#this is the reason we write fanfiction

[utterlyazriel]

an eternity, my love

eep! this is a bit longer than the last at just over 6k forgive me... but thank so much for all love on the first piece 🥹 and thank u for all your lovely ideas! i hope this does sum justice to the nonnie who asked for further miscommuncation... <3 part one here but u don’t need to read it to read this :)

How does one even begin to decide what to wear to dinner with a person, the person, who matched your soul perfectly?

When your friend had hunted her way through clothing stores of Velaris and stashed away a custom dress — far fancier than anything you owned — for the first date with her mate, you had laughed at her.

Now, staring at your closet in only your undergarments, you were beginning to envy her preparation.

Seriously, how are you supposed to choose?

You pick up your latest addition to your closet, a glossy dress the colour of red wine that reveals the length of your legs and planes of your collarbones— perfect for a night out dancing.

With a grimace, you place it back on the hanger. It was far more scandalous than you would want to be on a first date, even though — well, you’re sure that, being mates, Azriel would like anything you wore.

You heave a sigh. An uneasy prickle beneath your skin has you crossing your arms; it was almost alarming how badly you wanted to impress him. But… mating bonds were rare and powerful.

Almost as if you had summoned it — in fact, maybe you had — there’s a soft shimmer in your chest. Your beautiful glow, the bridge between you and Azriel humming to life. In a way you can’t explain, it’s as though you can feel him soothe across your mind, his soft touch full of assurances.

He’s comforting you. All your emotions must be shooting down the bond without your permission. Gods, that would take some getting used to. You wonder if he can feel your resounding pang of embarrassment as well.

You do your best to push back something less nervous, more of your excitement for the night to come — and you know, without even seeing him, he’s smiling.

After another moment of fussing, you decide on something simpler than your glossy night dress.

Comfortable black slacks with plenty of flow to them and a shirt you thought was one of your nicer ones. With the slightest touch ups to your makeup, you rush yourself out the door before you convince yourself to change all over again.

The Sidra keeps you company, a rush of water beside you as you wind through the streets of Velaris, eyes flicking up to take in the darkening sky. The sun was sinking below the mountain tops, rays tickling across the ridges.

And while you could admit that Velaris was very beautiful in the daytime, you were a true Night court citizen— and believed its true beauty came out at night.

Somehow, despite the lack of concrete plans made as you had ushered the male out of your office, you knew resolutely that you would be able to find him. You weren’t even worried about the timing of it all. It was… what was the word? Absurd. Insane. Utterly, breathtakingly incredible.

Sure enough, as you exit the alley and round the corner, your eyes falling on the sage green building you reside in for work, there he is; waiting for you.

You inhale a sharp breath. A thousand cells in your body fizz, hum, and glow, at the mere sight of him.

It's easy to understand just how he had garnered his dark reputation, the image of him every bit of the Spymaster of the Night Court — a title like Shadowsinger has never been so fitting for him.

He’s blurred at the edges, a thousand tiny wisps that blend him into the shadows of the nighttime. His wings stretch up behind, towering over his already tall frame, black as ink, and beneath his darkened attire, you can spot his tan skin. Your eyes drag up his neck, tracing his adam's apple, along the scruff of his sharp jaw until you reach his hazel eyes.

Your heart burns.

In the depth of it, you know, if he doesn't love you, he will undo you completely.

It's wholly terrifying to come face to face with — the intensity of the mating bond scorching through your mind like a fierce wind, burning embers left in its wake.

It's enough to make you pause, the definitive thought that doing this, offering him your heart and trusting him, could very well lead to your ruin.

Your chest squeezes tightly. You let your eyes drink in the Illyrian, the Male who waited so patiently for all those years and was prepared to wait years more, if you had asked.

Focusing, you pluck up that golden thread in your chest and hold it tightly. It heats and melts, hotter and hotter, and you know that any fear you have, you can conquer to be with him.

Ruination be damned.

—

Azriel notices you the moment your frame exits the alley, notices the moment you pause — has been able to feel you drawing nearer to him this whole time. Your every emotion is transparent to him through the bond between you, whether you’re aware of it or not.

You must not have the tightened mental shields he had come to be so familiar with over all his years. It makes sense; you are no warrior. Mental walls over your mind are not something you have ever had to concern yourself with.

Azriel vows it to be one of the things he teaches you. You deserved the privacy of your emotions, at the very least.

But... for now, Azriel can feel them all. It's why, as you round the corner, Azriel can feel your eyes on him and then, then he feels it.

The wash of fear that spills over your bond like icy water.

An old enemy rises within him. He grits his teeth, even as he feels the fear from you slide away and he tries to ignore the sting from an unhealed wound. But self-deprecation never seems to drown, no matter how much he tries to suffocate it within him.

He shifts his hands, relieved suddenly to have them covered up beneath gloves. His wings tuck in tighter, if possible, and he wills his shadows sternly to contain themselves. Something in the slightest baring of his teeth has them obeying. They shoot to his sides and make themselves scarce.

All this in time to greet you pleasantly as you bounce into view, sidling up before him with a shy grin. It's only been a few hours since he got his proper look at you and yet, you're every bit as breathtaking as you were earlier. More so, in fact.

It feels as though Azriel has never seen the sky before and you before him, are the first sunset of his life. You look so pretty that Azriel could probably gaze at you all evening if you so allowed him to.

And then, he remembers the pang of fear.

He doesn't waste time mulling over which detail of him had made you afraid — only that he would dim or change or hide any part of himself to stop it from happening again.

"Hello, again," You say, your lips pressed together to contain your smile. You have to tilt your head back to look up at his handsome face. His shadows swirl around him and despite his strict instructions, one still slips away to touch you.

You don't notice it circling your ankle, tentative and shy.

"Hello, again." Azriel echoes your words, unable to help his own glimmer of joy.

He wants to offer you his arm, his hand. Can feel it within him, down to the very marrow of his bones, the craving to be closer to you, to touch you, however he can.

Azriel swallows heavily and does what he has done over decades, over centuries; he takes the wanting and pushes it down, down, down.

The two of you begin to walk, side by side, with no destination in mind. Aimless and content at the same time.

Azriel doesn't need the bond to see the flittering of nerves hidden in your expression. The shadow still circulating around your ankle climbs higher, like it wants to comfort you too.

Azriel wills it to still, desperate to not scare you again. He drops his shoulders from his usual warrior posture in hopes of making himself a little smaller.

“You don’t need to be nervous.” He says reassuringly.

You steal a glimpse at him, your smile breaking into a grin. Your nerves are still potent but less so.

“Who says I’m nervous?”

Azriel smiles gently, his eyes dancing across your face as he reads your lie easily. “I do."

There's a scrunch between your eyebrows then, like he had seen during his time in your office earlier. Azriel places a hand on his chest, over the place where the glowing tug is strongest.

"I can feel it.”

Your eyes widen slightly as you stare at his gloved hand, the cogs in your brain spinning and turning at a rapid rate. Still strolling, your hand rises slowly and touches to the same spot on your own chest. Azriel can feel his heart stutter at the sight, you holding the spot that connected you to him undeniably.

"You can?" Your gaze lifts to his face, puzzlement adorning your features. You frown and focus for a moment, staring hard into the distance — and Azriel feels a sudden twinge of disgust through the thread.

"Did you feel that?" You ask, eyes wide and curious.

Azriel nods wordlessly and he can't help but ask. "What is it you were thinking of?"

