s most dazzling creations turning against Him because Lucifer believed he could do better than his creator? Fantastic. Even more, Lucifer then orchestrated the downfall of his father’s favourite humans… What wicked revenge.

But still, no amount of revenge could quell the pain that swirled in Lucifer’s chest as he poured himself another glass of Demonus.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to be drinking the stuff, especially since it was his turn to watch Satan, and he was the only one who did it right anyway… but still, Lucifer had many sorrows to drown.

His wings? Blackened and burnt, his six had been whittled down to four out of an act of his own rage.

His appearance? Lucifer looked at his reflection in his wine glass as he swirled the Demonus inside. He looked like shit.

His power? Still enviable, Lucifer had to admit, he was one of the most powerful creatures in the Devildom but he wasn’t free to use his power as he pleased. He was on a leash now, a leash held by the most powerful creature in the Devildom…

His family?

…

Lucifer gripped the glass tighter, before downing its contents and refilling it.

Broken.

The bottle had been emptied. Lucifer wound back his arm and threw it.

As it shattered against the opposite wall of his office, Lucifer blearily rubbed at his eyes.

The bottle could be glued back together.

A smile cracked across Lucifer’s features, wide, almost uncanny in its appearance. His new fangs weren’t helping matters either as he caught a glimpse of what he looked like in the reflection of his window as he leaned back in his seat.

Lucifer began to laugh.

It was a low rumble at first, then a shallow, hoarse, wheeze, then- complete and utter hysteria.

The bottle was less broken than his family! At least he could pick up the pieces of the bottle!

Lucifer’s laughter had become almost painful as he clutched his ribs and doubled over. The more he tried to quell the laughter, the more it made his sides and chest ache.

He could glue the bottle back together! He had thrown the bottle with all his power, and yet, he could get every piece!

Tears rolled down Lucifer’s reddening face as he continued to laugh, dragging a gloved hand down his face.

It would take a while, but he could get every bit of glass off the hardwood, even the bits that ended up hidden in the carpet! He could get every single one! Of course he could, he was the Avatar of Pride, the best of the best! He should be able to do anything! Anything! If he can’t do everything what good is he?!

The laughter stopped abruptly, but the shudders that wracked Lucifer’s frame didn’t stop. They had morphed into massive, heaving sobs. Lucifer covered his mouth and hunched forward, his bloodshot eyes wide as his tears rolled down his face.

He had thrown the bottle with all his strength. It was broken. He could theoretically fix it because all the pieces were still there.

He couldn’t do the same with his family.

Taking a deep breath, Lucifer wiped at his face for a final time. He had cried enough to fill a river in these last few months. He sat up straight in his seat and went back to work.

The pieces of his family had warped and changed beyond recognition.

Asmodeus had lost most of that friendly sparkle in his eye when he flirted and bantered with his friends. His eyes had darkened with something different, a sin he had grown far too comfortable with. Asmo only wanted pleasure out of others now, and if he didn’t get it, he’d throw them away.

Beelzebub wouldn’t stop eating.

“Don’t eat your feelings,” Lucifer had once advised him what felt like so… so long ago.

He wasn’t following that advice.

Mammon’s penchant for trouble had only worsened. Lucifer had dragged him out of trouble more times that month than the entire time they spent in the celestial realm together. Lucifer wanted to be patient with him, his brother was hurting and acting out, but father above his patience was growing thinner by the day.

Leviathan wouldn’t leave his room. His eyes were like glass. Lucifer wondered if that was just a side effect of his new, demonic appearance, or if it was long-term shellshock still rocking him to his core.

And the baby, Satan, was a demon, through and through. He bit, he scratched, he’d scream like something that crawled out of the Styx. Lucifer knew it probably wasn’t the baby’s fault, it… was a baby, they did things like cry, but all Lucifer could really see when he looked at him was a reminder. A grim reminder of the wings he tore clean off his back.

Belphegor, he-

Lucifer felt his pen slip through his fingers. He didn’t hear it clatter to the ground.

…when did he get so angry..?

Belphie had always been mischevious, he had a sneaky little smile that Lucifer absolutely adored, but that mischief had never been so… malicious.

The new Avatar of Sloth was mad- no. That was far too simple a term. The Avatar of Sloth was enraged at humanity.

When he wasn’t sleeping, he’d beg Lucifer to take him to the human world, terrorise the mortals with nightmares and sleep paralysis so profound, the humans afflicted might never wake up…

Sometimes Lucifer indulged him.

When did Lucifer get so angry..?

Maybe Belphie had the right idea. It was easier to be angry at something you could actually punish.

Even if Lucifer sat down and tried to glue the pieces of his family back together, who’s to say it would be the same as it had been before? Would it still be the picturesque, idyllic scene it had been for so many years before…

No. Of course it wouldn’t. Some pieces were missing.

The demon rolled his shoulders, trying to muscle through the shudder that wracked his frame at the thought of Simeon, Michael, Raphael, the others that didn’t fall with him…

Lucifer looked up at the ceiling of his office, eyes following the shadows of the dazzling lights overhead.

Lucifer was a prideful creature. Everyone knew that. But at that moment…

He had nothing to be proud of.

…

Lucifer had no affection for humans if he was being totally honest.

They died awfully quickly, and even when he’d stop and get to know one, their goals matched their pitifully short lifespans.

But there was one thing Lucifer appreciated about them. Humans were prideful creatures, just like him.

It was cute in a way, how such a tiny mortal creature could hold themselves in such high esteem. But his musings on humanity as a whole weren’t of any concern at the moment, not with the… “exchange students” visiting.

One was staying with him and his brothers, Lucifer had internally groaned when he heard the news from Diavolo.

Ugh, it’d be like keeping alive a hamster, those things always died in the most ridiculous of ways.

Shaking off that thought, Lucifer tapped his pen against his lips as he looked over his class notes.

He didn’t really need to attend class, his status as a student at RAD was mostly a formality, but if he showed up to a class at all, he was going to ace it. His pride wouldn’t allow otherwise.

And maybe it was that same pride that stopped him from admitting his interest in the human.

The human that had been brought down was odd. They didn’t seem all that… afraid of him. Perhaps it knew how insignificant and short it’s life was going to be, so it didn’t really care that Lucifer had enough power in a backhand to end it there and then.

But then again… the human didn’t exactly seem to want to die all that much either. While its actions portrayed an idiot who danced far too close to danger for many people’s liking, the thoughts behind those actions were very intriguing.

“I wanted a pact with your brother!” The human had said without a hint of fear in its expression. Levi had almost killed it, and this was its explanation for the chain of events that led to that?!

…weird.

Very weird.

…

Lucifer was a prideful creature. He knew that knowledge was power, and he chafed at the idea that someone was more powerful than he.

He had asked the human a question.

“Why?”

A very loaded question. The human smiled.

“I like you and your brothers, I want to help you.”

They had managed to make pacts with six of the seven of them.

Belphie had made a pact with them.

“That’s not a very good answer.”

“It wasn’t a very detailed question.”

The human’s eyes glinted with amusement, leaning back on the living room couch they were sitting on.

Lucifer stiffened in place. He could sit down but… no. He’d rather stand.

“Fine then,” Lucifer replied, crossing his arms and raising a brow. “Why do you insist on meddling in our lives despite how we’ve treated you? Where in the human world did you find the audacity?”

The human snorted, covering their mouth to muffle their laughter.

“I think I was born with the audacity, but as for the other stuff…” the human trailed off. “I dunno. I’m a busybody like that I guess. Besides, are you complaining?”

Lucifer opened his mouth to respond, but he finds that no words come out. Was he complaining?

“…I haven’t decided yet.”

“Have you decided on whether or not you’re going to sit next to me?”

Stiffening again, the demon found himself moving. He briskly walked around the couch and sat himself down next to the human.

“So,” a playful smirk danced on the human’s face. “When do you think you’re going to get back to me on your decision?”

“What?”

“On whether or not I bother you!”

“Oh,” Lucifer rolled his eyes. “You bother me, you bother me so much.”

The human laughed again.

Lucifer found himself enjoying the sound.

…

Lucifer was a prideful creature. Maybe- no- that was definitely what held him back from asking the human for a pact before the end of the year.

The human had done the impossible.

The human had fixed Lucifer’s broken family.

Maybe “fixed” wasn’t the right word…

Lucifer’s relationship with Simeon was still… different. There was a familial familiarity still there of course, but there was a strange distance between the two. Lucifer wondered if it’d ever be the same again. Did he even want it to be the same again? Or was it too late?

The relationships between Lucifer and his brothers weren’t the same either, they had been through so much together over the hundreds of years they spent as demons, and almost just as much in the single year of the exchange program. It was different but… not bad.

And there had been new pieces added to the mix. Diavolo felt less like a boss and more like a… companion. A friend. Now that Lucifer’s greatest shame had been aired out to his family, his resentment was subsiding. He found himself wanting to be around the Demon Prince more and more, see him smile, see his dream come to fruition because of more than just Lucifer’s duty as his right hand.

And of course, with Diavolo came Barbatos. The butler was always a figure of mystery, and Lucifer could only assume it’d stay that way for a very… very long time.

Despite Lucifer’s best efforts, the human sorcerer Solomon had… grown on him. Like a tumour that would eventually kill him. But it wasn’t only malignant tumours that seemed to have grown on Lucifer.

He had always been a dog person, so he supposed he had developed a brotherly soft spot for the little yapping chihuahua. Lucifer often found himself smiling whenever he heard the little angel’s voice echoing through the halls, calling for the human.

And finally, the human. They had taken scattered, broken pieces and formed something similar, but new all the same.

A new… family, if you will.

Lucifer was a prideful creature. The human knew that. Maybe that was why they asked him for a pact rather than waiting for him to ask.

They knew he longed to be a part of the new family too.

———————

Author’s Note

I LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE

Soooo, we’ve got a lot to catch up on, don’t we? What have y’all missed- uhhhhhh- well I went through a very shitty depressive episode last summer which is why I couldn’t write-

During that same summer, my job went on strike, which was a fucking adventure.

The following semester, I was absolutely swamped with work and couldn’t bring myself to write much, and then during the winter semester, my school fucking went on strike-

So in better news, I’m dating someone now because I’m incredibly suave and romantic. Talk to your favourite fic writers off anon, people, you might end up dating them someday. Anyway- I also got really into DND, I’m a DM now! Right now I’m running a Percy Jackson mini campaign for some friends I met through the fandom, and I’m having a gay old time torturing having fun with my dear players.

And before anyone else does it:

Hotel? Trivago.

(Thanks for reading!!)

[hazbinshusk]

Your tags now have me thinking about Reader walking in on Husk masturbating, VERY obviously to them, maybe he's moaning their name or maybe he's huffing a piece of their clothing... gross old man~

Can he stop himself, or is he too close to climax to give up now, despite knowing his crush is staring right at him...?

I've finally finished this piece born of my obsessing over this piece by @irkimatsu, so please show it some love too. I definitely didn't do it justice, but hey, here's some husk love anyway :)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Your phone buzzes in your hand as you reach the door to Husk’s room, and you open a text from Angel. He’s responding to a question you swore you’d sent him less than thirty seconds ago – you swear, that man has had his phone surgically grafted to his hand.

tf would I have ur pillow for?

You roll your eyes at the little laughing emoji he’s punctuated the message with. You’d left one of your pillows in the newly built hotel’s media room during Charlie’s last movie night. The event had been painfully heavy on insipid musical numbers and pastel unicorns, but thanks to the drinks you’d shared with Husk and the spider you’d managed to last through the entire event. Your number one suspect for the missing pillow had been Niffty on a cleaning spree, but when that had come up as a negative, you’d decided to widen the search.