You look embarrassed for a moment, eyes averting to the ground. You chuckle awkwardly and tuck your hair behind your ears, glancing back up at the Male with a sheepish smile.

"Brussels sprouts."

Azriel blinks once, twice, and then has to turn to hide his smile. He tries to cover his laugh with a cough. It doesn't work, given how you make a small noise of indignation. He turns back, his politest expression on.

"Don't laugh at me!" You whine, reaching out to poke him in the shoulder. Your touch radiates through his body like a drop of golden sun, blazing warm.

"You're right," Azriel hums, his lips twitching as he presses back his smile. "My apologies, my lady. This is important knowledge I should be filing away. I swear on my life I will feed you no brussels sprouts this evening, or any in the future."

He wants to nudge your shoulder with his own, just to touch you, wants to reach out as easily as you had. But his shadows slip before his self-control does, skittering out along onto your shoulder and giving you a small shock and Azriel remembers himself. His fists clench tightly at his sides.

You walk side by side all evening, like two planets in orbit — close, oh so close, but never quite touching.

—

The first date you share is nothing short of… wonderful.

Resolutely and overwhelming good, the entire date you can't help but feel as though your very soul is singing, a thousand particles blithesome at the nearness you get to share with Azriel. He's surprising in a manner of ways.

Firstly, he's terribly quiet.

Next to him, you look quite the blabber-mouth, no matter how much he insists he enjoys it. His dark eyes are intense as they watch you closely, soaking in every word that passes your lips, and yet, beneath it, his dry sense of humour comes out to play. There's the occasional tease, almost as if just to see if he could make you flustered. (He could, easily).

With a Male as beautiful as him, suited to your very being in every way, it's nearly unbearable how much you ache for him. How much his very attention creeps down your neck and makes every nerve along your spine tingle.

You know it will take some time to get used to his unwavering and devoted attention.

There’s… just one small, itty-bitty, tiny problem.

He doesn’t touch you.

Throughout that whole first evening, you had noticed it somewhat— a flex in his gloved hands, a moment where his wing strayed too close only to be pulled back in a flash, even his shadows, darting out to be near you but never quite touching you as they had on that first meeting.

His hands reach out but they do not find you.

At first, you believed it was a first date thing. Azriel was, first and foremost, a gentleman, and you thought perhaps, his skirting touch, like his hand lingering over the small of your back but not touching it, was to be polite. Courteous and gracious.

Then, you had seen him just two days after that date, all bundled up in your giddiness that it had managed to slip your mind.

The two of you had spent the day together, traversing through the market — before you quickly found a quieter space for your mate as it became clear that large bustling areas, such as the Palace of Threads and Jewels, were not so suited to his tastes.

As you had tugged him out of the crowd, laughing over your shoulder at how he fought to keep his broad wings from knocking into anyone else, the thought suddenly snapped back into you.

Though you yearned to link his arm with your own, to interlace your fingers with his, you remembered his hesitance. Remembered the hover of his gloved hand.

And so, you dropped his arm the moment you cleared the crowd.

A hurt warbled deep within you to so do and knowing you were not the deftest at schooling your expressions, you hid your face so you could contain your childish reactions. You huffed at your own upset. What matter is it if your mate has no affinity to touch?

Truly, it was a miracle to have found a mate at all, you tried to scold yourself. You would not take him for granted for a moment, not even if it was not quite the picture of perfection you had envisioned.

Rooted deep in you was a truth; you could abide by this, abstain to his level of comfort for years, for millennia, if it made him happier.

The fabric of the mating bond, connecting the two of you intrinsically, made it so you would not want it any other way.

It's a decidedly Azriel thing.

He always wears the gloves, he never touches you more than he has to, and he's got... this really specific look when you're doing a terrible job of hiding your emotions.

As he had vowed, Azriel had set about teaching you how to build the mental walls up within your mind, brick by brick by brick. While it would help you hold against daemati if that loathsome situation should ever arise, it would also shield you from your mate.

It would protect you from having your emotions ripped out for him to see, no matter how much you held back — if it was in your mind, it would travel down the bond.

So, the wall had to be built. It had been tedious, tricky, and tiring work. Yet every time you would feel yourself ready to throw in the towel, Azriel would lean in closer, his hazel eyes softened, and his hand resting upon your arm, thumb swatching up and down, to encourage you.

"I know it is tiresome," He had mused, that faint smile twitching at his lips as you scowled at the ground. His thumb was still moving, still drawing light circles on your bicep. The skin beneath it blazed with warmth. "But it is worth it, that I can promise. You deserve this privacy, my dear. I would never wish to take it from you."

My dear, my dear, my dear— the words had sunk into your sternum and bloomed, bright and golden.

It's enough to hold onto, his kind affections. The sweet shape of his mouth when it says your name. The way his lashes kiss in the corner when he can't hold back his smile.

It's enough to soothe yourself over. To take the lack of touch on the chin and swallow down your desire for more.

It's why— why you can't help yourself— why you couldn't tear your eyes away from Azriel's hand where it touches Cassian's arm.

You're meeting his family today, which you've quickly realised doesn't mean his mother or father but instead means... the literal Highlord of the Night Court.

There are several warriors crowded around the cramped entrance room to the River House. Each of them is taller than you, and two of them with the very same huge wingspans that you've come to revere on your own mate.

Your usual talkativeness has been dimmed in your shock, though, really, it shouldn't be such a surprise. Azriel is a force to be reckoned with, honed over decades, and the Spymaster of the Night Court. You know these things. The company he keeps makes sense.

Somehow... still, seeing them all together leaves you strikingly speechless. The legion that protects your home — a family.

Rhysand greets you first, dapper in his dark attire, his violet eyes equal parts calculating and welcoming as he steps forward and offers his hand.

Despite the fact you have never bowed to him before, you still have to repress the urge. His power is overwhelming, the very night lapping at his edges and you're suddenly very grateful to be meeting him as a friend and not as a foe.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Rhysand's voice purrs out, soft as silk. When you place your hand in his, he brings it to his lips and presses a polite kiss to the back of your hand.

"Any friend of Azriel's is a friend of mine."

You can feel your own heart thundering in your chest. Azriel hovers behind you, his presence soothing in itself. You can't see it but his wings are outstretched towards you, cocooning around you ever so slightly. A shadow hovers behind your shoulder, just out of sight.

"I— the pleasure is mine, my Highlord." You manage to make yourself speak.

You almost wish you hadn't when your words inspire a burst of laughter from one of the others behind Rhysand, the other Illyrian. He's tall, his hair dark but longer than your mate's own.

As your hand is dropped, Rhysand turns to scowl at the Male laughing, and you only grow further perplexed when he gives a whack against the other's shoulder. They begin to squabble for a moment — and you don't even hear Azriel move until he's speaking, his lips right by your ear.

"You'll have to forgive Cassian." His voice is low, raspy in a way that sends a zing down your spine. You shiver lightly. "He can be well-mannered at the best of times. But I promise he isn't laughing at you."

The two Males seem to tune back into Azriel's words, even though they had been whispered for you specifically.

"It's true!" The Illyrian, Cassian you now know, pipes up. He brandishes a devilishly handsome grin at you, with his hands held up in defense. "I apologise. It just still makes me laugh to see someone address this one so formally."

You blink. "But... he is the Highlord."

Azriel speaks again, bent over still to talk in your ear, but much less of a whisper this time. "Rhys is our Highlord but he does not bother with such formalities."

"And," Cassian interjects, lugging a punch into Rhy's shoulder, much like the other had done to him not a moment before. "Before he was the o'mighty Highlord, he was our friend."

Cassian says the word o'mighty with such an air of sarcasm that you can't help but glance at Rhys, sure he wouldn't take such disrespect. But around you, there are only easy grins.

"Might we move to somewhere more comfortable than the doorway," Azriel speaks up from behind you, his voice dry. "Unless that is, you're all hoping to do one-on-one greetings with her?"

There it is, the dry sense of humour you've come to adore. The group before you seems to grumble, as if they were quite keen on the one-on-one meetings but begin to move through the house.

One of the group dips back to walk beside you and you do your best not to repeat your past mistakes, even as your eyes widen almost comically. Azriel chuckles silently to himself, feeling your polite astonishment down the bond.

"It's so great to finally meet you.” Feyre, your Highlady greets you, her pretty face rife with glee. She seems genuinely very happy to make your acquaintance. "Azriel has told me all about you."

You stumble in surprise, your eyes casting back to Azriel behind the pair of you. His eyes are fixed on Feyre, narrowed at her blatant betrayal, his shadows swirling around him. She sticks her tongue out at him playfully and you smother a laugh.

When his eyes shift over to you, you're positively delighted at how his cheeks have turned the lightest shade of ruby.

"Feyre is very persuasive when she wants to be." He murmurs, almost grumbling. You turn back to the Highlady and she grins at you, devious and captivating all at once.

It’s a whirlwind once you reach one of the many living rooms, each member of Azriel’s family all very eager to shake your hand.

Cassian grips it firm, his grin still on the side of wicked as he tells you he’s been waiting years to find the woman who could contain Azriel. Nesta, his mate as you find out, is a fierce kind of pretty with a grip as strong as Cassian’s. She tells you welcome to the family with the smile of a shark.

Morrigon is next, breathtakingly gorgeous, and every bit as charismatic as Azriel had described. You don't catch the glimpse between Mor and Cassian, not the beat of relief they both feel at your arrival in their lives— in Azriel's life.

It's swallowed up in her words, going a mile a minute. She jumps about, like popcorn in a pan, overly keen to finally speak to the one whom the Mother deemed worthy of Azriel’s heart. Where are you from? What do you do? How did you meet?

“Mor,” Azriel warns, after her twelfth consecutive question about your life. He hasn’t moved from his protective position behind you, close enough you can feel the heat of his body. His wings had brushed your shoulder just once.

“Yeah, Mor,” Rhys jeers. He nudges his cousin in the side playfully and Cassian snickers behind the group. “Give the girl some time to breathe.”

Even with all of Azriel's masterclass on who you would be meeting, it's still terribly overwhelming just trying to keep track of them all. They're each such strong spirits, each with seemingly a thousand battles in their past and far more years with Azriel.

On top of this is the fact you met both your Highlord and Highlady so casually in one single afternoon. It's difficult to not be daunted by the group that is so clearly intertwined with each other on a deeper level altogether— bonded by devastation and choosing each other through love.

Try as you might, you can feel the seed of doubt, of insecurity, make a home between your ribs.

You clamp down the shields you've spent the last few weeks learning, building the wall up and holding it tight. It's silly to feel dismayed because these Fae, these friends, know your mate better than you do.

Azriel had told you he had been waiting for you for five hundred years. For the first time since you've met him, you wonder if he was ever disappointed.

And then— then, you see it.

Azriel's hand on Cassian's arm. Then the half embrace they share, a hand on each other's neck as Cassian grins, wild and fierce, and presses his forehead against Azriel's own; brothers, sharing a moment of euphoria at the other finding his long-deserved happiness.

You should be soaking in the smile Azriel hides from you too often, showing his teeth and crinkling his eyes. But instead, you can't see past it, can't stop the loop in your own mind as it prints a fact over and over and over.

It isn't an Azriel thing; it's a you thing.

He doesn't touch you.

The mental walls in your mind feel paper-thin as a fresh kind of agony ripples through your chest. The soft rejection of a mate stings, a papercut on your very heart. You can feel it warble through you and know, terribly, the exact moment that Azriel feels it too.

His head whips around, his dark shadows that surround him suddenly spinning and flitting faster than before— a couple dive across the room to you.

You stand up and the chair scrapes noisily beneath you.

"I—" You say before you realise you haven't planned an exit or an excuse in the slightest. Azriel's gaze burns into you. You turn to Feyre instead, who had been talking across from you when you rudely stood up.

"I'm so sorry, I just—" Some excuse, any excuse! "I think I— left the stove on."

It's a lie. A complete utter lie that fools no one in the room as you retreat from it hastily. None of them try to stop you though, which you're thankful for. Each of them watches, every expression slightly concerned as you hurry out of the room, your feet walking backward rapidly until you bump into the door frame.

You pass through it with your eyes on the floor, knowing that all of the eyes are on you. You know the ones you can feel searing into your soul are Azriel's.

You leave the River House. You walk along the Sidra, your steps hurried and your chin tucked low. It hurts. It hurts the feeling inside you. A tear streaks down your cheek, unbidden, and collects on your jaw. You wipe it away meanly.

The sight of your apartment door is an overwhelming comfort, one that has you sighing aloud as you rush up to it, your fingers already digging around in your pockets for your key.

And like always, you never hear him coming.

"What happened?" Azriel asks, his voice almost pained.

You give a little yelp of surprise and whip around, remembering half a second later that there's still evidence on your face of your tears. Azriel grows characteristically still, his hazel eyes fixed on yours as you sniffle for a moment, aggravation beginning to creep in.

He could feel everything from you and you got... what? Whatever he deemed fit to offer? How is that fair?

His usually wispy shadows are inkier than usual, almost tornado-ing around his shoulders. They keep leaping out towards you before being caught in an invisible net, a barrier between you and them.

Even as Azriel remains motionless, his eyes are the opposite—they jump around, searching, hunting, begging to find the cause of your pain. Had it been one of his friends?

"Please," He tries his words again.

His heart throbs painfully when you finally find your key and turn your back on him without a word, unlocking your door and pressing your way inside. He follows quickly, wings tucked in tight, unable to keep his shadows at his side this time. They whiz to you, circling your ankles protectively.

"Please," Azriel says, an anguished growl to his words. "What hurt you? I will— my friends, if they said something— if it was someone, I hunt them down and make it right for you."

You inhale sharply and when you speak, your tone is cold in a way you have never used before with Azriel. You say the words without thinking.

"It would be impossible to hunt yourself, Azriel."

Regret howls through you like a hurricane the moment you say the words. You don't mean to be mean, jealous, or whatever unseemly emotion you can't stop from sprouting in your chest, growing in size, tangling into your heartstrings like twisted gnarled vines. It hurts.

You turn back to him, mouth open. No words come out.

Hurt is slashed across his face, his eyebrows furrowed tightly, his shadows tucked in tight. It's as though he's blended into the very air, the wispy edge of him threatening to retreat into his own shadows.

All his emotions on display just for a moment, before they're schooled away. Tucked away, hidden, not for you to see.

Inside, your hurricane howls again, this time in pain.

You can tell he feels it, even as you mentally gather your bricks. It isn't fair. How can he have every bit of you and you get what he pleases to return?

You want to know him completely, want to see every part of his rugged, weathered soul, and love him anyway. It's an untold type of agony to have him deny you.