You were still looking at your phone when you opened the door in front of you and stepped into the room. “Hey, Husk, have you seen my—”

You come to a standstill as your eyes lift from your phone, heat flooding through your entire body.

Husk is on all fours on his bed, fur mussed more than you’ve ever seen and his wings quivering so much that a few feathers fall free even as you stand there. One of his suspenders are falling from his shoulder to hang pointlessly against his arm and his eyes… his eyes are half-lidded and glazed over even as they register his surprise at your sudden appearance.

But what males you freeze in place is the way his hips are rocking forward needily into the pillow squeezed between his thighs.

Your pillow.

“Husk…”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes the words out, his voice rough and hoarse and broken. His face is flushing a deep red under his fur, his ears tucked back against his skull even as you watch his hips still snap forwards against the soft cotton. You wet your lips with the tip of your tongue and he groans, his head falling forward.

Husk’s pants are unfastened, the one suspender still in place the only thing stopping them from slipping down off of his hips to bunch around his thighs. Even still, you can see the firm, thick base of his cock each time his hips pull back before he buries it in the pillow again, and even as he apologizes again you can see his claws tighten in the sheets so hard that the threads pop. His breath leaves him a shuddering exhale, his eyes rising to watch you from under his brows, his vision glazed and almost… hungry.

The heat inside you flares in your face and in your gut, and you can’t seem to tear your eyes away from him any more than he can look away from you. Husk’s eyes are glued to your face, his lips parted as every other breath leaves him what could be moan, a desperate murmur of your name.

“Fuck,” he groans the word, the rhythm of his hips quickening helplessly. His breathing is labored, his mouth hanging open in an almost punch-drunk grimace as he whines, “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

You swallow, trying to ignore the way you’re pressing your thighs together, the way your hands squeeze at your sides against the urges you can’t even acknowledge right now because Husk is desperate and you realize suddenly what he needs.

“It’s okay, Husk.” you tell him, your voice shaking ever so slightly on his name. “You can cum for me.”

He curses again, his whole body rutting forward before he shudders, his body quaking as his orgasm finally peaks. He moans what you think is a ‘thank you’ as he does, his forehead pressing into the mattress as his shoulders shake with the sensations rolling through him.

He’s beautiful.

[auraisereigh]

"Promise me, Little star"

Chapter One

Brennan Sorrengail x Riorson reader Blurb: When the battle of Aretia ends Star is left to pick up all the pieces her loved ones left behind. wc: 5.6k ☆ SPOILERS FOR THE EMPYREAN SERIES. Violence, Fatal injury, Death, Grief and loss, War. Let me know if i missed something. Uses pronouns: she/her. i use Star as a nickname as y/n sounds weird, and i'm awful with names.

Star's masterlist main masterlist

We are losing. No doubt. The amount of dragons they have on us is too high. We only have the riders who decided to side with my father. And most of us are infantry.

And it's all too clear when you're standing on the top floor of Riorson house.

I might have shot some riders out of the sky but that doesn't kill their dragons. The cross bolt does that, but they're reloading too slowly for the amount of dragons in the sky.

I keep looking out for a certain Black dragon. Hoping he stays alive. He is not a price I'm willing to pay for war.

I draw another arrow and aim at a passing dragon, a brown. I loosen the arrow. It shoots through the dragons wing, not its rider.

I stand there aiming and loosening arrows for the longest time, there seems no end in this battle. The only thing that would show that is the amount of men we are losing.

I'm running low on arrows when I see an Orange dragon go down, behind Riorson house in the mountains. I don't think much of it when I see a Black dragon follow. Naolin.

I look over to my dad on the battlefield, making sure he can hold his own, when I'm sure I turn and run down the five floors this fortress has. I make my way to the back door that leads to the mountains I saw Naolin and his dragon fly to. I don't have to make it too far in. I can hear the two dragons.

I make my way around the mountain quietly, not wanting to startle the dragons. Naolin's dragon, Tairn, knows I'm not on their side but he also knows I wouldn't harm him.

I drop my bow when I see Naolin crouched next to the body of a man, a rider. Blood pooling from his body, an arrow in his chest. He's dying.

I make my way over to them, unarmed, except for the magic I was born with. When I reach Naolin he is not crying, there are tears streaming down his cheeks but he is not crying out loud.

No, he's channeling his power. But he's a siphon, what could he possibly do for a dying man.

"Naolin?" My voice is soft but there's a hint of uncertainty. He is the only person who knows me completely. The one I'm not scared of to show vulnerability or weaknesses.

He doesn't respond but his dragon takes a step back and lets out a noise of disagreement. They must be talking to each other.

"Naolin?" I try again, my voice is much quieter this time.

"Star?" His voice is strained. He looks drained. More than he was when I just arrived.

I crouch next to him placing my hand in the crook of his elbow "it's me." I know that if he was in the right state of mind he would scold me for being here. In the open, where anyone can attack anytime. "What are you doing?" My voice panics a little feeling how hot he's becoming, how pale his skin is, how he looks like he's trying not to scream.

"Promise me something," he starts, his voice strained and rough.

I hold onto him, my magic pouring into him in the hopes to warm his cold body. "Promise me you'll live a full life." He's saying goodbye. No, he can't. I don't know a lot about siphoning but it's impossible to resurrect someone. And that man looks dead. "Naolin?" I try to pull his hands off the body but it feels like they're glued on. "No, please..." My voice has never been so vulnerable. Never sounded so broken.

"Promise me." He says again. "Promise me, little star." I can tell he's on his last life line and my heart slowly shagged. It doesn't matter how hard I try to keep him alive through my magic, I can just feel him slip away.

"Naolin..." My voice breaks completely. Tears slowly start falling down my cheeks. Theres no point in stopping him, there never was. This is who Naolin is. He'd sacrifice himself for anyone he loves. It's what is both beautiful and sad about him. He doesn't think his life is worth more. He never has. But he means more to me. He always has. He's been my rock, my comfort, even when he was days trip away at Basgiath.

I can feel the life drain out of him, his light. I can hear his heart slow and see the color drain from his face and body.

And then he falls down but I keep holding him. I don't want to let go. Not of him. Not of his soul.

I lay down next to him, his body has never been so cold. He can't be gone, no one can resurrect anyone. That other man isn't breathing either. Why would Naolin give his life for him?

Naolin's dragon, Tairn lets out a mourning roar as he lays around naolin and me, the orange doing the same with the other rider.

☆

I don't know how long i stayed there. All I know is that by night time Tairn leaves. Giving one last sniff at Naolin before flying off. Naolin once mentioned Tairn had a mate, he must be going there. Must be nice. To have someone who will comfort you, hold you in a time of darkness. Naolin was that for me.

The battle ended. Seeing as no one is looking for me I'm pretty confident we lost.

Did I lose everything? The question haunts me as I stay curled up by Naolin, looking for warmth but finding none.

The crying stopped a while ago. My heart feels hollow, empty. My head hurts with a pounding headache. My hands a red from blood. My finger bruised from pulling my bow string too much. My eyes burn from the tears. And my heart... Shattered.

In the morning I wake up, my face burning from the sun, my mouth dehydrated. I slowly sit up, hoping it's all a nightmare. But seeing the mountains and blood says enough.

A few tears escape again. But no sounds come out.

I look over to the man, his chest.... Rising and falling. He's alive... But that's impossible.

His dragon looks at me, it's head tilted as it looks at me. It would take me 2 minutes to get my bag from Riorson house.

Something kicks in, something that alarms me to get out of plain sight. I don't want to leave Naolin, but there's nothing I can do now. I get up and walk the two minutes to Riorson house. Take my bag from underneath a hatch, and walk back.

The orange is still there, curled around the man, most likely keeping his body warm.

I crouch down next to Naolin. He once gave me a simple ring, he had the same one, I put mine on a necklace I haven't taken off since I put it on. I carefully take his off his finger. Trying not to feel the dead cold that is now his body. I pocket it safe for later. I'll come back for him later, that's a promise. I give him one last kiss between his brows. He was always much taller than me, it was the highest spot on his face I could reach.

I begin to walk away when the orange snaps my way. I flinch and look at it, its snout going to the man's head, then back up at me.

"I'm not taking a body with me." My voice is void of emotion. The orange huff looks at me with its lethal eyes.

I sigh, too drained to argue. I look at the steep hill i’m supposed to go down to reach my already selected safe place. There is no way i can drag a body over there, dead or alive.

I look back at the man, his chest rising and falling slowly. Naolin gave his life for him, there’s got to be a reason for that.

I shoulder my pack and secure it, i attach my bow to it and walk over to the man, he looks pale but not like Naolin. I hook my arms under his and lift him up, he’s heavy but i’ll manage. Once i have a secure grip on him, i slowly start dragging him to the selected hiding place. The dragon not far behind, giving him occasional glares.

☆

Eventually we get to the cave, the dragon actually fiting in it, i hoped he wouldnt. He looks like he wants to grill me.

I lay his body down near the center of the cave, drop my pack and bow. Getting here took so much time it’s almost nightfall. I go to light the fire that me and my aunt had secured a week ago when a flash of fire blows past me, scaring me, thinking that he finally decided to use me as food. But i feel… nothing. I open my eyes to find the fire place on fire, i look back at the dragon who is settling behind the man.

“That's a way to do it too i suppose.” I mutter. I open my pack and finally drink the water i’ve been yearning for. It feels so good, my entire mouth has been dry for way too long.

After that i lay myself on the stone part of the cave. Perhaps letting a fire on, here, now, during the night isn’t smart but it sure as hell brings some comfort.

The next day, i stay inside, having packed some food to live on. By night time the man wakes up.

I sit myself next to him, he’s too weak to attack so no use in tying him up. His eyes open slowly, the amber shade are in certain places darker than in the places where the fire reflects.

I give him the space to sit up and collect himself, the orange dragon is now awake it's head tilted in a curious manner.

I start speaking once it looks like he collected himself. "Who are you?"

He looks at me clueless. I'd be confused to if I was in his place.

"Where am I?" He says quiet, his voice hoarse from not having used it in a while, or from being brought back from the dead. "In a cave in the Aretian mountains." I start but I need to know. "Do you remember what happened?" I ask cautiously.

"Someone shot me with an.... Arrow. I fell..." His face is scrunched up like he has a headache. "I don't remember anything after that."

"Do you know... Naolin?" The question is quiet, whispered.

His face twists in a painful expression. It says enough. "He... Sacrificed himself for you." A sob threatens to break through. My throat tightens.

I see the first tear fall down his cheek. And my heart aches even though I don't know him at all. Naolin was a beautiful soul.

I come closer to him. Carefully wrapping my arms around him and pull I him into me as he sobs.

I might not know him but we share grief for the Same person, the same soul we lost.

☆

The days after, we go through the motions. I've come to know his name; Brennan. He sleeps most of the time, when he wakes up he eats a little. When food goes low I start hunting to get fish out of a small pond not that far from here. I can't go far away, it's too dangerous now.

We're almost a week later when I go out at night, needing fresh air. It's been difficult not knowing what's happening out there. Feeling like you constantly have to look over your shoulder.

I look up at the sky letting out a deep breath. My heart aching the be with the ones I love. But I'll see them again. Soon.

"I'll see you soon dad, I love you." I whisper to the moon. I look up at the sky one last time.

To see a dragon fly over by the moon, from the moonlight it seems to be a red one.