"My love," His feet finally move, his wings almost dragging on the floor as he steps forward, slowly, as though he was afraid he might spook you.

"Tell me how to fix this pain." He pleads. His gloved hands are held out, palms up and suddenly, he looks nothing like a warrior. Just a Male, afraid of losing what is most dear to him. You shake your head, like a child, and keep building your brick wall.

"Please don’t keep this from me," He takes another step forward, his shadows sent awry as they dart across to you. You can feel them on your calves, on your arms, feel the tiny kisses they leave. Azriel speaks again, voice low. "My love, I can feel your pain.”

You can't help how you screw your eyes closed, the ache in your chest unbearable— made worse when you know he can feel it too.

"That is my problem." You utter the words quietly, eyes still clenched shut, knowing he can hear you. He takes another step, close enough now that you can feel the heat of his enormous frame, his wings bracketing around you. "I cannot hide anything from you."

Azriel makes a noise, a punched-out wounded sound that reverberates down the bond.

"My love," He murmurs for the third time. Down the bond, you can feel his sweet love, his golden gentle feelings travelling along to assure you. "I would not wish for you to hide anything from me."

“But you hide everything from me." You whine, eyes finally crinkling open. Azriel stares down at you, his eyes softer than they've ever been. You can see the hurt swimming in them, the hurt you've caused. Still, you speak.

"You hide your emotions. You hide your touch, yet you give it willingly to your friends." You share each ugly thought with him, whispered as you gaze into his face to search for your answers.

Lifting your hands, you curl your fingers around his wrists tentatively. Azriel swallows heavily, his eyes dancing down to where you're touching him. You slide your hands forward, dragging the pads of your fingers over his pulse, along his palm, til your hands are holding his gloved ones.

"Is there some test I don't know about?" You ask, your focus on your intertwined hands. "Is there— do I have to earn this?"

"No," Azriel chokes out the word suddenly. You look up at him. He clears his throat and you feel his hands grip yours back, surer and stronger than you had. "No, I'm sorry. There is no test, nothing to prove you deserving of this. I just..."

His words trail off and you watch as he closes his eyes, inhaling deeply, as if gathering his courage. His hands slide from yours, pulled backward and you nearly feel the urge to cry once more— before you realise he's removing his gloves.

The skin of them is warped, you realise acutely with horror. The skin of his hands is swirled and mottled, an injury long healed but scarred for eternity. Azriel is watching your face closely, holding his hands close to his chest as though he was prepared to hide them away at the first flicker of fear.

You're grateful for the link between and all your shoddy attempts at blocking him out. Your love and your unwavering devotion drifts along the bond.

Azriel shudders, his wings giving the tiniest shiver. Slowly, gently, he reaches out towards you. You feel his hands, the unruly scarred feel of his skin sliding along your jaw to hold it tenderly. He has never held you like this before.

He cradles your face gently — like his hands have never held weapons of war, like they aren't twisted and marred with a memory he can't forget, like they're worthy of holding something so precious.

Azriel holds you as if you're holy — and he's come to kneel at your altar.

"I was afraid of what you would think." He admits. His voice is hoarse, gravelly as he fights off the lump in his throat. "I— on the first day we met, I felt your fear along the bond and—"

"It was not of you." You interrupt him, your hands jumping up to cover his own where they hold you. Azriel inhales sharply, eyes darting to watch.

But you pay him no heed, the palm of your hand covering his like a lover would. You let your thumb soothe up at down the ridges of his skin. You let your love ripple along the bond.

"It was not fear of you, Azriel." You repeat, your voice soft. His eyes are still fixed on your joined hands. His wings have begun to pick up, no longer drooping behind his back— you're not sure if he even notices.

"It was fear for how strongly I already felt for you." You lean into his hand and Azriel lets you, lets the length of your nose nuzzle into the touch of his hands — something no one in all his years of living had ever done before.

"It was fear that you already could ruin me," The words are murmured. "And that I would let you."

You whisper his name to pull his wide-eyed gaze from where his hands touch you and his hazel eyes burn into yours. Every whitened scar on his skin, every eyelash, the adorable pinch between his eyebrows; you drink it all in and smile at him. Azriel, your mate.

"Azriel, I chose this despite that fear. I choose you.”

Azriel quivers at the words, at your unflinching tone and suddenly the world seems such a perfect place, time moving around you, untouching, with such a perfect grace.

“I choose you too,” He murmurs, an emotion so strong a fire of possessiveness streaks down the bond. This time, you can feel his wall melt away, allowing you access to all he feels — his mountain of fear and his melting relief.

“Forgive me—” He begins and you laugh without meaning to, cutting him off.

“Stop,” you say, the word light and as pretty as your grin. “We keep doing this to ourselves, tying ourselves in knots over and over.”

Azriel laughs, his lips twitching into a smile as he allows himself to stroke his thumb lovingly over your cheek. The way you melt beneath it, your lashes fluttering and heart burning so brightly he can feel it in his own chest too— Azriel knows this longing will long outlive his body.

“We do,” He agrees. He dips his head a little lower, probably the only apology you’ll let him have, and inhales shakily. His hands shift across your face, down to hold your chin, his fingers pressed together tightly to hide the way they quiver.

“Then let me apologise in another way,” He murmurs, his voice closer to playful. “In a way I’ve been selfishly depriving you of.”

And when he kisses you, it’s with a reverence that softens all your corners.

His lips are plush and sweet, and with the way he dedicates himself to your bottom lip, you can’t help how you sigh into his mouth. He finds home in the curve of your mouth.

It’s delirious the way he kisses once, twice, three times like he’s hungry for something found only in your lips.

Your hands stagger forward, leaving his own to wind over around his neck. Your fingers curl up, raking through the hair on the nape of his neck — feeling the shiver that travels up his spine, his wings giving a little flare out.

He kisses you breathless, one hand abandoning your jaw to wrap snugly around your waist, bringing you closer to him.

When he pulls back, something within you glows molten gold at the panting that leaves his lips. He’s gazing at you, his hazel eyes alight in a way you haven’t quite seen before. His wings shift behind his shoulders, curling forward to wrap the two of you together, not quite touching.

Your heart thrills. You grin, your lips still just an inch apart as Azriel nudges forward, his own twitching in that way when he fights his smile. His lips brush yours, his smile barely held back.

“Have you forgiven me yet?” He says, sweet and low, allowing the smile to finally pull his pretty mouth up at the corners.

“Or should I make it up to you a little more?”

He kisses the corner of your mouth, chaste and gentle.

“Mmm,” your eyes are bright as they peer up at him, full of playful mirth and adoring affection. “You're forgiven but... I think you should make it up to me, just a little more.”

Azriel willingly obliges, his smile as sweet as the moonlight.

—

some people i thought might want to be tagged :)

@strangerstilinski @astoriaviviane @lana08 @florence-end @lportes-22 @torrick17 @florencemtrash @sidthedollface2 @seafrost-fangirl @goldenmagnolias @jeweline16 @meshellexplosionmurder @michellexgriffey @susiekern @toobsessedsstuff @fxckmiup @littlebookbengal @elenapril0502 @glitterypirateduck @hnyclover @technoelfie @itsapunklife @coffeecares

[wistfullywaiting2]

The biggest misconception in the bsd fandom ever to me is people constantly portraying Atsushi as someone who trauma dumps excessively when he canonically barely talks about it at all.

The entire point is that Atsushi does not talk about his trauma he’s just constantly reliving it. He can’t escape the memories of his past so he tries not to acknowledge them.

He only mentions it when asked, either directly or when someone asks him to explain himself.

Atsushi doesn’t even give a cohesive explanation for what he saw while under Dogra Magra, he just apologizes to Haruno and Naomi.

If Lucy hadn’t had her whole “you’ve never suffered the way I have” spiel then I doubt even the audience would’ve gotten to find out about his scars

If Akutagawa never asked him how it felt for the orphanage headmaster to die Atsushi would have never told him that he’s been hallucinating.

In the omake where Kyoka asks him why his hair is like that it’s clear he wouldn’t have told her that unless she had asked.

In 55 minutes Atsushi very briefly mentions sleeping on a dirty floor somewhere to Kunikida because he was trying to explain and justify his behavior.

And the thing is there are scenes that implies the other characters see Atsushi behaving strangely and are visibly confused because they do not understand what’s wrong with him.

Remember, we as an audience get to see things about characters that the main cast doesn’t. Just because we see into Atsushi’s mind doesn’t mean the other characters know what’s going on in there.

[ghost-bxrd]

“It ain’t a pony ride out there, boss,” he says, tone neutral, but Jason can hear the undercurrent of bitterness in it, “Ain’t nobody lookin’ to hire one like me ‘cept crooks. Penguin had decent enough pay and didn’t have us doin’ gutter work, ‘s more than I’d coulda asked.”

Jason hums, coming to a slow stop in front of the man to stare him down through the expressionless lenses of his helmet. Behind him, loading a truck advertising “Daisy’s Floral Florist” full of drugs hidden in boxes packed with plastic bouquets, his goons pretend like they’re not listening with rapt attention to the exchange taking place.

Jason nods, tilts his head, nods again, and then jams the barrel of a gun into the soft underside Dave’s jaw, “I don’t believe you.”

Dave, to his credit, doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. Just keeps staring straight ahead, stance open, like they hadn’t first met each other when Jason was drenched in blood and chucked his predecessor’s head at him with a dry “Congrats on your promotion.” Like the Red Hood isn’t the definition of violence waiting to happen.

It fucking pisses him off.

Jason snorts and holsters the gun in one smooth motion, stepping back.

“But you’re in luck. I need a second pair of hands to run things for the next job when I’m-“ picking my kid up from school and make sure he hasn’t burned the whole thing down in the meantime, “…unavailable.”

— The Antithesis of Magic, Chpt 6 sneak peek

[frownyalfred]

Things you might not realize are affecting your ao3 readership:

Putting unrelated fics into one compilation instead of series or collections

Not tagging your fics/“haha I’m so bad at tagging!”

Tagging all of the ships in a fandom instead of the relevant ones to the story

“This is my first fic ever”/ “I’m really not a good writer” / “sorry if this is crap”

Summaries that say “sorry don’t think I will update much” or “might be abandoned idk”

Tagging “r@pe” or “unaliving” etc instead of the actual tag so people can filter/exclude

NOT tagging major, relevant tags or kinks without using the “creator chose not to use archive warnings” option

Telling people how bad your writing is and how you hate it so much and how they shouldn’t even be reading your fic (self deprecation)

Weird punctuation: not starting new quotes or descriptions on a new line, and/or putting extremely long blocks of text on the page without a break

[imagine-to-be-a-pike]

I will never forgive fandom how unfair it is about Arthur

Dark Merlin It's usually good angst. You know, Merlin had had enough. Dark Arthur? Arthur is a fucking rapist, a monster.

Merlin guilty? Merlin feeling guilty and comforted by the entire cast. Arthur guilty? Arthur doing the worst things possible and someone razing him to the ground

Merlin always gets these nice things. always flowers, courtship, everything. Found family? Everyone comforts Merlin because big bad Arthur. (literally almost every Merlin "found family" is everyone loves Merlin and treats Arthur like shit)

Merlin gets an apology. Arthur? My parents will love me faster than someone will apologize to Arthur in fanfiction.

"suicidal, self-harming Merlin" but Arthur has no right to have mental problems (a whole lot of people have wanted him dead since he was born)

Protectivr knights? Always about Merlin.

Even the fucking omegaverse. Alpha Merlin is a nice calm creature who pretends to be a beta. Alpha Arthur... wild animal, keep Merlin in a cage.

No. Just no.

(forever grateful to those stupid British people that arthur never told merlin he was fat. because the fandom understands that something is a comedy if merlin says it. if arthur it would be ,,abuse")

[demaparbat-hp]

Zuko was a child when he met Agni. Then, the spirits started coming to him. Eyes hidden in the hallways, voices pleading for help, for recognition, for remembrance.

Zuko could see Agni. He could see the broken remains of a Great Spirit and the empty smiles of amnesiac ghosts.

And they could see him in return.

[rollercoasterwords]

actually love talking 2 straight people abt succession it’s like cultural exchange i was chatting w my sister’s boyfriend + he was like oh i love tom & greg + i was like omg no way + he was like yeah i love their friendship + i was like oh i see it more as tom having an unhealthy psychosexual obsession w greg like they’re not lovers but i do think tom wants 2 fuck greg + he was like woah…i just thought they were buddies…and i was like lol yeah well i mean even if u don’t think there’s anything gay abt it it’s still fun cause it’s such a fucked up relationship like tom is definitely abusive towards greg but greg has his own manipulations going on etc + he was like what u think it’s abusive + i was like ??? do u not?? + he was like no i like them together because i think they’re good friends to each other like tom is so much better when he’s around greg + i was like WHAT tom like insults him constantly + demeans him + physically assaults him…wdym he’s a better person + he was like no but that’s just what guy friendships are like…that’s just dudes hanging out…

[pomeraniandancer]

How the fuck does this even happen...

There are a number of languages you can search for works in on AO3, including Eald Eanglisc of all things, but the one language on there that really throws me for a loop is...American Sign Language.

Like, is there even a video option on AO3 for this to be possible?

I once picked a really big fanfic collection to search for ASL fics in and the only one that categorized as ASL was *written* in English. No videofile too be seen.

The most you can do in ASL in writing is write English words with ASL syntax. But that's still not ASL. ASL does not have a written alphabet or syllabary.

Genuinely bewildered about how this came about. Can people just post something and write in an "other" language and AO3 just adds that language to the list of languages they have fics written in?

I can't think of any other way that this might've happened, and as much as I adore AO3, this is pretty problematic.

[ameliadoesstuff]

our creative writing assignment is to write from a robot/android's perspective so. you know what that means. Zane time.

[solazu1]

I’ve seen so much shitty ship content in the marble hornets fandom since I’ve joined that I’m starting to get sick of shipping as a whole, ngl. I’m staring hard at the main contenders here, Jaylex, Brim, and Jam. Brilex is another ship I see frequently fucked up a lot too, but yea whatever. I’m not condemning people who get it wrong because I’m not the goddamn messiah of characterization either but there’s gotta be a line to be drawn, right? like with all the absurd vaguely uncensored abused x abuser content associated with jaylex, the uncomfortable brim content where every instance of hoody fucking up Tim's life on **PURPOSE** is ignored for the sake of a cuddle or for the sake of sexualization, THE HEAVY OVER-SEXUALIZATION OF BRILEX, and the fully fleshed out personalities of Tim and Jay being washed away and sacrificed for mischaracterized, stereotypical, romantic interactions that really isn’t something the character would ever do but rather something the author wants them to act out. <- honestly the last bit can be applied to all other ships too! And it isn’t my only gripe with Jam specifically but I feel like my specific criticism on it deserves another post that will probably never come haha.