☆

[alastorsfuckassbob]

Vulnerable

Alastor x Fem!Reader- Part 3

WELCOME TO THE LOWKEY FAN SERVICEY PORTION OF OUR BROADCAST🗣️! Sorry for the long wait..uh ANYWAY- Its just a silly little steamy make out session I felt like writing lowkey unnecessarily added into the plot. Its character development This is done mostly on the grounds of I felt bad for being slow with the plot and wanted to give you radio demon lovers out there some crumbs.<3

✨The plot✨(these are getting worse as we go)

Our depressed dear y/n self deprecates in front of a "hang in there" kitten poster. before bitching about the cold on her walk home.Oh shit her house is broken into. In this life its just you and your shitty pocket knife. Nvm its a cool dress! She then spends a good half hour thinking about their old relationship's spicy times.

⚠️WARNINGS⚠️

-Mentions of domestic violence

-Mentions of alcohol

-Fuckass Val

-A little make-out sesh (smut is scary so you can use your little imagination to figure out what happens after)

Mornings in hell were colder than one might expect, despite the nearly constant blaze of sinner set fire. At its heart, Hell was frigidly cold, especially at night. A part of you had gotten used to the way it clawed deeply against your skin. However, the other part of you secretly begged to some god somewhere you didn't quite believe in to make the sun rise a little faster. It wasn't necessary by any means, Hell wasn't anything more than a desert. All you had to do was wait. The crisp morning would lose its glacial influence as the sunlight reached out to touch it just as it always did. You just needed to be patient. You take in a deep breath, attempting to let go of your displeasure.The sharp frosty air pierced your lungs, unknitting the last strings of warmth from your skin on impact. Your teeth began to chatter. You curl into the softness of your wings, it wasn't much, but it helped.

From your recently awakened slumber, you had briefly forgotten the events of the night before. However, upon seeing angel slumped in bed beside from you, the realisation took root. The recollection flattened your heart like a careless truck running over a measly stray bit of garbage

Your performance last night was nothing more than a falsified forgery. It was adorned with the typical strokes and details found in your normal act, but it was so hopelessly fake. Valentino could always tell when you were phoning it in. Despite his fraudulent demeanour, he demanded authenticity from you. After your previous..altercation, you just didn't have it in you to thread your harsh edges in salacious intent. You were an excellent dancer, but you hated the prying eyes that glued themselves onto your figure. Val wouldn't be happy with that. You were already voiceless, he already owned your soul. He couldn't physically take much more, but he could still make your life a relentless nightmare. The punishments he so easily gave out always had a creatively cruel flair. The thoughts brought on a familiar uneasiness. You could take whatever he threw at you, you wouldn't like it but you would endure. You didn't have to like it. Your grounds were barren in the terms of genuine will. You didn't have a reason to keep living, you just refused to die. You would endure until the red toned city around you pathetically crumbled back into the ground. You would watch the world you lived in reflect the terms of your anguish in twisted perfection over and over again...All by the hands of Valentino. You couldn't do much else. Your dimly lit soul had grown more accustomed to calloused hands and absinthe than you wanted to admit..It was just the way of things.

Great now you were cold and stressed out.

Your mind drifted to Angel. His crumpled hair and soft arms outstretched in your direction. The night before, he had spilled a glass of gin soaked secrets, revealing more than you expected him to. His drunken tears leaked into the brimstone walls of your heart. You learned his name was Anthony in life among other things. He probably didn't remember opening up to you, you were surprised you did.

He had been in Hell much longer than you had been..he had been with Valentino much longer than you had..years longer. The thought held more pain than your sore bruise lined body could feel.

Valentino had the poor habit of misguiding his frustration. As much as you pissed him off, your groans of pain just weren't as satisfying as Angels. Even if Val dragged your limp body across the studio, his nails dug deeply into the flesh of your skull, he wouldn't be satisfied if he didn't hurt Angel too. You couldn't help but wonder how he put up with it all. He was a lot stronger than people give him credit for. How long had Angel been his favourite toy? How many other souls tied to Valentino fucked up as you so often did? How did he deal with the brunt of that frustration tipped in his direction? How many times was he hurt because you didn't give Val what he wanted?

He was an angry disagreeable man he would always find some excuse to take that out on others.You knew that, you just hadn't stopped to think how many times had you been the excuse he used to justify how he treated Angel. Your hand brushed a stray strand of hair from his peaceful face. You didn't want to cause him any more pain.

Angel at least looked warm. He still slept soundly curled up towards the edge of the bed. His legs were neatly cocooned into a pile of various blankets. You stretched, shaking the sleep from your eyes and the fog from your brain.

You stood up glancing back on his sleeping form. A part of you felt bad for leaving Angel wordlessly.. His night wasn't great either, even if it was your fault, you could still help make it better. You could also make it worse. You couldn't risk that. He would get over your sudden absence, but what if you said the wrong thing and he hated you for it. He should hate you, after all it was your fault the night went to shit.

I mean even if for some reason he didn't want you to leave, it would be easier if he didn't have to explain why you're here to the literal princess of hell. Its not like you could tell her yourself. You'd rather walk home a bit early and save him the trouble.

You glance at the digital clock stationed on his nightstand, It read 5am. Hopefully the other residents of the hotel weren't early risers. that would really be hard to explain.

You walked into his bathroom to at least attempt to make yourself a bit more presentable. You let out the breathy shell of a laugh; amused by the emotionally supportive posters and positive notes that adorn the wall around the sink. He was trying in some way, he was trying to make the best of things. He didn't have anyone to remind him it was going to be okay besides the small grey kitten saying "hang in there". on one of the larger posters. You pick up a note in Angel's swirled handwriting

"You're hot in more ways than just physically! Nice ass but nicer everything else"

It was a little silly, but it made you feel better for a second. Your eye gets caught on your hellish exterior in the mirror. God- you looked rough.

The mascara stains under your eyes did nothing but highlight the heavy bags that already resided there. Your hair had awkwardly shifted back into its natural texture in some places and erupted in frizz in others. You were still wearing that burlesque outfit Valentino had picked for you. Russet red dried blood and what you assumed to be half a fruity cocktail stained the front. You looked like an extra in a poorly funded zombie film.

Ironically the outfit had been one of your favorites before then. It reminded you of Alastor- big surprise there- almost everything does at this point.

The cut of the top and the off shoulder sleeves reminded you of the dress he had bought you to celebrate your new part time gig singing at that little bar downtown. The outfit's color reflected it marvelously as well- sadly the similarities seemed to end there. The outfit had numerous cut outs and a slit up each side. It didn't leave much to the imagination, but those subtle details kept it in your good graces. Not that it mattered, it was practically ruined now. Maybe you thought too deeply, but it started to feel painfully ironic.

You had sewn into the outfit memories of an ill-fated gentle romance and a shared cup of camomile tea, but ultimately it doesn't change what it really was, stained with the shadow of lust...Just as you had been.

The outfit would never truly resemble that dress. Even if you found an ounce of similarity. Even if you dragged it to the tailor and used its corroded bones to recreate the dress exactly.They weren't the same, they could never be.

You weren't the same.

You hadn't been for quite some time.

In the end, it wouldn't matter if he would ever consider accepting you in the condition you're in. Your skin will always sustain the weight of Valentino's hand. The vulnerability in your soul had been sparked by fear as opposed to love. Whats done is done. Even if you had been crafted with the object of love in mind your heart had been distorted beyond the point of recognition, it could never really be the same again.

With that, you didn't want him to find you anymore. It would be worse to watch him fall out of love with you as he realised you weren't the same. The love you had so protectively harboured in your heart for the devilish man was cut loose. It drifted away into the rotting sea of your soul surrounding it. You couldn't bring yourself to tear down the post you had previously tied it to. Even if you told yourself you couldn't love him any longer, the hole he left in your heart was too large for your will to cover.

You shrug on the coat you had slung on the floor before crashing last night and slide on your shoes.

You grab a pen from Angel's desk-if you could even call it that. It was nothing more than an old bar stool with a jar of pens and a pink glittery notepad. You scrawled a simplistic message. You didn't want him to worry about you. Even if he said he didn't care, he was sensitive. You didn't want to hurt him any more than you had already.

" Hey Angie! I went home- don't worry I wasn't kidnapped! Eat something for breakfast or I swear to god I'll make you eat an eyebrow pencil next time I see you..Love ya lots<3" Your handwriting was a bit messier than normal but it did the job okay.

You walked to the door, opening it it quietly, the lock behind you clicking as you shut the door to Angel Dust's room.

Finding your way out of the hotel was trickier than you expected but nothing you couldn't manage. Once outside you began to shiver. You tugged your coat tightly against your skin, not that it helped much. You refused to fly in such icy temperatures. The wind would be far less intrusive at a slower speed.

The walk from your apartment to the hotel was a little over an hour. Perhaps if you weren't so hung over it wouldn't have taken you as long.The sun just begun to peak out from the horizon, simultaneously allowing enough space for the nightly wind to have free passage, and the blinding light of the sun to assault your eyes; your own special little fuck you from the universe.

The steps up leading to your third floor flat were much steeper than you had previously recalled. Hauling your body up them took a lot more energy than you care to admit. Out of breath and slightly sweaty you were finally headed down towards your room.

Your steps creak in harmony with the ancient building's crumbling walls. You glance down the hallway at what you had hoped would be a chance to decompress.

You stop abruptly a few units from your own. The door was ajar. You pull a short pocket knife from the side of your shoe. The rusted knob looked no worse than it already did. The lock however, featured a few more scratches than you recalled.

You were too tired for this bullshit, You hadn't actually used a knife before. Stabbing people seemed like an intuitive thing to do, but your inexperience left you drenched in anxiety. Nothing within you wanted to go inside, but your legs begged for rest. There really wasn't any use in preventing the inevitable. Eventually you would go inside or whoever was inside would come out. Either way its stab or be stabbed. The door whines as you slide yourself inside. You knew the situation was dangerous, all you had was a shitty knife you mostly used to open packages. If someone was here to kill you..without your voice no one would even know. You pushed the thought aside. You could still run. You could still fly. You weren't hopeless.You crept throughout the apartment with the knife raised steadily in front of you- ready to fight whatever had arrived.. Nothing ever came. By the first two rooms you had lost your concern. It was just how you left it. You stepped into your bathroom, locking the door behind you. You must have just forgotten to close the door behind you the day before.

You glanced around the bathroom before you noticed it was not in the disrepair you'd left it in. A fresh bouquet of roses sat neatly in the vase, the old dried flowers tied and hung above them to use in your next bath. The radio you had so unfortunately melted been replaced by an antique model adorned in golden trim and a stained glass depiction of a small canary. Lastly, a neatly wrapped vermillion box sat on the opposite side of your vanity, a wax sealed envelope tucked between the box and the large velvety bow.

This was a bit ( really fucking) weird. Curiosity over took you as you reached for the dark inky envelope.

You trace the underside of the waxy seal with the edge of your knife, effectively tearing it from the envelopes dark paper. You unfolded the letter unsure where something like this would even come from. You had admirers, but anything they said or gifted to you went through Valentino first. He was the only one he deemed fit to give or take anything from you. He was greedy in the gifts he received and thoughtless in the gifts he gave. None of this felt thoughtless.

Dearest y/n,

I believe it is time you were compensated for all that I have put you through these past two days. I believe you would simply sparkle in this color. If it is to your liking, please wear it tonight. I hope to see you there.

With love,

-Yours truly

Val had gifted you dresses and other fashions in the past, more for his own satisfaction than as a reward. He rarely wrote the notes himself or even delivered the gift. He left it up to an unlucky assistant or just threw the garment in your face in passing.. Nothing about this felt like anything he would do. Perhaps one of his newer assistants didn't get the memo he is a massive piece of shit.