[mantisgodsdomain]

Anyways, to those who have been wondering what we've been doing during our impromptu Tumblr Vacation or whatever we're calling it, we've been trying to find a playthrough of Baldur's Gate 3 that is made by someone who doesn't annoy the shit out of us, and also tormenting Karlach Cliffgate (as you do)

[anxiously-sidequesting]

Wait so I know technology exists in the Spiral but like does Wizard City have phones. Like do our Wizards have any type of device of communication on them at all. Like how the fuck are we able to like know when anybody from out of our location needs us how do our notifications work. Is there like a Homing Pigeon System being funded somewhere or

[soleminisanction]

Like I mentioned on my previous post, there’s a particular aspect of how Steph got fired from being Robin that I find particularly interesting. (And based on your tags, @alvindraperzzz, you're going to enjoy this as well ;) )

So, just as a reminder, this is the deal that Stephanie and Bruce make when he agrees to let her be Robin:

"You're on probation. You don't learn any of the big secrets. And the first time you disobey my orders, is the precise moment you're out. No second chances."

Here's what makes this interesting: Tim also had a probationary period. It took place between 1989's "A Lonely Place of Dying" storyline and 1991's Robin miniseries, happening in scattered pieces across bits of Batman, Detective Comics, and other associated books.

Aside from changes in comm-tech between 1989 and 2003, there's only two major differences between Steph's probationary period and Tim's. First, Tim already knew the biggest of the Big Secrets, so he gets moments of interacting with Bruce and Alfred in civilian mode and even stays with them during school holidays. And second, Tim was not allowed his own costume and was forbidden from going out on patrol. Presumably, this second difference comes from a mix of Bruce's implied scheme to lure Tim back, Steph already having copious experience on the streets as Spoiler, and just general management of their differing personalities.

The important thing is, during this time, Tim was under the same restrictions as Steph: stay out of this fight, and if you disobey me you're gone. And there came a time, right at the end, where Batman wound up in a dangerous situation versus a supervillain (in this case, Scarecrow) and the would-be Robin chose to break the rules. What's interesting is the parallels and differences between the two scenes, and how, if you're paying attention, they're pretty consistent, despite their very different endings.

For one, in Tim's case, he's not initially on the scene, and he doesn't have contact with Bruce (like I said, 1980's comm-tech -- Oracle wasn't even a thing yet). This means that he isn't defying direct orders when he chooses to act. And he doesn't rush in himself right off the bat -- his first choice is actually to dial up Commissioner Gordon on the landline.

It's only after he runs out of ways to get a hold of Batman and warn him of the danger that he makes the decision to go out. And he does so very conscious of the fact that this is going to cost him Robin, in spite of the months of work he's put in.

Stephanie, on the other hand, is on the scene and has a direct line to Batman. She's chattering in his ear the whole time, to the point that he has to tell her to be quiet because she's distracting him. And when the fight gets going, he tells her repeatedly that he's doing fine, don't come in here, stay in the plane.

She lasts maybe fifteen seconds before abandoning her comms and diving in.

She doesn't wait or consider her options. She doesn't even give their deal so much as a passing thought. She simply assumes that she knows better than him and leaps in without thinking. Which mostly just demonstrates that a) she doesn't trust him which is bad when you're trying to form a partnership, and b) she can't be trusted to follow orders.

Also, frankly, she demonstrates poor judgement by completely misjudging the situation. Bruce does not need her help. Even injured, he's doing just fine. Stephanie rushing in is nothing but a distraction and, ultimately, what loses the fight.

Tim, on the other hand, judged the situation correctly. When he arrives on the scene, Batman (and innocent civilian Vicki Vale, not shown for space) is in trouble. He's been caught by Scarecrow and genuinely needs the back-up because he's being psychologically tortured.

Another parallel is that both Robins wind up in trouble as a result of coming to Batman's rescue. Which makes sense, they're teenagers versus adults with super-tech, training and horrible fear chemicals.

In Tim's case, he gets doused with fear gas (specifically "essence de trauma" because this was back when Scarecrow had specific strains of his stuff) which trapped Tim in an illusion of the very recent attack on his parents. Seriously, this is happening like, the day after they buried his mother.

But! He pulls himself out of it with the help of what might be hallucinations or might be the ghosts of Jason Todd and the Earth-1 Dick Grayson (it's never explained because this was the late 80s and nobody questions this stuff when half the creative staff is running on cocaine.) He then manages to turn the tables on Scarecrow and actually save the day.

Stephanie, on the other hand, gets herself caught.

Which, like I said, loses Batman the fight. And more importantly, it puts Steph's life in danger and she's not able to get herself free.

And it isn't like she doesn't have the opportunity, in-universe. This is where the scene ends, but Bruce recaps on the next page how Scarab, quote, "Left Robin tied up, but alive and uninjured" when she stole the Bat-plane to make her escape.

So, if you're a reasonable person, I hope you can see how there's already multiple strikes against Steph that don't really apply to Tim: she broke the rules thoughtlessly instead of with consideration, she defied direct orders instead of taking initiative on her own, and she completely misjudged the situation, putting herself in danger for no real reason and costing Batman the fight.

But now, we come to the difference that almost everyone overlooks, but I think is the real key to the whole thing: how each Robin behaves in the aftermath.

Because, see, Tim comes to Bruce immediately afterwards and owns up to everything.

I really like this scene because what Tim says here is very deliberate. He doesn't make excuses or try to deny anything. He simply explains himself and then apologizes, fully willing to accept the consequences of his actions.

It's a very mature thing to do. I couldn't have done it at 13. I'm not fully confident I could do it now, at 33. And in return, Bruce says this:

This is the story where Tim earns his wings. In the next two pages, he's given his costume and is officially made the new Robin. And it's because he demonstrates, through his actions in this story, that he understands both the weight of the legacy and the very real responsibility he's about to leap into.

Compare that to how it goes down with Steph.

Like I said in my previous post, despite Bruce saying she'd be out "the precise moment" she disobeyed him, Bruce doesn't fire her immediately after the Scarab incident. Instead, the story skips ahead by three weeks, until after Bruce has recovered from his injuries.

This is something he's shown consciously choosing to do, though he doesn't explain why. I like to think it's to give her time to consider her actions.

Note the difference in the way that Steph behaves: she shows up in her costume, with the standing assumption that they're going to go after Scarab. The only thing that she thinks would've prevented them from doing so is Batman's vision not healing.

She feels "guilty" about him being blinded, but that just demonstrates that she doesn't really understand the situation -- Batman was blinded while she was in the plane. Which implies that what she feels "guilty" about is not disobeying him sooner. The fact that she put herself in danger, the fact that she broke the rules, these things never cross her mind.

You'll note that she doesn't apologize either. Again, it's probably not deliberate, but "I feel so guilty, it was all my fault!" is not the same thing as "I'm sorry." The former is what you say when you're trying (consciously or not) to get the person you've wronged to comfort you. To tell you that it's okay, you didn't mean to do it, everybody messes up so don't feel bad. Which you'll note that Bruce does.

It's only after Steph does this, comes to him acting like nothing's wrong and they just had a little oopsie-daysie on the way to their next rip-roaring adventure, that Bruce finally drops the bomb.

Note the "direct order in the field" specification.

Stephanie only starts to admit that she did something wrong after she realizes she's going to be punished, and even then, she's not apologizing, and she's not owning up to her actions. She's making excuses, trying to wheedle out of the consequences of her own actions. And not once does she ever seem to internalize that she could have died.

And all of this is very in-keeping with her personality as established up to his point.

In short, while the two situations are very similar, Stephanie's actually demonstrates the exact opposite of Tim's: even after years of being Spoiler and multiple occasions where her own life, civilian lives, and the lives of people she supposedly cares for have been on the line, she's still treating this all as a game where the most important aspect of the outcome is how she feels about it. It's not just that she made "one mistake," this is part of a pattern for her, one that demonstrates very aptly that she does not understand the danger she's putting herself in, doesn't respect the guidance of the people who are trying to teach her, and frankly, has no interest in ever getting better, because she doesn't think she has a problem.

It can't be her fault, after all. She just made a little mistake! It's everyone else who're being unfair to her, holding her to rules and agreements she never meant to honor, and they'll all see as soon as she can prove them wrong...

And we all know where that leads.

Now, there are people who believe that this entire issue is simply unfair to Stephanie. And yeah, there's an entirely different discussion to be had about the out-of-universe decisions surrounding this story, the intention of the creators, etc. But I think everything that happens here in Robin #126 is as in-keeping for Steph's personality as the events of Batman #457 are for Tim. And I believe that, in both, Bruce's reasoning is fair and based on sound judgement, not sexism.

Still, they're very fun to compare. The nuances between the different relationships is very interesting.

[apoptoses]

Something that's been on my mind is seeing the idea that in order for smut to be valid to write it has to have a purpose. It has to say something about the characters, it has to serve as a tool for the plot, it has to have some deep meaning beyond the sex acts involved.

And honestly, that's not true no matter how much some very vocal people might insist that smut without a 'purpose' is just porn and porn is shameful to make and consume.

It's okay to write smut because you think the concept is hot. It's okay to write it just because you want to give your readers jerk off material about their favorite characters. It's absolutely, 100% fine to write smut for smut's sake.

And sure, you want it to be in character, you want to write it so that you can't just file the names off and replace them with anyone. But you can just write something because you think character X should fuck character Y in this very specific way and have that be the end of it.

Call it smut, call it porn, call it whatever. Write the stuff you want to write. You don't have to do literary gymnastics in order to make it 'valid' for anyone, and you especially don't have to make excuses to yourself to justify writing it in the first place.

[not-poignant]

Good day! A genuine question. Do you really won't think about comment like " WOW!!! Thank you for this chapter! " from a person who usually writes more in-depth commentaries as something like " they didn't llke it enough for the extra sentence or two " ?

Hi anon!

So, everyone's human. Even the people who love to leave longer comments get tired sometimes, or have other things going on in their life.

And I'd rather those people leave a shorter comment or an emoji, than like, feel guilty about not leaving long comments, or just vanish into thin air (at which point I just assume they've stopped reading, because I have literally no evidence otherwise unless they're sending replies or something else). Though obviously people can stop commenting too!

There are some people who leave me three hearts (or around 3 hearts) every chapter they read. I take them as little extra kudos, or just a little sign of appreciation. It's someone going 'I'm here, I like this.' And I reply with little hearts as a little sign of appreciation to go 'I'm here too, thank you, I see you.'

That's special to me.

I love love love long meaty comments that I can sink my teeth into, but I love all my commenters, anon.

But even the people who love leaving long comments get tired, get stressed out, can't think of words, have nothing to say because they're speechless, and then it's like well, I hope they feel comfortable enough to just leave a 💜💜💜 - and if they can't, they can't.

If people don't like my fic, anon, they stop reading! They don't leave comments, they stop leaving comments and they disappear (which is why when a regular commenter vanishes, that's when I think they don't like the chapter/s or story anymore, which is fair, and they don't have to, but sometimes it can make me a little sad).

But yeah the sign of a person who doesn't like to read a story is a person who isn't there to read the story at all! Not someone who only has the energy or will to leave a sentence or two! Some of those people don't speak English as a first language, and still practicing, some are really tired, some genuinely don't have much to say, some are embarrassed because it was a sex scene, etc. There's lots of reasons!

Everyone who's ever left a long comment doesn't need my permission, but certainly has it to leave extremely tiny comments when it's all they can manage / and they want to leave something! Honestly, putting pressure on yourself to leave long comments every single time can actually stress people out to the point that they stop reading fics when they know they can't comment like that, I've been in that position myself and that's not...what we're going for.

I want people to enjoy the story first, because like...that's...what I want the most. :)

(For folks wondering, this is - I think - in reference to this post I reblogged earlier today).

[stobinesque]

let me be the void you fill, pt. 1

@steddie-week day 4: familiar | ~2k words | Teen and up title from "I / Me / Myself" by Will Wood

On his way up the path to the small hut he’d gotten Dustin to draw a crude map to, Steve was stopped in his tracks by a lanky black cat that appeared out of nowhere—and then promptly proceeded to wind her way between his legs.

"Well hello there," he said, bending down to extend his hand towards her nose. 

The cat gave his fingers one short, decisive sniff, before bumping her head against them, and resuming her circuitous turn betwixt his ankles.

Steve laughed. "So you mean to hold me hostage, then, is that it?" 

The cat paused to look up at him, features set into what Steve guessed would be a look of utter disdain on a human.

"Okay, okay, bad joke, huh?" The cat slipped out from under his feet just long enough for Steve to crouch all the way down and present his palm to her again. The cat purred this time, and nudged her head up against his palm more firmly, staying still long enough to allow him to pet the top of her head, and scratch behind her ears. "I'm Steve," he offered. "And what's your name, pretty girl?"

"Miriam? Miriam! Where did you run off—oh."

Steve startled at the sudden sound, and glanced up from where the cat was now enthusiastically petting herself against him, to find a witch of about his own height rushing out the hut’s front door. They sported a head full of riotous brown curls, atop which sat a stout, felted witch's hat. In spite of the unseasonable heat, the theurgist was dressed in heavy, ruffled black skirts, and colorfully patched stockings. That had to be why their cheeks were flushed such a pretty shade of pink, right?

Steve pulled himself back up to a standing position, shaking his head as though to clear it of cobwebs. He snapped his mouth shut when he realized it had dropped open of its own accord, and glanced back down at the cat, now rubbing herself up against one leg. "So your name is Miriam?" he asked her.

The cat let out a small merp in reply, as her owner—companion?—continued to stand and stare at Steve from a few steps up the path.

🐈‍⬛🪄🔮✨🌕🧹🧙

Eddie's day had begun with a series of inauspicious events.

To start with, she had forgotten to leave fir curtains parted in just the right way before bed the night before. So instead of gradually rising with the sun as it crept in on hazy bands of light, fee'd been slapped in the face by the full force of its rays at entirely too early an hour.

And then, when she'd gone out to fetch the laundry, it was to find every single article of clothing still damp—or worse—in spite of the unusually dry heat they’d been having. That left fir with only a pair of (thankfully) threadbare, but (unfortunately) black woolen stockings, a black linen smock, and a set ruffled skirts—of which the relative breeze allowed by its shortened length at the front, was offset by the sheer quantity of its layers—to wear for the day. (The stockings, he supposed, could have been forgotten. But Eddie found themself wandering through thistle paths far too often, and unexpectedly, to not wear something on her legs every day.)

To make matters worse, the moment Miriam’d heard Eddie knocking about, she'd gone ahead and toppled over one of the cauldrons, in a way that signified today was to be a potion-making day. 