Regardless, you were curious to see what odd fantasy you were fulfilling tonight. You untied the ribbon. Upon lifting the lid, you realised today was going to end up much stranger than you'd hoped. Nothing about this made sense. The dress reminded you of something you might have worn out in your younger days..Was Val planning some weird 20s fetish night or just attempting to fuck with you? He knew the details of your past, with the exception of Alastor's involvement. Perhaps it was some form of psychological warfare you didn't understand.

Upon closer inspection , the dress was astoundingly quite tasteful. You pulled the item from the box pleased it kept going. Usually if the purchased dress was "too long" it would be cut short before it arrived in your hands, causing you a stressful few hours with your sewing machine fixing seams and hem lines.

You slid of the shell of your dirtied clothes and stepped into the dress. It fit you like a glove. The familiar 1920's silhouette and subtle inclusion of art deco threatened to pull you back into your old habits. It really was a gorgeous dress. The beaded scarlet fabric clung to your hips before slightly flaring at your knees. It sported a neckline adorned with crystals that dipped off of your shoulders and into the sleeves The back of the dress scooped down to your lower back a deeper toned train following it. Despite your otherwise disheveled appearance, you felt beautiful.

You look down at the red fabric pooling behind you, you don't want it to, but your mind begins to shift.

1929: New Orleans: The Bar

Your hands shake more than you wished they would, no matter how many times you sang here it always left you feeling anxious. The music sways in tandem with the bars patrons, mimicking the constant lull of conversation. You began to sing.Your voice cuts through the clinking of glasses and exhilarating cheers with a crystalline ring. You glance over to the bar in view of Alastor. His eyes trapped in a half lidded love led daze, filled with nothing but adoration for you.

You glance back down at your hands. They are covered in black velvet, contrasted by a simple pearl bracelet hanging loosely from your wrist. It was one of the many from Alastor on your birthday earlier that year. You had insisted it was far too much, and he insisted you were making far too big a deal of it. He wanted you to feel appreciated and loved, what better way to accomplish that than with a meaningful gift.

He wasn't fantastic with words when it came to you. His hands craved contact with your own. The sentiment he needed to convey didn't fully exist within the bounds of english, or french for that matter. You were worth more than any riches the world could offer you. He could spend his nights bottling starlight and collecting bits of moon and lay them at your feet, and he still wouldn't feel like it was enough. His mind drifted to your past. You were private with the majority of the details. He had collected the story over time from thoughtless anecdotes you mentioned in passing. He knew life before him hadn't been kind.Your mother had died during your birth, but her face stayed firmly in your grasp. Your father hated you for that reason, and he was not a pacifistic man. He felt you had taken the love of his life and left him alone with nothing more than a portrait you hadn't yet grown into. He had been sickly the majority of your life. The more you grew in likeness to your mother the less he fought to get better. He died when you were only 14, leaving you to fend for your siblings. You had raised them just as much as you raised yourself. If the world wasn't going to gift you a delicate existence. Alastor certainly would be. In that moment he vowed to make sure you never felt worried or lost ever again, he couldn't bare the thought of it.

He was shaken from his thoughts as the song climaxed into a loud jazzy finish. You glanced over at him again with a smile. You stepped down from the stage, the red fabric trailing behind you. You walked across the bar and into his arms. He instinctively wraps around your waist, his hand nestled into your own. The moment is pure ecstasy.

"If I could on pick one sound to hear for the rest of eternity it would be your darling voice mon cher" His honey toned voice whispered into your ear. You looked marvellous but the sound of your voice was entrancing.

Your eyes roll, a satirical air taking over your tone. "How many times did you rehearse that line Al?"

" Very evidently not enough. You've made i clear I needed a bit more rehearsal" His familiar sarcastic attitude evident in his tone. "For such a pretty face you have a hard time accepting a compliment"

You giggle into his chest.He placed a kiss against your forehead. Subconsciously you lean into his touch. You can't help but want to be closer to him. Your arms stretch around his neck effectively pulling him into a hug.

"My my, someones touchy this evening" his distinctive laugh following shortly after. It was the kind of laugh you could hear across a crowded room twenty years in the future and immediately know it was him. your hands travel to either side of his face, cupping it gently. Before you know it, your lips meet his. This kiss is slow and delicate at first. It is imbued with ever ounce of love you have ever felt for each other. His grasp on your waist tightens, pulling you in as close as humanly possible. The dark brown strands of his hair tangle into your hands. The kiss heats up faster than either of you care to admit before you finally register you're in public. He quickly composes himself, as do you. A sly smile stretches across his face. He glances down at your dress, his mind floating aimlessly searching for an excuse to be alone with you. Despite how deeply he loved you, he wasn't the type to display that in public. It felt a bit unsavoury. You were his and his alone.

"Darling, I think you may have torn your dress, during your wonderful performance. Would you allow me to help you fix it in a more, secluded location"

You looked down at your dress not entirely understanding what he meant. He always had your best interest in mind, perhaps he saw something you didn't. Besides, you didn't want to ruin the dress he bought you any further than you already had unknowingly.

"Oh I didn't realise it had torn. Of course, thank you love."

You take his hand in yours and lead him into the small dressing room. It was really just an extra office the owner had put a few mirrors, a changing screen, and vanity into. You stood in front of the taller of the two mirrors attempting to locate the tear.

"Alastor love, I don't see what you mean perhaps it was the ligh-"

Before you can finish your sentence his lips are pressed against your own. You lean into the kiss grasping onto his vest to steady yourself. You're caught in your own personal whirlwind. Your hands are glued against his sepia skin.

He breaks the kiss for a moment kissing the corner of your mouth trailing down your jaw and onto your neck. He sucks lightly against your skin

You're so precious to me y/n" his voice is deeper than it normally was. It held each desire he felt and simultaneously every ounce of adoration.

You let out a soft gasp as he lightly bites the side of your neck. He travels along it as your hands tangle themselves in his hair once more. God you didn't want this to end, but you wanted to feel closer to him. You drag him away from your neck placing your lips against his once more.Your hands trace the outline of his shoulders. His hands explore the curve of your spine and the softness of your waist. He lifts you up and sits you against the vanity. Subconsciously your legs wrap around his waist deepening the kiss. (scream)

"I have never loved someone the way I love you Alastor..thank you for letting me" You breathe out in between kisses.

He wasn't one to let people in. Not truly, he had a public persona and a private one. You were glad to get to know the esteemed radio host outside of the studio. You were so glad he let you seen him the way he was so afraid to be perceived as...Vulnerable.

A/N: LOL IM SORRY THAT ONE WAS KINDA SHORT. Also please let me know it the writing style and lengths are working. I've never really written before so Idk the right way to do this. Thanks for reading :) <3

-Also congrats to me for not using a song as the crutch to come up with a title.

[choccy-zefirka]

They have been doing so well. Attacking the undead dragon from all quarters.

Emmrich — poised as a dancer, even when his ballroom is a wretched corpse-strewn pit, a solitary cell for an ancient demon in a carcass of wing and claw — has been twisting long shimmery green strands of magic around the creature's ankles... Can you describe dragons, or their possessed corpses, as having ankles? That is Taash's expertise, but Taash hates coming down to the Necropolis, so Hjördis has no-one to ask.

Davrin, always the daring monster hunter, has been throwing the full force of his blade arm against the hardened dark scales whenever the necromancer's spells pull the great beast to the ground. Assan has, of course, been helping him — the very best boy, tiny as a gnat against the dragon's massive snout, yet relentless as a gnat as well, pecking and clawing at its nostrils with gleeful little squawks.

"You won't do much damage like that, boy!" Davrin cries out from behind his raised shield, as a swirl of biting purple light begins bubbling within the dragon's throat. "It doesn't need to breathe! Go get the eyes!"

But Hjördis thinks he's being too hard on the fluffy little fellow.

She has been pulling her weight too. Doing what she always does best: staring straight at the snarling, writhing abomination before her, feeling her brain's annoying roommate — fear, the same damn fear every time — swell into existence like a blight pustule... And ignoring it. A Lord of Fortune — one raised by Captain Isabela and her heroic lovers, no less — is not supposed to cower and snivel over trivial, everyday things like fighting a demon.

Sure, it's a huge, multidimensional demon older than time, with powers beyond her comprehension or whatever... But her Lords crew once dealt with a colossus of Pride that was drawn to a foolhardy Armada captain, and ended up smashing his ship and fusing with it, chunks of wood and coils of rope and ragged sails and all. That thing shambled about ankle-deep in the frothing waves, with rigging flying in the wind like tangled hair and a crown of broken masts sitting atop its head. She was terrified to her bone marrow back then, too — but she made it out. And she will make it out today, too.

It's easy. It's nothing new.

Just duck and roll out of the way when the undead dragon's breath ploughs a smoking, charred trench across the ground. Leap back up, summon an orb of magic, toss it straight into the void between its jaws. Slide forward when it chokes, dagger at the ready, toss yourself under its belly like you are repairing a carriage, and strike, strike, strike at the weak spot between its ribs. Repeat again and again, your friends by your side, best boy Assan swooping from above. Not so bad, is it?

They have been doing so well. One moment, it seems that they almost have the demon... And then the tattered dead wings flap, and suddenly, darkness falls.

The thing must have used some kind of spell, a trick of the Fade — it doesn't matter. Hjördis can't think about it too long. She can't think of anything at all, in this endless, bottomless well of ink, where there's only her and, across a distance she cannot even measure, two floating, hungry embers, with a waiting maw below — a slit of billowing glow crossed by silhouettes of teeth.

She can still hear Emmrich and Davrin, stumbling about in the void, calling out to her; and Assan, crying in a shrill little voice, almost like an abandoned baby, somewhere in an alien plane that is supposed to be... up? If she moves off the spot she's glued to, if she wills her frozen arms to search the dark, she might stumble into them... But she can't. She is too afraid.

The blight pustule has grown, and sprouted squirming, squelching tentacles that fill her belly from within, and bind her in place. Her eyes forget to blink, scorching torrents streaming down her cheeks, as she stares and stares and stares into the demon's eyes. A rabbit before a snake.

The embers hover on the same spot for a moment, also unblinking... Until they don't.

The demon lurches forward, its jaws clamping into a metal trap around its prey. One long, slightly serrated tooth digs into Hjördis' shoulder, another ruptures the flesh of her thigh. She is swept upwards like she is in a crow's nest. Her stomach would have jolted with that familiar sensation, as her limbs cut through empty air... But the pain takes over, and swallows everything else. Several broiling geysers pulsate through her body; the black pall falls back from her eyes, replaced with a heavy curtain of crimson, and then with a blinding white light... She cannot tell if it's her agony coloring her vision, or if the demon's spell has truly waned.

Then, comes Assan's squawk again, and the sound of tiny claws and beak feasting on the great beast's throat. It all comes off muffled, distorted, as if she were underwater... plummeting down, down, deep into the sea...

Has the dragon collapsed at last? Have Darvin and Assan taken it down, acting together…? Turlum, turlum is the word, short like the drum beats of blood in her ears...

The last thing she hears, as distant echoes that layer through the dull pounding in her head, are her friends' voices.

Rook? Rook! Oh, no, no, no... She isn't... She can't...

She's still alive! I've got her! But I am not the mage here! Pull yourself together and help me stop the bleeding!

Yes, of course, Davrin, I am sorry! I —

"You are cute," Hjördis wants to say to Emmrich, falling right into her old habit of teasing him. She is absolutely certain he is cute, even if his face is a greyish oblong blur right now, melting into the white, aching light that sears her eyes and makes her temples pulse.

“You are cute,” she thinks at him weakly, swimming in pain. And she absolutely means it.

Once, when she stared up and down his lanky form, hands resting on her hips, and tossed around words like "dapper" and "good-looking", and asked him with a sly grin whatever he did with those long, nimble fingers of his — once, her main goal was to coax a startled look onto his face, to have a good giggle when his eyebrows crawled up and he froze in the middle of turning towards her. Once, but not any more. Not now.

Her heavy, clumsy tongue manages to battle through the numbness and the twang of copper at the back of her mouth, and shape the first croaky syllable... Then, she drowns at last, and when she re-emerges to choke out the rest of "You are cute", her surroundings are completely different.

She is tucked cozily into a large bed with dark-green covers and cheery mahogany skeletons at all four corners, holding up a velvet canopy. The rest of the room is hazy, but through patina-like mist, she can make out more carvings of skulls, skinless hands clasped around a blur of light — a lamp of some sort? — and maybe the feet of one of those sky-high skeleton statues. Maybe. The pain is gone, but her eyes can't seem to see straight, and she feels a huge giant cotton cloud filling the space between her head and the rest of her (apparently, heavily bandaged) body. Good old elfroot, huh.

A couple slow blinks later, she processes that her hoarse, half-slurred compliment was, in fact, addressed to more than just the skeletal four-poster. Emmrich is here. Right here. By her bedside.

She squints to bring his face into focus, and a sobering realization hits her. He looks far too pale for it to just be the green-tinged lighting, with puffy half-moons under his bloodshot eyes. Like he is the one in need of some calming elfroot, not her.

Startled by the sound of her voice, he gapes back at her... Until some crumbling wall within him falls to pieces, releasing a stream of jumbled words.

"Rook! Oh, Rook, I was so worried! I couldn't see you in that dark cloud, only... only hear your screams... For a moment, I was back in my childhood home, trapped under our fallen ceiling... Listening to my family die within arm's reach... And when the Formless One fell, and Davrin pried you from its jaws, I thought... It looked like... There was so much blood... And you — you were..."

He inhales shakily, cutting himself off, and presses his index finger and thumb at the corners of his eyes.

"Forgive me, Rook. I have not slept much."

"Well. This bed is big enough for both of us."

It has to come off as something dirty, outrageous, her usual cheek... But all she thinks of in that moment, when the words rush unbidden from her lips, is that trapped little boy. Plunged in darkness, face to face with the greatest fear of his life. Needing to be warm, to be held, to never, ever be alone again.

At least he does not look... too scandalized when his darkened, feverish eyes meet hers. Instead, he seems concerned — for her. So Emmrich, really!

"Rook, you are still healing! I might disturb your bandages!"

"I don't mind. Come on. It's incredibly soft... Whose room am I in anyway?"

The weight of all his sleepless hours proves too strong, and Emmrich caves — not giving her an answer until he is curled up by her side, his long limbs and spine folded to resemble one of those huge shrimps the street vendors shove in your face on toothpick skewers along the Llomerryn waterfront. He keeps a respectful half an inch between them, but she pushes her stiff cocoon of a body closer, offering the crook of her shoulder for him to hide his face in. Like two puzzle pieces being shifted across a game table. Meant to perfectly fit.

"It's one of the Mourn Watch's guest chambers," he explains in a lazy murmur, melting into a blissful sigh. "Davrin went off to help with the aftermath of vanquishing the Formless One, and I... I carried you here. And stayed behind. I would not really be good for anything else, in my... my state."

When confronted, by some future judge of character, about the shrill giggle she makes in that moment, she is going to blame the elfroot.

"You carried me? All my countless pounds of perfect rope-hauling muscle? In your delicate mage arms?"

"I will have you know I have a very exacting morning exercise routine!" Emmrich protests, in an overplayed distress that makes Hjördis giggle again. "And you are a mage yourself!"

At this moment, Hjördis' mind decides to stun her with a rapid-fire succession of memories from her and Emmrich's magic sparring sessions. Oh, how excited he got over comparing their techniques: a meticulously educated academic versus a wild hedge witchling that grew up first in the slums of Thedas' least mage-friendly city, and then aboard countless ships on Rivain's azure waters. How thrilled he was to learn from her, gasping in sincere amazement as, with an effortless flourish, she made magical foci out of the most mundane objects (including Lucanis' favorite spoon; he is still entitled to compensation for that). How generously he lavished her with "Absolutely astounding, Rook!" and "I never thought of that, Rook!". How he... How he...

Sensing most treacherous warmth spill all over her cheeks, she hurries to retort, as nonchalantly as possible,

"Well, you know I am more of an apostate rogue. Apostirogue if you will."

Emmrich snorts with laugher... But as the sound — the most beautiful sound in the whole world, Hjördis' elfroot-tickled mind tells her — fades, he grows pensive. Lifting himself up on his elbow, he takes a long, wistful look at her.

"Rook..." he says, voice quiet and somber. "I am so grateful to be here, with you... To see you back to your playful self again. Foolish as it may sound."

"Nothing you say is foolish," she tells him, and he frowns in response, an objection unspoken on his lips. He is thinking back to their recent visit to the Memorial Gardens, isn't he? When he laid bare his fear of death, looking so distraught and apologetic all the while. Oh, poor soul; he must have counted down every second of her silence, waiting for her to laugh, as the brave laugh at the cowardly. She is meant to be brave, after all — the dashing apostirogue, the dauntless leader of the Veilguard, the hero Varric found most worthy of following in his footsteps...

Well. Maybe now, while her inhibitions are lulled into blissful drowsiness by whatever pain-killing potion she was given — maybe now is the best time for a revelation of her own.

"Remember how we talked in the Gardens, about your fear?" she speaks in the same subdued, earnest tone as he just did, holding his gaze and not even noticing that their hands met and clasped together over the covers quite a bit ago.

"I don't think I could have admired you any more than I did back then."

"Admired me?" he mouths back at her, perplexed.

"Yes. To name your fear like that, to study it, to talk about it in the open — I could never do something so... so incredible. And I..."

Oh, here it comes. The pustule is about to burst.

"I am afraid of so many things, Emmrich. The dark. Heights. The deep sea. Monsters. Even particularly large dogs. Oh, my all of mothers' mabari have been absolute pumpkin pies, and I still died a little on the inside whenever they came bounding at me for puppy kisses!"

"Rook..." he mouths, brows arching, while his hand squeezes hers. "I had no idea..."

"No-one does. Not even my family. I always hid that part of myself from them; I... I thought it made me less than. But then I met you, a brilliant, kind, wonderful man whose worth was... was not diminished by his fear... And I..."

Her thoughts crumple into a soft mush. And lost for words, she kisses him.

They will not remember this: the softness of their mouths touching, the needy strokes of her tongue against his, the whimper at the back of his throat. He is too sleep-deprived; she is still recovering from her wounds, woozy from all the elfroot. When Davrin finds them, cuddling innocently in the huge Mourn Watch bed, they will wake up thinking it was just a dream. A figment of their exhausted minds. Or a trick of a passing wisp that wants to be a desire demon when it grows up.

The Veil is terribly thin these days, especially in the Necropolis.

[karlachismylife]

Masochistic Kid With a Split Lip

CW: gn!sergeant!reader, descriptions of injuries and violence, brief descriptions of hospitals and medication, hurt/comfort.

(Title from Ren's song "Suic*de" , although I'm not sure the asterisk is by author's design. There is nothing about this theme in the fic itself!! Just a really good song with a fitting lyric.)

Also I wrote the fic first, then saw this art and it's kinda fitting. Beware, depiction of injuriess!! Go support the artist, it's beautiful work.

Usually you didn't have a single complaint about staying on a sniper position, providing cover and watching the main action unfold through a well-tuned scope or a pair of binoculars. Keeping your head clear, hands steady and ready to shoot whenever an order came in or the situation demanded.

However, this meant a lot of things escaped your attention, only coming through the comms as a radio play - and as any radio play, it relied heavily on your own imagination painting the picture, often much more saturated and vivid than reality turned out to be whenever you were re-told the events by your fellow teammates.

Close combat and buildings infiltration stayed outside your sight. And you were content with not witnessing someone's heroics firsthand - up until today.

Today you cursed the order that held you in your place.

Now, looking at Soap's face, beaten to a pulp, blood literally gushing down like a full-water river from his split eyebrow and nose that got almost evened out into a flat surface - that must've been that horrifying wet crack you heard before his microphone got torn off and trampled - you could put every hit, groan and thud to a visual aftermath. Limping and nursing a hand with a wrist that should have never been able to take that angle, he hung off Ghost's shoulder like a flabby, ratted scrap of cloth, but even as his inhumanely bloodshot eye struggled to focus or simply stay open, he still looked at you and tried to grin, teeth painted red behind painfully stretching split lips.

You held his one good hand that didn't get shattered into pieces after being repeatedly stomped on all the way back to the base.

"Get some sleep. You look exhausted," told you your Captain, his big supportive hand squeezing your stiff shoulder. You tried to voice a protest, sitting upright in the uncomfortable chair across from the infirmary bed, where Soap was already out like a light on the generous painkillers cocktail, but Price shoot you a warning, stern glare and furrowed his brows. "That's an order, Sergeant. Soap's gonna sleep for hours straight, and he'll need ya fresh and awake by the time he comes back, not a barely coherent sleep-deprived mess. Take a shower. Grab a bite to eat. Drink a cuppa. Have some sleep."

"Go. I'll stay in case he wakes early, I'll shoot you a message." You nearly snapped your neck as you turned to the source of the gruff voice - how long had Ghost been standing there, arms crossed, hunched back supporting the bleak medical green wall, eyes with some black still clinging around even after a shower glued to what could barely be recognized as Johnny's face.

Leaving this little room reeking of hospital seemed terrifying, but arguing with both your superior officers was a losing game - especially when they were right.

You still could barely sleep, waking up twice to the phantom feeling of blood from a broken nose filling your sinuses and throat, thick, viscous irony mass preventing you from breathing. Your sheets sticked to the wet patch of cold sweat between your shoulderblades, heart racing as you tried to push away the invasive thought of Johnny silently choking on his own blood in a closed off medical wing.

Morning found you with a warm thermos of sweet black tea - liquid energy - clutched in hands hanging between your knees on the same chair you were banished from mere hours ago. Ghost left an hour later after you sat down and showed no intention to move, probably satisfied with the bare minimum of rest you took and unwilling to argue with you when your eyes had that crazed glint of desperation deep inside pulsing pupils.

The first sound Soap produced sent a shockwave down your spine, jolting your whole body and immediately forcing you close to his bedside with the power of a gravity field of the sun that Johnny was.

"Well, good morning to you too," you smiled at him weakly, gripping the healthy hand he outstretched towards you and bringing it to your lips. "You're still handsome, you know?"

"LT said Ah looked lik' shite yesterday, " his own smile was timid, small, constricted by the pain of fresh wounds - his pouty lips were a swollen mess with dried blood stuck in the deep cut in the middle. "Dinnae ken whom tae believe oot of ye two."

Even the softest chuckle, successfully elicited from you, made Johnny's eyes sparkle brighter - beaten or not, he still charged off other people's energy, and now you were grateful to your Captain and Lieutenant for the fact that you weren't an exhusted knot of naked wires ready to shortcircuit and burst into tears due to plain emotional exhaustion.

"So you'll take Simon's word over mine, huh?" An unsaid I'm glad you're alive and laughing fell onto the stale sheet, barely avoiding Johnny's fucked up hand, put together like a puzzle in the course of several hours yesterday. "I want to kiss you, you know."