Great, so I'm going to be a puddle by midday.

Most days, Eddie could choose the direction of fir practice. But sometimes, for one reason or another—a particular rhyme of the chimes hanging in zir window, the moon hanging low and large and bloody in the night sky, a particular scent in the air—the animus of the world nudged her in a particular direction.

Those days, invariably, sucked.

But still, Eddie bustled around the small cottage—grabbing roots, and herbs, and carefully preserved insect matter—preparing for the day's task. The draught that Eddie felt fumself pushed to brew today was technically complicated, time consuming, and required the assistance of another set of hands. 

Which would be fine. If his familiar hadn't scampered off moments after knocking over the cauldron that morning.

Eddie searched high and low, and into every nook and cranny of the cramped hut—which did not want for hiding places, despite its small footprint—for his erstwhile familiar. Eventually, he had to admit defeat, and determined that she must have gone for a laze about the garden beds—even though she knew full well that they were off limits.

"Miriam?" Eddie called out as he pushed his way outside. Usually the one call was enough to have her trotting back home immediately, shame-faced and caught out. But in keeping with the day’s pattern, nothing was to be so easy. "Miriam!" Eddie called again, growing a touch frustrated. "Where did you run off t—oh." 

Eddie came to an abrupt halt just a few steps up the path from their hut, shocked still by the sight of Miriam letting someone other than themself touch her. And it wasn't just any someone. It was perhaps the most gorgeous someone Eddie had ever laid eyes on: soft brown hair that glinted gold in the sunlight, pretty pink lips rounded into a perfectly round 'O' that just begged to have something shoved between them, and…and Eddie really needed to reign in the excesses of hir thoughts. 

The honey-haired visitor straightened to a standing position and looked down at Miriam with a sweet smile on their face. "So your name is Miriam?" he asked, receiving a soft chirp of confirmation from Miriam in reply. It brought Eddie up short—most strangers didn’t address Miriam directly. Who was this person? Eddie shook his head, honing in on the most mysterious part of the tableau in front of him.

"She's letting you pet her," he marveled. "I think the last person who tried nearly got his arm chewed off for the trouble." Eddie tilted her head and looked the stranger up and down in a way that he knew would be taken for the blatant assessment it was. "She must like you." And Eddie knew that if Miriam trusted someone, then if nothing else, he should trust her—but, well: see above, re: day of inauspicious beginnings. "So what's your name, stranger?" He added just a touch of suspicion to his tone.

"Steve," came the swift reply, immediately followed with an outstretched hand, in spite of the several paces of distance still separating the two of them. "Of the town of Haring," Steve continued. As he spoke, Miriam came slinking back towards Eddie, and settled into a seated position between his feet, gaze fixed intensely at Steve.

"Okay, Steve of Haring." Eddie propped a hand on one hip, still trying to figure out what to make of this visitor. Everything about his day up ‘til now suggested there was something more going on here than met the eye. Even Miriam seemed to think so, if the way she was staring fixedly at Steve’s chest was anything to go by. But Miriam was also clearly fond of this stranger, after only moments of interaction. So there was probably nothing to fear from Steve themself, and, oh, he really needed to confirm how he should be constructing his internal narration regarding this creature— "So how else do you like to be referred to, Steve?"

"Huh?" Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion.

"Well, I can't very well keep going around calling you 'the stranger' in my head now, can I?"

Steve shrugged. "You could just think of me as ‘Steve,’" Steve said with an adorable little head tilt. 

"This is true, but it does get repetitive after a while. Which, of course, is alright, if that’s what you prefer. But I usually find that a pronoun or two often helps things along."

"Oh!" Steve snapped their fingers and pointed at Eddie with excitement at their sudden understanding. "You can use ‘he’ and ‘him’ and stuff to think and talk about me. That's what everyone else does."

"And…is that what you want everyone else to do?"

Steve shrugged. "I don't really care, I suppose. It's just…easier this way."

Eddie frowned. "And you don't think that's boring? Why limit yourself to the confines of expectation if it doesn't make you happy?"

Steve blew a gust of air between his lips and ran a hand through his hair. "I guess you could say that's part of why I'm here, really."

Eddie raised a brow. "Oh?"

Steve waved a hand as though to bat the matter away as unimportant. "Yeah, but we're getting ahead of ourselves." Steve crossed his arms over his chest and regarded Eddie with an interest all his own. "How should I be thinking about you?"

Eddie flipped a lock of hair over one shoulder, and tossed zir sauciest smile Steve's way. "You can think of me any way you like, handsome."

The bright pink flush that swept across Steve's face—and the awkward stammering that followed—were truly the highlight of Eddie's day thus far. (Unfortunately, that was an embarrassingly low bar to clear—but, on the other hand, Steve's blush-and-stammer combo had just set it at a lifetime high. Ah, Life and Her various vagaries.)

"That's not what I meant "

"Oh I know, stranger. But that is the answer to what you did mean, anyhow, so it didn't seem prudent to pass up such a delicious opportunity to be a shameless flirt."

Steve wrinkled his nose. "Charming."

"Why yes, that is one of the things you could call me," Eddie shot back with an impish grin. 

Steve laughed. "You're a bit of an asshole, aren't you?"

"I've been called worse," fee replied with a small shrug. "...and a lot better," she added with an exaggerated wink.

"Okay, but, really, how should I—? What should I—?"

Eddie waved a dismissive hand of their own. "Think of—and refer to—me however you like: he, them, hers, zir," Eddie shrugged. "It's all the same to me. Though I must confess I've grown partial to ‘fee, fi, fo, fum’."

The bright, bursting bubble of a giggle this provoked could have fueled Eddie's strongest cheering charm. "You can't be serious!"

"Deadly so, I'm afraid. Although in practice it’s more like ‘fee, fum, fir, fos’."  

"Hmmm, okay. I like it." Steve reached up to tuck his hair back behind both ears at once. "What about your name?"

"What of it, pretty boy?" Eddie asked, just to see the rosy blush spread across the apples of Steve's cheeks again.

"Could I have it?"

"Could you have it? What, to keep? Are you a faerie, Steve? If you're a faerie you have to tell me, or else it's entrapment."

"No, I'm not a faerie. But I'm also pretty sure that's not how any of that works."

"That sounds exactly like something a faerie would say," Eddie shot back, jabbing an accusatory finger Steve’s way.

Steve shook his head, but there was a delighted grin on his face and a soft chuckle rising from his throat. "I just want to stop having to cycle through various iterations of 'hot witch,' in my own thoughts," he admitted.

"Oooh, well now I'm curious—how dirty and creative did you get there?"

Steve's smile shifted into something more like a smirk. "Mmm…'beddable horror specks'?"  

Eddie threw his head back in a wild laugh that sent fir hat flying. "I think you mean haruspex—which isn't accurate, anyway; I prefer not to go around reading rabbit entrails—but that was good!"

"And?" Steve asked with a wheedling-but-cheery, sort of tone. "Could I get a name in reward? Something to call you by, in the heat of the moment?"

"Well, I must confess that now I'm even more curious about what you’d come up with if left to your own devices—but I suppose if you must have something to scream into the rafters while I ravish you: Eddie, son and/or daughter and/or corrupted offspring of the Moon, at your service." Hat no longer on her head to tip in Steve direction, Eddie instead swept down into a low bow, one arm extended out toward Steve in invitation.

stay tuned for part two tomorrow!