"I wanntae kiss ye too, bonnie," he rasped, licking his dry, bruised lips and glancing at yours. "Doc didnae say we cannae, ye ken? Gonnae kiss me a'right and Ah'll be good as new, aye?"

"Are you sure I'm not gonna hurt you, sunshine?" Oh how tempting he was, even lying with a broken nose and stitches in random patches of skin - still victorious. Ye shoulda seen th' other guy, bonnie - he told you in his dazed state yesterday. Ghost chuckled darkly and muttered there wasn't anything left to see under his nose.

"Ah'm sure. C'mere, Ah missed ye." Johnny's good hand gripped you almost desperately, barely a shiver of pain in fingers weakened by huge doses of whatever they pumped into him to keep his shocked body stable. He tugged on your wrist insistently, and you gave in, leaning down carefully and timidly touching his lips with yours.

Of course it wouldn't do, it was Johnny you kissed.

He pressed his mouth into yours greedily, breath stuttering with a poorly muffled grunt - startled, you tried to pull away and check on him, stop causing him pain and soothe the wounds you disturbed, but he already cupped the back of your head, digging his fingers into your scalp harshly, and showed no intent of stopping.

"Mmph, Johnny, you're- hurt... mmh!"

No chance. Wincing and grunting like an old man with a broken back, Soap kept kissing you, giggling into your worried mouth like a little troublemaker.

You decided, you were going to tell Ghost.

[meowcatsposts]

Perfect [Neteyam]

✎⁾⁾⁾ note: reader is an albino omatikaya & neteyam is probably OOC

@tiddieshakeshownu, I hope you enjoy :)

Overview

Being born different, things don't go so smoothly for you

("Outcast is all they see" frfr)

So you learned to stay in the shadows

But Neteyam always finds you

You were born different. 

Your skin–a pale baby blue, void of the rich pigment forest Na’vi usually had. It burned easily, too; you couldn’t stay beneath the blazing sun. “Useless,” the hunters would say. Useless. 

Your hair–white as snow, that shines smoothly beneath any light. Children would flock around to touch it–some in awe, most in mockery. A few were mean enough to pull it, calling you, “Skxawng! Skxawng!” over and over and over. 

Your eyes–an icy blue, from the lack of pigment. Like your skin the sun was their enemy, its bright rays nearly blinding you. And, unsurprisingly, they cursed you with clumsiness during your early years. Tripping over roots and gripping onto branches for dear life you were, often the source of other childrens’ amusement.

One day, you returned home shaking, biting tears at bay; you were a hair's breadth away from the snapping sharp maws of nantang, after all! That wasn’t even the worst part; the other children set you up. Their jeering, high-pitched laughter still rang in your ears, no matter how hard you tried to drown them out. How you would’ve loved to jump into mother’s arms, to tell her just how cruel your own people were. How you would’ve loved to tell father about those scary-looking wolves, cornering you between a dark rocky crevice. 

Sadly, that wasn’t so.

As you scaled the Hometree you heard hushed whispers; among them was your mother’s. 

“Will (Y/N) ever be able to ride an ikran?”

Then your father’s. “...fragile…don’t know…”

Fragile.

Something burned deep in the pit of your stomach and you wretched, but nothing came out. 

Night was your only option. No sun to blister your skin. No one to push you off the edge. Only at night could you forget everything else and focus on the beautiful world that was so cruel during the day. It was dangerous, sure, but you fared better. Limb by limb, meter by meter, you soared across winding branches and leaped across slippery slopes, paying no mind to the soft looming shadows of night. 

Eywa always lit a path for you. Always.

Long ago, a seed sprouted in your heart and it grew and grew and grew until its thick roots spread so much that your heart cracked and splintered and shattered. Those fragile broken pieces you stowed away in a box, somewhere no one could find–somewhere no light would shine. When no one was around, you glued those pieces back together, slowly and painstakingly, one by one, under the Pandoran night. No one should be able to find you deep in the forest, mending your broken heart–should.

“Neteyam?” you whispered. Your eyes blew wide; how did he know where you were at this ungodly hour? A moss patch, glowing blue-green, winded out and away from under his feet.

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Hard cold ice encased your heart. You quickly shoved your broken pieces back into their shabby box and faced Neteyam with a cold, doubtful gaze. “Do you want something?” 

Now it was his turn to be surprised–baffled, even. 

“What…?” he spluttered. He was growing nervous, you could tell. His heart was thrumming. “I…was just wandering around and found you here…so I was wondering what you were doing.”

Not really convincing, was it? He was lying, probably. But it wasn’t so; Neteyam opened your eyes to so many things. 

Pandora was beautiful at night. Everything glowed so prettily; even the animals came out to play. You giggled softly to yourself as you saw a bunch of kenten spin around and around, disk-wings unfurling like glowing umbrellas. A pack of nantang pups scampered along the ground, lighting up bright patches of moss in the wake of their paws and you smiled, hearing them yip around. Every night Neteyam chuckled beside you, his laughter spreading from his lips to your lips, and you didn’t feel so lonely anymore. 

“Go, leave. Now.”

Neteyam was always there, somehow, when you were in trouble. He’d bare his teeth at those mean kids and afterwards, he’d take you on fun little shady adventures under big ferns and tall trees to cheer you up, and before you knew it, you were smiling–smiling!–and Neteyam would be grinning, too.

You gushed to your parents about a handsome boy who was so kind and caring and wonderful, and Neteyam, too, quietly told his parents about a beautiful Na’vi who had shimmering silk for hair and pretty skin like the skies. 

He couldn’t understand why you called yourself a freak; it shattered his heart when you did.

“Sometimes I wish I was born different.”

One particular night the moon shone so beautifully, so radiantly. Everything seemed to glow just a little brighter, just a little more prettier. It was so serene tonight, but it wasn’t so, and you blamed yourself for this. Your soft sniffles carried through the wind and into Neteyam’s ears, and he bounded to you in an instant. His markings glowed a pearly white-blue under the night, and you smiled weakly, seeing the boy in all his beauty. He was skilled and handsome and kind and sweet; why was he rushing to comfort you? 

“Don’t cry.” He hushed you with such sweetness that your heart melted into something gooey and warm–it scared you. Then with his thumb he gently swiped the hot tears streaming down your cheeks, never minding how wet his hands got. You nearly flinched; why so kind? 

“Look,” he whispered, jabbing a finger to his chest, yellow eyes all wide and silly and desperate–oh how he hated to see you cry. “You might not see it, but I’m different, too–part demon, some assholes say.” He paused, biting his lip to suppress a hopeful grin. “We can be different together.”

A sliver of a smile creeped up your lips. Different. Together.

Then Neteyam murmured in that hushed-excited whisper, “Here, come closer,” and held out his arms to beckon you into a hug. Timidly and shamefully you scooted a little forward, wiping furiously at your eyes.

“Look at me. Please?” He wanted so badly to tell you how stunning your eyes were, how pretty your smile was. He wanted to give his eyes to you, just so you could see how radiant you truly were–but now wasn’t the time, he could tell.

So he gently bumped foreheads with you, closing his eyes. You closed yours, too. Then slowly, timidly, his hands oh so softly cupped your face as if he were telling you, “Stay, don’t go.” As more tears stung your eyes you rested your shaky hands atop his larger ones, feeling his warmth spreading to your fingers. It was just him and you now, glowing under the moonlight; you thought you could feel his breath on your lips. 

“I see you,” he murmured softly. “Perfect.”

blue dividers by: firefly-graphics

[mumblelard]

this morning i watched a sinéad o'connor video, saw a lone joro spider, and went full looney tunes running through the mud in the middle of the woods

[fordtato]

Hi. I finished your new video essay yesterday, after two sittings. Had to split it, because it came out in the late evening in my timezone, and my roommate was already sleeping - I was super afraid of waking her up with my loud, uncontrollable bursts of laughter (your sense of humor never fails me). I was so, so excited about this video for many months (I almost dropped my phone when I saw your runtime post), and, as always, you managed to completely amaze me in every possible way. 

As always, of course, the backgrounds and decorations, the whole setup - were stunning. I LOVED the stained glass - is this a pattern now? I want this to be a pattern, you have a gift - and the wax wings, and the nonchalant way you glued them together throughout the video. Your shirt-vest combo was also what made it so good as a whole and also made me want to rob your wardrobe. Beware. 

Ford's faults (and "faults") you mentioned and your arguments against them were something I've been deeply convinced of myself for years now and expected to hear them from you as well. It was deeply, deeply satisfying to hear them ALL, even the smallest, most ridiculous ones, out loud, for the first time ever. It was truly a freeing experience, and I can't thank you enough. You took all of those allegations - from the lack of a better word - that people have been coming up with since 2015 and pointed their lack of logic, thought, and attention to detail, or sometimes just plain stupidity and ignorance, out. And did so with style. 

I could ramble here for a really long time about my thoughts on the character of Stanford Pines and how, for years, I observed people interpreting him in a way that's been completely different from mine. About how it baffled me, angered me, made me sad. But it's no use for me to do so because you've said everything I've ever wanted to. You saw all the same things and pointed them out in a way no one else in this fandom could. And it healed something in me. It made something click back in place. Thank you for that, from the bottom of my heart.

The thing that I DO need to point out specifically is the ending. Something that I think always angered me the most in Ford's canon story. How after everything that happened, after everything he's bern through, he doesn't see himself as a victim of Bill, a victim of abuse and manipulation that ruined his life. He sees an Icarus metaphor. And it is the way the narrative wants us to see him - it wants us to see Ford as a man that fell because of his "pure ego", overachieving behaviour, because of his refusal to listen to the voices of reason, because of him isolating himself. His happy ending in the series is bound to being remorseful, apologising to everyone he's ever hurt and changing, and then getting the forgiveness and happiness coming from it. He's made a lot of mistakes, of course. Some of them he made completely on his own, because of his flaws, personality, and ways of perceiving the world. But others (and I would say the biggest ones, the ones getting pointed out the most) are a mix of both his personality, and, majorly, abuse and trust being broken over and over again. And in the end, it doesn't get acknowledged, not really. He doesn't say, "I am a victim of abuse." He says,"I was wrong. I was cruel. Please, forgive me." And shows ends it on that note, making it the final conclusion. And it's a thing that always has been the root to Ford's tragedy in the series to me. And I've never seen anyone mention it, talk about it, even amongst Ford's defenders. And you pointed it out perfectly with the Icarus metaphor in the end.

I don't know how many too-long-for-my-own-good-and-probably-yours-too asks I will have to write again, but I know that as long as you continue to make your "little" masterpieces, I'm going to watch them on the same day, and then think about them for weeks after. And in many of those cases I feel the need to inform you of my constantly growing amazement. I hope you don't mind. I hope you know your work is admired by many, many people, and I just happen to be one of them. I hope you get some well-deserved rest. And for the last time here - thank you so, so much.

I've had this sitting in my inbox for a while and I've struggled to find the words to respond, but I'm very glad the video resonated with you so much. And I'm honored that you enjoyed it like this.

[azrielslightintheshadows]

Shadows and tears

So this is a series about Azriel and reader. English is not my first language so please excuse any mistakes. I hope you like it!

Summary: Reader is a tortured soul who barely escaped the brutality of the Illyrian camps finding shelter in the Day Court. Her identity was well hidden until she caught the attention of the Night Court’s Shadowsinger. Will the mating bond be enough for their love to settle in?

Warnings: angst, mentions of abuse and trauma.

Masterlist

Prologue , Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7, Chapter 8 , Chapter 9, Epilogue

You might need a tissue for this one, keep some you will need them for the epilogue.

Chapter 10

Betrayal.

You got up ignoring the ache between your legs. You got ready for the day doubting you would be able to attend training. With a sigh you left your room. You had to keep your morning routine. Nesta was already in the dining room with two plates of breakfast, waiting for you. You took a seat next to her ignoring the knowing look on her face. As you picked your fork she blurted out “So is it true what they say about their wingspan?”.

“What?”

“Oh come on you are Illyrian for crying out loud, don’t you know this?” she exclaimed.

“No, I don’t and now I’m beginning to think that I really don’t want to know…” She rolled her eyes. Silence filled the room until Nesta said quickly “The bigger the wingspan the bigger the…” “NESTA” you buried your head in your hands to cover your blush. She almost fell to the ground by how hard she was laughing.

“Even if I wanted to answer that question, wouldn’t I need to see another one too? Just to prove the theory.” You replied.

“Are you asking for an invitation to my bed?” she winked.

“Oh you wouldn’t be able to handle me” you winked back. She gave you a playful scowl and went back to eating.

The sun was bright and warm hitting the roof in all the right places and leaving enough shadows for you to take your break into. Cassian sniffed and wrinkled his nose. “It reeks of sex here” He gagged. You quickly stared at your feet and shivered when a dark voice said from behind you “payback”. Azriel walked out with a smirk on his face. Cassian’s eyes almost fell out their sockets as he turned to look at you.  You hurried off to the usual corner and began your stretches. Gwyn’s eyes were glued on you. You wanted to ask her what she had against you, but you didn’t know if you wanted to find out- especially if it had to do with Azriel. You were hurt that he left you alone, yet you didn’t want to jump into conclusions. After you finished your stretches, he approached you.

“Today you’re going into the ring.” He saw the shock on your face. “I think you’re ready”.

“Are you sure?” you questioned. “Yes, let’s go” he grabbed your arm and pulled you into the ring.

“Okay girls let’s go easy on her until she adjusts.” Cassian said clapping his hands.

Gwyn stepped in. Most of the time was spent with you avoiding her fists, she was moving swiftly yet with grace, it was hard for you to keep up and throw a punch. You noticed her moves; it was a repeated pattern, and your shadows quickly informed you when she would leave some space defenceless. You waited and when it was time you threw a punch, catching her off guard and landing a hit on her jaw. She stumbled back, rage filled her eyes and suddenly she pounced on you grabbing the top of your wing in a crashing fist. You screamed in pain, your shadows quickly grasped her neck chocking her. Azriel and Cassian were between the two of you in a matter of seconds. Cassian was carrying Gwyn away and Azriel was kneeling next to you his hands on your wing to examine the injury. You heard Cassian yelling and Gwyn sniffing. Your eyes couldn’t focus anywhere because of the pain.

“You’re okay, everything is okay.” Azriel hugged you. “My wing” you whispered.

“Just a broken top it will heal in no time” Azriel muttered kissing your head.

“What’s her fucking problem” you roared. The pain filling you with rage. You could kill her right now. The Illyrian raw power was rushing inside you making your blood boil. “What’s my problem? YOU ARE. Strolling in here and claiming Azriel.” She screamed back.

“Oh you’ve got to be kidding me” you laughed then turned to Azriel “Her too?”

He gulped, a guilty look on his face. “Do I expect more of them to walk through that door and curse me out?” you gritted your teeth. He only shook his head, his eyes were begging you for something, probably not to take back the chance you gave him. “Go to hell” your voice cold, with that you stood up, keeping your chin high as you walked away, only stopping next to Gwyn “Keep him” and you were out, bursting into your room to calm down.

Nesta walked into your room a few hours later, her face hard as stone.

“Before you ask, no I didn’t know. I had my suspicions, but Gwyn told me I was crazy, and I believed her because I saw him with Elain”

She was met with silence.

“I will not turn my back to my friend, she knows what she did was wrong, and she wants to apologize…”

More silence. She clicked her tongue.

“I will go…”. You heard the door close and remained still. Sleep never came and the morning found you on the same place. With a groan you got up, showered and got dressed. You ate your breakfast in your room not wanting to speak about what happened with Nesta and headed to the roof. The moment you walked out everyone’s head whipped towards you, you strolled past them to your usual place and started stretching only stopping when you felt someone standing in front of you.

You chuckled. “I don’t know if you’re brave or stupid.”

“I wanted to apologize” Gwyn muttered her glance moving to the top of your wing.

“It healed during the night” the response made her sigh in relief.

“I don’t know what came over me, I shouldn’t have done that. It’s none of your fault, you didn’t choose him to be your mate.” She spoke again.

“Even if I chose him to be my mate it wouldn’t justify the way you treated me. It’s pathetic to act like that for a male, no matter what… we should always support each other because this world wasn’t made for us. We are the lowest rank for most males.”

“You are right, what I did was absurd. Please let me make it up to you.” she was fidgeting. You let out a sigh.

“No thank you, I think I’m done here” you muttered and left the roof almost bumping into Azriel on your way out. Once again he looked like shit. Good. Manwhore.

“Watch where you’re going shadowsinger” and with that you were gone.

You spent your day with Mor, shopping and then having lunch.

“So you’re done with him?” she quirked her brow.

“No, what he did with them was before me- at least with Gwyn. I mean I hope it was. Could he be fucking with both of them at the same time?” Mor choked on her tea.

“I don’t think so…” she replied.

“Then I don’t care I just needed my anger to pass” you shrugged.

Mor took your hand “Just please even if it doesn’t work out with him don’t leave. Please…” You and Mor had clicked from the start, with Nesta too but now that Gwyn stood in the middle you doubted that your friendship with Nesta would be the same. Mor though was still your good friend- your first female friend. If things didn’t work out with Azriel you knew that every meeting would become awkward. And if you both decided to see other faes then things would get way more complicated. For Azriel maybe not, this was his family after all but for you… you wouldn’t get the same acceptance.

“You can visit me if I leave.” And with that you pulled your hand back and straightened in your seat- a silent end of discussion.

After returning to your room, you got ready to sleep. Tomorrow you would talk to Azriel to sort this out and get back to training. A knock on your door pulled you out of bed. Gwyn, she is crying. Your shadows whispered. With a confused look on your face, you opened the door, Gwyn almost fell on you.

“What happened?” you asked your eyes frantically scanning her form to locate any injuries. She pulled you towards Azriel’s room. “It hurt so much when you appeared, but I could console myself thinking that you are mates and that’s why he chose you over me. But this…this is painful.” She said bursting in Azriel’s room. Elain was laying on his bed, her legs around his head as he devoured her. You felt like you would puke right there. Azriel jumped back, his eyes glassy and his hair a mess. He had been drinking. Elain smoothed her dress, a smirk forming on her lips. And then…you laughed, you went hysteric, tears ran down your face from laughter. Your hands clapping. “Oh this is nice…….so fucking nice” you managed to get the words out.

Cassian and Nesta stood behind you, their faces pale. You probably woke them up with the high pitch laugh. Azriel looked like he would pass out any moment now.

You took a few steps back “Good- fucking- bye” and with that you took off.

A year later.

You stood in your room Mor on your side with teary eyes. Nesta was fixing your veil.

“You look beautiful y/n” Feyre spoke from her place on the small couch Nyx on her lap babbling.

“Thank you” you smiled. Mor had a worried look on her face. “Are you sure about that?” She asked.

“Yes, he is nice to me I promise” you replied.

“Then you have my blessing” she smiled.

You took a deep breath, ready to cross the path between you and him. You smoothed your wedding dress and with a steady pace you reached him, never taking your eyes off him. He reached out a hand and you took it letting him lead you at the top of the five steps where you were met with the priestess- Gwyn.

“You are the most beautiful female I’ve ever seen y/n” he breathed.

“And I’m yours Eris.”

Please don't hate me :')

@cleverzonkwombatsludge

[crackrodent]

Check out the rest of my Flufftober library!

Black Cat's Problems

My kitten had been missing for hours. The day after the chaos she usually stayed glued to me but now she is missing. I had checked if Razzle or Dazzle had seen her and they hadn’t. I checked the entire decrepit hotel. The dust and cobwebs on almost every surface sat undisturbed. The hotel was dying for some tender love and care. As was my sweet kitten.

Ever since Mom left that kitten has been my sole source of comfort at night. Forehead kisses as I drift off. The warmth keeps me comfortable all night. Then the reason I get out of bed at all the next morning. She was my kitten no matter how old she got.

She was never a very good cat though. As much as it pained me I often had to try and teach her how to do most cat stuff. She never wanted to play much. She would if I brought her the stuffed mice or plastic balls with the little bells inside but she never sought them out on her own. Sometimes I would set her up with some toys to keep her busy and it would work just until I took my eyes off her. She just mostly laid around on books or the floor or couches. Weird little thing.

She had gone out again. I was almost sure of it. I had told her not to but she seldom listened to me. She had a mind of her own. Dad always warned me. Especially in her younger years when she was still learning how rough was too rough. Kittens ideally do best in pairs but it wasn’t an option I suppose.

I think she may have been a bit like Dad. She did used to always want to play with the ducks in his office. Not great toys for kittens and Dad was occasionally disappointed to find teeth marks on his ducklings.

Mom, well she would listen to her sing for hours. They would go back and forth until my kitten’s voice would be so sore she could barely squeak. I miss those days often. Not the squeaking. Mom’s singing.

I began pacing the halls in case maybe she wasn’t gone and was only hiding. The examinations were hard on her each year. The screams and gunfire from sinners trying to buy time infiltrated her ears like a New Year party gone wrong. She would usually crawl under the blankets and shake until Mom, Dad or I comforted her. Told her it was all right. It was just the sinners they were after. We were safe.

My poor Kitten had been extra frazzled the first year without Dad. Now with Mom missing too, I guess I couldn’t keep her feeling safe enough. What if she ran away?

The pacing was doing no good. I started checking the rooms. One year she hid under the bed for hours just shaking. Maybe if I check all the rooms that had beds she’s under one!

The usual room we slept in was clear. The bed was made so I know she’s not hiding under the covers either. The other rooms were dusty and undisturbed.

I had already checked the kitchen but I was desperate. The dishes were still in the sink and the bowl of water was still half full.

I ran back to the living room and asked Razzle and Dazzle if they had seen her yet and they ignored me again. I started up my pacing again in the hallway. It was all I could do. It didn’t help but it passed the time.

Then I heard the sound of the door open. I ran to the front door and saw my kitten was home!! Oh, my good little kitty was the best cat! She was scared of the exorcists? She just must have craved their wings so much it overpowered the fear! I mean why else would she be dragging a maimed angel to the living room?

My baby kitty did so well! My heart swelled with pride as I watched her grab the popcorn bowl filled with water and started cleaning off her catch. The broken creature flinched as my kitten wiped the cuts. I jumped up and attempted to help her but after just a couple of licks, food aggression must have kicked in and I was removed from the couch. She had grown up so beautifully. The past 200 years at her side I could never trade for anything.

She faced the monsters she hid from every year like she didn’t even recognize them. Maybe Mom and Dad being gone truly is what my Charlotte needed. With either of them here they surely would stop her from bringing a half-dead catch inside. They sure stopped me whenever I tried.

[sunstone-smiles]

The Ferocious Tiger and the Curious Spider

Author’s Note: I recently watched Across the Spider-Verse and have officially fallen down the Miguel O’Hara rabbit hole, Lol. I saw a few things comparing him to a cat, and a few days before I saw the movie I visited my friend that has kittens, which eventually led to me thinking about this popular surprised kitty video that became one of the bases of writing this, which I also directly reference in the fic! I hope you enjoy! 

(Also: This will most likely be my one and only Spider-Verse fic. I know the bare minimum when it comes to Marvel and Spider-Man, so forgive me if anything may be incorrect! I just had an urge to write for Miguel, Lol.)

Series: Across the Spider-Verse

Characters: Miguel O’Hara and Peter B. Parker

Word count: 2,095

Summary: Miguel has to finish a report with a disruptive Peter. That is, until Peter mistakenly discovers a fact about the ferocious leader of the Spider-Society that causes an even bigger, but giggly, distraction from their work. Enjoy!

—

Miguel types away at his virtual floating screens while he writes his report about the new anomaly that was successfully captured. Another Vulture from a different world, Earth-468, had broken through the dimensional barrier. Unlike other Vultures the Spider-Society fought before, this one had real feathered wings instead of mechanical ones, making the villain even harder to catch due to their increased maneuverability. And, unfortunately, Miguel needed to call for backup…again. As luck would have it, he was sent his, essentially, counter opposite to finish the fight with him. Great.

A boyish laugh from behind Miguel throws off his thought process. He tightens his fingers in annoyance and growls under his breath. He glares over his shoulder to see Peter B. Parker in his pink robe, sitting on a nearby desk with his legs dangling off the edge and his eyes glued to the screen of his phone. The other man is unaccompanied by his small child he usually has protectively strapped to his chest.

Peter erupts into disruptive laughter again at whatever moving picture is on his device, further driving Miguel’s patience through a wall.

“Do you have to be so noisy back there?” Miguel snarls and tries to refocus on his work.

Peter reels in his laughter, even whipping a joyful tear from his eye. “Ohoho, sorry Miguel. I’m just trying to keep myself occupied while watching these hilarious cat videos.” Peter jumps up from the desk to lean over Miguel’s shoulder and shove the phone in his face. “Here! Watch this one!”

“Parker!” Miguel nearly smacks the device away, “I’m busy!”

Peter retracts his hand. “Alright then, maybe later.” He then returns to his seat on the desk behind Miguel.

A rumble of frustration is heard from Miguel’s throat. “You’re lucky you need to be here with me to finish this report…” Miguel swipes a finger at one of his floating monitors. “And haven’t you watched enough cat videos already? You shoved that screen in my face to show me one and I got thrown into a wall—twice.”

“I need to find more to show Mayday,” Peter starts to gush about his daughter, “Her laugh is so cute when she watches them. They’re funny!”

“Not when you’re in the middle of a fight!”

“Hey, you’ve got to take a break to laugh every now and then, right?” Peter ends his statement with a head tilt and a smile toward Miguel.

Miguel rolls his eyes and tries to return to business on his own, important, digital screens. 

Once the room turns quiet again, Peter glances up from his phone. He notices Miguel shifting his shoulders from discomfort, like he’s trying to adjust from something bothering him. Upon closer inspection, Peter detects an object that looks like a small, pointed pin needle poking out from behind Miguel’s collar of his spider suit. He couldn’t believe that he didn’t notice it earlier when he leaned over to show him the video. Peter quietly gets up from the desk and approaches the other man. 

“Miguel?”

Miguel lets out an impatient huff. He refuses to even turn around. “What do you want now, Parker?”

“Hold still.”

Miguel pauses from that unusual statement. “Wha-Ah!” Miguel leaps out of his chair with a visceral reaction and whips around with a growl. One hand clutches the back of his neck, while the other is prepared to attack the culprit.

“Whoa! Relax tiger!” Peter holds out a hand to reassure him. In his other hand, however, Peter holds up a large, shiny, and black coated feather—one that looks similar, if not exact, to a real bird feather. “This was caught in the back of your neck. It must have gotten stuck during our fight with that villain Vulture.” He twirls the feather in his fingers, “I’m surprised it got caught back there, being that you’re wearing a skin-tight bodysuit and all.”

Miguel clears his throat. He narrows his eyes to return to his intimidating appearance. “A little warning next time would be nice.”

“Sorry, but I didn’t expect you to react like that,” Peter places the feather on the desk. “I mean, a feather usually gains that reaction from someone who’s—” He suddenly stops himself with a gasp when the realization hits him. His eyes expand as he looks at Miguel. “Wait,” Peter blinks at the other man in shock. “Miguel…are you ticklish?”

The other Spider-Man quickly scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.” Miguel then turns back to his work. 

Peter raises an eyebrow. He absolutely isn’t buying Miguel’s unfazed demeanor. A crack in his tough appearance showed when that feather grazed his neck, and Peter is determined to get to the bottom of it. Miguel is purposely trying to hide it from him. Well, not for long.

Peeking over Miguel’s shoulders again to make sure he’s distracted by his work, Peter tests his theory by promptly delivering a jab to Miguel’s side. The other man jolts with a small yelp and a choked out giggle. Miguel twists his head around to glare at Peter, but his menacing gaze shifts into wide eyes when he sees Peter grinning right at him. A little voice in Miguel’s head tells him to run.

With no time to spare, Miguel bolts out of his chair and dashes past Peter. He books it towards the automatic metal doors at the other end of the room; however, a web shot hits directly at the nape of his neck and yanks him backwards to the floor. Miguel kicks his legs and tugs at the rope of web above him as he’s quickly reeled in like a fish. Before Miguel can cut the web with his claws, Peter grabs the back of his suit collar, leaving Miguel immobilized like a kitten being held tight by the scruff of its neck.

“Peter!” Miguel roars and struggles to break free of the surprisingly tight hold of the other Spider-Man. “Let go!”

“So let me get this straight,” Peter comments from above, ignoring the other man’s shouting. “If I try this, you’re going to giggle?” he ends his question with a clawing motion into Miguel’s outstretched underarm. Miguel sputters out another yelp and reflexively clamps his arm down, before raising it back up to desperately swipe and grasp at the hand behind him holding him captive. He snarls through his teeth to keep back the giggles boiling from within his chest. A smile threatens to tug at the corners of his mouth the more Peter scratches at the hollow of his underarm.

“Trying to act tough are we?” Peter asks with a tone of mischief, “Don’t worry, I can fix that!”

In a few swift movements, Peter releases his hold on Miguel’s collar and dives both of his hands to dig into the other man’s ribs.

“AHA! Peheheheter!” Miguel can’t contain his laughter any longer, “Yohohohour gohohoing to pahahay for thihihihs!”

“Eh, your empty threats don’t scare me. Besides, seeing this is worth any price,” Peter smiles above him. 

“Grrr!” Miguel attempts to tear himself from Peter’s clutches, “I’m gohohoing to—AHACK!” but he’s cut off by more of his own laughter when Peter scribbles again into his underarms. Miguel forcefully twists to the side and flops onto his stomach, while Peter continues his attack with squeezes to his sides.

“You’re going to what Miguel? Sorry, I can’t hear you. I think your laughter is muffling your words.”

“Cuhuhuhut it ohohohout!” Miguel demands while he claws at the ground. Peter creeps his fingers back up to the outline of Miguel’s ribs, making the man jolt and wrap an arm around his torso for defense. Miguel, unfortunately, lets out a giggly snort, and he drops his head to the floor, almost as if he was hiding himself from an embarrassing defeat against Peter’s tickly method.

“And miss out on this opportunity to make the leader of the Spider-Society giggle like a hyena? Not a chance,” Peter beams. Miguel tries taking a slash at him from behind, but Peter uses the opportunity to wiggle his fingers into Miguel’s unprotected underarm, causing Miguel to curl up onto his side. Peter follows up by grabbing Miguel’s shoulder and easily flipping the man onto his back, which gives Peter better access to Miguel’s ticklish torso.

Peter grins when he sees a new opening. “Maybe this big cat is so feisty because he just needs a few…” his voice heightens in anticipation, “belly rubs!” He finishes his sentence and strikes at Miguel’s middle to vibrate his hands back and forth across his tummy.

“PEHEHETER!” Miguel tosses his head back with a roar of increased laughter, “Nohohohoho!!!” The bigger man bats and tugs at Peter’s wrists to yank himself away from the devious fingers, but Peter easily has the advantage to keep scribbling at the soft spot that is his stomach.

Peter chuckles at the other man’s loud reaction. Seeing this squirmy Miguel reminds him of something. “You know, I saw a video the other day called Surprised Kitty where a small kitten was tickled and threw its paws up in the air. I wonder if you’ll do the same. Let’s see!”

“Dohon't you daHAHARE!” Miguel jolts to fold his middle when Peter scritches both of his hands at Miguel’s belly.  

To Miguel’s dismay, Peter uses a baby voice as if he was tickling his daughter Mayday instead of the leader of the Spider-Society. Peter says the words so fast that it sounds more like the squeaky gibberish of a guinea pig. “Goochie goochie goochie goo!” He teasingly raises his voice higher in pitch when uttering the last word, then lifts his hands away, as if he was playing a tickly version of peekaboo with Miguel.

“Grraah!” Miguel launches himself forward and clings onto Peter’s shoulders in an attempt to shove him away, but Peter quickly dives his hands back towards Miguel’s tummy to repeat the same scritches and coos, taking advantage of Miguel’s defenseless opening.

“AHA! Pahaharker!” Miguel darts his hands down to nab the other Spider-Man's wrists from his belly. Peter quickly slips his hands away again to momentarily halt his attack. Miguel snarls and takes a swipe at him, “Will you—GAHAHA!” but he misses, flops back to the ground, and busts into more laughter when Peter pounces at his vulnerable tummy for a third time.

“Goochie goochie goochie goo!” Peter teasingly repeats. 

“Will yohohou quhihiit thahahaht!!!” Miguel kicks his legs out from behind Peter. He leans his head back with another snort. Miguel’s smile is so big his fangs that he usually keeps hidden are showing.

“What? You can’t handle the spidering of my fingers?” Peter chuckles while he purposely scribbles around the edges of Miguel’s belly, “Forgive the pun.”

A dad joke is the least of Miguel’s problems right now. As much as Miguel doesn’t want to give in to this rambunctious Peter and his uncalled for ambush, Miguel’s strength has all but been completely zapped away with his laughter. The best course of action now is to surrender.

“AHAHALRIGHT!” Miguel squeals through his laughter, “Enohohohough!!!” 

Peter chuckles, “I hear ya, big guy.” Immediately, Peter withdraws his hands, for good this time, to allow Miguel a well-deserved rest. Miguel wraps his arms around himself and lies on the floor for a few moments before rolling onto his stomach and propping himself off the ground with any remaining strength he has left. 

Peter squats down and pats him on the back “You alright, big guy?”

Miguel growls and smacks Peter’s hand away from him. He glares directly at Peter’s face, his eyes snarling, his fangs bared. “Never speak of this to anyone!”

Peter performs a zipping motion across his mouth. “My lips are sealed.” He pauses to change his mouth into a smile, “Buuut I keep no promises.”

Miguel hisses out a huff. Not very reassuring, but at least it’s something.

Miguel then lifts himself back to his feet, while Peter pulls out his phone.

“And enough with the cat videos!” Miguel snaps towards Peter’s direction when he sees the device, “I’ve had enough of hearing about those furry menaces for one day.” Miguel takes a deep breath with a lingering grumble and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Let’s just finish this report and get it over with,” he turns to move to his desk of virtual screens. 

Peter puts his phone away with another chuckle, “Got it. Duly noted.” He found enough cat videos to show Mayday when he gets home anyway. Plus, he can’t wait to tell her a new story he learned today about a ferocious tiger who turned giggly from a curious spider.